Steps of Surrender

[al****]

Because I am writing a story about my life some chapters don't have all the erotic flair as some of the others, Chapter 17: The Missing Details sets up the backstory for Chapter 18: Steps of Surrender which then leads to the finale of Red's origin story Chapter 19: Power in Submission. Hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 17: The Missing Details

The hotel room resets every day. Fresh towels, sheets tucked tight like a straitjacket, everything scrubbed sterile under that sharp, chemical stench of bleach. Perfect order. The kind I need. Except for the mirror. That's where I let the chaos spill out. Sticky notes plastered across the glass, all shouting the same command, over and over: Don't Touch. My mind laid bare, fragments of thoughts stretched across the glass like a crime scene I can’t solve.

I sip my scotch, that familiar burn scratching down my throat. Islay, probably. Maybe Skye. It doesn’t matter. The mirror matters. The mess matters. It’s been building for weeks. A mess of rules pushed too far, boundaries shattered, my mind unraveling in every reflection. Trying to pin down what’s missing. What’s wrong. Why none of it feels like enough anymore.

Porn wasn’t the answer. But it mattered. That first tape, amateur, just me and a girl. Not professional, not staged, just raw. She thought she had control until I took it. Made her bend. Made her obey. And that’s when everything clicked. That was the first time I felt power. Real power. The kind that runs through you, leaves you wanting more.

The porn industry gave me that. Each girl the studio sent my way, each scene, it was like replaying that moment, but heightened. Every command followed, every silent nod of obedience, and I felt it again. That rush, that fire in my veins.

But porn was never the real story. I’ve spent weeks replaying those scenes, chasing something I thought was hidden in the lights, the camera, the moment someone yelled "action." But porn? That was always the B plot. It laid the foundation for the real story, the one with women who weren’t there for a paycheck. The ones who wanted me. The ones who let me tow that line until it was tight as wire, daring me to push, daring themselves to give. That’s where the real story is. How deep I could go when no one was watching and everything was on the table.

Now I see what the A story really is. I need to go back, revisit the women who gave themselves to me, and figure out what worked, what didn’t. What I might have missed. And if I’m diving into this, I might as well take it all the way. Back to Red. One last time.

To her very first tape. The one where she stepped into my house, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Eigh***, pale skin stretched tight over her bones, her long red hair hanging like a warning. There was something brittle about her, like glass you know would shatter if you breathed on it too hard. But beneath that, she had this look in her eyes that said if you tried, she'd take you down with her. Fragile, but dangerous.

“There’s at least one camera in every room,” I told her, pointing to the black eye on the ceiling. “Sometimes two.”

Her eyes flicked up, tracking the lens, then back to me. “Except the guest bedroom and bathroom,” I corrected myself, because getting it right mattered. There’s a certain relief in laying out the facts as they are, no room for error, no room for interpretation.

“Why so many cameras?” she asks, and her voice wobbles a bit. First crack in the tough-girl act.

“Cameras keep people honest,” I said, watching her absorb it. She didn’t need to know the rest. Didn’t need to know that without them, everything slips. Memories lie. Cameras don’t.

That’s the thing. Truth flickers, blinks out like a faulty bulb. You think you remember every detail, but memories twist. You tell yourself the same story, bending it until it feels right, until it feels true, even when it never was.

I could close my eyes right now and tell you how we got here, but it wouldn’t be real. Just the version I’ve decided is real. My version.

I close my eyes anyway, let the memory roll in. Outside the strip club. Not one of the nice ones. This place stank of stale cigarettes, sweat, something sour you could never place. The kind of joint where you don’t make small talk or try to impress a client. You go when you want to see something wild, something you’re almost embarrassed to admit you’re curious about. I’d been there too many times, always looking for talent. Fresh faces. Girls who’d do more than just dance for the right dollar amount. The kind with nothing to lose and everything to gain if they played their cards right.

Most of them didn’t have it. That edge, that look in their eye that says they’re ready to burn for something. But once in a while, you’d find one. A girl who was done grinding for crumpled bills. She didn’t care if it was dirty, just that it was her way out. That’s why I kept going back. The chance of finding someone who could grasp it. Someone who wasn’t just surviving, but fighting for something more.

That night, though, I struck out. The girls inside? They just wanted the night over. They didn’t see beyond the stage. No hunger. No drive to push it further. So, half-drunk and ready to leave, I saw her. Slumped over the steering wheel in a car parked just off to the side. Head down, hair spilling everywhere. For a second, I wondered if she was even breathing.

I knocked on the window.

“Are you okay?”

She looked up, choking back a sob. “I know who you are,” she whispered, voice shredded. “I’m not interested."

I glance around the parking lot. A neon-stained, ***-stinking trap. Not where you’d want to let your guard down. Not when there are eyes everywhere, waiting for a show.

“It’s not safe here,” I said, resting my hips against her car. The metal cool against my skin, keeping me grounded, or as close to grounded as you get with half a bottle of booze swirling in your gut.

“I have nowhere to go,” she cried, her voice breaking like glass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see them. Two guys, getting out of their car, making eye contact as they head toward the club. The smaller one’s wiry, lean. Tank top, tattoos crawling up his arms like they’re alive. The kind of guy you could knock over with a stiff wind but always looking for trouble, the kind of trouble that hides behind muscle. Then there’s the other guy. Bigger. Like a walking steroid ad. Tight black shirt showing off every inch of what he’s paid for. He looks like he could crush a skull with one hand.

The big one speaks first. “Why is she upset?”

The wiry one doesn’t say a word, just eyeballs me, waiting for a wrong move. He’s not here to help. He’s here to hurt. I can feel it, the liquid courage clouding my judgment, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.

“Does everyone need to be a fucking hero?”

My voice is slurred, stumbling out of my mouth before I can measure it. The big guy’s stare lingers a second too long, heat prickling up my neck. I’m tensed up, like I’d break his nose if he came any closer. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It all bleeds together, the memory slipping in and out.

I think he just looked at me, maybe said something under his breath. Or maybe I said something back. The bourbon clouds it. All I know is one moment they’re there, and then they’re not, swallowed by the thick, humid air, like they’d never been there at all.

I exhaled, still leaning against her car, watching them disappear into the night, then turned back to her. Fragile. Like a cracked vase left on the edge of a shelf, one wrong move and she’d shatter.

“Assholes are just going to keep coming by the longer you’re here,” I tell her.

She looks up at me, her face blotchy, eyes red from the crying. “Does that mean you’re an asshole?”

The question hangs, tugging something loose inside me. Yeah, I’m self-centered. Everything I do is for one reason: because it makes me feel good. I know what it’s like to have nowhere to go, and maybe that’s why I feel like I have to help. Like I owe it to the version of me that didn’t get a break, or maybe just to prove that I made it out. It’s not about her; it’s about me.

And yeah, that probably makes me an asshole.

With the grin that I’ve perfected, the one people either love or want to punch, I say, “Honey, I’m the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet, but I’m one of the good ones. I promise.”

She tests the waters, like she’s probing for cracks. “You’re in no condition to drive. How about we get some coffee?” Her voice steady, like this was just about keeping me from wrapping my car around a pole.

We leave the club behind. The drive’s a blur, just streaks of streetlights and the kind of haze that sits heavy behind your eyes. Next thing I know, we’re in some greasy diner with chipped mugs and menus that stick to your fingers. The kind of place you go when you’re pretending you’re not lost.

The coffee’s bad, but it’s hot. It’s enough to keep my head clear while she talks. We trade war stories mine kept surface level. I tell her things most people can’t handle, but I don’t go too far. Just enough. I give her pieces, hints that I’ve been through it too. It’s calculated, like a transaction. She needs to see I’m as messed up as she is, and I give her just enough to make that clear, to let her know she can trust me. The truth? It’s all there, but I don’t need to put it all on display. Even the surface is enough to draw her in.

She talks about her father, the kind of *** that runs deep. Ex-boyfriends, the ones who left scars, inside and out. We laugh at how messed up it all is, how life seems set on breaking us down. The hours slip by, maybe two, maybe ten. We’re not counting. The night stretches, and the space between us shrinks. Every broken memory, every wound we share, pulls us closer. It’s like we’re finding comfort in the wreckage, connecting over the cracks and jagged edges.

When the check comes, the sun’s already creeping over the horizon, bathing everything outside in a dull gray. I reach for my wallet, feel the weight of the night hanging on me. She doesn’t have anywhere to go.

“I have a spare bedroom if you need a place to sleep,” I say, and for once, I mean it. There’s nothing behind the offer, no hidden agenda. Just a bed. A room. Some peace.

She doesn’t buy it. She doesn’t blink. “I’m not good at sex, and I don’t want to make porn,” she says, her voice like iron, but the words tell me she’s been here before. This moment. This offer. The one that comes with a price.

“I’m just offering you a place to sleep,” I say again, trying to keep my tone even, trying to make sure she knows I’m not the monster she thinks I am. Not tonight, anyway.

The seconds stretch out, and I can feel her thoughts running wild. I don’t know what they are exactly, but I’ve seen that look before. She’s weighing it, calculating. Risk versus reward. How much she has to lose and how much she can trust a stranger who just offered her a bed for the night.

“Okay,” she finally says, the word slow, deliberate. She’s choosing to believe me, or at least choosing to believe there’s no better option tonight.

We leave the diner behind, driving in the half-light of morning. My car’s still parked back at the strip club, abandoned for now, but that’s a problem for later. We head to my house, the city waking up around us, the night fading like it never happened.

Without the camera footage, this is how I remember it. The hours we spent, swapping stories, trading traumas, unloading whatever we could. I don’t know how much of it is real, how much is just the blur of coffee and exhaustion. Memories are tricky like that. They warp, bend to fit the version you want to believe. You miss the small things, the subtle shifts in her expression, the way her fingers trembled when she held her cup. All those little details that slip through the cracks, and the story I’m left with? It’s just what I’ve chosen to remember.

But at my house, the cameras don’t forget. They don’t fill in the gaps with comforting lies. They log everything, each moment etched as it happened, as if to remind me of what I missed. From the second she walked in, there was nothing left to chance. No fading memories, no distorted stories. Just a cold, hard record of everything I would’ve let slip.

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Chapter 18: Steps of Surrender

I don’t sleep, not really. The morning drags, hours stretching long and empty, the house silent except for the low hum of appliances. She, though, sleeps like she’s making up for years of missed rest, and it’s close to three in the afternoon when I hear her first footsteps on the stairs. Soft and measured, like she’s testing each one.

I’m in the kitchen, nursing another black coffee, dark roast that leaves a familiar bitterness clinging to the back of my throat. The windows are open, letting in the heavy ocean air, thick with salt and that trace of rain still hanging in the distance. A storm rolled through earlier, the kind that pounds hard and leaves fast, and now the sky’s settling back into its usual haze.

She appears in the doorway, hair a damp mess of red, dark and tangled like rust. Her eyes are heavy with the lingering softness of sleep, that slow, languid look that says she’s just beginning to wake up to the world. Her tight black Ramones t-shirt stretches over her chest, the logo almost warped by the curve of her figure, clinging in a way that leaves little to the imagination. Beneath it, her shorts sit low on her hips, so short they might as well be an afterthought, just a suggestion of fabric, hinting more than hiding.

She takes in the room as if she’s seeing it for the first time, a slow, lazy smile pulling at her lips, almost daring you to look a little closer, to notice the subtle lines of her collarbone and the way the water beads down the side of her neck.

"How did you sleep?" I ask, casual, like I haven’t been up this whole time.

"Like a rock," she says, sliding into a chair, looking at me as if she’s still half in whatever dream she just woke up from.

I nod. "My crew’s picking me up in a bit to get my car," I tell her. “Then I’ll be at the studio, but I’ll be back around eight. House is yours. Stay as long as you need.”

She glances out the window as the afternoon sun filters through the lingering clouds, casting soft shadows across the room. She sits quietly, taking in the space like she’s committing it to memory, piece by piece. After a beat, she turns to me, her expression somewhere between gratitude and uncertainty.

“Thank you,” she says, barely louder than a whisper, like she’s unused to saying it. Her gaze drops, fingers tracing small circles on the table, then back up at me, a hint of something almost *** in her eyes.

I nod again, letting the silence settle between us.

The next five days pass like this. Mornings, sometimes evenings, passing each other in quiet nods and brief exchanges. She moves through the house as if testing its edges, watching everything like she’s waiting for something to shift.

Then, on the fifth day, she catches me off guard at the kitchen table. I’m mid-sip of coffee when she drops it, flat and even.

“My ex says I’m a terrible lay,” she says, deadpan, “but if you want, you can have sex with me.”

There’s this flicker of amusement before I answer, like I’m holding back a laugh. "I’m not letting you stay here just so I can fuck you," I tell her, letting the words land. "I fuck for a living." She blinks, a hint of confusion crossing her face, but I keep going. “And honestly, what I need off-camera… it’s more than just sex.”

Her face shifts, like she’s caught between understanding and something else, maybe embarrassment. And for a second, I regret saying it like that, letting her think I’m pushing her away. But it’s not something you just explain. Even if I opened the door to that room, she wouldn’t get it, not yet. For her to understand, she’d have to be strapped in, taken through it one piece at a time. She isn’t ready for that.

“If we did, though, if we went there, I’d want it to be because you wanted it. Not because you think you owe me anything. And honestly, you’re worth way more than a few nights under my roof.”

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, like she’s measuring what I said. The room goes quiet, and we leave it there, the air heavy with something unspoken, a strange understanding that doesn’t need any more words.

Three more days pass, each one settling us deeper into a silent rhythm, a pattern that only seems to pull us closer. I’m walking around in loose shorts, no shirt, nothing underneath. She’s in that skull-and-bow tank top, shorts that are more suggestion than clothing. Looking back, it’s obvious we’re testing each other, two ***s in close quarters, circling, sizing each other up. Every passing look, every wordless glance in the hallway, thick with tension, enough to reach out and touch.

She straddles me, knees pressing into the sides of my chair, facing me. I can feel her heat through my basketball shorts, almost like the fabric’s ready to melt. “I keep thinking about what you said,” she murmurs, her voice low. “About being worth more.” Her eyes catch mine, and there’s something raw there, a mix of surprise and a kind of need. “That was… the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

And just like that, I’m hard. She knows it, I know it. There’s no hiding it.

If this were a game, I just showed my hand.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blush. Instead, her hand trails down, her fingers grazing my erection through the fabric, slow and deliberate. Her head tilts, a spark of curiosity lighting her face as she whispers, “So what do you need?”

My mouth goes dry, something fierce gnawing at the back of my throat. Teeth on edge, heart hammering. I could go for the small win, ask for a blow job, something easy, something quick. Or I could risk it, go for everything.

For the first time, my hands move to her waist, my fingers pressing into the softness of her skin as I lift her off me, setting her aside. The desire’s almost enough to knock me over, to just take her here and now. But I hold it back, look her dead in the eye, and say, “Follow me.”

She watches me, eyes wide, but stands, steps alongside as I lead her through the hall, my erection straining against my shorts with every step. We reach the door. I slip the key into the lock, hear the familiar click, then open it, stepping inside, feeling her tense behind me.

The room is dim, walls lined with equipment, benches, harnesses, straps. And there, dominating the far wall, the wooden cross. She takes it all in, silent, but I can feel her pull back slightly. Her hand slips from mine, like she’s rethinking this.

But I reach for her again, guiding her hand this time, past the waistband of my shorts, her fingers wrapping around me. Her skin’s cool against the heat, her cheeks turning red, matching that fiery hair. She holds her breath, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she doesn’t pull away.

I need to make it clear. She doesn’t owe me anything. "This isn’t about helping you," I say, my tone firm. "But what I need is control. Complete control to do whatever I want."

My hands find her shoulders, guiding her forward, bending her over the bench. Her shirt slips off easily, her skin warm under my palms, and I press myself between her thighs, letting her feel the edge of my hunger. I lean in, my lips grazing the small of her back, slow, feeling the shiver that runs through her. A quick shift of my foot, and my shorts drop to the floor.

I reach out, my hands finding her neck, my grip soft but firm. She knows what I want. A subtle pressure, and she twists, turning slowly until she’s facing me. For a second, we’re close, bare chest to bare chest. The air between us, stretched taut, like it might snap if we breathe too hard.

My eyes take her in, absorbing every detail like it’s a secret she’s revealed just for me. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, a faint dusting of freckles across her shoulders. Her breasts, small and perfectly formed, rise softly from her chest, her nipples a subtle pink against her fair skin. She stands there, bare and unguarded, letting me see her as she is, without hesitation

In one fluid motion, I take hold of her waist, lifting her with that same quiet control and setting her on the bench. My hands slide down, tracing the line of her shorts, pulling them inch by inch, as if drawing back a curtain. Just as I expected, no underwear. Just her, open and ready, a silent invitation, daring me to finish what we started.

“I don’t want you to hit me,” she says, a tremor of nervousness slipping through.

I shift her legs, spreading them along the bench, the edge catching just under her knees. I keep my silence, letting her last remark hang in the air, the tension thickening between us. Then, leaning in close, I say, “Put your hands back, so you don’t fall.”

She complies, her fingers gripping the edge, eyes on me, waiting. I pause, letting the quiet stretch, then speak, my voice low. “I don’t keep many impact toys in here. If I’m going to hurt you…” I let the words trail off, hanging between us. “...it’ll be with this.”

I ease myself in, feeling her body tighten around me, warm and slick but still gripping like she’s resisting every inch. Her breath hitches, teeth catching her lip as I press forward, slow and steady, filling her, then pulling back with the same control. “But I won’t hurt you today,” I say, clear and firm. “Does that feel good?”

She nods, exhaling softly, and a quiet “It feels amazing” slips out as I hold her there, the space between us tightening with each heartbeat.

She’s gasping, clinging to the edge of the bench like she’s afraid she’ll slip away if she lets go. Her head tilts back, mouth parted, eyes closing as everything else fades, making room for something deeper, something raw. Her fingers dig into the leather, nails scraping, her lips parting with a quiet, trembling sound that’s barely even a whisper.

She looks at me, pulse quickening, and I see it in her eyes. The way she’s bracing herself, the way she swallows hard, trying to take it all in. Her hand presses against my chest, eyes darting down to the line where I disappear into her. “God, you’re…” she murmurs, voice soft, almost reverent, trailing off as she stares, lingering. Her gaze is wide, trying to wrap her head around it, her lips forming a silent acknowledgment, something close to wonder, like she’s feeling the weight of every inch, stretched to her limit.

But then, something catches her attention. Her gaze drifts past me, up to the wall, and her body stills, her whole face tightening. “Is that camera recording?”

My grip holds steady, fingers curling tighter around her thighs. “I told you, there are cameras everywhere.”

She tenses, her jaw set. I see that little flash of resistance, her eyes narrowing as she leans back, putting some distance between us. “I don’t want to make porn,” she says, her voice carrying a sharp edge.

I pull her closer, erasing the space, close enough to feel her chest rise against my skin. “And I told you,” I reply, steady and firm, each phrase timed with the rhythm of our bodies, each stroke deliberate, pushing the truth deeper. “There are cameras in every room. They’re not for porn. They’re for keeping things honest.” I reach over, drag the stool close, climb up to get the angle I need, each thrust a slow, precise movement. “Do you want me to stop?”

Her hands grip tight, fingers pressing hard. “No,” she whispers.

“Good,” I reply, “and the camera confirms that.”

I watch her, her skin smooth as porcelain in the dim light, her thin frame trembling, red hair spilling over her shoulders, brushing against her chest. Each inhale is shallow, every muscle tense, every inch of her body keyed up and waiting.

“In this room, I do what I want, when I want.” I lean in close, intensifying the moment. “Now, flip over.”

She hesitates, just for a second, then breathes out a soft “okay.” Her legs lift, the movement tentative as she pivots, arms briefly faltering as her stomach presses onto the bench. She stretches out, slender and exposed, *** in a way that seems to fill the room. Her arms wrap around the sides of the bench, gripping it like it’s the only solid thing left, knuckles whitening as she holds on.

Her red hair spills forward, blending into the padded leather until it’s hard to tell where she ends and the bench begins. A faint sheen of sweat clings to her skin, catching what little light slips through, her breathing quickening, ribs rising and falling like waves breaking against a shore. Every part of her is tense, braced, as if letting go would ***ter her into a thousand pieces.

I press into her, slow and steady, and her body tenses, almost involuntarily, around me. My thumb finds its way to her asshole, and I apply pressure, just enough to remind her who’s in control. “When I tell you to do something, I want to hear ‘yes, sir,’ not ‘okay.’”

She freezes, startled by the shift in tone. “What?”

I hold her steady, spreading her cheeks wider, taking in the sight of her fully laid out beneath me. The view, bare and exposed, shows every part of her stretched and ***. Her ass, flushed and inviting, looks perfect from this angle, the light tracing down her curves as I establish a rhythm, each movement asserting control.

“You heard me,” I say, my gaze unwavering, each command sinking in with every thrust. “When I tell you to do something, I want to hear ‘yes, sir.’”

She hesitates, like she’s feeling out the depth of what I’m asking, holding onto it, tasting it. I like that. When she finally says, “Yes, sir,” there’s a conviction, like she’s giving in, willingly, fully.

“Good girl,” I tell her, keeping steady, my pace deliberate. “Now, I want you to cum for me.” Each movement, each sway of my hips, carries a weight, a purpose I know she can feel.

Her voice drops, almost lost between breaths. “I’ve… I’ve never had an orgasm,” she admits, and I catch that flicker of frustration, the edge of embarrassment she’s trying to hide.

I don’t want excuses. I want obedience, simple as that. For a second, I almost think about correcting her, letting my hand come hard across her ass. But there’s a better way, a way that brings her exactly where I want. I run a hand through her hair, my fingers slow, reassuring. "The answer is, ‘Yes, sir, will you teach me how?’”

This time, her response is instant. No hesitation, no softness, just a steady, “Yes, sir. Will you teach me how?”

A quiet, pulsing thrill takes over, something that hits just right. This is the moment I’d imagined, counted on, everything I’d laid out falling into place. I watch her, feel the pull of her words. Perfect trust, exactly what I wanted her to say. It’s real now, and she’s in it.

I guide her off the bench, taking my time, savoring every second as it unfolds. She follows, her body yielding, waiting for whatever comes next. I position her down on her knees, and her eyes never leave mine, that last bit of hesitation slipping away. She’s ready to fall, ready to let go.

My nine inches press against her right cheek, and I let my hand rest on the other, fingers tracing her skin, tilting her face toward me. Her gaze locks onto mine, and I see it there: the willingness, both an offering and a test.

“Can you let go?” I ask, voice low, every word deliberate, steady. “Can you put your trust in me?”

She nods, not a hint of doubt, and says, “Yes, sir.” And just like that, it begins.