Home for Dinner 01

WARNINGS

: This is a commission for a lovely reader, who chose the dynamic of the story. It is a House Husband x CEO femdomme wife, a reversed 1950 kinda of couple, where the husband bears with his wife's cheating, thinking of it as something that comes with the territory of being married to a powerful woman.

This is a work of pure fantasy; in no way it wants to describe a toxic relationship.

Mention of: cheating, power dynamics, power imbalance, male objectification, reversed gender roles.

If you are not ok with it, stop here. Any feedback is appreciated!

Home for dinner

Mr. Hart

Michael stared at the shiny wedding band on his finger, the gold catching the light as he twisted it absently. It was heavier than he ever imagined a ring would feel, like a badge of honor and a collar all at once. He didn't mind.

His mind, as it often did, wandered into a daydream, a scene he'd played out so many times it felt almost

real.

He imagined himself sitting on the plush couch of one of those daytime talk shows he always watched, the host leaning in with a microphone, her voice dripping with curiosity. "

So, tell us, what's it really like to be the husband of Venora Hart, the biggest, hottest, most successful CEO right now?"

He could almost hear the audience's collective gasp, their eyes fixed on him, waiting for his answer. And oh, he had it ready. He'd rehearsed it in his mind a thousand times.

"It's a dream come true,"

he'd say with a practiced smile. "Venora is everything you'd imagine and more. Strong, beautiful, brilliant. She's the whole package. And I'm just grateful to be by her side, supporting her in every way I can." Because Venora Hart wasn't just a CEO. She built an empire from the ground up, a global business that sold high-end male underwear and lingerie and BDSM gear.

And then there was him. Michael Hart —formerly Michael Tunner— had taken her last name when they married, a decision that had raised eyebrows among some of his friends. But he didn't care. He was proud to be her husband, proud to cook her meals, to keep their penthouse immaculate, and proud to greet her at the door every evening with a smile, a perfectly plated dinner and a glass of red wine. He was the picture of a devoted househusband, and he wore the role like a second skin.

Michael eyes landed on the perfectly cooked dinner, the golden-brown chicken glistening under the soft glow of the pendant lights above the dining table. The salad was a vibrant mosaic of greens and reds, tossed with just the right amount of dressing, and the garlic bread sticks, baked from scratch that afternoon, sat in a neat basket. He had timed everything perfectly, as he always did. The chicken had come out of the oven at 7:15 PM, tender and juicy, just as Venora's text had chimed in:

"Running late. Don't wait up."

But he had waited. Of course, he had waited.

Now, at 9 PM, the food was cold, the breadsticks stiff, and the salad wilting. He stared at it all, his hands resting limply on the table. Then, he let his gaze drift to the clock on the wall. The ticking was loud in the silence, each second stretching into an eternity.

His mind threatened to drift into dangerous territory, thoughts he couldn't afford to entertain. Thinking wasn't a good idea.

Instead, he stared at the breadsticks. And at the clock, and at the chicken. Then again, he stared at his golden ring.

He thought about wrapping everything up, but his muscles refused to obey. He just sat there, frozen in place, staring at the minutes tick by on the clock.

9:45.

10:02.

10:13.

The sound of the door opening snapped his head around like a marionette jerked by its strings. There she was, Venora Hart, his stunning wife. Her dark hair was tousled, her shirt slightly wrinkled and unbuttoned one more button than necessary, revealing a sliver of skin that glistened faintly under the hallway light.

"I told you I was running late, dear," she said, her voice smooth and unbothered as she dropped her keys on the side table. "Why didn't you eat?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he watched as she crossed the room, her heels clicking against the floor, and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. The gesture was casual, but it sent a jolt through him all the same. As she pulled away, he caught a whiff of vanilla—a scent that was too sweet to be hers.

"Do you want me to warm it up?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I made—"

"No worries, darling," she interrupted, already halfway to the stairs. "I snacked on something at the office.

Right now, I just need a shower."

He hesitated, then tried again, his voice softer, almost tentative. "Do you want company in the shower?" It had worked most of the time. It was a playful offer, a way to reconnect, to remind her that he was still there, still hers.

But this time, she didn't pause. She didn't even turn around. "I need a shower and sleep. Today was extremely busy, and tomorrow's going to be worse. It's launch day for the new

Dildo Pants line

, and on top of all the shit that entails, I also have the final interviews to conduct for the secretary position. Have you forgotten?"

No, he hadn't forgotten.

"And in the evening," she added, her voice already drifting as she climbed the stairs, "there's also the

inauguration of the second location of

The Velvet

." He didn't forget that either.

As a hobby, or, more accurately, a side business, his lovely wife was also the owner of a strip club. Well, soon to be two strip clubs, the second one casually being inaugurated in the middle of a working week. The Velvet was her pride and joy, a place where women and queer audiences could indulge in their most secret fantasies.

Also, a place where she would have some of her "

important but not boring meetings

". A place, although, that was not for him.

"Not for gentlemen like you,"

she'd said once, her tone light but final.

And it wasn't the only place he wasn't allowed to go.

He'd actually been asked to attend an interview once, a casual sit-down with a journalist, but Venora had

shut it down immediately. "Nonsense chitchat between men," she'd called it, waving her hand dismissively.

The only public outings where he was allowed at her arm were the big ones, the fundraisers, the events where all the moneyed business women gathered. Those nights, he was her perfect accessory: a Rolex on his wrist (a gift that had cost her a fortune) and dressed to the nines in tailored brands.

He heard the shower running upstairs, the faint sound of water hitting tiles echoing through the quiet house. For a moment, he stood still, listening, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned back to the kitchen, his movements mechanical as he cleaned up.

His wife had always refused to hire an everyday cleaning person. They only had someone come once a month for the tasks he couldn't handle like deep cleaning the carpets. Venora had been firm about it.

"How else will you keep your head busy when I'm not here?"

she'd said once, half-joking, half-serious. And she was right. Cleaning, cooking, organizing were the things that filled his days, the things that kept his mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

By the time he was done, the kitchen was immaculate, the dining room pristine. It was as if the dinner had never happened.

Something deep inside him twisted.

But later, when he was in bed with her, the weight of her body pressing into his, her strong hands tangled in his dark hair, that same thing slowly untwisted.

"Down," she murmured, "I'm gonna feed you," her voice low and commanding, and he obeyed without hesitation. He always did.

He kissed her stomach first, his lips brushing against her skin in a slow, deliberate trail. She sighed, her body relaxing beneath him, her fingers tightening in his hair as if to guide him further. He moved lower, his breath warm against her inner thighs, his hands gently spreading her legs apart. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the faint tremor in her muscles as she arched slightly, urging him on.

He reached her already wet pussy and kissed her there, softly at first, a gentle press of his lips that made her gasp. Then he deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking against her clit in slow strokes. She moaned, her hips lifting off the bed, her hands gripping his hair tighter. He could feel her pleasure building, the way her body tensed and shuddered beneath him, and he focused on it, on her.

He was a desperate devotee, worshiping at the altar of her body, giving her the pleasure he knew would make her sleep better. He knew her rhythms, her tells, the way her breath hitched just before she came. And when she did, her body trembling beneath his hands, her moans soft and breathless, he felt a strange satisfaction.

She sighed, her body going slack against the sheets, her chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of someone spent. He stayed where he was, his head resting against her thigh, his breathing matching hers.

"Good boy." He could feel her hand in his hair, her fingers absently stroking through the strands. He closed his eyes, savoring the praise.

"When are you gonna be home for dinner?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I have told you I'm busy," she said after an eternity, her tone dismissive, as if that explained everything.

"But—" he started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. "What does that mean? When?"

"Shh, darling," she said, her hand moving to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin. "I promise I'll take you out for a date night to make up for it, okay?"

She didn't wait for his answer. She never did. Instead, she leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, her lips warm and soft against his skin. "Now sleep," she said, her voice firm. "It's late."

He nodded and watched as she turned onto her side, her back to him. Within minutes, her breathing evened out.

A date night. It was a promise she'd made before, one she rarely kept. But he clung to it anyway.

Thinking wasn't a good idea.

He ran his tongue over his lips, the tang of her still lingering on it.

Michael closed his eyes and fell asleep like that, his mouth full of pussy juices, sweet, sharp, and unmistakably hers, on impossibly soft cotton sheets.

So, what. So, what if she worked late? If she stayed longer at the office, her hands on someone else, her eyes drinking in the shape of another random man ass?

At the end of the day, she still came home.

To him.

She still gave him all kind of luxuries and still pressed him down into their bed whenever the mood struck, still took what was hers without question or hesitation, still whispered his name before rolling over to sleep, satisfied.

At the end of the day, he was still

Mr. Hart.

The Office

The personal office of Venora Hart was a temple of mahogany that exuded an air of timeless authority. There were no glass walls here, no see-through modernity bullshit, no chance for anyone outside to catch a glimpse of what she was doing inside. The space was soundproof, cloaked in privacy, designed to keep the world at bay while she managed her empire from within.

The waiting area was imposing nonetheless. Three young candidates sat in a row of leather chairs, they were all dressed impeccably and each of them was clutching a stack of notebooks or folders like lifelines. One was tapping his foot nervously, another couldn't keep his hands still, fidgeting with the edge of his tie.

William sat at the end of the row, his posture relaxed, his expression calm. He looked the least anxious of the three, but inside, his stomach was a knot of tension. He had entered the building that morning sure of himself, confident in his capabilities and his resume. He had made it this far, hadn't he? He could do this.

But as he sat in the waiting area, his certainty began to waver. He didn't know what to expect. Everyone knew the name Hart. Everyone had heard the rumors about the CEO who, until five years ago, had been on the cover of Forbes'

"30 Under 30"

and dubbed the

"Hottest Single CEO"

by some glossy magazine. She was brilliant, ruthless, and unpredictable. People either admired her or feared her. Sometimes both.

As he watched the other two candidates go into the office and come out pale and shaken, he wasn't so sure

of himself anymore.

The receptionist, a sleek man with a perfectly tailored suit and a permanently raised eyebrow, glanced at his clipboard with a barely concealed air of superiority. His eyes flicked up, scanning William from head to toe.

"William Everly?" the receptionist said.

William stood, smoothed his jacket, and took a deep breath

"Mrs. Hart is ready for you."

He nodded, his throat dry, and stepped toward the heavy oak door.

He wanted to pretend he had walked into the office with security oozing off him, calm and collected, as if he belonged there. He wanted to imagine himself taking in every single detail of the room, but all he could focus on was the faint hint of a musky perfume. Expensive, Unforgettable. And her piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

Venora Hart sat behind the desk, her presence commanding the room like a queen on her throne. She was dressed in a navy-blue suit, the jacket draped over the back of her chair, leaving her in a crisp white blouse that hugged her figure with tailored perfection. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place, her makeup flawless, her lips painted a deep red. She looked up as he entered, her eyes sharp, her expression unreadable, as if she were already dissecting him, weighing his worth before he'd even spoken a word.

"Mr. Everly," she said, her voice smooth and low. "Please, sit."

He did as he was told, sinking into the chair across from her. The leather was cool against his skin. He placed his folder on the desk, his hands trembling slightly, and forced himself to meet her gaze.

"I am Venora Hart," she said, as if she needed to introduce herself. Her tone was casual, almost dismissive, but her eyes never left his. "The CEO of this company, and if you're the lucky one, you'll be working as a secretary directly for me."

She picked up his resume, her manicured fingers flipping through the pages with ease. "From the previous technical round, I was told you have excelled in most of what's required for this job: travel planning, event coordination, handling communication and schedule." She paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "All three of the final candidates excelled in these areas. What makes you different?"

William took a deep breath. He knew that question would come and he was prepared for it.

"What makes me different, Ms. Hart," he began, his voice steady, "is that I don't just see this role as managing schedules or coordinating events. I see it as understanding you, your vision and your priorities. I know your company isn't just about selling products; it's about selling an experience, a lifestyle."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "I'm not just here to keep your calendar organized," he continued. "I know what kind of person a CEO needs and I'm here to anticipate your needs before you even have to ask."

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Venora Hart studied him, her

expression unreadable, but there was a glint in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"So," she said, her voice low, "you think you know what I

need

, is that so?" It was a rhetorical question, one that made her lips curve into a slight smirk.

"What I need," she continued, her tone sharpening, "is someone who can handle long hours of work. The pay will be good, but the hours are long, well over traditional office hours. You will not always be back in time for dinner, Mr. Everly. I need someone loyal, someone who puts all his effort into this job, someone who is always

available

, always ready for my

needs

."

She stood up and leaned slightly across the desk, her hands on the surface, close enough that he could smell her perfume.

"Do you think you can handle it?" she asked, her voice low and velvety, her eyes locked onto his. There was

a challenge in her gaze.

William swallowed hard; his throat suddenly dry. His eyes flicked to her left hand for a fraction of a second, to the glint of her wedding ring, before darting upward, past the perfect, covered shape of her breasts, to her alluring lips.

"I can handle it," he said, "I understand the demands of a role like this, and I'm ready for it."

The CEO didn't respond immediately. Slowly, she leaned in a little closer, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.

"We'll see."

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a minimalist office across from a no-nonsense HR representative, signing an impressive stack of documents. The contract was straightforward enough, a six-month probation period, a salary that made his head spin, and a list of responsibilities that seemed to grow longer with every page. But it was the privacy agreements that made his stomach churn. Page after page of dense legal bullshit, clauses after clauses, and warnings that felt more like threats.

He skimmed through them, his eyes glazing over, catching only fragments: non-disclosure agreement... confidentiality... termination... legal action... The gist was clear: keep your mouth shut about company secrets, about what happens in this building. Or else.

He signed. This was the opportunity of a lifetime.

The next day, William dressed meticulously, choosing a dark suit that screamed professionalism. He arrived at the building early, received a special badge with his face on it, and made his way to the CEO's office with precision timing. He knocked on the heavy oak door with a big smile.

"Come in," came the sharp reply.

He entered, only to find the office shrouded in darkness, the blinds drawn. Venora Hart was seated at her desk, her hair a bit disheveled and eyes tired.

"Fucking finally," she snapped, not even looking up from the papers scattered across her desk. "You're late on your first day."

William opened his mouth to protest, he was not late; he'd checked his watch three times on the way up.

"You need to be here before me," she said, her voice like a whip crack, "with scorching hot coffee. Black. Got it?"

He hesitated for only a second, his mind racing. "Yes, M—"

"Where is my coffee?" she interrupted; her tone icy. "Hop, hop."

William rushed out, heart pounding. He found the break room, fumbled with the machine, and grabbed the scorching coffee, burning his fingers.

Back in the office, he placed it on her desk. "Your coffee, Ms. Hart." She didn't look up. "Took you long enough."

"Now," she said, her voice sharp. "You can make yourself comfortable in your new office. It's just outside mine. Get familiar with the phone system, the computer, and the software to manage everything. If you have questions, find someone to bother, just don't bother me."

She paused, rubbing her temples with a grimace. "Cancel every single meeting I have this morning. Yesterday was the inauguration of the second location of my strip club, and I've slept exactly two hours. I also have a severe hangover. So, bring me something for it."

She didn't wait for his response. "And move the call with the manager of Velvet 2.0 to 4 PM. Got it?"

Before he could even nod, she was already firing out the next instruction as if this wasn't his very first minute of work as his secretary. "But what you need to do right now is call Kai—no, wait, call Theo. Actually, call them both. I still need to know how the fit of the harness my designers are working on is coming along. Understood?"