Chapter 3: The Taste of Submission
The silence after her question stretched, a live wire humming between us.Next time. The words hung there, painting futures on the dark ceiling. My mind, usually so cluttered with wants, went blank and then white-hot with possibilities. Facesitting, her weight a precious burden. A collar in my hand, the leash taut in her small fist. Pet play, with her gentle commands. The images were vivid, lightning flashes of fantasy, but they all felt like destinations. What I craved was the journey—her awkward, earnest navigation of this thing we’d built.
“Anything,” I’d said. And I meant it.
That was a week ago.
Now, the room smelled different. The sandalwood and old whiskey were still there, but underneath was something new: the crisp, clean scent of her perfume, and the warmer, muskier trace of what we’d done. It clung to the sheets, to the velvet of the armchair where her hoodie was still draped. A secret etched into the air.
She was kneeling beside the bed again. Not on it. Beside it. Her posture was painfully formal, hands clasped in her lap, head bowed like she was in prayer. She’d worn a simple, thin cotton dress, pale blue. It made her look even younger, more breakable.
I was on the floor, my back against the foot of the bed. I’d put down a thick blanket, but the hardwood was still unyielding beneath me. The position was one of absolute submission, lower than her. I liked the ache in my knees. It felt like truth.
“You don’t have to kneel there,” I said quietly. My voice sounded too loud.
“I want to,” she replied, not looking up. “It feels… right. Before.”
Before what? She hadn’t said. That was the agreement. She would decide the ‘something else’. I’d just know when it started.
She unclasped her hands. They fluttered for a moment, bird-like, before settling on her knees. Her nails were bitten short, painted a chipped, clear gloss. She took a deep, shuddering breath that lifted her small chest. The neckline of her dress shifted.
Then she moved.
It wasn’t a confident glide. It was a careful, creeping crawl. She came off the bedside rug and onto the blanket, onto my territory, on her hands and knees. The cotton dress pooled around her. She stopped when her face was level with my lap. I was already hard, the shape of me obvious against my gray sweats. The memory of her foot was a ghostly pressure.
She didn’t touch me. She just stared, her dark eyes wide and unblinking. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in them. Her breath, warm and quick, washed over the fabric.
“Can I?” she whispered. A question, not a command. The ‘mommy’ persona was shelved. This was just Megumi.
“Yes.” It was barely a sound.
One small hand rose. Her fingers trembled. She brushed her fingertips along the length of me, so lightly it was almost torture. A mapping. An appraisal. Her touch was cooler than her foot had been.
“It’s big,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.
I let out a strained laugh. “It’s just me.”
She shook her head, a tiny movement. “No. It’s… different. When it’s just there. When I’m looking.” Her fingers curled, her knuckles brushing against me. “It’s kind of scary.”
“You can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.” Her voice firmed. She hooked her fingers into my waistband. “Lift up.”
I obeyed, raising my hips. She tugged the sweats down just enough, freeing me. The cool air was a shock, but her gaze was hotter. She stared with that same clinical fascination, but it was deeper now, colored by a nervous intimacy. She’d cleaned me with her sock. This was different.
Slowly, giving me every chance to flinch away, she leaned in.
Her nose was inches away. She sniffed. A tiny, quick inhale. Her cheeks flushed violently. “You smell like… me. From last time. And something else.”
“Soap,” I managed. “I washed.”
“Not just soap.” She was whispering, her words a warm cloud on my skin. “It’s you.”
Then she did it. Her tongue, pink and unsure, darted out. It touched the very tip, a fleeting, wet point of contact.
Electricity. Pure, undiluted voltage shot down my spine. My hips jerked, a violent, involuntary spasm.
She flinched back, eyes wide. “Sorry!”
“No,” I gasped, my hand flying to tangle in her hair, not to force, just to anchor myself. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s just… sensitive. You surprised me.”
“Was it bad?”
“It was the furthest thing from bad.”
She processed this, her body relaxing minutely under my gentle grip. Encouraged, she leaned in again. This time, she was more deliberate. She licked a slow, clumsy stripe from the base to the tip. The sensation was surreal, blurry with her inexperience but so intensely personal it stole my breath. Her tongue was soft, hesitant, exploring the shape and texture like it was a foreign fruit.
She paused, her lips hovering. “Salty,” she said, as if reporting a scientific finding.
“Yeah.”
She opened her mouth then, just a little. She took the head inside. Not deep, just a shallow, warm enclosure. Her lips closed around me. The feeling was impossibly tight, wet, and utterly overwhelming. She made a small, choked noise in her throat, a gag reflex immediately stifled.
I groaned, my head thudding back against the bedframe. My fingers in her hair tightened reflexively, then immediately loosened. “Easy. Just what you want. Don’t… don’t force it.”
She pulled off, breathing through her nose. Her lips were slick, her eyes watering slightly. “I can’t… it won’t all fit.”
“I don’t care,” I said, the words rough with want. “Take what you can. Just that. It’s perfect.”
She nodded, a determined little set to her jaw. She went back, taking about the same amount. She began to move, an unsteady bobbing motion. There was no rhythm, no technique. It was all awkward suction, the slip of her tongue, the occasional bump of her teeth that made us both wince. It was, without a doubt, the most transcendently bad blowjob I’d ever received. Because it was her. Because every clumsy movement was a choice, an effort, a gift.
Her free hand came up, cupping me beneath, her fingers trembling as they cradled the weight she couldn’t take into her mouth. The contrast was devastating: the warm, unsure wetness of her mouth, the cool, gentle hold of her hand.
I looked down. The sight was obscene and beautiful. Her, small and swallowed by her dress, her cheeks hollowed with effort, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. A strand of dark hair stuck to her damp forehead. She was trying so hard, giving so much of her natural shyness to this act of false dominance.
A wave of tenderness, sharp enough to cut, sliced through the arousal. “Megumi,” I breathed.
Her eyes flew open. She pulled off with a soft, wet sound. A string of saliva connected her lips to me for a second before breaking. Her face was a mess of confusion, arousal, and worry. “Did I do good, Kuna?”
The question, asked in that trembling, hopeful voice, shattered me. It was the same question from the foot of the bed, from under her sock. It was the core of her—the sweet, submissive girl seeking approval, even here, even now.
“You’re doing amazing,” I choked out. “So good. Just… look at me. Please.”
She did. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto mine. There was a vulnerability there that was deeper than any physical nakedness. She saw the raw need, the awe, the utter wreckage she was making of me. And something in her shifted. The worry softened. A spark of something else—power, recognition—kindled in the depths.
She didn’t smile. But she nodded, once. Then she leaned back in, her eyes holding mine.
It changed everything. With her gaze fixed on me, every flicker of her tongue, every soft suck, became a communication. I could see her watching my reactions, learning what made my breath hitch, what made my thighs tense. She was studying me. Dominating me not with force, but with this unbearable, intimate attention.
My composure unraveled. Whimpers, low and desperate, escaped my throat. My hand in her hair gentled, just resting there, a point of connection. “Yeah… just like that… fuck, Megumi…”
She moaned around me, the vibration traveling straight to my core. Her pace increased, grew a fraction more confident. She was finding a rhythm, her own awkward cadence. Her other hand stroked what she couldn’t take, her movements syncing with her mouth.
The pleasure built, a dense, coiling pressure. It wasn’t just physical. It was the sight of her, the trust, the forbidden sweetness of it all, the way she was trying so damned hard. It was the smell of her perfume and us, mixed. It was the faint, salty taste of myself on her tongue when she’d first licked me.
“I’m close,” I warned, my voice strangled, breaking. “You… you can stop.”
She didn’t. Her eyes, locked on mine, blazed with a new certainty. She shook her head minutely, the motion tugging at my grip in her hair. She sucked harder, taking me a fraction deeper, her tongue working relentlessly.
That was it. The coil snapped.
“Megumi—!” My warning became a raw, helpless shout as I came. The world blurred at the edges, dissolving into pure sensation. She flinched, surprised by the force, but she held on. She took it, her throat working, some of it escaping past her lips. She pulled off, coughing softly, her hand still moving, milking the last pulses from me as I shuddered through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked dazed, her lips swollen and slick. There was a trace of white at the corner of her mouth.
I was boneless, utterly spent, draped against the foot of the bed. I felt hollowed out and filled with light at the same time. I couldn’t speak.
She looked down at the mess on her hand, then at the mess on me. The clinical curiosity returned. She slowly, deliberately, brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. Her eyes never left mine. The action was so unexpectedly bold, so starkly intimate, it sent a fresh, weak jolt through my exhausted system.
“You taste different than I thought,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Warmer.”
I finally found my voice, sandpaper rough. “Come here.”
She crawled forward, not back onto the bed, but into the space between my legs. She curled herself against my chest, a small, warm weight. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight. Her dress was rucked up, her bare legs cool against mine. We just breathed.
Her heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird. Mine answered with a slower, heavy thud.
“Was that the ‘something else’?” I murmured into her hair.
She nodded against my chest. “For now.”
“It was perfect.”
“I was scared I’d bite you.”
I laughed, a shaky, genuine sound. “You kinda did. Once or twice. Didn’t matter.”
She was quiet for a long time. The scent of sex and sweat and her was potent in the still air. “I liked it,” she whispered, the confession muffled by my skin. “When you lost it. When you said my name like that. I liked… having you in my mouth. Knowing I did that.”
Her honesty was a gift more precious than the act itself. “I know you did. I could see it.”
She tilted her head back to look at me. Her face was serious. “It’s weird. I feel… stronger. After. Even though I was the one… you know.” She couldn’t find the word.
“Submitting?” I offered.
“Yeah. But not like me submitting. A different kind. I was in charge. I chose it. I made you… finish.” She said the word carefully, testing its weight.
“You did.”
“So, it’s not me being submissive to you. It’s me… using my submission? To dominate you?” She frowned, her brow furrowing as she tried to untangle the knot of our desires.
“I think,” I said slowly, tracing the line of her spine, “it’s just us. It doesn’t need a label. It’s what you want to give, and what I need to take.”
She seemed to accept that, settling back against me. “My jaw hurts.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“It’s a good hurt.”
We lapsed into silence again. The dark room felt like a cocoon, a world apart. The street outside, the responsibilities, the looming wrongness of it all—they were locked behind the blackout curtains. In here, there was only this: warmth, trust, and a hunger that had been fed but was already, already stirring again.
She was the one to break the quiet. Her voice was small, but clear.
“I have an idea. For next time.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to wear something. For me. A… a collar. And I want to have the leash. But…” She trailed off, chewing her lip.
“But what?”
“But I don’t want to just lead you around. That’s silly.” She took a breath. “I want you to… to fuck me. While you’re wearing it. And I want to hold the leash. Tight. So I can pull you closer. Or…” her voice dropped to a whisper, “…stop you if I want.”
The image slammed into me with physical force. The leather around my neck, a symbol of my surrender. Her small fist clenched on the strap, controlling the rhythm, the depth. Her using it to pull my mouth to hers. The sheer, devastating trust of her giving me that power over her body, while holding a symbolic power over mine. It was a switch, perfectly balanced. It was everything.
My body, spent as it was, responded with a deep, interested thrum.
“That’s your idea?” I asked, my throat tight.
She nodded, hiding her face against me again, suddenly shy. “Is it stupid?”
I hugged her tighter, squeezing my eyes shut against the wave of emotion. “It’s the best idea anyone has ever had.”
She let out a long, slow breath. I felt her smile against my skin. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We stayed there on the floor until the cool from the boards seeped through the blanket and into our bones. Then, wordlessly, we helped each other up. We didn’t turn on more lights. We just found the bed in the gloom, a tangle of sheets that smelled of us. She curled into my side, her head on my chest, one small hand splayed over my heartbeat.
As her breathing evened out into sleep, I stared into the shadows. The collar.The leash. Her idea. My mind, no longer blank, spiraled into a new constellation of wants—how the leather would feel, the sound of the clip, the look on her face when she realized the strength in her own small hand. But beneath the arousal was a profound, almost terrifying peace. She wasn’t just following my scripts anymore. She was writing her own.
And I couldn’t wait to kneel at her feet and read every word.