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Lessons in submission

It's a mistake, just sitting here, and isn't likely to do me any favors. It's probably going to add to whatever “lesson” is in store for me. I've been disciplined before. But this feels... different. Something new. As much trepidation as I feel, not knowing what it will be, I know I earned it.

For the last month, our respective schedules had made it impossible to get together. And I had been feeling the withdrawal of his strong hand and stronger presence. I was ready to be back in my position with him. I suppose that’s why I messed up his drink. Hoping he would discipline me, and we'd be back in our correct alignment. I was craving that so bad.

Only he didn't say anything. He just looked at the tumbler, then took a sip and set it on the end table. I stood and waited.

And waited.

I stood in place, waiting to be released, my back to the TV. College football was on, and I do so enjoy watching my team play. Especially this year. They were in the Top 10 and looking strong. He had the volume off, so I didn't even know the score.

After a long time, he switched the TV off. Without looking at me, he asked, "What did you do?" I thought for a long while. Clearly, making the drink wrong was not the answer. After a moment, I confidently said," I tried to lead." I felt a flush of satisfaction.

"No." He turned and looked at me. He wasn't mad. That surprised me. "What is it you think you need?" he asked.

I was stupefied. What did I need? "I... uh... I missed you and was… anxious for your attention, Sir."

"And you couldn't wait the 5 minutes it took to make my drink?" Again, I was surprised at the lack of anger or frustration. This was not a trick question. Rather, he wanted me to dig deeper. Why hadn't I waited? I had tried to push the situation the way I wanted it right away. I hadn't even given him the opportunity to...

Oh.

"Trust, Sir. I didn't trust that you would take care of me," I said.

He nodded. "Would you like to come and take your place?" I glanced at the floor in front of Sir. He would have let me serve him. Let me taste him. He would probably let me please him in any number of ways. He did seem, after all, satisfied with my response.

"You hesitate."

"I would. Sir. Like to take my place. But I don't feel like I deserve it," I said on halting breaths, my chest tight with longing and shame.

"Would you deny me the pleasures I desire?"

I blanched. "Sir, no! Never!"

He laughed. "Come here and lay your head in my lap." I must have looked bewildered. "There is a lesson to come for you. But not today. I need to think on this a bit."

He did take his pleasure on me that night, And I felt full of him and satisfied as I lay on the bed. But my mind was racing, wondering what new discipline I would need to receive to learn my lesson of trust.

That was last weekend. He said nothing further on the matter all week. Until yesterday, when he handed me a tissue-wrapped bundle with a satin bow tied around it.

I looked up at him.

"Tomorrow at 3:00. No earlier, no later. Here is a list of groceries to pick up on your way here. Put on the outfit before you leave home."

I'm used to Sir providing me with outfits that he likes. I've never been expected to wear one out before, though. I put one hand on top of the bundle, ensuring the grocery list would not fall off or fly away.

"Rest well tonight. You'll need it."

I looked at him, waiting so desperately to ask the thousand teeming questions fighting to escape my lips.

He said, "You belong to me. And tomorrow you will understand that more fully." He turned to leave, and said as he walked away: "I control that which is mine."

That's how I found myself pushing a Publix cart through the deli section in an incredibly flattering but incredibly tiny, black satin dress. The kind that's universally recognized at clubs to mean "I'm going home with someone tonight come hell or high water." And matching stiletto boots.

Ignoring the stares all around me, I tried as casually as I could to ask for three quarters of a pound of Cajun chicken breast, sandwich cut slices. Self-consciously reaching for the truffle-infused hot sauce on the tip-top shelf, one hand pressed against my ass in a losing battle to keep the dress from sliding up, exposing my bare crotch to the stock boy. Who could’ve helped, but didn’t, despite clearly keeping tabs on me.

And now here I am, sitting in my car in the nicest fuck-me dress I've ever seen, wondering what the hell is waiting for me inside.

I’m hesitating. Which is, surely, is not the right lesson.

I think of Sir, and all the wonderful things he has done for me. To me. A feeling of calm and assurance washes over me. I get out, grab the groceries, and head to the door. He meets me, and I know he understands what was going through my head out in the car. He looks at me, questioningly.

"All as you desire, Sir," I say, head bowed.

He places his palm on the top of my head. "Directly to the kitchen and nowhere else, besides your bathroom." I stride to the kitchen and begin the preparations. I know what he likes and how he prefers it. He grants me favors when I am observant of such things. He's left a small bowl to the side of the sink, signifying that I'm allowed a portion of the food as I get it ready.

I don't end up eating much. My stomach is out-of-sorts. There's enough here for several people. And I hear knocks at the door, the sounds of conversation.

My trepidation returns, threefold.

After everything is ready and arranged. I sit on my stool and think. Or, rather, try not to think. Sounds of cheering and groans come from the living room. Oh, right, I think, today's the big game. That's when I get his text: "ready for food." I gather the first trays and head that way.

As I enter the room, three unfamiliar faces turn toward me from the couches. Surprised to see me, I think. Certainly surprised to see me dressed this way.

One of them asks my Sir," I thought we were having a guy's day today." To which he responds in that amazing, nonchalant, confident way he has: "Oh, it is. Don't worry. She's only here to take care of us."

"Oh. Ok,” the guy said, but with uncertainty.

I smiled to myself. I am his. And he likes to show off what he owns. Was this my lesson? It feels… nice.

"What will you all have to drink?" Sir asks his guests. They're all nice looking guys, probably college buddies here to watch the ol’ alma mater play, together just like the old days.

I mentally catalog their orders, hurry off and return quickly with four neatly prepared drinks. As I'm handing the last one (Sir was served first, of course) the guy asks me, "And what are you called?"

"Nothing," Sir says. There's a short, but heavy pause. "She only exists today for us. Consider only what you want from her"

The guy I'm standing beside says under his breath," I can think of a few things I'd like". Laughter ripples around.

"What?" Sir asks. There's a Quiet in the room. Even the game is hushed in this moment. Everyone looks at Sir. "What would you want from her?" Sir asks.

The guy takes a moment, then says," I'd sure like a bit of that ass." Another round of laughter. I move to head back to the kitchen. Sir stops me, raising his hand slightly. I wait to see what he needs.

Only, he says," You heard him."

"Sir?" My voice is so very thin and quiet, the sound quivering as it leaves my mouth.

He doesn't say anything. He expects me to know what he means and to follow his instructions. As it should be. But I'm confused.

I look at the guy. He looks at me. Then he looks at my ass.

Oh.

The guy looks back up at my face and we both register what's happening about the same time. OHHHH.

He sees the uncertainty in my face. Everyone must, because it both feels 10 times hotter in here and I’m shivering. He looks at Sir. I’m not sure what was exchanged between them; I'm just staring at the guy, my mouth half open.

His fingertips touch the back of my legs, hesitantly at first, drumming lightly. Goose bumps erupt all over me. The fingers press in, pulling my standing body towards his sitting one. The heat from his face commingles with the heat coming off my pussy.

His thumbs caress the front of my upper thighs, before migrating inward. He moves his hands upward across the front of my legs, the cuffs on his shirt catching the hem of my dress and lifting it.

Up, up his hand goes, the thumbs in the lead, pushing in on my skin, searching for my panties. Only there aren't any. He lands on my bare pussy, my dress now pulled open like a stage curtain revealing tonight's show. He hesitates but for a moment before he presses in, deep. An involuntary gasp escapes my hips.

That one small sound sets the world in motion. The other two guys stand up, while the first's face explores the area he recently uncovered. In my shock at how suddenly this all started, I put my palms on my dress, and slide them down: an involuntary motion of retreat. I've never been exposed like that to strangers. Multiple strangers.

Strong hands wrap around my wrists, and pull my arms tight behind me. The other two are close in on either side of me, each pinning one arm in place. One roughly shoves his free hand down the top of my dress and grabs my breast, his arm crossing tightly across my lower neck and upper chest. The other reaches down and navigates a finger between my nervously clenched cheeks. Right at that moment, the tongue laps upwards across my clit. My legs buckle, and I find myself being held up by two strong hands. And two fingers. My eyes roll back, my head goes limp, and a primal moan fills the room.

Time passes. I don't know how long, but I can tell it’s dark now. I’m somewhere alone. I try to recollect pieces of what happened, lying here in my exhaustion.

They didn't miss the game. The rhythm of the crowd’s roars and the drumline’s beats on the TV seemed to echo the play in the living room: sometimes a slow and methodical pounding of bodies struggling for dominance at the line of scrimmage; sometimes the fast wave of a hail mary that catches the defense unawares.

I remember my face being driven deep on a cock, one (or was it two?) others inside me on the other end. Later I was on the coffee table, my legs forced roughly askew, someone deep inside me — in no hurry at all — someone else milking cum out onto my face and into my mouth. Another time, my ankles and knees strapped tight with belts, my arms crossed behind my back and connected to a wide band that encircled my throat, they dr*ped me like a towel across the back of the couch and took turns seeing how hard they could pound me without spilling the drink they rested on the small of my back.

When they were gathering their stamina or just absorbed in the game, they would absentmindedly stroke who knows what in and out of me. It amused them. When they were ready, they experimented with new and novel ways to pump their cum into me.

All while they ate & drank, laughed and commented on the game, and casually recounted adventures from back in college.

Sir was right: I was Nothing. I had no name, no voice, no existence beyond my use. I was a thing: their thing to be repositioned, toyed with, and passed around at a whim. A never-ending platter served up for whatever appetite came upon them.

I'm trying to pull all these memories together into something resembling coherence, when Sir comes to me. I'm on his bed. I don't remember getting here.

He strokes my cheek, my body. Holds me tight and patiently helps me return to myself, reassuring me how well I did. Once I’m fully restored, he asks: "Were you scared?"

"No," I say, and it is true. "I knew you were there. I knew you were watching, keeping me safe."

"Trust," he says. "The kind that can only come with total surrender, giving up any thought of your own, except to obey."

"It was wonderful," I say.

"Which?"

I hesitate only for a fraction of the blink of an eye. "Both. The trusting… and… and also the… other."

He smiles. "Good girl." I could be sustained a thousand lifetimes upon that praise.

There’s a brief pause as I lie enraptured. I open my eyes to ask, “Sir, after all… well, all of what happened today… what am I now? To you? Do I have a name?”

“You are Compliance,” he says, “and nothing more. You take your form as suits my will.”

“I am Compliance.”

He stands and moves to the dresser. I am so very tired and very sore and looking forward to being his comfort in bed, whether that's close under his arm or quiet at his feet. "Thank you, Sir, for the lesson."

He laughs. When he turns, I see he's holding a new, unconditioned, rough spun length of hemp rope. I can hear the scratch of the fibers stretching as he coils it around one hand, flexing.

“Oh, you haven't had the lesson yet."