Rebecca: Depths of Her Submissive Desires

By Emma Jones

""Hfff, hffff, hffffff," her breath went as she tried to suppress her orgasm. Her body tightened, time stopped for a moment, then she relaxed, sinking into the soft leather of the bench seat. My face was slick with her wetness."

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Jones
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005800734

Emma Jones

I am a freelance erotic writer who loves writing stories under various genres of erotica

Book preview

Rebecca: Depths of Her Submissive Desires

By Emma Jones

Published by

Cougar Publications at Smashwords

[e-mail]

Copyright 2021 Cougar Publications

Distributed by Smashwords

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entire coincidental

Authors Note:

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are at least 18 years old or above. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Runnin' Down a Dream, was playing on a local classic rock radio station, blaring from the dash mounted speakers. I was drumming my fingers on my leg while I steered my trusty ten year old Honda Civic with my elbow on the open window sill. I could see the sun drenched Gulf of Mexico to my left and could feel the warm, heavy sea air pouring through the open window. Tom Petty was singing my road anthem. I was singing with him -- maybe howling. I was going home to New Orleans. Life was good.

I'd just spent a memorable week in Florida, tracking down and then staying with Gwen Bouchaine, a famous Domme in New Orleans, known as Mistress X, who had retired to an estate in Longboat Key along with her companion Rita and her submissive Soo. Although we professed our love for each other, I couldn't pry myself away from my longtime home in New Orleans, so I bid Gwen and her entourage a conditional goodbye. I learned so much about domination and submission in such a short time, but it was just a taste of a lifestyle that felt so right for me. I was planning on finding her protégé, Rebecca Devereaux, a woman I had met by chance a few months ago, with the hope that she could greatly expand my superficial understanding of their world. Only then could I make a decision on the arc of my life, whether to remain in New Orleans, or head to Longboat Key to be with Gwen.

As a souvenir of my visit, and a reminder of my submission to Gwen, I had around my neck a well-worn (and well-loved) leather collar bearing the initials A.D., formerly worn by the very same Rebecca when she was a submissive to Gwen. I didn't even notice the collar around my neck any more. I fingered the rolled leather with one hand while I gripped the steering wheel with the other. Gwen ... Gwen ... even the collar gave off her scent -- the scent of fresh cut roses, the smell evoking the image of the morning dew still clinging to their petals.

A car horn sounded as I drifted out of my lane, lost in my reverie. It snapped me back into the present, cruising down the palm tree lined boulevard. In a fit of delayed guilt, I decided to dial up the manager I reported to at my real job back in the Big Easy. I had to act contrite. I was an accountant when I had to be, and having missed a week during the busy season, I was sure I was in the dog house.

My manager answered on the first ring. Cassie ... are you alive? His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Very funny Oscar. You know I had a week of PTO left. I spoke the truth, hopeful that my faux pas would receive absolution.

Yeah, but nobody takes a week of PTO during busy season, especially on short notice. He spoke a greater truth, one that portended a bad ending. A shiver went up my spine. My mind was whirling. I was pinned ... and without cover. There was nothing left but a sincere apology.

Look Oscar, I'm sorry. But I chased down a great story in Florida. I think it's even better than my homeless article.

I was really a frustrated journalist at heart, and my last article on a homeless encampment in a blighted section of New Orleans had won a number of local awards. I was pretty sure the latest story I was working on would be on the front page of the New Orleans Intelligencer, an underground newspaper that was going to be my springboard to the New York Times. However, Oscar wasn't the forgiving type, and wasn't impressed by my good fortune. Not after he had to pull a couple all-nighters in a row to finish the audit that was given to me to manage.

The tone of his voice turned hostile. Fuck your article, Cassie. We had to hire a couple temps to make up the hours we lost from your untimely, and quite frankly unappreciated, vacation.

That wasn't good. Maybe my job wasn't waiting for me. I was walking on eggshells and had to choose my words carefully.

Look, I'm sorry. I can be in tomorrow. I'm in Sarasota right now but I should be back in New Orleans early in the morning.

There was silence. I turned down the radio, rolled up my window and turned on the balky A/C. Oscar?

More silence. The kind of silence that precedes the proverbial ax falling.

Yeah Cassie. I've got bad news for you.

Shit.

We've already posted for your position. We'll mail you your severance check. You can pick up your stuff anytime you want. It's in a box with security.

There was silence again ... stunned silence on my end.

You've already cleaned out my office? The motherfucker. My temples were pounding.

We needed your office. There was no contrition in his voice. None. I could sense I was already dead to him.

Fuck you Oscar. Me the literary whiz. I was livid. It was the best I could come up with at the time.

I never liked you Cassie. He hung up the phone.

That went well.

* * *

My conversation with Oscar put a damper on my sing along -- actually it put me in a right foul mood. I travelled the next hundred miles in silence, stewing over the loss of my only steady paycheck and my stupidity in not talking to Oscar before I took off. I started to question myself, really question myself. What the fuck was I doing? Was I really ready to run from the vanilla world that was my whole existence until I met Gwen? I was already thinking about