Hey Buddy! No worries I'm sure the wait is worth it. Been super hyped about this one so wanted to check up on you and see how it's going. Loved the new story on DA and am super stoked about the novella as well 
Thank you. As I get closer to publishing I'll post more of the introduction (re-edited) here. This is a start...
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“How?”
“Do you really want me to show you, Dani?” His eyebrow arched up as if I didn’t quite understand what the consequences of my assent might be. A ripple of fear shivered through me. The way his candidly observant hazel eyes reflected the brilliance of the firelight only enhanced my wariness. Goosebumps immediately lined the torso of my nude frame as if a field of wheat had miraculously germinated. One benefit of the seemingly ceaseless rain that winter was that all the extra time spent at home seemed to inevitably evolve into extracurricular activities.
Lips pressed together, tongues investigating, hands caressing, our lithe, sweaty bodies met each evening. Drowning out the thunder outside, we made love by the firelight on our bedroom floor area rug under a twisted lump of blankets. Other times we’d graduate to the bed itself, where we fondled each other’s firm bodies before we ‘did the deed.’ Recently our lovemaking had become a bit staid and predictable, but we still performed and fell asleep with our bodies intertwined.
But that night, he wanted something different. Trying to shake up the monotony, he’d asked me on more than one occasion to play the more aggressive partner when we coupled. A dominatrix, he’d called it. Try as I might, the not-so-subtle programming by society to be submissive had set in and made the task an impossible one. The subconsciously whispered refrain to wear makeup, look pretty, have good manners translated into discomfort bordering on outright anguish when it came time to take charge. Performing as a dominatrix in the bedroom only increased the discomfort tenfold. Almost every time I’d tried it previously, it had ended up with me laughing or asking for inane things which inevitably turned him off.
I nodded, not exactly sure of what I was agreeing to. Jack, my husband for five years, was everything I dreamed of in a man. He was a laundry list of ‘must haves’ for women seeking a mate; loving, intelligent, supportive, hard-working, rugged, sculpted, and well-off financially. His olive complexion, dark hair, and bright smile, which he was quick to flash, catered to my taste in men as well. He had a great family which meant I had no in-law issues.
From the start, his Mom had considered me a ‘good catch.’ She was a feminist ahead of her time, so it wasn’t because people considered me good-looking. Sure, I had blue eyes, blonde hair, long legs, a bright smile, and what guys would call ‘firm tits’ (not that his mom took stock of this). One of my college roommates affectionately called me “your basic nightmare” because my looks shamed others. God, I hate even admitting that. But it wasn’t how I looked that impressed his Mom. It was the fact that I said what I wanted, didn’t wear much makeup, and stood up to Jack when I needed to that set me apart.
Now that I think about it, that sassiness is probably why Jack was attracted to me in the first place. Even then he wanted to be told what to do. Why hadn’t I seen that before? Jack was absolutely devoted to me and showed his trust in me by sharing a secret that he’d never dared tell another soul.
It was the day after our engagement and we were relaxing on the couch watching television. If memory serves me, it was Seinfeld. Thursday nights meant the trifecta; Friends, Seinfeld, and E.R., and the evening was always topped off by pizza and beer. Yet that night his usual caustic comments and fun jibes at the shows were replaced by fidgeting so pronounced I’d finally asked “What’s wrong?” in frustration.
He stammered momentarily, then finally managed with his voice little more than a whisper, “Look, I love you more than anyone, but…” he stood up and paced back and forth behind our couch.
“But what?”
“I…” His jerky movements showed a level of agitation I hadn’t seen in him before, so I didn’t interrupt again and silently willed him the confidence to continue.
He stopped and looked at me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. My eyes implored him to continue. “You have the most expressive eyes,” he muttered.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what you wanted to say. Don’t worry. It’s okay. I love you.”
“I love you too. It’s just that I have... this thing.”
Not the most descriptive thing, I thought. “And I… I have to let you know something before you commit to me.
I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed unless you have a dead body in the basement. “It wouldn’t be fair unless I shared my dark side with you.” For a moment I thought he was kidding, but the expression on his face said otherwise.
My skin crawled as we walked down the creaky wooden stairs into his poorly lit, concrete-floored basement. The stale smell of the air and the frigid temperature only contributed to my gloomy feeling about what would come next. Under the stairs, he pointed to a stack of boxes and a purple Converse duffle bag sitting atop.
“What?” I asked, not really wanting his ‘dirty secret’ revealed, but asking nonetheless.
At least it’s too small for a dead body.“Open them and see how weird I am before deciding I’m what you really want.” My face winced in confusion.
What was this dark secret he was hiding? With trepidation, I slid past him and reached for the bag as if it might bite. It was so quiet, with him watching motionless, that the zipper sounded piercing as I opened the bag. Looking inside with confusion, there wasn’t a gun or something horrific as I’d begun to fear, only a number of haphazard VHS tapes. I picked a few up, still trying to grasp what was going on. They were labeled with confusing terms like
WPW 34, Ms. Int 1989, or
Debbie while others remained blank. “What, what are these?” I asked, still not getting the point.
“Put one in,” he responded, motioning to a 6” old-fashioned VCR/TV combo unit that screamed technology of a bygone era. The secret was killing me — his demeanor was so unlike him, unsure and mysterious. As I grabbed the one labeled
Ms. Int 1989 and put the tape in the player, I heard his nervous, raspy breath increasing to a feverish pitch. The once familiar hum of the VCR tape whirled into action and the screen lit up.
A tanned woman raced onto a brightly lit stage in a pink swimsuit, placed her palm to her forehead, bent down, pointed one foot behind her, and froze in position until some music began. Her arm swelled like I envisioned a strong man’s might, her bent leg bulging with lines carved as if in concrete, and her pointed foot revealed a calf split in two, thick with muscle. I stared in awe. I’d heard of female bodybuilders, but never really given them much notice.
