SUBMISSION, PERMISSION, COMPLETION

You’re in me, you’re on me, and you have my long hair grasped in a clump at the nape of my neck. We are discussing fantasies, and I am making admissions. You’re teasingly forcing them out of me. You’ve already discovered how I enjoy the weight of your body on top of me, how I like my wrists held down above my head, how much I get off on being told exactly what to do for you. Your hand grasping my hair is new tonight, but somehow you knew I would like it.

“I want you in every way,” you murmur into my ear.

“Yes,” is all I can manage. I’m gasping, breathless from an orgasm.

“How should I have you?”

Images flash through my mind. Various positions; being taken from behind or tied up. On my knees looking up at you with wild childlike eyes. And something else, something I’ve never told anyone before. I say nothing, but I know you felt me shudder.

“You’re awfully wet all of a sudden.” Your voice is a whisper, accusing.

I’m still silent. You continue fucking me perfectly, but I know I won’t be able to hide.

“Tell me,” you say. Your hand pulls at my hair ever so slightly.

“I want…”

“Yes?”

“I want to do anything you desire,” I confess in a whisper.

My eyes are still closed but I can hear the devious smile on your face. “Oh really?” you say.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Liar.”

Fuck. You know. But I’m not telling. I concentrate on your hand, your weight, your cock.

“Tell me… exactly what you want…”

I can’t.

No! You stop suddenly, withdraw almost completely, hold perfectly still. My pussy grasps frantically at nothing, deprived. I feel like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water on my body. My eyes fly open in alarm.

“No!”

“Well?” you ask.

“Not fair!”

But you don’t give it to me. You’re waiting.

“Start talking.”

I close my eyes and swallow.

“I want to totally submit to you,” I begin.

You enter me, begin moving slowly. Yes. Thank God.

“And I want you to spank me,” I continue. My voice is tiny. I’ve never told anyone about this before. You’re moving in me deeper now. I’m pressing my hips up against you, trying to get all of you again, but you won’t give it to me yet. Not yet. You know there’s more.

“…and tell me what to do,” I finish in a whisper.

Oh! You pushed all the way in that time! But just once!

“More! Please!”

“Louder. Full sentences.”

I open my eyes and stare directly into your face.

“I want you to own me, and put me over your knee, and order me to do whatever you want, all night,” I say in a calm, flat voice.

There. I did it. I finally told you.

There’s an extended moment of vacuum, one of those moments when what’s just happened isn’t quite real yet. And then you pound into me, rewarding me, pressing so hard that your hip bones bruise my thighs. I let out some sort of wail I’ve never heard myself make before. You resume your exquisite rhythm, and the tension is broken. I feel empty, revealed, cleansed. I feel good. I love how you can make me feel that way.



“We’ll do that,” is all you say.

You keep fucking me. Your hand is still grasping at my hair, and your fingers massage the ringlets contemplatively as you think about it. My eyes are closed again but I know you’re staring at me with a sexy little smile.

My second orgasm begins to build.

After a while you say, “We’ll just have to take you out then.”

What?

“I’ll give you rules. And we’ll dress you up. And we’ll go out.”

That’s not what I said! But I have no breath to contest you. Everything is tight, tingling.

“I want to show you off,” you say. “I want everyone to see what I have.”

No! Or, wait– but your grip on my hair is tighter now. I’m squeezing you back, inside. My whole body is tense and contracted.

“So we’ll dress you up, and I’ll take you out…”

No! That’s not that what I meant! Is it?

“…I will show you I own you, in public…”

There’s a roar in my ears. I can’t breathe!

“…and you will do whatever I want…”

It’s starting—

“…all night.”

“…there’s always the safeword,” you’re saying as you adjust my garters. We’re in you’re flat, getting dressed.

I’m terribly nervous. This is my last chance to back out gracefully. You are buttoning up my silky shirt now. You finish, stand up straight, put your hands on my shoulders, and look directly into my face. You can see the uncertainty in my eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

You’re smiling, looking deep into my eyes like it’s no big deal, like you understand how frightening this is for me.

Like you understand how excited I am.

“Yes,” I say evenly, “I trust you.”

That’s it. I’m yours now. You can do anything you want with me tonight, and I have to comply. We stare at each other, expressionless, for a long time.

Your first action as master is to grab me and pull me hard toward you for a savage kiss. Your other hand grabs the meat of my ass and squeezes, kneads, gropes me while your tongue forces its way down my throat. This is what every teenage boy secretly wanted to do with the slutty girl who always wore dark eyeliner to French class, if he only had the guts. This is pure instinctual lust and the rush of deep desires coming to the surface. This is you taking out your fantasies on me. You’re so involved in molesting me, you don’t notice me smiling as I kiss you back.

But a sudden vicious slap on the ass brings me back to reality and one buttock is stinging hard. You pull back and I bow my head slightly, look up at you demurely.

“Let’s go,” you say. And you lead me down the hall and help me into my long jacket.

We drive in silence and I consider my situation.

Underneath my full-length coat I am wearing a black silk blouse with no bra, unbuttoned generously to show off the smooth inner curves of my breasts. Below that I am wearing a leather mini-skirt in a deep forest green which complements my skin nicely, underneath which is a pair of French-cut panties, lacy, widening over my pubic mound and angling to each side in a way that accentuates my hipbones. My plain black stockings are held up by a garter belt. Below my long legs are a pair of knee-high black boots. Despite the three-inch heels, they look somewhat delicate and pretty on my small feet. My face is subtly made-up to bring out the pale tones of my skin, and give an almost imperceptible shine to my lips. My short hair is neatly brushed, styled very plainly, but with loose ringlets to frame my face.

“You’re excited.” It’s a statement, the only thing you’ve said so far. I don’t even have to reply. I stare straight ahead, not looking at you, as the streetlights drift by. You’ve told me only that you’re taking me to a private party, and I trust your good taste as to the company. We’ll just walk around, have a few drinks, and everyone can gawk at your woman. You’ll have me twirl around to show off your prize. We’ll both get off on it, then go home and fuck all night in our big bed. It will be fine. No big deal.

Then why am I so nervous?

And why am I so wet?

You park, open my door, and offer me your hand like a gentleman. Walking down the street on your arm, my outfit covered by a long plain coat, we might appear to be heading out to a perfectly ordinary evening. A sudden gust of wind blows and finds its way up under the coat, under my skirt, and chills my bare inner thighs, reminding me that this is not the case. We arrive shortly at an unmarked gray metal door among a row of two-story storefronts. You ring a bell at the side. There’s no sound or motion on the street for a long moment, then the door swings open. A broad-shouldered man in a dark shirt nods at you as if he knows you, then looks at me and smiles a welcome. He leads us up a flight of steps, and we emerge suddenly into a hubbub of voices.


It’s a cocktail party in a large room with no windows. And the crowd is dressed for it. The women are in evening dresses with slits to their hips, or backless gowns that cling to every curve; or lingerie, or leather, or miniskirts. The men are in suits of all descriptions, stylish leather pants, a few elegant silk kimonos. There’s skin everywhere: the curves of full breasts, white thighs, muscled backs and biceps. People are milling around with glasses in their hand, talking and obviously flirting. Someone removes my jacket and I stand for the first time in my proper outfit. I fit in perfectly. A rush of relief washes over me.

You walk through the crowd without looking back. You simply expect that your girl will be right there with you.

At the bar, you order two glasses of wine. We stand waiting like any ordinary couple. I steal glances out of the corner of my eye, and realize that men and women alike are eyeing me, appreciatively. You’re right! You’re showing me off! I am your toy to display. I feel a warm flush through my body at the thought, and lower my head to avoid the gaze of the onlookers.

The wine has arrived, in two glasses on the bar. I reach for one.

“No,” you say, not unkindly. “Tonight you do nothing until I tell you to. In fact, I don’t even want you to speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?” The expression on your face is warm, intimate, paternal.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Good. Now, take off your underwear.”

What? Here! But surely—and you can see it on my face, and your disappointment stings me.

“If you’ve had enough of this we can go home and rent a video,” you say mildly, “or you can take off your underwear.” Your smile turns suddenly cold. “Now,” you add.

I stare at you for a moment. You’re serious. What the hell, I’m wearing the miniskirt anyway. Without further hesitation I reach under the skirt and hook my hands under the waistband. I bend over slowly and slip the flimsy things down my thighs and over my boots. I am almost doubled over by the time I step out of them. Suddenly it occurs to me – this miniskirt is very short! What did that look like to everyone else? Sure enough, as I stand up I look over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of a well dressed but slightly portly middle-aged man smiling appreciatively in my direction – but not at me. He’s smiling at you, and he gives you a little nod, as if to say, “nice piece of ass you’ve got there,” which you return with a wave of your glass.

You pocket my underwear, put your arm around my waist, and pull me close. The warmth of your body is reassuring. “Good girl,” you purr into my ear. “You’ve made everyone very pleased. Especially me.” A strange flood of relief washes over me. I can do this! “And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?” There’s a wicked smile on your face.

Oh god.

You’re right.

You hand me my glass of wine, and walk off without looking back. I find it a little awkward to follow while holding the glass, but I begin to get the hang of it, and in no time at all I am accustomed to being right at your side, the silent, beautiful girl on the invisible leash. The girl who belongs to you. You stop every now and then to introduce me to a friend. Each person looks me over, eyes me from top to bottom appreciatively, and seems to like what they find from the bemused smiles or smirks or outright leers they give me – or rather, that they give you, not me. Tonight I am an object. It gives me a strange light feeling in the pit of my stomach to know that I am a sexual status symbol. You make small talk and flirt a little and do whatever it is people do at cocktail parties. I tune out the words. I feel only the emotions. From the men I always feel desire. From the women I sometimes see desire, sometimes just an encouraging little smirk or wink, and sometimes outright envy. Those women want to be me tonight! I suddenly understand, and it thrills me.

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