by Desiree Holt
Montecristo and Major Branston crossed the line almost as one. Almost. In the last few seconds of the race, Marcus’ horse had nosed ahead of his rival to win by a short head. Marcus put his arms around my waist, picked me up and twirled me round. Anyone watching us would have thought he was simply celebrating his win, particularly as he’d placed a hefty bet on Montecristo when we’d first arrived at the course.
He bent his head close to mine and murmured, “Unlucky, Selina, but I think I’m a worthy winner. And you know what this means. You’re mine for a month. I want you to come to the house tomorrow morning and we’ll begin your training.”
So I was to switch from dominant to submissive, just like that. As Marcus went to the fridge in the corner of the box to extract a bottle of champagne so he could toast his victory, I couldn’t help wondering what exactly I’d let myself in for.
Chapter Two
Marcus had told me to be at his house at nine on the dot. That meant getting up at half-past seven on a Sunday morning—a time that, as far as I’d been concerned until now, simply didn’t exist. Even so, I found myself putting the finishing touches to my make-up in an almost deserted Tube carriage, not wanting to take the risk of missing that train and arriving late. Applying lip gloss in Scintillating Scarlet with a sponge-tipped wand, I gave my reflection a critical once-over. Should I have used a less striking shade on my lips, swapped my usual lilac and plum eye shadow for more neutral colours, to fit my newly submissive role? Did it matter? And if I had, would Marcus have even noticed?
Stowing my make-up bag in my striped Lulu Guinness handbag, I glanced out of the Tube window. Marcus lived at the north-western end of the Metropolitan Line, and already the dense suburban fringes of London were giving way to lush Hertfordshire countryside. The nervous butterflies that had prevented me from eating more than a couple of spoonfuls of cereal before leaving the house fluttered in my belly once more. I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed to this ridiculous bet, putting myself in Marcus’ hands so he could teach me what it meant to submit.
The Tube pulled to a halt. I had reached my stop. Stepping out into the August morning, warm already even at this early hour, I realised I was the only passenger leaving the train at this sleepy little halt. During the week, it would be a different story, as this was prime commuting territory. But today, no one had anywhere terribly urgent to be—except for me.
I had less than ten minutes if I was to reach Marcus’ cottage by nine, and I set out at a brisk pace even in my strappy high heels, following the directions on the map I’d printed out before leaving home. I’d visited his previous address—a flat in the Barbican development—on a number of occasions over the years, but this would be the first time I’d been to his new place since he’d moved here, six months ago.
My route took me close to one of the fairways on the local golf course, where men in sleeveless sweaters and loud checked trousers were wheeling bags of clubs across the turf, discussing the shot one or another of them had just played in amiable tones. Somewhere in the distance, church bells pealed. I wondered what the members of the congregation, or the chap lining up a putt on the nearby green, would think if they knew that not only was I going to my best friend’s house to take my first lesson in submission, but that I’d also complied with a couple of other instructions he’d given me. I shivered, thinking about what I’d have to do to show him I’d followed those instructions to the letter.
Of course, this could all just be a joke on Marcus’ part, I told myself, turning in to the lane where he lived. I pictured the look on his face when I knocked on his door. He’d invite me inside for a cup of tea, and we’d laugh about the whole situation, filing it away as something for him to tease me about the next time we were out at a club together.
The cottage, when I reached it, looked like the classic child’s drawing of a house—two storeys high and made of weathered red brick, with a central front door and windows on either side. I half-expected to see a curly wisp of smoke escaping from the chimney. Given the money he’d made when he sold the software development company he’d started from scratch to one of the big, multinational players in the field, Marcus could have bought a much more ostentatious property. But this cottage was in keeping with his personality, more a home than a statement of wealth.
Grasping the heavy iron knocker, I brought it down against the blue-painted front door, congratulating myself on arriving just before nine. No chance of being in any trouble for turning up late—assuming Marcus was serious in his intentions to make me submit. He didn’t answer at first, and I wondered whether he was still in bed. A delicious image filled my mind. Marcus, barefoot and wearing only a short dressing gown, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he rushed down the stairs to open the door. I glanced up at the bedroom windows, but the curtains were drawn back. He was definitely up.
I knocked again, and this time the door swung open.
“That’s a demerit point,” Marcus said, ushering me inside. Not ‘Good morning, Selina’ or ‘How was your journey?’, and that’s when I realised this wasn’t a joke at all.
“I’m sorry?” I said, not fully grasping his meaning.
“I asked you to be here at nine o’clock exactly. It was two minutes to nine when you first knocked. We’re going to have to do something about that impatient streak of yours.” His lips curved in a smile that did nothing to soften the sting of his next words. “And in future you’ll address me as ‘sir’.”
“Yes, sir,” I stuttered in reply. I’d seen this side of Marcus so many times before—stern, brooking no argument—but always when he’d been disciplining Lydia or another slave. He’d never turned the full force of his dominant persona on me.
Had those other women felt the way I did now? Strangely guilty, even though I’d really done nothing wrong, and beneath the guilt and the uncertainty about what might come next, a fierce sexual excitement that made my pussy twitch and my nipples peak against the cups of my bra. And though I’d always been amused by the way women blushed and giggled in his presence, reduced almost to helplessness by his good looks, I couldn’t deny he looked particularly handsome this morning, relaxed and casual in a simple black T-shirt and black jeans, his silver hair still slightly damp from showering. Unlike some dominant men, he didn’t need the trappings of leather and steel to add to his aura. He simply exuded a quiet confidence that most women found hard to resist.
I thought Marcus might lead me into his living room, or maybe to the kitchen I could glimpse through the half-open door at the end of the hallway. Instead, he left me standing where I was while he looked me up and down, shaking his head slightly as though something else displeased him.
“Did you follow my other instructions?” he asked.
My cheeks felt hot, and I knew I was blushing, all too aware of what he meant. “Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to take your word for it, but given how you’ve already messed up a simple order, I don’t think I can. You’re going to have to show me. Undress.”
The command sent a thrill through me. I’d suspected Marcus might make such a demand, but not so soon. Not when I’d barely stepped through the front door.
When I hesitated, he snapped, “I haven’t got all day, girl. Be quick about it.”
With every word, every gesture, he was defining this new relationship between us. I was no longer Selina. I was his girl, to instruct and discipline as he pleased. If I hadn’t been happy with this arrangement, the domina who’d long dwelled within me would have risen up by this point, telling Marcus things had gone far enough. But she remained stubbornly silent, almost as though she was enjoying this abrupt switch to submission.
I stepped out of my shoes. Until that moment, I’d never known such a simple act could completely change the power dynamic between two people. With my heels, I’d been a respectable five foot seven, carrying myself with an air of authority. Without them, I was the best part of a foot shorter than Marcus, and a little more vulnerable than before, all too aware of the height and bre
adth of him.
He said nothing, simply watched with a detached air as I reached for the zip that ran down the back of my daisy-patterned sundress. As the dress slithered off my shoulders, Marcus got the first indication that I’d obeyed his instructions. When he’d told me to be here at nine, he’d also given me a very strict dress code to follow.
Beneath my pretty dress, which followed the contours of my body tightly, I wore vintage style lingerie. A black and red satin balconette bra, subtly padded to accentuate my breasts. Matching knickers, and a deep suspender belt with six straps. Attached to the metal clips of the suspender straps were sheer black stockings, with a seam running down the back of each leg, leading to a fully-fashioned heel. I knew these old-fashioned stockings were a particular fetish of Marcus’. As long as I’d known him, whoever had been his girlfriend of the day would parade around in seamed stockings and suspenders. Sometimes, at the exclusive private parties we attended, thrown by friends on the scene, it was all he permitted them to wear.
For the first time since I’d entered his home, Marcus nodded in approval. “Very nice.”
I relaxed inwardly, basking in the compliment and mentally thanking the boy who’d bought me the lingerie as a present, the Valentine’s Day before last.
As if he’d spotted me preening, Marcus said sharply, “Turn round, girl.”
Quickly, I obeyed him, pirouetting on the bare, polished floorboards to present him with my rear view.
“Stocking seams perfectly straight, I see.” Marcus sounded disappointed, as though he’d been looking for another infraction to add to my growing list of demerits. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of punishment he might have in mind for each one.
He ordered me to face him again, and I thought my inspection was over. Not quite, as it turned out.
“So you wore the lingerie, just as I asked. Well done, girl. Seems you’re not entirely a lost cause when it comes to obeying instructions. But that just leaves one last thing…”
Now I blushed even more furiously. Marcus’ final instruction had been far more intimate even than dictating my style of underwear. And he was about to ensure I’d complied with that, too.
To my surprise, the command didn’t come. Instead, he said, “You know what I want you to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved close, his voice low and imposing. “Tell me.”
I fought to bite back a whimper. This wasn’t me, this woman experiencing a flood of shame at the thought of outlining Marcus’ filthy request. If anyone had told me I’d look at the floor with downcast eyes, fidgeting in my stockinged feet, rather than responding like the strong, assertive character I usually was, I’d have laughed in their face. But from the moment Marcus had told me off for knocking on his door before the appointed hour, I’d begun to react like a sub, rather than a domme. And, if truth be known, I liked the feeling.
At last, I managed to whisper, “You want me to take down my knickers and show you my pussy.”
“That’s the idea, girl, but when you’re with me, it’s not your pussy. What is it?”
“Your pussy, sir?” I replied, assuming he wanted me to acknowledge his ownership, albeit temporary, of my body.
“Well, yes, girl. But that’s not what I meant. Call it what it really is.”
“My—my cunt, sir.”
“That’s right. Show me that gorgeous cunt of yours.”
Now we really were crossing into whole new territory. In all the time he’d known me, Marcus had never seen me naked. When I was out at a club, I usually wore a form-fitting catsuit, or my favourite black PVC pencil dress, with its high collar and knee-length hem—outfits designed to show off my curves while keeping me fully covered up, to emphasise the difference in status between me and whichever barely-clad slave boy I had with me. In those situations I was always in control, never behaving in a way that would break the rule forbidding sex within club premises. At private parties, which were always considerably more relaxed, I had been known to let my slave worship my pussy with his tongue once I’d given his bare backside the beating it deserved, but by then Marcus was usually in one of the other playrooms, being attended to in a similar fashion. We’d never really been intimate in front of each other. I’d never watched him get his cock sucked by Lydia. He’d never seen me orgasming all over my boy of the moment’s face. Now, I couldn’t help wondering why.
Aware of Marcus shooting me an impatient glance, I hooked my fingers in the waistband of my satin knickers and slowly eased them down, keeping my legs together as much as I could. Even so, it must have been apparent that when I got back to my flat from Fenton Park Racecourse the night before, I’d gone to the bathroom and, just as Marcus had requested, shaved my pussy clean. Normally, I kept a neat little tuft on my mound, but without even that, I felt as naked between my legs as I ever had.
I dropped the knickers to the floor and waited for Marcus to praise me for doing as I’d been told. Instead, he barked out yet another order. “Open your legs wider. Let me get a better view.”
Shuffling my legs a foot or so apart, I hoped Marcus wouldn’t notice the juices glistening on my pussy lips. They couldn’t fail to reveal how excited being made to bare myself for him had got me.
“Now we’re going to go into the living room, and I’ll tell you more about what I expect from you over the course of the next month.” He snapped his fingers. “Down on the floor, girl. I want you to crawl there.”
This was the most demeaning thing he’d asked me to do so far. I found it safer not to consider the fact it made the juices flood my pussy even more strongly, as I got down on all fours and started to crawl after Marcus, towards the living room. He pushed open the door, allowing me to go through first. I knew he did that purely so he could get a peek of the pouch of my pussy, peeping out from between my thighs as I moved.
The living room was furnished with a couple of large, black leather sofas, a big, flat-screen TV fixed to the chimney breast and what looked, in the brief glimpse I got, like a very well-stocked drinks cabinet. The room of a man who liked his home comforts, but who also enjoyed entertaining. He’d always complained his old flat had been a little too cramped, even if it was in one of the most iconic pieces of architecture in the City of London, and that what he really wanted was a house where he could set up his own playroom. This cottage seemed ideally suited to his needs, though as I sat on my haunches, waiting for my next instruction, I thought it safer not to enquire about the playroom.
“If you go to the drinks cabinet,” Marcus told me, sprawling out on one of the leather sofas, one foot resting casually on the other thigh, “you’ll find a bottle of champagne and some chilled orange juice. I want you to pour a couple of glasses of Buck’s Fizz. It’s a little early in the morning for anything stronger, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” I rose to my feet and went to make the drinks. When I’d half-filled the two flutes with champagne and topped them up with orange juice, I handed one to Marcus, clutching the stem of the other one tightly as I waited for whatever might come next. Somehow, it was beginning to feel natural to be standing in front of him with my bare pussy on display, framed by the suspender belt. My nipples were hard points, pressing into the padded cups of my bra, and when I risked a glance at Marcus’ crotch, his cock was rigid, its lengthy outline visible beneath the tight black denim.
Sipping at his drink, Marcus pronounced, “Perfect.” He grinned. “I’d been thinking of hosting a party here, an overdue housewarming for, shall we say, a few select guests. Looks like I’ll have to hold it before our month together’s up, now I’ve got the services of such a deliciously underdressed drinks waitress.”
“So you’re serious about our bet?” Hastily, I added, “Sir.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I hadn’t intended to honour it, whatever the outcome might have been.” Again he dangled the tantalising prospect of submitting to me. “And I know you well enough that if you hadn’t been happy with the situation, you’d ha
ve let me know well before things went this far. Which leads me to believe that, whether you’ll admit it or not, you’re quite enjoying playing the obedient slave girl. Feels good to submit, doesn’t it, Selina?”
“I—” My inability to complete the sentence told him everything he needed to know.
“You can’t really deny it,” he said, “not when I can see from here how excited you are.”
I knew he could probably smell how excited I was, too. The musky scent of my juices seemed to hang on the air. Taking a gulp of my drink, I waited while Marcus eyed me with amused detachment.
“Take your bra off,” he said at length.
Setting my drink carefully down on the coffee table, I did as I was told. With every item of clothing that came off, the scales hung a little more heavily in his favour, as I showed him everything and he exposed nothing in return.
“I always thought you’d have a lovely little body, and I was right,” he commented absently. “Shame you mistresses feel compelled to hide them away. Oh, but I forgot. You’re not the mistress anymore, are you, Selina?” He chuckled, revelling in his obvious superiority over me as I squirmed with embarrassment and anticipation. “No, you’re the naughty little slave girl, here to fulfil my every demand. And one thing I demand from my slave girls is that they demonstrate their expertise in sucking cock.”
I couldn’t help myself. I let out a moan, turned on to the point of distraction by the thought of what he was asking me to do.
Marcus patted his lap, clearly highly amused by my reaction. “Come here and unzip me.”
“Yes, sir.” I dropped to my knees between his legs and grabbed the tag of his zip, pulling it down slowly. Afraid to look up and let Marcus see the blatant hunger I was sure was visible on my face, I reached into his open jeans. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, and my fingers closed round the thick column of his cock. Drawing it slowly out, I took a moment to admire the plump, mushroom-like head, already emerging from its soft sheath of skin, and ran my fingers along its veined shaft.
