Single White Submissive

by Madeleine Oh

He sighed, and trailed damp fingertips along her jawline. “I wasn’t going to mention this until you were ready to go to bed with me, but I do have a request. I want to take you from behind, so I can see the marks of my whip and my hand on your skin as I’m plunging into you. I want to claim you completely, and know every inch of your body belongs to me, to do with as I will.”

  Beneath her thighs, his cock rose and pressed against her, illustrating just how much he wanted that.

  His fingers trembled as he stroked them down her throat, then reached inside her bathrobe to skim her breast. “You are my instrument. I will play you, and create beautiful music with you. Through you, my soul will take flight. And in return I will give you all the care a musician lavishes upon his most valued possession. You will want for nothing. But only if you will be completely mine.”

  Gayle shivered beneath his touch, aching to erase the note of desperate isolation in his voice. It was almost as though he expected her to refuse him.

  “Yes.”

  His hand stilled. “Yes?”

  “Yes. I will be yours.”

  For a moment, he clutched her tightly, burying his masked face in her hair. Then he stood abruptly, setting her on her feet and stepping away from her.

  “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to. I’ll ask you again once you understand what I’m asking.”

  Pain lanced through her. “Are you rejecting me?”

  “No! Never that.” He thrust both hands through his hair, the thick elastic band holding his mask catching in his fingers and snapping loudly. He winced at the blow. “Forget dessert. Come upstairs with me. Now.”

  “Yes, Master Rikard.”

  Taking her hand in his gloved one, he led her from the kitchen, shaking his head. “You want to serve me? I’ll show you how to serve.”

  Chapter Six

  Rikard hauled her up the stairs to the second floor, then dragged her into the guest bedroom. Gayle had only a moment to note the décor—a dresser and nightstand of natural oak with wrought iron accents, a wrought iron bed with swirling spires topping each corner post, and matching curtain rods covered with black and white sheers—before he ripped off her robe and pushed her onto the bed.

  “Is this what you wanted?” he spat.

  Gayle scrambled into the center of the bed and turned to face him, crouched ready to spring to freedom if he gave her a chance. “No.”

  He ignored her protest. This was not going down the way she’d expected, and she braced herself to fight if he tried to take more than she was prepared to give.

  “So eager to serve, you don’t care what will be asked of you.”

  He untied the laces of his leather pants with sharp, savage jerks. His pants fell to the floor, tangling with his boots. He kicked them off, his motions full of anger rather than his usual grace. One boot flew across the room to strike the dresser with a solid thud. He wrenched off his poet shirt next, flinging it aside to stand naked before her in only his leather mask and gloves.

  His rampant erection jutted forcefully at her, red and angry-looking.

  She tried one last time to get through to him. “Please, Rikard, what did I say?”

  “That’s Master Rikard. I still wear the mask.”

  “Master Rikard. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. Only tell me what I said, and I’ll never say it again.”

  Terror choked her voice. Carrie had been right. She didn’t know enough about Rikard to trust him. What insanity had possessed her to spend the whole day having sex with him? They were just supposed to be getting to know one another.

  “First you vow you’ll belong only and ever to me, now you promise to never give yourself to me again? I find I’m having trouble believing you.”

  Okay. That’s what had set him off. She could think this through logically. That’s what she was good at. Given a problem to solve, she forced the fear to keep at bay. It helped that he wasn’t advancing on her, merely clutching the nearest bedpost in a death grip and glaring at her.

  “I didn’t vow to belong only and ever to you. All I said was that I wanted to be yours. I wanted to be your submissive.”

  He hesitated, his voice losing its strident tone. “My submissive only.”

  “All right. I’ll give you the only. But not the ever. I wasn’t talking a lifetime arrangement. I was thinking of right now.”

  A shudder rippled through him, his eyes closing as his head bent. He released the bedpost, and took a step backwards. Then another. She noted with relief that his cock had softened to semi-erect. Sighing, he bent to pick up her fallen robe and his discarded clothing. Gayle started to relax. He folded the robe and placed it on the bed beside her, then turned away to set his folded clothing on top of the dresser.

  Softly, he whispered, “Nothing lasts forever. Not even when you want it to.”

  “The accident.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken until he whipped around to face her. “What did you say?”

  “The woman you loved and lost in the accident. She’d vowed to be with you forever, hadn’t she?”

  “Actually, I’d vowed to devote my life to her.” His lips twitched, as if he was trying to smile, but the effort was beyond him. “I would still, if fate hadn’t taken that choice from me.”

  The raw pain in his voice reminded her of the lyrics he’d sung earlier, overwhelming her fear with shared suffering and understanding. He hadn’t wanted to attack her just now. He’d been trying to drive her away. Whether he did so because he was afraid of being hurt again, or from some twisted loyalty to his dead love was unimportant. All that mattered was that her first impression of him had been correct.

  Gayle shifted position, from a crouch to a cross-legged seat, and patted the bedspread. “Why don’t you come sit over here?”

  Rikard’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to get dressed and leave?”

  “No. I want to talk to you. And I don’t want to do it from across the room.”

  Hesitantly, he crossed the room to the bed. He lingered a long moment beside it, then slowly climbed on top and crawled over to where she sat. She watched him with avid appreciation. No longer terrified, the adrenaline flooding her bloodstream had made her incredibly horny. All she wanted right now was to get laid.

  “I still want to be your submissive. I still want you to make love to me, whatever way gives you pleasure. But I can’t say it’s forever. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll discover we’re so good together, we want to make this a permanent relationship. Maybe we’ll find out we get on each other’s nerves and go our separate ways. The only way to find out is to try.”

  He reached toward her, checking his gesture when his hand was still half an inch from her face. “You want to try?”

  She leaned forward, pressing her cheek to his gloved palm. “Yes.”

  His breath caught. Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  He clutched her to him, stroking his cool, damp gloves over her heated back in a frenzied effort to press her body closer to his. His mouth devoured hers, his tongue plunging deeply to capture her every soft whimper and moan. His cock rose between them, but he didn’t break the kiss until she was growing lightheaded from lack of oxygen.

  When he finally lifted his head, his breathing was harsh and ragged, as he struggled to pull air into his lungs.

  “Say you’re mine,” he rasped. “At least for now.”

  “I’m yours.”

  He plunged into another kiss, the warm leather of his gloves gliding across the thin sheen of sweat on her back. Gone was the slow and careful buildup of passion that had characterized their earlier loveplay. He used no games or skillful tricks to whet her appetite. There was only crushing need, threatening to engulf them both in a firestorm that would burn them to cinders if they didn’t find a way to express it.

  This was not a Master, controlling his submissive’s actions and reactions. This was a man, driven past his ability for self-restraint. This was Rikard.

  She reac
hed for his mask, wanting to remove the symbol of his mastery, freeing them both to be nothing more than a man and a woman, making love. He chose that moment to lift his head again, out of her reach, as he dragged in another gasping breath.

  “Let me make love to you,” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see my marks on your skin while I love you.”

  “Yes.” She could refuse him nothing.

  Gently, with hands that trembled, he lowered her to the bedspread, then rolled her onto her stomach.

  “Kneel,” he whispered, his hands on her hips guiding her ass into the air as she pulled her knees up, her head pillowed on her crossed arms. Reverently, he kissed the swollen results of his earlier scene play.

  Gayle shuddered, his soft lips reawakening the painful pleasure of his hand and whip striking her ass. Her folds parted, plump and wet, ready for his possession.

  The bed shook as he clambered over to the nightstand and the supply of condoms in the drawer. She heard the packet tear, then his soft groan as he rolled the condom onto his engorged cock. A moment later, he was kneeling between her legs, one hand on her hip, holding her steady, while his other guided his cock to her entrance.

  The tip slid between her folds, then found her opening and thrust deep. They both groaned in pleasure.

  The angle was unlike anything she’d experienced before, his cock pressing hard against her vaginal muscles with every deep stroke. He thrust twice, then groaned low in his throat and folded himself over her, his chest pressed to her back. He kissed the lines of the cat across her shoulders, trailing his tongue over the faint welts and swellings.

  She moaned. “Yes. Please, yes.”

  Sheets of fire cascaded over her skin from where his lips touched her, all that she had felt earlier and then some. She felt her fluids pouring forth, coating his cock and running down both of their legs.

  Rikard reached around to caress her swollen, aching breasts. His blind fingers found the nipples, first stroking, then squeezing them.

  She gasped, her hips jerking in response.

  “Like that,” he groaned. “Again.”

  They found their rhythm, her hips bucking beneath him as he pumped in and out, squeezing her nipples with every thrust. Kisses landed scattershot on her shoulders, his mouth finding new territory each time he lunged forward.

  He moaned, a note of utter purity that nearly stopped her breath with its beauty. Twice more, he thrust in time with his cries. Then he thrust deep and exploded, shaking as his body covered hers.

  Her hips continued to rock, and he fumbled between her slick folds, his fingers questing for her clit. When he found it, two quick squeezes were all she needed before she shrilled her own release and collapsed, her knees no longer able to support her. The heavy weight of his body pinned her to the bed, as his knees gave out too.

  His arms still around her, he rolled them to their sides so they’d be able to breathe. His limp cock slid free, wringing one last shaking moan of pleasure from her.

  He tightened his hold, nearly crushing her lungs despite freeing her from his weight. His arms shook, his ragged breathing rasping hot and damp across the back of her neck where his face was pressed tight against the hollow of her shoulder.

  She froze, her brain refusing her interpretation of what she was feeling. She cataloged the sensations again, feeling moisture trickle down the back of her neck, and hearing his wet gulps of air as his chest shook with the effort of breathing.

  He was crying.

  “Rikard? Master?”

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath, then a second with more control. His arms loosened, and he lifted his head. Brushing one last kiss across her shoulder, he whispered, “Thank you.”

  “I enjoyed it, too.”

  He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her ribs where her back pressed against his chest. “That, too. But I meant for being willing to try. It’s been…a while.”

  “I’d think women would be throwing themselves at you, for the hot sex and fabulous food.”

  He bolted upright. “Shit! Dessert. It’s probably melted all over the kitchen table by now. I’ve got to go clean that up before it runs onto the floor.”

  Rolling out of bed, he hurried to take care of the culinary disaster, grabbing his leather pants off the dresser as he passed. Gayle heard his footsteps pound down the staircase, and a cry of horror when he entered the kitchen.

  She shook her head. “And, he cleans.”

  Figuring he’d be a while—he seemed the type to clean each individual swirl of wrought iron with a cotton swab—she put on the robe and walked back to the playroom to get her clothes. She got dressed, then headed downstairs.

  Rikard had shoved the table and chairs aside, and had built a levee of paper towels surrounding the vanilla lake on the kitchen floor to keep it from spreading. He was busy mopping the glass top of the table with yet more paper towels when Gayle poked her head in the doorway.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No. Thanks. I just have to get it all up before it crystallizes. The ice cream’s not so bad, it’s the caramel.” He paused to toss out his sodden towels and rip new ones off the roll. “This isn’t how I planned on ending our date, but there’s no point in you hanging around to watch me clean. I’ll be another half hour at this.”

  “Half an hour just to wipe up a spill?”

  “It’s the table and chairs. I love the look of the wrought iron, but it’s a bitch to clean. And with a milk-based spill, if I miss anything, pretty soon it’ll be stinking worse than a dead skunk.”

  She winced in sympathy, remembering the misplaced creamer for the coffee at work that had cleared half her floor with its stench. “Okay. You want me to call you?”

  He tossed out another handful of towels, and smiled over his shoulder at her. “Give me a call Tuesday night, and let me know how your audition went. We can set up our next date then.”

  She hesitated, wanting to kiss him goodbye, or at least give him a hug. But he was already scrubbing at the table top with his newest handful of paper towels, and she wasn’t sure how to safely cross the lake of melted ice cream to reach him. “Bye, then.”

  “Bye. Have a safe drive home.”

  She waited a moment longer, then turned and walked away. A detour through the music room to pick up her music, then on to the front door. She paused again after pulling it open, but he didn’t call out to her. Pushing through the safety door with more force than was necessary, she wished the hydraulics would let it slam behind her. Instead, it closed with a soft snick.

  “That was anticlimactic,” she muttered, throwing her purse and music on the front seat of her car. Then, thinking of her last sight of Rikard, she started to laugh. Low-slung black leather pants, high black leather gloves, a black leather mask … and a pile of sopping wet paper towels dripping vanilla ice cream over everything. She could hardly wait to tell Carrie. Her friend would really appreciate the irony.

  Chapter Seven

  Gayle picked up a pizza for dinner on her way home. All that vigorous exercise had made her ravenous. As she devoured the perfect balance of tomato sauce, crisp crust, and gooey cheese, she couldn’t help contrasting the meal with the gourmet fare Rikard had served her. One wasn’t better than the other, but they were definitely different.

  Once her hunger was satisfied, she called her friend Carrie for the promised gossip session. She sat down on her couch, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up on the coffee table, ready for a lengthy call. True to her word, she told her friend everything, starting with Rikard answering the door dressed like a pirate, to the way he’d helped her with her audition piece, the fabulous lunch…and the sex. When she explained that Rikard had fisted her between the salad and entrée courses of their lunch, Carrie dropped her phone with a painfully loud clatter.

  Gayle held the phone away from her ear. “Ow.”

  “Sorry. I can’t believe you let him… Didn’t it hurt?”


  “God, no! It was…it was… I can’t describe what it was like. But it was the best orgasm I’d ever had. Up ‘til then, at least. It got even better, later.” She sprawled across her couch, the familiar hot pulse beginning between her legs. “I’m getting wet just thinking about it.”

  “But I still don’t understand how it happened. I know you, Gayle. You don’t usually even kiss a guy on the first date. How’d he get you to agree to…that?”

  She hesitated, thinking back to their lunch. The memory was strangely blurry. She remembered the taste of the strawberry salad, the blue and white dishes and white wrought iron table and chairs. She clearly remembered the beginning of her conversation with Rikard. But then it all got fuzzy.

  “We were talking, about what I expected from a Dominant/submissive relationship, and he gave me a challenge, to finish eating my salad without making a sound. The fisting was my reward for completing the challenge. But I’m not really sure how it happened… I was so turned on by then, I wasn’t really thinking clearly.”

  “Maybe he put something in your salad.”

  “No. He doesn’t need any help. He’s sexalicious.”

  “He’s certainly persuasive. I still can’t believe I let him talk me into hanging up without speaking to you when I called the second time.”

  Gayle smiled. So that’s why Carrie was fixating on how Gayle let herself be talked into sex. She was feeling guilty. Gayle hurried to set her friend’s mind at ease.

  “Well, I’d already told you I expected to be having sex, and not to disturb me when you called back. He was just reiterating that.”

  “I guess. So what happened after I called and you had tuna steaks?”

  “After lunch we went upstairs and played pirate.”

  “You hoisted his mainsail?”

  Gayle laughed. “No. He spun this wicked fantasy, about my being a proper Victorian lady captured by pirates. If I wanted to live, I had to become the pirate captain’s sex slave. He vowed he’d make me beg for his attention, and I vowed that as a proper Englishwoman, I would never beg.”