Thank You for Your Submission
Chapter 1

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Coercion, Hypnosis, Science Fiction, Brother, Sister, BDSM, DomSub, MaleDom, Rough, Light Bond, Humiliation, Violent,

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Jordy Floyd thought he was the cock of the walk. He was in control of every aspect of his life. However, his desire to become a published author might become his undoing...especially at the hands of the mysterious webmaster who constant refrain is "Thank you for your submission."

December 21

'Cock of the walk, ' he thought, smiling to himself.

Sliding through the pedestrian traffic toward his apartment building, Jordan Floyd knew himself to be soooo much better than the people walking around him. Perhaps that's why he was one of the few moving against the flow of people headed toward their cars and buses and trains, ready to get out of town for the long holiday weekend. 'Maybe some of them are even driving cars that I talked them into driving away from the dealership, ' he thought. His smile widened as his minded wandered back to memories of people he had cajoled and double-talked into cars that didn't fit their lifestyle or budget, but who were mesmerized by the power and luxury of a Beemer, a Porsche, a Jaguar, as well as his smooth, sympathetic style of salesmanship. He unconsciously patted his right breast pocket, where the bonus check with 5 digits before the decimal point still sat. He had known before the year was half finished that he was going to win the yearly sales contest, that, in addition to his commission, he would be tucking an additional $10,000 in his account, either for investment or play. What he didn't expect was the additional $15,000 that the franchise owner had kicked in over and above that, for what had been labeled "exceptional salesmanship" for "leading all salesmen in the company in both total sales and margin of profit per sale." Because Jordy Floyd never negotiated, never took 1% over invoice, and never, EVER let a customer talk him into selling a car for less than Jordy's price - because he wasn't afraid to let that customer walk away, knowing that other suck... 'buyers, ' he corrected himself, grinning... would come along, and he'd "take them for a ride" one way or another.

And that made him the cock of the walk.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the windows of the shops that lined his street, he could admire the qualities that often drew customers to him, without him having to give chase: lean, but not overly tall; well-proportioned; a neat mustache; laugh lines around the eyes, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. A trick of genetics had started turning his hair white prematurely in his mid-thirties, and he had battled to keep its youthful blondish-brown color for several years; finally, at forty, he had given that battle up. It was a fortuitous decision; more than a few of the dealership's older customers had noted that they were drawn to him, rather than his more aggressive younger counterparts, because his hair made him look more distinguished and wise.

Walking down the street now, you might mistake him for a moderately successful stockbroker or banker, in his gray overcoat, fedora, and knitted scarf. Yet, on the lot, his coat hung neatly behind his desk, while he walked around with a pencil behind his ear, his tie slightly loosened, his sleeves rolled to his forearms... unconscious signals to the potential customer that this was someone who worked, who would crunch the numbers and give them the best deal possible on what they often viewed as a dream out-of-reach. And so, he reeled them in, peeling their objections and doubts away like layers of an onion, until all that remained was their signature on the last line. This year he had done it twice as much as any other salesman in the company.

And that's why he was the cock of the walk.

Ironically, enough, he didn't own his own car. City-born and bred, he loved walking, and had never had any trouble making his way on foot anywhere in the city. And, if he should need a car, he had a whole fleet of demonstrators at his disposal, without the need to pay for costly garage space or insufferably expensive car insurance. So those would-be expenses flowed instead to his various retirement accounts, and, despite the pains of not getting out of technology stocks soon enough when that bubble burst, his nest egg was such that he could leave the dealership behind and live quite comfortably for 10 to 20 years, and still travel to Europe or the Caribbean once or twice a year. But, retirement was a distant and indistinct specter on his horizon; he was still at the top of his game, still had many more cars to sell, many more bonus checks to earn. When he did retire, it would be because he couldn't cut it anymore, sitting in the back of the dealership living off the leftovers of those who would be his successors... if any such should ever appear.

But for now, he was cock of the walk.

Benny the doorman tipped his hat and opened the ornate brass and glass portal that lead into Jordy's building. Jordy knew that, later, Benny would receive a package from apartment 1201 containing several different brands of scotch and bourbon, only the best, along with a Christmas card thanking Benny for all that he had done over the past year. The occasional errand, a warning call when unexpected company arrived, a stock tip gleaned from overheard conversation... Benny's eyes, ears, and mouth were a valuable resource, and Jordy hoarded such resources carefully, rewarding them in line with their contributions. This year, Benny had proven to be an excellent investment.

The building, or rather, its human occupants were another valuable resource, one for which he had always been grateful. One of his first sales had been made to a gentleman from this same building, and, even then, he could spot a resource that he needed to cultivate. Having walked past this same building many times while growing up, he knew its residents had some of the largest disposable incomes in the city, and, always planning ahead, he turned some of his attention to making sure the man always had knowledge of the dealership's acquisitions of offbeat collectibles that would increase in value. In turn, the buyer introduced him to other potential clients in the building, who referred him to others... until fully 50% of the residents of the building had bought at least one car from him. And though his service to his other clients remained satisfactory, Jordy made sure that the residents of his building always received the highest priority for their problems and needs, even to the extent of mining some of his other resources to keep them happy. When the chance to move into the building occurred, he immediately put his name forward, and several of his most satisfied customers were happy to recommend him. Still, he knew there had been a few whispers of "A car salesman?" from those he had never met, and the interview with the resident's association had been cordial but thorough. It was only coincidence that the head of the association had closed the deal on a Jaguar from his dealership hours before he was notified that he had been approved to move in, but then, the commission on that sale helped pay the huge up-front deposit. However, the years of living within walking distance of his job had been worth the investment. And his neighbors, no matter how much they might have looked down on him at first, knew that he would take care of them when it came to choosing and buying their cars, for Jordy had learned one piece of knowledge from his father that had stuck with him when nothing else did: "Son, don't shit in your own backyard."

When the apartment building went condo in the early 90's, he bought his immediately, knowing that its location alone would prove the asking price a bargain. Now, if he chose to sell, he would triple his initial investment.

And that too, was why he was cock of the walk.

Riding up in the elevator, Jordy thought ahead to the activities of the weekend, and the woman who would be spending it with him. Jordan Floyd had never married, nor had he ever considered doing so. Even though he loved the company, pursuit, and conquest of women, he could never bring himself to consider sharing his life with just one person, not when there were so many different types from which to sample. Which is why, more often than not, many a woman whom he had dated found herself out of his life quickly... because he could not be bothered to maintain any emotional or mental investment in her after the initial rush of passion had subsided. The longest ongoing relationship he had was with Susan Devereaux, an estate attorney from Connecticut, who, like him, had no real interest in emotional ties; their mutual interest was wild, unbridled, kinky sex. Once or twice a month, Susan would come into the city and spend the weekend with Jordy at his apartment. Once inside the threshold, she would strip off all her clothes and, if he was still dressed, remove his as well. More often than not, she would guide him to the soft leather chair in the living room, have him sit, then drop to her knees and begin kissing his feet, licking and sucking his toes. After loving them for minutes, she would begin working her way up his legs, over his knees, until his already hard cock was completely swallowed by her. Within minutes, she would have him gasping, using her hands, her tongue, her teeth to give him large amounts of pleasure mixed with small doses of pain, compounding his excitement to the point he was ready to burst... then easing back, licking the shaft, kissing his balls. Then she would do it all again, loving and worshipping his cock like she never wanted to let it go... if he let her, for more than an hour at times. Eventually, he would grasp her hair in his hands and start guiding her head in the bobbing motion that meant he wanted to cum. This was not just for his benefit; she loved to have her hair pulled, and the combination of the pain from her head and the control he exerted over her made her pussy so wet that he could smell her sex. Stroking the shaft with one hand and massaging his balls with the other, she would drain him of copious amounts of cum, never letting her mouth leave his cock until she was sure he was spent. Then, for whatever reason, she would take all the cum he had deposited in her mouth and let it slowly drip back onto the head, covering it like icing, then lick it back off again. It was, Jordy thought, a very typical Susan-ish thing... taking something ordinary and giving it her own special twist. But that was only the beginning.

After making sure his cock was clean again, she would wait, kneeling in front of him, as he thoughtfully examined her. Usually to this point, very few to no words would have passed between them. She would wait, eyes lowered, knowing that he knew what she wanted, but not knowing how he take her there. Sometimes, he would simply say, "Go into the bedroom and wait for me." And she would rise and walk, returning to her knees once she had reached the room. Once he had told her to crawl there, and she had done so without as much as a whimper of protest. In fact, she said later that she liked it more. The last time, he had never relinquished his grip on her hair, and she sat awkwardly in front of him, her head cocked to one side. Silently, he rose from the chair, his hand still intertwined with her silky blond locks. He pulled her alongside him, still on her knees, and then began walking to the bedroom. Trying to knee walk beside him, she could not keep pace with his strides, and several times stumbled while trying to hurry; he would lessen the pressure on her hair when this happened to keep from pulling it from her scalp, but when she recovered, he would again tighten his grip and pull her along, until they reached the bedroom proper and he released her to kneel in front of the bed. Not saying a word, he reached between her legs and ran a finger between the lips of her pussy. Which was dripping. And when he fingered her clit, she came for the first - but not the only - time that weekend.

Which was why he was the cock of the walk.

Once inside his apartment, he carefully hung his overcoat and scarf in the hall closet, and paused only briefly before entering the bedroom to turn on his computer. By the time he had removed his coat and tie and taken off his shoes, his incoming e-mail from the day had been pulled, and, pouring himself two fingers of Glenlivet, he sat down before the keyboard.

While everything in Jordy's outside life was carefully studied and practiced to produce the perfect salesman's façade, once inside his lair, he often let his mind loose to explore its darkest fantasies. Searching the Web, he found many groups and sites dedicated to erotic explorations, and became an avid reader. When he found he could participate in discussions online, he started trading thoughts, ideas, and critiques with others of similar interests, who in turn passed along new avenues for exploration. Eventually, he had started to try to write his own stories, tentatively sharing a few of them with his anonymous online friends, who encouraged him to keep writing until he found a voice all his own, as opposed to one that echoed works by other online authors. In the words of one succinct respondent, "Be more original, stop copying other people's stuff!"

Unaccustomed to failing at anything, Jordy had set out each night to write something in his own voice; more often than not, he'd delete stories before they were finished, unhappy with the way characters or storylines were developing. Until finally, just last week, he had finished something with which he was extremely happy... an erotic story based on his relationship with Susan. He had refined and polished each line, reworked sections until there was no fatuous description or unnecessary words. Until finally, he had felt ready to send it to one of his favorite erotic story sites in hopes of being published.

Now, a week had passed, and he was beginning to think that nothing was going to happen, that the story would be ignored, that he would have to try again. But there, in his mailbox, sat an email from the administrator of the website. He sat for a moment, thinking, sipping from his drink... then opened the message.

Thank you for your submission. Please open the attached file and fill out all the information in order for us to consider your request. You will be contacted again shortly.

The short message left Jordy feeling unsettled. The administrator had said nothing about the content of his story, nothing about whether it was good or not. And Jordy never submitted information about himself to anyone he didn't know personally, or have investigated beforehand, especially not in the age of identity theft and computer viruses. So this invitation to blindly give details about who he was and how he could be reached left him a little bemused.

On one hand, he never offered any more of himself to anyone than he absolutely had to; by sending in this personal information, he would violating his own rules of self-protection. On the other hand, he really wanted to get his story published, to have others reading his work, even if they would never really know him. It was a desire that had now equaled, or even surpassed his need to be successful at his profession. So he struggled with himself for just a moment, with ego whispering in one ear, and caution whispering in the other.

In the end, there was no contest. His desire for literary validation outgunned his cautious instincts, and he decided to open the file and fill out the information required. Because he wanted to be a "published author." Because he wanted to think that others would read his story and think 'Now, that's a good writer!'

And, ultimately... because he was the cock of the walk.

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