A Sense of Submission

My body was arched giving emphasis to my breasts and the toned shape of my thighs of which I am so proud. It was as if she had reached inside and learnt of the things about me that had the most appeal as far as I was concerned.

It what was she said next that completely skewed all of my assumptions.

"I've tried to capture your natural submissiveness..."

In my own view I was a pretty tough cookie. My career seemed like a constant stream of adversities which had to be overcome and it would have been easy to crumble under the stress imposed by my personal relationships.

Again, in some uncanny way, it felt as if she was following my train of thought.

"There is great difference between the face that you present to the world at large and that which you show to those who know you most intimately"

This continuing presumption that they knew me better than I knew myself was beginning to anger me and it must have shown. Evelyn touched my face.

"I could prove it to you..."

I watched disbelievingly as she took off her jumper and then started to remove her skirt. She was the only anchor point on reality in this surreal environment and now the chain was slipping.

For a second or two she stood in just her underwear and I noted how much more expensive it looked than mine. A burgundy, lace fringed, bra uplifted her impressive breasts matched by a pair of French panties.

With her slightly untamed long brown hair she looked like a woman out of time; before the era of the waif she could have stepped out of a McGill seaside postcard

For the present all thoughts of release were forgotten as I waited to see what she would do next. A moment later, with all the grace of a seasoned Burlesque performer, she stripped naked.

She had praised my appearance but it always felt like a constant work in progress; an ongoing review of diet, fitness and cosmetics. Looking at her there was an effortlessness, and confidence, about the natural beauty she possessed.

She sat beside me again and I could not help but look at hers breasts. They were heavy but superbly rounded with neat, upward pointing, pink nipples. She saw where I was looking and, in response, she reached out to me.

She brushed my nipple with the back of her finger perking it to life.

"You have nothing to be jealous of..."

She was so close that I could feel the warmth of her breath and, for the briefest instant, I wanted nothing more than to feel the fullness of her body pressed to mine.

That thought was made manifest as she seemingly flowed over me with a teasing touching of flesh. I tried to lift myself to meet her but she gracefully rose above me until her knees slipped over my captive arms.

I was enclosed by the columns of her pale, sculpted, thighsand there, filing my vision, was the splendour of her sex.

"I know that you have been fantasizing about Jessica but now I want your total concentration."

Her skin was enviably unblemished and only the faintest tracery on her inner thighs betrayed the fact that she was an older woman. Set against the expanse of her legs her sex was surprisingly demure, a smooth mound with a perfectly straight divide.

She let me stare for a few moments more and then she touched a finger to my mouth.

"You know what I want you to do..."

Of course I knew, but to hear her say it still came as a shock. I was restrained, it was against my will, why then did I not object?

Slowly, so as not to alarm me, she relaxed and began a measured descent and every detail was magnified; the increased pressure on my arms and the heat radiating her thighs; the renewed strength of her perfume, which she must have dabbed between her legs, but most of all the deepening shadow into which I was now cast.

I felt detached from the world, my only reason for being the fulfilment of her desire.

She paused and held steady just millimetres away and the heated scent of her excitement inexorably filled the void increasing my sense of space denied.

"Kiss it..."

It was said soto voce, barely a command, but it chimed in my sub-conscious. Somewhere, coherent thoughts, the makings of a protest, were being formed but they were shouted down by this one immediate need.

I raised my head, formed my lips together, and laid a kiss at the centre of her mons before falling back.

"Once more...show me your devotion."

They were just words so why did they have such a disturbing effect? This time my inner turmoil held me in stasis but she waited patiently knowing that there was only one possible outcome.

I closed again, this time it was a longer, fuller, kiss and as I broke away I licked the taste of her from my lips.

It was a taste familiar from my own guilty fingers, a promise of excitation and fulfilment, and I felt a powerful tingling between my legs.

"Lick me...nice and slowly."

Again, she phrased it as a demand, but where there should have been anger I just felt more aroused. I had relinquished all control and, in so doing, everything suddenly seemed so simple.

She stayed poised above me so that it required an effort on my part to do as she asked but, once I began, I was aware of nothing other than that intimate connection between us. I licked her mound registering its smoothness and pliancy as I began to explore.

I used the flat of my tongue and each time I crossed the divide I was rewarded with a hint of what lay within. From time to time I looked up to find her smiling indulgently safe in the knowledge that I would do whatever she asked of me.

"Rest you head now. I want your tongue inside and this is going to take a little while."

I laid back my head on the pillow and there was a momentary alarm as she sank down onto my face but she allowed me time to accustom myself to the increased pressure.

Her sex lay open to me and I braced my tongue slipping inside her with unexpected ease. As I did so the taste of her almost overwhelmed me. There was richness that excited first my tongue and then my whole body.

I probed as deeply as I could craving more and then there was a new thrill as I felt her skilled muscles holding me in place. I lay there breathing in the heat and wetness and I felt as if I had found myself.

She let me remain as I was for a long time, the only evidence of her engagement the occasional welling of moisture into my mouth, but in the end I lacked the strength to keep my tongue strained to its limit.

As I withdrew my one desire was to gather myself and try again to see if I could bring this beautiful creature to a shuddering orgasm.

She sighed softly and I felt a new jolt as she gently squeezed her breasts before speaking once more.

"You've done well, and you'll do more...a lot more...but there is something particularly to my liking. Unfortunately, you may not enjoy it quite so much but you should take comfort knowing the pleasure it brings me."

With that she eased forward just slightly closing her thighs as she did so. I was totally entombed beneath her.

I could hear nothing but the quiet groaning of the bed springs and the racing of my pulse in my ears. My eyes were pressed closed and I could only breathe with a concerted effort. It was how I imagined a tropical jungle to be. The enclosed air was hot and heavy with moisture, every breath deeply scented.

For some reason a recent article I had written came to mind. An American doctor, working with dementia sufferers, was applying total immersion techniques using mainly taste and smell to reinforce memories.

She kept me under for a long time and I sensed, rather than heard, that she was conversing with Jessica. I tried not to panic, telling myself that she meant me no harm, but as minutes ticked by I was becoming light-headed.

When, at last, she moved a little I thought it was over but, in fact, she was only just beginning. She settled again and, slowly at first, she began to rock herself on my face.

It was not painful but certainly uncomfortable and grew more so as she leisurely gathered pace. She moved rhythmically and with control as she worked herself from my chin to my forehead.

I should have been outraged but as she slid ever more easily, smearing me with her essence, I was moving my head, to the extent that I could, to accommodate her. I felt like a total whore but the more she abused me the closer I came to orgasm.

It reached a point where she became more focused, bearing down on the bridge of my nose, and then she stopped moving altogether. I barely had time to wonder what was wrong when her body began to quiver and then I felt her climax as it pulsed through her causing her to cry out joyfully.

It took an enviably long time to recede altogether but she was left totally drained and unable to move. I remained sealed in, her weight bearing down more heavily and her sex leaking freely.

I was becoming overheated and I started to squirm anxiously in order to give myself some much needed breathing space but then I felt a firm pressure between my legs.

It could only be Jessica and within seconds her skilful fingers were exciting my clitoris. She knew exactly how to play me and she brought me to within a hairs breadth of a climax so that I was breathing hard with every draught of air enriched with humid arousal.

My agitated movements spurred Evelyn back to life and she raised herself sufficiently to make it clear what she wanted. In a frenzy I began to employ my tongue whilst Jessica continued to keep me at a fever pitch.

I did not think that I could hold out but she eased off only to fire me up time and time again until, at last, Evelyn reached a second climax and I was allowed to exultantly join her. Our orgasms seemed to feed off one another increasing the intensity taking me to a totally new realm. I did not want it to end but I was close to exhaustion and I licked one last time before collapsing completely spent.

Chapter Four

The new article took on a life of its own. Helped, in great part, by Evelyn's prints it got picked up by the tabloids and I was even receiving requests to do television. I was under no illusions, it was not me that they wanted to interview, they were just using me as a conduit to get to Jessica.

I wondered if their attitude would have been different had they known that I was the "other woman" in the photographs. The magazine let it quietly be known that models had not been used and then, from somewhere, a rumour started that the submissive was a person in the public eye.

Evelyn had worked her magic and, as the guessing game ensued, I was very flattered by some of the names being suggested.

Almost overnight my money worries were dissipated not least because Jessica was on a very modest percentage. Further investigation revealed that she was the only child of very rich parents and could be thought of as wealthy in her own right.

I learned that, whilst her childhood was not unhappy, her parents had not lavished her with affection. She was effectively raised by nannies and tutors until she could be packed off to boarding school. She wanted for nothing but there was clearly an emotional void.

I was considering whether or not there might be a third article exploring the psychological origins of her particular predilection but she quickly poured cold water on the idea. Above all else she wished to preserve her privacy.

I also started to receive calls from friends and contacts who had all but cut me off. In a number of instances I took great pleasure in being curtly dismissive but one e-mail did excite me.

It came from May Eddington at the Femrights publishing house. I knew her from University when her name was May Flowers and she was the first declared lesbian woman of my acquaintance. Intrigued by the change of name I looked up her on-line profile and found that she had entered a Civil Partnership and changed her surname by deed poll.

I still carried a guilty conscience about the way I treated her at University. For my first term there we were room-mates. She was open about her sexuality and her plain Jane appearance, and strongly held feminist convictions, reinforced my image of lesbians in general.

In truth, she was a great to share with. She was tidy, studious, always ready to help, and completely respected all of the boundaries. The problem was that I became the butt of snickering rumours and, after the first term, I asked to be moved making it clear to everyone that I was uncomfortable with the arrangement.

The inference was that May had acted with impropriety and nothing could be further from the truth. Nevertheless a whispering campaign began.

Years later I was so glad to hear of her success. With more gumption than I gave her credit for she set up her own publishing house on leaving university. To begin with it focused on mainly feminist issues but still enjoyed modest success.

At some point she must have compromised her principles because, seizing the zeitgeist, she started a new imprint and began to publish Chick Lit. For me the books were total fluff but she had a knack of picking a winner and she was now a big player.

In her e-mail she asked if I had ever considered writing a book and invited me to join her for lunch with a couple of colleagues. With thoughts of a chance to really make my name, and an opportunity to apologize after all these years, I set out to her office.

The building itself was a real eye opener; a converted Edwardian terrace next to the theatre district on which no expense had been spared. I was taken up to the Board Room which was an expansively glazed addition to the original flat roof. It gave a wonderfully quirky view over the rooftops of the old city.

"You like it?"

I turned around and I had to do a double take. The woman who had walked into the room was obviously May but not the May that I knew. Gone was the mousey hair and the troublesome teenage acne. Even her timorous posture had changed.

This was a confident business woman who could have stepped straight off of an advertising hoarding. Her hair was a deep shade of red brown, expensively coiffured, that harmonised with her dark eyes which were more beautiful than I remembered.

Her make-up was impeccably applied and she wore a bright red lipstick that only the most self-assured could get away with.

Throughout her days at University she had always dressed in jeans and shapeless tops but today, in her tailored business attire, I appreciated for the first time just how good a body she had.

I was still lost for words but she filled in without missing a beat.

"I thought that we would take lunch up here. We have it sent in from the deli over the road. It's very good and it allows us a little more privacy."

I was still debating whether or not to shake her hand when she came and kissed me on the cheek.

"It's been a long time."

Before I could say anything more the food arrived and was set out on the table and then we were quickly joined by May's colleagues.

"Let me introduce Nalini and Erin."

The two women formed a stark contrast. Nalini looked to be of Indian extraction. She was tall, dressed completely in black, but her most striking feature was her shorn hair. It was barely a stubble over her whole scalp; cut back as if not to detract from her perfect face.

Erin, despite the Irish name and accent, was a bubbly blonde. She was pretty in a cute sort of way, if that was your thing, but her clothes were a triumph of hope over ambition.

She was a little dumpy but, nevertheless, wore a dress that was as low cut on her chest as it was high on her legs.

May poured wine and we enjoyed the food whilst making small talk which centred mainly on she and I catching up. Given her obvious success I felt like the poor relation but she was at pains to put me at ease and she was effusive about the recent articles.

Slowly, the conversation turned towards books and Nalini came into her own. She was managing editor of the original feminist imprint but she was very knowledgeable about the industry as a whole. She started to sound me out on any thoughts or ideas I might already have had.

Unfortunately, when it came down to it, I was too vague and not helped when Nalini said that the most successful books were those that were fuelled by passion for a subject. They were usually the same books that needed the most editing.

At this point May interjected.

"I've invited Erin here to give an author's viewpoint."

I have to say I was taken by surprise. What little Erin had added to the conversation seemed completely vacuous and I had not imagined her to be a writer. When she then referred to her recent book I nearly fell off my seat. She wrote under a pen name and her books sold by the truck load.

It was immediately clear to me that, whilst one or two of her ideas might be deemed original, her literary skills were almost zero. Her books had to have been edited to within an inch of their lives. The more I listened to the nonsense she spouted the angrier I grew. May must have known that this was the sort of woman that would put me on edge.

I began to think that she was never going to stop but then May simply cut across her.

"Let's cut to the chase. The book I would like you to write, the book you want to write, should chronicle your descent into lesbian submission."

I looked at her appalled. Not only was I shocked that she would say something like that in company but I was jolted by her perception. She smiled as she continued.

"Do you want to deny that it's you in those photographs?"

I sat trying to come to terms with my confused thoughts and she continued without waiting for an answer.

"You know the ironic thing about how you mistreated me at university? I knew all along that you were a lesbian even if you didn't know it yourself. I could even have been attracted to you but I chose not to influence you in any way."

It was too much to take in. Had she really known? I tried to get things back onto a normal track.

"Look, I appreciate your hospitality but what am I really here for? Are you offering me a deal?"

"Yes, I am. I think that your articles could be fleshed out into a bestseller. Obviously, you will need to widen your experience and learn more about yourself. That's why Erin is with us."

I took a deep breath.

"With all due respect to Erin, and her undoubted achievement, there is little or nothing she can teach me about writing."

"You misunderstand. Erin is writing a new book in which she needs to describe her heroine's first lesbian experience. Now, in order to help her with that you are going to crawl under the table, you are going to politely ask her permission and then you are going to eat her out until she tells you to stop."

The suggestion was contemptible but the assuredness with which she had spoken and the unwavering way in which she held my eye sent a tingle down my spine. I looked at Nalini but her demeanour was totally calm as if I had simply been asked to pour tea.

Inevitably I turned towards Erin and, whilst she tried to look collected, her eyes were lit with greedy expectation.

The real me resented this but I felt disembodied hovering over the immoral slut I had become looking to satisfy her debauched craving. When the two recombined any pretence at rationality was subsumed by the need of the corporeal.

I no longer cared as I crouched beneath the table: at least here I did not have to see their faces. As I crawled towards Erin she opened her legs and I saw that she was not wearing panties. She had known all along that it would come to this. Even as she registered my disdain at her empty-headed advice she knew that I would be humbled.

As I drew nearer the further evidence hung in the air. The reek of her was strong attesting a lengthy period of anticipatory arousal.

Her pale thighs were a little pudgy, but nothing that a little structured exercise would not put right, and her sex looked befittingly plump. Her dusky labia stood proud and even in the subdued light beneath the table they shone with moisture.