Some kinks can be addictive, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot give them up. Trained for Love showed one side of this, with Brian unwilling to engage Sally in a relationship because he knows he cannot give up his fetish. Secret Submissive has Jennifer unable to give up on her secret desires, and her boyfriend Frankie oblivious.
Here’s a teaser, hope you enjoy.
Excerpt (adult content):
“Strip!” The man’s voice is harsh and firm. His face is covered by a black leather mask. Tight-fitting clothing shows little other than that he is a big man, well muscled with dark hair. His words are directed toward me, a dark-haired young woman with an hourglass figure wearing a conventional blouse and slacks. A black mask covers part of my face, and my straight hair is cut long offering additional concealment.
My name is Jennifer Belcher, and I am a submissive.
A wave of hot and cold chills thrill down my spine, and my pussy gets hot. With trembling fingers I reach up and push my long black hair back before I start unfastening my blouse. It slips from my shoulders to display my full breasts barely concealed by my lace bra, and I lay it aside on a low shelf before stepping out of my heels and slacks. The mirror that covers most of one wall displays my hourglass figure to good effect in my black lace bra and panties.
From outside the small room muffled sounds filter in, the sounds of voices, the clink of a glass, the snap of a whip. On the other side of that mirror dozens of people could be looking into this room from the club. The thought makes me shiver as I unfasten my bra, set it aside and then slide my panties down as my breasts swing free. Except for a small black mask, I am now naked. Around us are racks of punishment tools, devices for restraining a person. The floor is plain black linoleum like a wet-room.
“Fetch a crop.” The masked Dom commands. He is known to me only as ‘Eight’ –or to his face, ‘Master’. Feeling very exposed and shivering slightly from my nudity, I walk over to the rack of punishment tools. It is adorned with crops, canes, straps, tawses, floggers and whips. I select a long, springy crop and take it back to Master. Dutifully I kneel on the floor before him and offer it up on both hands, keeping my eyes downcast on his feet. My nipples are visibly hard, and I can see the bulge in his crotch. My mouth is dry, my stomach knots with fear, and yet I tremble as with a palpable release of stress inside I surrender control.
He takes the crop from my hands and swings it experimentally. The sound it makes cutting through the air makes me flinch slightly.
“Tell me why you are here, slut.”
“To be punished, Master, for my many failings,” I reply, in a slightly cracked voice.
“List them,” he orders. In a slightly shaking voice I do so,
“Master, I have presumed to be in charge of others at work,” I begin, my tone humble and contrite. “I criticize their efforts and act as if I have a right to expect more of them. At home I fail to be a proper slut for my boyfriend. He works a hard and exacting job and I do not always rush to see to his needs when he is at home. I have refused sex with him, and even answered his questions as if I have a right to be consulted…” I trail off into silence.
Without warning a hand grasps the hair at the scruff of my neck and hauls me up to my feet. I whimper in fear and pain, but my pussy tingles hot and moist. Eight pushes me toward a waist-height, padded horizontal bar. He bends me over it until my hands brush the floor, and with his feet push my ankles wide apart. At either end the bar is secured to the ground, and at these points are two manacles. He snaps one on each of my ankles, then one on each of my wrists. My back is to the mirror so everyone outside can see my lewdly spread sex and its shameful wetness.
Looking back between my legs, with my hair hanging down I can see his booted feet and legs close to me, and my butt in the mirror. I fancy I can see vague shapes and movement behind that mirror, I am sure we have an audience. It makes me cringe in humiliation even as it makes my sex throb with lust.
“You still have your boyfriend?” Master’s fingers stroke through my little nest of curls as he teases me. His fingers find my button and strum it lightly. My pussy tightens and brings an involuntarily moan of pleasure from my throat.
“Yes Master. I love him master,” I gasp out in reply. My heart wrenches inside me. I want so badly to beg him to fuck me, to use me. I know I would enjoy it very much if he did. That, however, is one line I cannot and will not cross. His fingers trace lightly up my labia, trailing over my opening, then up further over the rosebud entrance to my ass. I bite my lip and tug futilely against the bonds. Always I have the fear that he will ignore my limits and rape me. Would it really be rape if he did? A part of me wishes he would, a part of me knows he will not. Even so I have to blink back tears of frustration.
There is no warning save the hiss of air before the crop cracks across my buttocks. It leaves a weal of fire in its wake and drives a squeal of pain from my lips.
“One! Thank you Master for my correction!” I babble quickly. I utter the words barely in time before I receive the second humiliating kiss of the crop. He is an expert, bringing the strokes on quickly but irregularly. I never know when the next one is to fall as I count them out and thank Eight for each one in turn. I miscount twice as I struggle to get the words out between strikes, and of course I have to start again when I do. At last I reach a count of twenty and the tip of the crop traces down the front of my inverted torso, and lightly rubs one of my erect nipples.
My ass is on fire, and drops of my sex juice drip onto the floor before my eyes. I crave satisfaction, but I will not beg for it.
“You have enjoyed your chastisement, haven’t you?” Master Eight chuckles indulgently.
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