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"Thank you, Your Majesty. For the ... uh, comfort. And the pillow." I clasped my hands over my mouth, embarrassed anew. Cailan threw back his head and...laughed."You're more than welcome. I'm sorry you overheard us discussing that. We should have gone out of earshot, but I didn't want to disturb you." It's okay. Neither of you have any reason to trust me, your Majesty. You'd be perfectly within your rights to have me imprisoned, or worse." We're rather short of prison cells at the moment, my. That's not uncommon when you teach college, but this was an unusual attraction. I'm a sexual dominant by nature. That doesn't mean I walk around with a whip and Nazi jackboots on, but I have a special sensitivity for women who are attracted to my type. Emma gave no sign of being submissive, but those labels are misleading anyhow. There was something about her, something I felt—maybe the way her pupils dilated when I grew stern or irritated, or the way she toyed with her hair during lecture—but. I was trying not to cry and to make a major decision at the same time; to wit, if I wanted to get my gun from the safe and go down to my husbands' office blow his brains out. I had the errant object of my anger in my hand, an e-mail that was carefully folded and for the umptheenth time I opened it and looked at the picture and reread the text. The photo was quite good actually; it showed my husbands 23 year old secretary, Mindy, totally nude and sucking on a cock which could only be my. But, your huge knockers better not stretch it out! Would a t-shirt do the same thing, you think?” Even though we had joked like this a lot, I wasn’t sure what her response would be. Minutes later, I found out, in a simple, 8 word email. “Thanks. I suppose you’d want the t-shirt wet?” After reading this several times, I couldn’t help but be excited about the possibilities. Typing my response, I apprised her that I would take the sweatshirt to her house that we’d leave from there, and that any.
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