Surrender Boxed Set (Surrender Series Volume 1 - 7. BDSM romance with man love, bad boys, and billionaires.)

by Anita Lawless

  With that, he gives me a far too sexy grin and walks out of Your Daily Cup.

  ***

  With trembling fingers, I phone Rider the next morning to say I’ll accept. He’s pleased, and he details the performance for me.

  The private party is paid for by a man who is one of the founding members of Surrender Inc. He’s more or less retired from all forms of business and social life now—basically a hermit—but he schedules one of these performances every year at one of the Surrender sex clubs. This year, he’s picked Rider’s club, and being that Rider is a newer owner he’s nervous as hell.

  The man, Dominic Sherrard, will be accompanied by a crowd of around twenty. I gasp when he tells me the number, but Rider assures me this is a very small crowd compared to the numbers at some Surrender performances.

  Dom S, as Mr. Sherrard likes to be called, will not touch us or be a part of the performance in any way. And full sexual intercourse is left up to us. After his wife died, Dom S became a voyeur of BDSM scenes but stopped participating in them. He now does this yearly performance viewing to pay respects to his dead love, who was once the dom in their relationship and he the sub. However, when she died he assumed her role but never touched another sub and never remarried.

  “That’s kind of sweet,” I say to Rider as we drive to the club. My stomach is flip flopping and my pulse feels like it’s on overdrive as we pull in the parking lot.

  “It is, isn’t it?” He smiles and tells me to wait so he can open my door. “They were pretty devoted to each other.”

  He also informed me that Dom S won’t speak to us, and neither will the rest of the crowd. It’s another quirky tradition of the dom’s.

  Our performance tonight is about orgasm denial. As the sub, I won’t be allowed to climax until Dom S tells Rider it is all right for me to do so. I am to call Rider sir throughout the performance, and he will refer to me as mistress. These are Dom S’s rules.

  We walk into the club wearing trench coats that hide the skimpy outfits we have on. I focus on relaxing and regulating my breathing, trying not to think too much about what’s ahead so I don’t panic.

  Rider leads me to a larger playroom than the one we used during practices. It’s done up in a modern motif, with two waterfalls set in a mirrored wall. The soothing sound of liquid pouring over smooth grey stones calms me. The floor is polished pine and completely bare. In the center of it, a cage is placed. It’s dome shaped and reminds me of a bird cage. One small round table with sex toys sits to its right. It’s white mesh bars are far apart, which will allow Rider to sexually torment me while I’m locked inside.

  I swallow hard, thinking of what lays ahead of me. At least the people haven’t arrived yet. The cluster of dark velvet chairs stand empty. But soon after Rider and I take off our coats, they start to drift in. I try not to look at them as my pulse pounds in my ears and my palms grow sweaty.

  Rider is wearing only a small pair of leather shorts that show off his package nicely and put his gorgeous body on display. I’m wearing only a red bustier, a silky black thong and fishnet stockings finished off by a pair of red stilettos.

  The chair are full by the time Rider locks me in the cage and starts to prepare the beginning of the scene. Our main viewer has arrived and he is wheeled to the front of the velvet chairs by a huge bald man in a black suit. Dom S is a tall man who looks to be about sixty. His silver hair is thin on the top and his upper body is still impressively big, as if he once worked a physically demanding job. I wonder how he came to be so wealthy, but even Rider doesn’t know the answer to that question. He adjusts his wheelchair for a better viewing angle, folds his hands in his lap, and watches us with a serene look on his wrinkled face.

  And so the show begins. Rider has instructed me he’ll be using direct commands and speaking blunt tonight. No gentle edge, and I must obey, unless I am uncomfortable and choose to use our safe words. But I don’t want to disappoint Rider or his rich patron. Since he’s a new club owner and this Dom S is one of the founding members, a good first impression can only be beneficial. And I trust Rider to protect me, make sure I’m safe throughout the scene.

  “Kneel.”

  He issues the first command and I go to my knees on the rich crimson rug that lines the cage’s floor. I place my forehead against its fibers and make sure my butt is pressed against the cage’s thatched bars. My legs are spread wide and the cool air tickles my sex, which already tingles from the scandalous position I find myself in.

  My mask presses into my nose as I adjust myself with Rider’s permission. I’ve worn a feathered half mask tonight to make me more comfortable. It was Rider’s suggestion, and I welcome it because it makes me feel a little less exposed. Although the exposure is oddly exciting, as Rider had said it can be.

  Warm hands reach through the bars and mold to my ass. They massage my cheeks until I have to bite back a low moan. I’m not allowed to show arousal or speak without permission during this play. Now those hands skim between my legs and part them wider.

  “Arch your back deeper,” my dom commands and I do.

  Fingers press into the filmy sheathe between my legs and rub up and down my already wet labia. Then those fingers slip under the wisp of fabric and rip it away in one forceful yank. I bite my bottom lip to keep from gasping.

  Calloused, hot skin explores my exposed pussy, He splays my lips wide with one hand and inserts a finger. His thumb massages my clit. I have to dig my nails into the rug beneath me and focus hard on controlling the pleasure so I don’t come right then and there.

  His touch leaves me briefly and I hold back a sound of disappointment. My face and ears are burning from humiliation, knowing more than a dozen people watch me fight off the need to come while my ass is high in the air. But, strangely, I also find the experience freeing and a little thrill creeps up my spine. I’ve never felt so alive, and the shame gives way to this high. It’s like I’ve entered an altered state of consciousness, of hyper awareness.

  When he returns, he tells me to look at him long enough to see my next instrument of torture. It’s a vibrator that’s skinny near the top, with a curve in its head, and then it grows fatter farther down. Perfect for hitting the g-spot. I press my head back into the rug and he asks me to push my butt closer still to the bars for better access.

  It’s on a lower setting when he touches it to my skin. I exhale slow and long, trying to internalize all my horniness, all my desire, until I’m allowed to cry out and come. He circles my anus with it, lubes both my holes up with a bit of sensation lube that have both tingling like mad in seconds. Then he pokes the vibrator in and out my rectum, barely entering, but teasing enough to make my pussy throb all the harder. My hands fist atop the rug.

  The thrumming toy moves down my perineum, making me squeeze my eyes shut so tight tears squeeze out the corners. Finally I can’t help myself when he slips the toy’s curved head in my seeping pussy, and I let out a moan loud enough for the crowd to hear.

  The toy leaves me and a sharp slap is delivered to my ass. It stings but doesn’t really hurt all that much. However it makes the throbbing in my pussy even stronger. My mind is overtaken by sexual frustration, and if I don’t come soon I’m afraid I’ll blow a blood vessel in my brain.

  After he’s punished me sufficiently for my outburst, the toy returns to tease my flesh, as do his hands. Once more he fucks me with the curved vibrator and I need to come so bad I wish I could scream. The torture continues like this for what feels like hours, until we’re given the command from Dom S to let me orgasm.

  “How do you want me to get you off, Mistress?” my lover asks, signaling permission for me to speak with his words.

  “Fuck me, sir,” I rasp out, not caring if the crowd hears my carnal plea. “Oh, please fuck me, sir.”

  He leaves me long enough to grab a condom from the table and then commands I stand. “Press your ass to the bars, spread your legs, and hold your ankles,” he also demands.

  I do as I am told, sprea
ding my legs as far as I can and pressing my butt tight against my latticed prison. Soon his warm, rough hands sweep over my ass through the bars. He plays with my pussy and tests my wetness. Then I hear a condom wrapper rip and I hold my breath as I wait anxiously to have him deep inside me.

  He teases me with his cock, making me moan and whimper as he slides it up and down my dripping cunt lips, grinds it into my clitoris. I bang my ass backward into the bars, tilt it high and whisper, “Please, I need to come.”

  When he enters me, it is paradise exploding inside of me. I can hear his hot, ragged breath and I know he’s just as turned on as I am. He thrusts slow and steady at first, but I’m so close and needy for release I beg him to fuck me harder. So he grips my hips through the bars and pounds into me. The orgasm explodes deep inside my pelvis and rockets through me, making me cry out loudly and leaving me trembling when I am finished. He follows soon after, and so do the applause of the crowd.

  ***

  “I think we impressed them,” I say to Rider when he walks me to a cab after we’ve had some drinks with a few members of our audience who have requested our company for cocktails.

  “We did impress them.” His smile is wide and gorgeous. “You were so beautiful and perfect, Christy.” He smoothes some hair from my face and gazes intently at me. “Sure you won’t let me rehire you?”

  I feel the heat creep back into my cheeks. “I couldn’t do that every night for a living. I’m not that brave. It’s different than the kind of stress you find in a courtroom.”

  He nods but looks sad. “How about private one-on-one shows, and then maybe you could bartend for me on the side?” His face goes serious, concerned. “Look, I know how important college is to you. Let me help you have more time to focus on your studies.”

  “Being around you makes it hard to focus,” I confess, leaning into him just as the cabbie honks his horn and tells us to hurry up. “But I’ll take the job, both jobs. You don’t have to pay me to play with you, though. You’ve got other ways to reward me there.”

  His seriousness is wiped away by the return of that sexy grin. “I’m so glad you’ve said yes.” The cabbie honks and curses at us and he frowns. “Now why don’t we tell that guy to screw off and you can spend the night with me?”

  I bite my lip, look up into those deep blue eyes. Rider is everything I want in a partner. I don’t know where this will lead, but I know now I’m falling in love with him.

  “I meant what I said earlier. I love you, and I’m determined you’ll fall in love with me, too,” he says, as if reading my mind.

  I turn to the cabbie and yell, “We changed our mind!” He shakes his head, waves a hand, mutters a curse and drives off.

  “Let’s go inside.” I sink against Rider’s chest and he envelops me in his warm, huge arms. “You’ve got all night to start convincing me.”

  ***

  Bonus Story: Hans & Greg

  50 Shades of Fairy Tales

  by Leigh Foxlee

  “I love getting head from a man with a goatee.” My boss Derek sighed out the words and sat back in his chair while I slurped my way down his erection. Through grunts of satisfaction, he continued, “I need you to do the Darmoor murder legend story this year.”

  I stopped sucking, wiped a bit of pre-cum from the hair beneath my lip. “No goddamn way.”

  He pressed a finger to my lip, then pressed my head full of dark curls back into his crotch. “But I need you to go out there and interview Hans. We need something more this time. More meat on the bones, ya know what I mean?”

  I stroked his thick, pinkish brown cock, pulling my mouth away to mock him. “Did you intend to make that terrible pun, or …”

  Once more he shoved me down on his spit-shiny glans. “Shut up and suck. People don’t want sleepy little town fluff these days. They want tawdry suburban scandal. Or, in this case, tawdry backwoods scandal. You leave after you make me cum.”

  “Yes sir,” I grumbled around his penis.

  Derek Tremblay was the editor-in-chief of the Sudbury Review, a medium-sized newspaper publisher in Sudbury, Ontario where I’d worked for the last three years. I was an acquisitions editor who doubled as a reporter when I first got the job, but after expertly sucking Mr. Tremblay’s cock I quickly moved up the Review’s ladder. He made me his executive editor after we started fucking. I take that as a compliment.

  My name is Greg Butler, and I’m a journalist, which you probably already guessed. Well, truth is, these days I don’t go out and get the stories much anymore. I stay in my nice, cushy exec office and edit them. Believe me, it’s still hard work red penning those puppies, particularly when we get a new crop of journalists fresh in from college, but sometimes I miss going out there and getting into my work, too.

  However, not a journalist at the Review wanted to cover the yearly Darmoor murder legend story. Though not an old legend, only ten years have passed since the event, it’s well known and just scandalous enough to make the little town it happened in … well … legendary.

  So why doesn’t anyone want to cover it? Well, in the past we’d do a boring blanket story. Someone would go down to the archives and pull up all the old files on the murder that happened in the sleepy little suburb of Chestnut Lane, only a fifteen minute drive from my office in Sudbury. Not exactly thrilling reporting, combing through archives and sneezing your way through a decade of dust.

  But to get to Hans, the center of this local melodrama, I’d have to go all the way out past Chestnut Lane, into a rural district that was bordered by an old growth forest. No one had gone to interview Hans in years, and he rarely allowed strangers in his home, or so I’d heard.

  Hans Muller was a witch who had been accused of murdering his lover. He was cleared of the charges due to lack of evidence, but most of the Darmoor people still think he did it. Hans keeps to himself on a little piece of land at the Darmoor limits. And it looks like I’m going to be his houseguest this weekend.

  “I can’t believe he agreed to it,” I said to myself as I drove through thick Ontario woods, down a rutted dirt road that led to Hans’ Victorian gingerbread home.

  I parked outside a place done up in faded mint green with a porch out front that was framed in dingy white latticework. The turned porch posts were chipped and broken in places, and some of the spindles hanging from the rounded windows were missing, but the home still held its strange storybook charm. I couldn’t help but grin as I got out of the car and grabbed my canvas bag from the back of my Honda. Looking at it reminded me of fairy tales my gran would read to us as kids.

  I knocked on the dark mahogany door and peered through one of the two windows in the top half of the entrance. Inside was gloomy and lacked light, but I could see someone drawing close through gray afternoon sunlight spilling in via what I assumed was the kitchen.

  But no one opened up. I waited. Knocked again. Then I heard a soft yet deep voice say, “Enter.”

  So I did.

  Hans Muller took my breath away. I’d heard stories. That he was nothing like what you expected. I’d expected an unkempt hermit with bleary, wild eyes and a set of mismatched clothes. What stood before me in the poorly lit foyer was a blond man of medium height who looked like a New York model. Normally I liked my lovers a little less pretty, but there was something in Hans stare that drew me in and refused to let go.

  His features were fine, soft. His full lips begged to be kissed. Straight, thick hair was slicked away from his face and just brushed the wide, ribbed straps on the white tank he wore. A simple pair of blue jeans hugged his slender hips. He wasn’t muscle bound, but he was fit. His wide eyes were so light blue they looked like circles of ice.

  He looked me up and down, and his face remained unreadable as he did so. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”

  I frowned, scratched my somewhat shaggy eyebrow (damn, they’d need a trim before they poked me in the eye). “Greg Butler. I’m from the Sudbury Review.” I held up my bag. “I’m here to interview y
ou this weekend.”

  Now he smiled. The gesture took its time curling his lips, and the look reminded me of a cat carefully stalking a mouse. “Ah, Derek sent you, even though I refused. This shouldn’t surprise me.”

  This time I scratched at the stubble peppering my face. “You know Derek?”

  He turned away, revealing a firm ass that bunched nicely as he walked. “Yes, we’re … old friends, you could say. He was the first interview I ever allowed.” With one hand, he beckoned for me to follow him into the kitchen.

  The room was sparse, but filled with state of the art appliances. I saw a state-of-the-art mixer in one corner that looked like it would’ve cost a tidy sum. I’m not much of a cook, but I could tell Hans was a baker of some sort.

  That’s when my eye caught the retro arborite table to my left. It was laid with a blue and white checkerboard cloth, and the top of this was filled with gingerbread men. Or, at first glance, I thought they were gingerbread men. I tore my gaze from them for a moment when Hans spoke again.

  “So what does Derek want for this interview, hmmmm?” He sounded both faintly amused and annoyed. “He’s gotten all he’s going to get. I don’t care how many sexy reporters he sends.”

  I blinked at that, then grinned. “Why, thank you. Sure I can’t change your mind?”

  He walked to one side of the table filled with gingerbread men, crossed his arms over his chest (I think to show off his pecs). “What did you have in mind? If you’re creative, maybe I’ll spill secrets even Derek doesn’t know.”

  My eyebrows drew together, becoming a unibrow of surprise. I chuckled and shoved one hand in my khaki dress pants. “Just so happens I took creative journalism in college.”

  He moved around the table so fast it was almost spooky. We stood nose to nose, and I could smell a hint of peppermint on his breath. I leaned forward and boldly cupped his cock while he brushed his lips over mine.

  “Then be inventive, and get your story out of me,” he said, before I seized the back of his neck and claimed those pouty lips in a hungry kiss.