Degree Of Submission

An eBook By Pearl Jones.

"There are some women who find purpose in service," he says.

nod, thinking he means stay-at-home mothers, women like that. Actually, I'm mostly thinking about his face, the way expressions seem to hover in the air just above it, never settling, never quite visible. It's fascinating. I long to do something, say something, that will make him smile. Or amaze him, make those cat-eyes of his go wide.

"I don't mean changing diapers and packing lunches," he says. My own face has never been able to lie. He must have seen that I don't really understand. "I mean women who dedicate themselves to being what somebody needs. Who derive pleasure from pleasing another in every possible way."

His voice is like dark velvet. It makes me shiver, though I don't know why. Or maybe part of me has begun to comprehend. When he goes on, I'm shocked, but not exactly surprised. "If a man wants to spank such a woman, she'll bare her ass for him, and it won't matter where they are or who might see. If he wants something, she'll do it, whatever he needs from her. No matter how she might feel about the necessary acts."

My cheeks are hot; I'm breathing fast. I don't even know this man! A chance encounter at the library, an interesting slightly older man with an intriguing face, an invitation for coffee, leading somehow to this - I should excuse myself, get up, walk away. (While I still can, part of me whispers, jackrabbit quick.) My mouth is dry. I reach for my cup.

"Come here," he says, an almost-smile hovering around his lips.

It's late. The coffee room is empty but for us, even the barristas disappeared somewhere. I'm not sure an audience would matter to him. I know, beyond any doubt, he's going to spank me; why else mention it? But, does that mean he wants to have sex with me? He hasn't seemed interested in that. Maybe that's naïve, maybe all men always want that, but he's ignored all my signals from the minute he picked me up. Maybe he's just very kinked. Maybe this is how he gets off. My thoughts are jumbled, going 'round and 'round like socks in a dryer; my head spins, but I get up and go to him. It's not a long journey, just across a bit of empty floor, but my heart pounds as if I've run a marathon.

He pats his knee, a signal you'd give a dog. I don't want to understand it, but I do. There are tears streaming down my face as I bend myself over his lap. He doesn't ask me why I'm crying, and I'm grateful for that. I wouldn't know what to say.

He's done this before, I can tell. The way he spreads his legs, to balance me better, so I stop feeling I'm about to fall. The way he rests one hand on the back of my head. He's not holding me down, there's nothing keeping me there but me. Why am I allowing this?

Is he smiling, as he looks at me?

He pats the center of my ass. I've had boyfriends who did worse. (And one... but I shy away from even that memory.) He pats me again, to the right of the first impact, then to the left - above, and below. Five times. With my skirt and panties on, I hardly feel them at all. It doesn't make much noise, either. But he's barely begun. Another round of five, and another, until my ass is the slightest bit warm. Then a harder slap that covers the whole of one ass cheek, followed by another for symmetry. They make me grunt, but softly; it's not a lot of pain. Each strike sends vibrations through my body.

I'm enjoying this. I don't want to be, wish I'd never met this man, wish I'd gone back to my apartment after class, or gone to a movie, or anything else. But mostly, I wish he and I were in bed. He's aroused, I can feel his erection against my stomach, and I'm filled with a strange sort of pride that I do this to him. And me - I'm hotter than I can remember having ever been before, bent over this man's knee in a public place, letting him spank me like a naughty child.

feel cared for, cherished, each time his hand hits my ass, and the spanks aren't as hard as they could be, I'm sure. I feel flushed all over, and swollen between my legs. Wonder if I'm dampening his leg.

Probably. Does he mind? Does it please him?

He stops, and tells me to sit up. I sort of slide off his lap to kneel on the ground, my ass on my heels. Cool leather shoes against warm fabric and hot flesh; I swallow a moan. What has he done to me? What will he do?

His lips faintly curl. A smile, perhaps. Gallant as a storybook knight, he helps me rise. He doesn't say anything about what has just happened, just drives me home - I sit in leather luxury, my skirt raised, only my panties between the seat and my skin. My face is tight; I'm crying again. Is he pleased? Disgusted? I long to ask, somehow don't quite dare. At my door, he kisses my hand, then waits while I go inside.

lean against my door like a B-movie heroine, one hand on my heart, the other on my ass. Oh, woe is me. To hell with that - my hand moves down my body, parts my pussy lips, thrusts three fingers in. I've never felt this way before.

As I cum, I wonder what he's doing. Is he jacking off, thinking of me? I cry out: pleasure. Triumph. But it's not enough. I want to see him smile as I melt.

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