Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I hear the flick of his lighter as he exhales and snickers, “That was me.”

  I gasp and bite my lip as the little shudder quakes through my body. “Yeah, it was.”

  Now don’t remind me again because we’re not going for two.

  19

  Cute Fucking Dangerously

  His Butterfly

  “I’m so sorry, I’m late,” he says, walking in the door at 6 PM. “The hell…are you wearing?”

  I pivot from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the long black split-skirt, loose powder-white cami, and red stilettos. His black suit coat pops the whole thing with conflict. It’s too big, bulky, and manly. It also looks sexy as fuck like I got out of his bed and had no clothes because he tore them from my body.

  “I’m waiting for you.” I blink as he stands speechless. “I want to have a memorable evening with you, Mr. Raniero.”

  “You look fucking amazing,” he compliments, taking me in his arms. “I made dinner reservations for after the show at that sushi place you wanted to go to.”

  “… You got in?”

  “I did.” His eyes glimmer and tease. “You want to go have a drink beforehand?”

  “I would love to!”

  “Give me five minutes to change my shirt and freshen myself up.” He plants a kiss on my lips and tosses his coat on the sofa. “I want our last night in The City to be special.”

  “Me, too,” I reply.

  We’re going to be okay.

  “How was your day?”

  “Complicated,” I confide, stepping into the bedroom and sitting in the chair as I watch him in the bathroom. “I couldn’t find anything to wear, so I went to a get a coffee, Deacon called, and I had an orgasm in the middle of the cafe.”

  He drops the comb in the sink and shoots me a look I can’t decipher before grabbing the top of the door jamb. “… You what?”

  “I was feeling grotesque,” I whisper, trying not to cry. “And my mind just…went flying…”

  “You’re serious?” His muscular frame stretches out as I slide out of the coat and pace over. “You came in the coffee shop?”

  “Not mind-blowing,” I mutter, grazing the tips of my fingers between his pecs. “But I definitely came.”

  “Holy shit, that’s hot!”

  I lower to my knees and undo his pants and release his cock. I swirl over the head with my tongue as I blink up. “I like it when you come home.”

  His hand curls around my neck, and I swallow his shaft. He’s rock hard as he demandingly pulls my hair. “You came with Cruz talking to you,” he realizes, stunned. “Does he know?”

  I shake my head—no—refusing to stop.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants, bucking faster. He’s going to come very soon. “Do you often just come?” I shrug. “I can see you there, getting so wet…wait, did you use my credit card?”

  He yanks my hair back, removing his cock from my throat, and my glossy lips part with a gasp. “Is this an important part of my blow job?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, I charged eight hundred, fifty-three dollars, and twenty-one cents to your credit card.”

  “You’ve got to do better than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” I puff with a murmur. “I’ll try again and do better when clothes aren’t involved. I’ll make you regret your words on home goods.”

  “That’s better,” he replies, shoving his dick in my mouth. “Suck me, baby. Make me cum. I want to go parade the most wonderful girl around New York City.”

  Lifting my hands from my lap, I grab his ass, digging my fingernails into the flesh, and forcing his thrusts into my eager opening.

  Gone is the model-like God that walked into the hotel suite. His thick forearms and chest glisten with sweat as his hair falls around his face, and in the middle of this moment, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the human I long to meet.

  He is the man Deacon knows. And I am so jealous of that…the little details Sal avoids with me. I have begged to see the real side of him for so long. He never shows.

  So, I get nasty.

  Encouraged by my moves, we go faster and faster, nearing the edge as I caress over the seam of his ass with a brush that distinctly says, I’m here and coming for you.

  Dampness puddles between my thighs, not because of his hard cock or the grip to my hair, but the trust is given as he slowly begins to peel back the layers of his perfection.

  “Yes, God… Fuck! Yes!” he roars, erupting against my tongue. I savor the hot jets of his cum and swallow as he slows the pump of his hips. “Shit…” He grins, almost embarrassed—nothing like the Sal I know—offering his hand to help me up. “I did not expect that.”

  He slams my body against the bedroom wall, but I push back. “We’re going to be late!” I giggle and grin. “Get dressed!”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He gives a boyish grin and sneaks a kiss from my lips before returning to the sink. I stay in the doorway, staring at the man I am so in love with as he slicks back his hair. He glances over. “You’re fucking incredible, Iris.”

  “That’s you,” I inform, unable to stop smiling. “It’s always you.”

  We have champagne at a bar nearby. Being out in public on the arm of Sal Raniero is a grand spectacle. It seems someone—at least one person—knows him everywhere we go.

  I stay tucked behind his shoulder, the mousy, meek girlfriend with talons and teeth as sharp as the shuriken in my grandfather’s library.

  My parents, and to a lesser extent, my grandparents, did me a significant favor. Unless I’m in Japan with The Chairman or at a very public funeral in Boston, no one knows me.

  I’m playboy Sal’s whore of the night.

  And this turns me the fuck on.

  He plays it like the quarterback I would expect, networking and schmoozing—working the hustle. I’m the misfit, but that isn’t what they see. I present like a dreamy Asian doll with a figure worth admiring but staying demure and shy.

  “You keep me hidden in the shadows,” I whisper, leaning against his arm on the barstools. “And I’m really in awe of this.”

  He smirks, skirting his eyes over me without turning his head. “No need for everyone to know the hot chick on my arm is a Queen.”

  As backward as it sounds, I appreciate his efforts to front for me. He isn’t oppressing, but standing like a warrior, guarding what is rightfully his.

  “You play a dirty game, Sal,” I praise, squeezing his arm. “Thank you for not putting me on display like a damn trophy.”

  “Not necessary,” he mutters, polishing off his champagne. “They have prying eyes. I don’t need to rub the salty facts into their wounds.”

  We leave much in the same way, with my left shoulder pressed against his right, one or two steps behind. I am always on his right side. And if I mistakenly go to the left, he moves me with a twirl or a little dance. Despite being ambidextrous, he is left-hand dominant, and it always remains free—to serve me better.

  Our seats at the Broadway show have a great view and offer some seclusion as my hand rests on his thigh the entire time. I ease it up slow after intermission, and he doesn’t react, keeping a straight face. Near the end, I pull my fingers away for a moment, and he comes to find me by laying his hand in my lap.

  He pats the rigid piece I’ve got strapped to my crotch, and his eyes widen with shock. I grin and whisper, “I said I didn’t like clothes shopping, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like shopping. I even bought the jewelry.”

  He stays silent the rest of the show, but I notice a blush on his cheeks when we exit the theater.

  At my insistence, we take the subway to the sushi place. We stand, and I push my body against his as he peers down and snarls with an acute awareness.

  I make sure he feels it—all of it.

  Still, he says nothing about the dildo I’m packing beneath my black skirt and his jacket. Admittedly, things got a little awkward during the blow job earlier. But I couldn’t very well say, “Excuse me, I h
ave to take off my new dick I bought to entertain you later,” or the surprise would’ve been ruined.

  And his knowledge is grand and glorious as we sit in the darkened sushi restaurant. Dimmed Edison bulbs hang like teardrops over the entire ceiling and reminds me of home—not Texas, but Japan.

  We’re deep in the restaurant, in a back corner by the windows and the restrooms. It is not our usual position of sitting in the best spot in a restaurant, but I don’t care.

  He does, I’m sure, which is why I’m facing the restrooms with my back to the tables, and he is watching the door. He is always working an escape route. It never stops. But I’ve become so accustomed to it, I barely notice it anymore.

  I’m immune to his mafia-trained ways.

  I did not grow up as he did in the thick of the entanglement. I did not know our windows breaking in drive-by shootings or veering out through the back entrance because someone meant to do harm or make an arrest.

  We’ve finished dinner and ordered dessert to go when he says, “I want to take you to the Red Light District in Tokyo.”

  “… You what?”

  “I want to show you the whole kinky world, Iris.”

  My mouth drops open, understanding he believes in our love enough to put me on display. He trusts himself and me. I twist my foot out from my sex heel and run my toes up his leg. “I would very much like that.”

  “I could be doing the same to you.” He serves up the dose I don’t see coming. His voice lowers to a seductive, persuasive tone. “My foot in your crotch, rubbing all over that hard cock.”

  Dear God, I am not ready to play in his arena.

  Drool threatens to spill from my lips. With a quiver in my voice, I ask, “Do you do that with Deacon?”

  “I do many things with Cruz.”

  “Show me.”

  The sexual tension fills every pore of my being as he unlocks the hotel door. Someone should have advised a seat belt. Someone should have told me to hold on.

  The moment we’re inside, he pounds my body against the wall, grinding his erection against me and groping mine. His jacket falls off my arms as he stretches the cami down to take my nipple in his mouth. His coat and shirt quickly come off as his tongue runs along the diamond collar, and I gasp as his hand slides up to grab the dick between my legs.

  “I want you so fucking bad,” I moan, laying lazily against the wall with my hands held high. He carefully pulls the zipper of my skirt down. “Please.”

  “Step out,” he declares on one knee. “Leave the shoes on.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “It’ll make this so much easier.” He grins.

  His emeralds catch my sapphires as we journey someplace we’ve never been. Excitement rushes through my veins as the thrill of seeing him in this capacity ignites a new spark—my boyfriend is a deviant son of a bitch.

  I’ve known.

  But never like this.

  He trickles kisses over my belly as his fingers run over my adorned piece. “Nice jewels, Iris.”

  “I spend your money well, Sir.”

  “That you did.”

  “Cruz would be proud of my haggling,” I add with a giggle. “I bought the pretties and got the dick and harness for half off.”

  He snickers, unlatching the chain and tangling it in his fingers. His kisses intensify as he lowers down to his knees and darts his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry for the things I’m about to do to you.”

  “Don’t be,” I coax, brushing my fingers through his hair. Long, slick tendrils taper against his cheeks. “Do you often apologize to him?”

  “All the fucking time.”

  His lips soar over my cock as he takes it all. I’m so engrossed by his moves like I’m gazing into a crystal ball and witnessing his sacred taboo or spying through the keyhole into his insanity of lust.

  He makes me impure as I crave vulgarity.

  The intensity of no boundaries leaves me weak, and I fear I my knees may collapse to the ground. He’s dirty…a dirty fucking daego sucking my dick.

  And there are no words…

  I won’t be able to get away…he’ll chase me. He won’t let this go unnoticed. I don’t get to put this notion out there and rescind with Sal, not after I’ve quietly pleaded for years to see this side of him. It’s more than the shaft between his lips, but the transition of momentum.

  He’s topping from below, and I’ve never experienced this dynamic.

  “Oh, my fucking God,” I mutter in total awe. “Do I look this amazing giving head?”

  “Yes,” he mumbles with my dick in his throat. I hear his belt coming undone and the rip of his zipper. He kicks his fine leather Italian loafers from his feet, crawls away on all fours, and gloats, “Fuck me, baby.”

  “What about lube…”

  “Just fuck me,” he growls like a starving animal. “Whatever you got to do to get it done. Get inside of my ass, now!”

  I shake in absolute fear. I overstepped. I can’t do this. “I…”

  “Do it, Nakamura,” he fiercely rallies with his gorgeous ass before me. “Stop thinking and do it.”

  Pangs of guilt lash through me as I know I brought him to the breaking point. I dangled the steak in front of the beast, and now I must feed him. Or he will consume me.

  “What if I hurt you?”

  He falls onto his ass, and I notice his massive erection. “Let’s get one thing clear, lil girl. I’m a raging bisexual male for the right people. I like dick in my ass, and I don’t plan on this ever changing. You want this part of me. Come and take it. I will hand it over to you. But don’t lallygag or dick me around. Have the balls to match the piece.”

  Gone is the sensitivity and compassion. He’s unruly. Testing. Exacting. Empathy is a place we left in Maine. We’re playing hard—to draw blood. I crumble to my knees in tears.

  “… Is it like this for you?”

  “Every single fucking time I stick my dick in an orifice. All you girls want one of your own,” he yells, shaking his head and pointing at his dick. “Write your name. Play helicopter. Stroke one off. But you don’t realize what it takes to actually do what we do. Trust and responsibility are sourced in the shaft.”

  “I never knew,” I mutter, suffering emotionally with no hope of tender aftercare. “I didn’t know I would insult you so.”

  “You didn’t,” he proclaims. “But unless I’m going to be some sort of despicable man who steals vacant holes in the night, having the tool requires knowledge of the power it holds and the ability to use it properly. It can make a pleasurable night or a painful one. And those little emotional ropes tied to my dick are the hardest instrument in the world to learn how to strum.”

  Sobbing, I duck my head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “If you want to learn to play, bring it,” he challenges, gripping my fingers. His touch is our only bridge back and he can burn it down with one cold, hard stare. “Otherwise, get the hell out of the boy’s room.”

  I blink up, angrier than I’ve ever been because he isn’t just challenging my apparatus, but my entire future within the underworld, and I know it.

  With one swooping motion, I catapult him onto his back. “You want my fucking dick, Raniero?”

  “Yes!” He hisses through gritted teeth as I slide between his legs. “I do! If for no other reason than to cauterize the wounds of the last girl daring to do this and leaving me with a mess in my head.”

  I spit in my hand, coating my dick, and pressing the tip of my finger against his opening. “You stay this available…”

  “Not for just anyone,” he confides in our torrential storm. “Only those I love.”

  I kiss his belly, his chest, and his mouth. “I’m scared.”

  “Just do it,” he whispers against my lip as he coaches me on. “Take me over the edge, Darlin’. You may find something you never expected on the other side.”

  Feeling his throbbing dick against my belly, I yield. “... What if we can’t get back?”

  “You sh
ould be more concerned that you won’t want to come back.” His eyes beam with a steadfast anchor, holding my sway in his inferno. “Power is greedy. And it’s warm in hell, baby girl.”

  Closing my eyes tightly, I thrust in deep and hard as he moans with a low rumble of primal ecstasy like I’ve never heard. His hands grip my ass, forcing my moves, and I cannot escape his savage. I will never be able to erase it. I will never be able to forget it.

  New York shifted everything.

  Someone should have warned me a gentleman in a suit could be so cruel.

  20

  Who We Are

  The Master

  We’ve been driving for three hours. I’m thinking of last night as a rite of passage. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t expected something to shift within her soul. She needed to spread her wings and exert her power.

  Her power as a submissive being told what to do.

  Cruz has an innate mastery of this skill. He can hold power while still maintaining his surrender. It takes exceptional talent, understanding the precarious balance, but it is not Dominance.

  Not Dominance.

  Taking a dick up my ass doesn’t diminish Dominance. God, I wish that was on a flashing billboard of every fetish club worldwide. Submissives often believe anal to be the absolute relinquishing of self.

  I wholeheartedly disagree.

  Engaging in any activity without a safety net can become freeing. Albeit, emotionally dangerous, so best to have some faith before handing it over.

  Years ago, when I was getting sounded by my Pixie, I found my emancipation, but it’s different for everyone. One may view a gagging, deep throating as freedom, and another may believe coming on command is their liberation.

  People need to drop preconceived notions.

  Mileage varies; trek your own.

  I fundamentally believe submissive positions do not exist because it is all in the cortex. I get some asshole will think I’m just making excuses for being a damn finook—technically, mezzofinook. Grins. But this is not the case. I can be me—Dominant and alpha—and still enjoy anal.