Craving Submission: Players & Sinners

prologue

SABLE

To be a good Dom, you must first know the power the submissive holds, Ms. Sally says as she points to the sex toys on the wall, some of which look more like torture devices than anything capable of causing pleasure. But you don’t have to worry about any of this, Sable.

So… I clear my throat and take a moment to gather my thoughts. Worrying is something I’ve been doing since I learned to walk. It’s not that easy to just turn off the little red flags that pop up out of nowhere. You said you had a job for me?

Ms. Sally smiles softly and shuts the door to the playroom. Yes, she confirms and points in the opposite direction of the exit. It’s right down the hall.

I have no fucking clue what I had gotten myself into, but the dark hallway in front of us seems a lot less scary than the alley I had been sleeping in, so I follow her deeper into this den, every once in a while, glancing behind me to keep the exit within sight.

Are you going to tell me what it is? Just because she had saved me from getting arrested for shoplifting some food, doesn’t mean… Well, I don’t really know what it means. I just know seventeen and homeless by no means entails stupidity.

Ms. Sally, since you know, we’re in here and I’m grateful for all your help, but I… I just want to make it very clear… I stop along with her and stand up straight—adamant about my position. If I wanted guys to ogle me and try to use me, I would have stayed at my Mama’s house.

At least here I’d get paid. The thought creeps up my spine as I settle the little quiver in my throat.

Ms. Sally shifts back in shock and then studies me for a little too long. Her hand lingers near the doorknob as if she contemplates whether or not to send me on my way.

I swallow as it turns.

Sable, although I’m concerned about what you said, you don’t have the experience to be one of my regulars… I had a little something different in mind.

The door swings open to a closet full of cleaning products. A few mops hang on the backside, next to a broom.

Maybe you could help me keep this place clean? She runs a finger along the broomstick. My employees clean up after themselves, but in our off hours, I’d like to do a more thorough cleanse of the place.

Oh. I glance around the hall.

We pay cash, and I can offer you a room, a place to shower, and keep you safe, be that from the streets or from your homelife.

My heart swells as the tears accumulate in the corners of my eyes. Thank you.

But to accept, there’s one condition…. Tell me about what happened at home.

This woman, who I didn’t know from Adam, caught me, saved me, and trusted me all in a matter of hours.

The woman who gave birth to me—created me—did the exact opposite: doubted me, hurt me, then let me go. Though, I’m not sure the last part is all too bad. Seventeen and homeless was a lot safer than where I had grown up.

Ms. Sally rests a hand on her hip and with a loud sigh shakes her head. Well, you don’t have to tell me just yet. At least not until you’re ready.

I glance behind her at the cleaning supplies, then down the length of the hallway, and flick my gaze over the red letters above the door. There’s nothing out there waiting for me, except the cold.

My mother threw me out when I told her about one of the men making a pass at me, I blurt out rapidly.

Ms. Sally purses her lips but gently nods her head for me to continue.

"She accused me of leading him on and trying to steal him from her. Things got… ugly… and I had just enough time to fill my backpack with some clothes."

I see. How long have you been away from home? she closes the door gently and leans against it.

One week. And I’m never going back. I glance at Ms. Sally and, in case she doubted my conviction, I straightened my spine and reiterated the last part, Never.

I shake my head as the image of my screaming mom pops into my head. I’ll never forget the way she made me feel like nothing. The way she looked through me. The way she didn’t even watch me leave or bother to search for me. She threw me away like a crumpled hamburger wrapper. It took me far too long to scrape my heart up off the cement, and when I did, I was starving.

Why is that? she asks, curling her fingers around her upper arm and tapping her fingernails against the fabric of her blazer.

Because no one’s ever going to have the ability to make me cave ever again.

She smooths the material over her stomach and inches away from the wall, closer to me. As if she had a secret only, I could hear despite us being completely alone. The power isn’t what was wrong, Sable. The way it was used is what was wrong.

one

MATT

Your current champion, Matt Jacobs, defends his title of MMA USA Heavy Weight Champion. He has an unmatched record of twenty-five wins by submission throughout the span of his career. No other fighter comes close to his record.

To get into my fighting mindset, I tune out the rest of the announcement regarding the other fighter and find my focus. The fans cheer me on, buzzing on the way I win. As I step forward, I can’t help but wonder what they’d think if they knew just how far my need for submission went, in and out of the ring.

In my twenties, sex came with rules. Specifics. I’d tell her what I wanted and how I wanted her to be. Most of the women I had dated didn’t like it. They said I was too aggressive or demanding.

But when I was twenty-five, I met an older woman in her mid-thirties. She had a fantasy of being dominated. At the time, I had only heard the word dominate before, but she spurred my curiosity.

So, I researched, found a couple of underground clubs, and went to them. At first, I watched the scenes, studying other dominates to see the power dynamic. The relief and fluidity.

After striking up conversations with a few of the men I realized brute force and demanding were not the way to go. Simply requesting and mutual respect is what I was missing.

This is a revelation to me. While I’m in the ring I’m being forceful and controlling the situation by any means possible. I had to experience the differences to completely understand it was not something that came easy for me to learn, I had to find a gentler side of myself that I never knew existed.

I’ll never get tired of standing in the middle of the ring and hearing the crowd’s roar as my arm is raised in victory.

The announcer says, Matt Jones, you are a two-time MMA USA Heavy Weight Champion. The flashes of the cameras are blinding.

After that, I’m pulled in several directions, everyone wanting their picture taken with me. Several minutes later, I put my arm around my manager’s shoulder and lean in to tell him, Get me the hell out of here, Eddie. I’m ready to party and get laid.

Eddie Langley inconspicuously answers, You have to take pics with the sponsors, man. They were pissed last time when you disappeared. Give it another hour, and I’ll get you out of here. Remember, they pay you a ton of money.

One hour, I tell him, then plaster a fake smile on my face and saunter up to some men in suits. I have no clue who they are, but I have my photo taken with them anyway.

As the hour winds down, I finish the last photos with the ring girls, who are all employees of a local strip club. I invite them all to continue to party with us at the Dragon’s Lair, a hot nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard. The owner is a friend, and the free publicity of me showing up after my fights when I’m in town helps both of us.

I’m climbing out of the ring when a woman in tight black jeans, a red blouse, and black hair, which hangs loosely down her back, catches my eye. Inviting her to celebrate with me quickly turns into my next submission project, not that I’m accustomed to hearing the word no from a woman.

As I step out of the ring, she tilts over one of the white wooden chairs. Her heart-shaped ass is perked up and in an optimal spanking position. She searches for something in her large purse; soft strands of her hair fall over her shoulder, exposing the delicate cure of her neck.

Kissable.

I pry my eyes off of her to check the floor for my in with her. Not that I’ve ever needed one before. But I find nothing on the floor but foiled confetti and left-over cups and bottles. When I glance up, she had turned to the side, allowing the light to hit the red, not-so-sheer material of her blouse, exposing a truth about her. She matches her bra to her shirt.

Now, that’s hot.

I approach her with a craving I haven’t felt for a woman. I can’t put my finger on what it is about her, I just know I have a need to know her.

Her back is turned to me as I walk up to her, realizing she is almost six feet tall with her heels on.

I reach out to tap her on the shoulder. When she turns around, I peer into the most prominent black pupils I have ever seen. Her olive complexion is flawless. Her lips are perfectly pouted, making me want to grab and kiss her immediately.

She looks at me, surprised, then takes a deep breath. Matt Jones, how does it feel to be the MMA USA Heavy Weight Champion for the second time by the opponent tapping? She sticks a microphone in my face.

The term is submission, I think to myself while utterly annoyed that my dick waltzed me right into a trap.

Fuck! I say out loud.

Another damn reporter. Another someone trying to make a quick buck off my hard work. No way. Reporters twist everything and anything to get a hook, and I’m not going to get burned… again. I learned my lesson a long time ago: don’t trust someone who sells headlines.

What was that? She guides the microphone to her mouth, drawing my attention to the glossy red lipstick coated on her plump lips. A tactic. A lure. Shiny things come with sharp edges. Did you say something?

Great, it feels great, I stammer as I make my escape. No matter how insanely hot they are, reporters see successful athletes as meal tickets. I guarantee if I seduce her with the promise of an interview, she’d drop those jeans and show me that perfect heart-shaped ass.

A gentle squeeze against my shoulder stops me dead in my tracks. It’s not just the touch… but the spark it sends down my spine and splays out across my ass cheeks renders me still. Like two swats to the rear. Pow. Pow.

Sore muscles, no doubt, in desperate need of some ice and rest, but I don’t like it.

Not.

One.

Bit.

What’s next for you, Matt?

A hot shower, I respond, shrug her hand off my arm, and walk off.

The pale gray locker room calms me with its emptiness. The room holds nothing but benches to sit on, lockers, equipment, and doors to the showers. In here, the outside doesn’t matter. Everything I had— every ounce of fight — I left out in the ring. Here, I can unwind away from the public eye and ground myself.

Before I can even take a seat, my manager shows up. Eddie props himself up against my locker with a don’t-bullshit-me expression plastered on his face. Since we were kids, he’s had that same damn look, just now there’s a shit-ton more hair on his face then when we were ten.

I got stopped by a rookie reporter. Sitting on the bench, I flip my wrists, baring the laces for Eddie to untie.

Eddie reaches in for my water bottle and places it beside me. What, where? He removes my gloves from my hands and hangs them up on the hook.

Right outside the door, I answer and down half the bottle.

I vet all the press invites after that last chick. Eddie shakes his head and goes silent while he stares at the locker room entrance. Those smarts