Forced Submission

by Claire Thompson

  She dropped her hands and Ellis took hold of either side of her head as he began to move, thrusting roughly in and out of her open mouth, the alcohol fueling both his lust and his rage. He came quickly, and then pushed her away. Staggering toward the bed, Ellis sat heavily upon it. He looked down at M, who was cowering on the floor, her eyes flooded with tears, her body trembling.

  Shit.

  What he’d just done was stupid. For all he knew, that fucking prince had his rooms monitored. He realized he was drunk, but that was no excuse. Bringing M along for this trip had been a mistake. As obedient and docile as she was at home, too many unknowns had been added into the mix by bringing her here. Until he had M safely home, the bitch still might turn on him. All his months of 24/7 slave training might go up in smoke, now that she’d been contaminated by those harem whores.

  Time to do a little damage control.

  Ellis reached down and gathered the trembling girl into her arms, lifting her onto the bed beside him. He kissed her wet cheek. “Shh, don’t cry, M. You have pleased me.” He lay down, pulling her into his arms and gently pressing her head so it rested on his chest. Tenderly he stroked her narrow back until her trembling subsided.

  He held her close, speaking in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out here,” he said softly. “But maybe it’s for the best. We have each other. It’s all we need. You were born for me. And I—” He stumbled a little over the words, but got them out for good measure, in case anyone was listening. “I love you.”

  M stiffened at this pronouncement, emitting a small gasp. “Yes,” Ellis repeated, pulling her closer, and realizing with a small shock that he meant it. He had never said those words before to M. Or to anyone. But yes, he did love M. At least, he loved the fact of her, the fact of owning another person, truly owning them, having their very life in his hands. He loved that he had become M’s world. She lived for nothing but to please him. He loved that he had been able to mold her into his perfect possession. She was his, in every sense of the word. Wasn’t that, in itself, a kind of love?

  “Tell me,” he said, as he’d said a thousand times before. “Tell me the words you keep in your heart.”

  She didn’t speak right away, so Ellis placed his hand on the back of her neck, squeezing gently but firmly. “Tell me.”

  “I belong to you, Sir,” she began haltingly but then her voice strengthened, filling with resolve. “You are the Master of my body and soul. You allow me to serve you. I live for you, Sir. Without you, I would die.”

  ~*~

  Sir had his arm around M’s shoulders as they walked out of the lovely cool of the marbled palace into the bright and already hot morning sun. M was again dressed in her travel dress and matching turban, and the shoes she was wearing pinched her feet. She almost wished she could just run back into the palace and head straight for the harem. She would hide there among the plump cushions until Sir left without her. As if privy to these mutinous thoughts, Sir’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

  The jeep was in the driveway, the driver standing at attention beside it. Prince Kamau and Jira waited by the door. M realized she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to return to the warmth and easiness of the harem, with its soft silks and laughing girls.

  But Sir was ready to go, and M knew she had to go with him. She didn’t belong in this strange world of spicy scents and flowing silks and lovely, dark-skinned beauties. She belonged with Sir. He loved her! He had said so.

  She’d lain awake a long time, still locked in his embrace as he snored gently in her ear. He had never said that before. It had taken her breath away to hear it, and she’d pondered what it could mean, turning the words every which way in her mind.

  She knew Sir was angry over what had happened, and she knew that in some way she would be made to pay for his anger, as she always did. She realized Zahara wasn’t going to be coming home with them, and this both saddened and pleased her. The idea of having someone else to talk to and share things with had been deeply appealing, especially after her few hours in the harem, which had reawakened a part of her that had been dormant under Sir’s watchful eye. Yet at the same time, Zahara was so beautiful and Sir was clearly so captivated with her that M had to admit she was a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous. Sir might set M aside, in his passion for his new girl, and then what would happen to her? She had no life but Sir. Without him she would—

  Her musings were interrupted as Zahara came suddenly rushing through the front door, as if M’s thoughts had conjured her into being. “Oh! I am so glad I did not miss you. I—I wanted to say goodbye.”

  Sir dropped his arm and turned expectantly toward Zahara. But instead of approaching him, Zahara moved to M. She put her arms around M, holding her tight for a moment, while M stood like a block of wood, too stunned to react. Zahara pressed her cheek to M’s and whispered rapidly, “Take this piece of paper. Hide it until you can read it when you are alone.”

  M felt something being pushed into her hand, and she closed her fingers around it. Zahara stepped back. M’s heart was beating so hard she was sure everyone around her could hear it.

  “Ah, I almost forgot,” Prince Kamau said, stepping forward now. “This was found in your rooms while you were having your coffee. You wouldn’t want to leave without it.” Sir and M turned to see what it was. The prince was holding out what M realized was a passport. She hadn’t even thought about her own passport since…since when exactly?

  Sir stepped forward and said in a brusque voice, “I’ll take that.” He grabbed it from the prince’s hand and shoved it into his jacket pocket. M could feel his anger, though she didn’t understand its source. He should have been grateful to the prince for finding it before they had to fly.

  The prince turned toward M with a smile.

  “Mia,” he said. “Such a lovely name.”

  Chapter 13

  Mia!

  Her name was Mia. Mia Roberts, daughter of Bill and Donna Roberts. All at once, like a blinding flash of light flooding her mind, the prince’s parting words had illuminated that single, remarkable fact.

  She had a name.

  It was hours before M, no, before Mia, dared to look at the scrap of paper she had kept clutched tightly in her hand during the brief drive to the dock, the boat ride to the mainland and the taxi ride to the airport. She could feel Sir’s anger radiating from his body beside her, and she stayed as still and silent as she could, hoping to avoid stoking that anger any further. All the while the unread message burned in her palm with a secret, urgent heat.

  Finally they boarded the small jet that would return them to New York and the confines of Sir’s home, with its locked doors, its cameras and its cages. M was silently grateful when the flight attendant asked her if she’d like to use the facilities before buckling in for takeoff.

  Mia glanced toward Sir for approval, praying he wouldn’t make her go directly to her seat. He nodded curtly, and she hurried into the little bathroom, sliding the lock home. Lifting her dress, she sat on the toilet and uncurled her fingers slowly, revealing the now crumpled, sweaty bit of paper on the palm of her hand.

  You are not alone. You have but to reach out your hand and the prince will come for you. PrinceKamau@DsIsland.com. We will be waiting for you, Mia, sister of my heart. Zahara

  Mia read the words several times over, though from the first read they had been instantly and permanently inscribed in her heart. Then she dropped the paper into the toilet and flushed it away.

  Once they were airborne the flight attendant, this one named Oliver, bustled around them, bringing fresh fruit and croissants and little sandwiches in an assorted variety, along with sparkling water and champagne. M’s appetite, which had been dulled by the months of deprivation in Sir’s care, had been reawakened on the prince’s island, and she ate eagerly of everything offered, enjoying the still-novel sensation of feeding herself.

  Sir was quiet through the long hours of the flight. Keenly attuned to his every mood as she w
as, Mia understood he was still furious over leaving without Zahara, and she knew she would be made to pay for this when they returned home.

  At one point when Ellis was dozing beside her, Oliver approached to see if they needed more pillows, and for a crazy moment Mia almost pleaded, “Help me.” But as the words bubbled up, Sir stirred and muttered in his sleep, and the bubbles popped, leaving her mute, her heart smashing against her ribs.

  What was she even thinking? She belonged to Sir. She was his possession, to be used in whatever way pleased him. Her duty was to submit with grace and without hesitation. To deny him was to disobey, and to disobey was to suffer. Sir had told her many, many times that slaves don’t have or deserve a name. As Mia struggled to calm her racing heart, her mantra ran through her mind, the words as familiar and comforting as a prayer: I belong to you, Sir. You are the Master of my body and soul. You allow me to serve you. I live for you, Sir. Without you, I would die.

  Mia was the name she used to have, before Sir had claimed her body and soul.

  But not her heart.

  Mia, sister of my heart.

  To Zahara and to the prince, she still had a name. Mia. Her name was Mia.

  Mia glanced at Sir, who was awake now, and watching something on the small TV console in front of him. She realized she was gripping the arms of her seat so hard her knuckles were white. The dangerous, disloyal thoughts whirling through her brain were at once terrifying and exhilarating. She felt as if she were poised on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall…

  Or to fly?

  ~*~

  The morning after their return Ellis lay in his bed, hands behind his head, pondering the disastrous trip to Africa. He picked up his smart phone and clicked on the surveillance program, scrolling to the camera view of the dungeon, where M had spent the night. She lay on her side on the floor, a strip of duct tape over her mouth, her hands cuffed behind her back, her ankles bound together with rope.

  When they’d arrived home late last night, he’d hauled her directly to the dungeon. There he’d ripped that stupid turban from her head and cut the dress from her otherwise naked body with his pocket knife while she stood trembling, her eyes wide with fear. He’d forced her into the stocks and given her several sharp whacks with the cane, two of which drew blood. After fucking her hard and fast from behind to relieve his tension, he’d left the girl in the stocks for an hour while he’d gotten himself something to eat and taken a quick shower.

  It was good to be home. So good.

  Never again would Ellis make the mistake of taking M out of the house, much less out of the country. They’d been gone less than a week, but he had no way of gauging the extent of the damage those damn foreigners had done to the delicate psyche of his slave. He’d seethed over the whole mess all the way home, doubly frustrated that he couldn’t do a thing to M with that fucking flight attendant breathing down their necks.

  It had been bad enough that M had to sit beside him as if she were his equal, instead of kneeling on the floor beside him as suited a proper slave. At least on the flight to Africa she’d been silent and still—the docile, obedient slave girl he’d worked so hard to train.

  But on the flight home something was definitely not right. He’d felt her agitation and it had infuriated him. She kept stealing glances at him and fidgeting in her seat. This time there was no hesitation or silent plea for permission when their meals were served. She’d used the utensils as if they belonged in her hands, shoveling food in her mouth like a greedy little pig. She’d even looked boldly in the flight attendant’s face when he’d spoken to her. Ellis had had to clench his hands in his lap to keep from backhanding the little cunt for such insolence.

  It was quite obvious her serene acceptance of her place as his slave girl had been badly ruffled by the experience of traveling and most especially by interacting with those damn women while not in his presence. He would have to dramatically step up the training, now that they were home again. He would take her even deeper this time. He would make absolutely sure the girl forgot all about the world outside the confines of the only place she belonged. He would snuff out for good the spark of light he’d seen flare in M’s eyes when that arrogant prick of a prince had so casually dropped her name.

  Mia. What a lovely name.

  Asshole.

  During the flight Ellis had grilled M endlessly on every detail of her time away from him while they were on the island, and while she swore upside down and sideways that she’d kept to the script they’d rehearsed, it was clear she’d done something that made the fucking holier-than-thou prince asshole refuse to sell that hot little piece of ass Ellis had so coveted.

  And for that M would be punished.

  Ellis rose from the bed. He started to head into the bathroom to piss, but suddenly had a better idea. He strode into the dungeon to where M lay like a trussed up pig and kicked her sharply in the side with his toe. “Wake up.”

  Her eyes flew open. Ellis knelt beside her and unknotted the rope from her ankles. He pulled her upright without removing the cuffs that kept her arms bound behind her back. He hauled her to her feet and slipped the choke collar around her neck, pulling it tight as he jerked her forward.

  She was breathing hard through her nose, her mouth still covered in silver tape. She stumbled after him as he strode through the hall toward his bedroom. He pulled her along to the bathroom and lifted her into the empty bathtub. He removed the choke collar from around her neck and dropped it and the leash to the floor beside the tub.

  Without preamble, he grabbed one corner of the sticky tape and jerked it away, leaving an angry red rectangle around her mouth. M screamed, tears filling her eyes. Ellis slapped her face. “Silence,” he roared. “Not a fucking sound.”

  Her cries subsided into whimpers as he pushed her shoulder, forcing her to her knees. “Open your mouth wide and keep it open.” Ellis took hold of his cock, which was hard, not only because it was morning and he had to piss, but because of how hot M looked, naked and trembling, her eyes filled with tears and terror. Power-lust exploded in his loins, and he felt like a god.

  It took a moment and some angling for the stream to flow, but when it did, it arced in a hot, golden shower, splashing into his slave girl’s open mouth. Ha! Ellis bet that little cunt, Zahara, wouldn’t be able to handle her Master’s piss. Whatever damage had been done, it appeared M was still his obedient slave girl, and this realization thrilled Ellis to his bones.

  As the urine poured into her mouth M began to choke, but to her credit she maintained her position, mouth opened wide, until he was done. Leaning down, Ellis turned on the cold water, picked up the handheld showerhead and aimed the spray at M’s face and body. When he had drenched her, he said, “Get up and turn around.”

  The shivering girl rose awkwardly without the use of her hands, but managed to do as he ordered. There were five stripes on her ass from last night’s caning, two of them crusted with a thin line of blood. He aimed the water at her ass and she jerked, crying out as the icy water made contact with the welts.

  Satisfied M was clean enough for his purposes, Ellis shut off the water. He released M’s cuffs and tossed a towel in her direction. “Dry off. Hurry up.” He waited impatiently while she rubbed at her body with the towel. After a moment he reached down for the choke collar. He slipped it over her head and pulled it tight.

  He jerked her along to the dungeon and had her stand in the center of the room beneath the sturdy suspension rack that hung from the ceiling. “Arms over your head,” he ordered. He attached her wrist cuffs to the chains and ratcheted them until she was nearly on tiptoe. Going to the wardrobe, he returned with a pair of six-inch heels, which he forced onto her feet.

  The gold hoops glinted at her nipples. She should be sufficiently healed now from the piercings to handle what he planned for her.

  “Please, Sir,” M ventured, her voice timid, “may I speak?”

  “You may,” Ellis replied, feeling magnanimous.

  “I’m so
thirsty, Sir. May I please have some water? Something to eat?” Her huge eyes were pleading in her narrow face.

  “You just had my piss, M. Surely that’s enough for an obedient slave girl. And you’ll have my come later. Plenty of protein there.” Ellis smiled cruelly. “Meanwhile, you need to be put on a strict diet. We have to work off all that fat you put back on during our trip.” In truth, she was as thin as she ever was, her collarbone and hip bones jutting against her pale skin, but the memory of her stuffing her face on the plane still rankled.

  A single tear rolled down’s M’s cheek, but she wisely said no more.

  Ellis moved toward the toy cabinet and selected two long thin chains with clips on both ends, and the long-handled single tail with which he would cover her body in lovely red welts. He planned to pay special attention to her breasts.

  Grabbing the stepstool, he returned to M. He clipped the chains to her nipple rings, her startled, fearful cries as he pulled the chains taut going straight to his cock, which was already hard as a rock. He stepped onto the stool, lifting both nipple chains and securing their other ends to the suspension bar.

  He climbed down from the stool and moved it aside. Stepping back, he admired his handiwork and sighed with pleasure. M was sheer perfection in her stiletto heels, shapely legs spread wide to reveal the sweet cleft of her waxed cunt, her nipples tugged upward by the hoops attached to the chains, her shaved head a constant testament to his absolute power.

  Ellis stroked his erection, wondering how long he could hold out before he had to fuck her. He felt a rush of something almost like love as he regarded the girl who stood before him, chained and utterly at his mercy. “Tell me,” he breathed, moving closer to stroke her cheek tenderly. “Who do you belong to?”