Submissive Journal Prompts Novels & Stories

I ask, feeling her tense up. I can swear that she is, and that activates my predatory side, the one that knows that she wants something from me, and that I'm willing to give it to her, but I don't want her one night, I want her to be mine, to be my submissive, will she refuse? I don't know, but I have to try, I have to try to get her to give me her body, and her most desires, desires that I am willing to fulfill to the letter.

The whole thing felt surreal. I had spent a solid hour last night researching the Dom/Sub dynamic. Apparently, as a submissive, you have to earn your Dom’s praise. And oddly enough, I think that’s my kink—praise. It always made my day when Alex gave me even the most casual compliment. It was like being showered in gold.

Is that because I said everything is interesting? “No, you’re not. You’re a switch, or, at least, possibly. You said your fantasy was doing what I do to a woman. That makes you a switch, not a submissive. A submissive doesn’t delve into the side of becoming a Dom or Domme. You, however, have a fantasy to do that, so you're most likely a switch.” Laughing, my eyes look up at him. Is he trying to trick me? Then again, I am sure I saw the word ‘switch’ while reading.

Just symbols and vague offers. I keep scrolling. The next profile is different. The photo isn’t flashy, it’s a mirror selfie taken in what looks like a gym locker room. The man is shirtless, sweat-slicked, and well-muscled, but not in an obnoxious way. His expression is relaxed. Not smiling, but not severe either. There’s a confidence in it that feels real, not performed. His age is listed as thirty-two. His bio is short and to the point: Looking for a casual submissive to wine, dine, and worship for one night. I prefer softness with a little attitude. Show up as you are. I’ll take care of the rest.

“Being submissive,” he said, “is an attitude, Megan. Ask yourself, do you want to be here?” “I do.” “Then, no resentment flaring in your pretty eyes, please. Submit because you want to. I will push you; if it’s beyond your ability to bear, you can stop me by invoking your safeword.” It was good and useful advice. I nodded. “Yes, Professor Wilde,” I muttered. I took a deep breath; nudged myself towards serenity and grace.

"I wasn't joking when I said I'm the only one allowed to touch you, Jenny. Or do I need to show you?" Her playful demeanor faded when she realized I was serious. I grabbed her chin, and her body heat radiated against me. "Do you want me to show you? Because I’d be more than happy to." She shook her head no. "No, I understand." The windows in my office were tinted and soundproof. It was impossible for anyone to eavesdrop when the door was closed. What intrigued me wasn't just her body but her mind as well. It was as clear as day—Jenny was a mischievous submissive. Although I knew she wasn’t ready for any of this, I toyed with her just to see those small reactions.

The handwriting was the same, but the content was a different kind of raw. Things I’m curious about. (No judgment.) My grip tightened on the cardboard cover. Dominant & submissive dynamics. Being restrained. Being chased. Control given, not taken. I stopped breathing for a moment, the words burning into my retinas. The next lines were messier, the ink smudging, like she’d written them faster, her hand shaking or her pulse racing too hard to stay steady. Wanting to let go of the weight I carry every day. Wanting to feel safe enough to stop pretending I'm fine.

“The journal is for confession. Every night, you write what you’re feeling. Even the things you won’t admit to me. Especially those. If you lie in it, I’ll know.” “And if I don’t write?” “Then I’ll write on you,” he said, lips twitching at the corners. “In bruises.” Raven’s pulse spiked. He handed her the blindfold next. “Not tonight. But soon.” She ran her fingers over the soft interior. Silk-lined. Luxurious. It looked gentle, but it wasn’t. It was control disguised as comfort. “And the cuffs?” she asked. He stepped closer. “You’ll wear them when you’re ready. Not before. Submission isn’t something I take. It’s something you offer.”

I tried to find the word, "Similar to a dominant and submissive relationship" His eyes green and clear remained glued to my face as I spoke, even after so long it was still unnerving to be the entire focus of his gaze. "You’re naturally bossy and I tend to be somewhat complacent, on some things” I immediately added because I didn't want to be giving him ideas. “Then you agree that you are submissive?“ I chewed on my bottom lip. “I guess?” “Most women find that term offensive with the recent feminist movement and all”

I had written this. I had written this exact moment in chapter after chapter—Grey Writes had described the sudden, uncontrollable throb, the rush of slick heat, the way a woman’s body betrayed her before her mind could catch up. I’d typed scene after filthy scene about a submissive girl standing perfectly still while a dominant man circled her and spoke low in her ear, and my readers had left comments telling me it felt so real they were ruined for real life. I had been writing from imagination. Until right now.