Sweet Submission

by Roxy Sloane

Sweet Submission

  by Roxy Sloane

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  Copyright 2014 Roxy Sloane

  Cover Design: Louisa Maggio at LM Creations

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE: ISABELLE

  TWO: CAM

  THREE: ISABELLE

  FOUR: CAM

  FIVE: ISABELLE

  SIX: CAM

  SEVEN: ISABELLE

  EIGHT: CAM

  NINE: ISABELLE

  TEN: CAM

  ELEVEN: ISABELLE

  TWELVE: CAM

  PROLOGUE

  Most women don’t know the pleasure of total surrender.

  You’ve fantasized about it. Maybe you’ve even tried. Asked for his hands to grip you a little tighter. If he could tie you up. Hold you down. Fuck you the way you need, his cock driving hard and relentless, riding your wet pussy until you can’t take it anymore.

  But he always stops too soon. Eases up before you’re done. He’s careful, cautious. You know, deep down, he’s not for real.

  He doesn’t mean it when he makes you beg for him to fuck you, doesn’t push you to your limits and demand everything you have to give—and more.

  He doesn’t realize that domination is an act of worship. The adoration of a woman beyond all limits; the reverence to give her the pleasure she truly deserves.

  You wonder, what would it be like with a man who truly commanded you? How sweet would the release be, giving yourself up completely?

  No limits. No boundaries.

  His control.

  “Get on your knees and open your mouth.”

  This girl knows that pleasure. She’s already panting, eager and wet. She falls to the floor in front of me and assumes the position.

  Eyes hidden beneath a blindfold. Hands behind her back. Breasts bared. Juicy lips wide open and ready for my cock.

  I trail a riding crop over her shuddering flesh, pacing a slow circle around her. Her breasts rise and fall with every breath, but she knows better than to beg for me now. Each second I wait makes her nipples stiffen, her thighs clench, her damp clit throb for more.

  Still, I wait.

  I watch her beautiful body carefully, landing quick strokes of the crop on her reddening skin. She moans and gasps at the brief impact, and I feel her pleasure like it was my own.

  Control is my virtue. I demand everything from her, and I won’t be sated until it’s mine.

  “Are you ready, my sweet?” I trail the leather crop down over her breasts. She tenses, moaning as I flick one stiff nipple.

  “Yes, Master,” she gasps.

  “I don’t think you are.”

  I stroke the crop lower, over her bare stomach, down between her thighs. She parts them eagerly for me, baring her shaven pussy, glistening with slick desire.

  She’s close.

  “Please,” she moans.

  I bring the crop down against her clit. She yelps in pleasure—and pain. My cock thickens to hear it. I could claim her mouth right now, shove my dick in deep and come in a single stroke with her throat clenching around me. But I hold back.

  This isn’t about me. It’s her. Always her. Because the woman on her knees for me may change every other night, but the focus of my discipline remains the same.

  To command her fantasy, overwhelm her every sense. Take her body to the heights of ecstasy—where it belongs.

  I command her not to break her, but to pay tribute to her beauty. I dominate because that’s the truest gift a man can offer: the freedom to let go, completely, without shame or regret.

  “Please, Sir,” she whimpers again.

  “What did I tell you about begging?” I demand harshly.

  “Not to do it, Sir,” she answers quickly.

  I flick against her clit again, harder. Just the right taste of pain to keep her back from the edge.

  “Why not?” I growl.

  “Because...because it won’t make a difference,” she’s sobbing with need now, her body coiled so tight she can’t stand it. Still, she keeps her hands behind her back, knows that breaking position would end this in a heartbeat. “You won’t submit to me. What I want doesn’t matter here.”

  “And why’s that?” I flick her nipples this time in a light, stinging stroke.

  “Because you’re in charge!” Her voice rings out, thick with desire. “You control me. You control my body, my release.”

  “That’s right.” I step closer, gripping her jaw and tilting her face up to me. “You belong to me. In these four walls, I have total control.”

  Even blindfolded, I can see how much she wants me. Trembling and moaning, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open. The most beautiful sight in the world. “Tell me what to do, Master,” she whispers. “Tell me what you want.”

  I feel the craving inside me rear up, dark and determined.

  She’s ready. She’s mine.

  I unzip my pants, and hear her breath catch with desperate anticipation.

  “You’ve been a good girl,” I murmur, stroking her cheek. Victory surges through me, hot and fast. “You can have your reward.”

  In one swift motion, I drag her to her feet and bend her over the bed. Pinning her down, I thrust my ravenous cock deep into her slick, aching pussy.

  She moans in surrender as she comes for me, completely helpless, her cunt clenching wildly around me as her body breaks wide open.

  The sound hums through my bloodstream. Her submission is my drug.

  I finally let go.

  ONE: ISABELLE

  “Where are we going? Why won’t you tell me?”

  Brent doesn’t answer my questions, he just drives the Maserati like he’s in the Indy 500. He screeches down the dark Manhattan streets with a scowl on his face.

  I grip the inside door and try to remember how many drinks he’s had.

  “Maybe you should slow down?” I suggest softly. “You don’t want to get pulled over. Not after all the trouble you’ve had this year.”

  Trouble is an understatement. His father died a few months ago, and left the Ashcroft fortune to a daughter nobody even knew he had. Brent did everything he could to win the money back—and nearly went to jail.

  But it’s the wrong thing to say right now, when he’s wound up like this. His scowl deepens. I close my eyes and say a prayer as he hurtles through another amber light, until finally he pulls up to the curb with a screech.

  I open my eyes. We’re in the middle of nowhere: a sketchy street in a deserted part of town. “What is this place?”

  Brent gives me a cruel grin. “You’ll like it, baby, I promise.”

  I slowly get out of the car. I thought we were heading to one of his favorite nightclubs, so I dressed up: a short metallic mini-dress, high stiletto heels. He likes to show me off and see every head turn when we walk in the door. I sometimes feel like I’m performing, putting on an act and pretending to be someone I’m not, but it always makes him happy.

  It’s easier when he’s happy.

  Brent takes my arm and leads me to a discreet door in the front of an old warehouse building. We step through it, and my confusion grows.

  Inside, there’s a luxurious lobby area. Dark velvets, polished wood, antique chandeliers. A beautiful woman in a lace dress waits behind the
desk.

  Brent strides over. “Brent Ashcroft,” he announces. There was a time when that name would open doors all over the city, but she just gives him a polite smile.

  “Are you a member here?”

  Brent glares back. “I’m invited.”

  “Yes, of course,” she soothes him, seeing the expression on his face. “Has your host checked in already? I can have them fetched.”

  “No need.” There’s a voice from the staircase, and a balding guy in a pinstripe suit arrives. It’s one of Brent’s old college friends. Paxton, I think.

  I’ve never liked him. He’s from old money, the kind Brent is always trying to impress. Whenever we’ve hung out together, Paxton always drinks too much and gropes the waitresses—and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.

  He comes over to greet us, shaking Brent’s hand and then kissing me on both cheeks. His hands linger on my waist too long. I try not to shrink away.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, a gleam in his eyes.

  “She will be,” Brent answers for me, before I can get a word out. “I can’t wait to look around. See if this place lives up to the hype.”

  The receptionist passes us some legal forms to sign. Brent scribbles without a glance, but I try to read the small print.

  The Underground will not be held liable for damage or injury.... you hereby waive all rights to legal action....

  “What is this place again?” I ask, my heart beating faster.

  Brent fixes me with a look. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Still, I hesitate. He sighs. “Are you going to be a fucking pussy again?” he whispers, an edge to his voice now. He glances to where Paxton is trying to flirt with the receptionist. “Don’t fuck this up for me, OK? I need him to invest in my new big idea.”

  Brent gets a new big idea every week. And each time, he swears, this is the one: the company that will launch him back to his former glory.

  I sign the waiver with a shaking hand. I wish I hadn’t come out tonight, but Brent insisted.