A Fledgling’s Journey into Submission

His hair was the first thing that caught my eye.  I tend to like men with hair that is either long, or military short.  His is about shoulder length, and something in the line of his form captivated me as he lifted it off his neck and turned to talk to the older man on his left.

He’s young…looks to be mid 20’s at the most.  He is far too skinny to be called slender, and a good gale force wind would send him reeling.  But still, there is something that draws my sun-glass shielded eyes to him again and again between plays.  He sits 4 rows in front of me, and slightly to my right during home games for my local college.  When his hair is pulled back and up in a ponytail, he is almost a cross between Joakim Noah and Ashton Kutcher.

I want to do perverse things to him.  And he is the inspiration for this fantasy.


He can hardly believe it, but he simply does not dare look up.  It would be such a simple thing…to just lift his gaze in defiance.  But he can’t.  The mere thought of defying her makes it hard to swallow.  So he remains with head bowed,  wrists crossed behind his back, knees pressing into stone, silently wondering what she would do next.

He didn’t have long to wait for an answer, as her low voice broke the silence.

“What’s the matter, boy?  Not quite what you had in mind?”

At her amused tone, crimson flags of color climb upward on his face.  When she had approached him at half time and silently handed him a folded up piece of paper with a street address and a time, he thought he had done a better job of scoring than the team on the field.  But this…this wasn’t at all what he had bargained on.

Sure, he’d seen setups like this as he surfed porn on the net.  Now and again, he had even stopped and studied them, wondering how men got themselves into situations where a woman was in control.  He was sure something like that could never happen to him…and yet…it had.

She’d played him like an instrument from the moment that he arrived at her house.  Step by step she had lured him, and his pulse had raced, and his cock had stiffened, thinking that any moment…after just this one more thing…surely she would bed him.  But she was a latex clad master puppeteer, and he didn’t stand a chance against her.  Which is how he found himself nude and kneeling in front of her in a room in the basement of her home that was filled with things he was nearly afraid to imagine the intended use of.

Wordless, he shook his head back and forth.  Her soft laughter spilled out into the space between them like bubbles rushing to the top of a glass of champagne.

She squatted in front of him, balancing precariously on platform boots.  Her gloved hand reached out, and tilted his chin upward.  His heart raced in his chest as midnight pools locked his gaze, and her fingers slid over his jugular vein.  With her left hand, she held up a long skinny rod with a triangle of leather on the end of it.

“This,poppet, is a riding crop,” she said, with her eyes never leaving his.  “It is one of many things you’ll come to crave.”  Her fingers slid down his chest, across the flat plane of his stomach, then grazed the head of his cock.  It swelled to life in response.

“You see, when you play in my world, you’ll learn of the delicious place where pleasure and pain waltz arm in arm.  It’s a beautiful dance, and one that is very, very addicting.  Of course…”

As she broke off the words, her mouth moved to his neck, nibbling lightly along it as her latex covered hand gripped his shaft.

“…you don’t have to play.  You can leave.  Right now, as a matter of fact.  If you want to, that is.”

And he *did* want to leave.  Or at least part of him did.  But that part seemed insignificant when he felt her teasing touch, and listened to the siren song of her voice.  Mutely, he shook his head again, and as her lips curved into a crescent moon smile, he felt an electric jolt through the head of his cock.

“No?  I rather thought not.”  Her lips traveled along his jawline, and her hand squeezed, causing pre-cum to spill out, then the pressure of her hand was gone, as was the caress of her lips.

“But go you shall.  At least for tonight.  You have 24 hours to decide if you will return.  Should you do so, bring your clothing and other personal effects, as you will not be leaving for some time.”

She rose, then took a few steps away, before returning, and dropping his jeans, tshirt, and shoes in front of him.  The tip of her riding crop found his chin, and as she ran it along the underneath side, his head tilted backward to look up at her.

“24 hours.  Not a minute more.  Understood?”

“Yes, but”, and as he opened his mouth for a flurry of words to pour out, she pressed the leather of the crop against his lips.


Still trapped in a mist of need and hunger, he slowly nodded his head.

“Excellent.  Dress and see yourself out.”  With that, she turned and walked away from him without a backward glance.  The way she carried herself spoke that she was supremely confident that he would be back the next evening.

As he knelt, watching her, and clutching his clothes to his chest, he knew that she was right



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  1. That is a very lucky young man!

    • Miss Suffer says

      Alas, it is only fantasy. Perhaps I’ll turn it into a reality this season. Though I do love football, this would be vastly more entertaining.

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