Fifty Shades of Submission

by Loris James

  I come so hard and so long and with such violence that I think I am dying. Eventually the last shudder leaves my body drained and trembling and my chest heaving.

  I collapse onto my back, panting and shaking uncontrollably. Osiris is groaning and hugging herself, in pain from my assault.

  I take a few minutes to regain my strength and then I grab her hair and force her mouth over my semi-flaccid cock.

  “Suck it!” I snarl. “From now on your will learn to be subservient to the real cock of a man!” I can feel her tears on my groin as she kneels dutifully between my legs and sucks me off, my penis ring rattling against her teeth. My cock responds and soon stands up as rigid and deadly as a striking cobra once more and I hold her head in place and force my cock deep down her throat and finally I come, squirting semen into her mouth.

  I lie there semi-comatose and drained, with not an ounce of sexual strength left in my body.

  “That’s the best night’s sex I’ve had in a long time,“ Amun says. “Time to put the big boy away.” And before I can stop her, she has clamped the steel chastity belt around my waist once more and it locks shut.

  I groan, imprisoned once more, but I’m too weak to protest.

  Amun laughs. “I think you’ve had enough fun to last you a while. You have one insatiable sexual appetite. No wonder that crazy bitch keeps it locked away. She’s probably scared you’ll fuck her to death with it!” She chuckles. “I think you just about fucked Osiris to death. You like the idea of raping women, don’t you? You like it when they fight and they don’t want it but you give it to them anyway.”

  I shrugged in the dark. “I love to fuck women, period. I’ll take it any way I can. I’ve been fucking women since I was ten years old.”

  Amun seemed surprised. “Who’d you fuck – your nanny?”

  “My mother.”

  Amun’s eyes widen in the gloom. “Your own mama?”

  “My stepmother. She forced me to fuck her behind my father’s back.”

  “You were able to get it up at that young age?”

  “She made me use all sorts of objects to pleasure her.”

  Amun laughed. “Sounds like one kinky bitch. So, what happened to her?”

  I stare into the dark for a while. “She died after getting an abortion. She was pregnant with my child.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  My father’s face was as white as a sheet as he sat behind his desk in the study. “Your stepmother is dead,” he said finally, still in shock.

  I nodded. I had heard the commotion in the early hours of the morning and had caught snippets of conversation from the servants gossiping in hushed tones in the hallway.

  My father stared at me for a long time. “Did you know that your stepmother was ill and that she was taken to hospital?” he said at last through gritted teeth.

  I nodded. She had taken ill a few days earlier. On the day that she became ill she had been in town for most of the day and when she had come home she had been as white as a ghost and visibly shaken. She had gone immediately to her room and later that night I saw the maid changing her sheets – they had been covered in blood. The next day, in the dead of night, an ambulance had arrived to take her to hospital and my father was recalled from an overseas business trip and told to come home immediately. His wife was critically ill.

  “Do you know why your stepmother died?” my father said grimly.

  I shook my head. I didn’t really care. All I knew was that I was free of that evil bitch’s clutches at last. I felt so relieved and elated that I could hardly contain myself. It was going to be hard hiding my true feelings in the days to come.

  “Your mother was pregnant,” my father said softly, staring coldly at me. “She lost the baby.”

  “Baby?” I repeated dumbly.

  “Your mother had a backstreet abortion three days ago. She was butchered and lost too much blood. They couldn’t save her. Well?”

  He seemed to want me to say something but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. He hardly ever spoke to me. I felt uncomfortable in his presence. I was fifteen years old and I did not know or understanding my father at all. He was always away. Always taking care of business. In all the years since my mother had died, we had hardly spoken to each other. We were little more than related strangers. And now he seemed to want my opinion on something that had to do with his wife - the woman I both feared and hated. I didn’t know what he wanted from me.

  My father stood up from behind his desk, his face pale and his lips pulled into a thin grimace. “Before your mother died she told me the child was yours,” he said stonily.

  I stared back at him. My palms were suddenly sweaty and my mouth was dry. She was pregnant with my baby? Yes, it was certainly possible. We had fucked every single night and although I tried to be careful, there were times when I lost control and ejaculated my semen inside her. But who was to say it was my baby and not my father’s?

  “She told me you made her pregnant,” my father continued. “I know it’s true because after you were born I had a vasectomy. I can no longer father a child. She told me that while I was away you came into her room and raped her. She said that over the past number of months you raped her repeatedly.”

  “She’s lying! She made me do it! She’s been making me have sex with her since I was ten years old!”

  “Silence!” my father shouted, and punched me viciously in the face. I staggered back against the bookcase.

  “How dare you tell lies when your mother lies dead because of the seed you put inside her body!” His face was ashen. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. “I spoke to her maid – she confirmed your mother’s story.”

  “She’s NOT my mother!” I shouted at him. “She was never a mother to me!”

  My words seem to enrage him further and he laid into me with his fists. He poured all his rage and grief into the violence of his attack. For a moment I thought he was going to beat me to death but he seemed to pull himself back from the brink of insanity and stood back from me, breathing heavily, crouching, his hands still balled into fists.

  “I want you out of my house tonight! Be ready within an hour. I have made all the arrangements. I have sent for a car to take you to a boarding school far away from here. You will stay there until you finish school. You will not come back here – ever. Not for the holidays, not for birthdays, not for Christmas – not for any reason whatsoever. Am I making myself clear?” My father glared at me with undisguised hatred and disgust.

  I nodded. My nose was bleeding and I wiped the blood off my face with the back of my trembling hand.

  “When you finish school I will pay for you to get a university education. I will see to it that you receive a monthly allowance until you get a degree. After that, you’re on your own. As far as I’m concerned you are no longer my son. I never want to see you again. You are never to contact me ever from this day onwards. No phone calls, no letters – nothing. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, too overcome to speak. My lips trembled and my tears ran down my face.

  “Do you understand?” my father repeated coldly.

  “I understand, father.”

  PART FOUR – THE RUSSIAN

  Chapter Fifty-One

  My mistress is dressed in her long sable fur coat with its high fur collar.

  “We’re going out,” she says to me. “I feel like walking.”

  Outside it’s another cold wintry day and I shiver in my thin T-shirt, jeans and sandals. Saskia, on the other hand, looks snug and regal in her dark brown sable, like a beautiful and dangerous lioness on the prowl. It never ceases to give me pleasure to watch the graceful way in which she moves - back straight, head erect, limbs gliding fluidly as though she is floating on air.

  She hooks her arm through mine. “This is just like the old days, when we were lovers, isn’t it?” she says. “I did love you once, you know. In my own way.”

  A cold shiver runs throug
h me.

  She pulls me closer to the soft, luxuriant fur of her coat. “Poor slave, you are turning blue from the cold. I should have been more considerate and got you something warm to wear. Are you freezing?”

  I shake my head. “No, mistress.”

  She laughs playfully. “Liar! Your teeth are chattering!”

  We are walking along the banks of the small lake near the house, it is a typical cloudless winter’s day and the water of the lake shimmers brightly in the pale early morning sunlight. The air is crisp and filled with incense from the burnt grass of the fire breaks the farmers had been burning along the edge of the blue-gum forest the day before.

  Just then we hear the sound of galloping hooves and a rider on a black horse comes into view, galloping towards us at speed. As soon as he sees my mistress he reins in the beast and stops close by. She looks up at him, their eyes meet, and there is an instant attraction between them like palpable electricity – it is the meeting of the lioness and the lion.

  My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with which she devours the stranger. He is a magnificent specimen of man – tall, muscular, handsome chiselled features, dark brooding eyes, and thick black hair swept back from his brow. He is almost too beautiful to be a man, and there is a curious a tinge of cruelty that shadows a full and petulant mouth.

  He is wearing black riding boots, white leather riding breeches, and a white shirt. He has a riding crop in one hand and sooths his horse’s neck as the beast stamps around restlessly, eager to be given full rein again.

  The stranger tilts his head at my mistress and smiles with a flash of perfect white teeth. “I believe we are neighbours,” he says, his voice heavily accented. “I am Vassily Primakov. I own the farm next-door.”

  The accent and the name are unmistakably Russian.

  My mistress introduces herself and his smile widens into a lazy, insolent grin. “I hope you don’t mind me riding on your land. I like the view from up here and usually it is deserted.”

  “Not at all,” my mistress assures him quickly. Her voice is weak. I have never seen her so excited.

  The Russian’s horse stamps about agitatedly. He leans forward and rubs its neck calmingly once more. He looks down at my mistress and grins. “My stallion is restless. I should be off. It was nice meeting you.” He digs his heels into the flanks of the beast and gallops off at speed.

  She watches till he disappears completely from view. “Let’s go back to the house,” she says. “I’m tired of walking.” Her cheeks are on fire and her green eyes are burning as if with a fever.

  When we get home she hurries upstairs, and orders me to follow. In her little sitting room she begins to pace back and forth like a caged animal.

  “Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you think of him? Tell me!”

  I shrug. “Handsome, confident,” I reply dully, freighted by her fervour.

  “Yes, he is exquisitely beautiful, isn’t he?” She pauses and leans against the wall. For a moment she looks as though she might faint. “He has taken my breath away! I feel quite lightheaded.”

  “I can understand the impression he has made on you, mistress” I reply carefully. “I can imagine—”

  She laughs out loud, cutting me short. “You may imagine that this man is going to be my lover! In fact, I will guarantee it! And maybe I will even allow him to apply the whip to you, and perhaps you will enjoy being punished by him. Perhaps he can take over from me because I am so utterly weary of you!” She spits out the last words with a deep and hateful venom.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It is only hours since she first saw him, but already my mistress has found out a great deal about her mysterious and handsome Russian neighbour. It turns out that he is in his late thirties, extremely wealthy, and unattached. Apparently there was a wife in his past but no one seems to know much about her. He is known in the area for his harsh treatment of his staff and is not very well liked by his neighbors. Most people think him rude and arrogant.

  “All in all, then, a man,” my mistress says with satisfaction, her eyes glowing feverishly.

  “He sounds dangerous, mistress. Are you not afraid of him?”

  “I am afraid of him – that’s why I find him so exciting!”

  I am afraid of him too, but for different reasons. It is clear that my mistress is besotted with him. I have never seen her so breathless and excited and agitated.

  My mistress relates everything she has found out so far about the dark stranger. Vassily Primakov is not only handsome, but also vain. He is fastidious about his clothes and changes four or five times a day. Local legend has it that a young woman once fell passionately in love with him. She invaded his home and threw herself down at his feet and threatened to kill herself if he did not take her in his arms and love her.

  “I am sorry,” he had replied, smiling down at her, unmoved, “I should like to do you the favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I will never love you as long as I live.”

  “What happened to the girl, mistress?”

  My mistress smiled dreamily. “According to the locals, the girl did indeed kill herself. She hung herself in Vassily’s barn a few days later. Oh, what a man! A man of conviction and principles! The kind of man I could love in an instant!”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  She has invited the Russian for tea and has taken all day to groom herself and prepare for his arrival. She has made me bath her and brush her hair and manicure her nails as though she were a bride preparing for her wedding night. Then she lay on her bed and spread her legs and made me shave the pubic hair around the lips of her vagina. I found the experience intensely sexual and intimate and exciting.

  She made me shave her armpits and then she gave me a bottle of fragrant oil to rub all over her body, front and back. She lay back and closed her eyes and I lingered particularly around her breasts and groin and inner thighs. Then she told me to lubricate her anus and vagina. I did as I was told. My fingers slipped in and out of her vagina smoothly and rhythmically and lingered there. My hands began to tremble and I could scarcely breathe. My cock strained painfully against its cruel steel confines.

  My mistress opened her eyes suddenly and was watching me. “Are you getting excited, slave?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, mistress.”

  “Do you covet your mistress’s body?”

  I ran my tongue over my dry lips. “Yes, mistress.”

  “Do you want to fuck me?”

  “Only if it pleases my mistress.”

  “Poor slave! You will be far better off when I turn you into my eunuch. That will be the end of your sexual suffering. Now get on with it, I still need to get dressed before Vassily arrives.”

  The Russian has arrived. He came on horseback and is wearing a long black leather coat over his jodhpurs, which accentuates his tall, muscular figure. He certainly is beautiful to look at - an arrogant tyrant who plays with the lives of women.

  He stands in the little sitting room upstairs, larger than life, waiting for my mistress to appear. He looks about him then turns his gaze on me for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Who are you?” he demands.

  How should I answer?

  “I serve my mistress,” I say at last.

  He cocks a black eyebrow and grunts. “A manservant in this day and age?”

  I am seized by fear under his icy black stare. His masculinity is brutal. We are complete opposites. Compared to him I am soft and weak. He is as strong and hard and cold as steel.

  I have a sudden foreboding that this fierce and ruthless man will enslave Saskia will subjugate her as no other man has ever been able to. In this relationship he will be the master and she is the submissive. If she did not kneel obediently at his feet he would break her.

  I am filled with feverish jealousy - and abject despair.

  With an arrogant nod of the head he hands me his coat. I take it and he collapses lazily onto the chaise longue and lig
hts a thin cigar.

  My entire body trembles with resentment. I long to meet him on common ground so that we, as men, can fight for the hand and affections of my mistress. But in my heart I know that if it ever came to a physical contest, he would easily overpower me with his bare hands – and would probably beat me to death.

  At last my mistress appears. She has gone to great lengths to make herself look particularly attractive. Her red hair lies on her shoulders like liquid fire. Her eyes burn with excitement as they rest on the Russian.

  Then she gives me a cold, angry look. “What are you still doing here? Get out!”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I have been standing and waiting on the landing outside her closed sitting room door for hours. I strain my ears but can only hear muffled voices. Now and then I hear her flirtatious laughter ring out.

  The afternoon draws on and finally it is dark outside. She rings for coffee and cognac and I serve them. They are both reclining on the chaise, engaged in conversation, she with her head nestled on his shoulder. His white shirt is open at the neck and I can see his thick matted chest hair.

  She doesn’t even look at me. I begin to pour.

  She looks into his dark eyes. “And so, what about the lioness?” she says, continuing the conversation that I had interrupted.

  “When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is attacked by another,” the Russian continues his narrative, “the lioness quietly lies down and watches the males battle. Even if her mate is defeated she will not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as he bleeds to death under his opponent’s claws. Then she follows the victor, the stronger of the two males — that is the essence of a female’s nature.”