Domme By Default

I found myself standing outside the adult store, remembering a completely polar opposite set of circumstances that brought me here the last time.

Nicely Naughty was actually a better class of adult establishment than you saw in many places. It fulfilled the apparently legislative requirements of being a minimum distance from churches and schools, was painted purple and pink on the outside, used lots of neon, and located slap next door to a tattoo parlor.

I stood beside my car, staring. I didn't want to do this. But I thought of the man waiting for me at home, eagerly anticipating my return, the hope in his eyes and his bare ass in the air...

I closed my eyes, fighting my tears.

I didn't want to do this.

I remembered when he held my hand, strong, comforting -- and more than just a wee bit seductively -- as we walked in together the last time. During a particularly hot night of pillow talk we'd jokingly decided to buy a vibrator. Not that I needed one, because he was The Man With the Golden Tongue as far as I was concerned.

We'd walked in, me with my face beet red and trying to meld into his body I pressed so close as the friendly and oddly chipper young salesgirl showed us to the wall of vibrating wonder. We'd left with a fairly plain, tame purple one that only resembled a real life penis in that it was slightly phallic shaped.

I stared at the front windows as I recalled his voice that night. "That vibrator won't buy itself."

And now, here I was. Alone.

I didn't want to do this.

I got back into my car and sat with my forehead resting against the steering wheel. If I returned home empty-handed with a lame excuse, could I face the crushing disappointment in his eyes? He would nod and look away and be a good sport about it. But like always, he would know I was lying. He would spare me from telling the truth.

He would be a good husband for me.

I cried. I didn't want to do this. And he did.

Little girls dream of white knights and superheroes who keep them safe and sane and secure. They dream of being protected and cherished. Unless they are into a little kink, they don't dream of whips and handcuffs and anal plugs.

Unless it’s their guy wielding them.

They certainly don't usually dream of being the one holding them, using them on the man they cherish.

I sat back and wiped my face and thought about the series of IMs I'd exchanged over several days with a friend of mine who I knew was into "the lifestyle" as I tried to come to terms with this.

Get what you want to get him. It's your call. You're in charge.

But I didn't "want" to get one for my husband. He wanted it. He'd finally found a deep inner well of courage to quietly admit this to me.

With wide-eyed terror, I'd done a little online research. Ironically, I didn't feel I could buy something like this sight unseen for fear of it being too big.

Tony's ever helpful advice?

Get him a small and a medium, tell him to go play with them. Don't forget the lube.

I swallowed hard and looked at the store and thought about my sweet husband's face, the eager anticipation in his eyes when I'd told him I was going shopping...for him.

The hope.

The love.

I didn't want to do this.

But as I stepped out of the car, I knew that's exactly why I had to.