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In book one: Wife awakens husband in the middle of the night, marches him down to the living room, and turns his life upside down. By the next morning he has become her (mostly) obedient, cock-locked "little boy". In book two, the same couple "flips the script". She surrenders to him; he becomes her master. He's surprised by how smoothly that 180-degree turn is accomplished.

"It will be okay," she said, soothingly. "I'm going to hurt you, but it will be okay. As long as you obey me absolutely, I'm going to free you from all of those bad, guilty, big boy problems. You'll be my happy little boy; I promise. Now ask Mistress Mommy to punish you." I was barely able to fight off the urge to cry, gave a single sob - of gratitude or fear or disgust or confusion, of desire or pain or relief or incredulity - and did as I had been told.

"Snowflake," she said, with what sounded like genuine concern and sincerity, "do you really understand what you're doing here? You're not," she paused, removed her finger, gently stroked a cheek down which a single tear was beginning to roll, intercepted the droplet, pensively licked from palm to fingertip, as though it were an ice cream cone then put her finger back, lest eyes flit or wander. "You're not my first Little Wifey."