Her Submission: The Boxed Set

by Aya Fukunishi

  She lay there insensible, her climax still rushing through her with full force, and it was a moment before she noticed Master had kicked open the driver's side door, hanging her body halfway out of the small car so he could position her ass over his knee. Through hazy eyes she watched as other cars drove by, her mind too full of exploding joy to worry about the spectators looking on in shock as Master put her over his knee like a naughty schoolgirl.

  Master tugged the cucumber roughly from her ass, leaving her tender pink hole raw and gaping. He yanked harshly until the condom snapped from the belt straps, and pulled the shaft from its wet latex case.

  Kathryn was insensible, barely aware of the warm cucumber sliding into her mouth. She held it there, sucking on it, as Master brought the flat of his palm down hard on her gaping asshole. He was onto his third spank before the pain began to register, the raw agony of her delicate, stretched asshole mingling deliciously with the pulsing fire throbbing in her pussy.

  It was heaven. What Master intended as a punishment only multiplied the power of her long awaited climax. With each firm slap to her raw, dripping ring Kathryn moaned in ecstasy until eventually, realizing the pleasure he was causing her, Master pulled the cucumber from her mouth and slid it back inside her, thrusting it back and forth as Kathryn's body writhed and convulsed beneath him. Even in her dazed, delirious state Kathryn could feel his erection growing beneath her belly.

  "Fuck me, Master!" she yelled, thankful for regaining the power of speech. "I've been a naughty girl! I must be punished!"

  Just those words were enough to send fresh waves of ecstasy flooding through her body. Feeling Master's cock swell beneath her on hearing her pleas made her come all the harder. She wanted him to join her in her pleasure, wanted to add to her own climax by enjoying his.

  Master was feverish now, dropping the cucumber to fuck her with his hand. Two thick fingers dipped into her dripping, red raw asshole as he used his other hand to unlock the padlock of the chastity belt. As the straps loosened he hooked his fingers inside her asshole, using them for leverage to tear away the dripping wet rubber, finally freeing her pussy.

  The sight of her pink, glistening cunt was enough to bring out the animal in Master. Kathryn knew he ached for her, and she was more than happy to allow him to take her as he pleased. Her body was his to use and she lay in his lap, supine and submissive, eager for him to take his prize.

  Master handled her roughly, dragging her from the Porsche and around to the trunk. With one hand he pushed her against the hot steel, and with the other he slipped his erection from his pants. The first thrust was rough and primal, spearing her tender, aching pussy painfully. Her lips stretched around him, welcoming his enormous shaft like an old friend, and she was squeezed up against the car as he pushed himself inside her down to his base.

  A glistening strand of drool escaped from Kathryn's lips as she was pounded violently. Master's stomach slapped against her tender, still gaping asshole, forcing a squeal of ecstatic pain from her. The underside of Master's glorious cock thrummed across her twitching clit, and Master's cock grew wetter with each powerful thrust. It was only a matter of seconds before he chose his moment to fill her to the brim with his thick, hot cream. He came loudly, roaring with ecstasy as he sprayed volumes of come deep inside her, and then slid out and took her asshole, his shaft stinging the raw, painful skin as it forced past Kathryn's bruised, tender ring. More come spurted into her, gushing and mingling with her own plentiful juices until her legs ran thick with it, the creamy mixture running down her thighs like molten wax.

  Master spun her around, forcing her to her knees and gripping her by the hair. He wanted to claim all of her holes, to fuck her completely, to assert his dominance after her failure to follow his command. She kneeled exhausted on the asphalt as Master pulled her mouth onto his dripping cock, forcing it deep into her throat before spraying his final thick jet across her tongue.

  He released her when he was done, allowing her ravished body to fall to the ground where she lay weak and dazed as Master slipped himself back into his trousers. When he was finally ready he reached down, took her hand and lifted her to her feet, supporting her when her knees buckled beneath her.

  Once he placed her back in the passenger seat, sitting in a pool of her own juices, he climbed in beside her and began to drive, taking the road slowly and carefully.

  "I'm sorry, Master. I'm so sorry I couldn't resist." Her voice took on a pleading tone. "I promise I'll do better next time. I promise I'll serve you better." She felt tears prick at her eyes.

  Master slowed the car and turned to her, his eyes now peaceful and free from his lust. "I'm so proud of you, Kathryn. There's no need to apologize. I should be apologizing to you for pushing you so hard, so soon. I'm just eager to move you along in your training. There are trials ahead, and I want to be sure you are ready to face them at my side."

  Kathryn smiled, leaned over to kiss him gently on the back of the hand. "At your feet, Master. I'll face them at your feet."

  He smiled, finally at peace, as the car turned into the driveway of Master's home.

  Her home.

  The following hot, steamy stories from Aya Fukunishi and KA Taylor are all available FREE OF CHARGE to Kindle Unlimited members. Just click the links to download your free copies straight to your Kindle!

  ~ The Dominated by the Billionaire Series ~

  At His Command

  On his Orders

  With His Consent

  For His Affection

  With Her Obedience

  ~ The Her Submission Series ~

  Her First Submission

  She Learns to Kneel

  Master Teaches Her Control

  ~ Standalone Books ~

  The Bangkok Nights Trilogy

  Erotica: Volume 1

  At the Mercy of the Witch

  In Every Hole: Tentacle Sex

  The Dictator's Concubine 2

  Begging For It: The Breeding Trilogy

  Learning to Love 2: Abi's Practical Sex Ed.

  Mating Amelie: Shifter Erotica

  My Lover the Bigfoot: Monster Erotica

  Ladyboy in the Water

  Satisfying Sarah

  Bondage in Bangkok

  Stepbrother, Where Art Thou?

  ~ Books from KA Taylor (Aya's romance pen name) ~

  Wolves of the Five Tribes: The First Alpha

  Wolves of the Five Tribes: Bloodcoat Rogue

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  Enjoyed this story? Then you'll love The Dictator's Concubine, a steamy tale of kidnap and obsession in Central Asia. Available now at all good bookstores.

  Chapter One

  Even today I struggle to explain the truth. I struggle to find the words to make people understand - truly understand, not just nod sympathetically while secretly believing I'm crazy, scarred and broken - the hold he had over me. I don't blame them for feeling this way. Unless you've been in that situation it's impossible to understand the power. You just can't understand why I did what I did.

  I'm asked often about it these days, and not just by friends and family. People are more curious than ever. With the Syrian uprising all over the news I'm often called by the media for my opinion. They want an insight into Assad's wife, Asma, the British woman who graduated from King's College before marrying a man who slaughtered his people. They want to understand how. How could an educated western woman love a man like that, a cold blooded murderer who thought nothing of razing a town to the ground; thought nothing of ordering the deaths of so many innocents? How could I?

  Of course I can't help them. When I first returned to the US I tried to write an opinion piece for The London Guardian but I couldn't even beat the first paragraph. I just didn't know what to say. How can a person possibly boil it down to a thousand words? An experience like that, being torn from your comfortable home in the US t
o serve as a sex slave for a despotic psychopath. To not only survive the ordeal, but to fall in love with your captor. To marry him. To give him a child. To smile and wave beside him as he casually slaughtered his people. How can I explain that in a way any normal person could understand?

  They - you, the media, my friends and family - forget that Alexei was never like Assad, at least not to me. As far as I knew he never put anyone to death other than murderers and rapists. I thought he was a good man. Rough and controlling, but good. Moral. Kind. Of course I was sheltered from it all. The stories emerging today paint a different picture, but while I was there I knew him as nothing but the man who loved me.

  It's been two years now. Two years I've been back in New York, and I still need a security detail to protect me. There are a few refugees here, those who escaped before Alexei locked down the borders and sealed his people into that nightmare, and some of them surely want me dead. I understand why. To them I must seem a monster. In their eyes I fiddled while Rome burned, enjoying my relationship and all the physical comforts of the palace while around me their families were subjugated, imprisoned... even killed.

  It was time, I decided, to explain myself. One day the bullet engraved with my name - my married name - will find me, and I'd like, at least, the opportunity to tell my story before it does.

  We'll begin at the beginning.

  My name is Sarah Romanov, neé Howard, and I was born in Albany, New York in 1984. In the fall of 2002 I enrolled at NYU to study International Politics, and it was just a week after classes started that I met Alexei Romanov, the ruler of a country I'd never even heard of.

  Of course we all know it now, but at the time it was just another of the many small, inconsequential states somewhere over there, out near the Caspian Sea on the broken fringes of the old USSR. Not many Americans could have pointed it out on a map, but there was no reason anyone ever would. People have more pressing matters to worry about than the state of the former Soviet republics, and this was just one of many.

  What we did know was that it was oil rich thanks to vast reserves in their waters beneath the Caspian. We knew it was ostensibly a democracy but in reality the elections were rigged. The monarchy was still firmly in charge. Alexei, a man you wouldn't recognize if you passed him in the street, had ruled since his father passed away in 1998, and he'd been in charge since the Russians left in '91.

  Prince Alexei Romanov controlled everything from the oil rigs to the national media. Following his father's death he'd been 'elected' with 96% of the vote, and by all accounts he was well loved. The oil flowed, the media reported nothing but good, and everyone seemed happy.

  Alexei was in New York to deliver a speech about the oil and gas pipeline that was being built beneath the Caspian. It would connect his supplies to Europe, bypassing Russia and releasing the continent from the choke hold the Russians had on it. Moscow had been hogging the natural gas reserves of Central Asia for years, and the US was ecstatic when Alexei proposed a direct pipeline. We were eager to do business, and Alexei was the guest of honor at the UN headquarters less than a month after he announced the pipeline.

  When my bike was hit by his limo as his motorcade sped down 3rd Avenue I suspect my government would have happily brushed the incident under the rug if he'd decided not to stop. But he did stop. Alexei himself was first out of the car, beating his bodyguards by five paces. He rushed over to me, freed me from the mangled wreckage of my bike. I passed out. I don't remember him picking me up, carrying me to the limo and speeding to hospital. I don't remember his limo running red lights, even when the police escort he left behind began to chase and the sirens blared.

  I remember waking up as he carried me into the emergency room. I remember the confusion as the cops were held back by his security, their weapons drawn. I remember Alexei pushing his way through the waiting crowds straight into the ward, yelling out for a doctor while my blood dried on his white shirt.

  I was sedated, and I slept for hours. When I finally awoke I found a fresh cast on my arm, but otherwise I seemed fine. No concussion. Miraculously my arm wasn't even seriously broken. My wrist had a hairline fracture, but other than that I escaped with just cuts and bruises.

  Alexei sat by my bed all day, waiting to apologize when I woke up. He missed his appointment at the UN. There was uproar in the media in the following days, at least until the story came out about what he was doing while the Assembly waited. Suddenly he was a hero; he was an everyman, someone the people could relate to. A good guy in a world of shady politicians.

  So that was how I found myself in Ashambe three weeks later. When I was discharged from the hospital I was met at the door by Alexei's Ambassador to the US. He handed me a check for $10,000 - to pay for a new bike, he said (Alexei never did understand the value of money) - along with a plane ticket to the capital via Istanbul, Turkey.

  Hidden in the envelope was a note, handwritten by Alexei himself, offering his heartfelt apologies for the accident and explaining that in his culture there was only one way to make things right. He'd have me in his home, an honored guest for as long as I pleased until the debt had been repaid.

  I was shocked. Over the moon, really. I'd never left the States, and the idea of visiting a country far from the tourist trail excited me. What's more, I'd get to stay in a palace. Me! I grew up in a two bedroom house in the suburbs, and at that time I was sharing a cheap studio with a fellow student who had a bad habit of bringing a different guy home every night.

  I was so excited that I didn't really notice the warning look in the eyes of the Ambassador. His words didn't seem to match his expression. He told me it was a great honor to be invited to the home of the Romanovs, but there was something not quite right about his expression, almost as if he was trying to discourage me with his eyes.

  The flight to Istanbul was incredible. First class. I was plied with champagne and fed dishes I'd never even heard of (my usual diet was ramen noodles and Diet Coke). I felt a little out of place in my sneakers and jeans, but the flight attendants treated me like royalty.

  It wasn't until we reached Istanbul that things started to go awry. I was led from the plane by a couple of security guys, all black suits, Aviators and bulges where they obviously carried pistols, just like in the movies. They led me out through a few fire escapes down to their car, a beat up old Toyota, and drove me out to a private hangar far away from the terminal.

  The plane waiting for me was... well, it wasn't first class. I don't know airplanes, but it was some kind of military model. A huge panel in the ass of the plane was lowered down to make a ramp wide enough to fit a tank, and the guys drove right in.

  As soon as we were on board the back of the plane closed and I heard the engines begin to run. The guys climbed out and left me in the back seat with the child locks on. I was worried now, getting angrier by the minute, wondering what was going on. I really needed to pee but there was nobody to shout to. Just me, in a car, in the middle of a huge cargo deck.

  A little after take off I climbed to the front seat to try the doors, but they were also locked. The horn worked, though. I blasted that thing for ten minutes until someone heard me. The man who finally arrived wasn't one of the men who'd driven me onto the plane, but a military looking guy in fatigues and a red beret. By that point I was screaming bloody murder, banging on the windscreen with my palm, and when he finally sauntered over to the car I was ready to kick the door off its hinges.

  That was the moment I realized something was seriously wrong. The guy calmly drew his firearm, a mean looking pistol, and tapped the barrel against the driver's side window. He raised a finger to his lips and shushed me, and then just turned and walked away. I shut up right away. I just couldn't believe this was happening.

  I don't remember much after that. I know I cried the whole flight and at one point, whether it was through desperation or just fear, I wet myself. I just sat there staring at the growing dark patch on my jeans, watching it as if it wasn't really me. As if it was just
a movie.

  The last thing I remember was a few hours into the fight when the military guy returned wearing a gas mask. He grabbed a long, thick hose attached to something that looked like a diesel generator by the car and held it against the air intake below the windscreen. Smoke began to pour through the vents. I remember it smelled like fruit, just like the gas I was given when I had my wisdom teeth extracted. That was that. I wasn't awake when we touched down.

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