Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  Mia took Syria’s hand and laid it on her breast, and Syria tweaked the nipple. Mia’s hips lurched upward. Syria kneeled between her legs and used her other hand to stroke the marks on her belly, soothing the pain away.

  The stage emptied as she worked over Mia and now they were the focus of the room, although she could see the gentle gyrations of the lithe girls on the men’s laps, large dark hands clasping their pale bodies. Most of them no longer wore their sheer wraps, but were servicing the men’s pleasure.

  Syria shut all that out and focused on Mia, who sat up and untied Syria’s halter. The gossamer fabric fluttered away. Syria lay fully on Mia now, back to the familiar, her friend and lover. She kissed the red marks, and her tongue could feel the groove of the indentions. “My Mia,” she whispered on her skin.

  But Mia was impatient and thrust against her. Syria moved downward, tongue reaching her folds, hot and slick. And Mia bucked upward instantly, crying out, and the music came down to a soft undertone so the room could hear her.

  The attention was intoxicating and Syria plunged in, flicking her tongue on Mia’s clit, her hands bracing Mia’s body to keep her in place. Mia required little contact at all and rose almost instantly into an orgasm, the muscles tightening and clenching. She hadn’t even subsided completely when Mia lurched forward, switching their positions, mouth hot on Syria’s nipple.

  Mia’s arms were weak from her bondage and began to tremble as she tried to work. The man who had used the candles approached and slid a soft length of silk along her rib cage and her hips, quickly tying a simple cradling suspension that took her weight off, looping it through the dangling hook above.

  Mia relaxed and now swung freely over Syria, nipping at her skin, and tugging on the skirt.

  Am I really doing this? Syria lost her concentration and realized where she was, lying on a stage, her clothes coming off.

  Two girls arrived and helped Mia remove Syria’s boots, and the skirt. Mia pulled down the panties and plunged fingers inside.

  Her knees still touched the floor, only her upper body suspended, and she scooted backward. The man lowered her silks enough that her lips could encircle Syria’s belly button and now Syria was lost again, forgetting the audience, only the rhythm of the fingers and mouths, their bodies that fit together with familiarity.

  Mia seemed to be recovering and worked downward, her mouth fitting over Syria’s mound, sucking lightly on the clit. Syria’s cry seemed to wake the audience and the man with the candle, who had hovered closely, began to run his hands along Mia’s back.

  He whispered something in her ear and Mia lifted her head and nodded. Even as Mia returned to Syria, the man moved behind her, stroking Mia’s hips and bending over her back.

  God, he was joining in. Syria reached over her head for something to hold on to and was immediately given a spreader bar. Madam quickly tied her wrists to it and the effect was intoxicating, the helplessness adding to both her fear and her excitement. Mia worked her carefully, both fingers and mouth. Syria saw the other man over Mia’s shoulder, hands on her back, and he must have entered her because Mia cried out against Syria’s skin. The three of them rocked together and the music rose again, filling the space with a ghostly melody.

  Smoke from the men’s cigarettes formed small spirals. The lithe girls moved from one man to another, kissing, sucking, kneeling, bending over to be entered. Syria was consumed with the vision of the men and the girls, Mia between her legs, the heat wafting from the whirring machines, and Madam looking down, no longer disapproving, but content, her eyes alight on the scene.

  The man behind Mia shuddered, clutching at her waist. Another one approached and Mia nodded again. The risk, the craziness. How could she do it?

  Mia sensed her distraction and worked harder, plumbing all her knowledge to hit Syria’s sensitive spots, and now the cascades came over her, pleasure and light, the world blurring. She tightened into the orgasm, her voice louder than the flutes and the eerie strings, so much more outwardly passionate than the silent men and their slender waifs.

  The sparks showered into light and came down. Syria settled onto the floor, feeling each grain of the hardwood planks. Mia ran her hands up and down her belly, smoothing her skin, rocking with the push of the new man behind her.

  A third man approached, kneeling by Syria, and she felt panicked. She wouldn’t! Couldn’t! Mia was one thing, but there was Tyson!

  The man unzipped his pants, leaning near Syria’s face. With Mia on her and the spreader bar immobilizing her hands, she was helpless. A small cry escaped and Mia must have felt it as she looked up and reached for the man, bringing him closer to her until his stiffening cock was close enough, and Mia drew him into her mouth.

  Syria laid her head back, relieved, but what if others came after her? The second man behind Mia finished and stepped away. Mia pulled away from the man’s cock and looked behind her. He moved around to finish the job inside her.

  Syria watched him, his hands squeezing Mia’s breasts. They moved together, and Mia dropped her forehead to Syria’s belly, letting the silks hold her weight as the man’s movements expanded and rocked the three of them, as though they were a pendulum moving together in time.

  When he stepped away, the candle man released the silks, slowly lowering Mia to lie flat on Syria’s body. It seemed over now, and Syria relaxed. They’d gotten through it.

  She caressed her friend, the still-visible marks on her back. The men who had serviced her stayed near, and now all their hands worked over Mia, massaging, caressing. All their skin became one, and Syria felt them on her as well, grazing her gently, following the curves of her body. Something hot dripped along her skin and she saw the candle branding them all, blood-red wax falling on her shoulder, one man’s wrist, Mia’s back, and the other man’s arm.

  She couldn’t take the photograph but she seared the image of them in her mind, limbs, clothes, naked skin, and red wax, surrounded by ropes, ghost-like wraiths, and sex.

  She had survived.

  2: Aftermath

  They slept together a while, Syria and Mia, on the plush chaise in the dressing room. The attendants rubbed balm into Mia’s skin then covered them both in furry blankets.

  The music still swelled outside the door and Syria knew the festivities went on. Whiffs of cooking meat and other luscious scents occasionally penetrated the walls. Syria laid her head back on Mia’s chest to wait.

  Sometime later, the door opened, and Madam entered the room. Syria watched her cross before them and pushed Mia’s shoulder, causing her to stir.

  Madam was patient and waited for them both to fully wake. Mia sat up and they huddled close, ready, Syria guessed, to accept their ejection from the exhibition, or whatever might happen.

  “You did well, submissive,” Madam said formally, tall and broad in the Sapphire robes, like a life-sized gem. “No one expected a public display between you two, but it was thoroughly enjoyed by the audience. The monetary contributions following your act will ensure the exhibitions continue for some time.”

  She passed them each a jade silk purse. “Gifts for you. You are invited back, should you want to come. You know how to find me.”

  She moved to leave, but Syria held out her hand. “Madam, I would still love to learn more ties.”

  Madam bowed. “You know how to find me.”

  When she left the room, Mia jumped up. “This was nuts! Did I really gangbang three dudes on a stage?” She whirled in a circle, clasping the blanket to her. “Holy cow!” She opened the jade purse. “Gold coins? What?” She dumped them in her hand. “What a strange thing!”

  She plopped back on the chaise. “I’ve done some crazy shit in my life, but this just about beats all. Did you see those girls having sex with all the men? What the hell?” She dropped the coins back in the bag. “Talk about an orgy. All those fancy men were just doing it with all the girls in front of everybody!”

  Syria reached for her clothes, piled neatly on a table by the chais
e. “This wasn’t what I expected at all.”

  “It’s like a sex club, but with bondage, the good kind.” She pulled out one gold coin and bit it. “Ouch. Why do pirates do that?”

  Syria laughed. “The softer the gold, the more pure it is.”

  “Huh. I should have known that.” She held the coin up. “Teeth marks. That’s a good sign?”

  “I’m guessing so.”

  “Crazy.”

  Syria looked around for her bag, but it wasn’t with her clothes. “I guess I’ll have to go back out there for my purse.” She put on her coat to cover the sheer top. “I think we’ve been dismissed.”

  Mia pulled her boy shorts on. “Yeah, I think I’ve had enough for one day.”

  Syria tied her belt. “I was surprised you said yes. You have no idea who those guys are.”

  Mia shrugged. “Risk is part of the job description. It seemed like an amazing thing to experience.”

  “It was.” Syria opened the door a crack. “I think things are winding down. I don’t hear any music.”

  “You want me to go with you? I just have to pull myself together.” Mia looked in the mirror and grimaced. “I look like a used-up whore.”

  Syria laughed. “Your makeup is a little smudged.”

  “Ha. I’m a poster child for Pond’s cream.”

  “I’ll be all right. Let me find my bag and I’ll be back.” Syria opened the door and slipped into the hall. Her livelihood was in that bag. She hoped no one had peeked inside or worse, set it too sharply on the floor.

  She tiptoed down the hall. All the doors were still closed. The lights were more dim than they had been when she’d come through with Kana. Where was everybody?

  In the main hall, the chairs were still in place, but the men were gone, along with the white gauze girls. A couple stage lights lit the space.

  Her bag was still on the counter. She sighed with relief. As she headed for it, Erik and one of the men who’d been with Mia on stage emerged from the dark. An attendant rose from behind the counter to hand them their coats.

  “Oh!” Syria stepped back. “I just came for my bag.”

  The attendant lifted it, but it had listed sideways, and a sheaf of Syria’s business cards fell from an outer pocket. She picked up the bag and tried to scoop up the cards, but several dropped to the floor.

  “Allow me.” Erik bent to retrieve the errant cards, examining one. “Syria McMillan. You’re a photographer?” He flipped over the image. “Boudoir?”

  Oh boy. “I am.” Syria wasn’t sure if she should ask for the cards back, or offer him one. They would know who she was. This new life she’d been leading, which felt like a private secret with her and Tyson and Mia, now seemed to be leaking out. Her stomach quivered, imagining what might happen if she became known for this, if everyone who called her for photos thought she’d have sex with them.

  But Erik handed her the stack back. “Nice work. And nice meeting you.” He bowed to her, and she awkwardly bowed back. He was Filipino, not Japanese, but it was a nice tradition. She wished more people bowed.

  The other man also bowed and the two of them passed her to exit down a different corridor. The real one, Syria surmised, not one for the help.

  At least she had not had sex with anyone but Mia. Somehow this made her feel better. She waved to the attendant and scurried back to the dressing room to catch up with her friend and escape.

  3: Doubt

  Syria sat on the bed the next day with her coils of rope, trying to tie her own legs with a more elaborate knot than the double column. She wasn’t flexible enough, or something. The loops wouldn’t lie flat. She needed something to practice on.

  A Santa doll sat on the bedside table. It was a gift her father had mailed to her from India when she was eight, the only time he ever acknowledged that Syria was his daughter. She kept it out year-round.

  Syria picked the doll up and laid it in front her, quickly making a coin knot on his chest. That was always easy.

  She undid the tie and began a chest bind. When Syria brought the rope down to his groin, the purple cord cutting into the white fur, she flung the doll across the bed. This was her father’s only gift, and she was doing bondage with it!

  She tried to picture this man, who had known her mother only a few days, and lied about his marriage and other children during their brief affair. Maybe she shouldn’t be sentimental. She didn’t even know him, and yet, something inside her insisted she find him.

  Syria lay back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. If her father knew what she’d been doing at that exhibition, what would he think? Would she be the sort of daughter he’d want to have?

  The tears flowed out then, hot and unexpected. Syria wasn’t one for crying, hardly ever, but now they came, fast and unstoppable.

  She’d chosen boudoir photography as a profession because she was good at it. Anthony, who’d taught her, told her she had an eye for lighting women. She’d felt until now that she’d made the perfect choice.

  But even if she did contact her father, how could she show him her work? Her mother had simply nodded at the sample Syria had shown her, neutral about the whole thing. Of course, she’d only revealed the glamorous head shots, but still.

  “What am I doing?” she shouted at the ceiling. Would she still be Photoshopping flabby arms and nipple slips when she was fifty? Seventy?

  The sights and sounds of the exhibition came back to her, distorted like a dying carnival ride, skin slapping, men grunting, the gauze girls kneeling before cock after cock.

  Syria rolled on her stomach and tugged at an envelope on the side table, spilling photographs across the bed. Her mother, glowing and happy, tight against her father. He’d lied! Why did she want him in her life at all? He’d let her go to save his own skin after getting caught, the eight-year-old secret busted wide open.

  The pictures slid toward her, into the valley created by her elbows. Her father looked at her earnestly, his dark eyes a match for hers. Did he have many affairs? Was her mother a one-time thing or a regular habit? She tried to picture him in the chairs before the stage, a girl on his lap, watching a sex show, watching her. Hell, she didn’t know who he was. Who’s to say he might not show up at something like that?

  God, this was fucked up.

  She had normal friends, people she hung out with before meeting Tyson and Mia, people she’d photographed and liked. She should call them up, do normal things, like go to movies and eat pizza and sit around coffee shops.

  Except she didn’t want that, not any of that.

  She wanted the bondage and the sex and the photography and the thrill.

  She snatched up her phone, sending a video chat request to Tyson. It wasn’t quite noon. He shouldn’t be working.

  Request failed.

  The phone automatically connected with a regular phone call. Instead of Tyson’s chipper voice, she got a generic message that the user was not in a coverage area. Weird.

  Syria face-planted into the pillow. Buck up, bimbo. Her life was great, really. She felt so much more alive than before. Sure, she was probably going to run into a hairy situation now and again, like at the exhibition. Her face bloomed hot just thinking about it. Tyson and Mia were used to this sort of public attention. He was a stripper and Mia was a contortionist in a sex show.

  But not her. She’d just had sex in front of strangers.

  She thought of the gold coins sitting on her dresser. For money!

  “Arrrghh!” She shouted into the pillow. She needed to work out or something. Take a walk. Actually, she knew just the thing.

  4: Surprise Vist

  “Bend your knees, tuck the pelvis in, chest up, arms in second position.”

  Syria tried to follow the instructional video on her TV screen, but her body had a mind of its own. The woman snapped her hip in one direction with a sharp pop. The bells around her waist jingled merrily.

  Syria tried again. Snap. Pop. Her bells sounded like crushed metal.

  “Sq
ueeze right. Squeeze left.” The instructor showed the move from the back. Syria felt sure they’d removed frames or something. A hip just didn’t DO that. Be in one place one second and further to the side in the same second.

  She tried a few more pops and burst into giggles. Maybe she should take a live class, let someone diagnose her faulty hips. She spun in circles, trying to make the bells tinkle as fetchingly as the girl on the screen.

  A voice came from the hall. “Now that is a tempting beck and call.”

  Syria dropped her arms. Was she hallucinating?

  Tyson leaned against the doorframe to the living room. Syria wanted to scream, laugh, cry. He was here!

  “Don’t you ever knock?” she asked.

  “Don’t you ever lock your front door?”

  In two steps they were in a tight embrace, a hard-core hug, like they were the only two people left in the world.

  “You said mid-December.”

  He pulled back to look at her. “I like surprising you.”

  “But how—”

  “Mia called me. Said if I could come, I should come.”

  Syria stepped away and sat on the sofa. “Did she tell you about the exhibition?”

  “Not really. But I got the feeling something happened. I only had to cancel two gigs, and they weren’t good ones. Worth it.”

  “But the ticket must have cost you a fortune, last minute, the weekend after Thanksgiving.”

  “Nah, mom works for an airline. I can go non rev as long as I’m willing to get bumped. It wasn’t too bad. Most people traveled last week.” He sat next to her and pulled her close. “You want to tell me what happened?”