His voice was reasonable. Calm. His “non-scene Dom” tone. But it still felt like a command.
“Um… well, it’s Christmas. And I was wondering if maybe, instead of primal play, I could make another request... sir?”
The lips behind his mouth hole twitched at the use of his preferred title, which never felt quite right on my tongue. Another point in theBad Submissivecolumn.
“Sure, anything,” he said. “What were you thinking?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again.
Geez, this is embarrassing.I deeply, deeply didn’t want to be the one to bring this up. And if things had gone even slightly differently, I probably never would have.
But my wearable ovulation monitor had gone off right before I stepped into the shower of the outrageously nice penthouse suite Mr. Good Time always rented when he was in town. And the pee test I took afterward confirmed it. A rare ovulation window. My first in months.
There wasn’t time to hedge or beat around the bush.
So I looked up at the ceiling and said it as fast as I could: “I’d like to do a breeding scene.”
I didn’t look at him as I made the request. I couldn’t. But I felt the shock in how still he went. Even though his voice came out level.
“You’re not on birth control.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s actually the point. I’m ovulating. So I’d like to try to get pregnant today. For Christmas. Please, sir.”
His voice wasn’t level anymore. “What? Where is this coming from?”
I tried to stay calm, but I could already hear the wobble in my tone.
“About a year and a half ago, I got a POI diagnosis. I didn’t tell you because those are intimate details that didn’t really pertain to our sex life.”
“POI?” His voice was clipped now. “What does that mean?”
“Primary ovarian insufficiency.”
The words splatted like broken eggs between us. Which was ironic because… “It means I don’t produce eggs regularly. I’m kind of in early menopause—though that’s not exactly the right term. Technically…”
I cut myself off.Technicallywas one of the warning words. A sign I was about to launch into an overexplaining tangent the other person probably didn’t want to hear.
I took a breath and reset. “Main point: I don’t ovulate often. And when I do, I’m supposed to try. Hence the request.”
He stared at me. Black eyes in a black mask.
And I rushed to fill the silence.
“I’m not asking you for anything. This is actually kind of perfect because if it works, it stays anonymous. I won’t bother you. I swear—okay, where are you going?”
Mr. Good Time stood suddenly and walked over to the built-in bench where he’d left his duffel bag. His back rippled with muscle as he unzipped it.
It would’ve been a rather aesthetically pleasing sight if he hadn’t immediately yanked on a pair of black boxer briefs.
“What are you doing?”
“This wasn’t in our agreement.”
“I mean, it wasn’tnotin our agreement. And when I asked to make a play request, you said anything.”
“I didn’t mean anything with permanent consequences.”
