Surrender: Tales of Submission (13 page)

clutches...his partner's naughty, baby sister.

Correction: naughty, yes, but as far from a baby as you could get.

* * * *

and captive, in a stranger's office, submitting like a slave girl to the dreamy, tall, dark and handsome John Cupid.

The man she'd had a crush on for as long as she could

remember. John had never noticed her before, but there

was no ignoring her desires now...or his.

She had been just eighteen when she overheard John

telling her brother about his sex slave, Sherry. The way he talked, the things he was describing had awakened

sensations deep inside the virgin Steffy. Before long, she was fantasizing about being in Sherry's place, stripped naked, forced to obey...and submit.

She called him Master in her dreams. She wore his

collar, and she serviced him for his pleasure. She was his property, and he exercised tight, loving control. She was whipped when she misbehaved, and for rewards she was

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allowed to suck his cock or spend time with him. She was like a little pet, owned, content. Happy...and strangely free.

For the better part of two years, she thought it would

never be real. Why would John want a kid for a slave, least of all his partner's baby sister? But the past year at college had begun to convince her. All of a sudden, her body

developed this life of its own. She met some guys and a few girls, too, more than willing to help her develop her wild streak.

She lost her virginity, backed off the studying and

started to really live. The more she experienced, the more she knew she wanted John. She didn't dare tell a living soul. Everyone would tell her she was a fool. Too young to know what she wanted and certainly too young for a man

like Cupid.

But she'd done research. Age differences weren't that

unusual in BDSM relationships. If the chemistry was right, the rest took care of itself.

Steffy knew she'd have to prove herself. John was a

practical man, skeptical. Then she'd have to work on

everyone else. If she won him over, though, the rest would come easy—including dealing with her brother.

Because if there was one thing Stephanie knew about

John Cupid, it was this: When he wanted something, he let nothing stand in his way. At the moment, he wanted her.

Over the desk...

"How much will it hurt?" she asked, bent at the waist over the smooth edge, her cheek against the desk, her

hands secured behind her back.

The desk was aluminum. She felt the cold, hard metal

against her bare midriff. She'd worn the right outfit. From first glance she had him...putty in her hands.

"I won't draw tears, Steffy, you're a novice. But it won't be fun sitting down for a while."

She squirmed as he lifted her skirt.

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"Your pussy is incredible," he said. "Your ass is perfect."

She wriggled it for him. "Thank you, Sir. I aim to please you."

"You say you've never had any kind of corporal

punishment before?"

"No, Sir." She tingled as he touched her posterior, getting the lay of the land.

"I want you to count," he said. "We're going to ten."

"Yes, Sir." She craned her neck to see him; he was undoing his belt.

"Eyes forward, girl." He snapped his fingers.

A hot blade went through her belly as he chastised

her. "Yes, Sir."

Obeying him made her wetter still. She could feel the

fluids dripping down her thigh. It must have made for

quite a view.

She gasped at the sound of leather, whistling in the

air. He was testing the belt. If intimidation was his intent, it was working. Steffy pressed her cheek to the desk,

suddenly feeling very small and female. Was it too late to beg?

The belt hit like greased lightning, an efficient blow

across the meat of her buttocks. She couldn't help but yelp, a small, high-pitched sound. "One!" she cried, fists clenching and unclenching.

Her reaction did not please him. "Contain yourself, Steffy; this is nothing."

"Y—yes, Sir."

He whipped her again.

"T—two." She grimaced.

The third blow was to the tops of her thighs. It hurt

much worse. She did a little dance, one foot to the other.

"Three!"

He lashed out, admonishing her. "Hold still."

"F—four."

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"No, that last one doesn't count," he informed her.

"That was extra for moving around so much."

Steffy whimpered. "Yes, Sir."

She concentrated on standing very still for the next

two. "Five," she stammered. "Six."

"Good girl." He patted her ass. "You're learning."

"Th—thank you, Sir." She winced. The light touch had the effect of magnifying her pain a hundredfold.

He pushed a finger deep inside her well-lubricated

canal. "Open," he ordered.

She spread her legs...on command. The idea fascinated

and enveloped her. She was in bondage, a man's

plaything.

Relentless, he hooked a finger up, going to work on

her clitoris. "Are you ready for the last four?"

"I...yes...no...I don't know."

"You have to beg for it, girl. You have to surrender to it, completely."

Something inside her resisted. She'd already asked

him to beat and fuck her, why make her do it another

time? She knew the answer, of course. He was doing it

because he could. Besides, that was only theoretical, and this was real. She would actually be seeking out her own punishment.

He brought her to the edge of orgasm and left her

hanging.

"I need to come," she wheedled.

"No. You need to finish getting your whipping."

She made a hissing noise. "It's not fair..."

John stepped back and struck her three times, fast and

hard. "Those," he said, "do not count either."

Steffy's pussy pulsed, helpless, completely out of her

control...stuck in lockdown. Her ass was on fire. She kept on twitching like he was still hitting her. At last, she was seeing it: what a dominant man could do and how a

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female could be completely overcome, to her own torment and delight.

"Please, tell me what you want..." She scarcely recognized her own voice, thin and haunted and hot as

desert wind.

"You already know," he said, imperious and

unbending as steel.

She did know, and she saw that she had no choice.

"Please, Sir, finish my beating?"

"You may resume the count." He let loose, striking her true.

"Yes, Sir...seven...," she grunted. "Eight."

He paused with two to go. His finger found her clit

again. "Come," he commanded.

She exploded at the sound of his voice, rubbing her

body, humping the desk like a wild animal and swearing

up a storm. Abruptly he removed his finger and struck

her, once, twice more.

The whipping melded with the orgasm. She actually

stuck her ass in the air. Was she counting? She couldn't hear her voice.

"M—more, please, Sir?"

He went on past ten. To what number she didn't know; she was too far gone in her latest climax. It was an all-over orgasm, a total body orgasm or maybe an out-of-body one. At a certain point in the middle of the explosive crashing, she heard herself screaming for his cock to slam itself home, an extension of his discipline.

Luckily, he thought to put a condom on. In her current

state of mind, she never would have asked. She'd have to kid him later about walking around with rubbers all the time, being prepared like a perverted Boy Scout. Or had he been planning on some hot date with somebody else

tonight before she came along?

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His cock slid into her canal with ease. She was more

than ready, hot and wet and pulsing. "Yes, oh, yes." She encouraged her own invasion. "Do it to me, use me..."

Her words had the desired effect. He grabbed her

waist in an iron grip and slammed himself in to the hilt.

Immediately he pulled back and did it again. By the third time, she was ready to peak all over again.

"Come inside me, fucking come inside me, lover," she cried.

"I'll give the orders." He slapped her throbbing buttocks, bringing back every single blow of the belt.

She moaned, slipping into a space somewhere to the

outside of normal consciousness. She looked down at her own body, saw what was happening to her, just as she saw where it was going.

"Master," she gasped, using the title entirely without permission. "Your slave surrenders to you. She...she loves you."

Always has, she might have added, though again, the

words wouldn't have been believed from the mouth of a

twenty-one-year-old.

Oh, yes, she'd known it would be this good. The

others, the boys at school were so scared of her, awed by her beauty, but John, he knew what to do with her.

John stopped in midstroke.

Had she done something wrong, said something

wrong?

Of course you did, you dolt. Never tell a man you love him,
not right off. That was the most basic rule...

"Sir?"

He withdrew his cock. "I'm sorry, Stephanie. It

shouldn't have gone this far. It's all my fault."

She felt him releasing the tie on her wrists. "But..."

"We can still have dinner if you like."

Have dinner...after this? Was he serious?

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Steffy dropped to her knees, all semblance of pride

gone. "I'll do anything..."

"Stephanie, don't." There was a trace of annoyance in his voice, even pity.

She couldn't hold back the tears. He tried to help her

to her feet, she pushed him away. "Leave me alone, you bastard."

"Steffy, be reasonable. You can't stay here."

"I'll stay where I like; you don't own me."

What a stupid little fool she'd been, a lovesick puppy, blind to the reality of a hard-nosed, hard-hearted man.

Why would he want her? She was young and silly. She

scooted back on her heels.

John spoke harshly, appealing to something deep

inside her. "Stephanie, stop this nonsense. Get up now!"

She obeyed in spite of herself.

He handed her a tissue to wipe her nose. "Go in there,"

he ordered, pointing to a small bathroom adjacent to the office. "Clean yourself up, and I'll take you back to your brother's."

"Yes," she said, omitting the
Sir
.

She closed the door, deeply ashamed, highly

confused. What did he want from her? He was ordering

her about like a slave girl; she was doing what she was told. He'd been attracted to her enough to put his cock in her. So she happened to love him. Did that mean they

couldn't have any kind of relationship?

"Can we at least talk about it?" she asked when she came out, as together as she could arrange herself with a small sink and mirror and the few items in her purse.

"No," he said, stone-faced.

She fell twice as much in love with him with that one

look, so powerful and angry...but still a teddy bear

underneath. Damn, did it ever suck being a woman, totally dependent on hormones.

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He left a lot of money on the table for the meal they

didn't eat; such a waste, that nice bottle of wine.

They walked back to the car without a word

exchanged.

"I don't suppose another beating would make things right?" she quipped, sitting herself gingerly on the leather seat.

"Time will make it right," he said, not a trace of humor. "And distance."

He was brushing her off.

"You're a real prick," she shot back, not feeling particularly mature anymore.

The silence thickened to a dark soup.

"You're not such a big man," she said petulantly, the car just a block from Carl's house, where he lived with three golden retrievers and a Siamese cat named Ginger.

"You have feelings you don't talk about. I think you're a scared little boy on the inside."

His gaze narrowed. It was the first time she'd seen

him even a little perturbed. "Thanks for the unsolicited opinion of a brat, Stephanie; a spoiled girl who doesn't like it when she can't get what she wants."

Wow, she thought. I've hit a raw nerve and he's just

striking back, taking pot shots.

"Tell me, Uncle John." She went for broke. "Why don't you have real relationships? Are you gay?"

He smiled, quite superior. "You want a reaction out of me pretty bad, don't you, young lady?"

"Yes," she replied, summoning every bit of courage in her young body. "I do, Master."

Something flashed across his eyes. She couldn't read

it. "I'm not your master," he said.

"You could be," she retorted. "If you wanted."

"You don't know what you're talking about. What did you do, read some shit on the Internet? Women twice your age don't know what they want; you couldn't possibly."

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"What if I do?" She flipped back her hair. "Are you man enough to handle me, or don't you know what you

want either?"

John frowned and sped up the car. Straight past her

brother's house.

Mission accomplished.

"You can wipe that smirk off your face, young lady,"

he informed her.

"What smirk, Sir?"

"Open the glove compartment," he replied. "There's a vibrator in there."

"Yes, Sir." She fished for it eagerly. It was a small, clear plastic egg. Her pussy contracted at the sight of it.

"Spread your legs wide," he ordered. "Put it inside yourself. Set it on high."