Cori's Submission: A BDSM Romance

By Madison Barry

When Cori finally walks out of her unhappy marriage to Brandon, she blames it on a lack of sexual desire and a boring existence. But then Cori's best friend takes her to a BDSM dungeon to try to cheer her up, and Cori discovers she's a natural submissive. Her sex drive roars to life as she experiments with a Dominant at the dungeon who wants her as more than just a play partner.

Meanwhile, Brandon, who has been attending kink parties in secret for years, topping women in order to relieve some of his sexual frustration at home, begins dating one of his play partners. They catch the eye of a handsome millionaire who, it turns out, is also the owner of the company that is acquiring Brandon's startup.

But Cori has also captured the millionaire's attention at a separate party, and he makes her an offer to become his professional submissive. She is desperate enough to consider it, despite her lack of experience. He has some rather hardcore requirements that will push Cori's limits and teach her the true meaning of submission.

Brandon, though, is still in love with Cori and wants her to come home. What will he do when he finds out his boss has collared his wife? Will he risk his job to try to win Cori back, or will the millionaire's offer be one Cori can't refuse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madison Barry
• Release date: Jul 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370222551

Madison Barry

Writer, business owner, and mother-of-four, Madison Barry may appear vanilla, but her kinky alter-ego comes out at night. They say you should "write what you know," so Madison's fiction focuses on kink, BDSM, and themes of domination and submission.Follow Madison on social media:Twitter: @AmyAndSirFacebook: @MadisonBarryAuthorInstagram: @MaddieBarryAuthor

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Cori’s Submission

By Madison Barry

Copyright 2017 Madison Barry

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

As always,

To my husband

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Solitude is great until that’s all you’ve got. I used to love being alone, the escape from having to put on a mask of contentment or mild amusement, from having to fake my way through sex or date night, from feigning interest in conversation. But the solitude of an extended stay hotel, surrounded by all my worldly possessions and none of my worldly delights, was one I could do without.

It was my own damn fault, of course. My idea. I think we should separate, I’d said, over a glass of wine, during the theme music of Doctor Who. I’d blurted it out, before Brandon could put his own empty, stemless wineglass over his mouth and nose like a gas mask and say, Are you my Mummy?, quoting the episode we’d chosen—he’d chosen—thinking he was hilarious, as if he didn’t do that every single fucking time we watched it. It used to be one of my favorites—one of the best episodes, really. Until he started putting that fucking glass up to his face with that glint in his deep brown eyes that used to make me swoon, the eyes that, paired with his tousled brown hair and perfectly proportioned nose, made him look a bit like David Tennant, and said Are— and I couldn’t bear to laugh again, even though I used to find it funny every time.

He’d stopped short, that stupid glass still over his stupid face, the glint in his eye fading to confusion and then sorrow. Are—what? he’d said.

I think we should separate. I broke eye contact to look for the TV remote, paused Netflix.

Why? He lowered the glass, glanced at the TV, where the TARDIS was stuck mid-spin in the crazy blue timestream, then back at me.

I’m not happy.

He sighed. I know. But—

I shook my head. How many times have we watched this episode? Ten? Fifteen? You know how I know when you want to have sex? Because you pour two glasses of wine and put this episode on, and we laugh and say ‘Are you my Mummy?’ and then quote the whole fucking episode together. ‘It’s mauve. Mauve? Universally recognized color for danger.’ Har har har. And then we’re relaxed and feel a little affectionate, and then we have, let’s face it, the most boring sex on the planet, roll over, and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.

He flinched at the onslaught of words and apparently couldn’t think of an appropriate response. We can watch a different one. ‘Madam de Pompadour?’ ‘Blink!’ We haven’t watched ‘Blink’ in a while. I could hear the desperation in his voice.

Way to miss the point. I don’t want to watch anything. That’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t want to have sex with you tonight, okay? I’m saying it straight out. I don’t want to. I want to go to a hotel and be alone. For a while. A few weeks, maybe. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I hadn’t counted on him being so dense.

"A few weeks?"

Or months. Or forever.

Forever? His voice cracked, and he set his glass down very carefully on the coffee table. Cori, I don’t—I don’t—what do you mean, forever?

I stared into my pinot grigio and fought back tears of my own. I don’t know. Just, time. Some time alone. To regroup, you know?

Do you want to sleep with other people? Is that what you’re saying? Are you having an affair?

No. Are you? I had some suspicions, but I tried to ignore them, because at least he was getting sex somewhere else and wouldn’t need it from me.

His answer came too slowly. No, he said, drawing the word out. I did have sex with someone else a few weeks ago. He dropped his eyes in shame, then sprang to his feet and paced. Just a hookup. No feelings or anything.

I nodded. It didn’t hurt a bit, hearing that. Not even a prick or a brief sting. Just relief. That’s okay. Really. I’ll go get a hotel room. A few weeks. And then we’ll talk.

He halted his pacing in front of me and held out his hands beseechingly. Please don’t go.

I’d eventually left, though the talking had lasted long into the night, with lots of tears and yelling, before I’d shoved clothes and toiletries into a backpack and driven off, with a promise to text him to let him know where I was.

I don’t know what he did the rest of that night, but I’d held it together long enough to make my way to a hotel and reserve a room for a week with money we didn’t really have, then flung myself facedown on the bed and sobbed.

* * *

A month later, I was still in this fucking hotel. I hadn’t set foot outside it except to go to work and buy more frozen meals. And then on my fourth Saturday night alone, I got a text from my best friend Lori—yes, we're Lori and Cori—that said she was standing outside my hotel room and I’d better fucking let her in.

We’re going out tonight, she announced when I opened the door.

Why?

Because you need some action, and I know where you can get some. She grinned and held out a shopping bag. I brought you something.

Lori had always been the instigator, of course. I usually liked whatever she dragged me along to, but I would never have chosen it on my own. I would never have picked the outfits she insisted on or the venues she discovered. I wouldn’t have even known where to look in the first place. I accepted the bag from her dutifully and pulled out a very snug-looking, slinky, short, black dress. Lori?

"Okay, I didn’t get it for you. It’s mine. But you’ll look amazing in it, and you’ll fit right in where we’re going." She took off her jacket to reveal a similar dress, this one in pale blue that matched her eyes.

I don’t want to go out. Why would I want to go out?

Yes. You do. Trust me on this, Cori. Aren’t you horny? A month without sex?

I gave her a flat look. Maybe that’s a long time for you, but it’s hardly a record on my end. Besides, I’m not gonna cheat on Brandon.

"Cheat? You left him. He already cheated on you. You said so. Put this on. I’ll do your makeup, you’ll look hot, and you’ll have fun." She crossed her arms and bent one knee, that posture and expression that said, You’re being ridiculous, Cori. Just do what I tell you. You know you’ll like it. The thing was, she was usually right. I went into the bathroom to change.

An hour and a half later, we were standing in line in front of an unassuming building near LAX.

What is this place? It just said The Refuge on the outside, and the windows had black paper over them so I couldn’t see in. A club?

Kind of. She smiled mysteriously. When we finally reached the door, a large, bald man in a studded leather vest and black jeans nodded amicably to us and ushered us through.

Lori? I asked again.

The entryway was a utilitarian room, just a table set up with a laptop. A beautiful woman with green hair sat behind it taking IDs and cash as people approached, and a coatrack off to the side hosted all manner of overcoats, jackets, and even a few dresses and sweatshirts. Lori took off her coat and helped me out of mine and hung them both up, smiled at the woman behind the table, and handed over a $20 bill.

Hey, Lori, the woman said. Brought a friend?

This is Cori. First-timer. She grinned.

You’ll tell her the rules? She pushed a piece of paper across the table at me, filled with fine print. Cori, read this over and sign, and then you can go on in.

I moved off to the side to let the next people check in and examined the tiny print filling the page. Must be 21 to enter … The Refuge is not responsible for lost or stolen items … The Refuge enforces a two-drink maximum for the safety of all guests … The Refuge is not responsible for bodily harm caused by edge play … Bodily fluids are prohibited … Blades and fire in designated areas only … CONSENT is king … Clean up after yourself … be safe … My eyebrows nearly climbed right off my forehead as I read. I signed it and handed it back to the green-haired woman, who fastened an orange band around my wrist—Lori already had one—and waved us on through a black curtain blocking the doorway to the next room.

Lori! I hissed. What the fuck is this place?

She gestured expansively as we passed through the curtain. Ta-da! Dungeon.

Understanding crashed over me. This was a BDSM dungeon. Lori had mentioned it on occasion, but I hadn’t made the connection. You could have just told me.

You wouldn’t have come.

That was probably true. But now that I was here, I gazed around in wonder. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Far from a Medieval-style torture chamber, the main room could have fit well in any bar or nightclub. Mostly. The lighting was dim, but not oppressively dark. Couches were placed around low tables, and a stage at one end was empty at the moment. A bar occupied another wall. In the middle, a dance floor hosted half a dozen people, some dressed similarly to Lori and me, some more scantily clad, some wearing intimidating combinations of black and red leather and denim. Groups occupied some of the couches, leaning forward to chat over the thrumming beat of electronic dance music. Lori drew me toward an empty couch and sat me down. Two men shared the couch on the opposite side of the table, and they both stood up to greet Lori. She hugged and kissed both of them.

Guys, this is my best friend Cori. First-timer, so be nice. She giggled. Core, this is Elliot and Wolf. I blinked at the unlikely pair of names. They’re Doms. She gave me a significant glance, as if that meant more to me than if she’d said they’re vascular surgeons, in that I had only a vague sense of what they did.

Nice to meet you. I shook their hands, and they settled back onto their couch. Wolf’s name fit him well, though it was presumably not the one his parents had given him. He had a predatory grin, shaggy, graying hair past his shoulders, and a long, graying beard to match. He was large, but not fat—built like a wrestler. He should have been intimidating, but he had the friendliest liquid brown eyes, and his movements were deliberate and restrained.

I wasn’t completely naïve. Lori had told me bits and pieces of her unusual sexual escapades. We’d been friends since we were nine; we shared just about everything. She’d made me watch Fifty Shades of Grey, and I’d been insulted enough by it that I had no intention of reading the books or seeing the rest of the movies. And by insulted, I meant, of course, that it insulted my intelligence. What a piece of crap.

But, if I was honest with myself, I was a tiny bit intrigued by the whole BDSM thing, the tying up and the blindfolding and the whipping. That scene in Fifty Shades where Christian flogs Ana while she’s tied to the bed and blindfolded, I was ashamed to admit, got me a little wet when I watched it, and when I thought about it later, too. I didn’t have much of a sex drive, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find some things arousing. Sometimes.

Okay, so real quick, Cori: You don’t touch or be touched without verbal consent. Like, if Elliot there wants to touch your arm, he has to ask. If you want to bite his ass, you have to ask. She snickered. How did she know I’d been thinking about biting Elliot’s ass? My God, even though he was sitting on it, I could tell it was the nicest ass I’d ever seen. Elliot chuckled. I made a strangled sound somewhere between a self-deprecating laugh and a protest. Be safe. If you want to fuck, use a condom for fuck’s sake.

Well, duh. Wait … if I want to fuck? "We can have sex here?" I burst out.

Elliot’s chuckle became a full-blown guffaw. She’s cute, he said to Lori when he’d recovered.

I knew you’d like her. Lori winked at me. He was exactly my type, and she knew it. Cute-nerdy, with big blue eyes and sandy brown hair cropped short, a hint of scruff. If I’d met him anywhere else, I would have assumed he was an accountant or software engineer. Like Brandon, the thought came unbidden. Brandon was cute-nerdy, too, and he actually was a software engineer.

Elliot looked like he would be right at home in a Doctor Who shirt and stonewashed jeans. But here, he wore a tight, black t-shirt that revealed some muscle definition—oh—and black leather pants that clung to him in all the right places. Yum. He had a tattoo on the outside of his right bicep, and I shifted slightly to get a better view, then almost dissolved into hysterics. It was the TARDIS. I hadn’t been far off with the Doctor Who shirt, it seemed. Thinking about TARDISes and Doctor Who caused a wave of melancholy to sweep away my more lighthearted musings, though. Damn it.

Lori was still talking, but I’d lost her somewhere in my spiral of self-pity. … negotiations. You know about that?

Huh?

Where’d you go, Core? she joked, waving her hand in front of my eyes.

Sorry. What were you saying?

She shook her head in amusement. Tell you what: go with Elliot. He’ll talk you through it. He’ll start you off slow, okay?

What am I doing with Elliot?

Elliot started to protest, but Lori held up her hand in a stop motion. I’ve known you forever, Cori, and you told me about your fantasies. Remember? Long before you met Brandon, even before you lost your virginity, you used to dream about being tied up and spanked. Right?

I didn’t even remember telling her about that, but apparently it had been memorable enough for her. That had to have been fifteen years ago. Twenty, even! Yes, I muttered.

So? Live out your fantasy. He’ll be gentle, I promise. She snorted. "Well, not too gentle," she amended.

Lori, don’t coerce her. Let her decide, Elliot said. Maybe she just wants to watch tonight.

Maybe Elliot didn’t want me that way, and that was just an excuse. Or, maybe he was actually a decent guy. That could happen. Come on, Cori, I said to myself. Now’s your chance. Give Brandon as good as he got. And with that thought to fortify me, I got to my feet. Tell me more, I said, and offered Elliot my hand. He took my hand in both of his, turned it palm-down, and brought my knuckles to his lips in a most elegant fashion, all the while holding my gaze. Something clenched down below my bellybutton, a feeling I hadn’t had in far too long. Damn.

Come with me, he said. He maintained his delicate grasp on my hand and led me across the room, skirting the dance floor, to a passage more dimly lit than the main room. A bolt of nerves brought my feet to a stop, and I turned back to see where Lori was. She was sitting beside Wolf now, and Wolf’s hand was in a decidedly unchaste location between Lori’s legs.

Uh, where are we going? I asked.

There are some playrooms back here. Lori wanted me to show you around. Are you uncomfortable?

I’m not sure what I am. I’ve never been to a place like this before. What are we going to do? The image of Ana tied to the bed in Christian’s playroom flashed through my mind. I only wished I had a less shitty movie to base those fantasies on.

That’s up to you. I was going to see if there were any scenes going on that we could watch. Is that okay?

Watch! Like, watch other people having sex? Holy crap.

Maybe. More likely a flogging. There might be some rope play going on. I think I saw Eduardo here. He does some shibari.

Shi-what-i? I understood some of those words, I said.

Let’s go see, he said, suppressing a laugh.

The corridor was short, with two rooms on either side and one at the end, all without doors. He led me to the room at the end, an open, reasonably well-lit space with a St. Andrew’s cross against one wall, a set of stocks in a corner, a padded sawhorse, and another padded bench of some kind. This final contraption’s purpose was obvious, as it was currently in use. A woman wearing only a thong was bent over it while a shirtless man in black jeans and combat boots flogged her bare ass.

This was straight out of my fantasies; straight out of the movies. Only better!

You can watch, but don’t interrupt, Elliot murmured near my ear, then guided me to an unobtrusive spot off to the side where we could have a good view without being in the way.

The man—the Dominant?—swung the flogger in a quick, artful figure-eight, striking the woman—the submissive?—on the hips, the butt, the thighs, sometimes altering his swing to flog her shoulders. The lashes landed with audible cracks, and the woman’s skin showed red splotches where he struck. She flinched or jerked with some of the harder blows, sometimes crying out, often moaning. I was mesmerized by the spectacle. As the man continued the flogging, he shifted his feet, bent his knees, straightened, and twisted his hips in a hypnotic dance. The floggers streaked through the air, almost too fast to follow.

After some minutes, the flogging came to an end. The man soothed the woman’s skin with his palms, kissed her cheek, and helped her up, then led her to a chair and held