by Mj Fields
Zandor
Some men are ass men. They watch a woman walk down the road and their eyes are glued to her moneymaker, onion, booty, bum, fanny, rear, rump, pooter, back crack, keister, tushy. Whatever you call it, it’s an ass.
I’m not an ass-man, per say, but I love a nice, round badunkadunk. BB—Before Bekah—the thought of sticking my dick in a nice, tight little hole was more than a turn on. It was kind of a challenge.
I liked a butt diddle every now and again. Going to fifth base was better than simply hitting a homerun. And let’s face it, sex wasn’t much of a challenge for me. I had women seeking me out. Many made appointments. Fuck, I can’t count the women on the Jersey Shore who wore my art. So, slipping through the back door without getting carded was fucking cool. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha, a good peanut butter stir, a poke in the brown eye, riding the Hershey highway, all good fun.
Until her.
Bekah fucking George.
Mmm … my kitten.
Three years ago, I saw Bekah George at my family’s tattoo shop, looking for a job. She had a creative mind and could draw very well, but she had never inked anyone in her life. Hell, she had none herself and had drawn on fake tattoos to make it look like she did. And no, she didn’t disclose that information.
I will admit that the day she walked into Forever Steel, I heard her sexy, little southern drawl, and then, like a vacuum cleaner—I loved me a good Hoover when I was younger—I looked up and my eyes glued to the nicest pair of tits with a little nipple poke-age I had ever seen.
Tits.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m here to tell you, in my case, that’s not true. In fact, it’s a bunch of shit. The way to my heart is via the tits.
I love to touch them, suck them, bite them, and fuck them. I love clamping them, and I love releasing them. If they’re short, you can wrap them bitches, making them hard, long, and sensitive as fuck. I love to drip hot wax on them, and I love to peel that wax off, scraping my teeth over them. I love rubbing the tip of my cock across them, and I love to come all fucking over them.
I. Fucking. Love. Tits.
Her sweet, little southern twang and her tits got my attention and her the job. And it just so worked out that those tits won my heart, too.
Does that make me a total dick? Fuck no. It makes me a man who knows what he likes.
Tits.
I trained her to pierce and ink. Then I trained her hot, little ass how to submit and be dominated. Then, the best part happened. I trained her how to be loved in every way possible.
As I said, I have fucked a lot of women, but I have only loved one. And I have been loving her hard every day since that day in the shop.
Once I won her heart, we had the most intimate of weddings. She was all tied up in knots, and there was even a beautiful cross involved.
I still get her all tied up in love … often.
“Over my dead body will you ever tell our child a story like that,” she says.
“What? It’s true,” I defend, reaching for her deep red, little pebble.
She slaps my hand away, and I chub up.
My kitten is playing hard to get.
I like it, so I continue.
“On the night you were conceived, your beautiful mother was wrapped in deep red satin. Her pale skin shone from the moonlight coming in through the bedroom window, and she was all, oh Zandor—”
“You are such an ass, Zandor Steel,” she says, holding back a laugh.
“Stop interrupting.” I pull her closer and rub her belly. “She was all like, Oh, God, Zandor, you can’t come inside me, and I was balls deep in the sweetest, hottest little pussy I’d ever been in, and my mouth was sucking tit.
“She knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking happy cap. Why should I? We’re married. So, it was her tits or her mouth I’d be coming in. My dick was hers, her pussy was mine, and there was no worry about STDs.
“She was all tied up in our bed, telling me no. And in the bedroom, no means yes … Actually, it means more than that. No means fuck me harder.”
“Please just stop,” she sighs.
“It’s rude to interrupt, Kitten, so be quiet please. Where was I? Oh yes. I was pounding that pussy, she was crying no, then she came so fucking hard I just couldn’t stop. And that, my son, is how your mother brought the legend Zandor Steel to plant his love seed deep … very, very deep inside of her.”
“Ha, ha,” Bekah says, rolling her eyes.
“What? It’s true.” I flip her to her back, ready to fuck her, when she scowls.
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Don’t say shit like that.” My dick is no longer steel.
“It could happen,” she says smugly.
“God would not do that to me,” I argue.
“Is that so?”
“He and I have gotten closer. I mean, I even stopped dressing up like him on Christmas.”
“You cannot say things like that.” Covering her belly as if to protect our child, she looks around like Jesus is going to walk out of the wall and strike me dead.
“He has a sense of humor, kitten. Think about what your exes were packing compared to me.”
She covers her ears and tries not to laugh. “That’s enough. No more.”
I lean over and bite down on her nipple, making her sigh.
“You love me.” I smile then suck hard, causing her to moan and fist my hair.
And then … Then she fucks it all up.
He doesn’t play fair, so neither will I
B
“Now let me tell you a story.” I sit up, pulling the sheet over my six month pregnant body. “When our daughter is born …” He shakes his head no, and I nod yes, continuing, “When our daughter is born.”
“Blasphemy,” he says, getting off the bed.
“She will no doubt have a loving and controlling father,” I sigh out.
“Not like yours,” he sneers.
“Of course not like mine.”
Zandor detests my father’s past treatment of me and is only tolerant of him because he loves me.
He not only loves me, but he adores me.
When he first talked about a D/s relationship, it completely freaked me out. Plastic penises were not alien to me. I had a vibrator. Hell, I was on a cock diet when I first met him. But Bondage? Paddles? Nipple clamps? Butt plugs? Crosses? Scenes?
He was building a sex club!
Totally freaking nuts.
I had been hurt way too many times by men. Made too many horrible choices in the name of love. I lived through a hellacious divorce, under the rule of a father who was in control of everything surrounding him, including people. If you crossed him, you would have hell to pay.
Trust was not given easily. I was insecure as hell, yet he was asking me to just let him have control of my body, and my heart?
Had we not spent time together already, had I not been in love with him already, I would have run for the hills.
I am so glad I didn’t.
What I have in him is a best friend, a man who adores me, a lover who doesn’t finish until I have, and most of the time, he demands multiples. A man who I love and trust irrevocably.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan when realization strikes.
“Bekah, language,” Zandor corrects. He doesn’t like when I curse if we aren’t actually fucking.
Right now, I don’t care.
I get out of bed, wrap the sheet around me, walk out of our room, down the hall, and then down the stairs.
“Playroom?” he asks, following me.
I don’t reply. Right now, I’m pissed at him. And myself. How the hell would we be normal parents?!
I walk to the bookshelf and skim past the dozens of books about pleasure, kink, and erotic poetry, grabbing the “wedding album.” Then I turn around and hold it up.
“This is what I have to show my little girl when she wants to see what her parents’ wedding day looked like.”
So, I push. “I’m burning this.”
“Kitten, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I, Zandor?”
He doesn’t say a thing.
I open the album and show him the first page. “This. This is ridiculous.”
I’m tied to a Saint Andrew’s Cross.
“You look ravenous.”
“I look like a fucking whore.”
“Languag—”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. Fuck! Shit! Bitch! Whore!” I yell out, shutting the book and walking toward the kitchen.
He follows me in and watches as I throw the damn thing in the garbage.
“And another thing,” I say as I look back at him. “The playroom needs to go. Because, in just a couple months, it will need to become an actual playroom.”
To fuck or not to fuck?
Z
There are very few times in my life where I think, hey, maybe you should learn to control your dick.
This is one of them.
I’m hard.
I’m hard because, right now, I want to tie her ass up, and then I want to fuck some sense into her.
She looks down and sees my chub, rolls her eyes, and growls as she stomps away.
I stick my foot out and catch the silk sheet. Three steps later, it’s on the floor and my wife is bare and fucking beautiful. Then she turns around and stomps once.
“You need to fix this mess and get a handle on yourself. We’re going to be parents soon!”
There are also a very few times when I have control, but don’t want it. This … This is one of them.
I grab my dick, stroke it, and smile at her.
“You are such a child!”
“You said to get a handle—”
“Grow up,” she mumbles. Then she turns around and stomps up the stairs.
I hear the bedroom door slam shut and decide I better go kiss it better.
When I reach the door, it’s locked.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I joke.
She doesn’t.
“Kitten, I will huff and puff, and then make you blow my brains out.”
Still nothing.
Son of a bitch.
I walk back downstairs and grab the album out of the garbage. No way in hell is that thing going out in the trash. For starters, it’s mine. And that night … That fucking night was about her, me, and a commitment that is deeper than love.
Bekah and I had never really talked about a wedding, but the couple times it was brought up, she mentioned not wanting her parents in the same room. They hate one another, and I couldn’t very well invite my family and leave hers out. Therefore, the topic was always discarded.
Then, it hit me one night in Italy after far too many drinks that I wasn’t waiting for everyone to have a change of heart and come together in perfect harmony. It wasn’t about them. It’s about us.
We were at a fellow Dom, Antonio’s, party when I saw Rafe, who had performed a beautiful ceremony for another couple we had spent time with a few months prior, and my wheels started turning. I knew we would return to the Shore, soon and didn’t want to wait until we did.
A week later, right before another one of Antonio’s party, she walked out of the bathroom wearing a dress that was almost too revealing to leave the house in, she was beaming.
Her dress was very short, nearly sheer, deep red, and stunning. It took a lot for her to finally look at herself through my eyes. I had never stopped telling her, training her with words and touch, to see and feel how beautiful she is, and it was clear that night that she had finally seen it. She never looked more beautiful.
I hold up the photo album and look at it.
She and I are standing before a Saint Andrew’s cross, her in that fucking dress, her arms wrapped in silk ribbon behind her back, and me holding a collar that had been locked in my car’s console for this moment time to come.
I rub my thumb across the picture over my wife, remembering the words she said to me that day.
“I humbly accept this collar as a symbol of your ownership of me. I promise to value your truth, rest in your strength, and grow stronger in your care. I pledge my life, servitude, and obedience. I am yours, and being yours means I know I will be looked after, treated, and tended to with the utmost care. In return, I offer the gift of myself to you … forever.”
I look at my face in another picture, seeing love, pride, and responsibility.
My words to her …
“I give you this collar as a symbol of ownership. I pledge to keep you safe, care for your every need, love you, and provide the discipline that you require. Wear it with pride and know that there is no other I would want to call me Master. Forever Steel, Bekah.”
I take a deep breath as I close the album, one which will be in the safe, not the fucking trash, because it’s more precious to me than gold. Then I grab the ring of keys to our many rooms, walk up the stairs, and unlock the door to our bedroom.
Sitting on the end of our bed, wrapped in the comforter, she turns so her back is to me. “I need privacy.”
Hormones.
After grabbing a suit and tie from my closet, I walk over to her, kissing the top of her head. “And I promised to tend to your utmost care. I’m gonna drive into work. I’ll send the car.”
I don’t wait for her to respond. I just walk out the door.
Infuriatingly pur-fect
B
He drives me crazy. Insanely crazy. He’s so … so … infuriatingly … perfect.
Yes, he’s perfect.
He makes me laugh harder than anyone ever has. He is protective and so … alpha. A real alpha.
What’s a real alpha?
Someone who is strong, secure, knows what he wants and goes after it. He doesn’t have to be showy, and doesn’t have to be the center of attention, although they often are.
When I first met Zandor, I was immediately attracted to him. He is sexy as sin and fun to fantasize about. His carefree attitude, humor, and the nonstop witty and sexual banter with everyone made working at Forever Steel seem like it would be a fun and a relaxing atmosphere.
It wasn’t for me.
He trained me hard, harder than anyone else. He pushed me to do things before I felt ready. He made it more than clear he had every intention of getting what he wanted, and I was sure as soon as he did, he would leave.
He didn’t.
Therefore, I pushed him away.
I wanted him, yet I wasn’t ready.
When I finally let down my guard, though, and allowed myself to see me the way he did, I became beautiful for the very first time. He made me love my curves, and all the other things I felt was wrong with me physically. He gave me no reason to feel insecure. In fact, he made me love them.
We have both learned a lot from one another.
If this was six months ago, before we found out I was pregnant, he would be standing over me, pushing me to talk, make up, or fuck our way through this … disagreement.
I hate fighting. Hate it. With him, though, I know a fight, which is seldom, doesn’t mean I will find him drunk at a bar, or find out he cheated on me.
He is my hope, my light, my passionate and demanding lover, my protector, my everything.
I’m so much stronger now, than before, because of him and with him.
It’s not a weakness, he told me once. It’s how it’s supposed to be. He felt men were supposed to protect the things they love, and protecting emotionally was just as important than physically.
He’s right.
After my shower and once my hair is dry, I walk over to my closet, pulling out a dress that doesn’t accentuate the curves Zandor adores, and pull it over my head. Looser clothing makes me look less pregnant. I would prefer it for at least another month.
Then, after applying minimal makeup, I walk downstairs
and find my breakfast on the kitchen island with a note from Zandor.
Take your time coming in today.
Nothing major going on.
Love you, kitten.
Yours,
Z.
* * *
When I walk into Steel Inc., Momma Joe is standing just inside the main entrance, coat slung over her arm and smiling.
“Good morning, Rebekah.” She hugs me and kisses each of my cheeks.
“Good morning, Momma Joe. Are you leaving?”
She nods. “I have some shopping to do. A new gallery opened, and we’re investing in it. They are going to be texting me some of the props they need.”
“They asked you to do that?” I’m shocked that the owner of a startup company would ask for an investor’s help.
“I love to shop, and being artistic is something I miss. Aside from cooking, I feel like I may lose my creativity, so this is a pet project.” She looks down at her phone at a message and sighs.
“I love it here at Steel and working with Zandor, but I miss working at the shop, too.”
“You do?” she asks, shocked.
I nod. “I do.”
“I actually would love your help. I went looking for you on my way out; spoke to Zandor. He said I should ask you to come with me.”
“Oh,” I say, slightly shocked. It’s not like Zandor to not check in with me first.
She smiles. “I just asked. If you’d rather not—”
“No, of course. He mentioned there wasn’t much going on, so sure.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Your sisters-in-law are meeting me in a few hours for a nice pampering session.”
“Pampering?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t ask me to join in that. Zandor and I enjoy our couple’s massages together almost monthly, and it’s been some time. My first trimester was rough.
“I told Zandor he’d have to deal with it. He pouted a bit, but I’m immune.” She laughs as she opens the door. “Let’s go.”
Guess I’m getting pampered, too.
In the vehicle, Joe sends texts back and forth with the artist, laughing and shaking her head.