Ultimate Submission

by Cathryn Cooper

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s a bit late ta be playing nice,’ he noted dryly, his voice still pitched for a private conversation. ‘And agreeing terribly quick weren’t ye now? Are ye doubting I’ll adjust things ta my satisfaction?’

  ‘Not at all, at all.’

  ‘Don’t be sassing that fake Irish ta me. Answer honest.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Emmm. Make yerself useful then.’

  He tapped the counter as he straightened away, the lilting accent threading through his words making the instruction sound less important than it was. It had repeatedly proved all too easy for me to get lost in the melodic sound of Pearce’s words. Pair the musical quality of his voice with the fact that he was filled with your basic never-met-a-stranger Irish blarney charm and it was easy to miss that his laid-back good humour was backed by steel. Most people missed it most of the time, just as they missed that Pearce was dominant in our relationship.

  Granted, we didn’t wear stereotypical fetish gear. The only fetish item ever seen regularly between us was Pearce’s collar around my neck. To those who understood the nuances of domination, the collar was a clear symbol of my submission. But in general it was simply an artistic statement. The narrow, rounded sterling band created a unique necklace that no one realized was bolted in place. To remove it, Pearce would have to use a special wrench.

  In the same way we chose not to hide the collar, Pearce and I chose not to completely hide our relationship. If people paid attention it would became apparent he was in charge. The thing was, no one paid attention. We were hidden in plain sight.

  As I unloaded the cart Pearce stood hip-shot, emphasizing his pelvis in an utterly distracting way. I wasn’t distracted enough to fail to notice when he picked up a tabloid.

  ‘Don’t even think about buying that trash.’

  ‘Right, you’ll be thinking ta tell me what ta do now, Rach?’ he shot back absently, not looking up from a story about a potato possessed by the spirit of a dead celebrity.

  ‘You need to maintain some decent standards. That isn’t it.’

  Pearce rotated his hip even farther out to the side, throwing himself off balance to bump me as he taunted,‘Ye could maintain decent standards by not staring at my crotch, longing fer a ride.’

  ‘Not so loud.’

  ‘Who’s listenin’?’

  ‘Everyone in this line,’ I snapped.

  His casual cheer, which put the engaging light in his sea-green eyes and lent a captivating openness to his features, disappeared. In a deceptively natural move he squared his weight onto both feet. The subtle shift in body language, like so many other things about my complicated Irishman, was one more thing people usually missed about him. When he squared his feet the width of his shoulders he was, in essence, squaring off for a fight. He was also sending a clear signal that I was not to contradict whatever he said next.

  He replaced the tabloid in the rack with careful deliberation. Sliding one hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers curled around my collar, pulling it back against my throat. Stepping closer, he thoroughly invaded all of my personal space. His lips grazed my cheek just in front of my ear, giving his command the appearance of a kiss as his words vibrated against my skin.

  ‘Stop yer chat.’

  The no-nonsense tone of his nearly inaudible statement made my heart pound and my mouth dry. Our days were filled with conversation fuelled by Pearce’s gift for gab. He talked as automatically as he breathed. By stopping me, he was, in effect, cutting off his own conversation. Obviously I had irked him far more than I had intended.

  Pearce tilted his head slightly to the left, the black whiskers of his weekend beard dragging against my skin with a shiver-inducing rasp. Brushing his lips over mine, his tongue sought entry into my mouth. The intimate caress tasted of the cinnamon mints he favoured, immediately eliciting erotic memories of other cinnamon encounters, making my heart pound and my knees weak. Pearce lifted his head, running a thumb over my lips, taking in my flush, effortlessly reading my response.

  ‘Och, ye can be so easy, Rachel Anne.’

  His comment made me blush even more. It was true, I melted at his touch and we both knew it. Pearce spent the majority of his time guiding my reactions, the past minute being a perfect example. After issuing an order sharp enough to make my heart thump, he poured on the charm so my heart thumped for an entirely different reason, creating two opposing reactions within seconds. He was controlling me and I knew it, but I couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to.

  The foundation of our relationship was the power of control. Anticipating, conditioning, and controlling responses from me was a critical part of our daily life. A very large part of Pearce’s interest in having a relationship with me was his ability to have control. In order to sustain an intimate relationship he had to have authority not only in general, but also over me. He needed to dominate.

  In the same way, a very large part of my interest in having a relationship with Pearce was his ability to be successfully dominant. In order to sustain an intimate relationship I had to have someone else in control. When Pearce fastened the collar around my neck he took ownership not only of the relationship, but of me. I needed to be submissive.

  Like yin and yang, Pearce and I were polar opposites creating the whole.

  His touch interrupted my thoughts. Carrying the bags in one hand, he used his other hand on the small of my back to guide me to the car. To my surprise, he elected to drive. Having emigrated at twenty-eight, Pearce first drove in Ireland. Eight years later he still complained about driving in America. Five minutes later Pearce’s preference for being a passenger was proved wise as I disregarded his order to not talk with a sharp order of my own.

  ‘Look left!’

  Pearce slammed on the brakes, his right arm instinctively shooting out to brace me as the car jerked to a stop. A truck blasted past the bumper, making Pearce swear bitterly about focking Yank drivers. He ran a shaking hand through his black hair, pushing it into spikes. ‘Ye all right then?’

  ‘I’m fine, honey. Want me to drive?’

  ‘No. Apparently I’m needin’ ta practice.’

  Carefully looking both ways, he crossed the intersection as I settled back into silence. Tense with concentration, his hands at the traditional ‘ten and two’ positions on the wheel, it took him a few minutes before he could relax enough to speak.

  ‘Ye’ve common sense, Rach. Ye use it against me, makin’ me crazy. Point being, even when ye know not ta talk ye know when ta.’

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel absently, slipping back into the rhythm of driving as he continued talking.

  ‘Originally I wanted - em...what do ye call ’em? -Doormat submissive? Someone ta be seen, not heard, do me bidding ta the letter. Before ye it was girl after girl who woulda let me pull in front of that truck because they were under no-chatting orders.’

  He half-laughed at himself with a shake of his head.

  ‘I need submission, I don’t need ta be hit by a lorry. I need a relationship, not blind obedience.’ He hesitated, then admitted, ‘Ye’ve taught me that. And ye’ve taught me ta enjoy someone strong. I don’t want ta change the way we are, Rach, but I need ta temper yer ways. Ye push too hard, or yer tone gets away.’

  Pearce subsided, clearly debating what to say next. When he went into lecture mode it meant he was stating a case as he saw it and presenting what he felt was the best solution. There would be no room for rebuttal. My stomach knotted as I waited for him to continue.

  ‘Inna reg’lar relationship,’ letting go of the wheel, he put air quotes around the word regular. ‘There’s no problem, is there then? But, we’re only mostly reg’lar. There are rules. First, I’m in charge. Second, ye submit, no questions asked. Thing is, ye bloody well don’t keep the rules. Which forces me to correct ye.’

  He sighed, the candour of his next words surprising me. ‘It’s bollocks, Rach, when ye’re not ta chat I don’t have anyone ta chat ta, i
t’s punishment for me. I hate it.’

  Pearce spun the car into a strip mall lot. Parking, he turned the car off and twisted to face me as he continued to speak.

  ‘The whole point of a submissive is giving me pleasure. Not chatting with ye gives me irritation. And it doesn’t modify yer behaviour. C’mere, Rachel.’

  Unwillingly I met his eyes. Pearce propped his elbow on the back of the seat, his head braced on his hand. With his other hand he reached out, playing with an errant curl of my hair.

  ‘Next time ye smart off too much or push me authority too far,’ he tugged the strand of hair in his hand. ‘And ye know what I mean by too much, too far - I’m going ta paddle ye,’ he tucked the curl behind my ear and cupped his hand along my jaw. ‘Consider yerself fairly warned, girl. Ye know I’m enough of a sadist ta pull it off once. Ye push me wrong and ye won’t sit for two days. Understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m gonna do it until yer behaviour modifies ta me satisfaction. I don’t care if I paddle ye six times a day. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Subject closed, Rach. Although I still don’t want ye talking. Out of the car, there are things ta be done.’

  After running errands at stores within walking distance, Pearce took me to a small tattoo and body-piercing shop tucked into the corner of the strip mall. Holding the door open, he vaguely waved in the direction of the chairs lining the perimeter of the lobby. Understanding the pleasing power of instant gratification I immediately dropped into one. He spun back, his brow furrowed.

  ‘That was terribly compliant, luv,’ he tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, rocking his weight back on his heels. ‘What’s this, then?’

  Careful to maintain my silence, I shrugged, surprised not only that he was questioning that I had followed his directions but that he was doing so in public, using a normal tone of voice.

  ‘Go on,’ he amended belatedly.

  Following his lead, I answered with the casual respect we rarely used in public.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Em. Is this from the conversation, then?’

  Although I had taken the conversation in the car seriously, I knew he wasn’t asking me about it. He wanted to know if I trusted him or if I was worried about the level of correction the next time I crossed him. I rolled my eyes, my answer dripping sarcasm.

  ‘Like you scare me.’

  He burst into laughter, chucking me under the chin, his brogue flaring thick.

  ‘Och, there’s me Rachel Anne. Just checking. Sit tight, luv.’

  Slouching in the chair, I watched Pearce have a conversation at the counter until a casual nod summoned me to his side. Dropping his hand to my waist, he guided me to a private room.

  ‘Jump up,’ he suggested, patting a padded, semireclined gynaecologist’s table.

  Awkward in the skirt, I obeyed. Pearce claimed a seat on one of several wheeled stools scattered around the room, spinning himself lazily as we waited. Drumming my heels, I wondered what was going on and debated questioning his intent.

  Since I had several already, tattooing wasn’t out of the question. Pearce knew I had something of a fetish for symbolism. Periodically the topic of permanently putting his ownership mark on me came up, but as far as I knew the concept hadn’t gone beyond idle conversation. I certainly hadn’t seen him designing a mark. Not that he needed my opinion, but he hadn’t solicited it, which was out of character.

  ‘You’re waiting me out.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You, the compulsive talker, haven’t said one word, you’re trying to goad me into asking why we’re here.’

  The look he shot me had me amending my statement, correcting my flip, disrespectful tone.

  ‘You’re hoping I’ll inquire why, sir.’

  He grinned impishly.

  ‘So ye’ll be wantin’ ta know then?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Stubborn is as stubborn does.’

  Before I could think of a snide comment about who, exactly, was being stubborn, the door opened. A man came in, greeting Pearce by name with a friendly handshake.

  ‘Ready?’ he inquired, shutting the door.

  ‘Aye.’

  Pearce gave his stool a push, rolling over to me in one motion.

  ‘Shift over, Rach. Put yer legs over the short side.’

  As I did, the man I didn’t know sat on a stool close to the short end of the table. As soon as my legs were swung over completely he unbuckled medical stirrups from the sides of the bench and locked them into place. My mouth went dry. Catching one of my feet in his hands, the man spoke to me for the first time.

  ‘Lean back.’

  Before I could react he lifted my foot into the stirrup, throwing me off balance. Before I could voice the scathing words that came to mind, Pearce spoke, sliding dangerously on the stool as he lunged to brace me.

  ‘Careful there, Michael.’

  A second later I was laying against the reclined back of the table, both feet in the stirrups, my skirt tenting over my legs.

  ‘I told her to lean back,’ Michael grumbled.

  ‘Don’t be dumpin’ her ta the floor.’

  ‘She always so slow to do what she’s told?’

  ‘Don’t be a wanker. She moves at my speed, not yers.’ ‘And it has nothing to do with the discipline problems you have with her.’

  ‘There’s that, too,’ Pearce agreed. ‘Especially taday.’ ‘Why today?’

  ‘It’s been a bastardly morning.’

  ‘Why?’ Michael asked idly, busy doing something out of my sight. Pearce leaned an elbow next to my hip, his back to me as he continued his conversation about me as if I wasn’t in the room, ignoring the hole I was attempting to stare into the back of his head.

  ‘Rachel has a corporate job, sometimes her transition back ta me isn’t smooth.’

  ‘How long have you had her? Two years?’

  ‘There abouts.’

  ‘Her professional life still affects you? And you’re letting her keep that job?’

  ‘I thought about having her quit,’ he shrugged. ‘Then decided not ta.’

  My blood ran cold. Moving in with Pearce meant moving control of my life to him. Even so, I had maintained de facto management of my career. Pearce had the final decisions, but until five seconds ago I had no idea he had considered anything about my professional life.

  ‘I wouldn’t put up with it.’

  Not only was I tired of being excluded from a conversation of which I was the topic, but I was tired of having a stranger judge me poorly. And I was enormously tired of not knowing what was going to happen. Before I could give voice to my mounting questions, Pearce leaned his head against my angled thigh and answered Michael’s disapproval with a mild question of his own, his Irish accent rolling heavily.

  ‘Ye don’t have ta put up with it, now do ye?’

  ‘Nope, she’s your handful, not mine.’

  ‘That she is.’

  Listening to Pearce I had an epiphany. The only reason I had the urge to talk was to exert control. But it wasn’t my conversation. It didn’t matter that I was the topic, none of it concerned me. Pearce was in control and I needed to leave it in his hands. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, willing myself to relax.

  ‘Pearce, tell me placement.’

  Michael pushed the stirrups to the farthest outside point, taking my feet with them, forcing my legs to spread. A second later his hands were on the insides of my knees, pressing them down and out which pushed my thighs achingly wide as he shoved my skirt all the way up.

  ‘Cut these?’

  ‘Aye.’

  I froze from the outside in as scissors slashed my panties. I could feel my face flaming at being fully exposed. Instinctively, I wrapped a quivering hand around my collar for support and waited. Gritting my teeth I concentra
ted on ignoring the touch of unfamiliar fingers between my legs. My heart thundering in my ears blocked all other sound. Eventually a clamp was positioned on an outer lip and screwed down tight.

  Terrified, it was all I could do not to react. Pearce knew how negatively I viewed genital piercing. Focusing on the fact that I trusted him, I forced myself to breathe deep and slow, counting to five with each breath. A minute later I relaxed completely, soaring into the warm silence in my head.

  The clamp being removed without a piercing happening pulled me back. Pearce pushed my knees together before he lowered my legs. I kept my eyes closed, drifting, letting the warmth of his familiar touch guide me. It wasn’t until he started talking that I started to really pay attention. ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He echoed with a terrible American accent, making me laugh.

  ‘Don’t imitate me.’

  ‘Och, don’t be so casual.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are ye back, Rach?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So what’s this then? I was pushing, but enough fer ye ta go inna subspace?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to -’

  ‘I know,’ he caught my wrists, pulling me to a sitting position. Kissing my brow, he rested his forehead against mine. ‘I was focking around. Ye wasn’t ta go all soft.’

  ‘You were just fucking around?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone,’ he warned, framing my face in his hands. ‘I’ll fock with you when I want, Rachel Anne.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed without conviction.

  Understanding the implication of my tone, his jaw muscle knotted and his hands clenched, his wrists tightening against my chin.

  ‘Ye’ll be recalling what I said in the car?’

  ‘Yes, Pearce.’

  ‘Don’t push.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  I held absolutely still as Pearce studied me for a long, silent moment. Finally, in a lightning-quick change of mood, he banked his simmering anger, his hold softened and his tone became gentler.

  ‘That’s yer only warning. Now, ye don’t melt like that, help me with the how come and why now. Put me in yer head.’

  He sank down on the stool, supporting his crossed arms over my knees as I protested, ‘Not like this.’