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Submission at The Tower by Felicity Brandon – Sample


Submission at the Tower by Felicity Brandon“Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.” Anaïs Nin, Incest: From a Journal of Love

It happens on a bright, cold afternoon in December. I am running to catch the city bus, but even as I run in my office heels, I’m aware the task is futile. I am never going to be there in time. Out of breath and nearly doubled over from the exertion, I stumble into him. Or maybe he runs into me? I can’t be sure.

“I’m sorry!” I say, flustered to have made physical contact with a complete stranger.

As I glance up at his face, I’m flustered for quite a different reason. This stranger is unexpectedly handsome for the commuter run.

“It’s my fault entirely,” he says, flashing me a broad smile and a set of nearly perfect teeth. “Are you ok?”

Am I ok? My head feels like it’s spinning, as though I’d indulged in one too many glasses of wine over lunch.

“Yes, yes—I’m fine,” I reply, although even I need convincing by my own performance.

“If we were drivers,” he continues. “I would be obliged to leave you my details—in case I had accidentally caused you any… damage?”

His voice is low and smooth. It reminds me of a strong liquor, delicious and naughty. I stare at him again for a moment and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he watches me watching him.

“I—I don’t think I’m damaged?” I stammer.

He smiles again.

“Of course not,” he says, “but even so, do me a favour and take my card… Just in case.”

His hand slips lithely inside his jacket pocket and reveals a small, sleek cream business card. He hands it to me, pressing it against my new teal coat.

“Just in case of what?” I ask, attempting to be glib as I take it from him, but knowing in an instant that I have failed.

The sound of other people fades away as he gazes at me on the cold winter street. For a moment I hold my breath, temporarily stunned by him. Smile still etched into his face, he turns and then he is gone. I watch, awestruck as he slips away gracefully between pedestrians. For a long moment all I can do is stare into the space where he had been standing, while other commuters dash past me. Then I remember the card in my hand.

I run the smooth material between my fingers as I hold it up into the light to examine it properly. The font is pale and I can barely make out the words. I twist it to my right and out of the December sunshine, allowing the words to become clearer. There is a long street address across the lower half of the card and a telephone number just above it, but there is no name or other means to identify the beautiful stranger who just stumbled into my life. Irritated, I flick the card over to assess the other side. There are only five words and they send a sudden bolt of energy through me.

The Tower.

Consensual Female Surrender.

Chapter One: Consent

This is not a love story. This is my story; the story of my base, complicated needs and how I intend to satisfy them. This is the story of the hunger inside of me that must be fed, before it consumes me entirely. It may prove to be desperate, painful, and shameful—I doubt it will be pretty. It is not likely to be tender, romantic, or politically correct. Real life is rarely any of these things. Armed with this knowledge, my story begins and I offer to take you with me on this journey.

So how should my story open? Should I start with my childhood and my parents? Will it give you clues about how my desires were formed, or about the choices I make? Shall I tell you about my formative relationships? Will anything be clearer for you? I choose not to dwell on these parts of my life. I choose to begin this tale today. Today I am on my way to meet a group of men who just might change my life.

I pull onto the long, gravel-lined driveway. It’s a dull, grey October day and the looming sky overhead looks aptly oppressive. I park in the designated place and take a deep breath. Checking my reflection in the rear-view mirror, I assess my face. Does it betray the tornado of emotions that I’m feeling? On the surface at least I appear calm, but like still waters, there are much deeper feelings running inside of me.

Functioning with some autopilot mentality, I step out of my car, lock it, and adjust my dress as though I am going for a job interview. Turning towards the imposing building behind me, I stride forward with an unexpected and entirely false confidence. I move towards the grandeur of the main entrance, climbing the grandiose steps and assessing the brass knocker, before I check my watch. It’s fast approaching ten o’clock. I stand on the top step for a few seconds, collecting myself, before raising my right hand to knock hard twice on the metal.

I wait there on the doorstep as the autumn wind whips round my calves, making me stand to attention. I think I hear sounds from inside… Footsteps, voices? They are muffled and unclear and ultimately I wonder if it’s just the wind after all. As I muse on the puzzle, the large door opens. A tall, muscular man in dark, casual clothes appraises me with a smile.

“Janie McClusky?” he enquires politely.

“That’s me,” I answer.

My voice sounds raspy and strained and I realise that I am fooling no one. The thought is strangely reassuring. Whatever happens in this story, I want everyone to know exactly how I feel. There will be no secrets.

“Please come in out of the cold, Janie,” he says, opening the door a little wider so I can step past him. I do so briskly and without another word.

The entrance hall is as big and lavish as the exterior had suggested. In any other circumstance, it might have been breath-taking and would certainly have required exploration. As this is not the time for either response, I stand there agog for a moment and then duly turn my attention back to the stranger by my side.

“Let me take your coat,” he says calmly, already extending an arm to take the garment from me. I slip out of it in silence. The coolness of the air hits me and I feel the small hairs on my arms rise.

“Before we begin, I must ask you to read and sign the consent form. I know we discussed this on the phone, but it’s critical that it’s understood before we proceed any further…”

He reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, single sheet of cream paper. Leading me to a small desk and chair away to the left, he pulls back the seat and allows me to sit before placing the paper in front of me. Then as though he doesn’t want to coerce me into a decision, he strides away to the other side of the hall, watching me silently from this new position.

I turn my attention to the form. It is reasonably short and easy to understand, detailing the issues I have already spoken to them about. Do I consent to the will of the group? Do I agree to be obedient? Are there any hard limits and/or equipment that I would like to defer/discuss further? I flush as I absorb the list even though there is nothing unexpected on there. Taking another deep breath, I pick up the smart black pen already on the desk and tick the affirmative to the first questions. I pause at the last and consider. They know more about my desires than most and so the question seems stark. I scribble three words: cane, anal play? Turning to find my unknown host and expecting to see him across the hall, I am shocked to see that he is now less than a metre from my chair.

“All done?” he asks cautiously.

“Yes,” I reply, rising from my chair and taking a step towards him.

I hold out my form and he takes the paper from me, scanning my answers. Then without a word he closes the space between us with one stride and is right next to me. I can’t help but take a deep breath at the sudden and close proximity. He is only a few inches from me and I notice for the first time just how big he is. He towers over me and has a physical presence that I find totally intimidating. One of his large hands moves slowly to the side of my face and tips my chin up towards him.

“Are you ready, Janie?”

His tone is deep and alluring and yet I know exactly what his words mean. My throat dries in an instant and conversely my core dampens at the same time. I am more than ready.


My voice trails away as I gaze into his brown orbs.

“Let’s start by learning how to address the men in this building then, shall we?” he says. I can tell by his tone that he is not angry and yet my muscles clench reflexively for having made such a fundamental error.

“Yes, sir,” I correct myself without any further instruction. “I’m sorry.”

My eyes flick away from his face as I apologise—suddenly I feel embarrassed.

“That’s better,” he continues, soothing me, “and remember, you are here to learn. It’s our job to train you to please us. We expect you to make mistakes the first time…”

Unsure what the appropriate response is, I say nothing. He takes my left hand, which is swallowed up in his large palm, and guides me out of the hall into a darker interior corridor. His strides are so big that I have to jog to keep up with him and jogging in these heels proves to be quite the challenge. The floor appears to be marble or something to that effect and the sound of my hurried steps fills the air around us, mocking my lack of speed and grace. We round a corner and enter another hallway, dimly illuminated by candle-style lighting fixtures, but with light flooding in from the far end glass exterior. The walls on either side are wood-panelled and look expensive like the rest of the place. Ahead is a large bay window overlooking the impressive gardens.

All of a sudden he stops without warning and as he turns, I nearly fall into his broad chest. I feel intense colour burning into my cheeks and cringe inwardly.

“I-I’m so sorry, sir,” I stutter, looking up to see how much I’ve irritated him.

Relief floods through me as I see a smile on those full lips. He places his hands on my shoulders and moves me backwards, holding me in place while he speaks.

“Janie, we must teach you some grace! Shall I add that to the list?”

He laughs, but my heart sinks. How have I managed to mess up so soon? Seeing my fallen expression, he brushes the loose strands of hair from my face before he speaks again.

“Come on now, there’ll be much worse than this…”

I nod, knowing he’s right and suck back the well of emotion in my throat. It’s too early for tears…

Leaving my side, he walks to my right and pushes one of the wooden panels. To my amazement the panel moves inwards, opening to reveal a room behind it. I stare, bemused for a moment. I genuinely had no idea that there was a door there at all. Standing in the doorway, he beckons to me with one finger.

“Here, Janie.”

That was an order—no mistake. My feet suddenly feel leaden and I have to forcibly lift each one to move towards the entrance to the room. I approach him with caution, knowing that what lies beyond him in this room is my choice. My choice to be here, my choice to walk into this room, and my choice to consent to what happens in here… With one exaggerated breath, I walk past him and enter.

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