“That’s quite a nice-looking muffin you’ve got there,” said the oil slick of a voice to my right.
Uggggh, Gunderson was back. Wait—you know what, I didn’t care. Today I woke up to a nude wafflefest and I should be nice to this poor guy.
He adjusted his hairpiece and gestured at the blueberry muffin I was warming. Oh yeah, William had some extra batter and decided to improvise.
“It’s nice to see you in the building again, Neil. When did you get back?” I asked, trying to change the subject from my muffin to . . . anything else.
He scratched behind his ear and began telling me about how despite the fact that the incision was still looking scabby, the doctor told him to go back to work.
I fought a dry heave. “Well, take care.” I cradled my warm little muffin in my hands and scooted off to my computer.
I checked my e-mail, and saw that William was able to grab Harvey just long enough to make us some costumes for tonight.
Oh, while we were in the shower, I invited William to the Three’s Company social. I felt like showing him off.
Normally, I didn’t bring my submissives to events. I usually just went to mixers alone, regardless of my relationship status. Brent used to beg me to take him, desperately wanting people to see us together. I told him that sounded too much like a real date to me, and he’d shut his yap.
We only went on one pseudodate once, and it ended with my asshole father calling Brent a real “pussy.” My grandmother was insistent that I bring a date—a male date—to my cousin’s wedding. She had been telling her friends that her granddaughter “knew the love that dare not speak its name.” She found my demeanor particularly unladylike, probably because my mother had been banished years ago by my father’s rigidity and therefore I didn’t have a female role model. So, to prove my raging heterosexuality, I brought Brent to meet the fam. It was a disaster. He never knew how to let down the sub role in front of my dad. Now, ever since my first boyfriend—or “the incident,” as he liked to call it—my father had never met a man he liked for me. With good reason. And he had passed away just after Christmas, so he’d never be able to criticize anyone else I brought home. I shook off the uncomfortable feelings and refocused my mind on what made me happy: William.
Last night showed me a lot about William. Like the fact that he was made for me. Yeah, he was probably born before my great-great-grandparents, and his primary food source was still alive when he ate, but who was I to judge? The man was a freaking miracle. Everything I could ever want. Why shouldn’t I take him and show him to the world?
And honestly, as strange as this was to say, I didn’t think I lost any ground with him as my sub. Regardless of my gushing right now, I was still as firm as ever with him. I even made him loofah my heels in the shower. And he loved it. As he should.
I HOPE YOU LIKE PAISLEY. My phone buzzed and displayed William’s text.
AS LONG AS YOU’RE MY MAIN ACCESSORY, I KNOW WE’LL TURN SOME HEADS, I wrote back.
WITHOUT A DOUBT. ALTHOUGH, I HAVE TO ADMIT, HARVEY CRAFTED ME SOME VERY TIGHT PANTS. I’M A LITTLE CONCERNED.
I needed to meet this man. And sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” to him. Harvey the blood donor was my new hero.
“So, we’ll add feathering my hair to the list of things you’re supremely good at,” I said to William, or should I call him Vamp-dal Sassoon, who was holding the hot curling iron to the last straight strand of hair.
He shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “Don’t forget, I lived through the seventies.”
And as his eyes lowered, I realized he was admiring Harvey’s handiwork as well. On my daisy dukes.