Power in Submission

[al****]

This chapter continues directly after the chapter "Steps of Surrender" and is the not only the conclusion to Red's origin but to Red herself.

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Here I am, watching her, hearing that confession play over in my head: “I’ve never had an orgasm.” No caveats, no exceptions. Just a flat, unadorned never. It isn’t that no one’s managed it for her. It’s that she doesn’t know what it is. Like an empty field stretching out to the horizon. No landmarks. No history. It’s wide-open territory, begging for someone to map it out. And I’m the one with the compass.

But I need clarity first, that sharpness that only comes with release. That’s why she’s on her knees, eager to finish the blowjob, head bobbing with a rhythm that’s all her own. I feel her lips wrapped around me, each movement steadying my pulse, grounding me, clearing the fog. My hands slide to each side of her head, holding her steady, and I say, “I’m close. Make sure you swallow every drop.” There’s a muffled “Yes, sir,” and that fires something inside me, sparking a grin as I swell against her lips.

“What was that?” I ask, feigning curiosity. She tries to respond, but I let go, filling her mouth, deep in her throat. She stumbles for a second, almost faltering, but my hands steady her, fingers woven tight through her hair, keeping her in place. Her breathing shifts, short and controlled, nostrils flaring, timing each swallow with the next pulse.

“Good girl,” I whisper, watching, feeling her throat tighten with every ounce she takes in, without spilling a drop. She’s flushed but focused, swallowing all of it, obedient, and as I come down from that last high, my desire waning, I feel the plan settle in, sharp and clear as a blade. The pieces fit together like they always do in these moments, and now I know exactly how I’m going to map this out for her.

She looks up at me, eyes shining, a hint of tears gathering, searching for approval. I reach down, hand open. “Let me help you up.” Her hand finds mine, and I lift her to her feet, pulling her close, holding her firm. “You did good.”

I pause, watching her face, the way she leans in, waiting. “Are you ready for what’s next?”

“Yes, sir.” She nods, steady and composed.

I keep my eyes on hers, make sure I’ve got her full attention. “This is important. If you say ‘stop’ or you say ‘no,’ then everything comes to a halt. Do you understand?”

Her eyes are locked on mine, and I let the words hang there, waiting to see if she truly understands. She gives a small, steady nod. “Yes, sir,” she says, her tone clear, almost eager.

“Good girl,” I say, a note of satisfaction in my voice. “Then I don’t want to hear any words except ‘no’ or ‘stop’ until I tell you otherwise. Nod your head yes if you understand.”

Her breathing is quicker now, her pulse almost visible in her neck as she nods, a clear, silent agreement.

“Good girl.” I release her hand, pointing toward the cross across the room. “Now, go stand over there.”

She hesitates. Just a second. Then steps forward, deliberate, head high, crossing the room with this slow-burn calm. I’m her shadow, watching every move. At the cross, I spin her around, lock in her left wrist, then the right. Down to her ankles, one, two. She’s spread, arms and legs stretched wide, taut but calm.

I reach behind the cross, fingers finding the black silk blindfold hanging off the peg. When I bring it forward, she sees it, and her eyes go wide.

I press my palm flat against her chest, feel her heart racing like it’s ready to break free. “You need to calm down,” I say, the words thick, biting. “That’s an order.” I brush my lips over her left nipple, the faint taste of vanilla lingering. Then the right, just to balance things. Then a small, soft kiss on her lips, almost a tease, before settling the blindfold over her eyes.

One last detail. I walk to the corner of the room, grab the headphones, scroll through the MP3s, picking a band I figure she might like, and hit play. The music hums to life.

I walk back, lean in close. “You know how to stop this if you want. Otherwise? You know what to do. Just breathe.” I slip the headphones over her ears, sealing her in.

And now, she’s ready.

The back of my hand brushes her cheek, trailing down in a slow, unbroken line until it reaches her right breast. I trace circles around her nipple with my knuckle, keeping just outside, teasing, letting her feel the weight of what I won’t give yet. My hand flips, palm pressing in, kneading. I lean forward, lips meeting her skin, her breast warming to my touch. Two fingers slip into my mouth, slick with purpose, before moving to her other side, mirroring the same motion, circling but never touching, her breaths coming quicker, her skin prickling, goosebumps rising in waves.

My tongue traces the path my fingers left behind, each swirl slowing her breaths, drawing her in tighter. My mouth settles over her nipple, letting the barbell roll with just enough pressure: left, right, up, down. Then I close in, pulling her deeper into the sensation, savoring it as her body arches toward me.

I move lower, lips marking a trail down her stomach, pausing just above her navel, pressing in, tongue meeting skin. Dropping to my knees, I feel the shift in her body, the tension rising, her lips parting as her breathing quickens. It’s all the invitation I need. I dive in, tongue pressing into her, sliding up to her clit, the barbell finding a rhythm, each beat electric against her skin.

My left hand settles on her chest, feeling her heart pound, marking each response. Two fingers slip inside, hooking upward to that rough, hidden spot, moving slow and steady. My tongue keeps up the beat, swish, swish, a small pull, swish, swish. Her breaths hitch, faster, her chest rising into my hand, her pulse quickening, racing. Her hips start to tremble, her legs tense, toes curling, her head dropping back against the cross, breaths coming in short, open-mouthed gasps that fill the room.

Then she tightens, thighs clenching, back arching. It hits her hard, sharp, raw, the sound breaking from her throat, half moan, half gasp, her hands straining against the restraints. Her body shakes, locked into that single surge of sensation, her voice rough, unsteady. Her hips tilt, desperate, as if she’s trying to escape it, her climax shuddering through her, intense and unfiltered. Her face contorts, caught between pleasure and disbelief, like she’s crossing into uncharted territory.

Her climax breaks over her, each pulse rocking her, and my own response surges, immediate, primal, an ache building that won’t be ignored. I unhook the strap from her right ankle, her leg dropping as I guide her knee up. Her thigh opens, inviting, and I step forward, pressing in just enough for her to feel me there, hard and ready. Her body tenses, anticipation humming through her, and I angle her leg, every inch of her open, exposed.

I slide my hand under her thigh, lifting her ankle to hook around my hip, her skin warm and yielding. My other hand presses firm against her stomach, holding her steady, pinned to the cross. 

I press in, finding her warmth, her body giving just enough to let me ease inside. The first inch is tight, slick with her release, her muscles clenching around me as I sink deeper. She inhales, a sharp intake, her body stretching to take every inch.

I’m alive. I’m all pulse, nerve, and fire. I could go at this forever, lose myself in her, the way she clings, the way she breathes in sync with me, the way she feels so good it’s dangerous. But there’s a plan here, something I’ve held onto since the start. I watch her, her lips slightly parted, her face caught in the blur between control and release. She’s close. So close, and I know I’m right there with her.

I slip the headphones off, pull her back into this room, this moment. “You can talk now,” I tell her, my voice low, like I’m drawing her in. “How does it feel?”

She moans, a low, jagged sound, her mouth open. “AleXxX… it’s the best I’ve ever felt.”

I press in, deep, every inch. She’s trembling, her body working to keep up. “Are you close?” I ask.

She’s unfocused, searching behind the blindfold. “I… I don’t know.”

I push deeper, bringing my lips to her ear. “You’re close,” I tell her, calm, certain. “We’re going to cum together.”

My mouth finds her neck, every thrust slow, exacting, her body shaking, breaths rasping. “Do you want to cum with me?” I ask, her breath hot against my cheek.

“Yes.” Her response is a whisper, barely there.

I pull back, my tone sharpening just enough to cut through the haze. “Yes what?”

Her face tightens, lost in the moment, the rules slipping away in the haze, and she stammers, “What?”

As she catches herself and whispers, “Yes, sir,” a flood surges through me, relentless, unrestrained. My body tightens, pulsing in sync with her own, setting off something deep in her, a shockwave passing between us. I keep my grip steady, feeling her convulse around me, that first tremor, and I reach up, pulling the blindfold from her eyes.

Her gaze meets mine, wide and stripped bare. Every part of her unravels, shuddering, each sensation crashing through her.

“Cum with me,” I say, controlled, a quiet command.

A sharp, guttural cry escapes her, reverberating through the room. Her body tenses, every muscle taut, trembling as the moment overtakes her. Her chest heaves, heartbeat wild under my touch. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and almost uncomprehending, like she’s glimpsing something unknown, something she’s never felt before. A gasp slips out, raw and breathless, as if she’s searching for the words.

“What… what is that?” Her whole body pulses, her gaze fixed, flooded with awe and disbelief, shaken to her core.

A slow smile edges across my face, silent but sure. I reach up, brushing a stray hair from her cheek, anchoring her through each wave. My hand rests there, steady, grounding her, letting her fall into me, until we ride out that final, searing imprint together.

As our shared ecstasy fades, my own body easing, I unshackle her and lift her into my arms, carrying her to the bed. We lie there, quiet, side by side. Minutes pass, maybe hours. Finally, she breaks the silence. “That was… wild.”

I smile, no words needed, and we sink back into the silence. It stretches between us, comfortable. Then she turns slightly, her voice softer now. “So… was that a one-time thing, or…?”

“What do you want?” I ask, watching her face.

She hesitates, eyes flicking to mine, like she’s searching for the right answer. Like this is a test.

“Just be honest,” I tell her.

“Honestly? That was amazing,” she fires back, “but this is… it’s overwhelming. I don’t even understand it.”

So I break it down, slow and measured, laying it all out: what I want, what I need, the expectations, and the rules. She listens, silent, as I talk through every angle, detail, each layer of control. By the time I finish, maybe an hour has passed, and I wrap it up with, “If you can handle all of that, I’d love for this to be regular. Hell, turn the guest bedroom into your room.”

She doesn’t answer right away, just traces circles on my thigh, fingers drifting, like she’s processing, feeling her way through it. Finally, she meets my eyes. “I’ll be your princess,” she says, resolute, “but not your whore.”

I laugh, caught off guard. “What does that mean?”

She looks at me, that confidence back. “You tell me.”

I lean back, taking her in, considering every famous princess, every notorious whore, before I give her my answer. “You cherish a princess. You respect a princess."

She rolls over, straddling me, hands pressed against my chest, pinning me there. “I’ll give myself to you completely. Serve you in any way you see fit. But you don’t hit a princess. You don’t share a princess. You protect her.” Her palms press harder against my chest, a deliberate weight, and I feel myself respond, hardening beneath her. “And I want to know you appreciate my offering,” she adds, a gentle but unyielding demand. She rises up, positioning herself, guiding me inside as she lowers down, her eyes holding mine as she finishes, “and never take it for granted.”

She moves her hips, a slow, deliberate rhythm, her eyes on mine. She lifts, settles back down, her tone low, “Do we have a deal?”

Looking back at that moment, at all of it, there’s this strange surge I can’t shake, something between regret and nostalgia, maybe the realization of just how much I cherished those times. And then it hits me, like the sting of an old bruise I thought had healed: “Why?”

My phone’s in my hand before I even think about it, her number queued up like it’s been waiting. I doubt it still works. But then, I think, mine hasn’t changed either. Maybe hers hasn’t. And with no real thought, just instinct, I hit dial.

"AleXxX?" Her voice, untouched by time. Surreal. We catch up, the way people do, piecing together the distance. She’s married now. There’s a kid in the background, laughter cutting through, a reminder of a life built somewhere I don’t belong. Still the same house. But then, out of nowhere, she goes for the jugular, the million-dollar question. "So, what’s up?"

I explain, like some confession I didn’t plan on making. The self-improvement, the journey, all of it. And then I ask her straight: "What did you get out of it?”

I hear her shift, the sound of footsteps, a door closing. Her voice drops to a hushed tone, like a confession. “My whole life, I was a victim,” she says. “You came in, and you were my savior. I needed that more than you’d believe. But when I went down on you, when I let you have me however you needed, to satisfy that drive you talk about… you were the one chained to it. And in those moments, I was your savior. That made me feel powerful.”

I listen, the words reeling around in my head, tangled, hard to catch hold of.

“And over those three years, you did what I needed. You built me up. I stopped feeling like someone who needed saving.” Her voice softens, a pause heavy with unspoken thoughts. “But I think you needed it, too. Being the strong one gave you room to let someone else be there for you.”

It’s heavy, dense, and I’m just holding onto the thread, piecing it together. I jot down mental notes, feeling like I need to keep it all, process every syllable. She sighs, cutting it short. “AleXxX, I have to go. It’s time to make dinner.” She pauses, then drops it softly, almost like a whisper. “It was good hearing from you. But… maybe don’t call again. Out of respect for my husband.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, and we say our goodbyes.

Back in my hotel room, I stare at my empty glass, letting her words echo. She said, “maybe don’t call.” Maybe.

And for a minute, I think about keeping her number. That soft limit she just handed me, the “maybe.” Because maybe I am that monster. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to keep it, just in case. But this story isn’t about crawling back; it’s about clawing forward. So I hit delete. Just like that. And I sit back, watch her name vanish, and start to think about the next story, the next lesson, whatever I can learn from it.

[al****]

Almost a year down this rabbit hole, clawing through memories, dusting off the tapes and the half-buried recollections, I thought I’d write one story—a single chapter for each woman who left a mark. Red was supposed to be one and done. Just Graduation Day. That tape had it all. We built chemistry there, unspoken and tangible, the kind of thing you can’t fake. Graduation Day was real in a way most of those other stories never were.

But as I started writing, the pages took on a mind of their own. I’d planned to churn out the usual tales of conquest, every fleeting thrill, each touch-and-go memory. Then I watched myself play them back. They felt hollow. Ink couldn’t save what should’ve stayed on tape, locked in the grainy memory vaults. So I went back, back to the ones that mattered, the ones where substance was an unwelcome guest at the feast of pleasure.

Here’s the thing: this story has more in common with Graduation Day than it has any right to. Speaks volumes about what I’m into, I guess. Three months after this day, Graduation Day takes place, but in between? Just a wash of Red’s hands on me, her every move tuned to some pleasure frequency. Nice, yeah. She was obedient, devoted to the act itself. But it’s these chapters where I’m in the driver’s seat, holding back pleasure like a prize you have to earn, those are the ones I keep going back to. Control. Power. The reward system.

And that call to Red? That was the spark that burned the whole draft down, ***d me to start fresh, rethink everything. Layer in the depth it was missing, the thing that the chapters needed to really hit. So even if she’ll never see this, and maybe that’s for the best, thanks, Red.

[tu****]

Did you ever dj in Margate NJ?

[al****]

No I haven't 

[tu****]

Appreciate the response, cheers