Accidental Submission Pt. 01

Chapter 1

Walking along the narrow lanes of Cambridge on a warm spring day, mingling with the academics and tourists, I'm coming to meet you for the first time. I know little about you, except that you are a Dom who likes to spank girls, and seem to be well educated. I was careful choosing what to wear today, wanting to look classy yet available, smart yet blend in.

I had a full body wax a couple of days ago, long enough for the redness to subside, and a manicure and pedicure this morning with a deep red polish. I had cleaned myself inside, then bathed with a scented bath oil to soften my skin. I reached behind my back to clip the beautiful Chantelle Bra in pale pink, peach and brown silk and lace, adjusted my breasts in the cups, regretting it but finally deciding to add a pair of boosters to make my cleavage more impressive. I then reached between my legs and carefully tucked away my balls before using a couple of drops of superglue to keep my small penis hidden away, then pulled up the matching knickers. Looking at my vanity I saw my jewelled chrome plug and after adding some lube I pulled the knickers aside and pushed it in. I hooked the suspender belt around my waist and tucked the straps through my knickers before rolling the nude, seamed, lace top stockings up my legs and clipping them to the straps. I slid on a pink silk blouse, just transparent enough to see the lace of my bra, then stepped into a beautifully cut floral cotton skirt, light, tight at the waist, gently flared and finishing a couple of inches above the knee. My makeup is light for daytime, yet with dark red lips to match my nails, and dark eyeliner and mascara. Slipping on my 4 inch nude heels I am ready.

I had enjoyed the walk through the colleges and attracting the glances of academics and students alike. I had long since got past the worry of whether they were trying to work out if I was "real" and realised most were simply thinking about fucking me.

The narrow lane I am now on ends at a bridge over the Cam and I turn left along the bank: there are several pubs and I go to the third and sit at a table outside, as agreed. I wonder what you will be like and what this spring afternoon holds, as I sip a glass of chilled Chablis, my legs crossed, only showing my stocking tops in the occasional light breeze.

Each time a gentleman walks to the pub I try to work out it is you. I've seen no photograph, just a couple of extremely erotic pencil sketches of your preferences. I know you are several years older than me, perhaps 10 years, so are likely grey-haired. I imagine whether each of these men would have set up a date like this? Whether they will approach me with the confidence of one who knows that he will be able to have me. and will simply need to decide when and how. I feel my face flushing and my nipples hardening. I realise this blouse is slightly more transparent than I had thought while getting dressed. The light breeze is also making sure that I need to keep a check on my skirt to avoid my stocking tops being on permanent display.

I've been sitting here quite a while. A man approaches the table; he is wearing a well-cut dark grey suit, slightly older than I was expecting, but these things can be deceptive. He asks If I am alone, and I explain that I am waiting for someone. I'm not sure if this is you. I play slightly too much with my hair, lick my lips just a little too often: I'm acutely aware of the way my very erect nipples are showing through my thin silk blouse. All the time the gentleman is chatting to me. I have finished my drink and he asks if I'd like another. I thank him

"Chablis please."

He asks if I'd like the Premier Cru. I answer that I'm not convinced they have that by the glass, smiling.

He returns with two glasses and a bottle of .Premier Cru in an ice bucket. "Great taste in wine." he says, explaining that he will join me.at least until my friend arrives. I'm still not sure if this is you.

I notice that he attentively refills my glass, so I really don't know how many glasses I've had, but it's turned into a very warm afternoon, and I'm relaxed. I realise that the breeze has occasionally offered him more of a view than intended. but by now I am assuming it is you.

As I notice we are close to the end of the bottle he asks me,

"If I gave you a million pounds, would you spend the afternoon in my bed?"

I laugh, knowing he won't offer me a million pounds, but of course I would.

Then he said "And how about if I offered you £5?"

I laughed again, and said of course not, what does he think I am?

"We have already established that you are a whore, now we are just settling on the price."

He says it clearly, simply and undeniably.

"So what is your real price?"

I'm no longer sure it is you.

"OK. so we've established you are a whore. but that £5 is too cheap. Let me get another bottle of this exquisite Chablis while you think about that."

I am speechless as he goes into the pub. Should I get up and leave? Is that you? Is it more enticing if it is you or if it isn't? The wine I had already drunk is making me relaxed, but also making my thoughts a little fuzzy. I take longer than intended and I'm still here when he returns.

"I'm pleased to see you are still here." he says, pouring each of us a glass of wine.

"I don't think that you have thought of a price, because I think you have been questioning my logic. That means that the price is irrelevant, it is simply symbolic, so I think that you should accept the £5."

He raises his glass in a toast. I meet his toast.

"Don't say anything. I think you should go to the lavatory now and if you accept that your price is £5 then remove your knickers and when you get back to the table pass them to me."

I stand up carefully, and make my way into the pub, I don't have a clue what I'm going to do. I find the Ladies loo and go into a cubicle. I lift my skirt, lower my knickers and sit down. I'm still not sure if it's you, and still not sure if I mind. I drop my knickers down to my ankles and slide them over my heels. I ball them up into my hand, the light silk and lace taking no space at all. As I walk back through the pub I can sense the increased breeze around my arse. I get back to the table and sit carefully. He holds out his hand and I reach across and place the small delicate ball, worth almost ten times the £5 that I am apparently worth, in the palm of his hand.

"Good. Now I think you need to look slightly more the part. That blouse is stunning, but it will look so much better once you have undone another two buttons."

I comply.

"Good girl Now I'm sure you know how to remove your brassiere without taking off your blouse? Yes? Good."

I reach behind me and quickly open the hooks and drop the straps over my hands, then through my now more open blouse I easily pull it through and hand it to him. I manage to catch the two "chicken fillet" enhancers before I hand it over. The transparency of my blouse now almost exaggerates my erect nipples.

I assume it is now time to go, but he pours us both another glass of Chablis.

"There's no rush, my dear. At £5 I can afford your service for some time and I'm enjoying the way the others are admiring you. Let us enjoy this bottle before we go."

I study him carefully, this man who had just bought my company for the evening, and possibly longer. Was this the dominant man I had been chatting to from collarspace? He should be 60 years old, yet this man was probably closer to 70. He had said he would be here at 1:00 pm yet this man had wandered up around 1:30. He apparently lived in St Albans, yet this man has a house close to the centre of Cambridge. But he has sensed my submission. And he has my bra and knickers in his pocket, underwear I had bought especially for this meeting, costing almost £150. If he is not you, does he know what to expect between my legs?

"You do look quite divine, my dear, and let me tell you that I do so enjoy the way your nipples are so hard and so obvious. So beautiful, and now the way you are blushing; how do you feel to be sitting there almost naked and so obviously about to be taken to bed by a man you have only just met, one who is considerably older but who now owns you and who bought you for next to nothing? There's no need to answer, dear, I know that it is turning you on immeasurably. Not only are your nipples hard, by the way, I saw you slip away your enhancers, but I assure you your breasts look perfect without them. Through your almost transparent blouse I can tell your areolas are flushed, like your neck: I can assume that your pussy is wet too."

With that last comment I know that this is not you, but a complete stranger. I don't know if that turns me on more, or less. I do know that it means he may be angry when he finds out I have a cock instead of a pussy. Does this mean I am in danger? I enjoy another sip of the wine that was probably not a good idea in the first place. I look around: there are students and tourists punting on the river, people milling around, businessmen and women in a hurry. Some, but few, looking over at the well-dressed couple, the older gentleman, possibly with his PA, or a client. maybe some assumed he was my client. I guess they are right now.

"Now, we don't have too far to walk, and even though you may be just a little unsteady I do so enjoy walking through the city, don't you? Especially when I have such a delectable companion. I know you will be embarrassed because your tits will bounce gently, and you chose to wear a blouse today that covers very little. That combined with the "clack" those lovely heels are going to make sure to draw the eyes of both men and women. You are clearly slightly inebriated, so people will wonder at that in the afternoon. I know it may sound cruel, but this will heighten my enjoyment. Shall we go?"

He stands and comes round to offer me his hand. I stand, slightly uncertainly, and take his hand. With my heels I am about the same height as him but I still feel slight in comparison. Partly this is because, now standing, I am more aware of how exposed I look. I am aware that this beautiful skirt needs care when moving. He knows I am wearing stockings and suspenders: he made no secret of enjoying the view when we were seated. He puts his hand around my waist and steers me back through the colleges toward the city centre. As he promised, I am acutely aware of the men openly looking at me and the women too, some with desire, some with disdain. Occasionally he drops his hand to cup my arse. All the time I wonder if you are watching, enjoying what you have involuntarily set up.

We arrive finally at a beautiful Regency town house; he opens the door for me. I go in first and without closing the door, he pushes me against the wall and kisses me deeply. People passing look on as he pulls my blouse open and kisses, then lightly bites my nipples. I shiver as I feel his hand slide up my leg, past my stocking tops to cup my arse. He reaches out with one leg to slam the door closed.

Chapter 2

It is now too late for me to tell him that I am not what I seem. My blouse is hanging from my arms and I let it slide down to the floor. My breasts, although small, haven't yet shown him that I am not a woman. He is unlikely to go counting my ribs and I have worked hard to achieve a very slim waist and the small pink jewel in my pierced belly button won't be giving the game away. As he kisses my lips, which willingly give way, he invades my mouth with his tongue. Endorphins are coursing through me and mixing with the alcohol. I am full of lust and think of nothing but allowing this man to truly possess me. Lifting my chin gently I give him access to my long white neck.

Taking advantage, he immediately moves his lips and tongue to run over the delicate skin, kissing, licking, sometimes biting gently. One of his hands is on my tit, twisting, pulling, pinching, caressing my nipple, already hard, now engorged. His other hand has moved from cupping my arse under my skirt and is on my waist looking for the zip. My head is spinning, from lust, from the alcohol, and from fear, knowing that he will very shortly know I am genetically male. I can't think straight as I feel my skirt drop to the floor and I kick it away; his mouth has moved down and is now kissing and biting my nipple. I know that I am effectively naked in his hallway, now only wearing my stockings, suspenders and heels. I feel his hand dropping again, and breathe a sigh of relief as he starts to play with the jeweled end of my butt plug, pushing it, twisting it, gently pulling at it. I cannot think. I have no thought of stopping him; I am totally his, owned by his mouth, his hand and his wallet. Slowly his hand moves forward between my legs. Any moment he will throw me out, or hit me, or something, as has happened before and as every other gurl has experienced. I can feel his fingers touching, squeezing, exploring: clearly he is puzzled. After all the superglue is holding well.

"It seems that you are full of surprises, young lady."

I start to breathe again, he is not hitting me, he is smiling.

"I am sure you have a wonderful tight arse and I know your mouth is hot and willing, not that I should be surprised: you turn up at a pub on your own, clearly dressed to attract men. You said that you were waiting for someone that never showed up, all the while happily drinking too much vintage Chablis, and then negotiating your charms so poorly that you truly are a £5 hooker, clearly hot, clearly willing. Clearly you are worried, but that little thing is such a detail that it doesn't worry me in the slightest, although I will probably have to punish you for being dishonest."

With that he starts to kiss me again, deeply, passionately. I open my mouth, no longer any holding back or nervousness, allowing the endorphins, lust and alcohol to take over my thoughts and actions entirely. He runs his hands up my body, collecting my arms as he does, raising them over my head to pin them to the wall. He has surprising strength and he holds both my wrists together in one hand. His other hand plays up and down my body, squeezing my breasts, stroking my cheek, running across my lips then down between my legs, feeling my hidden maleness, exploring its folds, then between my legs, forcing one leg high. His fingers are at my arse. There is a sudden twinge in my arse followed by a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and a clatter on the floor as the chrome and jewelled buttplug falls to the ground.

He spins me round so that my palms are now against the wall, I'm pleased that I lubed myself well before leaving earlier as I feel his free hand opening his trousers and then the head of his very hard cock against my hole. I arch my back and feel him filling my open arse, pushing quickly past my sphincter then into my smooth, hot hole. He slides forcefully into me, then in a very controlled way slides out, almost leaving me before sliding back in, slowly building up pace. I am lost. I push back against him; I feel his lips on my neck, then again his teeth, probably leaving small bruises. I throw my head back and squeeze his shaft in my arse. He pulls some glinting silver cuffs from his pocket while thrusting into me. I feel them click shut around my wrists at the same time as I feel him tense, and feeling him bite into my shoulder he fills me with his seed.

"Mmmmmmm you are a great fuck, young lady. "

I slump back against the wall, my arms dropping in front of me, unbreakably joined.

"I must say I was obviously a little passionate. It looks like my marks on you will take a while to fade, but that's OK, there will be more before I have finished with you and anyway, at £5 an afternoon I might just buy you for a few days, whore."

With my arse full of his seed, I'm sitting in his hall, surrounded by most of my clothes. I remember my underwear is still in his pocket. I look down and see the bite marks, already turning purple on my breasts. I wonder if this would have been different if you had met me as arranged at the bar?

He pulls me to my feet and wraps me in his arms, embracing me, my nakedness accentuated by my shoes and stockings, a sharp contrast to him still fully dressed. I breathe in his scent, expensive aftershave mixed with the musk from his recent exertion. He strokes my cheek, kisses my forehead, and leads me into his house. His living room is stunning, the high regency windows letting light flood in and showing the exquisitely furnished room with a perfect mixture of ultra-modern and antiques. I am momentarily embarrassed by my nakedness as people are walking past, until he points out that the sheer curtains prevent prying eyes. He also points out, seemingly in passing, that the triple glazed windows are effectively soundproof too. I stand in the middle of the room, hoping that I make an appealing sight, pleased that I chose the expensive suspender belt and fashioned nylons over my usual lace top hold ups today and pleased that I used the superglue trick for my tuck and not a simple gaff.

Coming over to me he raises my arms again and effortlessly clips my wrists to a ring that I hadn't noticed hanging there.

He sits in one of the large chairs: Roche Bobois, I think to myself idly, a glass of full-bodied red wine beside him, watching me as I wriggle occasionally, my feet hurting slightly in the high heels. Looking over, he simply tells me that he is enjoying looking at me and that this is slight punishment for my dishonesty earlier. The alcohol from the wine is slowly leaving my system and I am starting to get quite concerned.

"Do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"How do I know if I am safe, that you won't harm me?"

"I can assure you I won't harm you, stephanie, although you don't actually know if I am telling you the truth. I can tell you that I am thoroughly enjoying abusing you. I am thrilled by the thought that a few hours ago you were simply a girl enjoying a good glass of wine by the river, and now you are actually a whore and suspended in the front room of a man whose name you do not even know."

It struck me: I had never even asked. I had told him my name and not noticed that he hadn't reciprocated. I shivered involuntarily. He laughs. He takes another sip of his wine and takes my underwear out of his pocket and lays it on the coffee table, then stands and walks past me, stroking me on the way past. Cupping my breast, and lightly swatting my arse, he goes out to the hall and returns with my handbag, skirt and blouse, and lays them beside my knickers and bra.

"I think you are enjoying today though? I think that it sends a thrill down your spine every time I call you a whore, doesn't it?"

I mumble my agreement.

"No, no that won't do. Tell me clearly, do you like being called a whore?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes Sir."

"Good girl. Are you actually a whore?"

"Yes Sir."

"Yes, you are, aren't you? A common tart. Is there really a difference between sitting by a river flashing your stocking tops at any rich-looking guy that walks past or walking down the curb at night in the red-light district? Is there?"

"No Sir."

"So, stephanie is a hooker and one who didn't take the precaution of letting anyone know where she was going. A whore who now has sperm running down her inner thigh because her client took her bareback, a prostitute who only charges £5 for the whole afternoon... a cheap tart."

"Yes Sir."

"That's better. Now what should I do to a good girl that is turning into a common whore? One who deceives men to get them to pay her for her services?"

He comes over to me and motions to me to move my feet apart. He clips my left ankle to one end of a bar, then motions for me to move my feet even further apart, and clips my right ankle into the other end. I am very unstable, it is causing me to be slightly hanging from my wrists. He faces me and squeezes my breasts, smiling when he sees that my nipples are again rock hard. He gently kisses me, then puts a clip on each nipple.