He reached into the fridge. “Omelet?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re eating. Then I’m giving you anti-inflammatories.”

It slipped out before I could catch it. “Yes, sir.”

One hand on the fridge door, the other holding a carton of eggs, he looked at me. “Is that what you prefer to call me?”

My heart didn’t jump up and flee. It danced. In tiny little steps all over my chest that were more punishing than any physical blow I’d ever received. “Please do not ask me that.”

Setting the eggs down and closing the fridge door, he leaned against the counter and crossed his muscular arms. “Why? Do you think I’m not aware that you’re a submissive?”

“I’m not….” My mouth suddenly dry, the patterning over my chest turned into thunderous stomping. “I don’t…. I’ve never talked….” I looked away, and my voice cracked before I managed a whisper. “That’s wrong.”

“Pick your head up, make direct eye contact, and tell me why you think it’s wrong.”

His dominant command and tone of voice made me look up without thought, but humiliation welled as I did exactly what he told me to do. “Because that word, it’s not strong. It’s weak.” Wishing I had vanished in that swamp, wanting to trade this shame crawling around inside me, my voice took flight like my body wanted to. “I’m weak.” Not even a whisper, the admission still spread across his spotless kitchen and tarnished the space between us.

The side of his jaw flexed, and his own voice became rough. “The strongest thing you can do is give a worthy man your submission.” His eyes stormed with lethal anger. “What you experienced was abuse and nonconsensual total power exchange. Not submission.”