Sense and Submission

By January Rowe

Jill is a passionate risk-taker, a free-spirited adventurer. When she meets Cade, a carpenter who crafts fine dungeon furniture, the attraction is mutual and potent. He gently introduces her to his style of BDSM, and she eventually accepts his collar. They embark on a life of travel, sensation and pleasure—until a young child is dropped off on their doorstep. What must they sacrifice in order to create a new family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369502995

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2021 January Rowe

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0299-5

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Audrey Bobak

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Tony

SENSE AND SUBMISSION

January Rowe

Copyright © 2021

Chapter One

Cade glanced up from his work just in time to see her walking into the club. The delicious newbie wore an impossibly tight leather fetish top, crisscross tied at the front. Her ample breasts looked as if they were about to spill out. Skimpy leather shorts showed off nicely proportioned legs. Her red hair was piled atop her head, baring freckled shoulders. A studded dog collar decorated her neck, and she carried a silly little flogger. The girl was the very definition of a BDSM mixed metaphor. Clearly a kink virgin.

The thrill of desire was tempered by amusement.

The girl had come to Hell Mary’s with Cissie and Anson. Cissie was a waif of a girl, gentle and giving. In contrast, Anson was big, tall, and always scowling. He reminded Cade of Lurch, a taciturn character from the old Addams Family TV series. The man controlled Cissie’s every breath. Was he now trying out this tasty bit of flesh as a Third? Unlikely. Anson wouldn’t have allowed his girl to carry a flogger.

One of the regulars, a guy named Rafe, approached the lovely red-haired creature. The careless man was a trophy hunter and not the safest choice for a first-timer. Everyone knew Rafe was a brute. Since she was Anson’s guest, he should be defending his charge. Rafe addressed Lurch, who barely managed a shrug. Cissie’s man had no intention of protecting the girl.

Jerk.

The dungeon monitor now headed toward the group.

Before the DM got there, the girl spoke to Rafe and he walked off alone. The sexy redhead had the courage to stand up to an aggressor like Rafe in the face of unique circumstances. Admirable.

She was a tempting little morsel to boot. If he didn’t have work to do, he might have snacked on her, determining how deep her courage was.

Adjusting his sound-reducing earphones, Cade returned to refining his latest invention.

****

The BDSM club wasn’t what Jill expected. Her friend Cissie had called it a dungeon, so Jill had assumed it would be a cramped, dark, and damp space with people crying and begging for mercy.

Instead, Hell Mary’s was an airy warehouse space, full of exciting sights and sounds. Various wooden and metal torture contraptions were scattered about—some of them even set up on raised stages. People were either naked or had on intriguing fetish gear. Everyone she saw wore a delighted expression, even—and especially—when fastened to the devices. They wanted to be at the club.

An enticing smell of cooking French fries drifted from a small snack bar in the corner. The odors of food overlay fragrances of perfume and lust. Throbbing background music added to the aura of supercharged sensuality. The rhythm was the same as a potent fuck. Pound … pound … pound.

But Jill knew sex wasn’t allowed in Hell Mary’s. Here, folks engaged in an elaborate erotic game, a kind of extreme foreplay. Anson, Cissie’s man, called it play. The action seemed to be monitored by a stern-faced floor boss who lurked nearby.

A bare-chested hunk walked over to ask Anson if Jill was available. The hunk wore a kilt. Anson grunted assent. The spirit and character of any man who could wear a skirt appealed to Jill. And the pseudo-Scot was cute. She might have considered going home with him if she’d met him under different circumstances—and if he’d asked her instead of Anson. In any case, the bearded hunk didn’t want to fuck her. He wanted something else, something she didn’t yet understand.

By the end of the night, she hoped she would.

But she’d come to learn by observing, not participating. Cissie told her that voyeurism was expected and encouraged. So, tonight she would be an amateur anthropologist, an explorer of another culture. Curiosity about BDSM, not horniness, had lured her to accept her friend’s invitation to Hell Mary’s.

Jill sent off the hot Scot with a, No, and thanks for the interest.

Cissie pointed out the floor boss, an incredibly handsome black man with a goatee. And one hundred percent stone-faced.

Buck’s the DM, her friend said. The dungeon monitor. If you get scared or uncertain, just talk to him. He’s there to help you. To protect you. And I have a feeling you might need some protection.

Smiling, Jill shook her head, saying she didn’t need a protector. She wouldn’t have survived all those solo trips abroad if she couldn’t sense a threat a mile off. She was an expert in reading body language, tone of voice, and micro-expressions.

You’ll be okay? Cissie asked.

Yup.

Okay, then. My Sir and I are going to play.

Responding to a gruff signal from Anson, Cissie started to take off her long-sleeved shirt and skirt. Anson’s order shocked Jill. Cissie’s ultra-controlling man, the one who made her dress like a nun for work, now commanded her to get naked in front of all those random people?

Anson and the nude Cissie headed over to a wooden device, a sort of a cartwheeled cross. Jill followed the couple, intrigued. He roughly strapped Cissie’s ankles and wrists to the gizmo, her arms and legs now spread wide. Jill couldn’t help but stare. Cissie’s work clothing had concealed a lot. She was so thin! Anson held Cissie to a strict diet to maintain that nearly emaciated figure. Jill’s friend also looked a bit like a pirate’s treasure chest, her tiny breasts and other precious body parts dripping with gold and jewels.

Cissie sighed softly, never taking her eyes off her man. For some reason, she enjoyed being immobilized—and on display. Anson’s responding expression of cold lust creeped Jill out. Would he violate the no-fucking order and slam into her, right in front of everybody?

What did Cissie see in her Sir? What was so great about being under someone’s control? Cissie was a highly competent clean room worker, yet she couldn’t wait to rush home to take care of Anson. He had a lot of rules: what she could wear, what she could eat, who she could speak to, how she should please him. And when she messed up, he punished her.

Cissie worshipped him. She believed her Sir was superior to her in all ways, and her home life revolved around his satisfaction and pleasure. She had zero freedom.

Still hooked to the apparatus, Cissie gazed at Anson with infinite patience and gentle affection. Maybe that was why Cissie submitted to his many rules. Rules were just another form of restraint.

After a long, lecherous look at Cissie’s exposed, embellished body, Anson left to talk to the DM. Cissie’s eyes stayed fixed on her man, like her life depended on that link. Maybe it did.

Jill was too independent to stand around being shackled. She had things to do, places to discover, people to meet. And by people she didn’t mean every Tom, Dick, and Harry ogling Cissie’s naked body. Jill’s revealing outfit notwithstanding, she wasn’t an exhibitionist. Fitting in, looking like she belonged, was all part of the adventure. She’d sewn up her corset and itty-bitty shorts especially for tonight.

Smiling, Cissie thrust her narrow hips, inviting her Sir to return to her. He did.

And slapped her.

Be still, he snapped. He placed a leather blindfold over her eyes and walked over to the snack bar.

Blind and immobile, Cissie still smiled. Did the slap hurt? Did she like being hurt? Was it just part of their game?

A small crowd was gathering around one of the raised stages. Curious, Jill left Cissie to join the pack.

A naked, hairy man was strapped to a narrow cot. A woman wearing pale-pink scrubs and blue latex gloves moved around him, poking and prodding. Playing doctor?

Jill inched closer. The doctor pried open the man’s mouth, inspecting his teeth and tongue as if he were a prized horse. The man whimpered, making a futile effort to wiggle loose from the wide straps at his chest and thighs. Despite the drama, he seemed to be having a great time, as his penis was fully engorged, waving wildly as he struggled.

Would the woman masturbate him at some point? Was masturbation even allowed? Her probing continued, and his whining increased, but she left his upright dick alone. Masturbation was likely forbidden at Hell Mary’s. So, what was the payoff? And why did it require an audience?

Jill returned to Cissie. Her friend was still alone and in distress. Her breathing was rapid, panicked. Jill had no idea if she was allowed to talk to Cissie, much less free her. Where was her Sir? Not at the snack bar. Had he abandoned his woman?

Spotting the handsome DM, Jill headed over to talk to him. Cissie had, after all, told her to go to him if she needed help. She needed help.

The DM wore a grim expression, like a Secret Service agent. Watchful, looking for a guy with a gun or whatever dangers existed at Hell Mary’s.

Hi, Jill said. My friend Cissie over there is all alone and tied up. She’s having some trouble and I don’t know where her man is, and, well, can you do something?

She’s fine, the DM said. It’s just what they do. It’s part of their scene. I’m not worried.

Uh. Okay. Thanks.

Jill returned to stand watch over Cissie, uncertain. Had she overreacted by asking the DM to rescue her friend, or was the DM merely oblivious?

Anson finally showed up.

He slipped his arms around Cissie’s tiny waist, pulling her toward him, her limbs still tied to the four corners of the wooden contraption. She sighed orgasmically. Arching her hard against his chest, he kissed her. Jill feared for her friend’s safety in that harsh, bowed embrace. Yet Cissie seemed to relish his touch and her immobility, kissing him hungrily.

Jill was both appalled and attracted. The DM was right—this was what Anson and Cissie did.

Those two seem to be having fun, said a voice from beside her.

Jill turned. Here, yet again, was a beautiful club-goer. A woman with large, dark eyes and a shaved head, she wore a sheer white caftan over her buxom, nude body.

Yeah, Jill said, they do.

Are they friends of yours? the beauty asked.

Cissie is. We work at the same plant. I don’t know Anson very well, though.

Is this your first time here?

Yeah. Am I that obvious?

No, not at all, the dark-eyed beauty said.

Jill caught a whiff of a citrus fragrance as the woman bent closer to examine her outfit.

Your corset is fabulous.

Thanks, Jill replied. I made it.

No kidding? Wow, I’m impressed! By the way, I’m Shaul.

Nice to meet you, Shaul. I’m Jill.

A long-haired man dressed in fatigues, and as gorgeous as everyone else at the club, strode up to Jill.

Come with me, he said.

Did random commands from random men actually work around here? She cast a glance at the DM, who was staring straight at her, watchful. Was he warning her off? Didn’t matter. She didn’t need saving. Alpha crap never appealed to her.

However, she was on a mission too, so she decided to give Lord Fatigue a bit of her time. Why should I come with you?

Did I give you permission to speak? he responded.

She laughed, and his face went blank.

Your loss, he finally said, stalking off.

And yours, Jill said to his retreating form.

Believe it or not, he’s had success with those lines, Shaul said.

Jill’s attention now returned to Anson and Cissie, the first kink couple she’d ever known. He’d stopped kissing his woman and was now sliding a crop down, in between her breasts. Still affixed to the device, Cissie gasped and shivered, her narrow chest flushing.

What was the thrill in being tied up, being controlled, being punished? There was a lot about kink she didn’t get.

Do you live the BDSM lifestyle? Jill asked Shaul.

That’s sort of like asking a husband and wife if they live the married lifestyle, Shaul said. What’s the answer?

Oh, Jill said. I guess I never thought about it that way. Sorry.

Don’t be sorry. Ask me anything you want. I’ll try to answer. I can tell you that kink isn’t all I do, or all I think about. It’s a culture I slip in and out of. It’s the way I party.

Gotcha.

But Cissie and Anson? They might legitimately be called life-stylers.

Anson snapped at Cissie’s embellished crotch to the beat of the background music. Trembling, she begged for more. Jill tried to imagine having a man attending to her clit in public. She might be able to put up with the public part if she wasn’t tied up. And if her partner used his lips instead of a crop. And if it was a different man.

A man like the handsome DM. The fantasy of that goatee scraping up against her tender bits sent a brief tingle to her core.

Does the DM ever get a break? Jill asked Shaul. You know, from observing and whatever else he does. Maybe show new people how it’s done, sample the wares?

Shaul laughed. No. Buck doesn’t really take breaks. And he never plays while he’s working.

Too bad. I’d like to see how he’d treat a woman. He’s really hot.

Yeah, Shaul said. If you’re into men.

And you’re not?

Nope. Hey, some of my friends are here. They’re sitting at a booth at the snack bar. Would you like to meet them?

Sure!

Great. The snack bar doesn’t serve booze, but they do have the best fries in the world. Those curly kind. They call them kinky fries.

Jill’s stomach rumbled. She was hungry. Yum. But I can’t eat. I’ll watch. I barely squeezed into this outfit as it was. One bite and my seams will pop.

That’s an advantage of a caftan. Not at all constraining. I can eat what I want. She spun around slowly, fluttering the wide sleeves of the sheer gown.

As Shaul swirled, Jill spotted an arresting tattoo on her hip. It was Jill’s favorite andrinka symbol.

I love your Sankofa heart, Jill said.

Huh?

Your tattoo.

Oh. What did you call it? A heart? Shaul asked.

A Sankofa heart.

Oh. I just picked it because it was a pretty design. Does it mean something?

It does, Jill said. Knowledge from the past ensures a strong future. Along those lines, anyway. It’s Ghanaian. Have you ever been to Ghana?

No. But maybe Cade, the guy who gave me the tattoo, visited Africa? I know he travels a lot. He’s here tonight, in the back, building dungeon furniture. Maybe later I can introduce you to him.

Flicking a look into the far recesses of the club, Jill spotted a figure working on a giant, globe-like contraption.

Jill and Shaul left Anson and Cissie to their erotic tortures and headed toward the snack bar. Shaul’s peeps, all women, were dressed to the nines in fetish wear. After introductions, the group set to gossiping and snacking on fries and shakes. Jill listened, trying to learn more about the kink culture, hoping to learn if Anson and Cissie’s relationship was the norm.

Shaul and her friends talked about who had collared whom, and about jealousy, affairs, bad love, good love, and love at first sight. One of Shaul’s friends, a sweet-faced girl named Rose, passed around a contract for a weekend session with a well-known professional Master. Rose was considering spending time with him and asked for advice. Jill got to read a little of the contract. It was about ten pages long, incredibly detailed—and devoid of emotion. Odd. Jill had assumed BDSM was nothing but emotion. Yet here was a formal legal contract governing the interaction. Rose’s friends advised her to negotiate more cigarette smoking time. Jill got the impression that Anson and Cissie’s relationship was an outlier.

The conversation soon drifted to more intimate topics, like enjoying BDSM without exposing one’s children to kink and ways to tighten up the vagina. Jill took mental notes on the vagina subject. Shaul and her friends next discussed an upcoming wax play workshop at Hell Mary’s, and then moved on to analyzing a Verification for Masters business a friend of a friend was starting up. It would be a kind of a Yelp for BDSM. They all ridiculed the idea. Too easy to fake feedback.

Shaul and her peeps came back to the never-ending soap opera of hookups and breakups. Not knowing any of the people discussed, Jill grew bored. She said her goodbyes and left to further her kink education.

Cissie and Anson were still at it, except now they’d drawn a crowd. Cissie’s savage cries, the pounding music, the aura of sexual tension became oppressive. Jill didn’t want to leave Hell Mary’s, but she needed a little distance, a chance to sort out her impressions.

Maybe she’d pay a visit to the tattoo artist. What was his name again? Dan? Bob? Kevin? Jill had met and heard about so many people in the last few hours she couldn’t recall the man’s name.

DanBobKevin was working on a large wooden structure, a sort of man-sized gyroscope contraption. He was clean-cut and handsome in a restrained way. His t-shirt and jeans hinted at lean strength. Nice. Very nice.

The outer realms of Hell Mary’s were quieter. And the air was fresher, too. Taking in a deep breath, she got closer. She spotted tattoos on his arms in kaleidoscopic geometric patterns, all in black. Not so clean-cut after all. Enjoying the view, she watched him tighten screws and bolts with a competent touch. She wondered if his whole body was covered with that striking ink art.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. Hello. What can I do for you?

He didn’t seem annoyed, nor did he drool