Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
I sputter on my beer. Some of my colleagues would take issue with what she calls trash. I read on.
The writing was atrocious, but that wasn’t why I read it. Fifty Shades opened up my eyes to a world I never imagined existed: the dark, sensual world of dominance and submission.
I swallow another gulp of beer.
So how does literature influence my imagination? As a child it fueled my dreams. As an adult, it does the same. I long for a stern dominant to take me in hand, and my own literary pursuits now include reams of books dedicated to the erotic pull of dominance and submission in romance. I write fantasies with vivid detail, allowing my imagination to set no limits. In my mind, I am that woman collared by a man who loves her. I am that woman who surrenders to a powerful dominant strong enough to discipline her, to mold her, to help her reach her full potential by freeing her mind and heart from the worries of the world. My imagination revels in the fantasy of giving utter control to the one dominant who treasures me.
I want to be tied up and spanked, pushed to my knees and made to submit. I want to hurt, in all the good ways. And more still, I want to sit on the lap of a sexy, dominant man, and call him daddy. Be his babygirl.
I’m long past being ashamed of what I crave, thanks to the books I’ve read that have made me accept who I am, and the staunch belief that there’s freedom in sexual exploration. I applaud the writers who’ve brought these fantasies to print, and now write the fantasies that lurk in the dark recesses of my mind.
Literature not only fuels my imagination. It’s given me space to dream. And now, a purpose.
“Geoff? You alright, man?”
I blink in surprise at Travis, who’s wiping down the bar but looking at me in concern.
“Yeah,” I stammer, putting the phone down. “Got an email that distracted me. I gave my students an assignment and read all but one before I came here tonight.”
“Hey, I heard someone say you got a new job, but I forgot you were teaching again,” Travis says, and I think we talk about classes and time frames and books, but my mind is somewhere else. I’m not really thinking about what I’m saying. I need to read her email again.
She’s just handed me a confession. Part of me wonders if she’s playing me. Is she trying to get me focused on her? Does she want me not able to focus during class, eyes on her as I fantasize about pulling her out of her chair and bending her over her desk? Is she trying to get me fired? I frown, turning from the bar when Travis begins serving other customers, and look out at the large room in front of me.
Her little essay on her imaginative exploration of dominance and submission’s got me hard as a fucking rock. I need to read what she’s written, see for myself what dark fantasies lurk in her beautiful, depraved mind. What kink’s her flavor. When I got to the ‘daddy’ part I about dropped my phone. I haven’t had a baby girl since my last submissive left the country, and I didn’t realize how badly I craved it until I read it here, in this little wicked essay.
She ought to be punished for putting something so bold out there like that.
But hell, I invited her to.
I take a pull of my beer, scanning the crowd. For what? I don’t know, until my eyes rest on a beautiful, tall, graceful woman who’s standing by the pool table. She’s talking animatedly to a couple, but there’s a man behind the couple who’s eyeing her. I can see the scroll of musical note tattoos along her neck and know exactly who this is: Sasha. She’s the CEO of a medical supply company located in New England, and only comes here for the kink. She has no interest in anything serious or long-term, and would kick the balls of a guy who demanded her submission outside of a scene, but she comes here for a top.
And tonight, I need to scene.
I finish my beer, slam the empty mug on the counter, and stalk to the pool tables before someone claims Sasha. She sees me prowling closer before I get there, her caramel-colored eyes warming as I approach.
“Master Geoffrey,” she says, bowing her head like a good little sub. “I hear you’re free, sir.”
I reach for her neck and wrap my fingers around the back, feeling the tremor that courses through her.
“I am. Are you?”
“Of course, sir,” she responds, eyes cast down as she’s been trained to do. I need to dominate her and cleanse my mind of the depraved thoughts of the sassy student who’s baiting me.