Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Annabelle's Submission by {DaddyDom} (MF rom cons Mdom sm oral rough)
   The plane bumped and hopped and behaved in a very unplanelike fashion,
but the butterflies in Annabelle's stomach had nothing to do with the
concern for her safety.  The butterflies were from nervousness, the shallow
breathing from the leather choker that was padlocked to her slim, elegant
neck, and the tiny throbbing pulse between her legs....  well...  that was
all from him.  If the plane decided it would look much more fetching as a
three mile long trail of debris, well, that was her karma.  She was much
more concerned about what would happen if it didn't.  Her master was out
there, waiting in the airport to claim her, and she was worried sick.
   What if she didn't please him?  What if he felt twenty was too young? 
What if the curve of her breast wasn't right, or the swell of her hips...
Jesus...  what if she broke a heel walking down the jet-way towards him and
tripped into a group of blind orphans.  True he'd wanted her to come to
him, to submit in person, but still...  She bit her lip, then panicked,
thinking she might now have lipstick on her teeth.  A pocket mirror
dispelled her fear, but she was still a mess of nerves.
   Still, she HAD to please him, didn't she?  She might not be dressed to
kill but at the very least she was dressed to injure.  A tight black pencil
skirt showed off her legs and round bottom when she stood, but was short
enough to kneel in when required.  A tiny pair of rainbow panties were
hidden underneath, covering her dainty, pink little pussy, which she was
trying desperately not to soak before she arrived.
   Her crimson hair contrasted well with the pink camisole and simple white
blouse, both framing her breasts, her cleavage deep and sensuous.  Hidden
beneath, a white demicut bra that in turn covered a pair of nearly flawless
tits.  Soft, and pale, topped with two dark, candy-like nipples, she felt
they were her best asset, though master said he was most fond of her
bottom. Still, she was sure he'd like her.  He WOULD find her pleasing. 
She'd use every trick she had to to gain his favor and trap his heart. 
Annabelle was on a mission, and no one was going to stand in her way.
   After what was surely just a few minutes but felt like ages the captain
got on the intercom and let the passengers know that instead of ramming
right into the ground, he had decided to land the plane in the traditional
fashion, a decision that gave Annabelle mixed feelings.  She did her best
to freshen her makeup, checked her legs for stubble and adjusted her black
"fuck-me" pumps, and then sighed.
   "It's all I can do," she thought, a sly smile on her face.  As much as
she tried not to be she was a creature of vanity and god damn it, she
looked hot.  The boy might as well surrender now.  He was in a lot of
trouble.
   ***
   The plane hit the runway with a thud, sending a shiver through
Annabelle's entire core.  When she was in the air it was different, there
was some distance between the two of them, even if it was a mere inch of
air between concrete and landing gear.  Now they were officially in the
same city; no turning back.
   Two men tripped over each other helping her get her bags out of the
overhead bins.  It normally would have pleased her, but now...  well...  in
comparison with Winston no man quite measured up.
   Winston Russel was not what you'd call a beautiful man.  He was of
average high, average build, with a full beard and dark hair that never
seemed to behave.  If you saw him at a distance you wouldn't think much
about him, maybe a dentist, maybe some other pedestrian thing.  No one to
work yourself up over.  Then you'd see the eyes, and in them, a whole new
man.
   Winston had, to be quite honest, the eyes of a sociopath.  So brown they
crossed into black in places, they were deep pools of malevolence that if
one weren't careful they could find themselves falling into.  Winston did
not smile except for dark little half smiles, the kind a wolf might get
right before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of a lamb.  The man was
mundane, but one look in the eyes and it was plain to see that Winston was
a man capable of great cruelty.  And he didn't need her.  That was the key.
   Annabelle had plenty of experience with men.  Back in Georgia she had
nearly a dozen suitors, maybe four or five of them semi-serious.  They
would run errands for her if she asked, take out loans to buy her jewelry
she only casually commented about wanting, and quake at her every mood
swing and tantrum.  She CRAVED boundaries, but the boys were too lovesick
to ever not indulge her whims, so she grew more and more wild.  But they
needed her too badly.  Annabelle fussed, Annabelle got.  Those were the
rules.
   Then Winston came into her life just three months ago, and everything
changed.  If the Atlanta Airport hadn't been so crowded, she never would
have sat next to such an unremarkable looking man, that and he'd been using
what seemed to be the only power outlet in six blocks of airport real
estate.  It was a single outlet in the floor, the kind used to plug in
vacuum cleaners by janitorial staff, and it was occupied by the power plug
to Winston's portable DVD player.
   It was also in the way of Annabelle's phone charger, and her cell phone
was dead.  She needed to call her ride, and the idea of using a pay phone
like a commoner was repellent to her.  So she reached down, yanked his plug
out and pushed her cell into the outlet, giving him her best "indulge me"
smile.
   "I was using that," he'd said coldly, raising an eyebrow to her.  She'd
smiled, cocked her hip out just slightly and pouted.
   "I know but I really need it, sugar," she'd said, staring right back at
him, confident in her status as his superior.  She expected him to back
down, maybe try to seem magnanimous for giving her what was rightfully hers
and then finally try to talk her letting him buy her a drink.  But instead
he chuckled, reached down and yanked out her cord, and handed it to her
politely.
   "I don't know what barn you were raised in, but in this country we ask
for things, you selfish little cow," Winston said.  Then he'd powered up
his DVD player and made a little dismissive "be gone" hand gesture, and
Annabelle saw red.
   She could handle a lot of things from men.  Annabelle had been with her
share of them, so yelling, arguing, begging, compromising and in the end,
giving in, were all old hat to her.  But being ignored...  being dismissed
like some child, regardless of if she was behaving like one...  well, that
just wasn't going to happen.  So she did what any good woman of southern
breeding would do when faced with such an insult.  She slapped him.
   Or, almost.  He caught her wrist just an inch shy of his face, close
enough that she was able to quickly rake his cheek with her nails.  He
gripped it tightly, hard enough that pain shot through her forarm.  Then
she was struggling, and almost in slow motion the DVD player was bumped off
of his lap, where it feel in slow motion to the hard tile floor.  It made a
little whirring sound, then shut off, broken.  Annabelle doesn't have exact
memories of what happened next, only that she was being dragged through the
airport by her wrist, following the man reluctantly, wincing every time he
yanked to hurry her up.  She might have shouted, or made a fuss, anything,
but she was dazed by the sheer absurdity of the situation.  She was not in
control of the situation.  She didn't hate the feeling.
   "It's not even the money," Winston said as lead her into the concrete
parking garage.  "It's the principle of the thing.  Frankly there's ALWAYS
time for good manners." They stopped at the doors of the elevator, and
Winston slapped the "UP" button with his free hand.
   "I'm not going anywhere with you!" she'd said, trying to reassert her
brat-hood.  Her voice was dripping with entitlement, and clearly it had
little affect on Winston.  He pulled her into the elevator, and pressed the
button for the top floor, waited until the elevator started, and then
yanked the emergency stop.  A tinny alarm went off and the elevator jolted,
and then stopped between floors.
   "You're right, we're not going anywhere," he told her, turning her
roughly and pinning her hand to the wall.  She looked around for some
method of escape, but there wasn't any she could see.  She was trapped.
   "You can't take advantage of me," she said, "I'll have you arrested!"
Then he was chuckling, as he pinned her other hand to the wall.
   "Quite an ego on you, Princess," Winston said, holding her still,
positioning her with her legs slightly spread, bottom out, hands on the
wall.  Though she struggled as he did it she realized that she wasn't
struggling quite as hard as she could, and she only fought his hands.  Once
he'd put her somewhere, she stayed there even when his hands moved away. 
Then she heard a sound readily recognizable to any girl with strict
parents. The sound of a belt being removed.
   "Don't you DARE," she said, as he doubled the belt over and snapped it
maliciously.  She started to actually struggle.
   "You get ten regardless," he said, "but if you fight me, I'll make it
thirty." Annabelle stopped struggling and let out a low, pathetic whimper.
   "P...please," she whispered, "I'll be good."
   "You don't even know the meaning of the word.  You don't know how.  But
don't worry, I'll teach you," he said in a mocking voice, and she felt the
sting of the belt through the fabric of her skirt.  She yelped, and felt
another blow land, the sharp crack sounding like a gunshot in the confined
space of the elevator.
   "You have to count," he said, as though speaking to a very foolish
little girl, "I don't count it until you count." He hit her again, harder
this time, and she was surprised to feel a little tingle of something other
than fear and anger and pain from the belt.  Pleasure.  She blushed as she
felt another surge of pleasure-pain when she took another stroke.  She
wasn't sure what she was feeling, but it wasn't exactly anger anymore.  She
couldn't be getting aroused by this callous brutality...  could she?
   "Four," she said, trying not to moan.  He laughed.
   "It would have been Four if you'd been counting, Princess," he said,
pulling her skirt up over her bottom to expose a pair of white panties with
a very visible wet spot over her pussy.  "But you're learning.  It's a
start."
   When he brought down the belt again, and for the nine strokes that
followed, Annabelle counted.  By the second and third she was arching her
back and thrusting her bottom towards the belt.  By the fourth and fifth,
the small tingle had turned to a radiating warmth that covered her whole
body.  By the sixth and seventh the small wet spot had spread.  And by the
time she was moaning "Ten," her entire body was on fire, begging for
release.
   She braced herself against the wall, palms flat, bottom out, feet
spread, but was disappointed to hear the sound of Winston putting his belt
back on.
   "What now?" she whispered, looking over her shoulder and pouting. 
Winston smirked.
   "Now nothing," he said, "I'd say we're about even." He pushed the
emergency stop and the elevator jerked, then slid smoothly into motion. 
The elevator climbed floor by floor but Annabelle didn't move, didn't even
reach to pull her skirt down over her panties.  She expected something,
anything else.  Surely he wasn't finished with her?
   "And you're waiting for..." he asked, sounding mildly amused.
   "I just thought...  well I mean," she stammered, tongue tied.  "Aren't
you going to...  well...  fuck me?" She said the last two words so quietly
that even in the cramped elevator she could barely be heard.  He chuckled,
and she blushed furiously.
   "No, I was planning on heading back and finishing my movie," he said as
the elevator doors opened to a very shocked southern mother and two
children.  Annabelle squeaked and covered herself, but Winston just laughed
and picked up his suitcase.  He strolled past them as the mother covered
the eyes of a tow-headed little boy who's eyes were clearly trying to get
out of his head.
   Then it was her following him, Annabelle trying to keep up with
Winston's longer stride in high heels as he took the stairs down.  She
wasn't just aroused any more, she was pissed off.
   "What the hell is wrong with you?" She said, nearly breaking a heel on
the concrete stairs.
   "Narcissism, Borderline Personality Disorder, not loved enough as a
child," Winston said, increasing his speed to make it more difficult for
her.  "You take your pick."
   "If you think you can just-"
   "I did," he said, cutting her off.  She growled.
   "Slow down!" she'd shouted, her voice echoing through the stairwell.  He
didn't, so she stopped chasing him.  Winston was probably certain he'd won,
up until he saw a pair of very expensive heels fall down the stairwell,
both heels snapping as they hit the ground several floors below.  Then
there was the sound of bare feet running down the stairs, and then she was
there, trying to catch her breath.  But he looked impressed.
   "Huh," he said, smiling.
   "I...  I want to see you again umm..." she paused, blushing as she'd
realized she didn't know his name.
   "Winston," he said, handing her a business card.  "Call me Friday, we'll
see how things go." She blushed, tucking the card into her purse.
   "Don't you want to know my name," she'd asked.
   "You can tell me Friday," he'd said, then walked away whistling
something deep and dark that she vaguely recognized.  Moonlight Sonata.
   ****
   He didn't ask her name on Friday, or Saturday, and he didn't take her
call on Sunday.  He didn't ask on Monday or Tuesday, was gone again on
Wednesday, and when she tried to tell him on Thursday he talked over her,
and reminded her that it was not, in fact, Friday yet.  It wasn't until
that second Friday that he bothered to learn her name.
   He was cold and he was distant on the phone, but Annabelle found the
lack of praise almost refreshing.  She was used to being doted on, "I Love
You"'s on the second date, constant reminders of how beautiful she was. 
With Winston just a simple agreement with something she said felt truer and
more honest than a thousand reminders that she was pleasing to look at.
   He mostly asked questions.  About her beliefs, education, feelings on
this subject or that.  He gave her assignments to read this, or borrow such
and such book, and though he wouldn't tell her what he did for a living she
thought he might be some sort of teacher.  When she asked, he gave her
vague answers.
   He lived out in flyover country, and every night Annabelle begged to
visit him.  She was going mad for him, or if not for him for the boundaries
he represented.  If she pouted, if she was snippy or bratty or rude, he'd
hang up on her, and wouldn't answer the phone until the next day.  When she
didn't do as he instructed, she'd get the same punishment.  Soon she
learned that if she wanted to be around Winston, she simply had to do what
he said.  That was the sacrifice and there was no other way the game was to
be played.
   That was nearly three months and several hundred dollars worth of long
distance bills ago, all of that leading to her stepping off the plane in
his city.  The butterflies were gone, replaced by a swirling vortex of
fear, lust and love as she walked past the security screening area and saw
him, waiting for her, reading a magazine at the end of the hallway.
   He noticed her, and gave a half smile, but didn't get up.  She didn't
expect him to, moving as quickly as she could in heels she closed the
distance and gave him a little peck on the cheek.
   "I'm almost finished here," he said, turning the page in his magazine,
"Just about a page and a half left.  Kneel there until I'm finished." She
blushed, both at the request and how loudly she'd made it.  A woman two
seats down gave him a hateful look, but he ignored her and continued
reading.  A few seconds later when she hadn't complied, he set the magazine
on his lap and raised an eyebrow at the disobedient girl.
   "But Winston..." she whimpered, rocking a little on her heels "There are
people here." He shrugged and tucked the magazine into his briefcase.
   "Enjoy the city, hit the zoo if you've got time," he said casually as he
turned away from her.  She panicked.  He would just...  just leave her
there?!  Alone, in a strange city where she didn't know anyone for an
entire week?
   "Please Winston, don't!" she pleaded, as he stood, turned and strolled
towards the escalators.  She didn't know what to do.  He was leaving, and
she couldn't force him to take her with him.  In a moment of desperation,
just before he'd gotten on the escalator she screamed "WINSTON WAIT."
   The sound was deafening in the steel and concrete building, and
Annabelle realized that she now had half of the airport staring at her,
along with an obviously amused Winston.  She shivered at the attention, but
was resolved.  Carefully adjusting her pencil skirt so as not to ruin it,
she knelt down next to where he'd been sitting, eyes to the ground, hands
on her knees, and waited.
   It felt like an eternity for him to come back, the eyes of a hundred
strangers watching her humiliation...  her submission...  and judging her
on it.  She didn't care.  Somewhere deep in her core this felt right to
her. She could feel her pulse in her clit as the shame of her act hit her
like a wave.  Winston patted her softly on the top of the head, took out
his magazine, and finished his article.
   ***
   He made her drive, barely speaking to her except to give her directions
from the back seat.  On the drive home he cycled through several magazines
and newspapers, and though she was unsure what he did for a living wondered
if maybe it wasn't teaching after all.  Maybe finance, or politics?
   His directions brought them to a large brick warehouse in the cities'
down town.  She wasn't sure what it used to be, but the building had
clearly been broken down into expensive lofts.  They parked in an
underground parking lot between two expensive sedans.  Winston waited for
Annabelle to open the door for him before getting out of the car.  When he
did, he handed her his briefcase and made a gesture towards the stairwell.
   They climbed the stairs to the second floor, and from there passed
through a simple hallway into an opulant building.  In the hallway they
passed dark haired woman in an elegant black cocktail dress who gave her
one look and winked at Winston.
   "New driver, Mr.  Russell?" she asked, looking Annabelle over, boldly
reaching out to touch her cheek in an immodest fashion.
   "Something like that, Sarah" he said, kissing the woman's cheek and
leading Annabelle past her.
   "Hope you'll be bringing her to the party this week," the woman in black
said, and pinched Annabelle's bottom as she passed.  She practically hissed
and would have slapped the rude woman had Winston not caught her wrist. 
The woman laughed mockingly.
   "Maybe not this week," Winston said with a conspiratorial smirk.
   "Well," the woman said with mock seriousness, "When she's trained then."
Winston nodded and smiled, but when the woman was safely out of hearing
distance Winston took Annabell roughly by the the upper arm and dragged her
into his apartment.
   "I'm sorry!" Annabelle squeaked as he dragged her through a luxurious
dining room, through a hallway filled with inexpensive but tasteful
artwork, and into a well decorated living-room where he pushed her down to
her knees.
   "That never happens again," Winston said severely to the kneeling girl.
He was angry, but he didn't shout.  His voice just grew cooler,
frighteningly so, and the fear caused little tingles of electricity to go
up and down her body.  She could feel the heat growing between her legs,
her sex moistening, and her mind was filled with evil thoughts.  She would
act out again, and again, and again.  And he would hurt her for it.  She
smiled a secret smile, beginning to truly understand their dynamic.  Then
she looked up at him with her best pouty look, and pushed him.
   "But she was a bitch, sir," she whispered.
   "Pardon me?" he said, genuinely surprised.  Annabelle wiggled,
pretending to adjust her position, taking the opportunity to thrust her
tits out.
   "She was a bitch, sir," she repeated.
   "Sarah is a dear friend of mine," he said very slowly, as though he were
explaining it to a child.  "Call her a bitch again, and I won't be happy."
Annabelle nodded, looking down to the floor.  Her skin felt warm, her
panties were moist, and her resolve was firm.  No use having boundaries if
she didn't get to test them.
   "But she WAS a bitch," she said in her best bratty voice, waiting
several seconds to add "Sir." Then she was on her feet, his rough hands
dragging her in front of a large picture window.  He was on the second
story, and he bent her over the edge of a nearby couch in full view of
pedestrians on their lunch hour.
   Then his hands were on her skirt and with one rip he turned it to rags,
exposing her tiny heart shaped ass and rainbow panties, which soon ended up
around her ankles.  The cool air hitting her now exposed pussy made it
pulsate, and she moaned audibly.
   His palm came down on her ass with a thunder-crack, and she moaned and
counted "One, sir."
   "Don't you ever speak that way about a stranger again, pet," Winston
said, bringing his hand down again.
   "Two, Sir," She whimpered, wiggling her bottom for him.  "But she WAS a
bitch, sir.  Girl can't-" The hand came down again, "Three, sir....  Girl
mussent lie, right?" She looked over her shoulder and bit her lower lip,
giving him her most alluring pout, and was proud to see she'd affected him.
He spanked her again, but this time his hand lingered on her ass, exploring
the sore, red flesh before pulling back and striking her again her again.
   "Five, sir," she gasped as she felt rough fingers starting to explore
her tiny wet pussy.  Her knees went weak as his thumb passed over her clit,
but she kept her back arched, ass in the air.  Outside a crowd was forming
on the sidewalk, gawking up at her.  Sensing there was something improper
about a girl naked from the waist down, Winston tore off her blouse and
top, leaving her nude in high heels.
   She shivered at the feeling of being exposed to so many strangers while
being controlled.  A finger slipped inside of her and she gasped
immodestly, pushing back to force it as deeply inside of her as she could.
She watched the crowd with a wicked, embarrassed little grin on her face as
she heard the sound of a zipper coming down.  Then she felt him...  the
head of his cock pressing gently, teasingly against the dark little opening
of her sex.
   She tried to push back, to thrust him deep inside of her, but he moved
with her, denying her pleasure.  She whimpered and begged and then finally,
as his hand came down hard on her ass again, he forced his cock inside her.
She sobbed in pain and pleasure as he drove cruelly into her pussy.
   "Six, Sir," she gasped as he started to fuck her, the musky scent of her
cunt filling the room.
   "Tell me what you are, pet," Winston demanded, forcing his cock in so
deep she could feel his heavy balls press against her clit.  He spanked her
again, hard enough to leave a clear red hand-print.
   "I'm yours, sir," she said, rolling her hips, rhythmically contracting
her pussy for him, trying desperately to make him cum.
   "Of course you are, slut.  I didn't ask you who you belong to, I asked
you what you are." Annabelle whimpered, struggling for the answer as she
was fucked.  The crowd had grown larger now, nearly two dozen people
staring at her abuse.  The shame turned to pleasure, then the shame at
being turned off by being used turned to more, until she was writhing under
his touch, desperate to make him cum, and cum herself.
   Then he stopped, hands on her waist, holding her still.  Her body
screamed in protest, and she bucked like an unbroken horse trying to get
off on him.
   "If you cum without permission," he warned, "You'll be sleeping on the
floor." He struck her bottom again and she stopped writhing, whimpering
softly, pussy still flexing around him.  Then she realized what he needed
from her, and she gave it to him.
   "I'm your slut, sir.  Your whore.  Your filthy little cocksucker.  I'm
your bitch, I'm whatever you want just....  just let me cum sir....  please
let your whore cum..." She moaned as he slid the rest of the way inside of
her, one hand taking her by the hair as he began thrusting harder into her.
Her pussy was liquid, warm and wet and vibrating with pleasure.  Waves of
it rolled through her body as she felt an orgasm slowly building.
   "Please sir, let me cum....  I need it so bad...  I'll do anything you
want just please let your little slut cum." She bucked back at him, forcing
him in to the hilt with every stroke.  She didn't care about the crowd
anymore, in her mind there were only two people in the world that mattered.
   "Very well, you've been adequate, you may cum," Winston said as he slid
his hands up her body and pinched her nipples.  Annabelle groaned and
hissed, her hips and ass now moving of their own accord, trying to bring
him off before she came.  All she wanted was to feel him cumming, to feel
him spraying his warmth inside her and proving she was a good slut.  She
needed it.  And she was willing to play dirty.
   Balancing herself on one hand she reached between her legs and found his
balls, caressing them gently with practiced fingers.  She moaned like a
whore as she clenched down as hard as she could with her intimate muscles,
gripping his cock like a velvet vice.
   Then he was moaning with her, holding her hips as he forced his cock as
deeply into the squirming girl as he could.  She felt his cock flex inside
her, then jerk, then finally he started to cum, filling her wet pussy.  His
pleasure became hers as she started to cum with him, moaning and writhing
under him as she bit her lip to keep from screaming too loudly.
   When she came down to earth, the crowd was clapping, and Winston was
grinning like the cat who ate the canary.  He closed the shades.  The two
of them collapsed on the carpet together, she laying her head on his
shoulder, he wrapping one arm around her and sighing.
   "Pleased, Sir?" She whispered, her hand wrapping around his cock and
squeezing it gently.  He grinned.
   "Good," she said and rested her head on his shoulder.
   She knew what ever happened from that day on, she was his.
   ***
   If you like the story check out more of my stuff at
http://collarsandsense.blogspot.com 
  
annabellessubmission