Chapter 7. Submission

I started sucking him again. Steady. Deep. Almost meditative. Thoughts of Grey drifted far away. Thoughts of where I was did too. Only the rhythm remained. The taste. The heat. His breathing. His hand on the back of my head. His fingers on my skin.

A light smack. Barely there. Straight after — a stroke. The palm glided over the spot. Warm. Gentle. Almost loving.

Another. Then the palm again, caressing exactly where it had just stung.

My body slowly went slack. The fear receded. Only a strange, heavy arousal remained. And a dangerous want. And something else. Something that kept growing inside me regardless.

I wanted the punishment.

The thought arrived sharp and clear. I didn’t have time to be afraid of it. Didn’t have time to push it away. It simply appeared. And stayed.

I deliberately brought my thighs together. Just a fraction. Enough for him to notice. Enough to make it clear: I was doing it on purpose. I was provoking him. I wanted it.

You’re provoking him, the inner voice all but purred. You want him to smack you harder. And you love it. You love being punished. You love being stopped. You love being under control.

The blow came at once.

Loud. Hard. Scalding. His palm cracked into my arse, and the pain flared bright and instantly melted into a heavy, sweet wave that rolled through my belly. Everything inside clenched. Got hotter. Wetter. Worse.

I cried out, right around his cock. Not from pain. From something else. Something I couldn’t name. Didn’t want to name. Was afraid to name.

And carried on sucking. Greedily. Almost furiously. Deeper. Faster. Impaling myself as hard as I could. Choking. Gasping. And never stopping.

“Dirty girl,” came from above. With obvious relish. With a smirk. With something I didn’t want to hear. “Still don’t want to take up my offer? Grind those wet little lips on my tongue? Sit on my face?”

Yes, I answered in my head, without a flicker of doubt. I want it. All of it. I want you to do whatever you like with me. Humiliate me. Punish me. Use me. I want there to be nothing left inside me but want.

He pushed my head down a little. His cock slid especially deep. Cut off my air. Panic flared instantly — cold, sticky, animal. I drummed my hands against his stomach. His thighs. Trying to pull back. Trying to signal that I needed air.

He let go.

I jerked away. Gulped air. Choked. Tears running down my cheeks. Spit hanging off my chin. Spluttering. Coughing. Fighting for breath. Barely keeping the sick down.

But the arousal hadn’t gone anywhere. It throbbed between my legs. Heavy. Demanding. Hot. I wanted him inside me. Or at least to touch myself with my fingers. Once. Quickly. Just to take the edge off the ache that was driving me round the bend.

You nearly choked to death, I said to myself quietly. You nearly died with his cock in your throat. And you still want more. Am I really like this? Have I always been like this?

There was no answer. Or there was — and I was simply too frightened to hear it.

“You’ve quite forgotten yourself,” Dan’s voice went cold again. “I’ve reminded you of your place. Now you’ll do as I say. Come here and do what I asked.”

I was still fighting for breath. Still spitting. Still tasting him on my tongue.

“Now,” he added. “Or I’ll just fuck your mouth senseless. I’m counting to five.”

He sat up. Leaned back on his hands. Tilted his head.

“One...”

Numbness. I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t obey. My arms wouldn’t obey. My head wouldn’t obey.

“Two...”

The fear of choking fought the fear of disobeying. Shame fought desire. The thought of Lexi surfaced, and straightaway drowned in a fresh surge of heat. In a fresh rush of something dark. Hungry. Shameless.

“Three...”

I was on my feet.

Not entirely sure how it was possible. Not entirely sure what I was doing. I stepped over his body. Stood above him. Froze.

Everything below was throbbing so hard that thought all but vanished. The hunger for touch proved stronger than fear. Stronger than shame. Stronger than everything. Stronger than Grey. Stronger than Lexi. Stronger than me.

I lowered myself. Slowly. Centimetre by centimetre. Feeling his breath — hot, damp — graze me where everything burned. Feeling his hands settle on my hips — firm, sure, guiding. Feeling his tongue — first touch, light, testing — meet my folds.

My back arched. My spine went rigid. My fingers dug into his shoulders. I froze halfway, unable to sink the rest of the way, unable to pull away. His tongue moved — slowly, in circles, gathering the wetness, teasing, tasting. He wasn’t rushing. He was savouring. And that drove me madder than any fast stroke.

You’re sitting on his face, the inner voice whispered. You climbed on yourself. No one made you. You lowered yourself and sat down. And you love it.

I sank lower. Lower still. Until his tongue was exactly where I needed it. Until I could feel it with my whole being — hot, rough, insistent. And then I began to move. Slowly. Uncertainly. Testing. My hips found their own rhythm — back and forth, in circles, riding his tongue. I looked down — at his face, at his eyes gazing up at me, at his hands holding my hips, guiding but not forcing. And I felt something enormous and dark and unstoppable rising inside me.

The shame. It was there. It hadn’t gone anywhere. But it had become part of it. Part of the arousal. Part of the desire. I was sitting on the face of a man who kept my boyfriend on a chain, and it felt good. So good I stopped thinking. Stopped remembering. Stopped being myself. I became just a body that moves, that wants, that receives.

His tongue quickened. Pressed harder. Swirled faster. And I answered — rougher, deeper, forgetting the shame, forgetting everything. His hands gripped my hips tighter, helping, steering. And I heard my own voice — high, ragged, unrecognisable. I was moaning. Loudly. Without restraint. Bollocks to it.

And then he stopped.

“Initiative,” he said, breathing hard, and his voice vibrated between my legs. “You have to do it all yourself. Or I’ll stop.”

So I bent forward. Leant over his body. My hair fell down, curtaining his stomach, his thighs, his groin. I reached out and wrapped my hand round his cock — hot, hard, pulsing. And took him in my mouth.

And then the world narrowed for good. Only this remained: my hips moving over his face, and my mouth moving on his cock. Both ends of me working. Both ends of me wanting. And I no longer knew where one pleasure ended and the other began. His tongue inside me. My tongue on him. Wet. Hot. Unbearable.