Submissive Women Novels & Stories

They lean close to their subs, whispering commands, trailing fingers over shoulders or down arms with a control that sends chills down my spine. Across the room, a few men are handcuffed to the arms of their chairs, their wrists adorned with sleek leather cuffs. They sit, almost reverent, their heads bowed slightly as their Dominants hover over them, their words inaudible but their intentions clear. One woman in a corset, tall heels, and a gleaming silver mask stands before her sub, her hands on her hips, her gaze steady and critical. Her voice is a firm murmur, her words sharp enough to make him flush under his mask as she sneers, a faint smirk lifting her lips.

The women are covered in sweat and come, their voices hoarse, their bodies used to the limit, but still they beg. “Another! I need another!” “Fill me up! Please!” The power of it roars through my veins. This is my doing. This is my pack, unified, strong, taking what is ours. The women are not victims. They are celebrating. Their submission is a gift, and the pack is devouring it. I walk through the throng, my hand brushing over a heaving back, a trembling thigh. I own this. I own every sound, every shiver.

thighs shaking, dripping so much I could hear the wet slap of our bodies echoing between the books. In two weeks I hadn’t thought about another woman. Not once. Not the models who texted me explicit photos at 2 a.m. Not the executives who “accidentally” brushed against me at galas, nipples hard through silk. Six submissives before Kris. All of them beautiful. All of them obedient. All of them temporary.

"Yes, Mistress, all of that!" "Well, at least we know you're willing to submit. Hell, you are downright deliciously excited to submit." Abi walked right up and leaned down to whisper in Cecilia's ear. "You're the most submissive woman in the room, aren't you? That's your secret, isn't it? You absolutely want to be the very bottom slut in the house, don't you? You want to have to let everyone else control you. To take away your need to be the prim and proper businesswoman, mother and lady you've had to be for years, that's your secret, isn't it, Mommy-Slut?" Cecilia shook so hard and Abi could see and smell her arousal as it was already running down her thighs. "OH YES! MISTRESS!!"

The velvet curtains were drawn, the air heavy with cigar smoke and the faint perfume clinging to the half-naked woman on the chaise. She performed the part she’d been bought to play—obliging, silent, useful. That was the way that women were meant to be. subservient and putting their mouth to good use. I let her take my cock in her pretty, little mouth and do what she was meant to do; suck me until I came down her throat. The bitch was doing a good job too.

slowly, looking through, I guess It will be best to click each one and read them I read what each word meant. Bondage Discipline Dominance Submissive Sadism Masochism Flicking through the website, Submissive catches my attention again. The words read: A submissive (sub) is a sexual participant who willingly gives up some or all control to a dominant partner. This type of partnership is often referred to in the BDSM community as a dominant/submissive (D/s) partnership. A submissive might also be called a "bottom", while the dominant partner might be called a "top".

I ask her. She nods. “Say it honey, I need you to say it with your mouth” I tell her. “Yes, Mistress,” she says firmly. “I'm here to be your submissive.” “And what is a submissive??” I drawl. “A submissive is an owned girl, property of a dominant,” she replies. “Good girl,” I smirk. “Now, what does a submissive do?” “To serve their masters or mistress,” she replies with no hesitation. “Good girl!” Then I touch her ass softly, causing her to inhale sharply as my nails scratch her skin.

At least in bed, she responded to my dominance with a surrender that felt genuine rather than calculated. Most women in my circle were performers, playing roles they thought would appeal to me. They submitted because they'd been taught it was what powerful men wanted, not because something in their nature craved that surrender. But Aria... there had been nothing artificial about her responses tonight. No practiced moans or strategic positioning. Just raw, desperate need that had matched my own. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here was a woman with no breeding, no connections, no advantages beyond her beauty—and yet she understood something fundamental about herself that eluded most of the sophi

Femme de Sexe--an exhibit dedicated to a woman's sensuality and the many roles she could inhabit when it came to sex. The room was filled with art pieces that depicted every sensual role a woman could play. From paintings dedicated to female dominants to sculptures telling a story of a submissive, I had set this space up in a way that allowed women who visited to feel a sense of power, regardless of societal means. An ode to submissives as well- whether they knew it or not, this was a space that let them know that there's a specific kind of strength surrounding those who choose to fully submit themselves to another person, like myself.

Duties include 24/7 availability, immediate obedience, and complete sexual use at their discretion. My pussy clenches on the word use. A slow, deep throb that makes me shift in my chair and press my knees tighter. I keep reading. The submissive will wear a collar at all times. The submissive will be available for office use during and after business hours. The submissive will be bred and claimed at the discretion of her owners. Bred. The word sits in my stomach like a hot coal. I can feel myself getting wet, not damp, not slightly aroused, wet. The kind of wet that soaks through underwear and makes the fabric cling.