Submitting fully to her new lover comes naturally to a woman who has been trained to serve.

“Would you care for extra whipped cream?”

The man stared coolly at me. “I only give extra whippings,” he said in a voice so low that only I could hear him. “I don’t take them.”

I stood there, hovering with my silver spoon in hand, unsure of what to do next. It was clear to me that Mr. Stevenson, the party’s host, had intentionally misheard me, and my cheeks went instantly pinker than the filling in the homemade berry pie. The fact that the man was my type of perfect ten — black hair going to silver, chiseled features of a silent screen star — didn’t help the situation. Nothing in my training as a caterer’s assistant had prepared me for this type of situation. Should I put the spoon back into the bowl of whipped cream and move to the next guest? Or should I repeat my request in a clearer voice?

Saving me from my obvious embarrassment, Mr. Stevenson winked at me and said, “If you tell me your name, I’ll make an exception this once.”

I was catering an event at a ritzy house near the university on this wintry Sunday evening. Up until this point, everything had gone exceedingly smoothly — except for the fact that each time Mr. Stevenson entered the kitchen or asked for a favor, I felt as if I would melt into a puddle of liquid lust.

“My name’s Agatha,” I said. My heart pounded, but I managed to spoon the homemade whipped topping onto his pie without spilling any of the frothy white sweetness. Then I rushed back to the kitchen, feeling as if my loins were on fire. The host was simply too delectable. Dark, powerful build — eyes you could write poems about. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to hide out in the kitchen for long. At my boss’s instruction, I grabbed the champagne and returned to the dining room to refill the guests’ glasses. I thought of the room as if it were divided into safe and unsafe zones. The part of the table away from Mr. Stevenson was “safe.” The closer I got to him, the more excited I felt.

Each time his eyes met mine, I felt drunk, and I hadn’t had a drop of the bubbly myself. All I wanted to do was upend the bottle down my throat, but I knew my boss wouldn’t be happy with that.

When we were through with the dessert, the rest of the staff packed up the gear. It looked as if I was going to make it out of the house and back to my studio apartment, where I could use my trusty vibrator to bring me to climax while imagining Mr. Stevenson doing all sorts of kinky things to me. That’s when my boss announced we’d run out of aluminum foil. She wanted to leave the leftovers for the host. That was going to put me in dangerous proximity to the attractive man, but I did my duty. I asked Mr. Stevenson if he had any to spare.

He told me where to look, and I hurried to the hall closet, opening the door to find… sex toys. Every domination device you could imagine. I stood, staring, with my jaw dropped, when I heard his deep voice behind me.

“Not that closet, darling. The one there.” Darling. He’d called me darling. My heart hammered. He pointed, and I slammed the door shut and hurried in the other direction. When I returned to the kitchen, the chef — Marlene — asked if I felt okay. “You look so flushed,” she said, but I shook her off. I helped her pack up the last of her supplies and was about to go to my car when Mr. Stevenson found me.

“I hope I didn’t shock you earlier,” he said, and he offered me a glass of champagne. I was no longer working. My boss had left. The partiers were gone. I suppose if this had been my catering company I would have been wary about fraternizing with an employer. But I was only working part-time to subsidize my grad school payments. I didn’t have anything to lose by having a drink with the attractive host.

“You wanted to shock me,” I told him, guessing right then that he’d meant for me to open that closet. I took the champagne and tentatively drank a sip. “But what if it takes more than that to shock me?” I asked, feeling the bubbles go instantly to my head.

With my wrists still bound, I felt stretched in the most luxurious way.

“So you’re jaded,” he said, and he ran his fingertips along the line of my jaw. Instant sparkles of pleasure danced through me. I felt a jolt in my pussy that indicated I’d found a dominant I could give myself to. Being put in my place by a powerful man is something that turns me on like nothing else. Maybe my innocent appearance fools most people, but I love when a true Dom spots me.

“Not jaded,” I responded. “But certainly I’m nobody’s novice.”

He seemed to appreciate my response, because he leaned closer and took the glass from my hand. “Did you see anything that piqued your interest?” he asked next. I tried to remember the different items I’d caught sight of in the closet: a paddle, a crop, a pair of handcuffs, a ball gag — basically a treasure trove of devices destined to make any submissive vixen’s heart beat faster.

“Do I have to choose only one?” I asked. I sensed the heat between us, and in all honesty, I had been wet from the whipped cream exchange earlier.

He didn’t say a word after that. He held my hand and led me back to the closet where I’d fumbled earlier. He opened the door for me and began to gather up some devices. He didn’t make me choose. He did the choosing for us, and then he brought me to his bedroom.

I looked around at the sumptuous furniture. Everything in this house had been chosen by a person with particularly austere taste. The frame of the oversized bed was created from metal tubing, a burnished silver color more matte than shining. The spread was black and looked like silk. On the hardwood floor was an oval-shaped throw rug made of thick, luxurious-looking shag. I thought of my apartment — the floral curtains, the antique quilt I’d bought for a song at a French flea market and paid more to ship back home than the original price. What would he think of my teacup collection, or of the row of tiny blown-glass vases lining the windowsill in the bedroom?

“I want to see you naked,” he said, breaking me from my reverie.

Our furnishings might not have jibed, but the man and I definitely seemed to be well connected. I was more than happy to get out of the catering duds. For the job, I was wearing a simple uniform of a white shirt and black cigarette pants. The only indication that I had a personality of my own was my footwear: glossy black high heels that I’d spent the money from two catering gigs on. At the time, the purchase had felt frivolous of me — but now I was glad I’d given in. The ebony pants came down low enough that only the tips of the toes emerged.

I stripped out of the clothes and then, at Mr. Stevenson’s instruction, slid the heels back on again. Now, I was entirely nude wearing only those fuck-me shoes. Mr. Stevenson walked around me, observing my body from all angles. He pulled the barrette from my hair to let my ponytail down. Then he combed his fingers through my butterscotch-colored curls.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. I looked down, feeling suddenly shy, but he forced me to meet his eyes. “You’re going to be even more stunning when I have you captured.” With those words, he spread me on his bed on my back and locked my wrists over my head. I felt as if I’d just come home.

“Do you have anything you want to say before we get started?” he asked. I supposed he was expecting my safeword, my hard limits, but instead, I asked him what I’d been wondering since opening the cupboard. “Why do you keep your toys in the hall closet?” I asked him.

He smirked at me. “Those are the overflow,” he explained, and he opened the door on a heavy wooden wardrobe to reveal more devices than I’d ever seen before in one place outside of a sex toy store. Maybe more than I’d ever imagined. I’d been with kinky men before, but none had ever had so many lovely items on display — cuffs in different materials. Blindfolds. Floggers of varying thicknesses. I spied a cat-o’-nine-tails that made my pussy tighten. I wanted to feel those flowing suede fronds over my ass, between my legs…

He dangled a ball gag in front of me. “I’d love to see the way you’d look in this,” he said. “But we’ll wait. I have something else I need to see your lips wrapped around.”

With that, he undressed, and I won my first glimpse of his body entirely nude. Had I thought he was attractive in his suit and tie? Undressed he was even more majestic. I wanted to lick every inch of him — his chest, his biceps, my eyes went lower, and I gasped. He was incredibly well hung — and now I wanted to lick specifically those eight or nine inches that awaited me.

To my delight, Mr. Stevenson joined me on his bed and straddled my body. I opened my mouth, hoping against hope that he was going to let me suck him. He brushed my hair out of my eyes and looked down at me.

“What do you want?” he asked me, his voice low and mesmerizing.

I wasn’t sure if it was my place to be so bold, especially with my wrists captured. But I said, “I want to suck you.”

He smiled at me, and his fingers trailed over my mouth then pushed inside. I found myself sucking on his pointer and middle finger, and I did my best to demonstrate what a good cocksucker I could be. I hoped he could feel a thrill deep inside himself at the power of my mouth.

“What part do you want to suck?” he asked, removing his fingers from between my lips. He took his wet digits and began to tweak my nipples. I moaned and arched, forgetting myself in the sensation. The gentle tweaking became more powerful pinching, and my groans grew louder in volume. “What part?” he asked again.

I could see his cock. I wanted his cock between my lips. I said, “I want to suck your big, thick dick,” and he laughed, obviously pleased that I didn’t have a problem talking dirty.

“You’ll have to earn that treat,” he said, and I felt myself grow still. This is what I’d been waiting for. I knew the toys he possessed. Was he going to use one of those devices now? “Do you want to hear the price?”

I nodded.

He corrected me immediately. “You say, ‘Yes, Sir,’ or ‘No, Sir,’ he instructed.

“Yes, Sir,” I responded. “I want to know the price.” I was so wet I thought for sure he’d be able to see the shiny lubrication coating my pussy lips if he decided to inspect me. Then that thought — the image of him checking me out all over — managed to turn me on even more.

“You’ll wear nipple clips while you suck me.”

I started to jerk my head up and down, a marionette on a string, but I stopped myself suddenly, remembering to say, “Yes, Sir.”

“Hold that thought,” he said, and he left the room. For a moment, I dwelled on the fact that I was handcuffed in the bedroom of a man I’d only met this evening. He returned before I had any time to worry, and he had something with him that he set out of my sight.

He fished a set of clamps out of his bedside table and attached them to my nipples. I moaned again. The way those clamps felt was otherworldly. It was as if I had a direct line between my clit and the clamps, and as he tightened them, my pussy spasmed. Was it possible that I would come from no direct clitoral stimulation at all? That had never happened before — but there’s always a first time.

Mr. Stevenson moved up my body once more, and then he showed me a bowl. Oh, leftovers! He’d brought the whipped cream with him. He spread the creamy delicacy over his dick and then let me lick him clean. He did this over and over, pausing only to tug now and then on the chain that ran from one clip to the other. I was lost in the bliss of sucking him, tasting the confection, and feeling the pain in my nipples. When I was right on the verge, he removed the clamps and moved back down my body to kiss my throbbing nubs. The heaven of his mouth soothing the throbbing flesh was too much for me.

“I’m going to come,” I told him, my voice on the edge of a whisper.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed.

How on earth was I supposed to react to that? Don’t you dare. How could I not dare? I was going to come. The pleasure was there, filling me up as if I were a precious urn, ready to spill over and cascade down the sides. I wasn’t just going to come. I was going to come in a huge way.

“If you climax without my permission, I’m going to have to spank you.”

Oh, like that was going to stop me. I came. There was no hiding the fact. I came with the force of a tidal wave — my whole body rocking, my breath hitching. Perhaps a more clever woman would have been able to hide the fact that she’d climaxed, but I’m not that person. I was completely decimated by the pleasure, so much so that I lay back in a near swoon when the orgasm subsided.

“Well, that’s that,” Mr. Stevenson said, but I caught the look in his eyes. He didn’t seem displeased. With my wrists still locked together, he got me into proper position over the edge of the bed, and then he lifted a polished scarlet paddle from a shelf in his closet.

“I think we’ll go with fifteen,” he said, “so that you know what to expect if you plan to disobey me in the future.”

I hung on that concept: the future. Did he mean this evening? Or evenings yet to come? I couldn’t focus for long on the query, because Mr. Stevenson believed in starting with a bang. He spanked my right cheek and then my left, and then he paused for a moment to feel the heat in my cheeks. I have been a spanking fiend since my first run-in with a kinky boyfriend as an undergraduate. Two smacks was nothing for me. Still, Mr. Stevenson seemed determined to take his time. He delivered two more blows, but this time, when he paused he reached between my legs to touch my pussy.

I groaned and arched my body on his sumptuous comforter. Yes, it was silk, I decided. Definitely silk.

“Come again without permission, and I’ll use the flogger,” he said. He had to stop saying things like that. His words stoked the lust inside me. I knew what was going to happen. I’m no fortuneteller, but he was going to keep spanking me, keep touching me, and I was going to come again without permission. Damn him. Except, the thought wasn’t upsetting to me. Not for real. It had been too long since I’d last hooked up with a man as masterful as Mr. Stevenson. In fact, I’d never found a man with his precise skills before, although — trust me — I’d been looking.

He dangled a ball gag in front of me. “I’d love to see the way you’d look in this,” he said.

He began to spank me with a flurry of blows, and I tried my best to hold the pose for him, but ultimately I failed. I pressed my pussy against the side of his bed, and as he landed the last blow, I came again, feeling as free as if I were a kite buffeted on warm winds in the sky. Free even though my wrists were bound in sterling cuffs.

Had I thought the last orgasm was powerful? I lifted my head and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. My eyes looked like two dark pools of ecstasy. My lips were parted. And — oh, dear God — there was Mr. Stevenson behind me, discarding the paddle and rummaging in his closet for the promised flogger.

My breath was coming in short, sharp bursts. Mr. Stevenson brought the flogger in front of my eyes, dangling the fronds directly in front of me.

“I told you what would happen.”

I nodded, caught myself — I had to stop nodding! — and said, “Yes, Sir.”

“Get up on the bed.”

I scrambled with difficulty due to my bound wrists, and Mr. Stevenson helped me to lay flat on my stomach with my hands over my head. Then he began to flick the strands of the flogger. They kissed me with one blow, bit me with the next, until I was riding on the pleasure/pain endorphins. A sharp blow was followed immediately by a tender caress. A slap of all the tails pirouetted against a whisper of brilliant delight. He had me lulled into thinking I might reach a third orgasm when he dropped the weapon and had me roll over.

“Let’s try this again,” he said.

I was infinitely aware of how hot my ass felt against his cool comforter. Then I was aware only of the way his cock looked as he straddled my body once more and pushed the head between my parted lips again. I sucked him automatically and with dreamy pleasure.

“That’s the girl,” he said. When I’d gotten his cock all wet again, he moved down my body and pressed the tip against the opening of my pussy.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“Cooper,” he said. “My name’s Cooper,” and then he was in me. With my wrists still bound, I felt stretched in the most luxurious way. He fucked me fiercely, and he ran his short nails over my clit, raking me with varying degrees of pressure. Now, I could taste the orgasm, but all I could think of was what he might do if I came for a third time without being told I could.

I held off, inhaling through my mouth and exhaling through my nose. Cooper fucked me with long, even strokes, and I thought of lemon wedges floating in iced tea. I thought of the way my rose bushes sometimes pricked my fingers when I cut the flowers. I tried to think of anything other than the passion rising higher and higher inside me. This time, I was not going to fail. This time, I was not going to come without his permission. Storm clouds. The smell of wet asphalt. The antique hairbrush on my vanity.

No, that turned into the thought of Cooper spanking me with the brush, and I was right there.

“I’m going to… ” There were tears in my eyes.

“Come for me,” he said, and I silently thanked him for the reprieve as I climaxed on his dick. Cooper pulled out and shot his juices all over my belly, then undid my handcuffs so I could trace my fingers through the white cream.

I licked the drops off my fingertips, and as I did, I had a vision of Cooper someday at my place. He would tie me to my bed, not caring about the flowery surroundings, the brass curlicues on my headboard. He would tie me up wherever we might be, and it would all be as decadent, as delicious, as that first scoop of whipped cream on his slice of berry pie.