Ultimate Submission

by Cathryn Cooper

He unzipped the bag, once more, she suspected to draw forth more implements of sweet torture, but all he did was put away the cat-o’-nine-tails, before turning back to her.

  ‘It is time,’ he said softly, ‘for the finale.’

  With these words he reached to untie her bonds and when she was free, he massaged the muscles in her arm and legs, as though he knew about the ache that had grown in them from being tied apart so long.

  ‘You come,’ he said, with a wicked grin, so she knew it was a demand she accompany him, not an enquiry as to her level of satisfaction. And even though he was still clad in his robe, Demi didn’t bother to get dressed - it would have seemed senseless now.

  They crossed the room, but not to the door through which they’d entered. He pressed a button on the wall and the whole panel slid silently backwards to reveal a room done out entirely in white marble. Steps led down to a shallow pool, from which steam rose gently.

  Demi glanced at him enquiringly and he smiled again, untied his robe and let it fall with a soft swish to the floor.

  He was naked below it - and he was magnificent, just as beautiful as she’d imagined. His chest and arms were lightly muscled and his caramel-coloured skin gleamed with a slight sheen of sweat. She wondered if it was brought on by exertion or lust. Was he happy in his work? As her gaze dropped lower, she saw he was indeed happy in his work. His erection sprung proudly from dense black hair. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She longed to kneel and take it in her mouth. To lay, legs apart for him once more, to feel it filling her, stretching her - and it would certainly do that - despite her overexcited state. Of that there was no doubt.

  He watched her face, his delight in her pleasure evident, and she sighed, a little wistfully. The one thing that both the brochure and Patricia had said was that there was categorically no penetration. Full sex was off the agenda. It was a pleasure house, not a brothel. What a pity.

  He reached for her hand and together they stepped into the pool, the warmth of the water caressing their skin. It had been treated with something and was scented. She breathed in the steamy air, recognizing jasmine and something else in the mix she couldn’t identify.

  ‘Sit down. Enjoy,’ he commanded.

  There were two marble seats beneath the water, moulded so that they divided her buttocks and her thighs. Once more she was forced to sit with her legs apart.

  He sat beside her, pressed a button at his side. The pool was a giant Jacuzzi. Beneath the water, a hundred tiny jets fizzed into action. She gasped, understanding the reason for the legs-apart seating, as a jet of water hit her clitoris.

  So he wasn’t about to personally finish the job he’d so expertly started - she was half-disappointed. But she could no more have moved away than if she had been still tied. As the water inched her nearer and nearer to orgasm she arched her back, giving herself up to it, lost in sensation, loving it, never wanting it to end.

  Her eyes were closed so at first she barely noticed the soft touch on her face. But when she opened them she saw he had shifted position, his expressive eyes watching her, his finger infinitely gentle as he traced the outline of her jaw.

  It was a touch of such tenderness, and his expression was so full of longing that in that brief moment of ecstasy she would have given up the whole afternoon of pleasure, everything he’d made her feel - just for one kiss.

  But it seemed kissing too - was out of bounds. He held her as she came, sliding his fingers inside her at the moment of orgasm, feeling her clenching and unclenching, riding the waves with her.

  If she’d been cynical she’d have thought it was quality control - a check to make sure she had indeed experienced the ultimate in sexual satisfaction. But there was something in his eyes that told her it wasn’t quality control. He was revelling in her pleasure, glorying in her release.

  ‘So what did you think? What was it like? Did it exceed your wildest expectations?’ Patricia’s excited voice trilled in her ear. The phone had been ringing when she’d unlocked her front door.

  ‘It was amazing,’ Demi breathed. ‘He was amazing. Thank you so much for recommending him.’

  ‘No probs. Did he do the tying up thing? - my God, I thought I would die when he took off my knickers with his teeth.’

  ‘He did indeed.’

  ‘And how about the whipping thing with that silk contraption?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘And the Jacuzzi? Those water jets are something else, aren’t they?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Demi purred at the memory. She would never forget the water jets, or what had happened afterwards. Although she had no intention of telling Patricia about that bit, or anyone else come to that. It would be their secret -hers and his.

  But she knew now he didn’t have to rely on elaborate games to arouse or satisfy. He was the perfect lover. A lover with the body of a God and the mind of the Devil -that is - if you considered sex to be a sin, which she didn’t: most certainly not. He had the kiss of an angel, too. She’d been right about that.

  Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she turned towards him.

  ‘More coffee? More of anything?’ He winked. He was dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, but looking far from ordinary, he was making coffee in her kitchen.

  Demi said one last heartfelt thank-you to Patricia and put the phone down.

  It was time for round two. But this time she would be in charge. An evening of pure pleasure with an Arabian knight in the dungeon of her bedroom, where the silken bonds, swiftly transferred to the bedposts, awaited them.

  Tonight the cat-o’-nine-tails would have a new master -or rather a new mistress. Demi, the dominatrix - she

  licked her lips - or if she used the full version of her name - Demetria the dominatrix.

  It had a certain ring to it.

  The Beginning And The End by Gwen Masters

  One day - it was two years, three months, and two days ago - I found your journal.

  I literally stumbled upon it that day while cruising cyberspace. My friend Christy, the one from the spa - you do remember her, right? She always hated you - anyway, she sent me a link to her Live Journal account, and, when I clicked on the link, surprise of surprises, someone was already logged in. You had forgotten to sign off after your last confessional. I hadn’t heard of Live Journal until that day, but I was very familiar with it a few hours later. Yes, indeed.

  That’s how I learned about her, or the many hers, however many there were. I lost count, even with all the code names you had given them, like Reddie (cause it was all natural) and Blondie (because that was all natural, too) and Uprising (because those girls weren’t natural at all but they looked pretty damn good anyway).

  But there was that one that kept your attention, through that whole year you were keeping the journal and even longer than that, the one that you couldn’t shake no matter how many women you took for a ride while you were pining after her. She was short and blonde with a great smile and freckles over the bridge of her nose. She was married with a four-year-old daughter and she would never leave her husband, no matter how many times she fucked around on him, because he made the big bucks and she loved her SUV too much to say goodbye. She drank too much, mostly in private but more with you, and she hated it when you smoked.

  I didn’t even know you smoked, until I read it there on the journal. I’m not sure which was the biggest shock: the affair you were having, the one-night cheats you were committing (stepping out on a wife and a girlfriend, you stud, you), or the fact that you, who would not tolerate cigarette smoke under any circumstances, preferred Marlboro Reds in a box.

  You probably don’t remember that day. You came home to find me in the kitchen, cooking your favourite dinner of chicken sherry and baby potatoes and asparagus. You dropped your briefcase and wrapped your arms around me from behind, kissed that sweet spot under my ear and told me you loved me. I told you that I loved you too, instead of asking how many times it had happened. I told you to take off that tie and change into your comforta
ble clothes, instead of telling you that I knew the last year between us had been a lie. I asked you if you would mind uncorking the wine and you went at the job like a puppy eager to please, while I was proud of myself for never once hitting you on the side of the head with the cast iron skillet.

  Maybe I kept my mouth shut because I had already decided what I was going to do. I look back on it all now and I think maybe I knew, as soon as you described the way she moaned the first time you slid your hand between her thighs there underneath the bar, the way you didn’t care much who saw. I think I decided then to keep my mouth shut.

  That night I faked it. Twice. If you noticed, you never said.

  I tortured myself with that journal for a week. During that time I pulled out the calendar and studied the times you were with her, saw that they coincided with business trips, and determined that she didn’t live close to us, but about two hours away.

  Then you went on another business trip, and I went to the bar.

  It’s interesting to sit in a bar after so many years of wedded bliss. I immediately recognized it for what it was: a meat market. I was a woman in a low-cut dress, a display on a high bar stool, while men prowled around pool tables and shouted at the band and stared at me over their beer bottles as they got up their courage. I was sized up, then dressed down with their eyes. I became the subject of bets and locker-room talk in the back corner. They counted my beers even more carefully than I did, and when I finished my third, they started lining up.

  There was a tan line where my wedding ring had been. Nobody mentioned it, probably because most of them had the same kind of tan line. I wasn’t all that worried about the morality of it all, but I did wonder if what’s-her-name knew you were married when you slid that hand between her thighs. Was it your left hand? Did you have on your ring? Did she feel it? Did she care?

  That night I went to bed with the first of dozens of men. Well, let me correct that. I didn’t go to bed with him, not exactly. I wrapped my legs around him against the brick wall behind the bar, his boots braced among the trash and empty liquor bottles, his breath hot on my neck. One hand was in his hair and the other held my beer, which I took sips from while he fucked me. He was bigger than you. I liked that secret knowledge, that no matter where or how you were fucking what’s-her-name, I was getting the bigger and probably better ride.

  Sex is better when I’m drinking.

  With you it is always good. You’re a good lover, attentive and slow until I get mine, then you go about getting yours in such a way that usually makes me come again, even when I think maybe I can’t. But when I’m drinking, I do things I never would do otherwise. I go down on a man without needing anything in return. I touch myself and let him watch. I’ve been with two women at once, and more men than that. I sometimes take them up the ass, but only if I’ve been hitting the Jack, not the Bud Light. I have to be really sloshed to let some stranger slide his dick up my back door.

  I always go very far away from home. I usually drive for an hour or more. I usually give the wrong name to anyone who bothers to ask what they should call me. I hide things very well - I learned that from you. I get my fuck and then I walk away. I get my revenge and they get their rocks off. It works out well, this mutually-beneficial relationship played out under neon lights.

  I don’t make them use condoms. Does that frighten you? It should. It frightens me too, but I like the feeling of their cream too much to be bothered by it. I especially like the nights I get home a bit before you do, and though I have showered to get rid of the smell of cigarettes and beer and sweat, when you decide you want me that night I like to think there is still a bit of some stranger left inside me, caressing your dick as you thrust inside. The thought fills me with a sweet vindication. Those are the nights I sleep the best, because I know my secret is much darker than whatever yours might be.

  But my darkest secret of all is a man named Craig.

  I met him at the bar about three months after I found your journal. He was standing in the corner watching everyone else play darts. He sipped from a longneck and drew on a cigarette. He was dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket and sunglasses, even in the darkness of the corner table. His eyes were hidden from me but his hands were not, and when he beckoned me with a simple sweep of two fingers, I should have been offended at the arrogance of it, at the way he wore that air of superiority, as if I was nothing but a dog he expected to come to heel.

  By the end of that night I was howling at the moon while he fucked me like a bitch in heat, from behind, while he pulled not-so-gently on the collar he had slipped around my neck. It has always been the same between us as it was from the beginning: hard, unrelenting, sometimes painful but always exciting.

  Craig was the only man I ever brought home with me, the only man who ever laid eyes on our marriage bed. That night you were gone on a four-day trip, and I knew from your journal entries that only two days would be spent on business. The other two days would be spent on top of that woman. So I spent two days of my own, tied to the bed while Craig did exciting and arrogant and sometimes unspeakable things to my body and my mind.

  I was punished for what I did. Does it excite you to know that? Craig’s first order of business was to punish me for taking him into your bed. He told me that it made me a whore. It made me no better than the woman you were fucking, and that was just fine with me, as long as he treated me like a whore instead of just calling me one.

  That was the night everything changed.

  I remember it so clearly. Every day I think of it, every night, sometimes even while I fuck you in that bed, and especially when you get as rough as you ever get and I clench the headboard, right in the places where I was tied to it for two days.

  Craig had warned me. He made it clear that when I brought him into that room, I would become his in ways that I hadn’t yet imagined and for ever after, would hardly believe. He was gentle at first, whispering in my ear about what a good little slut I was, about how good my pussy felt around his cock, about how beautiful I was, tied up there like that, my breasts heaving and my cunt already wet enough for anything he might want to do to it.

  ‘These two days, you are mine,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him.

  ‘You will not have a safe word,’ he said, and that was the moment I could have changed things. That was the moment I could have said no, when I could have bent the rules, and Craig would have let me do it. He would have honoured all my wishes. But I looked at him and all I could see was you, the things you were doing with that woman, the horrid video of pain that ran through my mind more times than I care to think about, and I knew that I needed to do things you would never do. I needed to have secret knowledge of one-upmanship.

  So I looked into Craig’s dark eyes and told him to gag me.

  He explained to me what that meant.

  ‘I want to hear you say that you understand,’ he said. ‘I want you to know what this means. It means whatever I want to do, I will do. You won’t have any protection against me. You won’t have any way to stop me. You won’t have a second chance. You cannot change your mind. Do you understand what you are doing? That you are giving me every permission?’

  I understood. I wanted what he was offering. I wanted to be nothing but a sex toy for his use. It was fitting that it happen in your bed, where I would have my own secret to hold onto while I tried not to think about yours.

  I knew it was dangerous.

  I needed it to be dangerous.

  He made me say out loud what I knew was true. I would not be able to tell him to stop. He could do anything to me, anything at all. He could use me in ways that were humiliating, painful, or even downright frightening. He would not heed my moans or my cries.

  The gag felt like freedom.

  That night he stalked around the bed with the cat-o’-nine-tails, the whip, the riding crop and the paddle. He pulled out every toy I had and made sure they entered every hole. Then he moved to things other than toys. He raided the
refrigerator and found fruit, cucumbers, whipped cream. He found clothespins. Then he went into the medicine cabinet, and the things he found there are things I will never tell anyone about, but trust me, dear husband - it was both worse and better than anything you have ever done to me, and I hold on to that during those times when I think I cannot handle one more night with the weight of the secrets between us.

  I still read your journal, you know. I know your affair is over now. I know something happened, but you don’t know what. Perhaps her husband found out. She was torn for a while, and she finally made the decision to walk away from you. You wrote about it with a poetic kind of loss that made me sick to my stomach.

  She will be with someone else soon, of course. What cuts deepest is that she was the one who had to walk away. You weren’t willing to do that, but she was. And why?

  She wasn’t in love with you.

  Now I’m not in love with you, either.

  I realized that I wasn’t in love with you the night Craig looked at me and for the first time, his dominance looked like submissiveness, when he asked me if I would leave you for him. I told him I would. But there was something I had to do first. Something I had to give you.

  In the package with this letter is a videotape. It has hours and hours of sexual romps on it. They all feature Craig. In some of them he is with me, your wife, fucking me with utter abandon. In the rest of them, Craig is with that woman you loved, his wife, and he’s fucking her while she tells him that he is so much better in bed than any of her lovers - including you.

  Enjoy, sweetheart.

  Also available from Xcite Books www.xcitebooks.com

  Publication 14th February 2007

  Sex & Seduction Sex & Satisfaction Sex & Submission

  price £7.99 price £7.99 price £7.99

  1905170785

  1905170777

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  Publication 14th May 2007