If you've read my dirty novel Mindgames (or any of the articles on this blog discussing it), you know that it's about naked sex slaves and includes scenes of rape and torture sex. The novel I'm working on now, Damascus, is not as dark as Mindgames, but it is about a woman who is not in control of her situation -- that situation being that she is a naked sex slave. See a pattern here?
So when I saw an erotica short story contest that had a requirement that all the sex be consensual, I wasn't sure that I was interested in entering. The guidelines also specified that the judges were most interested in own voices stories, which means stories written by and about members of marginalized communities. As much as I like to think that I'm super interesting, I'm a white, middle class, conventionally-abled, cisgendered, mostly straight woman.
But the contest guidelines got me thinking: what if I wrote a story about someone like me? Middle aged, a bit dumpy, single mom with no consistent help, at the beginning stages of recovery from a terrible marriage, overworked and constantly worried about money, and with a very active fantasy life about naked sex slaves.
Who would my Christian Grey be? Not someone who is overwhelmingly rich or drop dead gorgeous -- what would we have in common? No, he would be just a little ahead of me in the game of life. Divorced a little longer, a little better off financially, a little more room in his life for fun. All of which has given him time to become an experienced dominant.
And so my first consensual kinky short story, My First Submissive Adventure, was born. (After that I wrote a few more, compiled in my book of short stories The Mature Woman's Guide to Desire, available on Amazon here.
Without more ado, I present My First Submissive Adventure:
When our eyes first met across the wave pool at the water park, I could see relief flash on your face – the same relief I was feeling. We looked like the photographs we had exchanged. We were not victims of some Russian scam.
One thing about me: I always tell the truth. Half the time people don’t believe me anyway, and it’s a lot easier to keep track of what I’ve said when I’ve been honest. So my description of myself on Ready2Mingle, the dating site where we first began exchanging messages, had been accurate: “I’m not bad looking considering my age (50) and that I’ve never had any work done. I’m white, with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes (my best feature). I’m in pretty good shape – but I carry half my extra weight in my stomach and the other half in my two chins.” The selfies I sent you after we had been exchanging emails for a while showed me to advantage, thanks to training from my older daughter about stretching my neck, lowering my head, and looking up, but they were definitely of me.
I had studied your photographs again before leaving the house this morning. Tall and a bit gangly, shaven head, brown eyes and olive skin, you were nice-enough looking but by no means drop dead gorgeous – which was good. If you were intimidatingly handsome I might never have agreed to meet you.
You grinned and walked around the wave pool to me. “Hi, Ginny,” you said, and kissed me on the cheek.
I took a step back. My kids had not yet left the park with my sister Heather. They did not need to see any PDAs. The divorce hadn’t even been final for a week yet. I spotted them with their backs towards me, picking up their towels and backpacks. They were the only children in a crowd made up mostly of students from the nearby college, who were at the water park for some kind of celebration. It was still too early in the season for most families.
I stuck out my hand for you to shake. You took it, and didn’t let go. I pulled away. “So glad to meet you, Tom. Would you like to meet my girls?” I sounded overly brisk, using my business networking voice. Since we had agreed that you would not meet my kids, my question was meant to warn you away from too much touching.
“Not this time.” Your voice was softer than I expected. I had to strain to hear you. “Are they leaving soon?”
I nodded. “Now, it looks like,” I said, as I watched them walk off with Heather. I knew she was purposefully not looking back at me. I would owe both her and my kids for their agreement to spend the rest of the day together. Heather was not exactly a child-friendly person, but she was willing to plop them in front of her TV and have pizza delivered. I would buy my kids off with ice cream or used books I would pick for them from the local thrift shop. But no matter how much I thanked Heather, she was likely to use her favor to me as an occasion to taunt me and insult my kids to me behind their backs at the next unavoidable family gathering. Thinking of it made me tired.
The price for my first date in 25 years might sound ridiculous, but you and I live four hours away from each other, I couldn’t leave my girls with their asshole of a father for an entire day, and the friends who I usually trade favors with were unavailable. Heather lives about halfway between you and me, and the water park in her town was one of the girls’ favorite places.
“Good,” you said, and you took my hand again. “I thought you said you’d be wearing a red bathing suit.”
“I am. Under my t-shirt and shorts.” I spoke absent-mindedly, distracted by my thoughts about my sister.
“I want to see it.”
“I don’t want to get sunburned,” I said, like I had said to my kids earlier.
You just looked at me, with an expression that said do it. Suddenly I was no longer thinking about my kids or my sister. You had my full attention. I shivered. I was afraid and delighted. This was what I wanted. This is what we had been exchanging emails about for what seemed like forever. This was why I had made the complicated arrangements for the day, now that I was free of my husband, my ex-husband, whose idea of kinky was to stay awake during sex. This day was my reward for the long, horrific struggle to get divorced, to keep full custody of my children, to not be completely financially ruined. After so many years of being strong, of everything relying on me, I was here to submit to your will. Or, to be accurate, as we had so carefully laid out in our emails, to decide if I wanted to submit to your will and if you wanted to impose your will on me.
Here you were, looking at me expectantly. I fell back on bravado. “If I take off my shirt, will you take off yours?” I asked.
“No,” you answered. “I’m wearing exactly what I said I would be wearing. You’re not.”
That was fair. You were wearing a gray t-shirt and black Bermuda shorts. You had sent me a photo of the outfit this morning so I would recognize you.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled my t-shirt off, revealing my red tankini top, still damp from when I had played in the water with the kids. “Let me just put my shirt with my stuff,” I said.
You followed me to my bag, which was on a bench near a water slide that was closed for maintenance. No one else was nearby. “You’re not wearing any suntan lotion?” you asked.
“No, I am, but my kids did my back and they’re not very good at it.”
“May I?” You took the lotion from the top of my bag.
I looked at you uncertainly. We had set firm parameters for this date, not just that you would not meet my kids. There would be no sex. There would be no touching of boobs or crotches. We would talk, and see if we liked each other, if we trusted each other.
Suntan lotion on my back had not been a topic of discussion. You were giving me a choice. Did I want you to touch me? It sounds naïve to say that I thought of you as one of my best friends, even though this was the first time we had met in person. You knew my deepest secrets – had known them before you first messaged me. I had put them right in my profile. My terrible marriage, finally ending (although I didn’t know then how horrible the process would be – I still didn’t understand my husband’s narcissism); that although the bad sex was not the reason I was leaving, the ability to finally explore my fantasies – submission, humiliation – was an added bonus. I set up the profile the day I told Derrick I was finally divorcing him. I was confident in the anonymity provided by the fake name and photo of myself wearing a Halloween mask.
I heard from you a week later. Your first message was that I should be careful because there were people who would see my profile and try to take advantage of me. I responded with a thanks. You told me that you were ahead of me in the process – divorced five years, your kids a bit older than mine. You had loved the opportunity in middle age to finally express your dominant side. You’d had a couple of relationships since, nothing too serious, and weren’t looking to settle down.
We moved to email. It was months before I gave you my real name. We wrote about everything – politics (you were more conservative than me, but nothing that made me ill), our respective house projects, our kids, our jobs. Our fantasies – mostly mine. You were unfailingly kind, and supportive of me in the face of Derrick’s roadblocks to the divorce, his refusal to move out, the things he put the kids through. I came to trust you, if for no other reason than that someone with truly evil attentions was unlikely to invest so much time into prey. (Yes, I can hear you tut-tutting at that.)
The suntan lotion. I took a breath, turned around, and lifted up my hair. Your hands were firm on my shoulders. “You have beautiful skin,” you said. Your hands moved lower, under the edge of my bathing suit, and then followed the straps back up to the tops of my shoulders. They kept going forward. I stiffened. “Relax,” you said, your breath in my ear. “We have rules.” You gently rubbed lotion just below my collar bone. It made me nervous, but mostly I was thrilled. I was startled by the sudden warmth in my groin, which I had not associated with someone else’s touch in years. You pulled me back gently, so that I was leaning against your chest. You kissed my ear. “I’m glad you’re here,” you said. You moved your hands down the outside of my arms. I felt like I was melting against you. I turned my face to you, wanting to kiss you on the lips. But you stepped aside at the last second. “You said there are woods?” you asked.
I nodded. “The trailhead is across the parking lot.” I shoved my feet into my flip-flops.
Holding my hand, you allowed me to lead the way. A bored teenager stamped our hands for re-entry as we walked out of the water park. We crossed the parking lot and entered the woods on what was not so much a trail as a paved sidewalk that had been perfect for my kids when they were younger and needed a break from the water park crowds.
We spoke about safe topics – the recent population explosion of both coyotes and wild turkeys in the area; your concerns about where your new boss was taking your company; our first cars. I began to relax. Today would be fine.
After about a mile we came to the pond where the path ended. We sat on a bench, taking in the view as we continued to chat. You placed my hand on your knee and turned it so that my palm was facing up. I started to pull it away. “Leave it,” you said. Should I be scared by the sudden authority in your voice? I wasn’t. I was excited.
Your fingers caressed by forearm, never moving higher than the inside of my elbow. You asked me about my sister. I tried to answer normally, but your touch on my arm was making my insides ache. I reached over to put my other hand on your arm, wanting to touch you back, but you stopped me. “No, sweetie,” you said. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.” Your words sent a jolt to my clit. You smiled at me benignly. “Shall we head back to the water park?”
I was glad I was wearing loose shorts because I was certain that my bathing suit bottom was soaked through with my juices. I stood, a little wobbly. You drew me to you as we walked and put your hand on the curve of my ass. You squeezed gently and I stumbled. You caught me. “Easy,” you said. I know we were still having a conversation, but I have no idea about what.
We went back into the water park. We had talked about going into the nearby town for dinner. You told me that you had made researched restaurants and made reservations. I found that both adorable – this was not a town where you needed reservations – and a little unnerving.
The water park was more crowded than before, and the college students were louder. The alcohol ban in the park did not seem to have deterred them even slightly.
Suddenly water flew at me, drenching me. I sputtered, unsure for a moment what had happened.
“Oh my god, sorry!” The guy’s words were slurred. He was holding a bucket. Somehow the water from it had landed almost entirely on me and missed you entirely.
A couple of women in bikinis shrieked with laughter. You pulled me back just before another bucket of water landed on me. The students ran off to continue their game elsewhere.
I started to apologize for them, but you shook your head. “It is a water park, sweetie,” you said.
The air was getting chillier. I shivered. “Let’s get you dry,” you said. We went back to my bag. You picked up my towel, put it around my back and pulled me towards you until our fronts were all but touching.
“I’d like to kiss you now,” you said, “but we didn’t discuss that in our emails.”
I nodded. “I’d like that too.” Then your mouth was on mine. I’ve never considered myself a good kisser. Back when I used to go on dates, before Derrick, I always worried that I wasn’t doing it right, which tended to interfere with doing it right. But now, with you, as you deepened the kiss, I just gave in to the sensation, to the heat that flowed through my body.
“Hey, get a room!” The area that had been deserted earlier was crowded with students now. We pulled away from each other and grinned, until someone jostled us.
“We should head to dinner,” you said.
“Do you mind if I change out of my wet bathing suit before we go?” I asked.
“Sure,” you said. “I’ll wait here.”
“You could come with me,” I said. All of a sudden my mouth felt dry. What was I doing? But I continued. “I know a place.”
“If you like.”
I led you to a family changing room. It was a little isolated from the main area of the park, behind a snack stand. It was basic, just a small room with a long bench against one wall. You followed me in, and I bolted the door.
“Would you like me to turn my back while you change?” you asked.
Deep breath. “I was thinking we could kiss some more.”
You closed the small distance between us, but this kiss was not like before. More like a peck, and then you stepped back. I moved forward, wanting more. You shook your head. “We had an agreement, sweetie,” you said. “Not too far on the first date.”
“We could break the agreement,” I said, my voice small.
There was a gleam in your eye. “Is that what you want?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
You tilted your head. “What does that make you?”
I didn’t know what you meant. “A woman who changed her mind?” You didn’t say anything. “Someone who wants to have some fun?” Still silence. And then I knew. “A slut.” Just saying those words made my pussy throb. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sir.”
You nodded. “Good girl.” And now you took me fully into your arms. This was so much more than a kiss. Our bodies pressed against each other, from our groins to our chests. I could feel your erection, just above my pelvis bone. I was relieved that I was having the same effect on you that you were having on me. Your hands were on my ass, and you pulled me in closer. You broke the kiss. “What are you?”
“A slut, sir. Your slut.” You pushed your leg forward so that your thigh was against my pussy. Oh god, I was sure I was going to come.
You pulled back and undid my shorts. They fell to the floor. “Take off your bathing suit bottom.” I shoved it down and kicked it off. I reached for your shorts.
“No,” you said. “I didn’t give you permission.”
I had read so many stories about this. I knew what to say. “Please, sir, may I take off your shorts?”
“No.” Your hand was between my legs, touching the wetness. “Do you want me to feel my finger inside you?”
Like I had never wanted anything before. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, sir.” Your finger slid into me easily. I moaned. I reached for your shorts again. “Please, I want to touch you too.”
You pulled your finger out of me, and put your hands on arms, holding me back. “The fact that you are a slut without any self-control does not mean that I am one, sweetie. You wanted to break the agreement, so I will touch you, to please you. But that does not mean that you can touch me.” You waited a beat. “Do you want me to continue?”
“I want to touch you,” I repeated.
You shrugged. “Maybe another time. Shall we go?”
I was standing there half naked, my pussy juices sluicing down my inner thighs. Every word you spoke made my clit throb. “I’ll be good, sir. I won’t try to touch you.”
You nodded. “Put your hands behind your back, so you won’t be tempted.”
I obeyed. You touched my breasts through my bathing suit, gently at first, almost reverently. Then you pulled my bathing suit top up and touched them directly. When you found my nipples you squeezed them. I cried out. Nothing had ever felt so good.
“Tell me what you want,” you said.
“To please you,” I said. “To touch you. To make you feel like this, like you’re making me feel.” I squeezed my hands together behind my back to keep them there.
“No,” you said. “What do you really want?” You squeezed my nipples harder. It hurt. It felt amazing. For a moment I could only groan. I felt like there was a direct line from my breasts to my clit.
“I want you to touch my pussy,” I said. I was embarrassed, and yet had never felt more fully myself. “I want you to make me come.” Still your hands did not move down. “Sir, please,” I said. “Please, touch your slut.”
“Look at me,” you said. I had not realized that I had closed my eyes. “This is a gift for you,” you said. “You deserve it.” My eyes welled with tears. You moved your hands down to my abdomen. “Say it.”
“I deserve this.” My voice was husky, with need, with embarrassment. You kept your hands where they were. This time I almost shouted. “I deserve this, sir!”
You shifted a little, so that you were standing with your front facing my side. You put one hand on my ass. The other hand inched down my front, lower, lower. And then your finger was on my clit. It was too light. “Please, sir, I deserve this,” I said. More pressure, circling, circling. “I deserve this, I deserve . . . I deserve . . . Oh, god, I deserve . . . ” I exploded on your finger. You lightened your touch but you didn’t stop. I kept coming and coming.
Somehow I was sitting on your lap on the bench, my legs spread, my back resting against you, your finger resting on my pussy. I didn’t know how much time had passed. I was safe in your arms. You kissed me. “You deserve the world, sweetie,” you said. And in that moment I believed you.