The Reluctant Domme

[taoschild]

With the upcoming release of the final novel in the Reluctant Domme series, Built to Command, I'm re-editing each of the first two novels and adding a bit more.  I'll post the first chapter of the Reluctant Domme here. Obviously, this is an intro chapter to a novel so it will be a slow burn.

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Obsession doesn't always arrive fully formed. Sometimes it starts as a question you ask without realizing how badly you want the answer. A glance that lingers. A thought that refuses to stay polite. A low, insistent sense that something beneath the surface is shifting, stretching, asking to be tested.

Jack had always known.

Mine was different.

Mine arrived sideways. Which is why it blindsided me when it happened.

Jack's obsession didn't roar into my life. It whispered. It crept. It slid under my skin and waited until I trusted it enough to stop pulling away. What began as an attempt to meet him where he lived, turned into something feral and intimate and entirely my own.

That winter night, rain pressing against the windows and firelight breathing across the walls, I felt it fully for the first time.

Awakening.

We loved each other. We were comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. Predictable. And comfort, I would learn, is fertile ground for dangerous questions.

I asked mine before I understood what it would cost.

"How?"

The pause, the lift of his brow, and the heat beneath his restraint, told me this wasn't a game anymore. It was an invitation.

"Do you really want me to show you, Dani?"

His eyebrow lifted, a silent challenge—as if I hadn't fully considered the consequences of saying yes. A tremor of fear slid down my spine. The firelight caught in his hazel eyes, candid and observant, and the way he watched me made my pulse skitter. Goosebumps bloomed across my bare skin, sudden and sharp, like a field springing to life after a long drought. One unexpected perk of that winter's relentless rain was how much time we spent shut in together—time that inevitably bled into extracurricular pursuits.

Each evening followed a familiar rhythm. Lips pressed together, tongues exploring, hands learning and relearning the same terrain. Our lithe, sweat-slick bodies met while thunder cracked outside, our moans swallowed by the storm. We made love on the bedroom rug by the fire, tangled in a careless heap of blankets. Other nights, we migrated to the bed, where we traced and fondled each other's firm bodies before finally surrendering to the act itself. Lately, our lovemaking had grown predictably staid, but we still finished entwined, falling asleep skin to skin.

That night, he wanted more.

Or maybe less routine.

He'd asked, more than once, for me to take control. To be rougher. A dominatrix, he'd called it, the word sounding foreign on my tongue. No matter how hard I tried, years of subtle social conditioning clung to me like a second skin.

Be polite. Be pretty. Don't take up too much space translated into discomfort bordering on outright anguish when it came time to take charge. Those whispers turned into outright discomfort when I attempted to lead, and into near agony when I tried to dominate. Every previous attempt had ended the same way—awkward laughter, half-formed demands, the mood dissolving before it could take root.

Still, I nodded, even though I wasn't entirely sure what I was agreeing to.

Jack—my husband of five years—was everything I'd ever wanted. He checked every box women are taught to look for: loving, intelligent, steady, hardworking. Rugged and sculpted, financially secure. His olive skin, dark hair, and quick, brilliant smile fit my taste perfectly. His family was warm and welcoming, a blessing I never took for granted. On paper, in life, in love—he was ideal.

Which made the fear curling in my stomach that much harder to ignore.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

Here's the link for The Reluctant Domme, which is a female growth novel: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
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From the start, his mom had deemed me a good catch. Not in the superficial way people usually meant it. She was a feminist before it was fashionable, so it had nothing to do with looks, though I had them, whether I liked to admit it or not. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Long legs. A bright smile. The kind of body men reduced to crude praise—firm tits—though God help me if his mother ever noticed such things.

One of my college roommates once called me "your basic nightmare," said with affection but edged with envy, because my looks made others feel small. I hate even writing that. It sounds conceited, even though it never felt like a gift—more like a spotlight I hadn't asked for.

But that wasn't what impressed his mom.

It was my mouth.

The fact that I said what I wanted. That I didn't hide behind layers of makeup or soften my opinions to make them easier to swallow. That I stood up to Jack when it mattered. That I didn't fold.

Now that I think about it, that defiance was probably what drew Jack to me in the first place.

Even then, he liked being told what to do.

How had I missed that?

Jack adored me. There was no doubt about that. He showed his devotion not with grand gestures, but with trust. The kind of trust that came wrapped in a secret he'd never shared with anyone else.

It happened the day after our engagement.

We were stretched out on the couch, television murmuring in the background. Seinfeld, if memory serves. Thursday nights were sacred: Friends, Seinfeld, ER. Pizza grease on our fingers. Beer bottles sweating onto coasters. Normally Jack filled the room with commentary—sharp, funny, irreverent—but that night he couldn't sit still. He shifted. Picked at nothing. Crossed and uncrossed his legs until my patience snapped.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sharper than I meant to.

He froze.

Then he stammered, words tripping over themselves until he finally said, barely above a whisper, "Look, I love you more than anyone, but..." He stood and began pacing behind the couch, the floorboards creaking under his restless steps.

"But what?"

"I—" His agitation was unmistakable, unsettling. I'd never seen him like that. I stayed quiet, willing him forward with nothing but my eyes.

He stopped suddenly and looked at me, rubbing the back of his neck. "You have the most expressive eyes," he muttered.

I snorted softly. "I'm pretty sure that's not what you were about to say. It's okay. Whatever it is—I love you."

"I love you too. It's just... I have this thing." He winced at his own vagueness. "And I need you to know before you really commit to me." He hesitated, then added, attempting humor that didn't quite land, "Unless you've got a dead body hidden somewhere, I think we're past the point of no return."

I laughed, but the sound came out thin.

"It wouldn't be fair if I didn't show you my dark side."

That was when the unease set in.

We descended the creaky wooden steps into his basement, the light dim and unreliable, the concrete floor radiating cold through the soles of my feet. The air was stale, tinged with dust and something metallic. Every instinct I had screamed that I didn't want to see what came next, even as curiosity propelled me forward.

Under the stairs, he gestured to a small stack of boxes. On top sat a purple Converse duffle bag.

"What?" I asked, though part of me didn't want the answer.

At least it's too small for a body, I told myself. And immediately wished I hadn't.

"Open them," he said quietly, "and decide how weird I really am before you decide if I'm what you want."

My face tightened in confusion. Open them? What kind of dark secret required props?

Uneasily, I slipped past him and reached for the bag as if it might snap at my fingers. The basement felt unnaturally still. He didn't move. Didn't speak. The sound of the zipper tearing open sliced through the silence far louder than it should have.

I peered inside.

No gun. No blood. No horrifying evidence of a crime.

Just VHS tapes. There were dozens of them stuffed haphazardly inside.

I pulled a few out, my brow furrowing as I read the labels. WPW 34. Ms. Int 1989. Debbie. Others were blank, their spines worn smooth with use.

"What... what are these?" I asked, still failing to see the threat.

"Put one in," he said, nodding toward an ancient VCR-TV combo shoved against the wall. The kind with dials instead of buttons. A relic.

My curiosity prickled into something sharper. His demeanor was wrong—guarded, uncertain, stripped of its usual confidence. Whatever this was, it mattered to him. Deeply.
I grabbed the tape marked Ms. Int 1989 and slid it into the machine. Behind me, his breath hitched, growing uneven, almost ragged. The VCR whirred to life, that familiar mechanical hum filling the room as the screen flickered from static to image.

A woman burst onto a brightly lit stage wearing a hot pink swimsuit.

She struck a pose with her palm to forehead, torso angled, and one foot pointed back before freezing until the music kicked in. When it did, she moved with grace through a practiced routine. Her arm flexed, swelling with power, the muscle rounding thick and defined. Her bent leg bulged with striations carved so sharply they looked sculpted from stone. Even her calf split cleanly in two as she pointed her foot.

I stared, transfixed.

[taoschild]

This is probably too slow a burn to be intriguing here, because it's a novel, so maybe I'll just post something else. Here is one more section just in case there are readers still interested. Here is the link to the novel: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login


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I'd heard of female bodybuilders, of course. Just never paid them much attention.

Until now.

Under the harsh lights, she flowed from pose to pose, her body a study in discipline and control. Strength radiated from her—earned, deliberate. Her physique spoke not just of hours in the gym, but of ruthless commitment, of restraint and intensity. Her breasts lifted proudly, straining upward, gravity be damned.

A surprised laugh bubbled up when I noticed her nipples—tight, pronounced, almost defiant beneath the fabric. They looked teased, intentional. Like she'd wanted them noticed.
Give the boys a little extra, I thought, equal parts amused and impressed. In a competition like that, every advantage mattered.

And somewhere behind me, Jack's breathing grew heavier.

But I didn't laugh.

There was something he wanted me to see, and though I couldn't yet grasp what that was, the footage carried an odd, undeniable charge. Erotic wasn't the right word—but it hovered close. I stayed silent, watching, aware of the tension thickening the air between us. Jack's breathing grew hoarse, uneven. When I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he was gnawing anxiously at a fingernail, his gaze glued to the screen.

The woman pranced on with effortless confidence. Her skin gleamed beneath the stage lights, muscles rolling beneath it as she moved. Blonde curls locks bounced with each step. Her breasts jutted proudly forward, and a permanent grin remained transfixed to her face. She was just curves, muscles, and silky skin. Pose after pose, her body spoke in flex and release, her abs rippling with deep grooves that shimmered as she danced.

I watched it all, still unsure what I was meant to understand.

I turned toward Jack. "Wha—"

"Now look in the boxes," he said flatly, cutting me off.

She Drives Me Crazy blared from the tinny speakers as the woman in pink continued her routine. I knelt and pried open the nearest box. Inside were magazines—dozens of them.
Muscle magazines. I opened another. More of the same.

Flipping through them, the pattern emerged. WPW—Women's Physique Worlds—neatly organized by date. His obsession wasn't careless. It was curated.

One cover snagged my attention.

A deeply tanned brunette stared out from the page, clad in a skin-tight purple dress that looked sprayed on. She was turned slightly sideways, her biceps bulging as she flexed with deliberate pride. She was bigger than the blonde on the tape—thicker, denser, impossibly solid.

And, to my surprise, more attractive.

The realization settled in my chest, slow and heavy, as the truth began to take shape.

I was so wrapped up in my spiraling thoughts that his voice startled me.

"The thing you need to know before you marry me," he said carefully, as if each word had weight, "the thing you have a right to know... is that I have a muscle fetish. For women." He swallowed hard. "I'm not gay."

"I see."

The words felt woefully insufficient, but they were all I had.

He rushed on, tripping over himself. "And I'm not asking you to train or look like that. It's just... I'm sorry. I've never told anyone before. Ever."

Something in his apology softened me.

"It's okay," I said gently. "Tell me." I turned fully toward him, took his hands in mine, grounding us both. I wanted him to feel safe enough to finish.

His shoulders sagged, relief and shame tangled together. "I have a hard time shutting it off. It's always there, and I don't want it to become this... big, awkward thing between us. I just... I thought honesty mattered. Before we get married."

"It does," I said.

"But you don't want me to look like that?" I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the screen and the boxes.

He hesitated. Just long enough.

"I'm not going to lie and say I wouldn't like it," he admitted quietly. "That wouldn't be fair. But I don't expect you to try. And don't get me wrong, you turn me on. You always have."
As he spoke, my gaze dropped almost involuntarily.

His jeans were tight across his thighs, the denim pulled taut in a way that hadn't been there before. The evidence of his arousal was barely concealed, like a secret that had slipped free despite his best efforts. Heat rushed to my face, not embarrassment exactly, but awareness. This wasn't theoretical for him. It never had been.

He noticed my glance and froze, mortified. "I—God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," I cut in quickly, squeezing his hands before he could retreat into himself. "Really."

And it was. Or at least, it could be.