Just because he took care of her didn’t mean she couldn’t take care of him. Ther

Just because he took care of her didn’t mean she couldn’t take care of him. There was room in their dynamic for a bit of back and forth. They were actually rather a fan of it. 

He’d fuck her till they were both sore, and she was speaking in tongues. The kind of religious experience that would make a priest blush, but something he would struggle not to admit that perhaps yes, it was indeed spiritual. He’d call her dirty names. He’d dictate exactly what she wore, and, more importantly, when. He’d discipline her when she got out of line, and she’d love every second of it, feeling herself becoming more than she was.

And she’d take care of the smaller, day to day things. Tying his tie. Shaving him in the mornings. Making the coffee, on the days that he didn’t get up before her. There were little things that he allowed her to do, too, things that would’ve been easier to do himself. Often she’d like to sink onto her knees at his feet, plant a quick kiss on the toe of his shoe before tying the laces. There was something about that action, of covering him up to go face the world, that she found solace in. 

There were a dozen miniature kisses that accompanied such activities. When the razor blade revealed his cheek, clean of shaving cream for her to plant her lips against. Buttoning up his shirt all the way before leading her hands ever upwards, and finding them cupping his face. She’d kiss him then, too. And he’d do some kissing of his own. 

It was something almost devoid of sex. Except, of course, everything they did was sex, even when it wasn’t. It was those little moments that drove him, the fuel that kept him patient when he was making her come over and over again. It was the adoration in those moments that made her want to gag on him, to feel her throat try to cling around the width of him. 

They lived a holistic life.