Chapter 4: The Submission
tt pl
We didn’t speak for a long time. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of the echoes of what we’d said, what we’d done. He finally stood from the desk, his movements loose, and disappeared into the ensuite bathroom. I heard the gush of water.
I lay there, feeling the slow, sticky trickle of him escape down my thigh. The word he’d said hung in the air, solid as furniture. You’re not going home.
A giddy, terrified thrill shot through me. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. I was kept.
I pushed myself up, my body a catalogue of delicious complaints. I found a black silk robe thrown over a chair and wrapped it around myself. It smelled of his cologne. I padded out to the main living area.
On the vast kitchen island, a silver cloche sat beside a carafe of orange juice. I lifted the dome. Eggs Benedict, perfectly poached, with smoked salmon. A small bowl of mixed berries. It was obscenely elegant. Food for a mistress. I ate standing up, staring at the city, feeling the robe slither against my sensitized skin. Kept. The word was a dark jewel I turned over and over in my mind.
The bathroom door was open. Steam curled out into the cooler bedroom air. I stood at the threshold.
The tub was a massive rectangle of black stone, sunken into the floor. It was already half-full, the water churning from hidden jets. Vishal was submerged up to his chest, his head tipped back against the rim, eyes closed. The room was all slate tile and chrome, glass bottles of products lining a shelf. Candles were lit, their flames reflecting in the dark water and the floor-to-ceiling windows.
This was my duty now. Not a chore. A sacrament.
I let the robe pool at my feet. He didn’t open his eyes, but a faint smile touched his lips. “I wondered when you’d remember your job.”
“Sorry, sir,” I said, the title slipping out easily, naturally. It felt right. I stepped down into the water. It was scalding, perfect. I sank into the space between his legs, my back against his chest. The jets pummeled my aching muscles. I reached for a bottle, squeezing clear gel into my palms. I began to wash his arms, his chest, working the soap over the planes of muscle, the scattering of dark hair.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured.
“I’m a fast learner. And I like being useful.” I leaned my head back against his shoulder, turning to whisper in his ear. “I like knowing my only purpose right now is to make you feel good. Your kept slut.”
His hands came up to cup my breasts under the water, his thumbs finding my nipples immediately. “Say that again.”
“I’m your kept slut.” The words were hot in my mouth. “You bought me with a debt. My husband sold me. And now I just want to be your perfect, filthy little hole.”
He pinched my nipples, hard. I gasped, arching back into him. I felt him stir against the small of my back.
I turned in the water, sloshing it over the rim. I knelt between his legs, the churning bubbles hiding nothing. He was already half-hard. “Let me.”
I reached for the tray beside the tub. It held more than just soap. There was a small bowl of fat, perfect strawberries, their stems still on. I took one, dipped it in the water to warm it, and brought it to his lips. He bit, a dribble of red juice escaping down his chin. I leaned forward and licked it clean.
Then I took another strawberry. I held it between my breasts, just above the waterline, and pressed them together around it. I leaned forward, offering it to him. He took the strawberry with his teeth, his lips and tongue brushing my skin. The sensation was electric.
“Use them,” he said, his voice thick.
I understood. I slid lower, positioning myself so his growing hardness was nestled between the soft, soapy swell of my breasts. I pressed them together, creating a warm, slippery tunnel. I began to move, up and down, using the water and the gel as lubricant. The head of his cock peeked out at the top of each stroke, brushing my throat, my collarbone.
“Look at that,” he breathed, watching, his hands coming to my head to guide my rhythm. “Your tits were made for this. Does your cunt get wet watching your own tits fuck me?”
“Yes,” I moaned, the truth of it shocking me. “It’s dripping. It’s jealous. It wants to be used instead.”
“It’ll get its turn.” His grip tightened in my hair. “Open your mouth.”
I obeyed, my lips parting. He guided himself out from between my breasts and nudged the tip against my tongue. I took him in, the flavor of clean skin and saltwater filling my mouth. The bathwater lapped at my chin as I began to bob my head, slowly at first, then with more purpose.
This was different from the morning. This was luxurious, wet, slow. I could take my time. I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the pre-come that had begun to bead. I dragged my lips down the thick shaft, feeling every vein, then back up, hollowing my cheeks. The steam, the heat, the scent of sandalwood soap and sex made it dizzying.
One of his hands remained in my hair, not forcing, just present. The other found its way between my legs, under the water. Two fingers slid into me without preamble. I cried out, the sound muffled around him.
“Your pussy is making a fucking mess of my bathwater,” he growled, curling his fingers inside me. “You’re throbbing. You love this, don’t you? You love being on your knees, sucking cock while you get fingered.”
I pulled off him with a wet pop, panting. “I love it. I love being your full-time cocksucker. I want you to think of my mouth every time you get hard in a boring meeting.”
“Filthy girl.” He pushed my head back down.
I took him deeper, relaxing my throat until my nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base. I held there, letting him feel the constriction, then pulled back, gasping for air. “It tastes like power,” I rasped, before diving back down. “It tastes like my new life. Fuck my face with it. Please. I want to feel used.”
He began to thrust, gently at first, then with more insistence. My throat opened for him. Tears sprang to my eyes from the effort, mixing with the bathwater and steam. The sounds were obscene, wet gulps and choked breaths echoing off the tile.
“Your husband never got this,” he said, his own breathing becoming ragged. His fingers worked faster inside me, rubbing a relentless circle that had my hips bucking against his hand. “He never even dreamed of it. This greedy, hungry mouth. This is mine.”
“It’s yours! It’s only yours!” I managed between strokes. “My throat is your property. Mark it. Claim it. Fill it up.”
The pace became frantic, punishing. His fingers fucked me in time with his hips. The dual sensation was too much. A sharp, unexpected climax ripped through me, clenching around his hand, making my whole body shudder. I screamed, the vibrations around his cock sending him over the edge.
With a deep, guttural roar, he pulled my head down hard and held me there. The first pulse was a shock of heat and salt, flooding the back of my throat. I swallowed instinctively, greedily. The second, third, fourth followed, each one making him jerk against me. I drank him down, every drop, my own pleasure still echoing through my nerves as I serviced his.
When he finally softened, I released him, cleaning him gently with my tongue before collapsing back against the tub, breathless, spent, my mouth still tasting of him.
The water continued to churn around us, steam rising towards the ceiling. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something else—possessive approval. He trailed a wet finger over my swollen lips.
“Good girl.”
“Good girl.”
He let the words hang in the steamy air, a reward that warmed me more than the water. I floated there, buoyant and used, my muscles like liquid. He shifted, standing up in the tub with a cascade of water. He stepped out, grabbed a thick black towel, and began to dry himself with an economical efficiency that fascinated me.
“Your turn,” he said, not looking at me. He walked to the sleek glass shelf beside the vanity. My eyes, still hazy with satisfaction, followed him. I saw rows of expensive products, but my gaze snagged on a small, polished wooden box. He opened it.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, were objects that made my breath catch. Silvery metal, sleek curves. I recognized none of them, except one. It was a bulbous shape, slender at the base, made of deep, violet-shaded glass. A delicate golden jewel was set at its wide end.
A butt plug.
My stomach tightened. The heat in my core, so recently sated, flickered with a new, anxious fire. I knew what it was. I’d heard whispers, seen glances in movies. It was a frontier I had never, ever considered crossing. That was a darkness, a dirtiness, even my new hunger hadn’t yet imagined.
“Vishal,” I said, my voice small. The water suddenly felt cold.
“Hmm?” He didn’t turn. He picked up the plug, holding it up to the candlelight. The violet glass glowed.
“I… I don’t know about that.” I drew my knees up to my chest.
He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. “You trusted me with your mouth. With your cunt. You screamed your husband’s name to shame him while I was inside you.” He stepped back to the tub’s edge, kneeling down. He held the object between us. “This is just another part of you. One he never touched. One that will belong to me.”
“It’s not…” I searched for the word. “It’s not for good girls.”
His laugh was a short, sharp burst. “Anjali, you left ‘good girl’ bleeding on my desk an hour ago. You are something else now. Something better.” He reached into the water, his hand finding my ankle. He pulled it gently, forcing my leg to straighten. “And I want all of it.”
Resistance was a frail, dying thing. He was right. What was left to defend? What part of me had I not already given him? The fear was real, but the pull to obey, to please, to be completely conquered, was stronger. Resisting Vishal was useless. It was like trying to stop the tide with your hands.
“It will feel strange,” he said, his tone softening into instruction. “Then it will feel full. Then,” he added, a promise in his eyes, “it will make everything else feel infinitely more sensitive. It will make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”
I swallowed. I looked from the glinting jewel to his face. “You’ll go slow.”
“I’ll go as slow as you need.” He reached for a bottle, pouring clear, slick gel over the glass. It shone. “On your hands and knees. In the tub.”
I moved awkwardly, the water sloshing. I presented myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt exposed in a new, terrifying way. The warm water lapped at my thighs. I felt his fingers first, slick and probing, massaging the tense ring of muscle. I flinched.
“Breathe out,” he murmured.
I exhaled shakily. The pressure was insistent, unfamiliar, a blunt, cool intrusion. There was a sharp pinch of stretch, a burning sensation that made me gasp. Then a pop, and it was inside. The fullness was profound, shocking. It wasn’t pain. It was an overwhelming presence, a claiming of territory I didn’t know I possessed.
“Oh, god,” I whimpered, my forehead resting on my arms.
“There.” He rubbed my lower back. “Just breathe. Let your body accept it.”
And it did. The initial shock melted into a deep, constant pressure. It felt illicit. Forbidden. Incredible. He helped me turn around to sit again. The moment I settled back, the plug shifted inside me. A jolt of sensation, dark and sweet, radiated through my entire pelvis. My eyes flew wide.
“See?” He smiled, a real, pleased smile. He settled back in the water across from me. “Now. Come here.”
I went to him, my movements altered, hyper-aware of the foreign object nestled inside me. It made every motion feel weighted, significant. He guided me to sit on the tub’s wide rim, my legs over the side, open to him. The steam rose around my thighs.
He picked up a strawberry from the tray. He bit half, holding the other half between his teeth. He leaned forward, offering it to me. I met him, our lips brushing as I took the fruit from his mouth. Juice dripped down my chin.
Then he put his mouth on me.
The effect was electrocuting. The persistent, filling pressure from behind magnified every flick of his tongue on my clit a thousandfold. It was as if every nerve ending in my body had been funneled to that one, throbbing point. I cried out, my hands slapping the water’s surface.
“Fuck! Oh, Vishal, what did you do to me?” The words were a ragged moan.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with a long, slow, flat lick that made my vision blur. His hands held my thighs apart, relentless.
“This… this feels illegal,” I panted, my head rolling back. “It feels like you’re fucking my ass with that thing and eating my pussy at the same time. I can feel it every time you breathe.”
He hummed against me, the vibration traveling straight into my core, amplified by the plug. I arched, desperate.
“Yes! Just like that! Your tongue feels bigger. Deeper. It’s everywhere.” I was babbling, pure filth pouring out. “I’m so full. I’m full of you in every hole. You’ve taken everything. There’s nothing of me left that you don’t own.”
He pushed two fingers into my cunt, curling them. The plug pressed against them from the other side, creating an unbearable, full sensation. I saw stars.
“I can feel it! I can feel the plug through my walls! You’re pinning me between your fingers and that glass. I’m trapped. Don’t let me out.” My pleas were shrieks now.
He sucked my clit into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. The world narrowed to that suction, that fullness, the smell of strawberries and sex and steam.
“I’m going to come! I’m going to come around your fingers and that plug and I’m going to break it!” My body was taut, a bowstring about to snap. “Make me! Make this married slut come on your businessman’s face! I want you to taste how much better you are!”
His pace became ruthless. He fucked me with his fingers, his tongue a constant, fluttering torment. The dual stimulation was too precise, too engineered for pleasure. It built a climax not like a wave, but like a detonation.
It started in my core, a white-hot fusion of the plug and his tongue. It shattered outwards, seizing every muscle in a violent, unending convulsion. My scream was raw, broken, wordless. My hips ground against his face, my hands fisted in his wet hair, holding him there as the pulses seemed to rip through me endlessly. He drank every shudder, every throb, his own low groans of satisfaction vibrating into my flesh.
When it finally began to ebb, I collapsed backward onto the cold marble floor, gasping, utterly destroyed. The plug was a hot, heavy reminder inside me. He rose over me, water dripping from his chin onto my stomach. He was smiling.
He plucked the last strawberry, placed it gently on my heaving chest, and ate it.
He looked down at me, his eyes tracing the path of juice that had trickled between my breasts. “Up. We’re not finished with the water.”
His hand was firm, pulling me from the cool marble back into the tub’s liquid heat. I moved clumsily, the plug a constant, grounding presence that made me feel off-balance and deeply aware of my own body. The water welcomed me back, swirling around my waist as I stood facing him. He sat on the submerged bench, the surface lapping at his chest.
“Here,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no hesitation. He guided my hips until I was straddling him, my knees sinking into the soft silicone of the tub’s floor. I could feel him, hard again already, pressing against my inner thigh. The jeweled base of the plug pressed against his stomach as I leaned forward.
“Slow,” he reminded me, his hands settling on my waist. He didn’t lift me. He made me do the work.
I reached between us, guiding him to my entrance. The feeling of him nudging against me, while that other fullness occupied me completely, was a complexity of sensation that stole my breath. I sank down, a millimeter at a time, my body stretching to accommodate him. The water buoyed me, made the descent a slow, fluid surrender.
“Oh god,” I whispered, my forehead dropping to his shoulder as he finally sheathed himself fully inside me. The feeling was monumental. I was packed, impossibly full, every internal inch claimed. “I’ve never… it’s so much. I can feel you both. I can feel everything.”
“That’s the point.” He began to move his hips in a subtle, circular grind, not lifting me, just working himself deeper. The motion made the plug shift. A sharp, sweet thrill shot up my spine. “Now talk to me. Tell me what you are.”
I lifted my head, meeting his gaze in the steam. My hands framed his face. “I’m your slave. Your full-time, kept whore.” I began to move, rising just an inch before sinking back down, establishing a languid, rocking rhythm. The water sloshed around us. “You own both my holes now. My husband never even touched one. The other he just… ignored.”
“He was a fool.” His hands came up to my breasts, his thumbs rubbing my nipples before he took one into his mouth. He suckled hard, his teeth grazing the peak. The pain was bright, clean, merging with the deep ache of fullness.
“Yes! Bite me. Mark these too. They’re yours to hurt.” I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to me. My hips found a slightly faster pace. “Forget your wife. What does she know? Does she let you fill her like this? Does she beg for it?”
He answered by biting my other nipple, a sharp, possessive clamp that made me cry out. His hand left my breast and cracked against my ass, the slap sharp and echoing in the tiled room. The impact jolted the plug, sent a shockwave of pleasure straight through my core.
“Harder!” I panted, riding him with more insistence now. “Slap your property. I love it. I’m your cheap, desperate bitch and I love your hands on me.”
He spanked me again, the same spot, the sting blooming under the water. His other hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so my throat was exposed. The sudden tension pulled at my scalp, a sharp, delicious subjugation. “You love this? Being manhandled? Used?”
“Yes! I love it! I’m your fuck-toy. Your personal slut.” The words tumbled out, fueled by the building tension in my belly, the relentless dual pressure. “Keep me. Install me here. Use me whenever you want. I don’t need a life. I just need your cock in me and your hand in my hair.”
He released my hair only to deliver another stinging slap, then another, alternating cheeks. The rhythm of his spanks matched the rhythm of my hips. I was so full, so perfectly stretched and owned, that each impact just heightened the coiled, screaming pleasure.
“I want to be the reason you’re late to work,” I gasped, leaning close to his ear. My voice was a ragged, hungry thing. “I want to be the wet spot on your desk chair you think about all day. The taste in your mouth you can’t forget.”
His growl was primal. He suckled my neck, leaving a bruising kiss, then bit the tendon where my shoulder met my throat. His hips pistoned upward, meeting my downward strokes, driving himself even deeper. The plug made every thrust resonate.
“Tell me you’ll never let me go,” I demanded, my control splintering as the climax began its inevitable, terrifying build. It felt different—deeper, heavier, like it was rising from the very core of the earth. “Tell this slave she’s permanent.”
He looked up at me, his eyes black with want. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Promise me! Promise you’ll fuck me every morning. Promise you’ll fill this ass again. I want to be your forever mistake.” My movements became erratic, frantic. The slaps came faster now, a percussive beat to our coupling. I was so close. “I’m going to come. I’m going to come on your cock with your plug in my ass and I want you to feel me break.”
“Do it.” His command was a harsh whisper. He pinched my nipples, twisted, biting my lower lip. “Come for me. Show me what I own.”
The orgasm didn’t crash. It erupted. It was a seismic, silent scream that locked my muscles and stole the air from my lungs before the sound tore loose. It was a convulsion of pure ownership, my body clenching violently around the twin invasions, milking him, claiming him even as he claimed me. I chanted his name, a broken litany, as the waves shook me.
He followed, his own release triggered by my frantic contractions. He held my hips down, grinding me onto him as he emptied himself with a hoarse shout, his face buried in my breasts. We stayed like that, locked together in the churning, cooling water, until the last tremor subsided.
The only sound was our ragged breathing and the hum of the jets. He gently eased me off him. I slumped against his chest, spent, the plug still a heavy, intimate weight inside me. He traced the fresh bite marks on my shoulder, my breasts.
“Permanent,” he said, as if confirming it to himself.