My dirty submission

Like many others, my first exposure to B/d came when mainstream novels with B/d themes hit the bookstores. Books like “Bondage” by Patti Davis and “Topping From Below” by Laura Reese and, of course, the books that Anne Rice wrote under various pen names. I read them and enjoyed them for the most part, but my husband had no interest and made it clear that no wife of his would get involved with anything so common – that was the word he used. Common.

That conversation was the beginning of the end. Our marriage had been shaky for a while and things didn’t get any better. Before too long I found myself single again at the age of 29. Our marriage had lasted for six years, but fortunately there were no children to be hurt by the divorce. Our parting was civilized. We sold the house and split the proceeds. We each kept our own car. He got the boat and the camping gear. I got the furniture. He got the dog, I got the cat. And so it was over.

I moved into an apartment and life went on. I’m an underwriter for a large insurance company – not very glamorous but it pays well. I continued my reading about B/d, but didn’t seek to pursue any ‘real’ activities. Research has always been my strong suit. <grin> I discovered the Internet after hearing people at work talk about it. I got a computer and began avidly exploring this new world. Alt.sex.bondage and alt.sex.stories quickly became two of my favorite news groups.

Then, about six months ago, I met a man at Borders Books. Before I tell you about the meeting, I should explain that I’m really very average looking. I’m 5’6″ and weigh about 120 pounds. I have a pretty good figure, thanks to regular workouts and daily runs, but I’m average. You might see me and never look twice. My hair and eyes are brown and my skin is olive/tan. I have good legs and, as I said, a good figure (34c-25-34). You have to look at me two or three times before you realize that I’m almost pretty.

Anyway, I was at Borders, looking for anything new on B/d, when I realized that someone was studying me. Not staring, but studying. He’d glance at me for a few seconds and then go back to the book he was browsing. Then another look a minute or two later. He looked to be in his late thirties, possibly forty, and he looked interesting. He wasn’t too tall, maybe 5’9″ or 5’10” but he seemed very fit. Black hair, cropped close to his head, clean-shaven, neat. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Black half-boots. A tooled leather belt. A black leather jacket. He looked like an off-duty cop but I found out later that he owns a small software company.

I found a couple of books and drifted to the front of the store to pay for them. He stood up and followed along, winding up behind me in line. As I paid for my books, he asked me if I was free to have a cup of coffee with him. (Borders has a coffee bar in every store). I hesitated, but he nodded at my books and said, “We can discuss your purchases for a few minutes and then I’ll leave if you wish.”

I considered his offer for a moment and nodded. “Okay. It might be fun.”

As we walked back to the coffee bar he told me his name was Martin. “Ellen,” I said, “Ellen Randall. Nice to meet you.” We stopped and shook hands.

As we sipped our coffee he took my books out of the bag and read the titles. Both were fiction. “The Slave” by Sara Adamson and “The Virgin” by Allison Tyler. He’d read both of them and commented that they were fun reading, but not very realistic. He put them back and we chatted for a few minutes. He told me that he was, or had been heavily into the B/d scene before his wife died.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “How long ago did it happen?”

He thanked me and said that she had died two years before of cancer. And he had kind of drifted away from the B/d scene afterward. “It just wasn’t the same.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Was your wife into B/d?”

He smiled. “Yes, she was. At our wedding she was on her knees, nude, collared, and cuffed. I led her out of the room on a leash. She was a loving, willing slave.”

We sipped our coffee in silence for a couple of minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. Then he put his cup down and cleared his throat. “I have a proposal for you.” He paused and glanced at me. I nodded and he continued. “You can stay here and I’ll leave. Or you can get up and go outside and wait for me. And I’ll enslave you.”

I stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then I got up and walked to the door without glancing back. When I got outside I walked a few steps away from the door and stopped. He came out a minute later and walked past me. “Follow me.” I followed him across the parking lot to a new Lexus ES300. He told me to go and get my car and follow him back to his place. I turned away to go to my car. “Stop!” I stopped and turned back to see what he wanted. He beckoned and I walked back. “Whenever I give you an order, you will answer ‘Yes, master’. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, master. I understand.”

He smiled. “That’s better. Now go and get your car.”

“Yes, master.” I turned and walked to my car. My pulse was racing. I had met my master! What would happen to me now? Was I worthy to be his slave? Did I want to be his slave? (The answer to that was a resounding ‘YES’)

I followed him to his house which turned out to be a big contemporary located on five acres of land on the side of a hill in Farmington. His driveway was at least 200 yards long and wound through a nicely landscaped yard. It was almost dark, but I could see that the house was beautiful and the grounds perfectly kept. And very private. He pulled into the garage and I parked on the apron in front of one of the other garage doors. (He has a three-car garage).

We went inside and he poured us each a glass of wine. We sat on the back deck and talked for two hours, mostly about my past. He asked many probing questions that would have embarassed me under other circumstances. I answered each question fully and truthfully. Finally, he was satisified that I was honest, well-adjusted, and really interested in being a slave. We had finished one bottle of wine. He made coffee and while it was brewing he gave me a tour of the house. Then, over coffee, he asked me if I wanted to be his slave. For a trial period of three months. I hesitated for a moment. “Six months would be better, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Six months it is. Any restrictions you want to impose?”

I thought about that for a moment. “I don’t want to die. Or be maimed. Other than that, no restrictions that I can think of right now.”

He smiled. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment.” He got up and left the room. I sat and sipped my coffee and wondered if I was being a fool. He returned in a few minutes and handed me a single sheet of paper. It was a ‘Slave Contract’. I read it and found that he had put in the restrictions I’d mentioned, word for word. I glanced up at him and he handed me a pen. I signed. He signed. He left and returned a minute later with a photocopy of the contract. I folded it and put it in my purse. He held out his hand and said, “Give my your purse, I’ll put it in the safe until tomorrow. You’ll stay her tonight. Tommorow you can leave and take three days to arrange your affairs. You can keep your job for now. But you will move in here by Friday. Put your furniture in storage. I’ll pay.”

I nodded and handed him my purse. He left and returned in a couple of minutes. He was carrying a small cardboard box. He set in down on the table and took out a beautiful hand-tooled leather collar – the leather was a deep oxford, almost maroon. He told me to stand up and put it on. I stood and slipped the collar around my neck. After I engaged the catch, he took a small stainless steel padlock out of the box and locked the collar in place. “The only time you will have this off is in the shower or in the pool. And I have a stainless steel collar for you to wear in the pool. Now remove your clothes and fold them neatly and pile them on the table. Shoes first.”

I lifted my feet one at a time and unlaced my running shoes. After they were off, I pulled my sweatshirt off over my head and folded it. Then I unsnapped my jeans and pushed them down over my hips. Martin poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and brought it to the table. I noted that he took it black, with one sugar. I was standing there in my bra, panties, and socks. He sat down and stirred his coffee. “Continue undressing.”

I nodded and reached back to unhook my bra. My breasts have always looked big because I’m rather slender and I’ve always been proud of them. They’re firm and full, pear-shaped, and tipped with big, sensitive pink nipples. As they tumbled free, Martin nodded and murmurred, “Very nice! Very nice, indeed.” I blushed and set my bra on top of the pile. Then I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down over my hips. I bent and retrieved them after stepping out of them. That left my socks. Martin held his hand up when I lifted my foot to take them off and said, “Stop, you look more exposed with them on.”

I straightened up and stood with my hands by my sides. Martin sipped his coffee and looked me over carefully, motioning me to turn this way and that. When he was done, he smiled and said, “You are a very attractive woman. You have a lovely body, beautiful breasts, and fine legs. I love your long, firm thighs and your knees are perfect – delicately sculpted, a delight to look at. And your ass is very nice. How often do you work out.”

I took a deep breath. “Sir, I work out three times a week and run every morning. Three or four miles.”

He smiled. “Very good. You’re a fast learner. You are going to be an excellent slave. I will set up a gym here in the house so you can work out at my convenience. As for running, you may continue to do so. With some restrictions. I’ll tell you what they are later.”

He stood up then and took a riding crop out of the box. “Bend over the table and brace yourself.” I turned and faced the table, leaning on it with my hands spread wide apart. I stared at the opposite wall, trembling slightly from the knowledge that I was about to be whipped for the first time.

I heard the swiiissssh and then I felt a jolt of intense pain as the riding crop cut across my buttocks. My head came up and I whimpered. “Oh, god! Shit, I can’t take this,” I thought to myself. “I just can’t. It hurts too much!” But I bit my lip and didn’t move. He gave me nine more hard ones across my buttocks and thighs. I cried and squirmed and sobbed, but I didn’t move. After ten, he stopped and asked me if I wanted another ten. I turned and looked over my shoulder. Tears were streaming down my face. My ass and thighs hurt worse than anything I had ever endured. “Yes, master. Please give me another ten.” He did. I gripped the table until my knuckles were white, sobbing and whimpering. I screamed after the third blow in the second ten. I threw my head back and screamed my guts out. It seemed to help. I couldn’t stay motionless and did a little dance step after each stroke. By the end, I was screaming continuously, but I didn’t beg for mercy.

After it was over, Martin put the riding crop down and told me not to move. He took a small jar out of the box and rubbed some soothing salve onto my buttocks and thighs. When he was finished, I dropped to my knees and kissed his hand, and thanked him for whipping me. He ruffled my hair and told me that I was a good girl. I grinned up at him through my tears. I was so proud. He unzipped his fly and reached in. I watched as he freed his cock from confinement. He’s not real big, maybe 7 or 7 1/2″ erect, but his cock is thick. He stroked it for a moment and then told me to open my mouth. I didn’t suck him – he held my head with one hand and fucked me in the mouth. At the end, he held my head and shot his cum down my throat. It was soooo good to be used. Slaves are meant to be used and I was being used properly. I was content.