Wonder Woman Domesticated

Chapter 1 - Discipline

Diana awoke with a start, heart pounding like the hoofbeats of Ares' war chariot. She groaned, clenching her thighs together as she emerged from the heated throes of an amazing dream. Even now, delicious aftershocks flitted up her spine, making her nostrils flare.

The images had been so real, the pleasures so intense...

For a long moment she lay still, eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let the vivid visions slip away.

In her mind, she was still there—stretched out naked on Themyscira's glittering shores. Sweat-slicked muscles rippled in the sun, her armor cast aside and forgotten. White sand clung to her bare skin, hot and gritty. High above, seagulls wheeled across an endless cerulean sky, their distant cries blending with the rhythmic surge of waves.

Then, the serene tableau shifted, morphing into something far more... enticing.

Diana's nails raked the sheets, brow furrowing in sweet anticipation as the lucid reverie pulled her deeper into its seductive embrace.

Two faceless Amazons shimmered into being in the distance, their bodies strong, lithe, and gloriously unburdened by clothing. Bronzed skin glistened, sparkling droplets highlighting every hill and valley of sculpted muscle. Heavy breasts swayed as the warriors strode

closer on long, toned legs.

Soon the three of them lay entwined on the sand, slippery limbs tangling in a fervent clinch. The air grew thick with the scent of salt and sweat, zenith sun competing with the radiating heat of enflamed female flesh.

Callused fingertips roamed the planes and curves of Diana's body with commanding familiarity, leaving flushed skin in their wake. Soft lips followed, trailing fire down her neck, across her collarbone, and latching onto taut nipples—teasing, tasting, driving her mad with need.

Diana arched into the sweet foreplay, awash in euphoria as warm tongues circled her pulsing pearl, stroking deep into molten folds. Her fingers twisted in silken hair, hips canting toward the heavenly mouths.

"Yes... oh, goddess, yes..." she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea.

Rapture built like a volcano in her loins, radiating through every cell until she practically vibrated.

Seconds before the blissful cataclysm could crash over her, the passionate scene warped again. Welcoming arms turned into harsh bindings. Golden sunlight bled into deep shadow. Ecstasy curdled into agony...

"No! Stop, I didn't—"

Diana's protest choked off as a cruel blow snapped her head to the side. Copper flared in her nose, sharp and bracing. Wha—? ... Wh-where am I?

Blinking past reflexive tears, she took in the damp, shadowed gloom pressing in from every side. The bare stone walls, blotched with creeping mildew, tugged at memories she couldn't quite place. And that stale, earthy smell—was this the dungeon beneath the royal palace?

Her body, still nude and sweaty, lay belly-down on a rough stone slab, the chill of it seeping through her bones. Coarse ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, pinning her in place, while the suffocating press of a musky loincloth crammed her mouth, stifling any vocal dissent.

Familiar faces loomed above her—scholars, priestesses, warriors, even her queen mother—all regarding her with glowers of disgust and disappointment. Silent judgment crackled in the air between them.

Self-reproach warred with the intoxicating thrill of submission, the heady mix of emotions making Diana dizzy. She tried to lift her head, to make sense of the punishment, but a cruel hand yanked her hair back, hot spittle striking her face with searing scorn.

"Harlot!"

"... coupling with outsiders like a bitch in heat..."

"She defiles our sacred traditions..."

"Traitor!"

"... dishonoring the name of Champion."

The condemning words rained down on Diana like physical blows, each one shredding her heart. She strained against her bonds, desperate to prove her innocence, but the accusing glares never wavered.

"It would seem our beloved princess is in need of a harsh lesson in chastity and obedience," Hippolyta coldly declared. She nodded to an attendant, who handed her a long leather strap. "Hold her steady. I will beat the wickedness out of her myself."

Four warriors stepped forward and seized Diana's limbs in iron grips, bending her into a vulnerable arch. Hippolyta towered above the stone table, silver-blue eyes devoid of warmth. With a swift, remorseless swing of her muscular arm, she brought the strap crashing down across Diana's upturned buttocks.

Thwack!

Fiery bands of agony seared Diana's flesh. But before she could cry out, two more brutal strikes landed.

Whap! ... Thwap!

The beatings continued mercilessly, building in tempo and ferocity. Diana's world shrank to the blazing pain consuming her backside and thighs. Muffled grunts punched out of her chest with each impact, but she bit down on the sour cloth plugging her mouth, clinging to the last fragments of pride.

Smack! ... Thwack! ... CRACK!

At last, hovering on the edge of consciousness, a frenzied scream tore from her raw throat. The shameful sound bounced off grim stone walls, reminding her of a similar cry wrenched from her moments ago by all-consuming bliss. Pleasure and pain blurred sickeningly until she didn't know which was which.

Mocking laughter echoed in her ears. Male laughter.

Diana's eyes flew open as she jackknifed upright in bed. Her heart galloped, breath shuddering in quick, desperate gulps. Wide-eyed, she blinked in confusion at the familiar silhouettes of her bedroom, the mundane stillness jarring against the taste of blood in her mouth and the phantom ache scalding her bottom.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, seeking an anchor.

"Merciful Minerva..." The invocation left her lips in a breathless rasp, more reflex than conscious thought.

As her pulse steadied, she pressed a hand to her cheek, half-expecting to find the imprint of a slap or the heat of tears. Her fingers touched only smooth, flawless skin.

Relief washed through her. It must've all been in her mind, then.

And yet, underneath the horror, the raw edge of need hadn't faded one bit. A dark thrill lingered, purring against her ribs like the feral rush of violence—seductive, glorious, and wholly wrong.

Diana stretched out in the rumpled bedding, muscles tense and sore as though she'd run a gauntlet in her sleep. The slick glide of her thighs made her hiss. Evidence of deviant arousal glazed her, warm and clinging.

Great Hera, there's no undoing this.

Bleary-eyed, she squinted at the thin gray light bleeding through half-drawn curtains.

"Ugh... Already...?" Hadn't she just laid down? The star-lit hours had flown by, as they so often did of late.

Her gaze dropped to the digital clock on the nightstand, its glowing red numbers a stark reminder of the modern world she now inhabited.

5:46 AM—mere minutes away from her blaring alarm.

With a groan, Diana untangled her limbs from the clammy bed sheets and propped herself up on one elbow, raven hair spilling in messy waves. Her fingers drifted to the plastic box, muting it with a practiced tap. No need for man-made contraptions—her body knew the drill, even if her weary soul wasn't ready to follow.

Stifling a yawn, she sank back into the pillows, turning her head to the man sleeping soundly beside her. His hand rested near hers on the sheets, the worn gold band on his finger catching the dawn light.

Diana traced her matching ring with a thumb. Nine years, side by side, and not a day when she'd doubted her vows.

Even on mornings like these, she thought, a wry smile playing at her lips.

Frank lay sprawled beneath the faded duvet, his pallid face and squat shape so different from the statuesque, bronzed strength of her Amazon sisters. His snores, loud and grating, filled the bedroom—a rough, unflattering sound that often kept her awake deep into the night or jolted her from precious rest.

Yet she couldn't imagine sleeping without it.

Driven by a quiet impulse, she brushed her fingers over his gnarled knuckles. How strange, she thought, that a warrior like her, forged in fire and tempered by centuries of combat, could harbor such fierce affection for this ordinary man—this flawed, mortal creature who knew nothing of her world's dangers and demands.

Why him, of all people? What power does he hold over me?

Her gaze steadied as the truth crystallized in her mind: Frank had claimed a piece of her heart neither her proudest victories nor fiercest sisterhood bonds had managed to reach—as if it had always been his by right. Maybe it didn't matter how or why. Only that he held this fragment of her soul now, and that no force on earth or in Olympus could take him from her.

"Morpheus grant you sweet repose, my love," she murmured, her voice a dove's coo in the morning hush.

Her legs shifted beneath the covers, silken skin brushing silken skin. Still swollen. Still slick. Still throbbing with that desperate, unsatisfied ache.

It was wrong—gods, it was so wrong. To picture her Amazon sisters like that... to want them like that, and then—

Shame seeped into her veins, mingling with the crude pulse of arousal. Where were these dark, twisted delusions coming from? The cold, damp stone, the ropes biting her flesh, the humiliating punishment—all watched over by faces she knew, trusted. Her mother, her mentors. They had looked at her as if she had betrayed them.

And maybe she had.

Diana swallowed hard, the weight of guilt settling into her chest. To fantasize about her sisters was one thing—but to be lying in bed beside a man was the true transgression. The most forbidden act among her people.

This was my choice, she reminded herself. I committed to this path, and I will not falter. Not today, not ever.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to push away the lingering images and the darker undertones that accompanied them. A warrior—an Amazon—did not lose herself to such weakness. But the conflict burrowed deeper.

Her trial of abstinence had been a test of discipline, and for months, she'd held the line. But lately... it was getting harder. Each night, the dreams grew more intense, her control slipping, cracking.

Two nights ago, she had found herself writhing against the dusky form of Philippus, their primal grunts swallowed by the lush depths of the jungle. And the week before, it had been Ascyra, pinning her to a bunk in the training barracks—the fiery Captain of the Guard ravishing her for hours with bruising kisses.

No. She would not succumb. Through the mental blur, she recognized these fancies for what they were—her body's misguided attempts to cope with its prolonged sexual deprivation. Nothing more.

Forcing steady breaths through her nose, Diana tried to calm the frantic beat of her heart. Desire was a flame she had mastered before. She would master it again. Her lips pressed into a small, defiant line as she stared at the water-stained ceiling, willing the ache to subside. But it was futile.

This won't do. You need a distraction. On your feet, Champion!

Sheets rustling, Diana swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting bare feet on cold hardwood. Goosebumps prickled up her calves and thighs, making her toes curl. But she ignored the nipping chill, along with the shiver running across her shoulders.

As she settled her weight onto the mattress edge, the aged bed frame groaned in protest. For decades, this simple double bed had cradled the slight form of Frank's first wife. Now it contended with a battle-forged swordswoman whose broad shoulders and curved hips dwarfed its modest proportions.

It was... irksome.

Then again, a few back aches and sleepless nights seemed a small sacrifice for the quiet sanctuary she had found in Frank. A life of peace, no matter how imperfect, was still a hard-won blessing in her book.

Perched on the sagging mattress, Diana allowed herself a moment to savor the stillness of dawn—a rare slice of solitude before duty called.

Faint light seeped through the thin curtains, painting the worn floorboards with muted hues of gray and gold. Outside, the world stirred to life in whispers: a distant car engine, the chirp of a bird, the soft rustle of a breeze.

But the reprieve was fleeting. Tension coiled at the base of her neck, winding tighter with each passing minute until it unraveled into a dull throb behind her eyes—the inevitable toll of the stress she carried day after day.

It was the kind of headache that no amount of rest could remedy, as though it had taken root somewhere deep in her skull. She pressed two fingers to her temples, tracing slow circles. But the pain persisted, stubborn and unyielding as Athena's shield.

The stale, smoke-laden air she'd been forced to marinate in all night certainly did not help matters. Frank's before-bed cigarette had added a thicker acridness to the nicotine-yellowed walls, mocking her every attempt to break him of the habit.

'A good wife balances her husband's flaws with her own self-improvement.'

Those lofty words had become her favorite saying—the guiding principle she returned to in moments of doubt. While not easy to accept, it always proved wise counsel. And right now, a dose of humility seemed just what she needed.

True to her own advice, Diana regarded the sky-blue negligee she wore to bed. After a night spent tossing and turning, it was little more than a tangle of silk clinging to her sweat-damp body. One spaghetti strap had slipped down her shoulder, baring a heavy breast to the room, dusky nipple saluting the dawn like a good little soldier.

Clicking her tongue against her teeth, Diana hooked a finger under the errant strap and guided it back to its proper place. The wayward globe disappeared once more behind its cerulean veil, straining the flimsy fabric into a taut curve.

The shift caused the lace hem to ride higher, revealing several more inches of olive-toned thigh. Diana bit back a curse, eyes drawn to the dark stain blooming on the powder blue silk of her panties.

Gods, she was soaked!

The thin barrier did nothing to contain the sticky flood, nor the pungent musk wafting up to tickle her nostrils. She breathed deep, savoring the ripe scent of her own arousal mingling with the room's stale cigarette stench. Something about that crude combination made her loins clench with renewed hunger.

The raw intensity of the moment hit her with gut-punching force. She fell back onto her elbows, strong thighs spreading wider. Her panties pulled taut against her pelvis, damp crotch molding to every secret fold and contour.

Locking onto that irresistible target, Diana feasted on the sight of her meaty vulva bulging around the stretched fabric like an overstuffed coin purse. The jut of her clitoris was unmistakable, a proud peak tenting the delicate material.

A guttural sound escaped her throat, half growl, half sigh, as temptation coiled tighter. Eager hands twitched at her sides, itching to bridge the distance, to indulge in the decadent slip-slide of her skilled fingers against that throbbing epicenter of need.

But her pleasure was no longer hers to wield.

Upon speaking her wedding vows, Diana had ceded that once-unquestioned power to her husband's authority. And his rules were exceedingly clear—no furtive touching, no masturbation, and absolutely no orgasm without his express permission. Every single part of her body, from the elegant arch of her feet to the raven-black strands of her hair, belonged to him and him alone.

Exactly as it was meant to be.

Yet, even as her rational brain struggled to reassert mastery, the untamed heat blazing between her spread thighs seared logic to cinders.

Diana's eyes rolled beneath passion-heavy lids to regard her snoring spouse lying oblivious mere arm's length away. Did she dare wake him to beg satisfaction? Would he understand the magnitude of her body's feral demands? Show uncharacteristic mercy to his aching bride just this once?

The possibility alone made her pulse stutter.

Saliva pooled under her tongue at the debauched thought of rousing him with the hot embrace of her mouth, coaxing him to rigid attention by suctioning lips and swirling tongue until that thick, wart-riddled cock stood ready to spear into her weeping sheath...

Curse Aphrodite, she needed to cum! Her sanity hinged on it. Diana nipped her plump bottom lip, torn with indecision.

Give in, an inner voice whispered, velvet and insistent. You've earned it.

No, she countered vehemently. I've earned nothing. Restraint is my path.

But you want it... you're craving release. Take it. No one will ever know.

Her chest tightened as the ache of longing surged. It would be so easy—

I would know, she shot back. And that's reason enough.

Is it? the voice taunted. What has 'restraint' ever brought you but endless grief? One little slip, Diana. One moment just for you...

"Shut up," she said, aloud this time, though the denial rang hollow in her ears. "I will not so easily forsake my vows."

Do it, the voice snapped, impatient now. Stop denying yourself. Live.

The Pride of Themyscira, Champion of Chastity and Feminine Virtue, earnestly contemplating outright defiance of her husband's command for the sake of her own selfish, carnal gratification? Scalding reproach and wild exhilaration twined in her belly at the scandalous realization.

Compelled by instinct, Diana's fingers skated across her quivering abdomen, tracing the cut lines of muscle until they came to rest just north of paradise. She swallowed thickly, throat bobbing.

One slender digit extended to skim the lacy border of her panties, manicured nail following the spreading stain's path back to its warm origin. The teasing caress sparked tiny electrical currents that lit her up from toes to scalp.

"Mmm..." The husky purr hummed low in her chest as that whisper-soft fingertip explored the slick seam of her protruding inner lips, gliding up and down the slit with sinful ease.

Even that barest pressure made her shudder, lashes fluttering as she fought to keep her eyes open—to watch herself give in to temptation.

With every pass, she applied firmer contact, relishing the slide of soaked fabric pressing deeper into yielding, velvet-soft flesh beneath. Puffed and throbbing, her folds had grown so fat they threatened to devour the scrap of silk whole.

Diana curled her tongue against the roof of her mouth, quelling the unwarrior-like whimpers bubbling up. Her body was a wildfire, and she was all too willing to succumb to the conflagration, letting it consume her until there was nothing left but smoke and embers.

Reaching the apex of her intimate cleft, she allowed the pad of her thumb to graze the straining head of her clitoris.

"Oh!"

The breathy exclamation rushed past her lips as lightning exploded in her loins, raising every fine hair on her skin to quivering attention. Her spine arched like a drawn bow, lifting her bottom clear off the mattress. Toes splayed against age-worn hardwood, thighs trembling with strain.

The reflexive thrust of her hips drove her fingers harder against the bundle of nerves, and for one blissful, suspended moment, the universe narrowed to that single point of shattering ecstasy between her legs.

Oh merciful Hera, I need more. So much more.

One last glance at Frank's slack-jawed face and the steady rise and fall of his chest was all Diana needed before her attention spiraled back to the heat pooling in her center.

Hooking urgent fingers into the waistband of her panties, she yanked them up hard, hissing at the cruel bite of elastic punishing her swollen folds and crushing her clit into submission. Fireworks burst behind her closed lids, teeth sinking into her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

She grabbed the leg bands, sawing the stretched panel back and forth across her disobedient cunt in rough, graceless jerks. Bolts of electric bliss crackled up her spine with each chafing pass, ratcheting the fever higher.

You're dousing yourself in oil, Diana. This blaze will burn you alive.

Unheeding the dire prophecy, she slipped her fingertips beneath taut silk, almost wailing aloud as she touched bare flesh at last—slick, scorching, buttery-soft pussy.

"Ohhhh fuck..." The wanton moan slipped past her guard, coarse profanity foreign yet delicious on her prim tongue.

Her agile fingers swam through the dripping seam. Back and forth, up and down, alternating teasing circles and firm, focused pressure. Her sex pulsed with delight at each skillful caress, inner muscles spasming around emptiness with savage need.

Impatient hands wrenched the sopping crotch aside, laying bare her carnality's full extent—thick, glistening lips spread to reveal deeper pink succulence, cloudy nectar trickling from the clenching entrance to saturate her inky thatch and pool on navy sheets below.

Her curved, Amazonian hips rocked in open invitation as she combed through the sticky curls to spread herself wider, delving between plump labia to gather glossy essence. She slicked it up her jutting clit, massaging the acorn-sized bud in eager circles. The rest she smoothed over her thighs like some lewd lotion.

Goddess, when was the last time she'd been this wet? Not in years, not since... Diana shook her head, unwilling to follow that train of thought.

Lifting glistening fingers to her face, she studied the shimmering strands stretching between them like melted diamond. She brought them to her nose, almost dampening her nostrils with the heady scent as she inhaled in deep, shuddering breaths. Tart, earthy, potent—pure aphrodisiac.

A lone fingertip hovered, then dragged across her bottom lip, spreading slick fragrance over the plush curve in a slow, indulgent glide.

So daring. So delicious.

Emboldened, she repeated the motion on her top lip, burnishing the bow until it matched its plump twin.

"Mmm... yes..."

Gathering a fresh bead of slickness on her finger, she traced the seam again and again, painting her lips with her nectar like the finest cosmetics until they tingled from the constant attention.

Unable to resist, her tongue snaked out, curling around her digits to lap the sticky cream from them in slow swipes.

"Hrrmmmm..." The low, throaty purr vibrated around her fingers as she worked them in and out the slick cavern of her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed with each pull, chasing every drop as if it were the most decadent of treats.

By Gaia, she had forgotten how divinely she tasted!

Ambrosia could not compare to this syrupy musk, each golden bead uniquely hers. Briny yet honeyed, tangy yet silken, layered with the richness of her body's natural alchemy. Her eyes rolled back in bliss. This had to become a ritual, not an exception.

Diana shoved her spit-soaked hand back beneath the waistband of her panties, craving penetration. Slick fingers glided through the copious arousal pooling between her folds, seeking the stiff, throbbing nub at their center. Rubbing the vigilant clitoris, she smeared plundered saliva into the tender heat of her labia, mixing it with the honey drooling from her core.

"Oh, sweet Aphrodite..." she gasped, teasing her entrance with the tips of her fingers. Silken walls clenched around the tentative intrusion, begging for more. "Yes, yesss..."

Desperation clawed at her, driving her higher. She pressed two fingers to her twitching opening. Plush, eager muscles parted greedily, drawing the digits into scorching, syrupy heat with a lewd squelch.

"Mmmnnngghh!" The sound tore from her throat as her velvet walls rippled and clenched, trying to pull her deeper. Her body demanded surrender, and she obeyed, curling her digits to stroke the sensitive front wall in search of that spot that made her see stars.

Moaning like a slattern, she plunged her fingers deep into her needy sheath, pumping them in and out with reckless urgency. The filthy wet sounds of her finger-fucking filled the room—a rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick. Tacky juices poured down her wrist, matting her curls, turning the sheets into a swamp. The bed frame groaned and squeaked with her fevered rocking, the incriminating noise spurring her on.

"Nnngh... oh fuck..." she growled, her second cussing in minutes.

So un-Diana. So unlike the composed warrior she was meant to be. But there was power in the profanity, a thrill that made her dizzy. She wanted to scream it, to let the vulgarity rip from her throat as she shattered into pieces.

Overcome by the sheer intensity of it all, she collapsed onto her back. Her raven hair fanned out in a dark halo across the sweat-damp pillow, breasts rising and falling with each heaving breath. With a guttural moan, she forced a third finger into her stuffed channel. The burn of the stretch was exquisite—a searing mix of pain and pleasure that set her nerves alight.

Hips undulating, she rode her own hand with abandon, her movements desperate and wild, as if some unseen brute was fucking her with a vengeance. Each thrust drove her digits deeper, harder, until her palm slapped against her swollen, juice-slick mound with every frantic pump.

No finesse, no restraint—just mindless rutting.

Raw pleasure radiated from her molten core, saturating every cell, the force of her need staggering. She'd never craved anything so badly, her body crying out for blessed release, wound tight as Artemis' bow string.

"Oh fuck, oh gods oh gods..." The hedonistic litany continued as she teetered on the edge, orgasm swelling. Her fingers moved at blinding pace, the wet smacks of penetration obscene in the quiet room.

Almost there... So close... Arching mightily off the bed, every muscle tense, she soared higher, the pressure building and building until—

A sudden, rusty snort from behind shattered her concentration. Diana froze, heart beating out of her chest, fingers still buried in her fluttering sheath.

Frank!

In a panic, she whipped her head around, face blazing with mortification. Had he seen?

To her immense relief, Frank's eyes remained closed, slack mouth drooling on the pillow as he turned over with a rattling snore.

Diana collapsed, shaky and gasping. Athena's grace, that was far too close.

Snatching her drenched digits free, she balled her fists on her knees, frustrated tears pricking her eyes. Her sex clenched and wept at the loss, the fierce ache in her pelvis bordering on pain.

Breathless, she stared down at the damning evidence of her lechery. Her negligee bunched high on her hips, the saturated crotch of her panties clinging to swollen folds. Her scent hung heavy in the air, rich and primal.

A hot flush crept up her neck as she wiped sticky fingers on the sheets with sharp, jerking motions. She yanked her panties back into place, trembling with resentment. Goddess, what have I done?

Shame sluiced through her, so acute it crackled in her lungs, making each breath unbearable. Her skin prickled, flushed and rancid, as though her guilt radiated off her in waves, poisoning the air.

She couldn't stay here a moment longer—not in this bed, not in this stifling space thick with her offense.

Rocking forward, Diana rose from the sagging mattress to her full, imposing height. The negligee slithered down her curves, draping her body once more in its delicate sheen. Mussed and reeking of sex, she still commanded the room with effortless authority, her regal bearing evident in every glance and gesture. The jarring contrast between that stately grace and the debauchery she had just indulged in set her teeth on edge.

Frank's snores rumbled through the room, chasing Diana's measured strides toward the ensuite bathroom. Each step landed heavy, reverberating from heel to aching core. Damn it all to Hades. How did this happen?

Shouldering open the door, Diana flicked on the light. Harsh fluorescence flooded the cramped space, reflecting off dingy white tiles and casting her statuesque figure in unforgiving relief.

She went up to the sink and stared at the wreck confronting her in the mirror. Raven hair clung to her shoulders in snarls, skin flushed all the way to her chest, nipples stiff and begging for attention. Her lips, still glossy with her own harvested juices, curled in a filthy half-grin.

But it was her eyes, more than anything, that betrayed her wanton state. Their feverish glint, wild and uncontained, turned her stomach. She looked every inch the desperate, cock-hungry slut. Hardly the picture of a dignified Amazon, let alone a dutiful wife.

Athena preserve me, she thought, gripping the edge of the sink until the porcelain creaked. I have to pull myself together.

The Daughter of Zeus was no slave to base passions, no untested youth who crumbled at the first brush of desire. For millennia, she had forged her mighty will on the anvil of war, quenching the fiercest fires in the face of all temptation. She was made of sterner stuff than this.

Closing her eyes, Diana inhaled deeply, summoning the mental clarity her station demanded. From the shadows of history, Antiope's voice rang in her mind, stern and sharp.

"Discipline, Diana. It is the foundation of who we are. Without it, we're no better than beasts, slaves to impulse. An Amazon must conquer herself above all else. It is the highest virtue she can achieve. Lust, obsession, greed... they are adversaries unworthy of a warrior."

The rebuke tore through Diana like an arrow, hitting its mark without mercy. Her aunt was right—this weakness dragged her honor through the dirt, spat on the oaths she'd sworn as both princess and wife.

It could not, would not, stand.

Palms flattened against the sink, Diana forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. In through her nose—hold—out through her mouth.

With each cycle, she visualized her arousal ebbing away like waves retreating into the sea. Gradually, blessedly, the fire raging in her loins began to abate. Her clitoris dulled its feverish pulsing, receding back under its hood. The sticky flood between her legs dried to a trickle, then ceased altogether.

Diana blew out a shaky breath, shoulders slumped. What in Tartarus had become of her? Once, she had been indomitable, her control absolute.

The answer was painfully obvious, and all the more damning for it.

Years of peace and sentiment had worn her down—decades of soft living in a world that prized comfort over conviction, decadence over duty, indulgence over purpose. She'd allowed complacency to seep into her soul, poisoning the discipline that once defined her.

Well, no more.

Diana refused to be mastered by her base desires for a second longer. The depraved fantasies that plagued her dreams would find no foothold in her waking hours. She would reaffirm her loyalty to Frank, and her devotion to their marriage. It had been far too long since she'd given him her full obedience.

That, too, would be rectified.

Raising her eyes, Diana met her reflection once more, pleased to see the fire in her gaze banked to a smolder. The telling flush of her earlier indulgence still warmed her cheeks, but the stubborn set of her jaw and the proud tilt to her chin spoke of an iron will, a core of unbreakable strength. Good.

Diana turned on the faucet and cupped her hands beneath the cool spray. She splashed her face once, twice, three times, washing the last dregs of sin from her flesh. Icy rivulets dripped down her neck and into the valley between her breasts, making her shiver.

Slowly, she rotated her left hand, the gold of her wedding band glinting in the harsh light. It had been a perfect fit from the moment Frank slid it on, a snug weight anchoring her to the role she now inhabited.

In a gesture of commitment, Diana lifted her hand and pressed her lips to the simple ring. "I renew my vow to you," she said, her voice steady and reverent. "To our union, to the life we've built together. I will be the wife you deserve—attentive, obedient, and beyond reproach. On my Amazon honor, I swear it."

Though her pledge carried weight, words alone would not suffice. To safeguard her resolve, she needed a regimen—a structure to guide her, as rigid and unforgiving as the battle drills that once defined her warrior's youth.

"First, punishment," she pronounced, each syllable a declaration of law. Her reflection offered no argument, only a steady gaze demanding follow-through. She held that silent stare for a breath, then opened her mouth to speak again.

"You will spend two hours in meditation this evening, followed by a bracing dip in the backyard pool to purge the last traces of weakness from your bones." The judgment landed heavy. Speaking it aloud imprinted its seriousness, sealing her fate to the path of correction.

"And tomorrow, you will request proper discipline from Frank. Ten strokes ought to do. The biting kiss of the switch will serve as a pointed reminder to keep your baser instincts in check."

Diana nodded. The penance was harsh, yes, but well-deserved. Anything less would dishonor her vow. It was not leniency she sought but justice, and justice had no room for softness.

Castigating herself with one final scowl, Diana turned her back on the mirror, flipping off the light with a decisive click.

Frank lay exactly as she had left him—head lolled against the pillow, mouth agape, his snores rolling through the room like the churn of a rough sea.

She paused beside him, brushing a strand of gray hair from his forehead before tucking the blanket higher over his shoulder. His wrinkled lips twitched with a wordless murmur, but he didn't wake. In sleep, his worn and lined features seemed almost childlike, slack with the ease of a man who knew he was safe.

Good. That was as it must be. She was his wife, his shield. The world's sharp edges would never touch Frank again, not as long as she stood between him and the storm.

Her attention drifted across the bed to the stack of legal briefs teetering on her nightstand—remnants of her last small-hour session. She sighed, her resolve tightening.

Today was Monday. Another grueling work week stretched before her, and with it came the responsibilities of being Diana Prince, the diligent and professional legal researcher.

This week, however, carried more weight than most. The presentation she had poured so many sleepless nights into could shape the future for her and Frank. A promotion and much-needed raise hung in the balance, but so much rested on her performance.

Behind her temples, the dull throbbing persisted. But Diana brushed it aside. She had a house to run, a husband to care for, and a career to secure.

This was not the time to falter.

She slipped out the door, easing it closed behind her with a soft click. First stop: the kitchen. Her bare feet made no sound on the cool hardwood, the stairs creaking faintly as she descended to the main floor. Experience had taught her all the right places to step to minimize the noise.

The smell of coffee grounds and dish soap filled the dated kitchen. Vintage appliances lined worn countertops. Kitschy rooster motifs adorned dishes and towels—holdovers from the previous lady of the house.

Diana wasted no time. She went straight for the refrigerator and pulled open the heavy door. Rows of vibrant fruits and creamy yogurts greeted her eyes, but she ignored them, focus settling on the bottom shelf where three identical stainless steel thermoses stood in rigid parade.

She studied the dull gray containers, lips pursing. After a moment, she bent down, breasts swaying, and grabbed the one in front. The transparent window along its side showed it was filled nearly to the brim with a cloudy, off-white fluid.

Her stomach tightened.

With a resigned sigh, she straightened and nudged the fridge door shut with her hip.

Twisting off the thermos cap, Diana held it to her nose and inhaled cautiously. Sharp, animal funk hit her like a wave, evoking muddy livestock pens on a hot summer day. She grimaced, but forced herself to breathe through it.

Pig sperm.

Hardly the most appealing beverage to kick off the day, but a necessity all the same. At least until this breaking-in period was over.

Peering into the narrow opening, she gave the container a little swirl, watching the vile liquid slosh against the stainless steel interior.

Frank claimed drinking it daily would help Diana better appreciate his own ejaculations, which had always proved a challenge for her given their taste and volume.

You're learning, aren't you? Becoming a good little slave to man's needs. How perfectly ironic. Such a fitting role for—

That dark voice rose again, cruel and mocking. Diana shut it down with icy resolve. Submission had nothing to do with this. This was about discipline, about proving her devotion through mastery of will. Entirely different.

She pressed her full lips to the thermos and drew in a measured sip. The liquid flowed cold and slimy over her tongue, flooding her senses with the unmistakable tang of male essence, pungent and raw.

The urge to gag came strong, her throat convulsing.

Holding the mouthful behind sealed lips, she forced herself to swirl the slick fluid around her mouth before swallowing it down with a tight grin. Her nose wrinkled at the greasy residue on her palate and the lingering aftertaste of musk and minerals.

Her first sip of the day, and already she wanted to retch. But savoring the taste was part of the process—an essential step she couldn't overlook.

She closed the cap, running her thumb along the ridged edge. Mornings used to be simpler, filled with black coffee and fresh bread from the corner bakery, before discipline replaced indulgence. Now, every ritual held weight, every choice measured against the vows she wore on her finger.

Protein shake in hand, Diana moved to the kitchen window and rested her hip against the sill. She pulled the curtain aside, squinting at the dull October sky. Pale dawn light sifted through the clouds, highlighting the sculpted planes of her world-famous figure. A goddess standing barefoot in the midst of rural suburbia, clutching a bottle of pig semen.

Surely Olympus was laughing.

Well, let them. They wouldn't understand.

Beyond the glass, a new day greeted the world. Dew sparkled on brittle grass like scattered jewels. Children's toys, bright and plastic, lay abandoned on neighboring lawns, waiting for the peal of little voices to return. A tabby cat slipped through the shadows near the Johnson's hedge, tail twitching.

It was peaceful here, almost idyllic—a marked contrast to the bustling city she'd soon commute to.

That reminded her—the car was still in the repair shop, which meant she'd have to take the bus today. It wasn't ideal. The extra travel time would eat into her already tight schedule, and she couldn't afford to be late, not with her presentation looming.

Diana raised the thermos and took another bold swig—larger than intended. Over two ounces of cold cum spilled into her mouth all at once, ballooning her cheeks. As she tried to swallow, it went down the wrong way, and a harsh cough sent globs of chalky fluid splattering onto her chest.

"Hurrk—" she choked, free hand slapping over her mouth in a desperate attempt to contain the mess. A terrible decision.

The viscous fluid shot up into her sinuses, making her eyes water, only to come spraying out of her nostrils in twin, pearlescent trails.

The burn was intense—like snorting seawater spiked with dung.

She managed to swallow the rest, but not before a series of short, strangled coughs wracked her chest, the force of it almost bouncing her breasts from the negligee. When the fit passed, a thick string of sperm-laced mucus hung from her chin, swaying with each shuddering breath.

"Gods," she croaked, voice hoarse with disgust.

Diana set the thermos down beside a potted fern on the windowsill and glared at the pale streaks decorating her chest like raw egg whites.

Unbelievable. She let out a frustrated sigh. Still struggling like an amateur. I should have conquered this part by now.

Pinching a dollop between two fingers, she lifted it from the deep valley of her breasts to her open mouth. Waste not, want not—that's how they said it here in Man's World, wasn't it?

One by one, she wiped up the spill-trails and sucked her fingers clean, each small pop of her lips punctuated by the metallic tang of pork. It tasted nothing like the sweetness of her own body, warm and intimate in the bedroom. This was cold. Dutiful. Soulless.

Despite the mishap, Diana had no intention of quitting. Her eyes found the thermos again, the level marker on its side indicating the precise amount left of her daily allotment. She tilted her head, running the numbers in her mind. One more sip. That should do it.

Taking extra care this time, she brought the steel rim to her lips. Another cold wave rolled over her tongue, its briny weight curling in the back of her throat. The urge to gag came and went as she held the unpleasant mouthful, letting it warm to her body temperature.

Only once the thermos was back on the fridge shelf, its cap screwed back on tight, did she permit herself to swallow. The now-familiar salty tang slid down her throat, leaving a slimy aftertaste that made her shiver. Worse than yesterday. Somehow, it was always worse. But she had done it—emptied the portion Frank had assigned her.

Breakfast, if it could be called that, was over.

Turning to the calendar pinned to the fridge, she grabbed the red marker and slashed an X over today's date. Eight down, twelve to go. Nearly two more weeks of swallowing seed and calling it progress.

She traced the days with a finger, her thoughts circling. Was Frank right? Would this exposure really 'strengthen' her? Or was she just wearing herself down?

Her lips quirked in a humorless smile. The analogy to human sperm wasn't lost on her, and maybe it held some merit, but no amount of reasoning could shake the nagging thought that this wasn't growth, but humiliation disguised as function. Even so, she would finish the lecture. She always did.

The last time she disappointed Frank, the sting of the cane had stayed with her for days. But it was the regret in his eyes that burned deepest. She wouldn't give him another reason to look at her like that. Not again.

Closing the refrigerator door, Diana moved swiftly, anticipation humming in her veins. Frank would wake soon, and everything had to be in place—his breakfast warm, his wife even warmer, ready and pliant.

Bare feet skimmed the cool tiles as she flowed between pantry, countertop and stove, fetching rustic pots and pans in a well-rehearsed ballet. The sky-blue negligee barely veiled her curves, its weightless fabric allowing the full, natural sway of her breasts.

A woman's body in perfect harmony with her purpose.

The warmth curling low in her belly had nothing to do with selfish desire. Not this time. No, it was deeper, more profound—the simmering satisfaction of knowing her place, of embracing it without question.

For the first time since waking, she felt whole.

Ah yes, nothing says 'wholeness' like a well-trained pet wagging her tail for scraps. The wicked whisper dripped with sing-song mockery. Who knows, maybe if you beg a little prettier, he'll let you rub that pussy until it gushes.

Diana laughed—low, dangerous—but it came out a little too forced.

"I am a warrior, a wife, a woman who knows her duty," she said, fingers flexing against the countertop. "And I do not need to touch myself. I do not need self-indulgence. I need only discipline." The words were steel, forged in pride, but as the silence stretched, their hollowness grew blatantly clear.

Heat crept up her neck. A memory flickered: the slide of her fingers, the wet heat between her thighs, her breath coming shallow, desperate—

She swallowed hard. The voice had no need to taunt her further. Its teeth had already sunk in. Diana stood straighter, shoving the thought away with all the force of a woman refusing to acknowledge her own hypocrisy.

"I know my place." She said it firmer this time, a challenge to herself as much as to the lurking doubt. And yet, beneath the rigid set of her jaw, the truth remained. She had come so very close.

Diana reached for an apron.

Chores awaited. Routine. Simplicity. Order.

Her fingers hovered for a beat, trailing over the fabric before grasping it. The worn cotton was soft with age, broken in by smaller hands that had tied these strings countless times before.

Sliding the apron over her head, Diana let it settle against her front. It didn't quite fit—never had. The hem rode too high on her thighs. The chest, stitched for a petite frame, strained across her breasts. A few faded grease stains marred the rooster motif—one near the hem, another darkened patch near the waist. Signs of a well-used kitchen. Of a well-run home.

Of another woman's touch.

Diana looped the strings around her waist and tied them with a bit more force than needed. If this covering had been good enough for the first Mrs. Norman, it was good enough for the last.

She picked up the eggs, their cool, smooth shells pressing against her fingers as she cracked them against the rim of a ceramic bowl. The yolks spilled golden and rich, the color of Helios at dawn. Whisking them into a silken froth, she breathed deep, savoring the mingling scents of butter melting in the pan and fresh herbs waiting to be folded into the mixture.

Cooking had always come naturally to her, one of the few domestic arts she had embraced with ease. There was something deeply satisfying about preparing a meal, about nourishing another with her own hands. It was a skill she had cultivated not out of necessity, but out of love.

Yet love alone had never sustained the Protector of Themyscira.

For ages, her hands had known the weight of sword and spear—trained to strike, to shield, to kill. Battle was in her blood.

And yet, here she stood. A warrior in a kitchen, apron strings wrapped around a body built for conflict—about to serve her husband breakfast, the most traditional of wifely duties.

How far she had come.

Diana sliced onions, peppers, and tomatoes into the hot pan, their sizzling aroma rising on a wave of heat. The scent was sharp, fresh, strong enough to cover the musk still clinging to her tongue. Almost. Without leave to brush her teeth, she would be tasting pig all morning.

How far you've come, indeed.

She tossed the vegetables with a flick of her wrist, as if muscle memory alone could drown out the irony.

Running a household was not so different from leading an army. It required discipline, organization, a commitment to duty.

And she had always excelled in duty.

This kitchen was her new battlefield, her new command center. Here, she may not be a glorified princess or costumed demigoddess—but when had titles ever mattered? Just like a general had obligations, so did a wife.

The eggs hissed as they met heated iron. Diana tilted the pan with practiced grace, letting the mixture spread in an even layer. She had learned Frank's preferences over the years, how he liked his eggs firm but not dry, his toast buttered right before serving so it didn't turn soggy. So far, so good.

The cuckoo clock on the wall let out a soft, mechanical whir.

Diana's gaze narrowed as the kitschy wooden rooster perched at the top twitched, readying to pop out. The minute hand, shaped like a little golden pitchfork, inched toward the farm bird's nest.

Almost seven.

How could the first hourglass have drained so swiftly? She needed to move. Swift as Hermes, sure as Artemis.

But then she spotted the manila envelope lying neatly folded on the kitchen table, and a cold knot formed in her stomach.

The presentation today had to be perfect—flawless—down to the last minutiae of detail. If she delivered anything less, it wouldn't be enough.

She wouldn't be enough.

Diana's brow furrowed, her thoughts fracturing into calculations, adjustments, contingencies. Rehearsed lines spun through her head, crisp and controlled—but doubt slithered in, coiling tight and hissing of failure.

Had she honed every detail? Sharpened every word to its finest edge? Or did the forge still call her back?

The skillet handle grew hot beneath her fingers, but instead of releasing it, her grip tightened around the smooth iron. This day would not tolerate mistakes. Everything must align.

Inhaling sharply through her nose, she centered herself in the task, in the moment, in the order of things.

Husband first. Then battle.

She reached for the salt, pinching a measured amount between her fingers before scattering it over the rising omelet. Precise. Controlled.

Behind her, a whisper-soft hiss sounded as the toaster relinquished the finished slices of bread, their golden exteriors crisp and even.

Diana turned her focus back to the eggs. She folded the omelet over itself in smooth motions, the scrape of the spatula against the pan steadying her hands. The tension in her shoulders held firm, but this—this she could perfect.

She plated the food just as the coffee finished brewing. The deep, bitter aroma infused the air, warm and grounding. A small comfort. Then, with a satisfied nod, she turned off the stove.

The meal was ready. And so was she.

Diana arranged everything on a pair of sturdy oak serving trays, their surface worn to a soft sheen from years of careful use. Solid, respectable. Like the home they belonged to.

A steaming mug of black coffee, strong and bitter.

A neatly folded linen napkin, crisp and white.

A splash of color—a single deep red maple leaf plucked from the garden, placed beside the plate. A quiet nod to the season. To change.

And of course, the main attraction: A beautifully set omelet, golden and delicate, its edges kissed with the faintest crisp. The center—a luscious blend of melted cheese and sautéed vegetables, folded like silk upon itself, bursting with warmth. Two crisp slices of toast flanked the dish, along with a bright yellow square of butter.

Everything was perfect, down to the last detail.

Oh.

Her fingers paused at the apron's hem. That would not do. Serving her husband in this old, grease-stained thing? Not on her watch.

Diana reached behind her back, untying the knot with a single, firm pull. She peeled the apron away from her body, giving it a quick brush-off before returning it to its hook.

Better.

Lifting the laden trays, she balanced them against her midsection, one in each hand. The weight was familiar, expected. Her arms bore it with ease, muscles flexing beneath olive skin, trained for burdens far greater than this.

She checked her bearing, ensuring every line of her body spoke of effortless command.

Centuries of royal tutelage had instilled grace, poise, and an unshakable presence—habits drilled into her spine as rigidly as any combat stance. And she needed every ounce of that conditioning now.

Her posture was flawless. Spine straight, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted just so. The soft sway of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the flex of her thighs—all poised, all restrained.

Nothing out of place.

Nothing to correct.

Ready.

The kitchen had filled its purpose. Now, it was time to serve.

Diana crossed the threshold, bare feet sure and silent on the floorboards, each step measured, precise, calculated to minimize any risk of spills or disruptions.

The warmth of the meal rose toward her, steam curling in delicate tendrils. It licked the soft underswell of her breasts, dampening the valley in between.

But Diana did not adjust her position. She was deep in her role now.

Moving without thought. Floating in rhythm.

Every motion preordained, every action precise.

Her breath, her posture, the steady press of weight against her palms—it all fell into place, effortless, automatic, as if she were not moving at all but merely existing within the moment.

Something inside her unwound. A quiet pleasure in her chest, warm and weightless, like drifting on a calm sea.

The gentle pull of obedience. The perfection of purpose.

She was doing well. She was—

A pang knifed through her lower abdomen, insistent, uncompromising. Her bladder pressed against her pelvic bone, demanding attention after a night of disciplined retention.

Diana's gaze flickered toward the hallway bathroom, her steps never slowing—a temptation crushed before it could root.

Mandate #3 was clear—no relieving herself outside set boundaries.

She let out a slow breath, willing her expression into calm acceptance. Frank's reasoning was sound. A wife should be efficient with her time. Limiting her eliminations trained her body, strengthened her endurance, spared her from wasting precious minutes on trivial distractions.

More importantly, keeping her bladder full at all times ensured she was ready.

Ready to perform.

For his pleasure.

For his punishments.

For practical matters.

... such as fertilizing their garden with her potent Amazonian piss.

Diana pushed that thought aside. The mandates needed no affirmation.

She knew them all by heart, had consented to every word.

Awww... you're such a good, obedient girl, aren't you? So disciplined. So devout. So easy.

Her fingers curled against the trays, one eyelid twitching.

A flicker of heat rose in her chest—anger, shame. Something worse.

No. It's not worth it. Forget that wicked whisper. You're doing good.

She exhaled sharply, smoothing her grip, rolling her shoulders back.

Besides, you have duties to fulfill. Precious ones. Fundamental.

Inviting aromas curled around her, rich and indulgent. Toast, crisp at the edges, golden and waiting. Eggs, fluffy and folded, still releasing wisps of steam. The bold bite of black coffee, dark and bitter, cutting through the warmth with familiar sharpness.

Her stomach growled, a low, insistent noise.

She ignored it.

This meal was not for her. Every crumb, every sip, every ounce of nourishment belonged to her husband.

Her own breakfast—plain, functional, adequate—already sat heavy in her stomach, thick liquid sloshing as she shifted her stance.

No need to dwell. No need to want.

Diana lifted the trays a fraction, centering their weight beneath her breasts. Then, without hesitation, she turned toward the bedroom.

At the base of the stairs, she paused. Her eyes drifted upward, tracing the path ahead—the path that led to him. Her husband.

A thrill ran through her. Soon, she would serve him the first meal of the day. Present it to him with steady hands, lowered eyes. She would press a passionate kiss to his mouth, feel the warmth of his skin beneath her lips.

The thought settled low in her belly, spreading like slow honey.

He would see her.

See how well she was doing. How disciplined. How good.

Her breath deepened, her thighs pressing together in a slow clench.

The scent of eggs and toast lingered, rich and warm, curling at the edges of her resolve. She could indulge in it, savor the fruits of her labor with a deep inhale. But she refused herself even that.

Instead, she turned her head, drew in a breath of neutral air, filling her lungs to capacity. And held it deep in her chest.

She would take the stairs in a single breath.

Diana stepped onto the staircase, toes first, heels raised, a dancer's precision.

The trays remained level, primed and steady in her grasp. Her muscled arms corded, shoulders taut beneath silken skin.

A warrior carrying her shield.

Thighs lifted slow, hips rolled in rhythm, calves flexed and released, spine long, regal, effortlessly poised.

A goddess in motion.

Wooden stairs met the ball of each foot with a slight give, boards creaking under her weight.

A wife in service.

Midway up, the pressure in her abdomen spiked—a sharp, insistent pulse. Her bladder throbbed, deep and urgent, stretching her from within.

She absorbed the sensation, let it meld into the effort of the climb.

Her breath remained locked inside her chest, lungs expanded, ribs flaring. No gasping, no breaking of rhythm.

She glided upward, a vision of elegance—of power restrained, of indulgence denied.

The final stair required an extra lift, forcing her glutes to engage, broad bottom flexing beneath her negligee.

Neither tray wavered.

The moment the floor leveled, she exhaled—slow, controlled, a breath laced with quiet satisfaction.

As if the climb had cost her nothing at all.

Diana approached the bedroom door, her bare feet soundless on the aged hardwood. She paused, tilting her head, listening.

Nothing but the steady rise and fall of Frank's snoring. Deep, unhurried. The sound of a man at ease in his domain.

The house lay steeped in predawn quiet, save for the faint ticking of the hallway clock and the distant hum of traffic outside.

Her grip tightened on the trays, the heat from the porcelain plates warming her fingertips. A perfect breakfast. A perfect morning.

A perfect wife.

Diana's lips parted, shaping themselves into the expression that had become second nature—the dazzling smile that summoned the best of her warmth and grace. Her most important accessory.

Frank did not respond well to shadows in her gaze, to hesitations in her voice, to any trace of resistance or resentment. Those things unsettled him, disturbed the order of his world.

And she did not want to disturb him.

No, better to be the woman he expected. The woman he needed.

And truth be told, she was grateful. More than he'd ever know.

The life he provided was solid, predictable—not the storm-wracked battlefields of her past, not the endless fights that once defined her existence. He'd given her shelter, stability, a place in the world where she was not a warrior or a goddess, but simply... his.

Shifting her stance, Diana nudged the door open with her hip, careful not to let it creak.

The bedroom exhaled its familiar scents: the musky remnants of sleep, the stale tang of sweat, the ever-present haze of nicotine clinging to the walls. But most prominent, most decadent, was the heady perfume of her own arousal still thick in the air.

Her eyes flicked to the sheets where a darkened spot lingered, damning and unmistakable.

Diana stiffened, nostrils flaring before she could stop herself. Heat prickled along her skin, the memory of restless, fevered hours ghosting over her flesh. Her thighs pressed together, as if that might quell the slow, insistent pulse that had yet to fully fade.

Enough.

She inhaled, slow and deep, filtering the scent through her lungs, willing away the rogue impulse that tightened low in her belly.

She had dealt with that. Buried it.

Now she was moving forward.

Diana stepped fully into the room, the trays steady in her hands, the smile easy on her lips.

The curtains remained drawn, the only light seeping through the narrow gap between them thin and pale, illuminating the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

Frank lay sprawled beneath the blankets, his broad, weathered hand resting palm-up on the mattress beside him. His mouth hung slack, the snore rumbling from his chest fainter now.

What little hair he had left stuck out at odd angles, caught between his mottled scalp and the pillow supporting his head. His bony shoulders poked from the top of the blanket bunched around his scrawny chest. He had kicked free of the sheets in the night, exposing skinny legs covered in coarse gray hairs.

Diana hesitated.

Her smile wavered, flickering at the edges before dissolving altogether. She stood there, trays in hand, unsure. Should she wake him? Set the trays down and let him stir on his own?

The weight of the breakfast pressed against her palms, the scent of warm eggs and butter curling up toward her, growing heavier with each passing second.

She decided to wait.

With a measured breath, Diana adjusted her posture, straightening her spine until it aligned with the rigid precision drilled into her since girlhood. Feet planted shoulder-width apart, head high, chin tucked.

A stance of discipline. Of readiness.

The trays floated in her grasp, her arms motionless despite the slow burn creeping into her biceps. The muscles in her thighs tightened as she steadied her balance.

A familiar tension. Not strain, not discomfort, but control.

She would not shift. She would not fidget.

A good wife did not betray impatience.

The cool air skimmed across her bare legs, the hem of her negligee barely grazing mid-thigh, but she ignored the sensation. Every part of her, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, settled into stillness.

Waiting was an art, one she had mastered long ago.

Her gaze softened, drifting over the bedroom she had shared with Frank for nearly a decade, her eyes settling on the keepsakes adorning the weathered oak dresser.

A framed photograph from their wedding day, edges worn from years of dusting. Faded ballet tickets from their first anniversary, the ink smudged from the sweat of her palm as she'd clutched them, nervous, excited. A scattering of seashells from a stolen afternoon at the beach, their pale curves coarse with traces of salt.

And beside them, two champagne flutes, one of which still held her wedding garter.

Diana's lips parted, her breath catching as memory pulled her back.

The heat in Frank's eyes as he slipped the scrap of lace from her thigh at the reception... the way his fingers lingered, roughened pads grazing smooth skin... the deep, satisfied chuckle that rumbled from his chest when she shivered at the contact...

Nine years.

Such a brief flicker compared to the eternal span of her existence, yet in that short time, she had experienced more facets of life and love than in the previous two centuries combined.

Marriage to a mortal had taught her much about the human heart—its needs, its contradictions, its hungers.

And, perhaps most of all... its capacity for change.

The trays grew heavier in Diana's hands, the weight settling deep into her arms.

A quiet, creeping unease wound its way through her core.

Don't look. Just don't. Keep your focus here, on him, on your duty.

Even as the thought formed, Diana's eyes betrayed her, pulling her back to the corner of the bedroom—to the place she had refused to acknowledge since walking in.

And there she was.

Poised beside Frank's side of the bed, stood Wonder Woman.

Or rather, the acrylic parody.

A mannequin—eerily similar to herself in height and build—posed inside a tall, freestanding glass cabinet: chest lifted, shoulders squared, hands resting firmly at its sides.

And it wore her armor.

The iconic red bustier gleamed under a case-mounted spotlight, its golden eagle frozen mid-flight across a rigid, unbreathing chest.

Below it, star-spangled briefs, tailored to her exact form, stretched over the figure's sculpted hips, though they covered nothing real—only plastic, only artifice.

At the base, a pair of white-striped boots stood sentinel, their red leather polished to a lustrous shine.

Once, those crimson pillars had struck like lightning, driving her forward with righteous fury, thundering against the earth with every stride.

Now, they propped up a doll.

Worse—adorning that hollow shell were her sacred relics, forged in honor, bound by blood, entrusted to her as Champion of the Amazons.

The silver bracers, twin bands of defiance, extensions of her vow to shield the innocent, clamped around inflexible, molded forearms.

The golden power belt, source of her divine strength, gifted by her mother Queen Hippolyta, cinched tight around a polymer waist.

Hung from the mannequin's stiff grip, the fabled Lasso of Hestia dangled like a cheap souvenir.

And there, crowning the plastic princess' head, sat Antiope's tiara, its star-shaped ruby twinkling uselessly behind the tempered glass.

Every item authentic. Every item hers.

From the golden luster of her lasso to the faint scuffs on the red leather boots.

Symbols of duty, tools of divine purpose—draped over waxwork like a trophy on display.

Disgraceful. Outrageous.

Fitting.

Diana swallowed, fingers tightening around the serving trays she held aloft.

For years, the armor had remained hidden. Locked in a safe box, deep in the basement. But then Frank had put it here. In the bedroom. Encased in glass.

Not stored. Not protected. Displayed.

A lesson.

"Your duties no longer lay with that little fantasy island of yours," he had said. "Nor with the world outside. Your only duty is here, with me."

He was right, of course. But that did not make that duty any easier.

Every morning, she had to look at it. Every night, it was the last thing her eyes fell on before sleep—this frozen effigy of her past self, of the woman she once was, the champion she had once been.

Every time, it reminded her.

A hero no longer.

The lasso pulsed, a faint whisper against the air, like a heartbeat just beneath the surface. A call of truth and justice, of glory reclaimed, if she would but reach out and take it.

She didn't answer.

At the top of the case, bold lettering etched into a gold plaque read:

~ DIANA PERFECTA ~

As if this dumb, voiceless thing represented the model version of her.

Silent. Obedient. Ever unchanging.

A woman who never questioned. Never doubted. Did not feel.

He called it 'Fecta'—short for 'Perfecta'.

The nickname rolled off his tongue with casual reverence, as if the lifeless doll deserved that level of familiarity. He spoke about it as though it were alive, a tangible embodiment of his ideals.

Was that the ideal she should strive for as well, now that her old one was gone?

The mattress creaked.

Frank stirred, not yet awake.

Diana inhaled slowly, filling her lungs, steadying herself. The trays had grown heavier in her hands, though their perfect angle had not changed.

Frank kept the case locked, the key out of reach.

Not that the glass would be much of a barrier, reinforced or not.

If she wanted to, she could drive her fist through it with effortless strength—shatter the case in a single, decisive blow. She could strip the armor from this imposter, reclaim her tools, wrap the belt around her waist and feel the pulse of its magic settle into her limbs once more.

She could do it.

She could.

But she wouldn't.

If Frank denied her access, she would stay out.

Diana had given her word.

And Diana of Themyscira did not break her word.

Frank's breathing shifted—subtle, but distinct. That telltale change that preceded waking. Diana's full lips parted, tongue moistening them in preparation for the morning's most sacred duty.

He would expect his morning kiss. The first glimpse of his beautiful wife to start the day off right. It was routine. And routines were the pillars that propped up ordinary lives.

Yes, her duty was here, in this house.

With Frank.

Gone were the days of charging into battle, sword and shield in hand, her heart afire with righteous purpose. Now her fights were with laundry baskets, grocery lists, and expired coupons.

She missed her old life, yes. But she had chosen this one.

This was not regret.

Regret was indulgent, selfish.

This was discipline.

Diana straightened her posture, her long, elegant fingers adjusting the trays she still held. The porcelain plates had cooled, the steam curling in thinner wisps now.

She inhaled again, quiet but steady.

A warrior preparing for battle.

A wife ready to serve.