My dirty submission

Like many others, my first exposure to B/d came when mainstream
novels with B/d themes hit the bookstores. Books like “Bondage” by
Patti Davis and “Topping From Below” by Laura Reese and, of course,
the books that Anne Rice wrote under various pen names. I read them
and enjoyed them for the most part, but my husband had no interest and
made it clear that no wife of his would get involved with anything so
common – that was the word he used. Common.

That conversation was the beginning of the end. Our marriage had
been shaky for a while and things didn’t get any better. Before too
long I found myself single again at the age of 29. Our marriage had
lasted for six years, but fortunately there were no children to be
hurt by the divorce. Our parting was civilized. We sold the house
and split the proceeds. We each kept our own car. He got the boat
and the camping gear. I got the furniture. He got the dog, I got the
cat. And so it was over.

I moved into an apartment and life went on. I’m an underwriter for
a large insurance company – not very glamorous but it pays well. I
continued my reading about B/d, but didn’t seek to pursue any ‘real’
activities. Research has always been my strong suit. <grin> I
discovered the Internet after hearing people at work talk about it. I
got a computer and began avidly exploring this new world. and quickly became two of my favorite
news groups.

Then, about six months ago, I met a man at Borders Books. Before I
tell you about the meeting, I should explain that I’m really very
average looking. I’m 5’6″ and weigh about 120 pounds. I have a
pretty good figure, thanks to regular workouts and daily runs, but I’m
average. You might see me and never look twice. My hair and eyes are
brown and my skin is olive/tan. I have good legs and, as I said, a
good figure (34c-25-34). You have to look at me two or three times
before you realize that I’m almost pretty.

Anyway, I was at Borders, looking for anything new on B/d, when I
realized that someone was studying me. Not staring, but studying.
He’d glance at me for a few seconds and then go back to the book he
was browsing. Then another look a minute or two later. He looked to
be in his late thirties, possibly forty, and he looked interesting.
He wasn’t too tall, maybe 5’9″ or 5’10” but he seemed very fit. Black
hair, cropped close to his head, clean-shaven, neat. He was wearing
jeans and a T-shirt. Black half-boots. A tooled leather belt. A
black leather jacket. He looked like an off-duty cop but I found out
later that he owns a small software company.

I found a couple of books and drifted to the front of the store to
pay for them. He stood up and followed along, winding up behind me in
line. As I paid for my books, he asked me if I was free to have a cup
of coffee with him. (Borders has a coffee bar in every store). I
hesitated, but he nodded at my books and said, “We can discuss your
purchases for a few minutes and then I’ll leave if you wish.”

I considered his offer for a moment and nodded. “Okay. It might
be fun.”

As we walked back to the coffee bar he told me his name was Martin.
“Ellen,” I said, “Ellen Randall. Nice to meet you.” We stopped and
shook hands.

As we sipped our coffee he took my books out of the bag and read
the titles. Both were fiction. “The Slave” by Sara Adamson and “The
Virgin” by Allison Tyler. He’d read both of them and commented that
they were fun reading, but not very realistic. He put them back and
we chatted for a few minutes. He told me that he was, or had been
heavily into the B/d scene before his wife died.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “How long ago did it

He thanked me and said that she had died two years before of
cancer. And he had kind of drifted away from the B/d scene afterward.
“It just wasn’t the same.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Was your wife into B/d?”

He smiled. “Yes, she was. At our wedding she was on her knees,
nude, collared, and cuffed. I led her out of the room on a leash.
She was a loving, willing slave.”

We sipped our coffee in silence for a couple of minutes, each lost
in our own thoughts. Then he put his cup down and cleared his throat.
“I have a proposal for you.” He paused and glanced at me. I nodded
and he continued. “You can stay here and I’ll leave. Or you can get
up and go outside and wait for me. And I’ll enslave you.”

I stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then I got up and
walked to the door without glancing back. When I got outside I walked
a few steps away from the door and stopped. He came out a minute
later and walked past me. “Follow me.” I followed him across the
parking lot to a new Lexus ES300. He told me to go and get my car and
follow him back to his place. I turned away to go to my car. “Stop!”
I stopped and turned back to see what he wanted. He beckoned and I
walked back. “Whenever I give you an order, you will answer ‘Yes,
master’. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, master. I understand.”

He smiled. “That’s better. Now go and get your car.”

“Yes, master.” I turned and walked to my car. My pulse was
racing. I had met my master! What would happen to me now? Was I
worthy to be his slave? Did I want to be his slave? (The answer to
that was a resounding ‘YES’)

I followed him to his house which turned out to be a big
contemporary located on five acres of land on the side of a hill in
Farmington. His driveway was at least 200 yards long and wound
through a nicely landscaped yard. It was almost dark, but I could see
that the house was beautiful and the grounds perfectly kept. And very
private. He pulled into the garage and I parked on the apron in front
of one of the other garage doors. (He has a three-car garage).

We went inside and he poured us each a glass of wine. We sat on
the back deck and talked for two hours, mostly about my past. He
asked many probing questions that would have embarassed me under other
circumstances. I answered each question fully and truthfully.
Finally, he was satisified that I was honest, well-adjusted, and
really interested in being a slave. We had finished one bottle of
wine. He made coffee and while it was brewing he gave me a tour of
the house. Then, over coffee, he asked me if I wanted to be his
slave. For a trial period of three months. I hesitated for a moment.
“Six months would be better, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Six months it is. Any restrictions you want to

I thought about that for a moment. “I don’t want to die. Or be
maimed. Other than that, no restrictions that I can think of right

He smiled. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment.” He got up and
left the room. I sat and sipped my coffee and wondered if I was being
a fool. He returned in a few minutes and handed me a single sheet of
paper. It was a ‘Slave Contract’. I read it and found that he had
put in the restrictions I’d mentioned, word for word. I glanced up at
him and he handed me a pen. I signed. He signed. He left and
returned a minute later with a photocopy of the contract. I folded it
and put it in my purse. He held out his hand and said, “Give my your
purse, I’ll put it in the safe until tomorrow. You’ll stay her
tonight. Tommorow you can leave and take three days to arrange your
affairs. You can keep your job for now. But you will move in here by
Friday. Put your furniture in storage. I’ll pay.”

I nodded and handed him my purse. He left and returned in a couple
of minutes. He was carrying a small cardboard box. He set in down on
the table and took out a beautiful hand-tooled leather collar – the
leather was a deep oxford, almost maroon. He told me to stand up and
put it on. I stood and slipped the collar around my neck. After I
engaged the catch, he took a small stainless steel padlock out of the
box and locked the collar in place. “The only time you will have this
off is in the shower or in the pool. And I have a stainless steel
collar for you to wear in the pool. Now remove your clothes and fold
them neatly and pile them on the table. Shoes first.”

I lifted my feet one at a time and unlaced my running shoes. After
they were off, I pulled my sweatshirt off over my head and folded it.
Then I unsnapped my jeans and pushed them down over my hips. Martin
poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and brought it to the table. I
noted that he took it black, with one sugar. I was standing there in
my bra, panties, and socks. He sat down and stirred his coffee.
“Continue undressing.”

I nodded and reached back to unhook my bra. My breasts have always
looked big because I’m rather slender and I’ve always been proud of
them. They’re firm and full, pear-shaped, and tipped with big,
sensitive pink nipples. As they tumbled free, Martin nodded and
murmurred, “Very nice! Very nice, indeed.” I blushed and set my bra
on top of the pile. Then I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my
panties and pushed them down over my hips. I bent and retrieved them
after stepping out of them. That left my socks. Martin held his hand
up when I lifted my foot to take them off and said, “Stop, you look
more exposed with them on.”

I straightened up and stood with my hands by my sides. Martin
sipped his coffee and looked me over carefully, motioning me to turn
this way and that. When he was done, he smiled and said, “You are a
very attractive woman. You have a lovely body, beautiful breasts, and
fine legs. I love your long, firm thighs and your knees are perfect –
delicately sculpted, a delight to look at. And your ass is very nice.
How often do you work out.”

I took a deep breath. “Sir, I work out three times a week and run
every morning. Three or four miles.”

He smiled. “Very good. You’re a fast learner. You are going to
be an excellent slave. I will set up a gym here in the house so you
can work out at my convenience. As for running, you may continue to
do so. With some restrictions. I’ll tell you what they are later.”

He stood up then and took a riding crop out of the box. “Bend over
the table and brace yourself.” I turned and faced the table, leaning
on it with my hands spread wide apart. I stared at the opposite wall,
trembling slightly from the knowledge that I was about to be whipped
for the first time.

I heard the swiiissssh and then I felt a jolt of intense pain as
the riding crop cut across my buttocks. My head came up and I
whimpered. “Oh, god! Shit, I can’t take this,” I thought to myself.
“I just can’t. It hurts too much!” But I bit my lip and didn’t move.
He gave me nine more hard ones across my buttocks and thighs. I cried
and squirmed and sobbed, but I didn’t move. After ten, he stopped and
asked me if I wanted another ten. I turned and looked over my
shoulder. Tears were streaming down my face. My ass and thighs hurt
worse than anything I had ever endured. “Yes, master. Please give me
another ten.”
He did. I gripped the table until my knuckles were white, sobbing and
whimpering. I screamed after the third blow in the second ten. I
threw my head back and screamed my guts out. It seemed to help. I
couldn’t stay motionless and did a little dance step after each
stroke. By the end, I was screaming continuously, but I didn’t beg
for mercy.

After it was over, Martin put the riding crop down and told me not
to move. He took a small jar out of the box and rubbed some soothing
salve onto my buttocks and thighs. When he was finished, I dropped to
my knees and kissed his hand, and thanked him for whipping me. He
ruffled my hair and told me that I was a good girl. I grinned up at
him through my tears. I was so proud. He unzipped his fly and
reached in. I watched as he freed his cock from confinement. He’s
not real big, maybe 7 or 7 1/2″ erect, but his cock is thick. He
stroked it for a moment and then told me to open my mouth. I didn’t
suck him – he held my head with one hand and fucked me in the mouth.
At the end, he held my head and shot his cum down my throat. It was
soooo good to be used. Slaves are meant to be used and I was being
used properly. I was content.