“Missles?” Missy asked in disbelief as she paced back and forth in front of the couch.  “Like the fucking… explosives?”

“That’s pretty brutal,” Pickles said with a grin.  He took a sip of his drink, then looked back at her.  “Y’know, it could be worse.  I figured we’d be called ‘Pissy.’”

She scoffed.

“I would’ve preferred ‘Pissy.’”

“Yeah,” he chuckled.  “I know you would.”

It had finally happened.  They’d fucked around too much and had wound up being seen together.  The rumors had been swirling since the end of the ClitKlok tour, because they’d gotten inseparable at that point, but some paparazzi wound up snapping pictures of her recently at one of Dethklok’s events.  Just like Missy feared, the world was obsessed with their relationship.  Women were killing themselves; men were killing themselves, and others in between were too.  Couples were choosing to dress up as them for their Halloween parties.  There was fanart, fanfiction, and merch all sorts of bullshit…  And her band’s records sales were skyrocketing.  Missy was a little stressed, but Pickles was too drunk to see the problem.  He was glad everyone knew that she was taken.

The words she’d heard on the Dethklok Minute got under her skin in a way even she could hardly understand.  She’d worked so hard to build her career and reputation.  She’d done so much to prove herself as a metal god in her own right.  She loved Pickles, but she didn’t want the world to think of her as nothing more than his plaything…  Especially considering that the roles were reversed.

“And what the fuck do they mean… ‘Does Pickles have what it takes to tame the queen of sleaze?’  Tame me?  Who do they think wears the pants in this relationship?”

“Me, obviously.”

While Pickles laughed at himself and the obvious irony of his statement, Missy spun around, looking at him with a flat expression.  His smirk immediately faded.

“… I was jokin’, Miss.”

She folded her arms, raising a brow.

“Missy…”  He gulped when her expression didn’t falter.  “Melissa, you know I was jokin’…  Right?”

“Don’t worry, babe.  I got the joke…  Let’s take this back to your room, shall we?”

Like a dog with his tail between his legs, Pickles stood up and followed her.  He never knew exactly what to expect, but heat rose to his cheeks as he theorized what would happen next.

~

“You really believe that shit?” Missy taunted, swatting her hand against Pickles’s bare ass.  “You?  Tame me?  Hah!  Fucking please.” 

There was no doubt that Missy wore the pants.  It wasn’t even up for debate.  Truth was that he didn’t have a dominating bone in his body.  He could have a temper at times, but he was naturally easy-going and submissive until someone really pissed him off.  So, it never crossed his mind to try to tame or dominate Missy.  He liked that about her.  Most women he hooked up with expected him take control because he was the famous one.  She was not one of those women.  Missy might as well be short for “Mistress,” because that totally summed up her personality in the bedroom.  That’s part of the reason why he kept coming back for more.

Her hand came down again.  The sharp smack of skin hitting skin resonated through the room.  Pickles groaned, covering his face with his hand as he screwed his eyes shut.  His cock was harder than a rock at this point and throbbing helplessly against her lap. 

“Don’t even think about cumming yet,” she warned.  He bobbed his head, acknowledging her.  It earned him another harsh whack on the behind.  “What would your fans think if they knew you were little miss Missy’s little bitch?  Would that be brutal or what?”

He bit his lip, swallowing down another groan that threatened to rise up out of his throat. 

“Y-Yeah, it would,” he mumbled.

Smack.

“Didn’t hear you, Pickles.  Speak up.”

The heat and sting on his ass was really turning him on.  He loved her little power trips.  He loved indulging her and being on the receiving end of them.

“Y-Yeah, Missy,” he repeated, a little louder.  “It’d be really fuckin’ brutal.”

She laughed.  Her hand rested on his ass again, but this time to rub the angry pink palm-shaped welts.  He chewed on his bottom lip again.  Her tender touches were almost as hot as the harsh ones.