Fifty Shades of Fairy Tales Omnibus

by Roxxy Meyer, Leigh Foxlee

  “Since that club in New York,” I finally told him, when he continued to glare at my silence. “The one you and Roxy told me about, before she left…”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been with Roxy in over a year, so that means--”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off. “It’s been a year and a half.”

  His sigh dripped frustration. “You know, you let your old patterns creep back in every time you deny your dominant side.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me today,” I snapped. “And don’t bring up my mother.” Then I sipped my coffee and hoped he’d drop it. But I knew my tenacious friend too well. He wouldn’t. In addition to running Surrender Inc., Dmitri and I both worked as psychiatrists. He specialized in sex therapy and I in abnormal psychology. I wondered then, was it irony that a woman specializing in abnormal psychology couldn’t conquer her own mental demons? Every time I thought I won the battle, somehow I let them come creeping back.

  He took my hand then, studied my face with eyes that showed compassion. “You’re lonely. I know. And you’re not a failure as a female because you’re dominant. Your mother was wrong. We both know that. She was just too stuck in her paradigm to see it.”

  I nodded, then I growled at him, “I thought I told you not to bring up my mother?”

  He sipped his coffee, then in his trademark deadpan, quipped, “Wanna fight about it?” A stoic, quiet man, he never cracked a smile when he cracked a joke, and when I first met him I couldn’t tell if the bastard was kidding or serious.

  “Will you promise never to bring up my mother again if I go to Sanctuary this weekend?”

  With a smile, he held out his hand to shake. “It’s a deal.”

  ***

  I don’t hate my mother. Let’s get that straight right off. I’m not one of those affluent kids who blames my parents for everything. I loved her, I miss her, and I wish she and I had come to fully understand each other before she died. But life doesn’t always give us what we wish for. Mom meant well when she was alive. I know she thought what she did was right. She was just operating on an out of date ideology she thought was universal. I get that. It’s just, every now and again, the guilt comes back and gnaws. Reminds me why I am the over achiever I am.

  ‘Girls are girls,’ she would say. ‘And boys are boys.’

  ‘Girls wear pink. Boys wear blue.’

  I hate pink, for the record.

  ‘Girls shouldn’t be aggressive. Why are you so aggressive, Mildred?’

  ‘You got your dress all dirty, Mildred. Why can’t you be like other girls and like dolls?’

  “Stop torturing yourself,” I said, and slapped my forehead as if it would shake the thoughts from my mind.

  But there were good memories, too. A lot of them. Like how she had come to accept me before she passed away from a slowly failing heart. How proud she was of me when I graduated from university with honors.

  ‘You’re so smart, my darling. Yes, I wish you’d have gotten married instead of going to college, but…’

  Or after I set up my own practice, and she came to visit me in the city.

  ‘I know we’ve had our quarrels, darling, but I want you to know I’m glad you succeeded. Oh, yes, I wanted different for you. Would’ve liked grandchildren. I’ve never hid that. But I’m proud of you just the same, and I love you.’

  So Mom was always a mixed bag of emotions. I never resented her, because I truly believe she didn’t use passive aggression with malice. She was simply doing what her mother did to her, and she thought it was how you handled a kid. She and I were never close when I was little, because, back then, she seemed to keep me at arm’s length out of her disappointment. I wanted her acceptance so badly, I strove to hide my aggressive side, but my ambition and need to be who I was always won out. She distanced herself, as if she couldn’t handle I wasn’t the child she wanted me to be. I feared I’d broken her heart, feared her rejection, and the guilt cycle started then and there.

  But as I drove up to the expansive grounds and palatial manor that encompassed Surrender Sanctuary, I put thoughts of mom to rest. Now was my time, and my stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and fear. I couldn’t chicken out, or I’d never hear the end of it from Dmitri. And though he and Roxy, his own partner and playmate, had recently amicably parted ways and he probably wouldn’t be here tonight, I knew he’d hear through the Surrender grapevine if I didn’t show up. That thorough bastard would be sure to check in and see if I did, indeed, pay the visit I had promised to make.

  “Hello Ms. Monroe,” said the young lady with almond eyes and flawless, champagne colored skin. She stood behind the guest desk, waiting for me. “We were hoping you’d join us tonight.”

  I quirked my eyebrow up. “Dmitri already called to check on me then?”

  She tried to stifle a laugh, but couldn’t. “Yes, actually, he did.”

  I scrawled an “MMM” over the dotted line. My full name is Mildred Millicent Monroe. How’s that for kicks and giggles? I tell people to call me Millie and forget the rest.

  It’s been over a year and a half since I played as a femdom. I can’t deny I enjoy the role and the role playing. I love exerting erotic control over a male, to will when he comes, to watch him writhe from pleasure I conjure within him. Give me a submissive, sweet, shy man and I’m as happy as a kid in a sandbox. But sometimes my guilt rears its ugly head over my enjoyment of this more aggressive side of me. That and Mom also tried to teach me sex was always bad for the woman, and only men enjoyed it. So, of course, since I developed intense sexual urges with puberty, I felt it was just one more thing to make me a disappointment in Mom’s eyes. Girls, after all, weren’t supposed to have those.

  But Dmitri was right. I had to conquer my cycles and enjoy my life. All work and no play would make Millie a dull girl. Tonight I’d opted for the royal treatment, even though I did fight twinges of guilt for doing so. I held so much guilt, you would’ve thought I was Catholic instead of an atheist. I’d signed up for the Surrender Submissives Ball, and a selection of submissives would be displayed for our choosing.

  “This way, Ms. Monroe,” a stocky built man with trimmed salt and pepper beard, balding pate, and thin rimmed glasses offered me an arm. He would guide me to the room where I would choose my playmate for the night.

  He led me into a vast space that reminded me of a ballroom. The area was done up in sumptuous red carpet and gold leaf wallpaper. Columns of carved, pale oak were set at regular intervals, their long, cylindrical bodies stretching from floor to domed ceiling. Couches of gold, crème, and red also dotted the floor.

  People dressed in all manner of sexy costumes, or formal wear, milled about. These were other doms, ready to choose their subs for the evening too. Soon, a bevy of willing compliant men and women would be ushered through the double, golden doors to my right.

  The entrance parted, and I held my breath. Excitement built a warm cocoon around my heart. I was near the back, so I made my way through the crowd to get a better look, my floor length, scarlet gown swishing over the carpet as I did so. I felt like a little girl about to climb the fence, just after Mother had told me not to. The giddy anticipation of doing something she’d deem most inappropriate and naughty swirled inside my head.

  I spotted him moments after I made it to the head of the room. He reminded me of a faun from Roman mythology. A shy, young one. The young man was a bit taller than me, built slender, but his sinewy frame, on full display in nothing but a thong, showed strength. He looked young, but I knew you had to be at least twenty-two to work for Sanctuary. Dark auburn hair curled about his slightly pointed ears. When his amber eyes met mine, I noticed they turned up a bit at the corners, giving him this dreamy eyed look that made him all the more adorable. He smiled back when I smiled, but promptly dropped his gaze in the proper submissive response.

  It was at that moment I knew I had to have him. I tried to rush over, while still looking casual, hoping to snap him up as my sub before anyone else coul
d proposition him for the evening.

  A well made up woman with long, straight black hair chatted with him. My heart sank as I watched. Doms were not allowed to argue over the submissives. The choice of playmate was ultimately up to the sub, and if they agreed to go with the one who first asked, then it was first come, first serve. But after a polite smile and a nod of her head, she moved on, and I swooped in.

  I came up at his side while he was looking in the other direction. When I said, “Hello” I startled him, and those amber eyes went wide, sparkling as they turned toward me.

  “Hello,” he said, speaking softly. His voice was deeper than I expected. An intriguing contrast to his lithe frame and passive nature.

  “Millie. Trust me, you don’t want to know my full handle.” I offered my hand, which he pressed to his lips for a tender kiss. This was protocol at a Submissives Ball, or so Dmitri had told me when he gave me brief instructions before I left for Sanctuary earlier.

  “I’m Ryan.” He smiled when our eyes next met, but he didn’t hold my gaze for long. His shyness made him instantly endearing to me. I have a tender heart for a boy who goes to social goo around a gal. It was part of the reason I’d tucked my best friend Dmitri under my wing. He, in turn, tucked me under his. We helped each other conquer our past baggage.

  He had a fox face, I decided, up close. Sharp at the chin, wide across the eyes. It gave him this permanently innocent look. Like a little boy lost. You just wanted to take his hand, tell him ‘Come with me,’ and protect him forever.

  Forever? Cripes, Millie, it’s one night. Get a hold of yourself, woman, I scolded myself.

  “Ryan, may I request your services as my submissive?” I spoke the protocol question Dmitri gave me.

  His sweet, fox face broke in a wide smile as he offered me his arm. “I would be honored, milady.”

  I asked an attendant where the private rooms were, and after he directed us, we strolled up some wide steps and into a hallway. Light oak doors lined the white walls, while more crimson carpet called attention to the floor.

  “Okay, fill me in,” I told him. “ This is my first visit. My fellow Sanctuary member said these rooms are themed. What’ve they got on offer?” You’d think being part owner I’d know this stuff, but I only vaguely remembered most of the motifs I’d agreed upon with the other board members. Not that the place didn’t matter to me. I’d just buried myself so deep in work, as per my usual, I’d forgotten what our playground held.

  He turned to me, gave a shy smile. “This is my first night here, too. I’ve had the tour, though, as part of my training. There are rooms offering everything from an outer space to a Wild West experience. Then there’s more standard dungeon themes, too.” He named a few more themes, but I stopped him when he mentioned the Gothic Room.

  “That’s the one I want,” I said, feeling my smile grow wide. Thoughts of old B-horror flicks with towering homes that held shadowy hallways and dark secrets filled my imagination.

  He nodded and led the way.

  Deep plum wallpaper, with a fine thread of silver stripes running through it, draped the room. Carved spanking benches made of dark walnut were scattered about the floor. Deep plum cushions topped these, and the manacles for wrists and ankles were made of the softest leather.

  Vases of wine and white roses also accented the area, and lent it a lovely, sweet perfume. The walls were dotted with sconces that held gas lit torches, which flickered like fireflies under their glass domes. A massive bed loomed against the back wall, draped in more plum and silver finery. It’s dark walnut head and footboard tapered upward into spiny columns that helped to hold the heavy bed curtains back.

  “Before we begin,” he spoke softly, drawing closer when I stopped to admire the bed, “I should let you know…I’m a virgin.” I turned to face him, and his next words fell in a nervous flurry. “I know you didn’t request a virgin. I’ll understand if you want to choose someone else.”

  His fear of rejection showed on his soft face. It made him all the more adorable and charming. How could I turn away such a sweet submissive? I’d never been with a virgin before. The few sweet, tender boys I’d found in college had one or two girls before me. He seemed ashamed by this admission, but I saw nothing to be ashamed of, and I wanted to let him know that.

  I turned and placed my hand on his shoulder, stroking it lightly. “I chose you, and I’d like to keep you. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”

  He looked up at me from beneath long, golden red eyelashes. “No, I guess not.”

  Part of me wanted to know his story. He seemed like he had one. There was something in those eyes. They were a little sad and thoughtful. Like his mind was always assessing the situation, always observing. But I didn’t come here for a story, I reminded myself, and I wasn’t looking to get involved. So I put my questions to the back of my mind and ran a hand slowly down his smooth cheek.

  “Shall we begin?” I could tell he was nervous, so I would be gentle with Ryan.

  “Sure,” he said, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. Then his training must’ve kicked in, because his tone grew more formal. “How should I address you?”

  “Oh, I’m Madame when I play,” I told him, then I asked what he’d like to use for a safe word. After we established that, I told him to “Disrobe.”

  His long, thin fingers shook a bit as he slid out of the scrap of fabric he wore. I let the gown I wore--a simple, floor length slip dress, really--fall to the floor, after I slipped the spaghetti straps from my shoulders. I wore nothing underneath, except for a pair of black silk stockings with scalloped lace trim. His eyes widened when he looked up and took in my naked form. Briefly, I wondered what went through his head. Despite my pal Dmitri’s insistence I could be a model, I’ve never agreed. Oh, sure, I think I’m sexy, but I’m not one of those model thin blondes. I’ve got hips and boobs, both of which are natural. I like my curves, and I’m not about to starve them away.

  His hands moved toward his crotch, almost giving into the instinct to cover up his nakedness, but then he moved them to his sides, took a deep breath, and stood tall. I drew closer then, studying the lines of his sinewy body. Despite his slightness, he still widened at the chest and shoulders. His cock was long, thick, and well veined. Already it grew hard, and when I reached between his legs to stroke him, he gasped as his penis twitched, growing stiffer still in my grip.

  “Here’s what I have planned for you tonight, Submissive,” I whispered in his ear and he shivered. “I’m going to tie you to the bed and suck your cock. You can’t react, can’t cum, until I tell you to. If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you fuck me after.”

  His voice cracked slightly when he said, “Yes, Madame.”

  “Lay on the bed,” I told him, and I went to grab handcuffs from an ornately carved bureau with glass doors. I’d spied these when we’d first came in, and already began planning the play for the evening when I did.

  His large amber eyes watched my every move. As I climbed on the bed with the cuffs, his chest hitched up and down faster as his breathing grew rapid with anticipation.

  “Put your wrists against the rails.” I smiled as I said this. I couldn’t help being gentle. He seemed so vulnerable, so innocent, I was almost afraid he’d scoot off the bed and run from the room.

  “Yes, Madame.” He compiled dutifully, watching my fingers as I fastened his wrist to the bed spindle.

  I took time to trace his long, lean muscles with my fingers, my palms, as I finished one arm and moved to the other. I lightly scraped my long, red nails over his chest and his breathing grew quicker still. I grinned, enjoying his instant reaction to my touch. He was going to have trouble holding back, this one, but I’d enjoy disciplining him as much as I would pleasuring him.

  “Be careful,” I warned, as my nails traced a path up to his unbound wrist. “Don’t react too much, or I’ll have to punish you.”

  His reply was breathy. “Yes, Madame.”

  After
his second wrist was bound, I straddled him, letting my long, loose waves tickle his nipples. I placed my hands on either side of him, while I rubbed the silky fabric of my stockings up and down his hips. “Now, I’m going to taste every inch of you. Remember, you can’t react, can’t cum, until I tell you to.”

  “Yes, Madame.” His voice was thin and reedy now.

  Admittedly, I loved torturing him like this. Not out of spite or malice. It was simply the thrill of having such a powerful, immediate effect on a submissive. I believed in being responsible with that power, but it was still fun to watch my playmate squirm under the art of my seduction.

  I pressed my lush breasts into his chest, letting my nipples rub over his. Soon we both had raging nipple hard ons, and that wasn’t the only thing that was ramrod stiff. When I next reached between his legs to check, his cock was like an iron bar. I squeezed it, slid my grip slowly up and down the shaft. He clenched his jaw, and his brow wrinkled in a deep frown of concentration.

  My fingers glided to his balls, teasing the velvety sac with the tips of my nails. I dipped my head to his nipples, taking one stiff peak in my mouth and tugging on it with my teeth. His hips arched up then, and he hissed air between his teeth.

  I stopped and sat up. “That was naughty, Submissive.” I waved a finger at him. “Now you have to watch me masturbate for five minutes before I’ll touch you again. Remember, no reaction, or I’ll up the discipline.”

  This time, his response was a ragged whisper. “Yes, Madame.”

  I moved to the side of his body, letting my arm just brush his hip as I position myself. I watched his eyes as I spread my pussy lips. Already they glistened with wetness. I stroked the dampness from my inner labia, using it to lubricate my touch. Then I ground these slick fingers into my clit, pulling the hood back so he could see everything. I had direct access to the swelling bundle of nerves and sensation.

  Chains linking the handcuffs clinked when he strained against them. He licked his bottom lip as he watched me pleasure myself, drew in deep lungfuls of air, but remained silent.