I still believe her. It's been years now since we became “Dr. and Mrs. Lynn A. Jeffries,” our joke about who's the boss. Lynn is, of course, and we're both thrilled with it. We tell other people that we're both such strong personalities that we argue over everything and take turns winning, but it's all hogwash so they won't think I've lost my mind. I'm her slave and there's no doubt about it. I never wanted to be anything else from the moment I saw her, and she won't tolerate it any other way. I fully expect to be on the floor kissing her feet when I have to use a walker and wear a hearing aid.
I get up whenever Lynn does and I see her off to work. All she has to do is put down her empty coffee cup and I refill it instantly. When she comes in the door at night, she gets a foot massage. I respond very well to a raised eyebrow or a cleared throat from my mistress, and she can still make me shudder just by pinning me with that steely glare, or licking her lips.
I didn't move in until my first book was on the shelves, and I still own my little house to this day, renting it out to nice lesbians whenever I can. I am reluctant to ever give up my financial independence, but Lynn has demanded, and gotten, everything else I have to give. She has adjusted very nicely to not living alone. “Just do everything exactly as I tell you,” she said with a smile the day I came to stay for good, “and we'll get along just fine.” She still maintains a certain distance, and I treat her like a queen. She won't permit anything less.
Jay and Sallie have meekly succumbed to the pleasures of living with Lynn as well. Her leftovers are better than mine, but she hasn't washed a dish in five years, and she never will if I can help it.
I cringe to think how my life would have turned out if I had given up on passion. When she comes home in a little while, she'll put on her boots and summon me to her room. I'm already wetting myself as I sit here writing.
I hear the garage door going up. Please excuse me. Lynn doesn't like to be kept waiting.