RecipeforSubmission

by Sindra van Yssel

  He was. She yelled his name, not in anger but in ecstasy. He felt her pussy convulse around him. She flailed on the bed, pulling ropes taut, her hands gripping in little fists. Perfect. Such lovely breasts. Such lovely reactions. He could come now, safely, inside her. That was what he wanted, although…

  Your imagination. That was what she said. He wanted to mark her and yet leave her undamaged. Her tits beckoned him. He slid out of her channel, ripped off the condom, and moved forward, pushing her breasts together in his rough hands and sliding his cock between them.

  She nodded at him, wide-eyed, and then stretched her tongue out to flick his tip. The wet touch was like a jolt of fire shooting down his cock. That hadn’t been part of his plan. He knew he was clean but she didn’t. Still, spilling on her skin was safe enough. In her mouth, well…he knew it was safe. He pulled back but he couldn’t resist pushing forward again, and again her tongue teased him. He should make her stop. He couldn’t stand to. And he didn’t want to take his hands off her lovely breasts. One thrust more would do it, he knew, and he’d be all over her. She’d smell of him, taste of him, feel him spread out across her skin.

  He grabbed her hair, pulling her mouth away. It didn’t matter anymore that he couldn’t squeeze her against him, he was coming anyway, his seed shooting across her chest and her neck. “Ahhhhhhh.”

  “Yes, Sir, yes!” she screamed. She pulled against his grip to try to lick up the liquid on her chest. He held her firm. “Please let me taste you!”

  “You barely know me.”

  She turned aside as if he’d slapped her. It was the truth, wasn’t it? And yet he’d wanted to claim her. That had been what coming on her body had been about, rather than giving in to the so-seductive squeezes of her pussy and spilling inside the condom. He hadn’t been acting or thinking like a near stranger. Shit.

  “I’ll get a towel and wash that up.” He got up and headed to the adjoining bathroom, not sure what he could do to salvage the situation. But he had to do something.

  “Good idea.” Her voice was steady. She didn’t burst into tears or anything like that. She turned her head to watch him. He got back with a damp washcloth and a dry hand towel. He dabbed her clean then dried her off. “Maybe you should untie me too, please.”

  She hadn’t said her safe word, but he nodded. He’d been planning to anyway. Deftly he untied the knots that secured her wrists and ankles, leaving the ropes still attached to the bedposts. She sat up. “Thanks.”

  He turned to sit next to her on the side of the bed. “My pleasure, my total pleasure.”

  Her smile at that was thin, but at least it was still a smile. The way she leaned into him was nice. She was cuddly and warm, and his arm fit around her waist fine. “You said that ‘master’ was for slaves. What’s the difference between a slave and a submissive?” she asked.

  He recognized what she was doing, getting the conversation back on the familiar ground of research. Fair enough. “Ask a dozen people in the scene and you’d probably get twelve different answers, including that there isn’t any, that it’s just words people use. But to my mind a submissive is someone who gives up power for a scene, for a few minutes or a few hours of play, and then goes back to their normal lives. A slave is someone who gives up power to one person or a few people permanently, or at least for a very long time.”

  “Have you ever had a slave?”

  He shook his head.

  “You said a few people? You mean there are some people who are slaves to a group?”

  “Well, two, usually. Sometimes the slave is the center of attention, like a woman submitting to two heterosexual masters. Some people don’t like being the center of attention and submit to a married couple, or something like that. The reasons they might have are as varied as there are people, but it can be very comforting to belong as part of a group, obviously.”

  She frowned, snuggling closer, not really looking at him. “Sounds like a situation tailor-made for drama.”

  He nodded. Personally, he liked to have his attention on one person and have the same returned. “Sometimes. Some relationships go someplace, some end in a mess, just like in the vanilla world. But some people make it work. Either jealousy isn’t very strong with them, or they’ve worked it out well enough to enjoy the benefits despite the heartache.” He shrugged.

  “Oh. How about you, are you the jealous type?” She turned her face up to meet his gaze.

  “No commitment, no reason to get jealous. I’m not really the relationship type at all.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.” She was too quick with the words. Drew didn’t believe her for a moment. And he believed her even less as she giggled nervously and added, “Just footloose and fancy-free, that’s me.”

  “As long as we both have a good time, that’s the important thing.” He wasn’t sure he sounded any more convinced than she did. It had always been enough before. He didn’t intend ever to settle down. He didn’t object to it on principle, but settling down wasn’t for him. He wasn’t worried about whether his genes survived—he had three brothers and two sisters who were out populating the universe. There wasn’t any biological clock ticking away at him, as far as he was concerned. One thing about everyone being different, it also meant that no one was perfect. And no one person could satisfy all his desires.

  “I had a fun time. I guess I should be getting home, huh?”

  He knew if she walked out the door now he might not see her ever again. “You’d have to get your clothes on first,” he said dubiously.

  “That’s true.” She looked at him sideways. “I think I know how to do that, though.”

  Uh, yeah. It had been pretty lame. Having her right next to him, feeling her soft skin touching his arm, knowing how responsive her breasts were to sensations both gentle and intense made his heart race. His cock hadn’t softened the whole way yet, and in fact it was getting stiffer by the moment. “You’re welcome to stay the night, if you like.”

  She met his gaze and for a moment he thought he had her, that she was going to say yes. If she didn’t want to, he wasn’t a good judge of women at all. But she slowly shook her head no. “We barely know one another, after all.”

  He supposed he deserved that, but he didn’t have to like it. All because he’d turned down her request to taste him, for no good reason. He could have let her. Nothing bad would have come of it. The habit of being careful, of wanting people in the community to know that he took safe sex seriously, had made him pull back from a situation that he knew held no danger. Kyra didn’t care about the rules, anyway. “Very well. I’ll give you a ride back to your car, of course.” He sighed inwardly. “Would you give me your phone number, please?”

  She smiled. “I’d forgotten about that. I think I was imagining my car parked out front here. I don’t think I’d want to leave my car in that neighborhood overnight. Thank you, Sir.” The Sir reminded him of how much he’d slipped out of role. He didn’t usually let that happen. A sub wanted to know where she stood, after all. For whatever reason, he was off his game tonight.

  He got his own clothes as she stood and went downstairs to retrieve her bra and her blouse. He watched her back arch as she fastened the bra in back and as she buttoned her blouse to cover her skin. He pulled on his pants and his shirt. Her worries about her car stopped him from making another run at convincing her to stay. When she was done he stood and retrieved his cell phone.

  “Making a phone call?” she asked. She didn’t say Sir, and he was tempted to correct her, but now wasn’t the time. He’d been too lax about it for her to think it was required.

  “Entering your number.”

  “Did I say I was going to give it to you, Sir?” The corners of her mouth twitched up quickly before she got her face under control again, and he knew he had her.

  “No, but you are.”

  She rattled it off quickly, but he still got it on the first run-through.

  He kissed her, wrapping his arms around her, his lips hard against hers. Her
mouth opened slightly and he took it as an invitation, slipping his tongue in along hers. It was welcomed by hers, and for a couple of seconds their tongues danced.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He grinned. “My pleasure, Kyra.” He offered his arm and she took it.

  Chapter Six

  Kyra drove back to her suburban Maryland apartment feeling confused.

  Drew had waited watchfully until she had gotten in the car, gotten her engine started and was on her way home before turning away. In fact, he’d been every inch the gentleman from the moment he’d broken off that kiss, the sort of man her mother always wanted for her. The sort of man she’d thought she’d always wanted for herself. He was well-off too, owning a restaurant and a house in a nice neighborhood in the city. He wasn’t that far off from the detective in her books, the charming and single Garrett Chandler.

  But what made her heart beat faster wasn’t any of that. It was the wild expression on his face when he came all over her, which she was sure any good girl would have filed under the category of totally gross, and she’d always been a good girl. But in the afterglow of her own orgasm, tied up and helpless, that look, the one that said he’d take his pleasure however he liked, was heaven. He’d already shown, twice—three times if she counted the dinner—that he’d do what it took to see to her satisfaction. With most men she’d dated that was high on her worry list. Drew was the first man she’d ever been uncertain would accept pleasure from her.

  “Okay,” she said aloud, trying to break the lonely silence inside the car. “So the sex is good and he can cook. He also isn’t interested in a relationship, and the moment it goes beyond a few good times, he’s outta there, and then some other man is going to have to measure up or I’ll die as a batty old maid.” Damn him.

  It started to rain. There was no way she was going to find a space close to her apartment, not at this time of night, and she hadn’t brought her umbrella. “The perfect end to a perfect evening.” She said it sarcastically but upon reflection she decided that it hadn’t actually been too far from the perfect evening. The dinner was perfect. The sex was perfect. The way he told her that she was going to give him her phone number was totally arrogant, of course, but also damn close to perfect. There were only a few off notes. “You barely know me.” And I said much the same to him. I should have stayed the night, rather than taking my moment of spite. Even if something happened to the car, it would have been worth an insurance hassle.

  She turned into the parking lot and found she was spot-on about the parking spaces. An old newspaper lay in the backseat so she grabbed that and held it over her head while she raced across the asphalt as fast as she could go on her heels. The paper started dripping through halfway to the door. She punched in the security code and ran inside, eager to get her wet clothes off.

  The next morning was just as frustrating. She woke up wondering what Drew would have made for breakfast. It didn’t inspire her to do any cooking, however, and she settled for pouring milk on muesli and drinking a glass of orange juice. Would Drew have wanted to have sex with her before breakfast? After? During? There was no way of knowing. He was unpredictable.

  Well, he had her number. She had writing to do.

  Three days passed and he didn’t call. She’d decided her BDSM villain wouldn’t do for the murderer after all. She had better things to do with him. He made a hell of a good red herring, the way she had things set up, but really, the husband of the first victim made a better murderer. Killing off his wife for submitting to a dark and powerful Master, then killing off other women to frame his wife’s lover for the crime—it was perfect.

  The Master, naturally, was modeled after Drew, although he didn’t seem the type to make love to another man’s wife. Then again, “You barely know me”, he’d said. Was she projecting her preferences onto him? She shook it aside, focusing on her character and the novel rather than on the dubious nature of her reality. One way or the other, she was getting a certain amount of pleasure out of killing off all the Master’s other women, one by one. Footloose and fancy-free—not the jealous type, not me. And pigs can fly.

  The phone rang and she grabbed for it. But there was no one there. Dammit, he insisted on getting my phone number, why hasn’t he called? Then again, she reminded herself, some people have lives that aren’t quite as flexible. Maybe the restaurant business is making demands. Or maybe he’s tying some other woman to a bed and making her scream in ecstasy.

  Grrrrr.

  She decided she was in the right mood to write a particularly gruesome murder scene, so she skipped ahead and went to it. Then Garrett, after taking a look at the body—he had an iron stomach, Garrett did—ended up getting into a long dialogue with his Police Inspector friend, and by the time she looked up it was nearly five in the afternoon and she hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Her tummy was rumbling. She looked at the crystal bowl, a present from her sister that sat next to her computer, but it was empty of chocolates and she knew the bag she refilled it from was empty too. She’d been munching rather a lot the last few days. It was time for a real meal, something healthy, something scrumptious. She deserved a reward for all the work she’d done. But rather than a restaurant popping into mind, she found herself thinking of Drew’s seared tuna steaks. She frowned and then she smiled.

  I may not know his phone number, and there’s no way I’m going to show up at his house. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know where to eat dinner. She Googled Ryan’s restaurant, got an address on Wisconsin Avenue in Northwest DC and called to make a reservation.

  “Just one, madam? We can seat you at six, but I’m afraid our later times are spoken for until nine-thirty.”

  She could make six. No wonder Drew was busy, if finding a table for one on a Wednesday night was that much of a challenge. “I’ll take it.”

  “Your name, madam?”

  She smiled. Drew would recognize her name if he saw the list. But what were the chances? She was probably safe and she didn’t know which way to play it, anyway. Let him know she was on her way, or just pop up? “Mallory. Just Miss Mallory, if you would.”

  “Very well, Miss Mallory, you have a table reserved for six. We look forward to seeing you.”

  She looked in vain for the tuna dish on the menu and then ordered the Salmon Florentine. Salmon in a sauce made from artichokes sounded as if it would be good.

  “And how would you like that cooked, ma’am?” The waitress was a decade younger than her and wore a skirt short enough that it probably got her extra tips from the male patrons. She wasn’t the only pretty waitress on staff, she’d noticed, nor the only one provocatively dressed. Kyra tried to avoid glaring at them as they walked by.

  “Um, medium I guess.”

  “Very good. I’ll put your order in promptly.” The waitress scooped up the menu from the table and turned to go.

  Kyra remembered the tuna.

  “Actually, I changed my mind.”

  The waitress turned back, a carefully bland expression on her face.

  “You don’t have any tuna on the menu, do you?” She knew better, because she’d searched through it three times.

  “No ma’am.” Her face didn’t betray annoyance but it wasn’t as full of warmth as it had been, either.

  “Ah, well, I’ll have the salmon seared, then.”

  “That’s very rare, Miss Mallory. Rarer than the rare would be. If you like it medium, then seared will not be to your liking.”

  “Seared.” Kyra’s voice was firm.

  “As you wish, Miss Mallory. Will that be all?”

  “Tell Mr.— No, that’s all.” She wanted to attract Drew’s attention without making him feel fenced in. Someone who detested relationships wouldn’t want to feel cornered. And maybe the rules of the game said that he was supposed to make the next move anyway. Maybe submissives were supposed to wait.

  Screw that. Kyra opened her mouth, but the waitress was already ten feet away and receding.

  She glowered at her diet cola
and sipped. Nothing left to do but wait for the food. At least one advantage of ordering it super rare was that it wouldn’t take long to make. Coming to Ryan’s had seemed a good idea but now she felt trapped. Nothing was going to happen. If she could believe that with her whole heart, she could settle back and enjoy her food when it came. But the thought that something might, that Drew might be there, was enough to make her edgy.

  Time ticked away. She saw other people who had ordered after her get their food, but hers still hadn’t arrived. The waitress went past her, ignoring her raised hand. Kyra was sure the girl saw it, but she steadfastly refused to make eye contact. She sighed. She’d been on such a roll. If she’d grabbed some fast food she’d be typing madly away instead of getting all frustrated.

  The waitress came back, holding a tray. Finally. Then she saw a handsome dark-haired waiter in a bow tie following, holding a bucket of ice with a bottle of white wine in it, and a glass. She hadn’t ordered any wine. Obviously it wasn’t her food. Dammit.

  The waitress placed the tray in front of her. “Salmon Florentine.” The salmon was so covered in creamy light green sauce that it was hard to see, but it was there. The broccoli on the side looked so fresh she thought she might try it and she hated broccoli.

  “Thank you.” Kyra’s frustration was gone in an instant. The food smelled so good, her mouth watered.

  The waitress didn’t say a thing but picked up her cola and took it away. It was half full still, and she hadn’t asked for a refill.

  The waiter stepped forward, set the glass on her table, and started to uncork the wine.

  “I didn’t order any wine.”

  He smiled at her as if she’d been speaking some obscure foreign language and poured. Weren’t they supposed to let her sniff the cork? Maybe he spoke Spanish. She didn’t. “Mi no—” She stopped, and tried again. “No vino.” Was that Spanish or Latin?

  He smiled at her again, bowed deeply. “Bon appétit, mademoiselle.”