Ultimate Submission

by Cathryn Cooper

  I phoned Joe the next morning when I’d recovered a bit. ‘It wasn’t fair. The sex was more in my head,’ and yours, I thought, ‘than in the supermarket. You’ve got to give me one more chance.’

  ‘OK, because we’re old friends I give you just one more chance. But I guarantee there isn’t a place on this earth you can find that isn’t sexy. And if I win this one, fair and square, I claim my prize.’

  ‘If you win this one you’ll deserve a prize.’

  ‘Ok my lady, so lay down the challenge. What is it?’

  ‘An old people’s home. Now I’ve got nothing against old people, I’m planning on being an oldie myself one day. But that must be the most unsexy place in the universe. All that boiled cabbage and chamber pots, I can’t even bring myself to think about it.’

  ‘Oh, I can,’ said Joe with an inflection in his voice which made me think that he was already hatching a plan in that ever-fertile brain. ‘Can you do Saturday evening?’ ‘Saturday evening it is.’ I said.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at 10.00pm.’

  The guy was incorrigible. He’d really got into this challenge thing. I’d never seen him as particularly competitive but here he was, pulling out all the stops, just to make a point. Men, they never cease to amaze me.

  The days seemed to drag by as my anticipation mounted. When Saturday came, I was ready two hours before we were to go. This was better than going on a date.

  As we sat in the car together I was acutely aware of how close we were to touching every time Joe changed gear. I could feel my knee twitch as his hand came closer, as if our bodies were magnetized. It was madness, he’d almost proved his point, that every situation could be sexually charged. Maybe though, this would be his

  Waterloo. In a way it would be a relief because then I could get back to normal. In another way, it would be sad because life would go back to the dull old, same old routine that days used to have.

  We drew up at one of those big houses on the outskirts of town that used to be family houses but had been turned into a home for old people. In some places the evening’s just beginning at 10.00pm but, here, it was as quiet as a library after closing time.

  ‘This way,’ said Joe reaching for my hand and bringing me round the back of the house. In his other hand he held a small bag. It was dark and I clung on to him trying not to lose my footing, but enjoying, for the first time ever, the warmth of his hand.

  ‘People will think we’re breaking in.’

  ‘No way,’ he whispered, ‘we’ve got an invitation.’ He pushed French doors which yielded easily and in the corner sitting in a chair was an old man. He smiled without saying a word. ‘This is Gordon,’ said Joe, shaking the man’s hand. ‘He’s a friend of my dad’s. It’s his birthday today, poor old sod. I usually just send him a card but he is eighty today so we sort of agreed he deserved something a little more. He doesn’t hear too well, and he can barely walk, but he was a real goer in his time. Nowadays he just likes to watch.’

  My ears pricked up. ‘Watch what?’

  Joe thrust the bag he was holding into my hands. I peered inside. ‘Please, put that on.’ His voice had become low, it sounded a little like it had on the tape. I hesitated, but only for a second. Standing behind the old man, I said to Joe, ‘turn away, don’t want either of you peeking.’ Inside was a nurses’ uniform. I immediately guessed the scenario. Poor old guy, surrounded by nurses and never the chance to get an eyeful. I suddenly warmed to my role as I squeezed into my uniform.

  ‘Now Gordon,’ I came to stand in front of him, ‘I bet you’re a very bad patient, always knocking things on the floor.’

  His eyes twinkled as he studied the thin blue material and my mountainous breasts bursting out of the top. Normally I wouldn’t have been able to carry this through but after Joe’s torment of me over the past week I felt so rampant, I needed to display myself. I deliberately turned around and bent down, keeping my legs straight. I was only too aware that he was getting a view of shapely legs, stockinged with hold-ups that revealed chunky thighs. My thong like a little red bootlace was a joke on such a huge round arse. The old guy gave a gurgle of satisfaction and I heard him say, ‘Go on boy, I can’t get there but you can.’

  To my dismay I felt Joe, my old mate, kneeling on the floor behind me and running his hands up my stockinged thighs. I let out a squeak, but he was remorseless as I felt my clit swell to bursting point. Joe, decent caring chap that he is, moved me around so I could see the old guy get his kicks. Joe buried his face in my arse cheeks and breathed in as if he was savouring fine wine then I saw the old man smile as I felt Joe pull my thong aside and drive his tongue up to suck at my exposed fanny-lips. Still bending down and with a burning throbbing clit poking out, Joe massaged my arse cheeks while he poked his tongue into my hole. Then, darling boy, he moved my legs apart and, while he worked with his tongue on the bud of my arse, he pushed a long sensuous finger into my cunny. I was already dripping wet with juices which he lapped up greedily. Swirling his finger round and round it was too much for me and I came in one shuddering gasp.

  Gordon was asleep by the time we left. Joe had done the decent thing, and fucked me from behind over the bed. Having a stranger look on just about drove me senseless.

  That was ten years ago. Joe won his bet and got his prize. I never realized he’d fancied me for so long. We’re still living together now and I still love him. After all, haven’t I just proved he’s kind to old people and likes doing the supermarket shop? And with Joe, sex is everywhere, and still mind-blowing. Oh, and Gordon. Poor old Gordon’s pushing up the daisies but apparently he died with a smile on his face.

  The Closest Thing To Heaven by Antonia Adams

  As Demi moved towards the innocuous black-painted double doors, Patricia’s words echoed in her mind.

  ‘Honestly, Dem, it’s an experience that’s out of this world. It’s the closest you can get to heaven without actually having sex. What have you got to lose?’

  Nothing, Demi supposed, hesitating outside the doors. Nothing whatsoever. She could certainly do with some heaven in her life, particularly of the erotic variety. But now she was actually here, her courage was failing her. She hadn’t taken her clothes off in front of a man for a very long time - particularly not a strange man. Even if he did look, as Patricia put it, like something out of the Arabian Nights.

  Her fingers closed around the leaflet in her bag. She didn’t need to read it - she knew it off by heart.

  Treat yourself to an afternoon of pure pleasure. Step beyond the threshold of desire. Satisfaction guaranteed.

  Hardly original, but Patricia had told her the experience had exceeded her wildest expectations. And Patricia could get pretty wild.

  What if I don’t like it, she thought, pressing the doorbell in the same heartbeat?

  She could always change her mind. Stepping over the threshold didn’t commit her to anything. Not this threshold anyway. She shivered with delicious anticipation. Patricia had told her about the other threshold with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  A man, who looked nothing like an Arabian knight, let her in, consulted his appointment book and gave her a slightly unnerving smile, as he slipped her credit card through his machine.

  ‘Go through, Miss Hargreaves. You are expected.’

  She found herself in a room exactly as Patricia had described. Opulent - the walls were draped with rich gold silk and the room was scented with lilies, which were on a small table close to the door. She’d always associated lilies with funerals, but then, weren’t orgasms sometimes described as ‘the small death’?

  A red carpet, which felt thick beneath her feet, led towards another door, which had a small plaque in its centre. Demi bent to read it.

  Once you pass through this door, there is no turning back. Only those in search of the ultimate sensual experience should step over the threshold.

  Feeling slightly reassured, because sensual didn’t sound as scary as sexual, Demi opened the door and stepped inside. Th
is room was smaller and taken up mainly by a changing cubicle, similar to the ones in expensive boutiques. The door clicked shut behind her and a man’s voice filled the room.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Hargreaves. You will find a robe and undergarments in the drawer to your right. Please put them on and, when you are ready - step through the connecting doors ahead of you.’

  The man’s voice was rich and deep with a hint of the exotic. Demi wondered if he was the Arabian knight.

  With trembling fingers she opened the drawer. Underwear was such a functional term and didn’t do justice to the exquisite black lace bra and thong. They were both in her size, which she’d been asked for when she’d made her appointment, and were obviously brand new - their labels still attached.

  A pair of scissors, presumably for removing the labels, lay alongside. Feeling suddenly shy, and knowing it was far too late for shyness, Demi took off her clothes and hung them on hangers, also provided. A full-length mirror in the cubicle reflected her image back at her.

  She’d prepared for her visit by going to the gym three times a week for the last few months, and she’d had an all-over-tanning session yesterday. She was pleased she’d made the effort. The lace bra moulded over her breasts and left little to the imagination. The thong left even less. Her black hair tumbling over her shoulders made her look wanton. Oh my God, was she really going to parade in front of a strange man dressed like this?

  Remembering the robe, which was black silk, she slipped it on, tied the belt tightly around her slender waist and then, taking a final deep breath, stepped through the connecting doors.

  She gasped.

  The previous rooms had been opulent, but this one put them in the shade. It was seductively lit and smelt of roses, which were in crystal vases on low glass tables. Cream carpet, so soft it felt like walking on velvet, covered the floor. Heavy scarlet silk throws adorned the walls and, as she gazed, she saw other colours within - threads of gold running through the fabric, which formed into patterns. It took a few moments to see they weren’t patterns, but pictures - couples making love, in every conceivable position, their faces serene and bodies beautiful.

  At first sight the room appeared empty, but as she stood drinking in the beauty of her surroundings, a man detached himself from the shadows at the far side of the room.

  He wore scarlet robes that contrasted perfectly with his shaven head and caramel skin. He did look Arabian, Demi decided with a shiver of excitement. He was very tall, and she could feel the power exuding from him, even from here. He was the most amazing-looking man she’d ever seen. And as these thoughts passed through her mind, he moved towards her, each slow measured step bringing him closer, until there were only inches between them and she could hardly breathe.

  He smiled, revealing white teeth and she was reminded of a panther moving in for the kill. His black eyes were unfathomable, but he must be aware of the effect he was having on her. She half expected him to rip off her flimsy robe, but all he did was to hold out his hand.

  ‘Are you ready, Miss Hargreaves, for the ultimate sensual experience?’

  She nodded, unable to speak. His fingers closed around hers.

  Good God, she was practically having an orgasm on the spot.

  What would she do when he did - whatever he was going to do?

  Suddenly panicking, because Patricia hadn’t told her what he actually did - just that she’d love it - she tried to pull her fingers from his.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he turned, his eyes questioning. ‘You have to trust me, Demi.’ He lingered over her name, as if it were something special. ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘I don’t know you.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘Then it must be an act of faith - this trust of yours. It will be worth it, I promise you.’

  They’d been walking while he spoke and were now standing at the far corner of the room. He turned her around so she had her back to the wall. Then, to her surprise he knelt in front of her, and undid the knot of her robe with his teeth. Rising leisurely, he slipped it from her shoulders so it lay in a silken pool at her feet.

  His eyes were mesmerizing and never left her face. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. When he lifted her left arm above her head and she felt the touch of silk at her wrist, she didn’t protest. He did the same to her right arm and she realized he’d tied her wrists to silken thongs in the wall. Silken, but very strong, she discovered when she tested them and found them to be immovable.

  ‘Silk is what the spider weaves to make its webs, it is the strongest material on earth,’ he murmured in a voice that was strangely elemental. Like the rumbling of a volcano, just before it pours molten lava across the land.

  Demi didn’t argue with him. She was trapped and she didn’t care. There was a strange sort of freedom in being this helpless in front of a beautiful man. In knowing he could do anything to her - anything he liked - and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  This thought barely had time to register when she realized he was kneeling again. ‘I will need you to spread apart your legs,’ he murmured, and she felt his touch on the inside of her calf, moving downwards, feather light to her ankle.

  Wordless, she let him move her ankles into position, until she was tied, legs and arms wide apart, held fast by the silken thongs. At least she wasn’t naked, she thought, her heart pumping lust and adrenaline around her body. Although she wouldn’t have much cared if she was -suddenly, she ached for him to see her - all of her. She could feel her nipples straining against the black lace and a delicious ache had started between her legs.

  He was standing again. For the first time he let his gaze travel down across her body. He looked at her erect nipples, a half smile on his face.

  ‘I think perhaps - you are still a little overdressed,’ he murmured, reaching forward.

  He was going to have trouble there, she thought, raising her eyebrows. How could he remove her bra when her hands were tied? But she hadn’t noticed it was the kind with clip-on straps, which took a matter of seconds to release and remove from her slender shoulders. As if aware of her thoughts, and with another smile, he brushed the palms of his hands over her nipples, then reached behind her and unfastened the final clip so her breasts were exposed to his gaze.

  Demi thought she might die with pleasure, as he traced the outline of her nipples with his thumbs, saying with a faint trace of huskiness, ‘I see you are beginning to trust me, after all.’

  Once more, he stood back, this time his gaze lowering to the tiny thong that covered what was left of her modesty.

  ‘But you are still a little overdressed. Do you not think?’

  Demi closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe she was letting him do this. Wanted him to do this. Not that she had a choice. He was right about the strength of her bonds.

  His hands were on her hips now, slipping beneath the knotted ribbons - oh my God, knotted ribbons. That’s all that protected her from his gaze. And they didn’t stay knotted for long. He untied them and slowly, tenderly -removed the last trace of her clothing. A small moan escaped her lips as his fingers traced the outline of what he’d uncovered, caressing her pubic bone, moving downwards to her labia, and then spreading her still further so she was fully exposed to his gaze.

  Even though she ground her hips away from him, in a strange mixture of terror and lust, she couldn’t get away from his touch. And he wasn’t in any hurry. Slip sliding his fingers over her and into her - with infinite gentleness, so she ached for it never to stop.

  But just as she was on the point of exploding, he did stop.

  ‘We have the afternoon ahead of us,’ he murmured, standing once more and cupping her face with his hands, so she caught her own scent on his fingers. ‘I think we have much to do - much to explore.’

  And then he left her - spread-eagled, naked and helpless, while he strode away across the room.

  The waiting was agonizing. What was he going to do? He could do anything to her. It occurred to her that t
here might be hidden cameras, her body fully on display for dirty old men all over London to lust over. The thought appalled her, but there was nothing she could do.

  He returned, a black velvet bag in his hand, which he set down beside her and unzipped. He removed what looked like a cat-o’-nine-tails - its cords made of silken material.

  ‘No,’ she said, frightened for the first time since she’d stepped into the room. ‘I’m not into.’

  He interrupted her with a swift shake of his head. ‘You do not know what you are into - until you try it.’ And with that he drew the whip lightly across her stomach. She tensed, expecting it to hurt, but it didn’t. It was like being flailed with silk - too soft to sting, but hard enough to titillate.

  He acknowledged her surprise with a slight nod, and then the flailing began in earnest. He lashed each breast in turn, using the cat hard enough to caress and arouse, but not to hurt, until her nipples were so hard, she thought they might explode.

  Then he shifted his attention to her ankles, moving the whip slowly up her legs, across her calves, and up still higher to her inner thighs, until she was squirming in ecstasy. He spent a long time between her legs - he was very gentle here - checking her face from time to time, to make sure he wasn’t hurting her. But he must have known he wasn’t hurting. Once more, just at the point of orgasm, he stopped what he was doing and she moaned in disappointment.

  ‘It is bringing you lots of pleasure - is it not?’

  Demi knew she didn’t need to answer. That much must have been obvious to him. He had a very good view of exactly how much pleasure he was bringing her, from where he knelt.