Submission

Submission
Various Various

The thrills of power games and the pleasure of surrendering to the will of another. ‘Submission’ features new erotica short stories by Charlotte Stein, Primula Bond, Willow Sears, Rose de Fer and many more.Whenever Cate is summoned to her boss’s office, the door remains closed for a very good reason.The rules are very explicit whenever Matilda visits the gentlemen of the Windsor Club.At the manor, the thrill for Saskia is a rare kind of obedience.

SUBMISSION

A Treasury of Women Who Like to Give In

A Mischief Collection of Erotica

(http://bit.ly/KqDOG3)

Contents

Cover (#u3102ec8e-f297-5387-a66c-92a8a4c71ac5)

Title Page (#u1f09a9f0-9784-59ee-ab92-de3f91c75afb)

Best in Show Rose de Fer (#uca5fccbb-4895-5459-b31f-eb7eb9c1946e)

The Usual Dress Code Elizabeth Coldwell (#ub39b38f3-01c8-5bb4-97e7-12c98b70f0e2)

Corporate Punishment Kat Black (#u5c096d6e-167b-575e-9b40-3eb70496d027)

Yours (A Letter to Willow Sears) Willow Sears (#litres_trial_promo)

A Different Kind of Tension Chrissie Bentley (#litres_trial_promo)

The Ugly Duckling Primula Bond (#litres_trial_promo)

The Game Kyoko Church (#litres_trial_promo)

You Already Know Charlotte Stein (#litres_trial_promo)

Making Up Is Hard to Do Terri Pray (#litres_trial_promo)

More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Best in Show

Rose de Fer

I fidget, fussing with the hem of my dress as the car glides to a stop before an imposing Victorian house. The driver opens my door and I glance nervously up at him. He hasn’t said a word throughout the drive and I can make out no expression behind his mirrored sunglasses. He merely waits for me to get out. I take a deep breath and step down on to the gravel. It’s the last time I’ll be allowed to walk upright for a while and I can’t fight the powerful fear that threatens to make my legs buckle. The driver returns to the car and immediately pulls away, disappearing down the long winding drive. I am alone.

Slowly I make my way to the porch where a folded note bearing my name – Saskia – lies on the doormat. With trembling fingers I fumble it open.

‘Undress,’ it says. ‘Scratch on the door when you are ready.’

I glance behind me. Fields and woodland stretch away into the chilly mist, but there is no one around, no one to watch as a frightened young woman strips naked outside a stately home. I’m not the first either. A small basket contains various items of clothing. Two pairs of shoes – sexy red stilettos and silver ballet flats – stand neatly to one side.

I know I mustn’t delay so I quickly slip out of my dress, fold it neatly and add it to the basket. I unlace my strappy black sandals and place them next to the ballet flats. The tiled porch chills my bare feet. I hesitate only a moment before unhooking my bra and peeling my knickers off. I drop my lacy underthings into the basket and, stomach fluttering, I sink to my knees on the rough hessian doormat. I close my eyes, count to three and scratch gently at the large oak door.

Soon I hear the sharp taps of approaching footsteps. My heart gives a startled leap as the door opens and I look up into the face of a stranger. The man is immaculately dressed in a soft grey suit and shiny black shoes. He has a kind, handsome face and he smiles at me as he reaches down to ruffle my hair.

‘Good girl,’ he says, holding the door open. ‘Come on, in you come.’

I creep inside on all fours, peering around curiously at the unfamiliar surroundings. The hallway is opulent and elegant. A high stained-glass window casts its image on the marble floor, staining my hands with reflected colours.

I hear the door close and then the man is crouching in front of me. He holds a thin strip of red leather in his hands and I realise he must be the handler. I obediently lift my head so he can fasten the collar around my neck. There is the soft jingle of a metal tag and I feel its chill against my throat. The collar is a strange comfort. It crystallises my position more than any other single step in the elaborate ritual. It instantly suffuses me with warmth and security, inducing a powerful feeling of submission.

As the man clips a lead to my collar I lower my head. He gives the lead a gentle tug and I follow him down the corridor and into a room towards the back of the house. The low murmur of male voices grows louder as we approach. I hesitate in the doorway, peering in.

We’ve come to what looks like a ballroom, although the room is obviously not used for dancing. The floor is covered with thick, luxurious Oriental rugs that cushion my knees as I am led inside. A huge space has been cleared in the middle, bounded by a semicircle of chairs. A show ring. Some of the men are seated and several others stand off to one side, talking amongst themselves. A fire roars warmly in the hearth along the near wall and two women, naked like me, kneel before it.

‘Saskia.’

I look up in response to the familiar and cherished voice of my master and I find myself quivering with happiness as he emerges from the group and comes towards me. I kneel up to reach him, placing my palms against his legs as he strokes my face tenderly.

‘Who’s a good girl?’ he says. ‘Is my little pet going to make me proud today?’

I nod my head, pawing gently at him with one hand. He smiles indulgently at my puppyish behaviour before unclipping my lead. Then he reaches into his pocket to withdraw a morsel of chocolate. I nibble the treat from his hand while he scratches me roughly behind the ears. If I had a tail I would wag it.

He points towards the fireplace then and tells me to join the others. I leave his side reluctantly and make my way across the plush carpet to where the other two women kneel, watching me.

One is a lithe golden blonde with cropped hair and full breasts. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, like me. She offers me a sunny smile and I shyly return it. The tag on her collar says PHOEBE. The other girl seems extremely self-conscious, although I can’t see why. She’s the prettiest of us, with long black hair, olive skin and striking blue eyes. A petite, almost boyish figure. She looks away as I take my place with them by the fire.

‘It’s Tara’s first time,’ I hear a man say, presumably her master.

It’s my first time too and I can’t believe anyone could be more nervous than I am. Phoebe nudges closer to me and places her hand on mine, her eyes shining with friendly encouragement. She seems to contain an immense amount of energy; she’s practically buzzing with suppressed eagerness.

‘Shall we start with Phoebe, then?’

She perks up at the deep voice, abandoning me in favour of her master, who pats his leg and calls to her. She bounds over to him and adopts a puppy play-bow, arms flat on the ground, back arched, bottom high in the air. Then she barks and leaps up, playfully grabs the lead in her teeth and scampers back to the fireplace with it. There isn’t a trace of self-consciousness in her. She fully inhabits her role with gleeful abandon.

The watchers seem charmed by her antics, chuckling good-naturedly as her master feigns exasperation and goes to fetch her. She drops the lead when he tells her to and blinks up at him, wide-eyed and adoring, as he fastens it to her collar and walks her over to the handler and passes him the lead.

‘She’s all yours, Mr Veith.’

The handler gives Phoebe an affectionate pat on the head and the show begins. He takes her through a series of basic obedience commands – sit, stay, fetch – and then leads her around the ring. She is very nimble on all fours, much more so than I am, and she tosses her head as she prances past the men I take to be the judges. Her enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself looking forward to my turn in the ring, my turn to show how good I can be, how obedient and responsive.

The judges mark their cards, occasionally smiling at something Phoebe does, occasionally frowning in serious contemplation. From time to time the handler rewards her with a treat – a small biscuit shaped like a bone. I worry at first that it’s a genuine doggy biscuit. Phoebe is so lost in the role it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t notice. But when he tosses one near us and commands her to fetch it, I catch the smell of gingerbread and smile.

There is a small round of applause at the end of the performance and Phoebe dances in place, made even friskier by all the attention. Mr Veith lets her off the lead and tells her to stay and, although she clearly doesn’t want to sit still, she obeys. Then she watches with keen interest as her master places a low grooming table in the centre of the room. Mr Veith joins him and Phoebe seems not the slightest bit nervous or uncertain as the two men lift her up and set her on all fours on top of it.