Bound For Submission by Lizbeth Dusseau
Following her messy divorce, Xana Nightengale recuperates at her beach house, where she meets the mysterious Nathan. This strange and very dominant man knows exactly what this sexually pent-up young woman needs most. He opens Xana to her true sexual lust, which is savagely submissive. He toys with her, makes love to her, chastises, binds and torments her. And when she finally acknowledges the fullness of her submissive desires, he lets her go to pursue her new-found sexual liberty.
Xana begins a new and very secretive lifestyle, fulfilling her submissive fantasies by offering herself to a host of creative and dominant lovers. However, she soon finds herself falling for her boss and mentor, Oliver, who's fiercely Dominant nature demands her submission. Oliver knows nothing about her clandestine lovers. Disaster strikes when Xana’s two worlds suddenly collide and she must fight to keep the man she loves.
This story of one woman’s sexual awakening includes bondage, exhibitionism, masturbation, spanking, whipping and other forms of D/s activity, all recounted with an invitingly sensuous allure.
Once suggested, the thought of making Peter Percival the centerpiece of an erotic fantasy wouldn’t let go. I was afraid to think of him, assuming that would be obsessing, holding on, driving me deeper into an impossible despair. But Nathan suggested this treatment as some sort of exorcism, as a way to release. The idea was novel, and by the time I’d thought through the whole thing in my mind several dozen times, I was so obsessed with lust for Peter that I couldn’t escape the inevitable interlude. That excursion began when I was in the shower late one afternoon. Sexual thoughts had been creeping in all day long. Washing myself between my legs reminded me that I was feeling aroused. I thought of Peter walking in on me, so I’d see him through steamy glass, his firm naked torso, slim hips and his limp penis bobbing softly between his legs. A sudden lurch in my belly turned into something stronger, a fierce pang of need replacing what had been an ever present desire since Nathan gave me this unusual assignment.
I forward leaned into the back wall of the shower, the water pelting me from one side, my back to the door. My imagination suggested that Peter initiated this act, requiring my submission. As he climbed into the shower behind me, I sensed his hands running over my wet skin, one hand in particular firmly grabbing the flesh of my behind, squeezing roughly. Fingers moving between the crack of my ass, plunged low at first, to find another kind of wetness in my center. Used to lubricate that higher entry, I imagined him prodding my ass with his fingers, a desire of mine, deep-seated, it had never been mentioned between us, just used in fantasy occasionally when I wanted to get off quick in the middle of the night.
In my daydream exorcism, Peter was bold, boldly pressing his several fingers into the tight, ungiving space. And I was surrendering, each zealous stroke making me yield more. If I didn’t yield, I might scream from the shooting pains that would have resulted. On the shelf inside the shower I spied a bottle of soap resting there. Thin and smooth enough to use as a dildo? I wondered only a few seconds. Peter wouldn’t have needed this, the fearless Peter of my fantasy would have his cock in me. But the bottle would have to do for my reality. I worked my ass with my own fingers as I imagined Peter’s hand still there. Finding three fit there easily, cream, water and female juice made the entry easy. If that place in me could speak it was asking for more. Once opened wide, I replaced my fingers with the waiting bottle, the hard-surfaced cylinder cautiously inserted into my ass.
Feet spread, head resting on the cold tile, one hand at my cunt, the other ramming the bottle in my behind, I thought of Peter the entire time I fucked myself. Hard, ruthless and demanding, I craved the satisfaction of being victimized this way. Taken, used and brutalized, my mind went crazy with the crazy thought of my passionless husband violating me, while I loved each precious second.
At the edge I pressed the bottle as deeply as I dared, and brought the orgasm to its finish, my muscles spasming, squeezing hard. Peter in me didn’t stop until he’d ejaculated, and neither did I stop the fucking until, in my fantasy, the man I hated was finished using me. He’d grunt, not scream, if he’d been there. And withdrawing his prick from my rear orifice, he’d rap the hard thing against my ass and leave without a word.
Breathing hard, slumped against the tile, the water on me ran cold, the chill so like it would have been if I’d emerged from the shower to see my husband impassively wiping down his naked flesh, his erection limp. Not one instant of affection appeared in my imaginings. I admit I tried adding that to the fantasy that Nathan required of me. But then, that wasn’t really what I wanted from Peter and never had. It was the passion, the crude, demanding carnal passions of sex that I’d needed but had never known.