Submissive Awakening Ch. 01

I sat cross-legged on the bed, idly flicking through an old magazine, glancing at the pictures but not really taking anything in. Through my open door, I could see my housemate in the bathroom down the hall, dancing and singing to herself in front of the mirror as she applied bright red lipstick. She was getting herself ready for a night on the town, as she did every Friday. She had on a pair of tight jean shorts and a pink, low-cut top that left her pierced bellybutton exposed. She stretched up on her tiptoes as she leaned towards the mirror and my gaze drifted down to her smooth, tight calves and bare feet. I'd never seen her do any exercise in all the time I'd known her, but dancing and partying had given her all the toning she needed for what was, undeniably, a killer body.

I felt a pang of jealousy, and tried my best to ignore her as she went through her ritual preparations. It wasn't her appearance that I was envious of, I knew full well that when I wore my best dress, my cutest heels and my push-up bra I could give her a run for her money. It was how comfortable she looked in her own skin, how confidently she went about presenting herself to the world. Five minutes ago she'd been wearing sweat pants and a hoodie, and already she was applying the final touches to her make up. Most girls took that long just to decide on which underwear to put on, but she went to her wardrobe knowing exactly what she wanted.

I wondered to myself how I would feel, standing in a nightclub having spent only a few minutes getting ready. I'd probably be a nervous, quivering, self-conscious wreck - not someone who was ever going to be the life and soul of a party, or the centre of attention, like I knew my housemate always was. I could imagine myself pretending to look down at my phone in order to avoid interacting with anyone else, trying my hardest not to make eye contact and terrified at what people might be thinking about me. This was how it went on the rare occasions my housemate managed to persuade me to join her on her nights out, even if I'd spent hours dolling myself up. Most of the time she only made a half-hearted attempt to drag me along out of politeness. She knew we were very different people, and that she would probably end up leaving me on my own in the club in any case, as she went off to have fun with whoever caught her eye.

The doorbell rang, and she skipped down the hall to let in her date for the night. He was tall, at least a foot taller than my housemate, but she didn't hesitate in stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. He grinned excitedly as she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the flat, not bothering to close the door. "I'll just be a minute", she said to him as she bounded back to her room to grab a pair of shoes. As she left, the guy noticed me out of the corner of his eye. "Hi", he said, vaguely in my direction, before going back to ignoring me as my housemate returned, hopping as she pulled each foot into a pair of white pumps. She leaned against him for balance as she fiddled with an ankle bracelet, her hands grabbing onto his shoulder.

I inspected him up and down, as I did with all the guys I'd seen her greet like this. Like the rest, he was gorgeous, athletic, his hair was perfect, his clothes were immaculate...I felt the jealousy creeping back. She always got the guys I wished I could get. But they were strong, confident, outgoing - exactly like her, nothing like me. Why would this guy have any interest in some meek little wallflower like me? He'd probably already forgotten I existed.

The two of them left the flat, slamming the door behind them and I could hear them practically running down the stairs of the building, eager to get their night underway.

"Bye", I muttered grumpily at the empty hallway. As I returned to my magazine, the flat returned to the placid silence that would linger until my housemate returned the next morning. I felt resentful of her, for being what I couldn't be and for rubbing it in my face like this every weekend. But I knew I would never do anything about it, this was just me, my life as it always would be.

I was submissive. I hated that word but I couldn't honestly deny that it was a perfect description. I never did things, I just let things happen to me. Great, I thought, not just submissive but self-pitying too, what guy could possibly resist?

I realised I was wallowing in my own thoughts, it was going to be a long, boring night unless I found something to distract myself. I tossed the magazine back into the messy pile in the corner of my room and stomped into the kitchen. I knew my housemate kept some booze somewhere. It's not like she'll miss it, I convinced myself, she always has guys on hand to buy her all the drinks she could need.

I fumbled around in the freezer and found a bottle of store-brand vodka. I'd never been able to drink spirits neat, so I found a glass and poured some orange juice in first. I downed it as quickly as I could, I wasn't interested in how it tasted, and I felt the effects right away. I made another, with a little more vodka this time, and took it back to my room.

Ok, I thought, I need cheering up, let's find something funny. I got my laptop from the desk and laid back on my bed. Cat videos always made me smile, but then the words "cat lady" drifted up from my subconscious and I thought better of it. I eventually found a video of a bunch of guys parodying the film '300'. They were dressed in just hotpants and capes and were pretend-sword fighting in a variety of locations, occasionally yelling "Sparta!" at bemused onlookers.

One of the guys in particular caught my attention, he looked just like my housemate's date, or at least I convinced myself he did. This guy, though, was practically naked and his shorts did not leave a thing to the imagination. I giggled to myself as I paused the video whenever he was pulling a pose. It had been shot in high definition, and I could make out his muscles in glorious, delicious detail. He may have been mocking '300', but this guy would not have looked out of place alongside Gerard Butler and his buff buddies.

The video came to an end and without hesitation I clicked the replay button. I ended up doing this several times, and with each viewing the video became less amusing, but more arousing. The guys weren't just hot, they were carefree and self-confident. They didn't worry one bit about embarrassing themselves in public, as long as they were having fun. I was suddenly reminded of my own shortcomings and closed the video before I killed my own buzz.

I decided to watch a film instead. Inspired by the video, I searched for '300', dimmed the bedroom light and wrapped myself up in the sheets. Thanks to the vodka and the guys in hotpants, I was already a little horny, and as I watched the slow-motion action of ripped soldiers swinging swords my mind began to conjure up all sorts of exciting images.

These guys were real men, I gushed to myself, they did what they wanted and they got what they wanted. They wouldn't care if I was submissive or not, they would take whatever they needed from me regardless of whether I asked them, regardless of whether I let them. The feminist in me felt a twinge of shame at allowing myself this thought, but by now my feminism had taken a back seat and the thought remained in control.

300 men? There would be no point in resisting, I wouldn't stand a chance. Better to give in, let them take me and not struggle. Who knows, maybe being submissive in the safe, sensible thing to do? I laughed at myself trying to justify my own burgeoning fantasy. I closed my eyes, ignoring the film, it had served its purpose. I pictured myself surrounded by dozens, fuck it, hundreds of men, closing in on me, reaching out to pull at my clothes, ripping them off. I imagined the sensation of countless hands grabbing my flesh, groping my breasts, pulling my hair, each trying to take a piece of me for themselves.

My own hands had already made their way down to my crotch and were tugging on the fabric of my pyjamas as I did my best to replicate my fantasy. I yanked the pants down to my ankles and kicked them off so that I could spread my legs as wide as possible, trying to get that irresistible sensation of being exposed and vulnerable. I imagined them being pulled to the side as the men surrounding me jostled with each other, stretching to get a touch of my bare pussy. I raised my hips from the bed, hoping to make it easier for them to reach me, giving them everything they wanted.

They wouldn't be gentle with me, they wouldn't care about my pleasure, only their own, they would be rough. I tried to mimic what they would do to me, and instead of delicately fingering my clitoris I began to rub myself forcefully with the palm of my hand. The tactile sensation was blunt and crude, but the sheer eroticism was overwhelming. My other hand reached up to fondle my breasts with the same brute force, and I kneaded and manhandled my own soft, fragile body without restraint.

I pushed two fingers inside myself, and once I felt enough wetness I tried going as fast as I could, pistoning into my pussy, matching the pace of my now frantic breathing.

But my 300 men weren't interested in my orgasm, were they? They would never be satisfied with fingering me, I was there for their enjoyment, not the other way around. They would force themselves into me, into my pussy, into my mouth, between my breasts, rub themselves against every inch of my skin, and if there wasn't an inch free they would stroke themselves with me as their inspiration. They would fuck me, hump me, use me all at once.

And then what? I thought. I was getting close to a quivering, breathless climax but I was still lost in the narrative of my own fantasy. What would they do after they'd all taken me, after I'd served my purpose and their primal, sexual aggression had peaked? Well, I realised, it's obvious. They would come. All 300 of them would come, they would ejaculate in ecstasy and there would be semen everywhere.

No, not everywhere. On me. Every burst would land on me, all of it. They would all point their stiff cocks at me, at my face, at my breasts and they would coat me. The finishing touch - the icing on the cake - to their domination of me and my total submission to them.

This final thought sent me over the edge, and I felt my own pulsating orgasm as my vagina gripped down on my exhausted fingers and my body convulsed and twisted in uncontrollable pleasure. I heard the rattling as the bed rocked to my every ragged movement but I ignored it. Whoever lived in the flat below could make up their own mind about what was going on, I was too far gone to care.

Eventually I opened my eyes, the images in my head dissipating, and found myself coated not in semen but in my own sweat. I laid motionless, legs still wide open, crotch still exposed, waiting for my heartbeat to slow and my thoughts to return to normal. I should have felt shame, guilt, embarrassment at having such depraved thoughts. Most of all, I should have felt that same self-pity I'd felt barely an hour ago at being so submissive and so passive in my own fantasy - I couldn't even be assertive and confident in a dream!

But it never arrived. Instead, the high I had felt lingered on, the pleasure and fulfilment I had discovered in my own submissiveness was a revelation. Why bother trying to deny my own nature? I would always be submissive, but that didn't mean I couldn't be confident and secure in my submission. I decided then and there to embrace it fully, to finally be comfortable in who I was. Just the thought of it had given me the best orgasm I'd ever experienced. I couldn't wait to explore the new possibilities I'd opened up for myself.

The following morning I found my housemate in the kitchen. She was wearing the same clothes as the previous night, but she was still fresh-faced and looking perky as ever. I allowed myself a longer-than-usual glance at her legs and ass as she reached down to find a bowl. I wasn't a lesbian, and neither was she, but if she'd suddenly pushed me onto the floor and straddled my face, I would not have resisted, I would have licked her any way she wanted. No kissing, no foreplay, she would demand an orgasm from me and she would get it.

Wow, where had that come from? Was that the kind of random thought I should expect with my new mindset? I shuffled hastily out of the kitchen before the lust in my eyes gave me away, and locked myself in the bathroom.

As I removed my clothes, I caught a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror over the sink. I never really paid much attention to my body, the stack of women's magazines in the corner of my room had taught me to never be satisfied with the way I look, to always be envious of their photoshopped bikini models. But as I allowed myself to gaze at my legs, twisting around for a better view of my ass, I felt no such inadequacy. Blonde hair - check; tight ass - check; perky boobs - check. Damn, I thought, I bet there are plenty of guys who would love to bend me over this sink and take me from behind. That was my second spontaneous sexual thought of the morning.

I stepped into the shower and peered out of the small, high window that looked down onto the street below. Normally I would close this window, terrified of being spied on while I was washing. But this time I left it open. Why shouldn't I let people see me naked? If they want to use to me to get themselves off, that's their right.

Their right? Okay, this was getting a little silly. I needed to regain some control over these wild ideas before I did something stupid. But I kept the window open anyway, and as a I washed myself I made a special effort to lather up my breasts thoroughly, just in case someone was watching.

By this time, I was beginning to regain some self-control, but I realised that these kinds of urges don't come from nowhere, and that I would need to get myself an outlet, a way to express them properly. I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my body and skipped back down the hall to my room. I opened my laptop and typed "submission for girls" into the searchbar and, well, that's when things really started to get interesting...