Submission

SUBMISSION

A Treasury of Women Who Like to Give In

A Mischief Collection of Erotica

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Best in Show Rose de Fer

The Usual Dress Code Elizabeth Coldwell

Corporate Punishment Kat Black

Yours (A Letter to Willow Sears) Willow Sears

A Different Kind of Tension Chrissie Bentley

The Ugly Duckling Primula Bond

The Game Kyoko Church

You Already Know Charlotte Stein

Making Up Is Hard to Do Terri Pray

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

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.

Her master stands in front of her and nods to the handler. ‘She’s ready.’

Mr Veith removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Phoebe looks round at him as he approaches but her master gently guides her head back so that she is facing him instead. Mr Veith studies the naked woman before him, running his hands over her body as though testing the firmness of her skin. He squeezes her breasts one at a time and then pushes her lower back down, arching her body to raise her bottom up. She parts her thighs without being told and I see the men share a grin. It’s obvious they know her well.

Mr Veith slowly draws a finger over the curve of each cheek, making her shudder. Then he slips his hand between her legs. She closes her eyes and a sigh of pleasure escapes her lips as she abandons all her canine mannerisms. Throughout the examination Phoebe never once seems embarrassed or discomfited. My heart begins to pound as I realise that I am likely to be subjected to the same intimate inspection and I know there is no way I’ll have the composure that she does. Beside me Tara gives a soft little whimper and I take some perverse comfort in knowing that at least I’ll handle it better than she will. I hope so anyway.

I glance over at my master, who is watching with detached interest. I lift my head, trying to catch his eye, but he studiously avoids my pleading gaze. Chastened by his silence, I turn back to the tableau in the centre of the room. Phoebe’s master is holding her firmly by the arms now, keeping her still. Mr Veith’s hand is well out of sight between her legs and Phoebe moans and gasps without a trace of shame. Suddenly I envy her fiercely, wishing I could be as uninhibited – as both a pet and a person.

Whatever he’s doing to her soon proves too much and she reaches a fast and noisy climax. Blushing, I turn away, although I know she can’t mind my watching. The room is filled with spectators, after all. I’m sure she relishes the attention.

Her master praises her and Mr Veith smilingly says she has done very well. The judges sombrely mark their cards, although I can’t imagine what criteria they’re evaluating.

The two men help Phoebe down and she makes her way over to me on all fours, wobbling slightly. Her face is flushed and glowing as she offers me a lopsided grin. She looks positively radiant. I bite my lip, too flustered to return her smile fully. I wonder if my arousal is as obvious to her as hers was to me?

Tara cowers on my other side, head down. I can sense her unease, although my intuition tells me it’s only the public display that she objects to. I suspect I am the least experienced of the three of us.

The judges confer quietly and I silently hope I will be next. I’m so nervous about the prospect I’m lightheaded but I know that I absolutely don’t want to be last. Better to dive in at the deep end and get it over with than linger on in torturous suspense.

‘Let’s have Tara next,’ says Mr Veith.

My heart sinks.

Tara cringes and backs away towards the fire. For a moment I worry she’ll burn herself but then her master comes forward. He’s young. Early twenties, I guess, probably the same age as his pet. He doesn’t convey the authority of either my master or Phoebe’s.

‘Tara, come,’ he says sharply. He snaps the lead to her collar and pulls her like a reluctant mule into the centre of the room. ‘She hasn’t really been trained yet,’ he mumbles.

‘Well, let’s take her around the ring at least,’ says the handler, holding his hand out for the lead.

But Tara refuses to move. Mr Veith tugs at the lead, first gently and then more firmly. He tries coaxing her with a biscuit but she turns her head away. I glance over at her master, who slouches at the edge of the ring, hands shoved deep into his pockets, frowning at the floor. The judges’ pens scratch away in the background.

‘Oh dear,’ says Mr Veith. ‘Quite a stubborn streak.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Shall we just proceed to the examination?’

Her master shrugs.

Tara struggles as she is lifted on to the table. Her master tells her to be still and when she doesn’t obey he flicks the end of the lead smartly against her backside, making her yelp.

I edge closer to Phoebe, who presses against me with silent reassurance. She nuzzles my face and I return the affectionate gesture. She’s back in full puppy mode and for one crazy moment I’m tempted to pounce on her and instigate a game of play-fighting. But I don’t dare. Not until my turn has passed.

We look back to see Tara’s master holding the lead firmly while the handler strokes her and tries to calm her. The black waterfall of hair hides her eyes and Mr Veith gathers it in one hand and draws it aside to peer into her face. She stubbornly turns her head away and he tightens his grip on her hair to hold her still. Her eyes blaze with defiance. Across the room several of the men shift and murmur to one another. There is more scratching of pens.

‘Spirited,’ Mr Veith says, although I can’t tell whether his tone is admiring or disapproving.

When he reaches out to touch Tara again she bares her teeth at him and he frowns. Her master says her name in a warning tone and she closes her lips, only slightly cowed. Mr Veith tries again to approach her and this time she snaps at him. I jump as I hear her teeth clack together in the air just beyond his fingers.

‘Bad girl!’ her master says, his voice low and harsh.

Tara glares at both men and shakes her hair free of the handler’s grasp.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Mr Veith says, ‘but I’m going to have to disqualify her.’

Her master scowls and Tara lowers her head like a puppy scolded for biting the postman. He gathers her up and sets her on the floor, her body language conveying both ongoing rebellion and regret at having disappointed her master. In my submissive state the scene distresses me intensely and I watch in horror as he leads her to a cage in the corner of the room and shoos her inside. He latches it closed and shakes his finger at her. ‘Bad girl,’ he says again. Then, shaking his head, he returns to his seat and flops into it with a heavy sigh.

Beside me Phoebe grins and I immediately feel silly. Of course. For Tara, this is what it’s all about. Indeed, now that she’s safe in her cage I see the corners of her mouth curl in a mischievous smirk. As far as she’s concerned, she’s won. I know at once that the red stilettos outside are hers.

Mr Veith sighs and addresses my master. ‘Well, looks like it’s Saskia’s turn.’

My stomach plunges with fear. Although nothing but simple obedience is expected of me, I still feel unprepared. I know I can’t compete with Phoebe. I also know I’ll have to be extra good following Tara’s outburst. Suddenly the pressure seems overwhelming. I whimper and press myself close to Phoebe, who gives my hand a friendly squeeze.

‘Come along, Saskia,’ my master says, smiling indulgently, ‘there’s a good girl.’ He holds out one of my chocolate treats and I nibble it gratefully from his hand, my submission enhanced by the fact that everyone is watching me. He delivers me to the handler and I peer up at him, telling him with my eyes what a good little doggy I’ll be for him. I lift one hand slightly and Mr Veith smiles, bending down to shake it. He strokes my head and then we’re off.

He leads me around the ring at a slower pace than Phoebe and I keep to his heel as I’m supposed to. I stop when he stops, turn when he turns and sit when I’m told to. He takes out one of his bone-shaped biscuits and holds it high over my head. I gaze up at it, knowing I mustn’t jump up and snatch it, however much I want to.

‘Good girl,’ he says at last, lowering the biscuit so I can have it. I was right; it’s gingerbread.

When I look over at the judges I see smiles on more than one face as they write. I don’t need to see my master to know I’ve done well.

Mr Veith takes me around the ring one final time and, while I’m not the exhibitionist Phoebe is, I sense that I’m putting on a good show. It’s over far too quickly and when I remember what comes next I start getting anxious. I try to hide my fear as Mr Veith leads me to the table and my master helps him lift me up on to it. He unclips the lead and I lift my head, happy not to need restraining like Tara. I am determined to make my master proud.

Mr Veith pats my head and I smile shyly, reassured by the silent praise. I jump when I first feel his hand on my naked back, but he strokes me gently and I soon relax into his unfamiliar touch. His hands explore every inch of exposed flesh, running along my back and up and down my arms and legs. He lifts my feet and strokes them, then peers at my hands. He takes his time with me, no doubt feeling somewhat cheated by Tara.

I flinch, ticklish, as he draws his fingers along my ribs. Then he deftly slides his hands underneath me, cupping my small breasts. A hot pulse surges through my body and I feel myself growing wet as he squeezes me gently. Then he releases me and I feel a hand at the base of my spine, pushing down.

‘Sit,’ he instructs.

I sink to my knees and he moves in front of me and positions me how he wants me: kneeling up, back arched, arms at my sides. I lower my eyes demurely as he palms my breasts again, this time brushing his thumbs slowly back and forth over the nipples. They respond immediately and I push aside my self-consciousness, giving in to the stimulation. He lingers, his continued touch a reward for my good behaviour. I moan softly when at last he stops and I hear my master chuckle softly.

‘Good girl,’ he whispers, appearing at my side and feeding me another bite of chocolate. The heavenly taste fills my mouth, a perfect counterpoint to the tingling in my body, the hot pulsing in my sex.

Now Mr Veith urges me back up on all fours again. I obey instantly, eager to please, keen for more. His right hand glides up the inside of my left thigh and I hold my breath as I wait for the touch I’m craving. I sense that nothing less than full surrender will satisfy my master and I’m determined not to let my inhibitions get the best of me. I want what Phoebe had.

He pats the inside of each thigh, urging my legs apart. I gasp as the exposure chills the dampness that must be obvious to him. With one finger he explores the delicate folds, as though coaxing open the petals of a flower. He traces the opening of my sex, teasing me beyond endurance. I can’t restrain a little moan of desire and my hips writhe, pleading, demanding.

‘Very good,’ he says, although whether he means my physical response or my general submission I have no idea. But he doesn’t give me much time to wonder before he finally slips a finger inside me. The sensation is electric after the painful wanting and I clench tightly around his finger. He reaches deep inside, sweeping around the soft walls and nudging against my cervix. It makes me gasp. My legs tremble with the effort of not collapsing and he steadies me with his left hand.

I steal a glance over at Phoebe and she looks as rapt as I’m sure I did when it was her turn. She catches me looking and gives me a lascivious wink. The thought steals into my mind that the two of us could get up to some fun games on our own – assuming our masters would allow it, of course.

Mr Veith slides his finger out and I protest with a whimper before realising it’s only so he can insert a second one. The penetration becomes rougher as he stretches me wide, manipulating me with clear expertise. At the same time he presses against my abdomen from the outside, as though trying to make his fingers meet on either side of my skin. I feel gorgeously invaded from every angle. I can’t escape and I don’t want to. Some part of me is vaguely aware of the rude display I’m making, grinding my hips wantonly as I am fondled before a room full of strangers. But I don’t care. All I want is more. Too much could never be enough.

The signs must be obvious to him because suddenly he directs all his attention to my sex, slipping his left hand down to tweak the tiny little bud that will make me lose control. Almost immediately I feel the rising tide of a powerful climax and it overtakes me like a wave, crashing over me and pulling me under. I cry out, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Starbursts blink behind my eyes and the only sound is my breathing as I pant and gasp for air. From far away I hear words of praise but I’m adrift in a world of ecstasy and can’t make them out. Warm arms encircle me and I am lifted and then lowered to the floor, where it takes me a little while to remember how to make my arms and legs work. When I return to the fireplace I curl into a contented little ball, basking. Phoebe nuzzles me and kisses my cheek and I paw at her.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ comes the voice of Mr Veith some time later, ‘it would appear we have a tie.’

Phoebe and I share a smile at the murmurs of approval from the crowd. He calls us both to the centre of the ring and we go eagerly, sitting side by side at his feet. He gives each of us a treat and addresses the room.

‘I propose to add a new round to the competition. We’ve seen how the competitors interact with a handler. Now let’s see how they interact with each other.’

I see Phoebe’s eyes flash with mischief but before she can act, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all day: I pounce on her, knocking her flat on her back. She yelps in surprise but quickly recovers, rolling on to her front and preparing for the counterattack. I retreat a few steps and she launches herself at me, pinning me down and licking my face. I struggle beneath her, not with any real effort, and she eventually lets me up so we can trade places.

As we tussle my imagination goes wild and I fantasise that we’re outside in the garden, frolicking in the grass, in the sprinkler, in the mud, getting filthy. We wouldn’t be allowed back in the house then. Not without a bath. I can see us sitting together in a big metal tub on the patio, splashing in the soapsuds and the spray from the garden hose before being roughly towelled dry by our masters.

Someone tosses a foam toy into the ring and I grab it first, scampering away with Phoebe in hot pursuit. When she catches me she wrestles me to the floor and we tug it back and forth with our teeth, quickly reducing it to a scattering of fluff. I have never felt so free. By the time I finally capitulate and let her win, it’s no longer about the game. Or the show.

I’m too exhausted to resist when Phoebe finally pushes me down, breathing hard from more than just the physical exertion. She fixes me with her beautiful gaze and caresses my face, drawing her hands lightly down my throat and over my breasts. I tremble and urge her on with a look. She hesitates only a moment before obliging. My sex is begging for her touch.

Phoebe strokes my silky wetness and bends down, covering my mouth with hers. Her kisses taste like ginger. As we surrender to our mutual attraction, I hear her tag jingle against her collar like a bell.

I arch my back and see my master standing nearby, watching us, smiling. I know I’ve made him proud even though I didn’t win. But I imagine he has some more rigorous training in mind for his little pet. At least I hope so. For now I’m more than happy to let the winner have the spoils.

The Usual Dress Code

Elizabeth Coldwell

The e-mail arrives in her inbox without warning. ‘Meet me at the Windsor Club for lunch tomorrow. One o’clock sharp. Be sure to observe the usual dress code.’