I come in the house. He's putting the kids to bed. I patter around the house, getting done what needs to get done. I send him a quick text. It's a good way to communicate without yelling across the house, and a good way to communicate privately when your house is bustling with little ankle-biters.
I miss you.
I finish washing up some dishes and sweep the floor when a text flashes in return.
Miss you, too, babe.
I smile. It's one thing I do for him when he comes home from work. I kneel by him, take off his shoes, and we talk about our day. It's how he slides back into his role as Dominant and I slide back into my role as Submissive. One little, tiny, seemingly inconsequential thing, but it works. But tonight, I rushed out the door when he came home and we didn't do our routine. I'm feeling off...I need to be in my happy submissive place.
I skip up the stairs and meet him where he's waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed. I kneel and take off his shoes. When I'm done, I put my head in his lap and he strokes my hair. "Mmm, that's my girl," he says quietly.
He climbs into bed with his book and I climb in next to him, kneel by his side and give him a massage. He smiles. "Thank you, baby girl."
I love seeing the tension leave his face. I love how he smiles down on me. I love the physical connection. I lay down beside him, gently massaging him, as I tell him about something that's bothering me. It has to do with our dynamic, and I'm troubled. He listens.
He listens. I love that he listens.
He calmly sets my worries at ease. He promises to do his best to alleviate what troubles me, and I promise I'll do my best to honor what he's asked of me.
"Do I get my story tonight?"
He gives me that look. The subtle smirk, one eyebrow raised kinda look. "That remains to be seen."
I pout, just a bit, not enough to get me in trouble, but it's been a few days since he's read to me and I miss it.
"But I've been so good today," I plead, and he nods, then smiles.
"Yes, but let's see if you can stay good," he teases.
He lifts his arm. "Come in," he commands quietly, and with a sigh of contentment I ease into my favorite place to be... my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, his arm around me,. We don't talk. He reads, and I soak him up, maybe resting my arm across his chest, or running my finger along his beard. Occasionally he may chuckle and read me a line of something he's read, and we might laugh together or talk about something he's come across.
I close my eyes and just feel him. I feel his arm around me, and marvel at the feel of his hand on my hip. There's strength and gentleness in how he holds me, and I love that.
"I'm hungry," I say quietly. I skipped dinner.
"Go downstairs and get something to eat," he instructs. "You haven't eaten enough today." I'm reluctant to leave the warmth and security of his arms, but I've been given an instruction, and I'm expected to obey. He continues to direct me. "When you come up, bring me a glass of water. Then get ready for bed, and I'll read you your story."
This is what he does. This is how he does it. It may seem like nothing to someone looking in, but to me it's everything. The quiet command. The steady dominance. So subtle, it's barely perceptible, but I know. If I tell him no, I'm fine, I don't need anything to eat, or I forget that he's asked me to get him a glass of water, or I go off and do something else and don't come right up and get ready for bed, he will notice. I might get the look, a reprimand, or more. His gentle way of looking out for me, ever present, the steady but certain dependability.
I do as he says. I have something to eat, then fetch him a glass of water. I go upstairs, bring him his water, then get myself ready for bed. I pick up a shawl I'm crocheting and sit under the blanket, cross-legged next to him.
He picks up his Kindle and reads. He does the voices and accents. We chuckle at the same parts, and I'm loving this. My hook goes in and out, the fabric of the soft shawl I'm crocheting working up under my fingers and falling on my lap as he reads. I could listen to him read forever. Sometimes I call him at work, even if he's in a meeting, just so I can hear his voice on his voice mail. His voice is mellow, and I love the steady timbre of it.
He puts his Kindle down. "And you'll have to see what happens next tomorrow."
My eyes are heavy, and I lay my work down.
He silently raises his arm and I crawl back in, no words, as he reads to himself and I settle down to sleep. After a while, I roll over and he tucks me in.
Some nights we go out on a date. Some nights we watch a movie. Some nights he knows I've had a hard day and gives me a long, stress relief spanking. Some nights, he watches a game on tv and needs his down time, and I lay with my head in his lap. Some nights lead to something else.
But sometimes, all I need is him over me.
Sometimes it's just the little things.
"What a perfect night," I mumble, half asleep.
He chuckles, "And I didn't even have to spank you," he teases.
"Well, there's always the good-night swat," I say coyly.
SWAT! He slaps my rear hard, and I giggle.
"Go to sleep, baby girl," he says, and I sigh.
A perfect end to a perfect night.