Submissive

Submissive

Kathryn M. Burke

I'm Charlotte Norton. I'm twenty-eight years old, unmarried, reasonably good-looking (I think), and always hopeful that my Prince Charming will come along sometime.

If that sounds old-fashioned, it's because I was pretty much raised to be an old-fashioned girl. (Sorry, I mean woman—I'm long past the age when anyone should call me a "girl"!) My parents are kind of conservative where such things are concerned. For all the strides that women have made in the past century, they feel that men are still in charge of most things and expect women to follow orders ("especially," as Mom once said, "in the bedroom"). I guess I'm naturally shy and timid, but that doesn't mean I don't put myself forward when a presentable man comes along. I'm certainly not a virgin!

But it may have been my upbringing and overall temperament that got me into trouble when I went on a date with Patrick Kelly.

Yes, of course he was Irish—or, I should say, of Irish ancestry. A true-blue American, with a shock of charmingly untidy red hair, he looked really scrumptious from the photos I saw on his profile on this online dating site I had signed up for. He said on his profile that he was fun-loving and full of high spirits—that can't be bad, can it? He also said he'd been married once—and divorced. I definitely had to figure out what that meant.

So after chatting online for a bit, we decided to meet. Maybe having dinner on the first date was too much of a risk: mostly because, if you really don't like the guy (or if he doesn't like you), you could be in for a long evening of exquisite boredom! Well, I figured I'd chance it.

He was kind enough to pick me up at my apartment in his car. (Of course, that meant that I had to give him my address, but I didn't think that would be a problem. He couldn't possibly be an ax-murderer, could he?) When I first met him as he waited for me at the entrance to my building, I was pleasantly surprised.

He was actually better looking than his photos indicated!

Most personal ads have photos that date back years, or have even been doctored somehow, so they don't look anything like the real person. But Patrick was only thirty-one, so he really didn't need to look younger than he was; and the special thing about him was that he was so lively in person—something a photo just can't capture.

He wasn't all that tall—only an inch or two above my own height (five foot six)—but there was a kind of suppressed excitement to everything he said or did that made me feel the same way. People have sometimes said that I look as if I'm perpetually melancholy or worried, that I don't smile very much, that I seem afraid all the time—and that all this makes me less attractive to men than I might otherwise be.

But Patrick, bless his heart, seemed to drink me in with his eyes from the moment he saw me. His eyes actually twinkled when I first came out of the building, and instead of a meaningless handshake he bent down and gave me a chaste (I think it was chaste!) kiss on the cheek. I got a heady whiff of his man-smell, and I hope he got a whiff of my perfume.

The dinner was really nice. It wasn't a super-expensive place, but it was small and quiet and a little on the dark side—just the thing for a get-to-know-you session with a stranger. He revealed himself to be smart without being a nerd, funny without trying to make a joke with every sentence, and in general a real live-wire, always smiling and, as a result, making me smile a lot more than I'm accustomed to.

And I couldn't help seeing that every so often, when he thought I wasn't noticing, he glanced down at my chest. I don't know why men don't think we notice—we always notice. But that just shows he's a normal man with normal instincts, right? I guess I encouraged him by wearing a knee-length dress with a scoop neck that revealed quite a bit more cleavage than I usually do. (I'm 34C, if you're interested.)

In short, we had a wonderful dinner, and the time just flew. As the meal came to an end, I began to get a strange little tingling sensation. I really didn't want this date to be over, but I guess it would have to. Did he like me as much as I liked him? Oh, God, I hoped so! It would be awful to build up all these nice feelings for this incredible man and then find out he thought me a boring, silly woman he'd never want to see again.

I suppose the only disturbing part was when I asked him about his ex-wife. For the first and only time he became a bit evasive, just saying, "Oh, we just didn't get along." I couldn't get much more out of him than that, aside from the fact that he was married for only three years. That's not very long, is it? Some people think you're still in the honeymoon phase at that point. But what did I know? I'd never been married and could hardly imagine myself being married (but I really, really did want to be married!).

So it was with a heavy heart that, after more than two hours dawdling over dinner, I saw Patrick get up and say, "Well, I guess I'd better take you home."

Was that it? Did he really want the date to end so soon? I mean, it was a Friday night, and neither of us had to work the next day. My eyes suddenly filled with tears as I stood up unsteadily, but I didn't let any of the tears leak out: I blinked them away and tried to smile bravely. He gently placed a hand on my back and led me out of the restaurant.

The drive back to my apartment building seemed to pass almost too quickly. The next thing I knew, we were sitting in his car in the parking lot like two idiots, not saying anything. What was there to say? I was now almost scared that he'd just say, "Nice meeting you"—a telltale sign, on a first date, that the guy really didn't want a second one. I actually started to tremble.

And maybe that's why I blurted out, "Why don't you come up for a little while?"

I know a woman is not supposed to do that—invite a man up to her place on the first date. But how could there possibly be any harm with this wondrously charming man sitting next to me? Up to this point he'd shown himself to be the perfect gentleman.

Almost as soon as I'd spoken, his eyes twinkled and said, "Sure, that would be nice."

I almost frantically got out of the car and headed over to the building entrance, making haste so that he couldn't have a chance to change his mind. As I was digging into my purse to find the key, Patrick sauntered up casually behind me, in no hurry at all. I did find the key at last, gave him a silly little smile, and let us in.

We took the elevator up to my apartment, on the third floor. We said nothing on the way up, but he did give me a welcoming look—kind of like what a benevolent uncle might give you. I still had no idea what he thought of me—whether he really liked me or whether he was just being polite in extending the date. I'd find out soon enough.

I opened the door to my place, and we walked in. It's pretty small—only one bedroom, with living room, a tiny dining room, an even tinier galley kitchen, and a bathroom. I'm not exactly made of money, so it's all I can afford. But Patrick claimed it was "delightful."

"It really shows a woman's touch," he said. Somehow that comment made me go all goose-pimply, so much that I barely managed to croak out the words "Thank you" in reply.

I don't drink a lot of alcohol, but I now thanked my stars that I had some whiskey on hand—Irish whiskey at that! I offered it to him, and then became terrified that I was stereotyping him. But he smiled genially and said, "I'd love some."

I poured out a fairly large helping for him (neat, of course), and a much smaller one for me. I really can't take hard liquor, but since I'd had a full meal, I figured it wouldn't hurt me.

We sat on the sofa in the living room, and the whiskey did put us (or at least me) at ease as we continued our conversation. I now felt really comfortable with him, almost as if I'd known him for years. And I saw that he was looking at me all over—not just my chest, but my lap, my bare legs, and even my feet. He made no bones about it: when I locked eyes with him after he'd just given me the once-over, he showed no embarrassment at all. I really like what I see, his glance said.

He finished the whiskey a lot sooner than I expected, and then he stood up.

Omigod! Was he leaving? Once again I got kind of choked up—I came within an ace of crying. What a silly woman I am!

I trudged over to the front door, following him. At least I hoped he'd give me a kiss—not just a little peck on the cheek, but a kiss on the mouth. After a first date that had been as nice as this one, it's okay to kiss on the mouth, isn't it?

He glanced down at me and said, "I've had a wonderful time."

Holding back my tears, I said, "So have I."

And he did kiss me.

His arms encircled my lower back, and he brought me close to him. Already my breasts were pressing up against his chest, and I was sure he could feel them even under my dress and bra. He just looked down at me for an instant with those shining eyes, and then he brought his lips down on mine.

It was a heavenly kiss—soft at first, but then getting more and more firm and insistent. At first it was close-mouthed, but then he opened his mouth, and I did the same. As the kiss went on, I thought I felt his tongue brush up against my teeth. That was pretty bold, I thought—unless it was just an accident. As for me, I couldn't help throwing my arms around his neck. All women do that, don't they?

The kiss went on so long that I just lapsed into a kind of dream-state. It had been months since this had happened, and I'd almost forgotten how lovely it was. I think I even let out a few little moans—or maybe it was more like the mewing of a cat—as he continued to hold me tight.

Then one of his hands slipped down to my bottom.

I'd been so distracted by that kiss that it took me a little while to figure out this was happening. And maybe that was my downfall, because I guess he felt I didn't mind.

So, as he held me tight with one hand, he now grabbed fistfuls of my dress with the other hand and raised it up so he could get to my underwear. And there was now no doubt that he was deliberately putting his tongue in my mouth.

By this time I felt things had gone too far. I mean, Patrick seemed to be a wonderful man—but doing this on a first date?

His lips finally let mine go, but only so he could press them against my cheeks and neck and even my ears. Meanwhile his hand was pulling down my panties to reveal my bare bottom to his touch.

"Patrick, no," I forced myself to say—but in such a weak, whispery voice that I wondered whether he even heard. "You—you mustn't."

It was clear that that wasn't going to stop him. He had now exposed my bottom, and he was stroking it all over with that one hand while holding me tight with the other. And then he suddenly stopped that—but only in order to unzip his pants.

"No, please!" I said a little more loudly. "This isn't right."

But, you see, I couldn't fight back. I'm not made that way.

It goes without saying that Patrick was bigger and stronger than me. There was no way I could break out of his clutch, even though he was holding me with only one hand against my lower back. I should have tried to push him away, but for some reason my arms remained locked around his neck. I guess I just couldn't believe this was really happening.

Now I felt his hand—the one that had just undone his zipper (and, I was sure, pulled out his thing out of his pants)—slip between my legs. I squealed at that. I think he was checking out how wet I was. And I was wet! God help me, I was! What do you expect? I don't even want to tell you how long it had been since a man—well, you know. So when a guy as appealing as Patrick did the kinds of things he was doing, of course I was going to get wet.

He suddenly pulled back his head from my neck and gave me this strange little smile, as if saying, You're going to like this.

And then he went into me.

He'd slipped in so quickly and easily that at first I wasn't even aware of it; but then, as he started pumping me, I felt that unmistakable sense of being filled up that every woman experiences. He was, as I've said, only an inch or two taller than me, but even so he had to crouch down just a little to get into me. Then he seized my hips and actually lifted me up off the ground a little, at least to the point where I had to stand on my tiptoes while he kept pummeling me.

If you ask why I didn't protest—why I didn't scream and pound his chest, try to wriggle out of his grasp, even grab his balls and give them a good squeeze—I have to repeat that it's just not in me to do that. Also, I was so stunned at how quickly this had gone from mere kissing and cuddling to actual copulation that my mind just froze, and my body with it. What I couldn't believe was why I kept my arms wrapped around his neck, in the customary woman fashion. It just somehow seemed natural.

At some point Patrick took hold of my bottom with both hands while he kept on grinding his hips into me. Meanwhile he was kissing me all over—mouth, cheeks, ears, neck, anywhere his lip could touch. I'd never had sex standing up, so I just stood there passive and—yes, let me admit it—submissive while he did his business.

And then he came in me.

He let out a series of grunts from deep in his throat, and his hands clutched my bottom so hard and so spasmodically that it actually hurt me. I felt his emission pouring into me, and I became even more numb at the thought of his seed filling my womb (of course I wasn't likely to get pregnant—I was protected). But at the same time my heart was pounding as rapidly and loudly as his: I could almost feel his heartbeats against my own chest, which was still pressed tightly against his own.

He didn't pull out immediately, seemingly content to remain firmly embedded in me while the final drops of his discharge leaked out of him. At last, almost resentfully, he slipped out. Then he gazed down at me. There was nothing approaching regret or apology in his expression; his glinting eyes and broad smile showed that he expected me to be pleased, even gratified, at his attentions.

And, God help me, I was.

Look, I'm not the most seductive woman in the world; I know that. I like to think I'm fairly attractive, but I don't really go around flaunting my "assets" to all and sundry. I'm shy, withdrawn, timid, and introspective; it never occurs to me to think that a man will find me irresistibly appealing. So when someone like Patrick, who could have any woman he wants, pays this kind of attention to me, I can't help being flattered.

Right now, though, I was just in a state of shock. No man should treat a woman like this, should he?

I managed to find my voice. "You—you shouldn't have done that," I whispered. "It was . . . very naughty."

Good God! Could I have sounded more like a Victorian schoolmarm? My words made me feel silly even as I was uttering them. And, predictably, he chuckled at them, making me smile too.

Then he said something I wouldn't have expected. "Did you come?"

It took me a while to say, "No."

I hadn't—but it was a close thing. It shouldn't have been, but it was.

Patrick seemed to think that he'd made a kind of faux pas, so he swooped me up in his arms with a deft motion and carried me to my bedroom. It was only about ten feet away, but he gave the impression that he could have carried me a mile without effort. He dumped me a bit unceremoniously on the bed, then rolled me over onto my stomach. He undid the long zipper of my dress, then pulled it down and off me. Now I was wearing only a bra and panties (I'd lost my shoes somewhere along the way). He unfastened my bra and pried it off of me, and then peeled my underwear down my legs and tossed it aside.

In spite of what had happened at the front door, I felt hugely embarrassed at being naked in front of him, especially since he was still fully clothed. He took care of that in short order, however: as I scrabbled to get under the sheet and blanket, he calmly disrobed, one piece of clothing at a time, apparently expecting me to marvel at his impressive physique. I have to say he did look very nice: firm chest with just a thin covering of fine light hairs (I hate hairy men, don't you?), strong thighs, and, of course, that thing sticking out of his groin—which, to my alarm, seemed already to be getting big again.

He tore the bedsheets out of my clutch and slipped into bed beside me. Looking at me with a kind of critical scrutiny, he fell on top of me, his head buried against my breasts. He kneaded and squeezed those breasts like dough, kissing them, sucking (and even nibbling) on the nipples, and in other ways showing his appreciation of their heft and shape. He then moved back up to lie at full length beside me, and his hand slowly drifted down over my stomach to my delta, which was thickly covered with black fur. He nodded in approval (I was glad he wasn't one of those guys who want women to shave down there), and then began stroking my sex.

He had only one objective: to make me come.

And it didn't take long. I was still dumbfounded at how this whole episode was developing; I really ought to have tried to put a stop to it and order him from my place, but I couldn't get the words out. And the actions of his fingers—as they pried open my labia and gently fondled my clitoris—were enough, after only a few minutes, to send a bone-shuddering orgasm through me. And, even after I'd started shaking and gurgling and pounding my fists on the bed, he kept on fingering me, as if to extend my climax far beyond its normal bounds.

After minutes of this, I just had to push his hand away.

I'm one of those women who get extremely mortified at having an orgasm in the presence of a man. I guess it's a product of my shyness, but it just seems to me to be the most obscene thing in the world to exhibit such lascivious dissipation to the male gaze. Men come all the time and don't think anything of it; but women should be more—well, ladylike. In my past adventures with men (all four of them, before Patrick), I'd often hoped against hope that, after the man finished his climax, I could rush off to another room and do myself in suitable privacy. Of course that never happened, and my men have always wanted to make me come and watch me come.

Patrick was one of those. As he was stroking me, I could see him gazing right at me, to see what kind of response he was generating. I almost wanted to cover my face so I couldn't see him during my paroxysm, but it was hopeless. I just felt compelled to stare into his eyes. And, of course, after it was over, he gave me a big smile—which I couldn't help thinking was largely a smile of self-congratulation at how he'd satisfied me.

And then he got back on top of me and entered me again.

This one was a lot more relaxed, even casual, but the intensity of his expression as he peered down at me from the position of dominance that he'd established, ensconced on top of me between my legs, made it clear that he wanted to be in charge and wanted to focus on his own pleasure. That said, he did his best to please me also: he grabbed my breasts, he stroked my face gently, he squeezed my bottom; at one point he even placed a finger on either side of his cock as it was pounding me, tickling my labia while he rubbed my clitoris with his thumb. But mostly he rained kisses down on my face, cheeks, neck, and anywhere else he could reach—including my armpit, if you can believe it. That made me yelp at the unexpected and unusual sensation.

Of course he came, but somehow it was a more controlled climax than the frenetic one at my front door. He had raised himself up a bit from my body, and he was staring down at me with his eyes fixed on mine as he poured his thick, viscous fluid into me. I don't know if he sensed his own previous emission; I guess he might have. And again he remained in me long after he'd finished, only slipping out when he couldn't remain hard enough.