Master's Submission (2 page)

From the sidelines, I watched them intently, feeling as if I were a voyeur, but unable to resist. Lady Pearl strode into the refreshment area, purchased a bottle of Perrier, and returned to her sub. While he drank straight from the bottle, she rubbed his shoulders and scalp. A good Domme knew how to care for her sub after a hard play session. When he finished drinking, he turned and gazed at her lovingly.

“Thank you, Lady.” He kissed her gloved hand.

“I love you, Damon,” she said, and nuzzled his cheek.

Lady Pearl was a true Domme, and I understood the look of adoration in her sub’s eyes. Authority came from a person’s belief in themselves, I reminded myself, not clothing. Her confidence came from within. Mine had to as well.

But the proper outfit would help nudge me into the right frame of mind.

Every item of clothing had to be black, I decided. No cute pink. No bows. No girly stuff. Lady Pearl would serve as my inspiration. From a far corner of the closet, I pulled out a pair of over-the-knee lace-up boots. Shiny. Vinyl. Four-inch heels. I’d be the same height as Master. Good.

What else? I scrounged around in my underwear drawer. Thigh-high fishnets. Black garter belt. I tossed them both on the bed. Undies, undies. I needed undies. Definitely not the pair that said
Fuck Me Now
on the front and
I’m All Yours
on the back. I chewed on my lip, mulling over my decision. Satin? No. Lace? Definitely not. What about leopard skin? Leopard skin shouted,
I’m a predator on the hunt
. That sounded good. Hmm, what about a black thong? Or no thong at all? Ah, hell, who needed underwear? Why not go commando for a change?

The bottom drawers offered me lace teddies, a few fetish harnesses, lots and lots of pink. Man, why did I have so much pink? It clashed with my hair, but I had to admit that a soft shade of pink reminded me of my childhood and comforted me. I scrunched all the pink stuff into a corner and checked out the rest of my sexy getups.

This might do. A tight black Lycra miniskirt with a matching sleeveless Lycra top. No need for a bra. The top offered just the right amount of support for my breasts. My nipples would poke into the fabric, driving Master wild.

What about accessories? Last Halloween, I dressed as a Goth girl, complete with black lipstick, butt-ugly platform boots, spiked wristbands, an equally spiky collar and a long black wig. Yes, the spikes! In a plastic bag in a corner of the closet, I found my spiked collar, something I thought I’d never wear again. Excellent! It screamed,
Don’t mess with me or I’ll spank your ass!

One at a time, I put on the items, saving my fetish boots for last. It took forever to lace them up, since I had to pause every now and then to adjust their tightness. I twirled in front of the mirror, admiring the effect. Slim figure. Arms and legs toned from hours spent at the gym. Heart-shaped face. Deep, blue eyes. Dressed to intimidate. Yet gorgeous and utterly fuckable.

My red hair gleamed under the bright light, contrasting sharply with all the black. Should I let my hair down? No. Better keep the ponytail. Lady Pearl tied her hair in a ponytail, so I should too.

My 34Ds looked fabulous covered in skin-tight Lycra. My bare midriff tantalized. My ass—sans panties—curved in all the right places.

I’m a dominatrix
.
A little cliché, but nothing, and I mean nothing, says powerful more than a dominatrix.

You look the part. Now believe in it. Put yourself in Lady Pearl’s shoes, and you’ll do fine
.

Then why was my heart pounding so fast?

Chapter Two

The doorbell rang. Master. I hurried to answer, stumbling in my heels as I left the bedroom. Wait, what was I doing?
Don’t hurry
.
Dommes don’t rush to get the door when their subs come to play.
Lady Pearl didn’t rush. Guaranteed.
Walk with long, confident strides. Take your sweet time.

The man at the door was here to obey me.

Obey.

Me.

The words sounded surreal, yet they sent an unexpected thrill down my spine.

To please Master, I had to be assertive. Dominant. I checked the wall clock before opening the door. A quarter after eight. Before leaving this morning, he told me he’d be here no later than seven-thirty.

Master—
no, his name is Dylan
—stood there in his business suit and tie, a briefcase by his side. I usually took his briefcase the moment he entered. Not today.

“You’re late,” I admonished.

His brown eyes widened, and his gaze traveled from my face down to my toes. Did he approve?

It doesn’t matter if he approves. He has no say in how you dress
.

He smiled, and two irresistible dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Good evening, Bethany.”

“I don’t like it when my sub arrives late.”

“No?”

“You should apologize.”

“And if I don’t?”

Uh-oh. Five seconds into being a Domme, and he decided to test my authority. What should I do? For a moment, the submissive in me swam to the surface, grabbing the dominatrix by the neck and shoving her head underwater. “Ummm.”
Get it together, Bethany
.

Mistress Bethany.
Yes, I’m a Mistress! Show him who’s boss!

“There will be a consequence.” I tried to sound confident, but lowered my eyes out of habit.

“What kind of consequence?” He took one brazen step over the threshold, but I blocked him by standing in his way.

Eye to eye. Thank God I chose these heels. I refused to budge. He was in my home—my dungeon—and he had to follow my instructions.

What did he do to me when I acted like a brat? Because sometimes I loved playing the brat and contesting his rules. He enjoyed the feisty side of my personality. It had taken him time to earn my submission. I didn’t just blindly give it to him. I suppose I had to earn his too.

“This evening will be far more pleasant if you apologize.” I ran my hand over his scratchy five o’clock shadow. “Otherwise, I will ask you to leave.”

There. That’s the consequence. Call the whole thing off.

“I’m sorry.” The laugh lines by his eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll be more punctual from now on.”

“Say ‘I’m sorry,
Mistress,’
” I corrected. “You must call me Mistress.”

He lowered his eyes. “Whatever you wish. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

The term of entitlement combined with the apology sent a giddy rush of satisfaction through my body. “Now put down your briefcase and come with me.”

Once he put his documents on the kitchen table, I grabbed his pale-blue tie and pulled him toward the bedroom, where soft candlelight cast trembling shadows. A soothing lavender scent emanated from the candles I’d placed on the dresser and chest of drawers. I’d taken advantage of the four-poster bed, securing Velcro restraints around each oak column, and tucking them discreetly under the sheets. The toy I selected was hidden in the top drawer of my night table. Everything was ready for our play session.

What about me? Am I ready?

“Stay here,” I said.

Letting the tie slip between my fingers, I sat on the king-size bed, seductively crossed my legs, and removed the crop I’d stashed under the comforter. Dylan stood in front of me, waiting for instructions.

“Take off your clothes,” I told him.

He loosened his tie.

“When I give you a command, you say, ‘Yes, Mistress.’”

“Yes, Mistress,” he repeated meekly, dropping the tie to the floor. His jacket followed it, and he undid the first button on his shirt.

“Stop.” Why sit here and watch? Why not make things more interesting and make the moment last?

Getting up, I examined him closely, his broad forehead, fine straight nose, the tiny scar at the edge of his chin. He waited expectantly, his eyes roving greedily up and down my body.

Needing time to think, I circled him one slow step at a time, my heels making a decisive click, click, click on the hardwood floor. Behind him, I paused, glad he couldn’t see me. His hungry eyes broke my concentration. Did my nerves show? They must. My heartbeat hadn’t slowed since he rang the doorbell. I slipped my fingers between his butt cheeks and cupped his balls through the fabric of his pants.

“Spread your legs.”

He did.

I nudged his shoe with the toe of my boot. “More.”

He spread them wider.

I rubbed his balls harder, adding pressure to each stroke. How much longer before he asked me to stop? Never, at any time in our relationship, had I tried to inflict pain on him. How would it feel to hurt him? Would I enjoy it? Would I feel guilty? Shifting my grip, I squeezed his balls in my fist. Not easy to do through his pants, but I didn’t want him naked yet. I added more pressure, still more.

The moment he flinched, I stopped. “How do you feel?”

“Vulnerable.”

Good answer.
You’re my sub. Under my control.

But part of me didn’t fully believe it.

How many times had our positions been inversed? Master often used the spreader bar to gain full access to my wet pussy. The spreader bar, I thought. Should I take it out of his toybox?

Later. Maybe.

This time I aimed for pleasure instead of pain. I ran my hand back and forth over his balls, back and forth, until he sighed in contentment. Although I wasn’t touching his cock, I knew it was rock hard and ready to fuck. I stopped.

“Do it again,” he said.

Remembering Lady Pearl, I grabbed a handful of Dylan’s hair. Too short for me to get a good grip, a lot of the hairs slipped free.
Damn
. With difficulty, I tipped his head back and whispered harshly in his ear. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Sorry, Mistress.” He spoke in a gravelly, husky tone.

What should I do next? Searching my memory banks for the little things he did to me that drove me crazy with lust, I circled him a second time.

I placed the crop’s leather tongue on his lips. “Kiss it.”

He pursed his lips and kissed the leather, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. I felt naked. I felt like his sub.

Get into character, Bethany. You are not his sub.

Dylan rested his hand on my hip. The action melted my anxiety. His delicious touch intoxicated me. If he told me to climb on the bed and spread my legs so he could fuck me, I’d do it. I wanted him to make me do it. Heat blazed in my chest, radiating to my clit, which throbbed in response. My nipples peaked against the Lycra fabric. His eyes focused on my breasts. God, I wanted him.

Snap out of it. You’re letting him take control.
“No touching!” I threatened. “It’s not allowed unless I give you permission.”

“Or?” His right eyebrow winged up, taunting me. “What will you do, Mistress?”

“I’ll-I’ll-I’ll use the crop!”
You brat!
Angry and unsure, I trailed the crop down the front of his shirt, from dark-blue button to dark-blue button. I never liked this shirt and its symmetrical blue stripes.

While my brain churned out possible punishments—none of them suitable—Dylan swiped at my crotch.
Hey!
I jumped back and swatted his arm with the crop. It had no effect on him. I swatted him again. Still no reaction. Well, except for a smug smile. I might as well be whacking him with a feather.

“No touching!” I said in my most commanding voice.

He kept looking at me, challenging me, and I felt so self-conscious. So naked. He scrutinized every inch of my body.

Blindfold him.

Great idea. I bent over to pick up the tie, the Lycra mini sliding up to reveal my ass. Dylan chuckled.

Mistake number one. Dommes didn’t kneel in front of their subs. Mistake number two. The decision to go commando proved to be a very poor one. My exposed rear end made me vulnerable. And more frustrated than ever.

I got up, trying to stretch the skirt to mid-thigh. No luck. “Pick up the tie and give it to me.”

“Yes, Mistress.” As he leaned over, I swatted him hard on the ass. Smack. Smack. And a third time for good measure. Smack. Wincing, he gave me the tie.

Ties didn’t make the best blindfolds I soon found out, as the silky fabric slipped, and the knot refused to stay in place. Dylan stood patiently, not saying a word. On my third attempt, I finally tied it properly. Bet Lady Pearl never got herself into these predicaments.

Christ, I’m angry. I ought to rip his shirt right off.

Why not? I hated the fabric, the stripes, everything about it.
Time to renew your wardrobe, Dylan.

Do it!
Facing him, I grabbed Dylan’s shirt in my fist and yanked. The top button popped off. A little tingle of victory ran up my spine. I jerked harder. Two buttons flew across the room and rolled into the hallway. The last threads tore and the remaining button tumbled free, exposing his smooth, hairless chest. A primal grunt came out of my throat, and I pulled the shirt off, tossing it across the room in one smooth movement.

Ahhh, his chest, the rippling abs, flat stomach and the scar by his navel, where he injured himself rock climbing. I kissed my fingertips and trailed them from one end of the scar to the other, feeling the rough pad of tissue.

“Unzip me,” he ordered.

“What did you say?”

“Unzip me. Now.”

“Topping from the bottom, are we?” Still irritated, I grabbed his nipple—digging my nails into the most sensitive part—and twisted. He doubled over, grunting in pain. Real pain. The blindfold came apart.

I shrank back. My offending hand froze in mid-air. When I squeezed his balls, I didn’t get much of a reaction. When I used the crop, it gave me a sense of distance, because I didn’t make actual physical contact with him. This was different. Wrong. I really hurt him.

“Sorry.” The crop fell to the floor. Sighing in frustration, tears stinging my eyes, I buried my head against Master’s shoulder. “I’m awful at this.”

The tie still looped around his neck, he squeezed me tight and whispered, “You’re doing very well.”

“What?” Incredulous, I gaped at him.

With his index finger, he touched my chin, and I closed my mouth, flushing from embarrassment.

“It’s the first time you’ve done this.” His voice, as warm as summer sunshine, soothed me. “You’re surpassing my expectations.”

“Really?” Aware that I was gaping again, I shut my mouth. “Part of me is angry at you for asking me to go against my instincts. But I’m angrier at myself for doing a bad job.” A good Domme didn’t fumble or hesitate. And she knew how to make a blindfold out of a tie! I didn’t have the characteristics of a good Domme, but Master said my efforts pleased him. My heart soared.

“It’s a first for me too.” He caressed my cheek. “I’m surrendering to you. I’m yours.”

The last two words filled me with a heady rush, as if I were drunk on fine champagne. “Thank you, Master.”

“Call me that again,” he said in a playful tone, “and I’ll put you over my knee and spank you. You’re the Mistress, remember?”

“Yes, Mas—” I cut myself short. “Dylan.” He thought I was doing well.
Yes! Get back into the role, Bethany. Mistress Bethany. Be strict.
His steady gaze unnerved me. “When you are in my presence, you are not to look directly into my eyes.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He stared at my boots instead.

I paced in front of him, pretending to examine his gorgeous body, but in reality thinking about what to do next. “Take everything off,” I said as authoritatively as possible.

He started with his shoes and socks. As he undid his belt buckle and unzipped his pants, revealing the cock that throbbed in his briefs, powerful waves of arousal washed through me. My breath hitched in my throat. Usually, I was the one who undressed him, removing every article of clothing slowly and deliciously. Sometimes we rolled on the bed, caught up in our passion for each other, and stripped each other naked in a bout of uncontainable lust.

Having him take his clothes off in front of me was a heady experience. Dylan stepped out of his pants and dropped them on the floor. Dark hair covered his muscular legs. I longed to touch the inside of his thigh, the curve of his calf, the arch of his foot. Then I licked my lips, waiting for his briefs to come off. He removed them, freeing his cock, which stood at attention. My pussy was wet. I could feel it. In the soft glow of candlelight, he reminded me of a marble statue come to life. Dylan reflected my ideal of what a man should look like. Rugged. Dominant. Sexy. I wanted to touch my clit, but stopped myself.