Submissives Diary Novels & Stories

Keep shining my beautiful baby girl. This was getting weirder and weirder. I opened the diary and began reading: "My dear princess, On this day, the 25th of Augus 1995,I had thought of keeping a diary for you to reflect on for years to go.I wanted it to be one that you would thoroughly enjoy me reading to you.I saw us reading it togther years to come and I would be so proud of you my love that.As I stare at your little fit it's a wonder how you were able to come out of me but you did and that had made me the happiest mother in the whole world and I can’t wait to see you grow but I do want to be with you in every moment of your life. You are such a light to both your father and I and you woul

Travis flinches. She shakes her head. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you. Can’t you see that? If she was carrying your heir, she’d have no choice but to submit.” She crosses her arms. “I’m doing what you should have done, Travis—taming your mate. Making her the perfect submissive Luna. Like me.” Perfect? Submissive? Like her? I laugh—sharp, bitter. “You think I’d ever become like you, Diana?” I tilt my head. “A puppet with a pretty smile? A Luna who stands beside her mate like some obedient doll?”

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.

The first image nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. A woman. Beautiful. Fierce. Eyes sharp with intelligence and sorrow. Blue fire dancing effortlessly in her hands like it belongs there. And in her arms. A baby. My breath goes shallow. That is not a legend. That is a memory. I turn the page. And freeze. This is not a history book. It’s a diary. Handwritten entries. Personal notes. Dates. Emotions bleeding through ink. Why would a woman’s diary be locked away in the forbidden section of the academy library.

"Didn't I tell you that you're the only woman he loves deeply? One more reason I came here. I want to give this to you." She got stunned when the old woman suddenly handed her a familiar notebook that she was starting to recognize. To her surprise, it was the diary she owned way back in her high school days. The diary where she chronicled all her feelings to Thyago way back in her teenage days, the diary where it all began...

The silent communion with her aspirations, though tinged with sorrow, became a celebration of a life that had touched theirs profoundly. The room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, became a sanctuary of shared memories and unspoken emotions as they delved deeper into Sophia's diary. The diary seemed to hold a piece of her soul, an intimate portrait of her dreams, hopes, and the profound love that had defined her existence.

Eve spent the entire trip fondling her servant while casually chatting with the driver about road conditions and possible hurricanes. By the time they got home, Trish was aroused and desperate for sex. Eve ordered her to put her hands against the wall and remain in that position, no matter what. Trish would get her orgasm, but she'd have to remain in that submissive posture for her Mistress to oblige her.

Tears run down my cheeks. “Breed me… Daddy… Please…” Orgasm rips through my body, tearing me apart just to build me back up and break me all over again. I remain collapsed in bed, shuddering. Teeth gritting. Breath escaping my throat as hard gasps. “Please…” I curl up in bed, sobbing. Senses returning after my insanity. Damn the consequences, the only ‘Good Girl’ I want to be right now, is Dominic Mercer’s. Slowly, I crawl to the drawer and pull out my little pink diary, uncork the pen, and start scribbling. Even I am jealous of how the tip of the pen fuck the paper so well, leaving its fluid along each trail.

The first image nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. A woman. Beautiful. Fierce. Eyes sharp with intelligence and sorrow. Blue fire dancing effortlessly in her hands like it belongs there. And in her arms. A baby. My breath goes shallow. That is not a legend. That is a memory. I turn the page. And freeze. This is not a history book. It’s a diary. Handwritten entries. Personal notes. Dates. Emotions bleeding through ink. Why would a woman’s diary be locked away in the forbidden section of the academy library.