SYMPHONY OF SUBMISSION

Jordan Monroe

You’re too quiet. We must break that.”

You don’t look up at Sir. Your back is sore, yet you dare not relax. Years of kneeling in pretend prayer have you disciplined to remain composed and rigid. Your eyes are downcast in supplication. The air is cool, raising goose bumps down each limb, hardening your nipples. You fidget with your fingers behind your back.

“Nothing to say to that, pet?”

When Sir asks a question of you, Sir expects an answer.

Your voice trembles. “I am yours to command, Sir.”

Cloth rustles. Sir’s footsteps, even and deliberate, are sharp against the hardwood floor. His fine Oxford shoes stop at your knees, black and shiny, recently polished. You desperately want to look up, but you suppress your desire.

“Look at me.”

Sir’s sonorous voice reverberates. You could listen for hours. Blinking, you raise your mascaraed eyes and meet Sir’s piercing blue gaze.

“Without auditory confirmation, I don’t know whether I give you any joy. I don’t merely take pleasure; I expect to give it as well.”

You listen to Sir, inhaling his rich cologne mixed with the light layer of sweat that has accumulated throughout the day. Your face is at Sir’s crotch, the zipper of his suit trousers peeking tantalizingly from the fly; you could lean forward and grasp it between your teeth with ease. You hold your ground and continue listening.

“No more of that, pet. No more silence. No more wondering if I am wasting your time, for your continued silence wastes mine. If I don’t know you are enraptured, then there is no purpose. Do you understand?”

Of course you understand. Sir’s ego requires diligent stroking. You know Sir is an excellent lover and feeds off of your energy. You also know your own stubbornness and are defiantly silent. Above all things, you challenge Sir to break your composure; toying with him this way is your idea of a game night.

Sir asked a question. You answer, “Yes. I understand, Sir.”

Sir reaches down to caress your cheek with a large, gloved hand. The black leather is soft. You lean into it, taking the thumb into your mouth and sucking, letting the bitter flavor of leather and saliva trickle down your throat. You hear Sir sigh, and you cast your eyes back up to stare at his bearded face. It’s a face that is striking: composed, but with crystalline eyes that betray a latent wildness. It’s a face that demands undivided attention.

Sir’s grip tightens slightly on your cheek. “Good. Lie on the bed facedown. Keep your pretty ass in the air.”

Without using your hands for balance, you stand and walk toward the elegant black four-poster bed. Sir swats your ass sharply, but you don’t cry aloud; you release a soft gasp. You swing your legs over the footboard. The covers and pillows have been removed, leaving only the cream-colored Egyptian-cotton sheet. As Sir instructed, you lower onto the bed, your breasts and belly pressed flat against the cool fabric, your wide buttocks on display, your thick thighs spread so that your entrances are available.

You wait patiently.

You hear the whistle before you feel the sting. The leather tip of the flogger against your skin is so sudden, you are more surprised than pained. Digging your fingers into the expensive sheets, you remain silent. You feel the sliver of flesh on your ass redden, yet you do not shy away.

“I want to hear your resolve break. I want to hear your ecstasy. I want you to vocalize your surrender not to me, but to your pleasure. Do not hold back your personal symphony. Cry out!”

With that last syllable, there is another strike of leather against your flesh. You grip the fabric, tighter this time, but still remain quiet. You hear Sir grunt in frustration, then his heavy steps against the hardwood floor. Your hands are pulled to the corners of the bed, palms forced open and flat. You turn your head to the side to watch Sir snake a leather cuff around your wrist. Before you can inquire, Sir has gone to the other side of the bed to imprison your other hand. When you have been shackled, Sir leaves your field of vision again.

“You rely on your hands too much. You are not to grab the fabric. As I have stated before, I require you to make noise!”

Once again, Sir has raised his voice. While you want to please Sir, you also want to push him. There is a part of you that gets off on goading him like this. You’re not a brat in the typical sense: you don’t whine, tease, or openly defy Sir. You are more interested in being a challenge, because you so desperately want Sir to rise to the occasion. With another sharp smack, you release a loud gasp as your composure wavers.

The sound has pleased Sir: you feel the warmth of leather caress your sore flesh. Sir is stroking you pleasantly, and you exhale languidly.

“That’s a good start, but it’s not enough. I shall do this until I hear you scream. Generally I use gags and bits, but not so with you. The opposite, it seems.”

You yearn for more of the brutal strikes. Something deep within you wants Sir to use those wide hands across your ass, turning the expanse of flesh red and sore. The riding crop Sir has been using is not enough.

You feel the leather tip of the crop trail down your spine. You arch your back into it, letting your attempt at feline grace indicate your desire. When the cool leather reaches your private places, you inhale through your teeth. In an instant, the leather is withdrawn, but it does not strike you. As though Sir has read your mind, something larger and warmer sends a shock against your skin.

Sir’s leathered hand comes down with such force that you rock forward on the bed. You quickly resume your position, wanting more. Sir strikes your ass again. You are now panting, anticipating more of this. In rapid succession, Sir rains hot, leathered slaps across your quivering flesh. You gasp with each, until Sir lands a blow between your legs, slapping your cunt. That elicits a sound you have never uttered before: something foreign and far too base for your liking.

There is a pause in the play. Sir gently rubs your softness. “That, my dear, was a lovely sound. Let me hear it again.”

As Sir rewards you with a similar swat against your inner seam, you reward Sir with an ecstatic cry. You find the sounds increasing in volume and intimacy. With a final blow, you realize that Sir is the only person who is able to unlock this release.