The Art of Submission
By Helotage
Chapter 4: The New Normal
That evening, none of Mollie’s friends could go out again. She thought about heading to a bar alone, but she needed to save money. After all, she had just spent what for her was a fortune on a magic rock.
As soon as she was home, she went through the living room, eyes down, directly to the kitchen. It was remarkable how often throughout the day she was noticing signs of an emerging submissive nature in her. Eyes downcast, walking behind superiors at a distance, deferential attitude in meetings, smiling flirtatiously every time a man (and, once, a woman) leered at her. Her clothes were professional, but they were more daring the past two days—slightly shorter skirts, blouses undone one extra button on Monday, two extra on Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday she wouldn’t wear a bra. This had never been her, but now it was.
Without any thought at all, Mollie poured cereal into one bowl and milk into another. She place both on the floor. Why the hell did she do that? When she bent over to pick them up, she froze in place. Instead, she stood and walked quickly to the bedroom, stripping her clothes as she went. Her collar was not in the drawer. Anxiously, she ran her morning actions through her mind. The bathroom! She used the mirror to undo the combination and left it in there. She rushed into the bathroom and snapped the collar in place followed by the squeak of the hasp and click of the lock. She sighed with relief at the sound. Even with only reflected light from the other room, she could see herself in the mirror—naked, collared, her hair a mess, makeup smudged. Something took her over at that moment.
Again, without thought but with even more purpose, Mollie entered the kitchen, knelt on the floor, and bent to eat her cereal like a dog. She lapped at the milk. Soon the floor was a mess, her hair too.
Before the bathroom mirror, this time with the lights on, she contemplated her condition. Sunday morning, she was a normal person, just a woman browsing for antiques. By Sunday afternoon she had started some sort of transition, a transformation, and it seemed to come from within as much as from without. It was an awakening, stirred by a waking dream. She rinsed the cereal and milk from her long curly hair as best she could in the bathroom. She took off her makeup, figuring she could watch some TV before bed. Instead, she next found herself standing naked and collared in front of the sculpture. Then, down on her knees, she absently place both hands on it as she lowered her head as if in reverence.
Mollie saw some drops of blood on the floor below her. He had not only bruised her badly, but he had also drawn some blood. Blood trickled down her arms from her brutalized wrists as well. One of the women replaced the little box to prop her feet while the other climbed the step stool to undo a hand. Her right arm dropped uselessly as soon as the cuff unclasped. Her legs could barely hold her, and her left arm bore most of her weight. The first woman pressed close behind her and held her while the second woman adjusted the stool and released the other cuff. Mollie’s second arm dropped and then her body, her weight born first by just the one and then both women. They brought her to a separate room to clean her up a bit. They used a rag and a pitcher of water to clear the mixture of sweat and blood from her flesh. As they did so, they traced the web of whip marks around her body and across her belly, bruises on her breasts, stripes and slashes on her arms and thighs, welts on her ass and back, abrasions on her wrists. Mollie suffered their admiration for the ruination of her flesh. She even didn’t object when one fondled a breast and the other reached for her cunt. The first one kissed her, passionately, and, instead of recoiling, she kissed back, albeit tentatively. She had never kissed a woman like this before, but she was broken, utterly broken, and entirely willing. Her mind was already becoming more like a slave’s than that of the free woman she was supposed to be. She barely had the desire or energy to contemplate her new state. Her head was swimming, and the butterflies returned to her stomach. She felt pleasure in her loins. My god, she thought, I am turned on.
Just then, the woman gently fingering her vagina grew much more aggressive. Mollie jumped a little as she was penetrated, but the other woman forcefully occupied her mouth as she held her down. Soon, the woman below moved on to kissing and licking Mollie’s legs. She worked her way up her thighs, and Mollie could then feel her warm breath on her pubic hairs. The woman leaned in to kiss and lick, and, once Mollie yielded, it was better than any man had ever done for her. Despite her pain, despite her damaged body, and despite her decidedly straight ways, she was greatly aroused. The other woman then lifted her own sheer gown and positioned herself to straddle Mollie’s face. She was naked underneath. Mollie tried to turn away, but her head was trapped between the woman’s thighs. She had no choice but to submit. She started licking tentatively and then more intently and then passionately, imitating, as best she could, the technique of the woman below. Soon, the woman straddling her began to moan and then yelled as her pussy throbbed against Mollie’s tongue. At that moment, Mollie came powerfully herself, blissful in the company of these two sexy, half-naked women.
She had fallen back from the sculpture and was writhing on the floor ecstatically. Again, she passed out and again slept the night through there in front of the sculpture.