All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive

Chapter One-3

“I have the feeling that I could make you do anything I want right now,” he said.

“Anything?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said, looking me right in the eye.

“What sort of thing?” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I think I want you to go to the ladies room and take off your knickers and then come back and hand them to me across the table.”

I blushed and glanced sideways at the neighbouring table. The woman seated there looked away hurriedly. I was sure she was eavesdropping.

I hesitated. “I don’t know about that.”

“Go and do it. Now,” he said.

“They’re watching,” I hissed, nodding at the other table. “I’m not going to let them see me give you anything.”

“Go and do it now,” he repeated. He seemed quite in earnest. “If you don’t, I’ll be very cross with you, and you won’t like that.”

“Don’t be cross. Please,” I pleaded.

“Then do it,” he said firmly.

I got up and crossed the room to the ladies’ loo. There was no one else inside. I went into a cubicle, pulled up my skirt, and stepped out of my knickers. They were black silk briefs. I sat down and had a pee, putting my knickers in my handbag. I washed my hands before stepping out again. When I sat down at the table, Roland put out his hand.

“Give them to me,” he said.

I blushed and glanced sideways once more. Furtively, I took the knickers out of my bag, scrunched them up into a tiny ball, and passed them quickly across. Roland took them and held them to his nose while he sniffed. Mortified, I stared down at the table too embarrassed to dare look at the other diners.

“I love your smell,” he said. He put the knickers in his pocket. “Have you been wearing these all day?”

“Yes,” I said shyly.

“I thought so. They are impregnated with your scent. Just the faintest whiff makes my c**k come up really hard.”

“Roland,” I hissed, “behave.”

He giggled. Just then, thankfully, the next course arrived, and I managed to change the subject. I tried not to think about my cunt, naked under my dress, my juices slowly seeping out of me.

We left the restaurant and began to walk towards the tube station. It was late by then, and there were only a few people about, though London is never completely deserted. As we walked past a dark alleyway, Roland suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into the shadows.

“What are you doing?” I protested.

By way of a reply, he pushed me back against a wall and began to kiss me. I tried to avoid his mouth, mumbling a protest. I didn’t want to make too much noise in case we attracted attention. Roland put his hand up my skirt, feeling between my legs. I squirmed, trying to get away. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel excitement, but I was terrified of discovery.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for the last half an hour,” he hissed in my ear.

He pushed a finger into my unguarded cunt, moving it quickly in and out. Then he took his hand away, and I heard him unzip.

“No, really, we can’t,” I said.

But I was too late. Deftly, he pulled my thigh up. His c**k went in easily. I knew I was very wet. He began to f**k me furiously, his knees bent, his body straining furiously to maximise the leverage in his hips. In no time at all, he groaned out his pleasure as he came inside me then quickly withdrew.

“Give me back my knickers,” I whispered. “It’s all going to run out of me otherwise.”

“Good,” he said.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me after him. I sat on the tube with my legs tightly squeezed together. When we got off, I could feel it started to seep out of me as we walked to his flat. Once inside the door, he dragged me into the bedroom and stripped off my skirt. He threw me on the bed and knelt between my legs, lapping greedily at my runny, sticky cunt. I grabbed his hair and held his head against me, grinding my clit against his lips and tongue until I came with a wail of ecstasy.

And so it went on. A few days later, on a Sunday afternoon, we were in bed at his place. We’d been fooling around for the best part of an hour without actually having intercourse. Roland is one of the few men I’ve ever met who actually seems to enjoy the whole process of having s*x. In my experience, most men want to get to the climax as quickly as possible. Their s****l activity is very goal-oriented. Foreplay is a means to an end. But for Roland it seems to be an end in itself. I remember him telling me at this time that often he didn’t really care if he had an orgasm or not. Coming was pleasurable, but it was often even more pleasure to prolong things, delay the climax, because once you’d had it, you didn’t feel so sexy for a while.

He was sitting up in bed, his back against the wall supported by a pillow. I was half-lying across his lap, face down. He was slowly stroking my back and massaging the muscles around the middle, just above the buttocks.

“Have you ever been spanked?” he asked.

“Spanked? You mean for fun?”

“For any reason,” he said.

“Well, I wasn’t spanked as a child, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not exactly what I mean,” he said.

“There was a boy once,” I said, remembering a long-forgotten incident. “We were fooling around. He got me across his knee and started smacking my behind. I had all my clothes on.”

“What did you do?”

“I think I laughed. It seemed a silly thing to do.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not really. It didn’t go on long enough.”

“What if I were to spank you now? What if it hurt?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

I considered this. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t explain it. It’s something I need to do.”

“Need to?” How could he need to do such a thing?

“Yes,” he said. “It’s more than just a whim.”

I thought for a moment. “If I say stop, will you stop?”

“Of course,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “But take it easy.”

I held my breath. He put his hand on my right buttock and began to stroke it, then kneaded the flesh a little, digging his fingers into the soft tissue. I felt him take his hand away, and then he smacked me. It stung, not unbearably so, but it was more than just an affectionate pat on the behind. He raised his hand again and dealt me a similar blow on the other buttock. I grunted.

“There are marks on you,” he said. “The outline of my hand is on you.”

I said nothing. I knew he wanted to do it some more. I waited patiently. He smacked my right buttock again, then the left, a little harder this time. He set up a regular rhythm, right, left, right, left. My bottom was smarting.

I tried to analyse my reactions. It was slightly humiliating, being in this position, like a naughty schoolgirl. I was glad he couldn’t see my face properly. The spanking was too hard to be playful. It did hurt though not so badly that I had to beg for mercy. I let him go on because I’d become aware of a powerful desire to please him over the past few weeks. I wanted to be what he wanted. I wanted him to take pleasure in me.

After perhaps a couple of dozen smacks on each cheek, I began to feel something else too. My bottom was growing warm. It was glowing. And as the spanking continued, I could feel this warmth spreading, infusing all of my buttocks and slowly spreading in between them. My cunt felt alive, tingly, and I knew my clit was beginning to swell.

At last he stopped. I felt I could have taken a little more, but I didn’t say so. I wanted him to do just as much or little as he pleased. He stroked my ass slowly; his hand soothing me. After a while, his fingers slid between my thighs, fondling my cunt. I sighed and shifted slightly, letting him know he might do as he wished. His finger found my clit. By now he knew exactly how I liked it to be stroked, not directly across the top but on the side, very gently at first then more and more firmly. While he worked my clit, he rubbed me with his other hand, pressing it against the small of my back. I surrendered to his touch and was born away on a wave of delight; my thighs suddenly gripping his hand, trapping his fingers against my quivering clit.