by Argus, JJ
A Life of Submission
By JJ Argus
Copyright 2010
Electronic edition
JJ Argus has written more than 250 novels, and been published in hardcover, softcover, and innumerable magazines and digests. This work is the result of the long, hard effort and creativity of the author. Please do not post or resell it without permission.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters are over eighteen.
Cover photo courtesy of Restrained Elegance
Chapter One
For all practical purposes, the life I led, the friends I knew, the formal education to which I had been exposed, all came to an end three weeks and four days after my nineteenth birthday. I recall worrying all the previous night over an upcoming assignment in Torts, attempting to memorize a variety of precedents to little success. It's odd, to recall things like that, to remember with such clarity the foolish worries which were soon to be so vastly overshadowed by unforeseen events.
I was in my first year at university, studying law. I would like to say I had felt a calling to the profession, a desire to right great wrongs or see to the proper dispensation of justice, but in truth I was looking for little other than status and monetary success. Not, I suspect, unlike the majority of my fellows. All of us saw the law, and its clever manipulation as a venue to large houses outside the city, expensive cars and trips to the south of France during the holidays.
As it was my first year I was enjoying the freedom of being away from home, from no longer being required to obey what I then considered the unreasonably strict rules set for me by my uncle and aunt (my parents having died a decade earlier). I had begun to experiment with both drugs and alcohol, partying long into the nights on weekends, and enjoying life.
Like most girls I had also begun experimenting with the shades of exposure different types of clothing and fabrics afforded me. My skirts had crept slowly upward as I grew more confident in my legs, and more daring in the length of them I might safely reveal without drawing censure from friends and acquaintances. My blouses occasionally grew quite tight or thin, and on my birthday I had worn my first really low cut dress to the party.
That had been an evening which had left me slightly blushing and in a state of suppressed arousal. For to have my cleavage so well-displayed, to bare the tops of my softly rounded breasts in public, had been quite a daring act for me, and after my initial self-consciousness (My stomach had been filled with butterflies the first hour) and embarrassment I had felt a rather cocky sense of pride in my seductive appearance.
Boys, or rather, young men, I suppose one should say, were quite important at the time. I wasn't at all sure I understood them, or that I ever would. They were a constantly confusing group, now bright and pleasant, now sullen and angry. I knew I felt a small thrill along my spine when I was near some of them, when they touched me in a certain way, or even looked at me in a way which communicated the desires they felt for me.
Of course I felt some of those desires myself, but being a young lady of good reputation I had to be quite careful about how I allowed those desires to be expressed, or how much I permitted the boys to get away with. I did not want people whispering unpleasant things behind my back, after all, insinuating my lack of character or virtue. Not only did I have a rather large measure of pride, but such things would hardly enhance my career prospects, nor help to build relationships based on respect among classmates who were, I thought, to become my future colleagues.
I would often afterwards consider the irony in that effort, in the hands I had fought off, the wrestling matches I had engaged in, and the sexual explorations I had not dared continue.
I should say that I was quite an attractive girl, or so everyone had been telling me up to that point in my life. My hair was a soft blonde, perhaps only slightly too pale for truest gold. I wore it straight, an inch or two past my shoulders, parted in the middle, with no bangs.
My hair was thick and rich, however, folding firmly and lightly along the contours of my oval face. My nose was smallish, and slightly upturned, and my eyes were, and still are, quite a bright shade of blue. I had pert lips and white teeth which drew many compliments to my smile.
I had been quite adequately, if not generously endowed, so to speak, with rather nice breasts for my slender frame, and quite good legs, as well. My breasts were never great round things to draw the eye, but they were quite high and firm, and filled out the pink string bikini I had begun to daringly wear quite nicely. Being just two inches short of six feet tall my legs were long and striking, and when I wore a short skirt the boys - and men as well - seemed to appreciate them.
I was, of course, aware of being attractive, and took pride in it, despite knowing how little of that was due to any actions on my part. I was flattered and pleased by the attention, but still quite nervous and even a little embarrassed about certain elements of it. Knowing, as I walked down a hall, or along the sidewalk, that men twice my age were examining my bottom, or my legs, and perhaps thinking quite lewd thoughts about me was still both exciting and disconcerting.
At nineteen, sex was still a foreign concept to me. Other girls my age had a great deal of experience in it, so in that respect my life experience was somewhat retarded. This was not due to any great moral decision on my part, but rather, indecision, uncertainty about when I should suffer my virginity to be taken, and to whom I should offer it. Circumstances had never quite seemed right. Either the gentleman in question was unworthy, or unreliable (I did not want tales of my deflowering to pass among my peers) or the setting was simply wrong. I had no intention, for example, of being deflowered in the back of a darkened automobile, or in a closet at a party.
Not that I had not experimented. I was no prude, after all. I had begun with the normal fumbling, allowing boys to grope at my breasts and bottom, then graduated into allowing their hands within my blouse, and begun the arduous task of learning how to please their members with my hands, and then with my mouth. I liked the latter more than the former, as it made me feel quite wicked.
I was relatively normal, anyway, or perhaps just slightly inexperienced for my age. I had only a little less than the normal amount of exposure to sexual activities, while still retaining my virginity. I was intrigued by the idea of sex, even excited by it. But I was somewhat shy, and exposing my body completely - to a boy - was a daunting prospect.
And nothing less would do. I had too many fantasies to accept some dreary deflowering at the hands of a half drunken lout, a lout, moreover, who would thrust himself into my body, grunting like an animal, and then roll over and fall asleep. When I did give myself it would be to someone handsome and marvellous, and sober, in a bed, or perhaps, before a blazing fireplace. He and I would both be passionate, and completely naked.
And it would, of course, be glorious.
I had discovered masturbation rather early on, not apurpose, you realize, but quite by accident. And through careful experimentation and very discreet conversations with girlfriends, I had come to realize that my responses to sexual touching were quite a deal more extreme than that of my peers.
My breasts were quite sensitive, especially the nipples, which would swell to fat, taut little buttons with my arousal. They would grow hotter and hotter, and become so sensitive that even the touch of a gentle breeze would send wicked pleasure flowing through my breasts and body. The touch of another's fingers could set them on fire, and the one time a boy had managed to get his mouth against one I had almost lost control of myself, so great was the wonder and passion.
Other girls reported little, if any real pleasure from the fondling they received there. My breasts, however, would seem to swell up just like the nipples, the skin growing tight and straining over my fles
h, becoming, like my nipples, more sensitive the longer they were touched. My breasts would grow hot, and begin to throb, and after a time it seemed that every touch made me swoon and shudder with the sexual electricity flowing through them.
I had climaxed three times during dates, merely from having boys caress and knead my breasts. I had managed to conceal this, partly due to their drunkenness, and, I suppose, because they weren't expecting it, had little experience, and did not recognize the signs. But it concerned me because, like all the girls then, I had no desire to be seen as different, especially in the area of sex.
Things were even worse "down there". From my own touching, and the little bit of petting which boys had managed to inflict upon me there I knew that were a boy to get his fingers at my private parts for very long at all I would surely go mad and become little more than a quivering, wanton sexual animal. This was a great worry to me, for as I have already stated I did have a deal of pride, both in my appearance and in my reputation. I wanted people's respect, and I knew full well this would be deeply eroded by gossip about my wantonness and lack of control.
In any case, any choice regarding this was to be taken from me from that day three weeks and four days after my nineteenth birthday. It's odd how one can live out such a day, carrying on the routine day to day activities one is accustomed to, without any suspicions on what lay just ahead.
It was a Tuesday. I had Constitutional Law that morning, and yawned through half the lecture while duly making the usual precise notes to study later. I had on a green dress of reasonable length, given the times and situation, but sitting and, I admit, slumping somewhat in my chair, the hem had ridden up. I recall becoming aware of the repeated glances of a male student a few places over, and feeling a degree of annoyance mixed with the usual small shadow of pride.
I wondered what he was thinking as he looked at me. Studying my legs, no doubt, and thinking rude things about what he would have liked to do to me. It was a large auditorium and I had no idea of his name, and yet I knew he wanted me, and knew that, just as the lecture bored me, he had turned his mind to more interesting things. Was he imagining me in the nude even then? Was he picturing me beneath him as he made love to me?
That was a decidedly odd thought which I had come to feel more and more - the awareness that a complete stranger could, at any given moment, be doing scandalous things to one in his mind even as one sat or stood about in complete innocence.
Still somewhat naive about men this knowledge had come to me from my friend Elizabeth. We had been having lunch in one of the cafeterias, chatting idly, when she had spotted a pair of young men looking our way and nudged me.
"What do you suppose they're talking about?" she asked with a grin and a wink.
"I'm sure I don't know."
She laughed softly. "Do you suppose it has anything to do with that tight top of yours?"
I blushed at that, looking down at how taut the thin blue material was across my breasts, thin and tight enough that I could see the small outlines of my nipples pressing against it.
"It's not that tight," I said defensively.
She laughed again and I folded my arms across my chest.
"Too late. They'll have you already."
"What does that mean?"
"You don't have any brothers, do you, Amanda?"
I shook my head wordlessly.
"Boys are always thinking about us sexually, you know."
"You mean undressing us with their eyes," I said. "That's nothing new."
"I don't mean just that. I mean fantasizing about you, you know, having sex with them."
I snorted and shrugged, though the thought brought a little quiver to my loins.
"Believe it. You can chat for thirty seconds with a boy during the afternoon, and later that evening in the shower he'll be fantasizing about how he threw you down on your back across a table and ravished you wildly."
"Oh please."
"My last boyfriend George confessed to me that the first time he saw me, on the bus, he fantasized about four different ways of taking me, and each night he'd masturbate while doing me."
"That's sick!"
"That, my sweet innocent, is the way they all are. I bet half the boys in any class you're in have done you in their minds at least once."
I could not help blushing at such words, turning my eyes towards the two at the far table and wondering how they had imagined it. Had I been bent over the table, or perhaps on my knees on the floor? Had I been on my back on a bed, or perhaps in a sunlit field? Suddenly the idea that all the boys I had known and chatted with, gone to school with or sat beside on buses had been doing lewd and disgusting things to me in their imaginations, even masturbating to images of these fantasies opened a small door in my mind. Was I that attractive that they all wanted to have sex with me?
Elizabeth disabused me of that notion quickly.
"It's not that you're the most beautiful girl around," she said.
"Gee, thanks," I replied sarcastically.
She giggled.
"They do it to me, too, and to Karen and Chris and any other girl who's reasonably decent looking. It's something instinctive in them. They're all perverts, you know. And they're so visual they like to run these little dirty movies in their minds, with whoever catches their eyes as their co-star."
I had known instinctively that she was telling the truth. And for some days afterwards every time I talked with a boy I would feel a strange little thrum between my legs as I wondered if he had done me in his mind, if he had stripped me naked and taken me. Or were they even then thinking of me in that way, imagining me on my back naked, spreading my legs for them?
This was quite embarrassing, and yet there was something so wonderfully wicked about the thought; about being a participant in these imaginary couplings with so many boys and men, many of them complete strangers. Did the bus driver do it to me at night while in bed? Did my torts professor, who was often glancing at my breasts, ravish me while in the shower? Did Allan, that shy boy from Contract Law imagine me kneeling before him naked?
So as that strange boy watched me I felt my lower belly begin to thrum again, wondering what part I was playing in his mind. Was he saving me from some terrible fate so that I could reward him with my body? Or were his fantasies more primitive than that, all graphic close-ups of my body, as in some of those pornographic movies I had seen?
And yet, of course, we did not know each other, and as the lecture ended I gathered up my things, put them into my leather bag, got up, and left, as did he. We neither spoke nor looked at each other, and I wandered through the busy hallway and outside, going to the bus stop and thence downtown.
I bought a few toiletries and groceries, mind on mundane things, unaware I would use none of them. I then returned to the rooming house I shared with four other students to find only one, Peter, at home. He was a short, but broad shouldered boy, and as usual when he saw me his eyes travelled upwards from my legs before pausing at my face.
"Amanda," he said.
"`Lo," I said.
And how many times had he taken me in his mind?
"How would you like to loan me..."
"No," I said quickly, pushing past him to go to my own room.
"Come on, Amanda," he pleaded.
"I'm not made of money," I called over my shoulder. And you never pay back on time and never without having to be nagged for days."
"I always pay back in the end," he protested.
I gave him a sour look and let myself into my room.
It was not much, as rooms went, being small and square, with a small square window, a low roof, and walls which hadn't' been painted in twenty years. It had a small bed, a dresser, a desk and a table. There was a small stereo on the table, while makeup and jewellery littered the dresser. The desk was half buried beneath piles of schoolbooks and clothing, and I set my bag atop the mass before turning to close the door.
"Just a fiver," Peter begged, having followed me into the room.<
br />
"Go away."
He plucked one of my bras off the edge of my bed and examined it before I snatched it away. "You look bigger than that," he said, staring at my chest.
"Get out," I demanded, glaring.
He grinned and shrugged. "I'm bored."
"Go get a job."
"But I have no skills except making love to women."
"And you're paid exactly what you're worth I'm sure."
"I could show you."
"For a fiver?" I laughed and he shrugged and grinned.
I sighed and took a five out of my purse, slapping it into his hand.
He made a show of peeling up his t-shirt. "Great. Now if you'll just take off your clothes..."
"Out."
"But you've got it coming."
"Out!" I insisted, pointing at the door.
He laughed. "Thanks, Amanda."
"Just remember where you got it."
I closed the door behind him, and he whistled his way down the hall. As I put my things away I glanced out the window and saw him leaving, but thought little about it. It did not occur to me to worry about being the only one home, for it was late morning on a bright, sunny day, and I was not a timid girl.
In fact, I rather liked being alone at home, for I seldom had the experience. I decided to make use of it by taking a bath. I reached down and gripped the hem of my dress, then peeled it up and over my head, thinking, as I did, how that boy at school might have dreamed much the same thing in his mind.
"Silly," I thought.
I slipped off my bra, dropping it onto the bed, then stepped out of my panties. Nude, I padded to the dresser, unstrapping my watch and dropping it amongst my cheap jewellery, then selecting a small bottle of bubble bath. I looked up to see myself in the mirror, and felt a small tightness in my chest as I imagined Peter, or that boy at school seeing me then, imagined them lusting after me, their cocks growing hard. I knew I would masturbate in the tub, and felt a flicker of anticipation as I gathered up the bottle and turned towards the door.