The Submission of Hannah | part 1

Bounded naked woman

The Submission of Hannah | Jolie Cain
Art by Samarel

Part 1 

She first saw him at a local bar. Chippy’s was a local hangout, and she had gone there one Friday night after work with some co-workers. As they’d been drinking and laughing, easing the stress of the workday, she’d felt someone’s gaze on her. Casually she’d glanced around and seen him watching her. Raising his glass in a silent toast, he smiled slightly and then sipped the drink, never allowing her eyes to break contact with his. For several moments she felt as if the two of them were enclosed in a silent world of their own. The noise of the bar faded to a dull and distant buzz as their eyes continued to hold. Then one of the girls had spilled a drink, and in the ensuing confusion, the spell had been broken. When she’d looked towards him again, he was gone. She didn’t quite understand the pang of disappointment she felt. After all, he was just a man she’d seen briefly across a crowded room. And yet…somehow…she was disappointed—very much so.

The next week, when the girls once again met at the same bar, she couldn’t stop herself from looking for him. And there he was. Same table. Same seat. Same heated glance that captured her eyes and held them trapped with his. She was tempted, very tempted, to go and join him. To slide into the chair beside his, and to rest her hand on the sleeve of his suit. To stare into his eyes and to inhale the scent that was uniquely his. But she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. That would have been much too bold for the meek and cautious soul she was by nature.

Week after week, she continued the same pattern. The same glance. The same feeling. The same desire. One week, he was not alone. Instead, an attractive blonde sat with him. They seemed engrossed in one another, leaning close and speaking quietly. He would smile, stroke a finger across the back of her hand where it rested on the table. He never even looked up. Didn’t acknowledge her presence at all. When they’d left together, she’d felt unaccountably hurt. Betrayed. Which was ridiculous.

But the next week he was alone again. And again she felt that unreasoning connection each time their eyes met. He was very attractive, though somewhat older than the twenty-something crowd that usually filled the popular bar. His hair was dark, cut closely against his head, but shot through with gray. His face was hard-boned and angular, a tough face, the face of a man who had faced the hardships the world had to offer and emerged victorious after a long struggle. His was the face of experience. The face of aggression. The only hint of softness was in the curve of his lower lip as he sipped on his drink or smiled at the waitress.

His suit was expensive—Armani, maybe? And his tie was silk. She could see that even from where she sat across the room from him. And the whiskey he drank was amber-colored and expensive. A small gold signet ring glinted on the ring finger of his right hand. Sometimes he would smoke, and his long-fingered hand would curve around the cigarette as he drew in the addictive nicotine. But he didn’t smoke frequently. Only occasionally had she seen him do so.

She knew she was becoming obsessed with him, studying his habits so closely. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Every time she saw him, she would catalog any new observations in the section of her brain where she’d reserved a spot for him alone. And when she was home by herself, in the depths of the night, sometimes she would think about him, fantasize about him, touch herself and dream about him.

She would picture his hands, those long fingers, stroking down her breast to tease the nipple into hardness. Her own hand would mimic what she pictured, pushing her pajama top aside to reach the sensitive flesh. What would he do next, she would wonder. Would he take the nipple between two fingers, squeeze gently. She would try it. Or…maybe not so gently? She would moan as her touch became firmer, rougher, picturing him watching her and smiling in pleasure at her body’s response. Slowly, she would move her finger to circle the other breast, drawing an ever-decreasing circle until she finally caressed the point that was aroused from the teasing sensation. Maybe then he would kiss the nipples, lick them. Laving her finger with her tongue, she would then spread the wetness across the rigid peaks, pretending it was his mouth on her.

Sometimes she would watch herself in the mirror as she caressed her skin, wishing he were there. She would like for him to watch her, too. With his dark hooded gaze taking in her sensuous movements, her body twisting and turning with its arousal. Maybe he would come up behind her as she stood nude before the mirror. Maybe he would gather her hair, lift it to his face to inhale its intoxicating scent. Perhaps he would cup her breasts, lifting and squeezing the sensitive mounds, molding them as he pleased, all the while his eyes holding hers, watching her need rise. And then he would stroke his hand between her legs, parting the soft folds until he reached the treasure hidden in their depths. Would he then push her legs apart. She would shiver as she thought of what he might do next. Stroke her clitoris? Push a finger inside her, deep inside—or maybe two? She would feel the moisture trickle down her thighs as she imagined him there, feeling her, exploring her.

And sometimes, when she was feeling especially naughty, she would imagine herself bound for him. Tied up with rope around her wrists, her legs, her breasts. Sometimes she would picture herself face down on the bed, her legs spread wide and tied open so that he could see every private part of her. Other occasions she would be standing, arms stretched uncomfortably above her head, bound to the bedpost, a rope pulled tight between her legs so that every squirming movement she made would stimulate her tortured flesh. Would he just stand there and watch as she struggled to get free? Would it amuse him to hear her beg and plead for his touch? Would he gag her? Blindfold her? Would his hand range freely over her body as if it was his own…his possession…to play with, to touch, to pleasure or punish as he pleased?

On those nights her imagination would run wild. She would see him doing all sorts of things to her, make her do all sorts of things to him. Things she’d read about in the erotic books that she would sometimes buy for herself when she could work up the courage. Maybe things she’d heard whispered about amongst some of her more wild and daring girlfriends. But not that she had ever done herself. And on those incredibly wicked nights, she would stroke herself with her hand, or sometimes with the toys she had purchased online. She would massage her body with scented oils, rub her hard clit, feel the wetness seep from her as her arousal peaked. And she would cum…harder and longer than she ever had before. Afterward, she would lie alone, staring at the ceiling and wishing…somehow wishing that it would all come true.

Then came the week when the girls decided to cancel their little jaunt to the bar. Some had other commitments. A couple were ill. Some were just tired and wanted a night to relax at home. She had thought about not going. After all, she’d never really gone into a bar by herself before. Especially when she wouldn’t know anyone who was there. In fact, she had decided to make an early night of it herself, and as she backed out of her parking spot, she was already planning what she could fix herself for dinner when she got home. But somehow, instead of turning right towards her apartment complex, she found herself going left, straight into downtown. Straight to Chippy’s. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn there.

As she entered the bar alone, she felt extremely conspicuous. Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she headed straight for unoccupied table for two she had spotted toward the back. She sat down and gave her order to the friendly waitress who quickly appeared. Then she waited staring down at the table until her drink came. After taking a couple of sips for courage, she finally worked up the nerve to glance over at ‘his’ table, but it was empty. Her spirits sank. Why wasn’t he here? He was always here. She’d come to rely upon that fact. Maybe he had a date. Maybe right now he was with that blonde woman she’d seen him with before. Well, she’d finish this drink and go home. She should not have come in the first place. What had she been thinking?

Suddenly she felt someone standing next to her chair and glanced up. It was Him. He smiled and indicated the empty chair with a nod. “Hello, my dear. It looks like you’re here alone tonight. So am I. I was wondering if I might join you?”

Flustered and momentarily speechless, she nodded, and he pulled out the chair to sit. His eyes held a question as he introduced himself, asking her name. Once introductions were over, they began that ritualistic exchange of meaningless trivialities that most called “getting to know one another.” His voice entranced her. He spoke softly, but his tone was firm, like satin over steel, and she felt it dance across her skin with each word. She sat and listened as he entertained her with tidbits of his life.

Then he said, “But I’m so sorry. I seem to be monopolizing the conversation. Please, my dear, tell me about yourself.” His eyes said that he really wanted to know, that he was not just making conversation. So, a bit self-consciously, she stammered in answer to the questions he posed. Gradually, his easy manner helped her relax, and she found herself growing more and more comfortable, revealing more and more about herself with each exchange. She pondered briefly over the curious fact that she had never before felt so at ease with a man as she did with him. Yet it seemed natural. Right.

At last he said, “You know, I had wondered if we were ever actually going to meet.” His teasing smile encouraged her to acknowledge their weeks of mutual awareness.

She blushed, but laughed softly. “Yes. I had wondered the same thing.”

He smiled and reached out to lift her hand into his, smoothing the nervously clasped fingers into relaxing in his hold. “Truthfully, I had thought about approaching you before, but you always were surrounded by your friends. I hated to interrupt what was so obviously a girl’s night out.” His tone was questioning, and he raised a brow.

She shrugged. “It’s a group of girls from the office where I work. We try to get together every week to unwind a bit.”

“Of course,” he nodded understandingly. “But not this week?”

“No, not this week. Everyone else was…busy.”

“Not you, though?”

She shook her head.

He smiled again and squeezed her hand gently. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” she whispered, mesmerized by the heated gleam that appeared briefly in his grey eyes.

They sat and talked for hours, ignoring the crowd that peaked and dwindled until only the two of them remained. At last he glanced around and said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave, or they’re going to kick us out.”

Looking down, she tried to hide her disappointment. She knew he was right. The waitress had stopped coming by to check on them, and the bartender had even begun turning off some lights. They were obviously getting ready to close. He put his hand beneath her chin and raised her face until her eyes met his. “I’d like to see you again. And I don’t just mean across a crowded bar next Friday.” He grinned and she noticed for the first time a dimple that creased one cheek. It was oddly endearing.

She laughed, very pleased to know he felt as she did.

“I hope you won’t think I’m being too forward, but would you consider having dinner with me tomorrow night?”

She smiled in relief and quickly agreed. He wanted to see her again!

“Good. I’ll look forward to it. Now, shall we?” He called the waitress over to settle their tab and then escorted her to her car. Taking the keys when she’d dug them from her purse, he opened the door for her.

As they stood there in the glow of the street lamp, he reached up to stroke a gentle finger down her cheek. She leaned into his touch. It just felt so right. At her acquiescence, he used the same finger to nudge her chin up, and then he leaned forward to take her lips in a kiss that was both gentle and yet commanding at the same time. There was no hesitation as his mouth stroked over hers, pressing her lips apart easily. She raised her hands to clasp his arms when he deepened the kiss, rubbing his tongue against hers in a languid glide. He seemed in no rush to end the embrace, changing the angle of his head and rubbing his hands up and down her back in a soothing caress.

She was enjoying the kiss. It was perfect. She didn’t feel threatened as she sometimes did when guys held her too tight or too close. He didn’t do that. Just kept her near with the gentle movement of his hands. Nor did he try to shove his tongue down her throat or “cop” a feel of her breast, which usually made her feel like a piece of meat. Instead, he seemed content to just enjoy the feel of her mouth, the taste of her tongue, the warmth of her skin.

In fact, it was she who stepped closer, needing firmer contact from him. As soon as she did so, however, he broke the kiss and pulled back, tugging her hands gently from where they’d moved to clasp around his neck. He smiled wryly down at her, “Oh, little one, you don’t know how much I’ve enjoyed our encounter tonight. And how tempted I am right now to do something I’m afraid I will regret later.”

A frown creased her brow, but he soothed it with a tender touch. “I just don’t like to rush things, sweetheart. The best things are worth waiting for, don’t you think?”

She blushed, smiling at the compliment, and murmured her agreement.

Then he was helping her into the car. He shut the door and waited for her to crank the engine. Once she had, he motioned for her to roll the window down, waiting patiently for her to do so.

“Do you have a card, sweetheart, or something with an address, so I’ll know where to send the car for you?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she fumbled and finally found a business card with her address and phone number. Taking the card from her, he pressed his own into her palm. “In case you need to contact me before tomorrow night, my dear. My private cell phone number is on the back. Is seven o’clock all right?”

She nodded.

He lent to press a last kiss onto her parted lips. “Goodnight then.”

He turned to walk away. After only a few steps, he hesitated and came back to the side of the car. “One more thing–a favor, if I may?”

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“That black dress. The one you were wearing the first night I saw you? It had a tie at the waist?”

She smiled. “Yes, I know the one you mean.”

“Do me a favor? Wear it tomorrow night?”

She felt a pleasant curling sensation in her stomach at the look in his eyes when he made the request. She quickly agreed.

He wished her goodnight again and then turned to walk across the street to his own car, a black Mercedes. While she watched, he got in. She put her car into gear and drove off, waving as she passed his car. As she drove home, she wondered what her future might hold.

To be continued…

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One thought on “The Submission of Hannah | part 1

  1. Pingback: The Submission of Hanna – part 2 | Samarel Art of Making Love ~ Erotic Fantasies

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