Her First Submission (Kathryn's Training) (4 page)

"Did you enjoy that, Kathryn?"

A dazed grin spread her lips. "Yes, Master," she purred. "Thank you for helping me overcome my fear." She meant it. Just ten minutes ago she had been terrified of anything entering her asshole, and now she realized there was a whole new way to enjoy sex; it was almost as if she'd discovered a second pussy in her body, a second clit to stimulate.

What else could he teach me about my body?

She felt Master's fingers probing her tender, wet asshole, but now she responded not with fear but eagerness. "You're much more relaxed now, I see," he said, as he easily pressed his thumb into her ass. "Your pink little asshole is so beautiful. I can't wait to fuck it." Kathryn felt the thumb slip out, and Master placed a hand on each of her ass cheeks. She felt him use his thumbs to press down on either side of her hole, and as he pressed she could feel the muscles relax and tighten, relax and tighten, opening and closing her ring. It felt wonderful.

She didn't understand what he was doing until she felt the firm, wet tip of his cock on her tight button. She braced herself for the expected pain of his penetration, but it didn't come. Master simply held himself there, firmly pressed against her anus as it tensed and relaxed spasmodically, and made no move to enter her.

"Would you like me to fuck you, Kathryn?", he asked calmly.

"Yes! Yes, Master, please fuck me."

His cock slipped down suddenly, sliding from her asshole and between her legs, and Master powerfully thrust it once into her slick, gushing pussy, drawing it out again just as quickly before returning the firm, throbbing tip to her puckered ring. Kathryn's pussy twitched joyously, her swollen clit pulsating with pleasure.

"Oh, you'll have to ask more nicely than that, Kathryn. Remember," he said, punctuating the word with a light pat on her ass cheek, "If you come before I'm inside this tight little hole I'll have to punish you."

Kathryn whimpered. "Please, Master, please fuck me. I want you inside me now!"

Once again she felt his cock slip between her legs and force itself between her slick lips. Master's thighs pounded into her ass as he pushed himself deep before pulling out once more, leaving her empty. Her clit sent a warning, announcing the orgasm that she couldn't hold back much longer.

"Now Kathryn, if you want to be my submissive you'll have to do much better than that. If you can't beg for my cock like a good little slut we should just give up now."

Kathryn chewed her lip, pressing her forehead against the back of the chair. She could feel the sweat dripping from her hair, and the cum dripping from her chest. Most of all she could feel the climax building within her. She knew one more thrust from her Master's cock would finish her.

"Master," she whispered hoarsely, struggling to speak clearly, "please fill my tight ass with your cock. I want you to use my body!"

She gasped as Master's rock hard tip pressed firmly against her. "Again."

"Master, please fill my tight ass! I want to be your dirty little slut!"

Once more she felt the tip stretch her ring. Once more it pulled away. "Again."

Kathryn felt tears of frustration prick at her eyes. She'd never felt so aroused; never felt so desperate to be filled.

"I beg you, Master! Fuck my ass with your beautiful cock! I want you to fill me with your come!"

This time she heard a satisfied moan behind her. Master gripped her by the waist, bracing himself against the chair before slowly, ever so slowly, pressing forward. His thick, firm head pushed slowly against Kathryn's wet, tight ring, stretching it wide as it slipped in.

"You will come silently for me, Kathryn. If you make a sound, I'll have to punish you."

She nodded, biting down on the rope around her wrist in an effort to hold in her moans. Her asshole stretched wide to accommodate her Master, wider than ever before, wider than she believed possible. An eternity passed as her ring fought against the pressure before finally, blissfully, Master's thick head spread her fully, opening her like a flower and allowing him to slide the length of his shaft deep inside her.

Almost immediately Kathryn began to come. She felt honey gush from her dripping, pulsating pussy as her ass was filled tight by Master's rod, and with each wave of pleasure she felt her asshole contract around his shaft, squeezing it over and over until, with a low, long moan Master sprayed his seed deep inside her.

Kathryn's teeth dug into the rope, painfully pinching the skin of her wrist, but she remained silent as ordered. Even as Master slowly withdrew his cock from her tender, twitching asshole she didn't make a sound. She simply lay on her knees, frozen in place by the tight ropes, overwhelmed by the sensations flowing through her body. The harsh, rough tightness of the ropes at her wrists and knees. The pinch of the leather belt at her ankles. The spurts of searing hot come jetting deep in her ass. The fading pulses of her orgasm, clenching her asshole around Master's shaft as he gently slid it from her.

This time her asshole didn't snap shut the moment it was no longer filled. As Master's spent cock slid from her, her ring remained wide for a moment, a pink, tender opening dripping thick, creamy come before her muscles puckered it tight once more.

She heard Master tuck himself back into his trousers and retrieve his discarded suit jacket from the floor before he returned to loosen her straps. He worked silently, methodically, removing first the belt from around her ankles, then the rope from around her knees, and finally the straps binding her wrists to the chair back. The moment her hands were freed Kathryn flexed her wrists, massaging the blood back into them.

"This was very pleasurable, Kathryn," he said, quietly. "Thank you for being brave enough to try something new. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"Yes, Master, I did" replied Kathryn, bowing her head demurely.

"You can call me Patrick now, I think," he said. "Good night, Kathryn."

With that he was gone, leaving her alone, naked and confused.
Did I do something wrong?
She couldn't understand what had just happened. She'd done everything he'd asked. She'd followed his orders and allowed him to use her body as he pleased. What more could she have done?

Kathryn barely noticed the tears begin to flow down her cheeks. She barely noticed Stephen open the door and enter the suite, and didn't spare a thought for the fact that she was still naked, her pink, tender asshole still dripping warm come down her thighs. Stephen held out a check, oblivious to her tears, and took on a look of confusion when she ignored the offering. She'd forgotten about the money; forgotten about the deal. It didn't seem to matter anymore. The sudden sense of loss burned deep.

All that mattered, she realized, was that her Master had abandoned her, tossed her aside like a used tissue. Her hand strayed to her neck and touched the heavy steel of the D-ring at her collar, suddenly the only thing connecting her to the man who had taught her so much, so quickly. She tugged at the strap, pulling it from her throat, and stared through tearful eyes at the black strap.

Stephen watched, confused, as Kathryn suddenly bolted from the room, still naked. In his office the feeds from the club's security cameras played, unwatched, images of her running down the stairs taking three at a time in the darkness, then out into the central bar, up the staircase and through the dimly lit lobby. The silent video showed her banging in the door, yelling for it to be opened, before she tumbled out into the night.

"Master!", she yelled into the darkness. "Master, wait!"

In the parking lot a limousine sat, its engine purring. Beside it stood Kathryn's master, a satisfied smile on his face. Kathryn ran at full speed, ignoring the pain as her bare feet scraped across gravel. She reached him, red faced and breathless, and fell to her knees. Her head dropped in submission and her arms reached up toward him, holding her offering of ribbon of leather and steel.

"I'm yours," she whispered, her voice wavering with tears.

Master smiled, accepting her gift. He turned, discarding the collar on the gravel and retrieving a simple black strap from the back seat of the car, and crouched to the ground before Kathryn to attach the new collar around her neck.

Only Kathryn and her Master understood what had happened. Only they knew why she smiled so broadly as he helped her from the hard, cold ground and guided her into the limousine.

Master climbed in beside her and the car pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto the empty road and vanishing into the night.

Stephen burst through the door, followed closely by Henry, and the two stood in the empty lot, confused, until Stephen found the discarded collar and read the inscription on the tin dog take glinting in the glow of the streetlights.

I want you to be mine.

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Even today I struggle to explain the truth. I struggle to find the words to make people understand - truly understand, not just nod sympathetically while secretly believing I'm crazy, scarred and broken - the hold he had over me. I don't blame them for feeling this way. Unless you've been in that situation it's impossible to understand the power. You just can't understand why I did what I did.

I'm asked often about it these days, and not just by friends and family. People are more curious than ever. With the Syrian uprising all over the news I'm often called by the media for my opinion. They want an insight into Assad's wife, Asma, the British woman who graduated from King's College before marrying a man who slaughtered his people. They want to understand how. How could an educated western woman love a man like that, a cold blooded murderer who thought nothing of razing a town to the ground; thought nothing of ordering the deaths of so many innocents? How could
I
?

Of course I can't help them. When I first returned to the US I tried to write an opinion piece for The London Guardian but I couldn't even beat the first paragraph. I just didn't know what to say. How can a person possibly boil it down to a thousand words? An experience like that, being torn from your comfortable home in the US to serve as a sex slave for a despotic psychopath. To not only survive the ordeal, but to fall in love with your captor. To marry him. To give him a child. To smile and wave beside him as he casually slaughtered his people. How can I explain that in a way any normal person could understand?

They - you, the media, my friends and family - forget that Alexei was never like Assad, at least not to me. As far as I knew he never put anyone to death other than murderers and rapists. I thought he was a good man. Rough and controlling, but good. Moral. Kind. Of course I was sheltered from it all. The stories emerging today paint a different picture, but while I was there I knew him as nothing but the man who loved me.

It's been two years now. Two years I've been back in New York, and I still need a security detail to protect me. There are a few refugees here, those who escaped before Alexei locked down the borders and sealed his people into that nightmare, and some of them surely want me dead. I understand why. To them I must seem a monster. In their eyes I fiddled while Rome burned, enjoying my relationship and all the physical comforts of the palace while around me their families were subjugated, imprisoned... even killed.

It was time, I decided, to explain myself. One day the bullet engraved with my name - my married name - will find me, and I'd like, at least, the opportunity to tell my story before it does.

We'll begin at the beginning.

My name is Sarah Romanov,
neé
Howard, and I was born in Albany, New York in 1984. In the fall of 2002 I enrolled at NYU to study International Politics, and it was just a week after classes started that I met Alexei Romanov, the ruler of a country I'd never even heard of.

Of course we all know it now, but at the time it was just another of the many small, inconsequential states somewhere
over there
, out near the Caspian Sea on the broken fringes of the old USSR. Not many Americans could have pointed it out on a map, but there was no reason anyone ever would. People have more pressing matters to worry about than the state of the former Soviet republics, and this was just one of many.

What we
did
know was that it was oil rich thanks to vast reserves in their waters beneath the Caspian. We knew it was ostensibly a democracy but in reality the elections were rigged. The monarchy was still firmly in charge. Alexei, a man you wouldn't recognize if you passed him in the street, had ruled since his father passed away in 1998, and
he'd
been in charge since the Russians left in '91.

Prince Alexei Romanov controlled everything from the oil rigs to the national media. Following his father's death he'd been 'elected' with 96% of the vote, and by all accounts he was well loved. The oil flowed, the media reported nothing but good, and everyone seemed happy.

Alexei was in New York to deliver a speech about the oil and gas pipeline that was being built beneath the Caspian. It would connect his supplies to Europe, bypassing Russia and releasing the continent from the choke hold the Russians had on it. Moscow had been hogging the natural gas reserves of Central Asia for years, and the US was ecstatic when Alexei proposed a direct pipeline. We were eager to do business, and Alexei was the guest of honor at the UN headquarters less than a month after he announced the pipeline.

When my bike was hit by his limo as his motorcade sped down 3rd Avenue I suspect my government would have happily brushed the incident under the rug if he'd decided not to stop. But he
did
stop. Alexei himself was first out of the car, beating his bodyguards by five paces. He rushed over to me, freed me from the mangled wreckage of my bike. I passed out. I don't remember him picking me up, carrying me to the limo and speeding to hospital. I don't remember his limo running red lights, even when the police escort he left behind began to chase and the sirens blared.

I remember waking up as he carried me into the emergency room. I remember the confusion as the cops were held back by his security, their weapons drawn. I remember Alexei pushing his way through the waiting crowds straight into the ward, yelling out for a doctor while my blood dried on his white shirt.

I was sedated, and I slept for hours. When I finally awoke I found a fresh cast on my arm, but otherwise I seemed fine. No concussion. Miraculously my arm wasn't even seriously broken. My wrist had a hairline fracture, but other than that I escaped with just cuts and bruises.

Alexei sat by my bed all day, waiting to apologize when I woke up. He missed his appointment at the UN. There was uproar in the media in the following days, at least until the story came out about what he was doing while the Assembly waited. Suddenly he was a hero; he was an everyman, someone the people could relate to. A good guy in a world of shady politicians.

So that was how I found myself in Ashambe three weeks later. When I was discharged from the hospital I was met at the door by Alexei's Ambassador to the US. He handed me a check for $10,000 - to pay for a new bike, he said (Alexei never did understand the value of money) - along with a plane ticket to the capital via Istanbul, Turkey.

Hidden in the envelope was a note, handwritten by Alexei himself, offering his heartfelt apologies for the accident and explaining that in his culture there was only one way to make things right. He'd have me in his home, an honored guest for as long as I pleased until the debt had been repaid.

I was shocked. Over the moon, really. I'd never left the States, and the idea of visiting a country far from the tourist trail excited me. What's more, I'd get to stay in a palace. Me! I grew up in a two bedroom house in the suburbs, and at that time I was sharing a cheap studio with a fellow student who had a bad habit of bringing a different guy home every night.

I was so excited that I didn't really notice the warning look in the eyes of the Ambassador. His words didn't seem to match his expression. He told me it was a great honor to be invited to the home of the Romanovs, but there was something not quite right about his expression, almost as if he was trying to discourage me with his eyes.

The flight to Istanbul was incredible. First class. I was plied with champagne and fed dishes I'd never even heard of (my usual diet was ramen noodles and Diet Coke). I felt a little out of place in my sneakers and jeans, but the flight attendants treated me like royalty.

It wasn't until we reached Istanbul that things started to go awry. I was led from the plane by a couple of security guys, all black suits, Aviators and bulges where they obviously carried pistols, just like in the movies. They led me out through a few fire escapes down to their car, a beat up old Toyota, and drove me out to a private hangar far away from the terminal.

The plane waiting for me was... well, it wasn't first class. I don't know airplanes, but it was some kind of military model. A huge panel in the ass of the plane was lowered down to make a ramp wide enough to fit a tank, and the guys drove right in.

As soon as we were on board the back of the plane closed and I heard the engines begin to run. The guys climbed out and left me in the back seat with the child locks on. I was worried now, getting angrier by the minute, wondering what was going on. I really needed to pee but there was nobody to shout to. Just me, in a car, in the middle of a huge cargo deck.

A little after take off I climbed to the front seat to try the doors, but they were also locked. The horn worked, though. I blasted that thing for ten minutes until someone heard me. The man who finally arrived wasn't one of the men who'd driven me onto the plane, but a military looking guy in fatigues and a red beret. By that point I was screaming bloody murder, banging on the windscreen with my palm, and when he finally sauntered over to the car I was ready to kick the door off its hinges.

That was the moment I realized something was seriously wrong. The guy calmly drew his firearm, a mean looking pistol, and tapped the barrel against the driver's side window. He raised a finger to his lips and shushed me, and then just turned and walked away. I shut up right away. I just couldn't believe this was happening.

I don't remember much after that. I know I cried the whole flight and at one point, whether it was through desperation or just fear, I wet myself. I just sat there staring at the growing dark patch on my jeans, watching it as if it wasn't really me. As if it was just a movie.

The last thing I remember was a few hours into the fight when the military guy returned wearing a gas mask. He grabbed a long, thick hose attached to something that looked like a diesel generator by the car and held it against the air intake below the windscreen. Smoke began to pour through the vents. I remember it smelled like fruit, just like the gas I was given when I had my wisdom teeth extracted. That was that. I wasn't awake when we touched down.