Master's Submission Read online

  Master’s Submission

  Helena Harker

  When Bethany finds her Master’s note, she expects it to contain the usual set of instructions telling her how to prepare for their Friday evening play session. But her Master asks for the unexpected—he wants her to be his Domme. Bethany is terrified at the prospect, but she doesn’t want to disappoint Master. She’ll need to tap into her inner dominatrix if she’s to give her newly submissive lover what he needs.

  Master’s Submission

  Helena Harker

  Chapter One

  I stood by the bedside table, where Master had left his instructions on a piece of red paper he’d transformed into an origami swan. Beautiful. A shame to unfold it, really. Every Friday night, he left me prep work for the scene he wanted to act out when he returned from the office.

  Sometimes he made simple requests, asking me to answer the door dressed only in my leather collar and crotchless panties, and then kneel at his feet after he entered. Or he gave me more detailed instructions, where I had to cook a three-course meal, light candles, make up the bed in satin sheets and lay out the various crops and floggers in a straight line on the mahogany desk by the window. Master loved scenarios involving costume play, especially when I wore my corseted Victorian gown, and he tied me to the bed, ravishing me while I begged to be set free. Other times I draped myself in filmy veils and posed as a harem girl, shimmying my hips in an improvised belly dance. When I finished removing the veils, dropping them one by one at his feet, he played the sultan and demanded sexual favors.

  I held the paper swan to my nose, inhaling its scent. His scent. I caught the faint hint of musky cologne, Fetiche, which I bought for his birthday. One fold at a time, I straightened the paper, tingling in anticipation. What did he desire this evening? Bondage? Spanking? A session with the flogger that ended in a frenzy of fucking? Warmth spread through my pussy as multiple possibilities spun inside my mind. Closing my eyes, I pressed the paper against my lips.

  When Master wrote his notes, the pen left indentations in the paper. The precisely looped Ds and bold Ys reflected his assertive personality.

  Dearest Bethany,

  Tonight, your task is to be my Domme. Do what you like with me.

  Your humble servant,

  Dylan

  What? Domme him? I didn’t have a clue how to be a Domme. I’d always been his submissive. We’d been together five years and for that entire time, I’d acted as his willing servant, surrendering to him, pleasing him. The roles suited us to perfection. My previous relationships were the same. I’d always been with a Dom, and never, ever considered any other role for myself. Being a sub fulfilled me.

  I read the note a second time. He signed it Dylan, his real name. All the other messages had been signed Master.

  What do I do? What do I do? I only had two hours left before he knocked on the door. Panic rose in my chest. Damn you, Master. I crumpled the paper in my fist and tossed it on the bed.

  In two hours, he wanted me to completely reverse the power dynamics in our relationship. Why?

  The reason didn’t matter. As his sub, it was my duty to obey, even if the task seemed impossibly difficult.

  “You think too much,” he always told me. “Feel. Don’t think. Feel.”

  Yes, I overanalyzed everything. He knew me well. Changing wasn’t easy, though. Shit. I better start planning. The goal was to please him, to make him happy. That meant undergoing a complete personality overhaul. Still, he should have given me more time.

  I tried to put myself inside his head. Why the short deadline? Aha, for two reasons. First of all, he knew I’d agonize over his request even if he gave me five weeks to prepare. Second, he knew my immediate reaction would be anger, and he thought I’d put that anger to good use. A long sigh huffed out of me.

  No matter how much I love you, Master, there’s no dominatrix hiding inside me. If there was, she would have come out of the closet a long time ago.

  He’d never pushed me beyond my limits, always respected me when I said, “I can’t do this. Please ask me again later, and I’ll try then”. As a Master, he provided guidance on my path to submission, but never, ever asked me to do more than I was capable.

  Except today.

  What if I said no? It’s too much. I can’t do it. You’re pushing me too hard.

  We didn’t have a punishment dynamic. He wouldn’t flog me or take me over his knee if I refused. But he’d be disappointed.

  And the saddened look on his face would be far, far worse than the lash of a whip.

  I had to try.

  Still, where did his request come from? He never gave me any indication that he’d like to switch with me. Did I miss any clues?

  Sitting on the bed, I curled my legs under me and straightened the piece of paper that used to be an elegant swan. Nervously, I twisted the tight red curls in my ponytail around my finger, re-reading every word in Master’s note. I leaned back against a pillow, my long skirt sliding up, revealing thigh highs and shocking-pink garters.

  In the past few months, his job included taking on more responsibilities. We celebrated his promotion to president of the financial division by dining at Chez François, and while I sipped my Beaujolais and dug into my Poires Belle-Hélène, he seemed preoccupied. I knew something wasn’t right when I rubbed my leg against his, ran my finger along the inside of his thigh, and got zero reaction out of him. Zero.

  “Where is it?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Hmmm? What?” He sliced into his medium-rare steak.

  I leaned in and whispered, “The hard-on.” Usually, a finger along the thigh guaranteed an instantaneous erection.

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. In his business suit and red tie, he looked distinguished and sexy, black hair graying at the temples, laugh lines at the edges of his sensual mouth. His fingers held the stem of the wineglass a little too tightly.

  For several weeks after our celebration dinner, Master came home exhausted every single evening, rarely arriving before eight o’clock. As he watched the late night news, I kneeled on the floor and rubbed his feet. Afterward, I moved on to a neck and shoulder massage, pressing my thumbs into his tight, knotted muscles.

  “I need a vacation,” he said. “Giving people orders every minute of the day is getting old.”

  “But you like giving orders,” I teased, kissing his neck.

  He raised his glass of rum and Coke to his lips. “We’ve posted losses over the past three quarters. Now it’s my job to get us back in the black. My job. And a few people disagree with my methods, so I’ve got to keep them in line.”

  “Bring your flogger to the office. Then you can literally crack the whip at them.”

  “I’ll need a lot of whips.” A hint of a smile appeared. “I’ve got thirty people under me, Bethany.”

  “Thirty?” I said in a playful tone. “Any of them female? Any of them naked?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t give me ideas. The last thing I need is a sexual harassment complaint for fucking my secretary in the conference room!”

  “How about if you sexually harass me?” I placed his glass on the coffee table, sat in his lap and unbuttoned my blouse. “I promise not to file any complaints, Sir!”

  His hands slipped under my bra, and I arched my back.

  Now I understood. I brushed the red paper against my lips and inhaled another whiff of his cologne. He needed to relax and let somebody else take care of things for a while. The knowledge gave me something to work with. Relaxation-based play, but still edgy and titillating. How the hell was I supposed to manage that?

  What could I use to reinvent myself? I needed a massive injection of confidence.

  The answer? Costume play. I got up a
nd opened my closet, stunned by the array of costumes I’d accumulated over the past few years. Dressing up before play helped me get into a submissive mindset. I needed an outfit that made me feel powerful. If I thought of this as a role-playing exercise, I might be able to pull it off.

  I didn’t like to disappoint.

  And Master didn’t like to be disappointed.

  What inspired confidence? Definitely not the saucy pirate dress with the swashbuckling hat. The last time I wore it, Master led me into the basement, tied me to a pretend “mast” and flogged me for refusing to swab the deck. I grinned at the memory. While my wrists were tied over my head, he fucked me from behind, thrusting his cock into me over and over. When I reached the point of orgasm, he pulled out of me and used the flogger. He alternated again and again. Flogger. Brink of orgasm. Flogger. Brink of orgasm. Until I begged him to let me come.

  Often, I played the hooker who picked up a john, the student whose teacher meted out harsh discipline or the female cop who’d broken the law and been caught in the act. Since he had a thing for handcuffs, Master enjoyed the cop scenario, where he fucked me hard with my wrists cuffed behind my back. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t wriggle out of a pair of metal cuffs. They only got tighter, which I found out the hard way.

  I even had a nun’s habit, because nuns could only go so long without lusting after a long, thick cock. A flight attendant uniform. The French maid’s outfit. A lasso and Daisy Dukes for my cowgirl costume. Somewhere in this closet of mine, there had to be clothes that commanded authority.

  Last weekend at the fetish club, we met a new member called Lady Pearl, a seductive Domme in her mid-thirties, with pouting lips and pale, milky skin. She put on a show with her sub, a hot sexy stud many years younger than her. As he let her chain him to the St. Andrews’ cross, his muscles rippled and his skin reminded me of burnished copper. He submitted willingly, eagerly, his eyes bright with anticipation, watching her nimble fingers as they tightened the restraints. She ran her hands down the smooth contours of his back, all the way to his perfectly rounded ass, and planted a feather-soft kiss on his shoulder.

  I’d been chained to the cross myself on more than one occasion—never in front of a crowd, though—but seeing it happen to someone else gave me a whole new perspective. In some ways, Lady Pearl interested me far more than her delectable sub. Straight, black hair in a high ponytail, lithe body clad in a latex catsuit, legs sheathed in black platform boots, Lady Pearl oozed power.

  Everyone else sensed it too. In no time at all, club members gathered in a tight semi-circle around the cross, waiting for the action to begin. I moved to the front of the group, Master trailing behind me, puzzled by my interest.

  “You like to watch?” he whispered in my ear. “This is new.”

  “There’s something about her that fascinates me.”

  “Her?” he said in surprise. “Not her boy toy?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong. Her boy toy is superb. But she’s so sure of herself, so…powerful.”

  Master laughed softly, wrapping me in his strong arms, and I melted into him. His hand slipped down my black-satin bustier, squeezing my breast until I gasped.

  With a gloved hand, Lady Pearl grabbed her sub by the hair, pulling his head back until he moaned. In her other hand, she held my favorite type of flogger, with a braided handle and twenty-inch flat leather lashes.

  Lady Pearl handled the flogger expertly, giving it a few practice swings to warm up her wrist. Then the scene began. Lashes arced through the air, gleaming under the club’s muted lights. As they landed with a gentle slap on the sub’s back, I knew exactly how he felt, and my own skin tingled in response. Master held me tight, kissing my neck, his palms roving over my waist, gripping my ass. I rubbed my backside against his pelvis. His cock twitched. I reached behind me, grasping him through his tight leather pants. Damn, I hungered for him, fantasizing about his cock thrusting into me from behind as everyone watched. Having sex in public had never interested me before. Even when Master suggested it, I’d always been too shy. What did it feel like to be Lady Pearl’s sub, completely exposed, the centre of everyone’s attention?

  What did it feel like to be Lady Pearl?

  The lashes fell again, a harder slap this time. She quickly established a rhythm, alternating between softly dropping the lashes on his shoulders and ass to whipping them down with force.

  The flogger’s versatility impressed me the most. In my Master’s hands, the whip could be loving and sensuous or hard and stinging. It all depended on his mood. And on mine.

  Lady Pearl whipped harder, and the man flinched. Immediately, she swiped her hand across his ass, exactly where the lashes had landed. From personal experience, I knew that technique felt heavenly. Whenever the flogger hit me hard, there was a moment when I sensed nothing and thought, Hey, that’s not so bad. But a fraction of a second later, sharp stinging pain raced over my flesh. When I squealed, Master swiped his hand over the lash marks to cool the blazing heat.

  The scene intensified as Lady Pearl struck harder. And harder. She didn’t pause anymore to rub away the pain. Each stroke left a fresh set of marks. By the euphoric expression on the man’s face, I knew endorphins were rushing through his bloodstream. Soon, he’d be in subspace.

  For me, subspace was an ecstasy of oblivion that came from alternating between pleasure and pain. Near the end of a hard session, I coasted on an endorphin high. The world disappeared and I experienced only bliss, bliss, bliss. As though floating on a cloud, drunk on sensation. Indescribable.

  Several minutes later, Lady Pearl’s sub groaned, “Red!”

  Their safe word. He couldn’t take any more. She halted in mid-swing. His legs shook. His ass bore a multitude of bright red stripes. Releasing him from his shackles, she wrapped him in a blanket, and escorted him to a semi-private area set aside for aftercare. He’d given her the most precious gift of all, his unquestioning submission.

  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 o
f 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.