Chapter One
Contrary to popular belief, rules were not
made to be broken. At least not in Max’s opinion. Rules for home.
Rules for work. Rules for play. Max thrived on the order and
certainty of his rules.
Violet, on the other hand, seemed to delight
in breaking the rules. His rules, specifically. Outside their home,
Violet was a model citizen without as much as a speeding ticket on
her record. Within these shared walls, it was a different story.
The mischievous little tart left wet towels on the bathroom floor
and refused to use a coaster. Her laundry rarely made it into the
proper hamper. She never rinsed the oatmeal out of her bowl before
tossing it carelessly into the dishwasher.
A gentle reminder never worked. No, a girl
like Violet required a firm yet loving hand.
For every wet ring on the coffee table or
dried bit of crusty oatmeal left in a bowl, Max doled out ten or
fifteen whacks, usually with his hand but sometimes with his belt
or a paddle. If he felt particularly generous, Max let her choose
the implement. She never shied away from a bit of pain and often
surprised him in her choice of makeshift paddle. Her creativity
knew no bounds.
A wide wooden spoon she’d plucked from the
countertop one lazy Saturday afternoon had lent a particularly
beautiful shade of pink to her bottom. Breath hitched with
excitement, she’d draped herself across his lap, fingertips
touching the tile, and presented her wiggling ass for punishment.
Her squeals of pain and moans of pleasure had sent him over the
edge. He’d gotten so hot he’d tossed aside the spoon and taken her
right there on the kitchen floor, one hand braced on the cabinet,
the other pressing her cheek to the cold tile as he drove deeper
and deeper into her juicy cunt.
That was the problem with a dirty girl like
Violet. She threatened his control, sent his lust into overdrive.
She knew exactly how to push his buttons and delighted in doing so
with playful smirks or rolled eyes. The perfect snotty remark
seemed always just there on the tip of her pink tongue, just
waiting for a chance to sting.
Of course, that rebellious streak, those
moments of outright defiance, were the things that made her so
perfect for him. There was never any doubt she enjoyed their kinky
games. With Violet, he felt safe indulging his darker tastes. She
encouraged his naughtier penchants with such enthusiasm. Violet
gave him exactly what he needed and received what she so
desperately wanted in return.
Dominance. Submission. Bondage. Pain.
Pleasure. And all of it tied up in the pretty little package that
was his Violet. She was so startlingly good at being
such a very bad girl.
And this time she’d truly outdone
herself.
Before leaving on a three week training
exercise with the private military company he co-owned, Max had
left specific instructions for Violet. What she would wear. What
she would eat. When and how she would exercise. When and how she
could (or couldn’t) touch herself, pleasure herself. He’d even
provided laminated checklists for laundry, dishes and other
housekeeping routines.
To those outside their curious lifestyle
choice, such planning and structure probably seemed controlling,
perhaps even bordering on abusive. For Violet and Max, it was
something else entirely. He rarely went so far in their power
exchange. In all honesty, he found that kind of intense and
continuous control incredibly exhausting. He was perfectly content
to play the role of the Dom in the bedroom or playroom and leave
the mundane choices of everyday life to Violet.
But, when his job required a lengthy absence,
Violet craved his rules and regulations. She seemed to find the
checklists and schedules as comforting as a security blanket. As
her lover, her dominant, her husband, Max strove to provide Violet
with whatever she needed. If that meant picking out the perfect top
to go with that sexy as hell pinstripe pencil skirt and telling her
to eat grilled chicken with saffron rice for
Contrary to popular belief, rules were not
made to be broken. At least not in Max’s opinion. Rules for home.
Rules for work. Rules for play. Max thrived on the order and
certainty of his rules.
Violet, on the other hand, seemed to delight
in breaking the rules. His rules, specifically. Outside their home,
Violet was a model citizen without as much as a speeding ticket on
her record. Within these shared walls, it was a different story.
The mischievous little tart left wet towels on the bathroom floor
and refused to use a coaster. Her laundry rarely made it into the
proper hamper. She never rinsed the oatmeal out of her bowl before
tossing it carelessly into the dishwasher.
A gentle reminder never worked. No, a girl
like Violet required a firm yet loving hand.
For every wet ring on the coffee table or
dried bit of crusty oatmeal left in a bowl, Max doled out ten or
fifteen whacks, usually with his hand but sometimes with his belt
or a paddle. If he felt particularly generous, Max let her choose
the implement. She never shied away from a bit of pain and often
surprised him in her choice of makeshift paddle. Her creativity
knew no bounds.
A wide wooden spoon she’d plucked from the
countertop one lazy Saturday afternoon had lent a particularly
beautiful shade of pink to her bottom. Breath hitched with
excitement, she’d draped herself across his lap, fingertips
touching the tile, and presented her wiggling ass for punishment.
Her squeals of pain and moans of pleasure had sent him over the
edge. He’d gotten so hot he’d tossed aside the spoon and taken her
right there on the kitchen floor, one hand braced on the cabinet,
the other pressing her cheek to the cold tile as he drove deeper
and deeper into her juicy cunt.
That was the problem with a dirty girl like
Violet. She threatened his control, sent his lust into overdrive.
She knew exactly how to push his buttons and delighted in doing so
with playful smirks or rolled eyes. The perfect snotty remark
seemed always just there on the tip of her pink tongue, just
waiting for a chance to sting.
Of course, that rebellious streak, those
moments of outright defiance, were the things that made her so
perfect for him. There was never any doubt she enjoyed their kinky
games. With Violet, he felt safe indulging his darker tastes. She
encouraged his naughtier penchants with such enthusiasm. Violet
gave him exactly what he needed and received what she so
desperately wanted in return.
Dominance. Submission. Bondage. Pain.
Pleasure. And all of it tied up in the pretty little package that
was his Violet. She was so startlingly good at being
such a very bad girl.
And this time she’d truly outdone
herself.
Before leaving on a three week training
exercise with the private military company he co-owned, Max had
left specific instructions for Violet. What she would wear. What
she would eat. When and how she would exercise. When and how she
could (or couldn’t) touch herself, pleasure herself. He’d even
provided laminated checklists for laundry, dishes and other
housekeeping routines.
To those outside their curious lifestyle
choice, such planning and structure probably seemed controlling,
perhaps even bordering on abusive. For Violet and Max, it was
something else entirely. He rarely went so far in their power
exchange. In all honesty, he found that kind of intense and
continuous control incredibly exhausting. He was perfectly content
to play the role of the Dom in the bedroom or playroom and leave
the mundane choices of everyday life to Violet.
But, when his job required a lengthy absence,
Violet craved his rules and regulations. She seemed to find the
checklists and schedules as comforting as a security blanket. As
her lover, her dominant, her husband, Max strove to provide Violet
with whatever she needed. If that meant picking out the perfect top
to go with that sexy as hell pinstripe pencil skirt and telling her
to eat grilled chicken with saffron rice for
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