Dancing With A Dom: A BBW Romance by Katherine Deane

you with that.” He grabbed my ass, swatting me one, two, three times before thrusting into my wet pussy.
    Alternating hard smacks and even harder thrusts, I didn’t last long before I lost it. I came with such a loud shriek and my body shook with the intense energy that consumed me. Fire consumed me. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My vision blurred. And then it was over.
    Dane lay spent on me, breathing rapidly as he caressed my sore bottom cheeks. “Was that good for you, baby?”
    He rolled me over and pulled the blanket on top of me, and went to retrieve his phone.
    “Did you…” I was still trying to catch my breath. “Did you really order pizza?”
    “Hell, no. That was just for us.”
    “I didn’t like it. But part of me did.” I curled into the blankets and smiled up at him in a daze.
    He pulled my hair back and kissed me on the forehead. “I know you like being watched, but I won’t ever do it without your permission.”
    I nodded.
    “It’s all on my voice mail if you want to listen to it later.”
    The thought of listening to me giving myself a spanking gave me a nice warm feeling. “Yeah, that sounds good. But can we do something first?”
    “What do you want, sweet subbie?”
    “Food.” My stomach growled. “I’m hungry.”
    “I’ll be right back with something to put in your tummy.” He turned and walked out of the room.
    I called out after him. “And then can we snuggle again?”
    He popped his head back inside the door with a grin. “Anything for you, little girl.”
     

Chapter Eight
     
    God, I was nervous. The past month had flown by, and it was time to dance for real. In front of a live studio audience and more than one camera. Lots and lots of cameras. This was Dane’s one chance to save the small cable station. No pressure, eh?
    One peek from behind the curtains to see all the bright lights and the studio audience had been enough to turn me from a calm, in-control, list follower, to a lunatic with bug eyes. I didn’t even get my french fries. I had taken the week off—grease rationing, so I wouldn’t have zits popping up all over when introduced to the stress of a live TV show.
    A live, four hour, freaking television show! Okay, some parts weren’t live, like the footage from the past two months. From everyday working heroes to dancing legends. Dancing legends. That’s what we were all about to become. Constant publicity for the show had galvanized the public. The conservative viewers were poised after the past two weeks of commercials—they wanted Ronald, the wounded veteran to win. Man, I wanted him to win.
    The first time I had seen myself on the screen, I had cried. Holy crap, the camera really does add twenty pounds to you. In my case, it seemed more like fifty. My face was always contorted in this weird cross between a grimace and an “I am going to kill a mofo” glare. But for some reason, the viewers had taken a liking to me. The station website had been overwhelmed, their social media full of chatter. The overweight, greasy-foreheaded, homemaker from the suburbs. Even watching me step on my partner’s feet a million times, followed by another “Sorry”—yeah, I became the queen of sorries—they still became intrigued by me. The short clips on the website had gotten more hits than last month’s YouTube sensation—kitty dancing in a tutu—hey, that’s saying something. And Dane and I had the second most likes and shares, a few hundred less than Ronald and his pro.
    Dane had made good on his promises. He never shared the footage from my kinky dollar bill wielding day in the studio. But we watched it at his place. Holy cow, nothing got me turned on quicker than watching myself fondle and air screw my way through jungle music. I wondered if the conservative crowd would like me very much if they saw me dance like that.
    Dane also made good on another promise. To keep me well spanked and very well fucked for the rest of our training. He taught me about