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All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive

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All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive by Fidelis Blue

I had always had my secret life, the thoughts I kept buried even from myself except at night in bed when solitary lust overcame me. I’d never acknowledged them to any man, and I never intended to. I reasoned that if a man knew what I was like, deep down, he’d despise me.

Anna’s deep dark secret is soon to come to life! A chance meeting has introduced her to the Dominant Roland, and he quickly, systematically, trains the naturally submissive Anna into being his perfect plaything. His complete control of her gives Anna the sexual satisfaction she’s always desired, but Anna’s submission has only begun. Joining them is Belinda, a submissive on loan from her master. The two women develop a quick attraction and soon have sex – without Roland’s permission, earning them a uniquely a stiff reprisal. Later, when a young and handsome ‘Dom in training’ is added to the trio, Roland finds that he must keep a tight rein on their flagrant passions.

While Roland’s dominion over Anna seems unshakable, an unexpected new twist in their relationship requires a new level of submission on Anna, challenging the fast bond with the master she loves.

Immensely sensual and sexually creative S&M consensual erotica; great reading for fans of supremely dominant men and females in training.

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The way it happened was like in one of those movies; don’t they call them rom-coms? Where the boy and the girl “meet cute”. It was raining. I was trying to get a taxi, which you never can when you really need one; and, at last, one pulled up; and, as I walked towards it, he dashed out from a doorway and pulled the door open. When I got there, he was halfway inside. He saw me, but he was going to pretend he hadn’t. And then he looked at me again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Which way are you going?”
I told him I was going to the West End.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Piccadilly Circus?”
I told him that would do. He held the door open for me, and we both climbed in. My hair was wet. I thought I must look bedraggled, but he kept looking at me. He was well-dressed in a suit with narrow stripes. I liked his black shoes. They looked expensive.
He started talking. He had a good voice, mellow, soothing. I sat back in my seat, only half-listening. I’d noted his initial intention, albeit reconsidered, to run off with the taxi on his own, and I’d put him down as one of those pushy, undoubtedly successful but off-putting men who are two a penny in the city. I was sure he worked in a bank. He wasn’t the sort of man I was looking for. In fact, I don’t believe, at that moment, that I was looking for any kind of man at all.
I judged him to be around ten years older than me, perhaps in his late thirties. I noticed, though not with any special satisfaction, that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But then, many English men don’t. A lot of them, the middle-class ones, still think jewellery is for sissies.
As he talked, I stared out of the window at the rain-swept streets. I wasn’t studiously ignoring him. I just thought if I turned sideways on my seat to look at him that might seem a little forward. I didn’t want him to think I was in the habit of sharing taxis with strange men, even in daylight. Then I became aware he’d asked me my name.
“Anna,” I said. I didn’t ask his, but he told me anyway.
“I’m Roland,” he said. He took his wallet out of his pocket and drew out a business-card. I took it. ‘Roland Fenner,’ it said. ‘Broker.’
“What do you broker?” I asked.
“Anything profitable. Or interesting.” He laughed.
I put the card in my pocket. We were in Farringdon Road, about halfway to our destination.
“You work in the city?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve been to see an author.”
“An author?”
I didn’t really want to tell him what I did for a living. I didn’t want to tell him anything. But it seemed rude to just clam up.
“I’m an editor. Book publishing,” I said.
He asked me the name of my company. I told him. He hadn’t heard of it; I knew he wouldn’t.
We fenced with each other for a while. He was trying to find out things about me, but I stone-walled. At last, we reached Piccadilly. I offered him some money for the fare, but he insisted he would pay.
“It’s all on expenses anyway,” he laughed.
He waved cheerily as the cab drew away. Did I think of him in the next few days? Perhaps fleetingly, once or twice. He was quite good-looking. I noticed he had long eyelashes, almost like a girl. But he would have soon vanished from my memory had I not bumped into him, quite literally, that Friday night as I came out of the office. I was turning to say goodbye to a friend, not looking where I was going, and knocked into a man. It was Roland.
“Oh,” I said, flustered. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing,” he said. “Is this where you work? What a coincidence.”
I was too taken aback to be suspicious. It was only several weeks later that he admitted he had engineered the meeting, lying in wait outside in the street.
“Look,” he said, “got time for a drink?”
I glanced at my watch, as if I had some appointment to go to. In reality, I had nothing more exciting before me than a Friday evening in my flat eating pasta and watching TV.
“Just a quick one,” I said.
One turned into another, and he ended up taking me to dinner. I found him easy to talk to, and he actually listened, a rarity in a man. He kept looking at me and smiling, as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. I was surprised that he seemed so pleased to be with me; surely he can get lots of girls, I thought, better-looking than me. I suppose I’ve always lacked self-confidence and belief in myself. I think lots of women like me, lots of submissives as I have learned to call myself, share this tendency to self-deprecation. It seems to go with the territory. Not that I called myself a submissive in those days. I didn’t think of myself that way at all.
At the end of the evening, he kissed me prettily on the cheek. He asked if he could see me again on Sunday. I pretended I wasn’t sure if I was free. I told him to call me the next day, Saturday.
I lay in bed that night thinking about Roland. After a while, my hand strayed down to my belly, stroking, exploring lower and lower. There were bad men lurking in the shadows of my imagination, wicked men who were waiting to do filthy things to me. As always I pretended to be pure and innocent, but this did not save me from their clutches. One of them reached out, putting his hand between my legs in an obscene gesture. I realised, with a shock, he had Roland’s face. I was excited. I rubbed my clit, quickly, urgently, until I came explosively. Afterwards, I felt guilty that I had enrolled Roland in my dirty little game. He’s a nice man, I thought. Don’t spoil it with your disgusting, slutty ways.

Artist Credit

© Ludovic Goubet www.ludovicgoubet.com

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Product Reviews

  1. An odyssey to remember...

    Posted by Unknown on 23rd Apr 2010

    All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive by Fidelis Blue

    Reviewed by Tobias Tanner

    Odyssey suggests a voyage, taking leave of one port and traveling to another, with many unexpected events and side trips along the way. The metaphor, in this instance, is precise. Anna’s odyssey begins in a London taxi, where she meets a new man. They are headed in more or less the same direction—and neither of them realizes at first just how true that is.

    Anna is a bemused skeptic, Roland Fenner a novice Dom, and together they explore the possibilities of a different sort of lifestyle. She is intrigued and sometimes amused by her own submissiveness, which she denies at first but, ultimately, accepts. Roland is perfectly reasonable, patient and charming. And the more he asks of Anna, the more she gives.

    This book foregoes the rape victims and screaming abuse that one might expect. Instead, we are faced with attractive, bright and thoughtful people who find their way toward dominance and submission. That they occasionally beat on each other is really a sidelight, rather than the main act. There is plenty of sex, all three ways, and a couple of extra variations thrown in for spice, plus nipple clamps and tawse and whips and chains. It’s all there, and then some. Boy-girl, girl-girl, girl-girl-boy and, believe it or not, girl-boy-girl-boy!

    However, the author’s interest lies not in how much his submissives can take, but rather in how willing they are. This is more about control than sadism. A voyage like this takes courage on both sides of the dominant/submissive fence. Written with a British flair, this book was a pleasure through and through. You’ll want a glass of stout, at least, or maybe a gin and bitters or some of Scotland’s best. Barring that, make yourself a hot cuppa, as tea is called in Britain, and read on. It will be an odyssey to remember.

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