He was a man on a mission. Now, it might be too late for him to abort it.

Thursday

Thursday is oven repair day, finally, because we’d started to go slightly crazy with this laser, white, unusable object in our kitchen. 

I’m a little nervous about it but I’ll manage it: despite what the adult movies might suggest,I don’t like being home along with engineers, and maybe that’s because some of them have tried their luck at this home-alone housewife. The look on their faces when I tell them that yes, I am more than satisfied in my marriage is always beautiful. 

The man that knocks on the front door is a large man, both in height and stature. My five foot five frame feels small up to him, but I’m not going to let my anxiety show. Instead I drop into my cool and composed, friendly housewife mode.

“Hi, would you like to come in?” I ask. He does. 

The engineer spends not more than five minutes, twiddling the knobs and trying to get the cooker to ignite. I stand back, half expecting another explosion. 

“Ignition’s gone” he says plainly. 

“I’ll get you the price for a replacement”. I wait patiently while he does. 

“It’ll cost you £175 for the part and my repair service” he says. My eyebrows almost leave my face. That’s almost the cost of a whole damn new cooker! 

“And when can you install that if we go ahead?” I ask. I’m trying to weigh it up: what comes sooner, engineer or AO? 

He couldn’t install it for at least a week. By that time, I concluded, we could have a brand new electric cooker in place. 

He offered to order the part on the same day, but I held him off — if I give him the go ahead without consulting Master first, I may never be forgiven. 

So he offered to text Master for me instead, which I found a bit strange but I graciously accepted. Maybe he could better explain it to him anyway. 

Late into the evening the engineer text Master again, this time with a quote of almost £700 to replace our cooker on a ‘like-for-like’ basis. I’m completely gobsmacked. 

“Where on earth is he getting his prices from?” I ask, “and what makes him think we want to replace our cooker with one of the same anyway? That was never the plan.” 

Indeed, the electric cooker we plan to get from AO, with delivery and an ‘install and recycle’ package, would be closer to £500 — definitely not £700!

It’s a shame because I would have trusted him otherwise, but with the out-of-hours text and the scare tactics with outlandish prices, that trust has since gone. Instead he’ll be getting his £70 call-out charge, and we’ll be chatting to our friends at AO. 

Thursday evening I had another surprise: Mister Valkyries has changed his WordPress profile name to… Mister Valkyries. I think I rolled my eyes so damn hard, I might have sprained an extraorbital muscle. 

Friday

For whatever reason I got amused today, thinking how I used to think myself like the defender of some war-torn planet, and then there was Valkyries, the cute little space invader. It inspired this short story, which I hope readers will enjoy:

For years I thought myself like a planet. I joked that men tried to enter my orbit, and many I burned up on entry. It wasn’t arrogance — it was lived experience. Too much confidence, too much wit, too much… history. 

They’d drift close, misjudge the atmosphere, and poof — my plasma cannons would turn them into instant cosmic debris.

After L, I rebuilt what was left of me once more. A lone survivor patching up my planet after another long war.

No grand speeches. No banners. Just grit.

Shields up. Alarms primed. Perimeter locked. Never again.

I wasn’t going to let anyone get close enough to me to detonate anything ever again.

And for a long time, it worked.

Then came Valkyries, the Captain Kirk wannabe. The Casanova of our cosmos. 

No warning. No permission. Just a soft ping on a battered radar, and suddenly every defence system I’d rigged back together started misbehaving.

I should’ve stayed safe from within the protection of my space base, but I was so confused, I had to see this “invasion” for myself. There’s no way — it’s not possible!

I stepped out onto the scorched ground anyway, laser rifle cocked and armed, ready to defend what was left of my world.

And there he was, smirking at me, as though he’d walked through defences worse than mine a hundred times before.

“That?” his expression said. “Those were your defences? Cute.”

And I just stared at him, heart tight, thinking:

How dare you get this close! What even ARE you?!

I should’ve ended him right there, metaphorically or otherwise. But then he did the unthinkable.

He met my eyes with a steady calm and quiet nerve, and said — lightly infuriatingly:

“Go ahead. Shoot me.”

Not taunting. Not mocking. An unflinching offer.

As if he understood exactly where he stood — on the edge of a minefield — and he wasn’t afraid.

As if he… trusted me somehow.

And that was the part I wasn’t prepared for.

Because I’ve fired before. I’ve had to. That’s how you stay alive.

But this time? My finger didn’t move. 

Instead I kept him in my crosshairs for a beat, and then I lowered my gun. 

Not out of weakness. Not out of surrender. But because for the first time in a very long time, someone had crossed my perimeter without force. It’d be wrong for me to kill him now. 

So then I changed my plan: captive, not kill. I couldn’t take out his ship — he’d disabled my defences and touched down safely — but I could still take him prisoner and torture him against his will. So I decided that I would take him prisoner instead, and now I’m the one who’s smirking. 

Defences? Oh sweetie. Those are just the decoys. 

I’m still frustrated that Valkyries dared to cross my perimeter without approval, though I’ll spare him, at least for now — I wouldn’t want to get Vulcan on my clothes. 

Friday evening Master is at football, though he swings by the pub for drinks with friends afterwards. He tells me that it “won’t be late”. He knows that I’m cooking us dinner. 

8PM arrives, nothing. 

9PM, silence. 

10PM, tumbleweed. 

I’m beyond frustrated — I don’t want to be cooking and eating at 11PM! 

So I text Master that I “hope he has eaten”. I haven’t, but that’s besides the point. 

He tells me that he’s “had a light bite” and “hadn’t realised the time”. He tells me that he’s on his way home. I’m on the warpath. 

He asks me whether I’m okay, and so I let him have both barrels. About my lack of okay-ness, and about this being the third time in a row now that he has “lost track of time”.

By the time Master gets home, he’s avoiding speaking to me for as much as he can do. He’s not punishing me, but he knows I’m furious and he doesn’t want more of the same. 

Eventually he tells me about his night, how he and his old school buddies were reminiscing on the old times, before he and I were married. It lands like he’s twisting the knife in an already open wound. 

Does he…  REGRET marrying me?

“You’ll have them back if you aren’t too careful” I mutter. Master is unimpressed and I utter an apology. We spent the night apart. 

Saturday

I’m up at 8AM punctual, immediately thrown into a world of cleaning. There’s a rump steak in the refrigerator and a packet of chicken breasts too, both of which ended up decanted into a compostable bag and put out into the food waste bin. They were still perfectly usable, I do realise, but having the things around that I should have cooked for us was causing me emotional pain. Now they’re bagged up, binned, and off to be turned into electricity instead. 

The slices of black forest gateau, too, that should have been consumed, I refroze one and enjoyed my would-have-been dessert with a fork, barefooted and messy-haired in an oversized t-shirt in my kitchen at 9AM. If ever I’d had a moment of bratty defiance, that was surely it.  

Master joins me later, about 10AM. By that time I’m fully dressed.

I’ve made it a new rule that we both feed ourselves on Friday evenings in future, Master tried to negotiate me on new boundary but I’m unmoving: his lack of timekeeping cannot be allowed to impact my health like it has been, and if he’d rather be out socialising with his friends, I don’t see why I should wait up for him to get home. Valkyries, too, was right in what he said: with a polycule — and especially one where everyone gets on well — while one partner is out having fun, the other can enjoy some “one-on-one” time with the other. That way, everyone gets to have fun. 

Master is listless for much of Saturday, wandering around huffing and puffing and achieving frankly not very much. I think what offset him was that I didn’t shout at him: I set a boundary and moved on. However he wanted to move next, I’d be fine. 

Master tries his hand at hybrid warfare: he’s not going to talk about the problem, but when I clean the kitchen sink, he offers to do for me. I mutter to myself that I need to answer a call of nature then sweep and mop the kitchen floor. When I return, the kitchen floor sparkles. I smile. So does he.

“Oh! I didn’t know we had a floor-cleaning fairy” I joke. 

“We do” he says. I sigh. 

“Are we going to talk? Or are you going to keep beating yourself up?” I ask. 

“I’m probably going to keep beating myself up” he mutters. 

“Wasn’t really an option” I say, “okay, let’s try this another way. Are you pissed off at you? Me? Both?”

“Kind of both.”

“Okay, good. Well, not good because I don’t like pissing people off, but good because this is progress. So, why you?”

“Because I let you down again” he says. 

“You did, and the consequence of that is you now get to feed yourself on Fridays. Why me?”

“It’s a stupid thing.”

“What?”

“You threw my mozzarella sticks away”, Oh, the bloody breaded mozzarella sticks that I saved him yesterday. 

“I didn’t think you wanted them?”

“Not at 3AM, no” he laughs, “I would have had some bloody funky dreams if I’d done that”. Oh. 

“I’m sorry, I thought you rejected them because I told you I didn’t want the sweets you’d bought for me, because I’m trying to look after my teeth. They were just tossed on the side, not pushed back, so I thought it was like a passive-agressive ‘fuck you’, and so I fuck you too’d them into the bin (bag)”. 

“No” he says, “gees, it’s cheese. Men don’t just throw away cheese!”. We both laugh, but Master’s mood quickly improves. By 8PM and with Lewis here, it’s as though it never happened. 

The banter is rich and filthy, as it often is when we have Lewis here. Master tells me that I share a common hobby with Samantha, an old mutual friend of ours. Sam and I have long since fallen out: I find her (and her partner) incredibly immature. 

So when Master told me that we have a common hobby, I thought it’d be something cool and slightly unique. Something that might just make the friendship worth investing in again. 

We’re both aquarists. 

That’s it! That’s literally all it is. 

I feel almost a sense of dismay for his level of enthusiasm. Lots of people keep fish, Wolf. 

Master tells me of the giant blue wood shrimp that she keeps, that “it can grow up to six inches”. I tell him that it’s not polite to brag when we have company. Lewis is straight there to join in with the banter. 

Later in the night, Lewis and I discussed injuries — the bizarre ones that have a really weak back story, given that our friends and family know only that I “got into bed wrong”. I say that it’d be cooler if mine was “a skiing accident or something”. 

“But not that kind of skiing!” I hastily add. Both Master and Lewis make jokes and gestures about ‘skiing’ with something other than ski poles. 

I have enjoyed some back-and-forth emails with slave Shae too, following our collaboration. I’m really touched by Shae’s kind words on my work and reviews, and as I settled into bed on Saturday, I couldn’t help but think about sharing with Shae a slice of my world — of some of my most-favourite toys that could introduce a sister submissive to a whole new world of pleasure. Indeed, there’s a certain pleasure we bisexual women derive from the pleasure of another woman, and as a submissive woman who tends to be more dominant with other women, it’s a pleasure I particularly enjoy.

Sunday

I woke at 8 again, though I rolled over and snoozed for another hour with my hand on Master’s waist — after more than a month of shoulder pain, it felt good to finally be comfortable enough to snuggle. 

When I woke the second time, I felt Master hard beneath my wrist. I smile and kiss his side. 

“Good morning” I whisper. He stirs and flexes. 

“Morning” he replies. 

“Not a good one?” I ask. I trace my fingers over his outline as I begin my sensual interrogation of him. Master stiffens more. 

“It could be” he says. 

“Can I make it for you?” I ask. 

“Yes.”

“How?”

Master frees himself with one hand and pulls me closer with the other. 

“You know how” he says. I do. 

I keep my sucking and stroking of him slow and sensual, playful just as Master likes it. Anytime he gets too close, I slow him down with slow strokes and gentle kisses. 

“Stop, start, stop, start… it’s so much fun, isn’t it?” I tease. The poor man flexes and groans under me, but he doesn’t really hate me. Or at least, he wouldn’t know if he did. 

Master erupts over my face and hair in a thick white rope of cum, landing three or four more splashes on my cheek and chin. 

“Jesus Christ” he breathes. It makes me chuckle — our sex always seems make Master religious. 

“Now is it a good morning?” I ask. 

“Mmhmm” comes the reply. I grin. Another mission accomplished. 

Enjoyed this post? Give this post a like, share, or leave a comment below. Alternatively, click here for more of my Week In Review posts!

Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,

Enjoyed my writing? Gained something from it? Please consider giving something back by supporting me via Paypal or checking out my Amazon wishlist. I thank you for your kindness 🙂