Waltz With Me
“We should waltz,” Jim announces as I go to put the dishes in the sink. He cooked and so I do the dishes; We are a liberal 50/50 egalitarian household.
I dodge a playful grab at my behind. “I am way too busy to do the dishes and dance. We still have so much of the wedding to plan. It’s your wedding too,” I remind him. Though you wouldn’t know it’s his wedding the way he carries on. I am stressed out of my mind trying to make the million little inane decisions like whether we should invite my Aunt Edna and if that means we also need invite his grandfather, and if we should have roses or peonies as our main flower choice.
“I know.” He comes up behind me and gives me sweet butterfly kisses along where my neck and shoulder connect. “And I want to waltz. Since you don’t know how to waltz, we have to practice. You can do the dishes afterward.”
I sigh. “What about the seating chart?”
“We’ll seat Edna and my grandfather together. They’d get along fabulously.” We both laugh. They would hate each other. “Now, come on. It’s the one thing I really want at the wedding.”
“Alright...” I give in. “But you still have to pick the music.”
“It’s all ready.”
So I wipe my hands and slip on the jazz dance shoes. I’ll have white ones for the wedding, of course, but these are good for practicing. He already rolled up the rug in the living room several nights ago, and now he pushes the coffee table against the wall. The wood floor is open and ready for dancing.
With a press of a button, his playlist starts. He’s tried to teach me dancing before, so I know a bit about the basic box step. His form looks perfect, as usual, and I try to overcome my self-consciousness as I hold onto his hand and arm. He feels so strong, that I know even if I stumble, he’ll catch me. Though he might tell me to pay more attention.
He steps forward with a left foot. “One, two, three. One, two, three,” he counts in my ear as I struggle to follow the rhythm. And then I struggle to do it gracefully. And then I lose track of the rhythm and step with the wrong foot.
“Shh,” he coos. “Stop trying to lead. Just relax and follow my lead.”
I nod and I do try. But there are just too many things: Back straight, arm stiff, stay on the balls of my feet. Left, right, left. Then, right, left, right. I try to match them up with his counting, but only confuse myself as to which foot I should be stepping on.
He stops and I take an extra step forward and almost stumble into him. “You’re not focusing.”
“I am!” After a pause, I admit, “It’s just hard. And I can’t keep everything in my head at once.”
“It’s okay.” We get back into position. The playlist has switched to another song and a woman’s contralto voice sings. “Why don’t you try closing your eyes? Just relax and follow my lead.”
When I nod and close my eyes, we start back up again. Step, step, step. Step, step, step. Wait, I think, I should be gliding instead. And of course I hesitate and am thrown off the rhythm.
“Just relax,” Jim reminds me. “Listen to the music and let yourself float.” I can feel my steps righting themselves. “Don’t worry about anything. There you go. Good job.”
I smile. I am doing it. I must be. Maybe we’ll do turns next. Then Jim’s voice intrudes, “Keep relaxing. Follow my lead. Good. Just enjoy the music. You don’t have to think about it. Your feet will do the right thing.”
Throughout the songs—I stop trying to count—he continues petting me with words. I don’t actually listen to half the things he says, though I’m sure they were very sweet. We even do several turns near the end with near perfect execution. Or at least, that’s how it feels to me with my eyes closed.
“Beautiful,” he breathes as the last song winds down and we do a dip. All I can do is smile shyly. “See all you had to do was relax and follow my lead. You were just overthinking it.”
I brush a stray lock of his brown hair behind his ear. “Uh-huh.” I stick out my tongue at him. “And soon you’ll have me barefoot in the kitchen.”
He smacks my behind. I was so content from the dancing that I didn’t think to dodge. “Go, wench, and do the dishes,” he commands with a smile.
I wrinkle my face. “I’m going to do the dishes. But because it’s fair. Not because you told me to.”
It’s only ten days before the wedding. We still don’t have a seating chart, but we sent an invitation to Aunt Edna, because her brother, Uncle Harry, told us that she will be out of state on our wedding date.
Jim said he didn’t care about the bouquet, so I think I will choose roses, though peonies are more in fashion right now.
It’s after dinner. I’ve done the dishes and now I’m counting the RSVPs and making a list of people to call to get their confirmations. That will have to wait until tomorrow, as it’s too late to call now. Still, I need to note down everyone’s dietary restriction so I can give a count to the caterer after I call.
Jim steps into the office. “Do you need help with the wedding planning?”
I turn to him and shake my head. “No, it’s just monkey work.”
“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
I made pasta earlier today. I really like how appreciative Jim is and how he doesn’t assume that just because I’m the woman in the relationship, I should do the cooking and cleaning. “Of course. I enjoyed it.” Then, his beautiful blue eyes and bright smile reminds me... “Let’s practice dancing instead,” I suggest. “All of this can wait until tomorrow.”
He laughs. “I told you you’d like dancing. Now, you’re insatiable.” He goes to fuss with the music. “I even have a new playlist this time.”
“But I just learned the old songs,” I protest.
“I guess it means you’ll have to focus harder on being relaxed.”
I have actually become decent with the nightly waltz over the last few weeks. And the waltzing is much more fun now that I can relax into it. Now, just stepping into the shoes and Jim’s arms makes the world feel lighter.
I no longer need him to count of the beats, though I can still hear his voice in my head, keeping the rhythm, low and steady and even. One, two, three. One, two three. It grounds me. The new, unfamiliar songs are faster, with a subtler rhythm. I let the song filter through me and focusing on enjoying myself, now that I trust my steps.
“You’re doing well,” Jim praises me in the quiet between songs, and I preen. “Just remember to focus on relaxing and follow my lead. I can tell you enjoy it.”
The beginning of a new song drowns out the last of his words. As I whirl around with him, I feel the masculine strength in muscles of his arms. I can almost make out the words of the song, something about love and wonder and obedience, but mostly, I’m too focused on the dancing to hear the words. They just filter through me. It’s the rhythm that matters, after all.
There is something magical about being in Jim’s arms. Maybe he’s just a very good dancer. Maybe I’m just in love. As we dance, I feel as if I’m floating and that he takes my worries away. I’m reminded of how he towers over me and how easily he could steal me away, if we don’t live in a civilized world like we do. This thought sends a shiver through me.
Tonight, I decide, we should explore adding a bit of spiciness to our sex. Keep the lights on. Maybe he can hold me down. Since he has suggested this before—several times, in fact—I’m sure he’ll have some ideas.
We’re snuggled up naked in bed. The light’s off. I hadn’t been able to gather my courage quickly enough. As he spoons me warmly and rubs my small tummy (those last ten pounds I can’t seem to lose), though, I tell him, “I think I’d like to try some... something that you suggested.”
His hand stops. “You want to try anal?”
“No!” I can feel my face heating in the dark. “No. I mean, nothing weird or gross. No talking dirty either. No ropes or any of that kinky stuff you pretend you don’t watch.”
He’s silent for long enough that I start wondering if I’m asking for the impossible. Then, he suggests, “How about lights on? And I’ll be just a little bit aggressive?”
I nod.
He turns on the light and we start with a kiss. He holds my wrists together above my head. His hand feels so strong that I have a moment of trepidation. Then I’m staring into his clear, blue eyes, as if I’m falling and floating into them, and I remember that this is the man I love and trust and adore.
My body is still humming with happiness from last night when I finish doing the dishes. There were a lot of them, since I made a three course dinner. All day, I kept thinking of Jim’s large body and the way he held me down. How he seemed harder last night than he’d ever been before.
I bring him a glass of water in the office.
He looks up. “Thank you. You’re so thoughtful.”
I really love his appreciation. It makes me smile. “When you have time, I think we should practice waltzing some more.”
“Of course,” he says. “But I have some work to do first. Why don’t you warm up by listening to the songs again?”
“Okay.” I agree even though I am a bit disappointed. But I find the playlist easily enough on the shared hard drive. I put on my wireless head phones and hit play, the songs streaming into my head as I waltz by myself, the voices somehow more intimate in stereo.
I’ve listened to the playlist three times by the time Jim finishes his work. It’s not late, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the sex we had the night before, and the songs only reminded me how happy I am when he leads and I follow and how I want to be that relaxed again.
“Jim...” I start. He waits patiently as I figure out how to make the request. I talk to his chest because I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my nerve if I have to look at his eyes. “Can we... can we try doggy tonight?”
“Of course.” He’s always so accommodating.
Soon enough we’re on the bed. I’m already dripping wet and I orgasm as soon as he slides his engorged member fully into me.
He starts pumping and I notice sensitive parts in my pussy I never knew before. I have never felt so full before, like I’m going to burst. I must’ve tensed up. Just as I’m about to feel overwhelmed, he tells me, “Good. Just relax and let yourself feel. You enjoy this.”
And I realize that he’s right. It may be overwhelming, but the sensations are good. As soon as I stop trying to analyze it, it is simply bliss. I orgasm over and over again.
As Jim gets closer to peaking, I realize that he is saying something. “... that’s right, bitch. You take that hard cock. I’m cumming in you.”
Feeling his ecstasy triggers mine. But when we are lying there and panting, I admonish him, “I don’t like dirty talk. It’s not nice to call me a ‘bitch.’”
He rolls off of me. “We did doggy. So you’re a bitch. Besides, you must’ve enjoyed it. You had such a big orgasm at the end.”
I think about it and realize he’s right in this case.
“I’ve put together a new playlist,” Jim announces after we finish brunch. It’s Saturday, so I get all day to pamper Jim today. I made pancakes and whip cream with fresh fruit juice.
“But we only danced to the last one once,” I protest. Listening to the songs did not count.
“I know.” Jim continues fiddling with the playlist. “But I think this one will be better for continued practice.”
I hum a bit in doubt. “It’s your call I guess. You know best.” Then, I add hastily, “about dancing, that is.”
Jim nods. “I know.”
The music starts and it’s the usual waltz music with women singing. He has very good taste in music, I realize. The women sing about love and how they obey and serve out of love. A little bit old fashioned, yes, but very romantic.
As we turn and we step to the rhythm, he reminds from time to time to relax and just listen to the song and follow his lead. Honestly, at this point, it is all about training the muscle memory, because I keep improving, without conscious effort.
A new song starts and it’s darker and moodier and crasser. He twirls me around and pins me against a wall, his much larger body caging mine. I used to be scared when he did that, but now I realize that I trust him and the vulnerability makes me hot. Anyway, I’m his, and he can do what he wants with me.
“I want to fuck you, slut,” he whispers in my ear.
“I’m not a slut,” I protest weakly, though sex is very appealing at the moment.
He sneaks a hand under my skirt and pushes aside my underwear before I can protest. His fingers easily slip into my well lubricated pussy. “You’re wet. And it’s okay. I like sluts and I know you are one.” He pumps his fingers, once, twice, agonizingly slowly. He bites tenderly on my shoulder, then whispers, “I know you fantasize about dressing in shirts that show your nipples and mini skirts. I know you want to wear fuck me pumps. You know I’m always right.”
Yes, I thought, drowning in sensation. I picture myself wearing the outfit he described and it feels so familiar. And so hot. Jim will be my husband. Of course he’s always right. He curls his fingers. I orgasm.
Then we take it to the bed.
I take off my headphones as Jim comes into the room. He has been giving me playlists to listen to. I’m not exactly sure how they help with learning to waltz, but Jim knows best and I trust him. Besides, it’s actually quite thoughtful of him to give me some entertainment as I cook, clean, and do laundry around the house and also finish up the wedding planning.
He is dressed up quite dapperly, a button down shirt and a nice pair of jeans. I want to jump him. Of course, most of the time, I want to jump him.
“I think we should go out on a date to alleviate some of the stress,” he suggests.
I’m wearing a tank top and pajamas bottoms. “I’ll need to get dressed.”
“I thought I saw some new shopping bags,” he mentions.
I nod and wink. “Yes, I think I’ve got something perfect for date night.”
I had bought several outfits earlier, thinking that he may enjoy sharing in my fantasy. He is usually quite accommodating to my wants. I chose a white translucent blouse that barely stretches across my ample chest. My nipples show clearly through them. The skirt is so short that the bottom of my ass is visible. The clear 4″ pumps made it so that shaking my ass is inevitable.
I saunter out to the living room where Jim is and do a turn. “What do you think?”
“Hmm, I like it.” Then he adds, “But a slut wouldn’t wear underwear at all. Not even a thong.”
“Jim! That’s...” I can’t find words I’m so scandalized.
“Shh, relax,” he tells me and I can feel the calm filling me. I take a deep breath. “You know that I’m right. The thought of going out without underwear makes you so horny. And you’re a slut who loves being horny all the time. It’s okay. I adore you anyway.”
I think about it and have to admit that the idea is very hot. And if I’m going to be a slut, might as well do it all the way. It’s so good that I have Jim. He’s always right about these things.
“You’re such a tease,” Jim tells me as we’re walking down the street after getting ice cream. “You’re a slut and a tease.”
“No, I’m not. This is all for you,” I remind him. “I don’t care about anyone else.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, because I know you’re mine,” he says. “But you still like it when other people stare at you. When those men try to peek under your skirt. You like the attention. You know I’m right. It’s okay, just relax and enjoy it.”
Yes, now that I think about it consciously, I have to admit that the idea of other men and women finding me attractive is a huge turn on. But Jim is so accepting. I’m so lucky to have him. I can tease other men and still come home to him.
“Yes, that’s it, flaunt it,” he encourages. “You’re sex on heels, doll.”
He makes me feel so desirable. So I reach up and give him a kiss with deep tongue to show my appreciation. I hook my leg around his and discreetly rub my clit on his thigh.
When we take a breath apart, he says, “That’s my good girl. You can cum now.”
He holds me tight, anchored to the ground, as the world comes apart in pleasure.
Later, we go home. He fucks me from behind and pulls on my hair just how I like it.
The wedding was a blur. Words and flowers and people. Then photos and food and more words.
My favorite part was the dancing. It felt like we had too few songs. I just wanted to float on and on and on.
Now, all of that is over. We are finally man and wife. Even though we had a debate about it, we had thankfully settled beforehand that I would take his last name. No hyphenation. After all, he’s the man of the family. Now, we are Mr. and Mrs. Tabner.
I was listening to a new set of songs that Jim gave me, but they just finished. I don’t remember much of what the words say, though Jim said he only made the list for me because he loves me. All I remember from the songs are utterly romantic things like love and total subservience and complete obedience.
Now, I listen to the shower in the hotel room shut off. He comes out while drying himself with a towel and I marvel at his beauty. My cunt is dripping wet.
“Ah, my sex doll,” he says as he comes out of the shower. “Is my fuck toy all wet?”
“I’m your wife,” I remind him sharply. “Not a fuck toy.”
“Relax,” he says, and I feel the urge to fight leaving me. “You are my wife now, which means that I can do whatever I want with you. I want sex with you. And I can have whatever kind of sex I want with you. That makes you my fuck toy. You know I’m right.”
I purse my lips and think about it. I suppose sex is definitely part of the deal with marriage and that’s a good thing. And I suppose since I promised to honor and obey him, he can use me as he pleases. A shot of pleasure warms my belly and I realize that he is right.
“I suppose...” Then, I realize the flaw in his logic. “But I also cook and clean for you. And organize your day for you. And I work.”
“Of course, we both work for the good of the family,” he agrees. “But you have to obey me. So really, you are my slave. You are whatever I want you to be. Right now, I want you to be my fuck toy. Think about it. You know I’m right.”
I think about it. I can feel my brows furrowing. Something feels... off. “That’s not...”
“Shh, relax,” he tells me, and tension drains out of me. “Remember, just follow my lead. You enjoy it.” He sits next to me and rubs my lower back in comforting circles. His other hand finger my wet clit to distraction. “It’s hard for you to think. And that’s okay; You’re a woman, after all. You’re my slave. You want to obey me. It makes you happy to obey me. You do as I say without question or hesitation. You don’t need to think. In fact, unless I ask you to, you don’t want to think about anything. Thoughts just float away, and you just think about what a obedient, horny, slutty slave you are.”
“Jim...” I’m not sure what I’m asking.
“You know I’m right,” he tells me.
Yes, I know he’s right. So, I nod.
“Now ask your master if you may cum.”
“Master, please, may I cum?”
He smiles and my whole world lights up. I’ve made my master happy. “Yes, my fuck toy.”
I cum, staring into his beautiful blue eyes as the world falls away around me.
The sun is warm and beautiful on the beach in Hawaii, where we are for honey moon. I tried to read at the beach, but the words kept getting confused and the men and women staring at my body—my breasts stuffed into a too small bikini and my ass on display in a thong—drove me to horny distraction.
But I burn too easily and am back in the hotel. I listen to yet another playlist from my master as I wait for him to finish whatever it is he’s doing and come back to join me.
He shows up and I jump to embrace him. “I love you, Master,” I tell him.
He holds my wrists behind my back as he kisses me. “I love you, too, pet,” he tells me and I am filled with joy.
Then he shows me the ropes in his other hand. “I want to tie you up, stick a dildo in your cunt, and fuck you in the ass,” he pets me with his beautiful words.
“Well...” I try to think about it, but thinking is hard.
“You’ll love it. You’re my slutty sex toy,” he decides for me and I know he is right.