Submission

I’d gone days without hearing from her, dreaming of her orders. That afternoon I walked through a door I shouldn’t have and discovered how far I was willing to go.

I came three times on the locker room bench before I understood my rise no longer depended on my goals, but on how much I could take on my knees.

She got out of the car with her jacket half open, and I knew that night I wouldn’t hold back. She’d said we shouldn’t; I’d already decided otherwise.

She’d spent years scrubbing other people’s houses with a polite smile, but that afternoon, on her knees over the marble, she discovered how much she needed to be treated like an object.

“I’m here to see if my wife works well,” the man said at my door. An hour later I was on my knees in my own kitchen, wearing his wife’s apron.

I was given a choice between three years in prison or becoming my wife’s obedient dog. I chose wrong, and that night at The Reserved I understood it completely.

I arrived at the farm with my branded T-shirts and my city attitude. They had calloused hands, a sharp knife, and every intention of putting me in my place.

I walked through the front door following a solemn piece of music and found her lying on the bed, chained in gold and looking at me as if I were her only master.

She was only going to advise him about an apron. She never imagined that, in front of the salesman, he would point to her as if she were the maid they had come to dress.

One smile and a couple of billiard shots were enough for her to turn his world upside down. Now he wears a lace apron and waits, trembling, for the doorbell to ring.

Blindfolded and with clamps pulling at my breasts, I stopped being the director who kneels before no one. Up there, I was only a number given over to his hands.

I got into the car wearing every piece he chose, and I knew that afternoon my only job would be to obey while people passed by, unsuspecting.

I opened my eyes and didn’t recognize the room: only the weight of hands on my skin and the certainty that that morning belonged to others.

I opened the wrong door and found her in front of the mirror, with two fingers where they didn’t belong. She didn’t scream. She smiled like someone who had just chosen her prey.

She wrote that she wanted to cum on my lips before we’d even met. That line hooked me, but what followed by the sea went beyond any message.

We had barely been married two weeks when I discovered what her temper was capable of, and the first slap was only the beginning of that afternoon.

She ordered me to get on all fours in the back room and, while her fingers explored me, I realized she had just uncovered something I’d hidden for years.

She called her “babe” in the same voice from twenty years ago, and Helena knew the severance check would never leave that drawer. The debt was going to be collected with her body.

I was always the girl who followed the rules, until he ordered me to kneel and I realized my body had spent years waiting for someone to give it permission.

She ordered me to wait for her in the compartment, naked and with the ruler on my lap. I knew she would come; what I didn’t know was how long she would take to make me suffer.