Of Intimate Moments, and Laundry

by

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Slavery, Heterosexual, True Story, BDSM, DomSub, MaleDom, Rough, Humiliation, Squirting, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: When your girl is getting a bit down, help her do the laundry.

The key clinked into the lock, and I was already tired before it even finished turning. I opened the door to my apartment and lugged my workout bag with me. I ached everywhere and I needed a shower, and I was pretty sure I had the start of a black eye, which wasn't anything particularly new. There was a commotion of noise and chaos storming from one of the back rooms, but for the moment the living room was blessedly empty, and I wasn't about to go running off to investigate. It didn't sound like any of the boys were dead or dying, yet, so as far as I was concerned all was well and 'under control'.

I tossed my keys, along with my wallet and phone, onto their usual spot on the end table beside the couch, and crumpled into my beat up old recliner chair that didn't actually do any sort of reclining anymore, so it was really just a chair. It tilted slightly to one side. I was handy enough to keep it tacked together, which was why it was actually able to be sat in in the first place, but not handy enough to make it stop tilting. It was comfortable even with the tilt.

The contents of my workout bag needed attending; I had sweaty clothes that needed to go into the wash, and training gear that needed to be taken out and placed out on the screened in patio to air dry before they developed an unpleasant funk. That in addition to the shower I badly needed. But as pressing as those needs were, they would wait for a moment. I'd made the mistake of sitting down, and now I was stuck in that chair for the conceivable future. Or at least the next few minutes.

I was a nurse by profession. My job, while not physically taxing, per-se, was mentally draining to be sure. I worked at a long term health care facility. An old folks home. My place of employ wasn't exactly a top-notch facility. It was understaffed, short supplied, and all the beds were full of residents who were sick and getting sicker all the time. I did the best I could with the environment I was placed in, but it was a difficult place to be in.

That was my day job. Or my night job, as it were, since I largely worked nights. My second job was fighting. I'd trained in Mixed Martial Arts for just shy of three years and was at the cusp of transitioning from an unpaid amateur to a paid professional athlete. People were dumbfounded when they found out I was a nurse and a fighter. It was a strange combination, I'll admit, but hey, I'm a strange guy sometimes, and anything but ordinary. I was passionate about fighting and training. A huge portion of my energy and time went into my MMA aspirations. It was demanding, hard work, and I approached it very seriously.

If my professional and athletic pursuits didn't keep me busy enough, then there were the boys. As if on cue, the two youngest, Dylan and Reggie, came rushing out of the back rooms the boys shared.

Reggie, who was ten, came bounding over, all smiles as usual, and wanting a hug. Reggie had his mother's big dark eyes and her ears, and her lightly tanned skin. He was a hugger like his mother, too. Of my five stepsons (stepsons to be, technically, but it was all but official), he and I were probably the closest.

"Welcome home, Evan," Reggie said as I gave him the hug he wanted.

I patted his back and smiled down at him tiredly. "Thanks, Reg."

"You've got a black eye again," he observed.

I gave a soft chuckle. Reggie always pointed out my bruises and bloody lips and black eyes and whatever other bits of damage I came home with. He had a child's morbid fascination with them. "I know. It's fine. Where's your mom?"

"She's in her room," Dylan shouted from where he stood watching tv, which was directly in front of it.

"Lower your voice," I reminded him as I always did.

"Sorry," Dylan said, only slightly quieter. I shook my head, stuck between amusement and annoyance. Dylan hadn't known the definition of 'inside voice' as long as I'd known him, and never had before then by all accounts. He was the loudest and most boisterous of five loud and boisterous brothers. Quite an accomplishment, that.

"I think momma's taking a nap," Reggie offered.

"Gotcha. Where are the other boys?" I asked.

"Will and Paul are out. Luke is in his room," Reggie reported, then moved back and crossed his arms over his chest in what was his best imitation of a stern and serious adult. "You need to talk to that kid, he kept picking on Dylan and me today and wouldn't stop! I'm gonna punch him in the mouth!"

"No you're not," I said blandly, doing my best not to chuckle and smile just based on his posing alone. Reggie tried so hard sometimes. "Just leave him alone. He's not messing with you now so it's over with."

"But he!" Reggie started to protest.

"But nothing," I said firmly, holding up a hand to forestall his protest. "I'm sure he was picking on you. Just like I'm sure you or Dylan or both of you did something to needle him or get into his hair in the first place, and I'm also sure when he started picking on you you two got all in his face about it. So leave it. It's done with. Understand?"

Reggie had an awful poker face. I didn't know the details, nor did I really care; the boys fought so much that I was more surprised on those rare occasions they actually did get along. Clearly I was close enough with my guesswork of how thing went down though, because Reggie didn't even try to argue, instead muttering softly under his breath as he started to sulk.

"What was that?" I asked, arching a brow and giving him the look.

"Yes, Sir," he mumbled louder.

"Good. Now quit moping."

"I'm not moping," Reggie insisted, mopily.

"Umm, can we have fruit snacks?" Dylan asked, still enraptured by the tv.

"When did you have lunch?" I asked.

"I dunno," Dylan shrugged.

"Dylan. Look at me and answer my question," I instructed.

"Huh? Um. I think almost three hours ago," Dylan was able to provide once he tore his attention away from the tv.

"Fine, you can have fruitsnacks," I nodded.

"Yesss," Dylan hissed, and did a rather theatrical celebratory fist pump.

Dylan was the ham of the family, and that was saying something, because all the boys were hams in one way or another. But Dylan took the cake. He was nine, small and thin and bony. He was the runt of the brothers for sure but I felt sure he'd end up tall like two of his older brothers when he hit puberty. He had a big smile and a crazy mop of long curly hair that he refused to let his mother cut, to the point of actually running from the room whenever she so much as mentioned it.

"No fruitsnacks," their mother said as she emerged from our bedroom. "I'm about to make dinner."

"Aww," the boys chorused together, but it was lackluster.

My attention focused on her as it always did when she was near. Jess was my fiancé, my girl, and my love. She also happened to be my owned and collared slave. We had been in a full time power exchange relationship for the better part of two and a half years. It hadn't taken very long at all into our relationship to identify as Master and slave. It had felt right and natural to us from the beginning.

Jess was short, like me, and had beautiful, rich brown hair that flowed down her shoulders and back. She kept it long because that's what I preferred, and since we'd met it had grown from hanging just above her shoulder blades to now passing the small of her back. It was thick, lush and soft, and complimented her eyes, two wide, glossy dark pools that I found myself lost in on a regular basis. Her face was oval and appeared younger than she was. She had a small, pert nose that was rounded cutely at the end, and full lips.

My girl was pleasingly, sexily plump. Like most women, she was subconscious about her figure and weight, but I had always thought her beautiful and sexy, womanly and soft with ample, generous curves in all the right places. Her breasts were large and heavy, full, with thick, pierced cherry red nipples and dusky areolas that crinkled when she was excited. Her belly was soft, and had been slowly but steadily shrinking bit by bit as she endeavored to diet and exercise to keep healthy, which I was insistent upon; I didn't care about her weight, but encouraging her and guiding her toward being as healthy and well as she could be was part of my responsibilities as her Master and owner.

Her hips were rounded and wide, true child bearing hips, and she'd certainly made good use of them in that regard. I loved them, loved to grip and squeeze them when I held her close or guided her as we walked together. Her ass was delicious, round and firm and juicy and always seemed to me to need some groping, pinching, spanking, spreading ... whatever my mind and my hands came up with at the time, really.

Jess had naturally lightly tanned skin, and her skin was baby soft and supple, as if she lotioned it constantly to keep it smooth and touchable, but she was just naturally that way. I loved to stroke her, to touch her skin anywhere really, to feel it glide under my fingertips. She had the most touchable skin I've ever felt, and I made it a point to touch her regularly, constantly even.

She was dressed plainly today, a pair of black cotton shorts she wore for exercise or to do chores around the house, and a blue V-neck shirt. Both were modest and simple, but flattered her curves, which I enjoyed. She had her hair piled up and tied back atop her head. Her silver slave collar glinted softly around her throat, a simple thin flat band with three circles open in the silver, one at the front of her throat and one on either side.

"Welcome home, Sir," Jess said as she walked to me and bent to accept my kiss.

.... There is more of this story ...

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