The Shape of Surrender (Ch. 03)
soppingwetpanties
This is Scott's unrequited fantasy of female domination.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.
Chapter Three
Chantal
Vivian had just paid me an unexpected visit that afternoon. It didn't last more than thirty minutes, but it was thirty minutes of perfection - that is if you considered licking her dusty boots and then worshipping her feet perfection. I did just that and felt emotionally satisfied in a way "conventional" sex never made me feel.
I knew I was in love with her, the kind of love that most people wouldn't understand. I thought I was in love with Rose but after being with Vivian I realized I was simply trying to make myself fit into the expectations of others. None of my friends or family knew about my relationship with Vivien and I wanted to keep it that way. There was no point in being judged by people who didn't understand my sexual proclivities.
The unexpected visit from Vivian was such an adrenaline rush I immediately went for a beer and then another, just to bring me down. She forbade me from masturbating without permission, leaving me no alternative than to salve my sexual hunger with alcohol. She knew exactly what buttons to push and when, as if she knew what I felt and what I wanted before I did. For the first time in my life I was completely beholden to a woman yet at the same time felt totally free. An invigorating freedom to act and speak as I wanted without shame or remorse.
I put my feet on the table, taking a third beer out of the refrigerator and enjoying the beginnings of a nice buzz and the contentment I'd longed for. Even my beer tasted better than before. I was in the middle of my third cold one when my phone buzzed. All of a sudden my hackles were raised and my dulled senses were heightened. It was a text message from Vivian.
Vivian: Scott.
Me: Yes, Mistress Vivian. How can I be of service?
Vivian: Be at my house in thirty minutes.
Me: I've had a few beers...
Vivian: I'll send Chantal. She'll be there in fifteen minutes.
My reaction to her abrupt style was a combination of heart-pounding excitement and petrifying terror. As Vivian told me, our relationship was to be fueled by anticipation - anticipation of the unknown. I loved the nervous energy our text exchange elicited.
Chantal would be coming. I talked to her once on the telephone and met her at Vivian's restaurant. It was there I witnessed a true act of submission - her eating my cum off a napkin at Vivian's direction. I still remember the impish smile she gave me after I watched her swallow.
What to wear? I decided on business casual. Vivian was an impeccable dresser so no jeans and a sweatshirt for her. A crisp white button down collar shirt, black slacks and a soft shouldered navy sport coat seemed like the right choice accompanied by a pair of black leather loafers. After a lightning quick shower I was ready to go in fourteen minutes. At minute fifteen my doorbell rang. Even though I was expecting it, the noise cutting through the thick silence still startled me. I rushed to the door to open it.
"Hello Scott," Chantal said to me. Now it was Scott. In the restaurant it was Mr. Alden.
I stood there momentarily tongue tied. When I met her at the restaurant she was wearing a simple black dress, attractive but not sexy. Now she was wearing a burgundy slip dress that clung to her willowy frame like a second skin, the silk shimmering in the waning sunlight. The neckline dipped down low, showing me the cleavage between her pert breasts and the thigh high slit on the side giving me a view of her long, supple legs. Over it she'd thrown a black leather moto jacket - cropped and fitted, adding an edginess to balance out the elegance of the dress. Her stilettos were strappy and unapologetically high.
Chantal was dressed with precision, not to impress, but to disarm. It worked.
Before I could utter a greeting she breezed by me and into my humble abode. The air of professionalism I experienced in the restaurant was absent. In its place I sensed a tension. My gut feeling was confirmed when she seized my chin with her hand.
"What are your intentions with Vivian?" she asked me in an accusatory voice.
"I have none," I protested. I was on my heels. Vivian warned me she was a bit prickly when it came to me.
"She's mine."
She shook my head before letting go of my chin. This wasn't prickly. This was jealousy, pure and simple.
"I didn't intend to get between you two. I found her on a website. That's all," I said, trying to explain I had no intention of taking Vivian away from her.
Chantal huffed at me, unsatisfied with my protestation. "I thought you were just a passing fancy... a new shiny object... a toy... but you've been hanging around for two months and she hasn't tired of you yet."
All of that was true. I was her toy. I accepted that. And I was happy that she wanted me around. But I hadn't factored in Chantal. She was rarely around when I was with Vivian. Now I knew why.
"Have you fucked her yet?"
"No... no... and I probably never will," I insisted. I wondered if she believed me.
Her hazel colored eyes bored into me, searching for the truth. She seemed satisfied with my answer. She moved her left foot forward enough to make her dress fall off her leg at the slit, revealing her calf and part of her thigh. She was young and sexy. I couldn't control my reaction.
"You're getting hard Scott. Do you find me attractive?"
Of course I did. She knew it. She was playing with me like a hungry cat with a terrified mouse.
"Yes Chantal. You're very attractive."
"Show me."
"Show you what Chantal?"
"Show me you want me."
I wasn't sure what to do. I dropped to my knees and bent forward and lovingly kissed the tips of each of her spiked heels. Then I kissed her ankle and started going up her calf. I started to breathe harder. I wanted her. I wanted her badly. The seductive smell and taste of her youthful skin made my blood boil.
Worshipping Vivian's lover was truly tasting forbidden fruit. Since meeting Vivian I embraced a boldness and recklessness I couldn't have previously imagined. I was ruled by my dark desires, not by rational thought.
"That's enough Scott," she said, pulling her leg back after a flurry of kisses.
I looked up at her with pleading eyes, clearly wanting more and at the same time waving the white flag of surrender.
She smirked. She'd already won.
"Just don't fuck with me Scott."
I passed her test.
"I won't Chantal," I promised. The last thing I wanted to do was fuck with her.
* * *
I've often thought cars reflected the personalities of the people who drove them. My car was a 1988 Saab 900 Turbo, its boxy shape and wraparound windshield giving it a funky charm. Like me it'd developed a number of quirks over the years -- a balky heater that needed to be coaxed to work and a tape deck that only worked if a pencil was wedged under the cassette (yes, I still had mixed tape cassettes in my glove box). It was old but reliable.
I smiled with approval when I saw Chantal's car in my driveway. It was a car I lusted after but on a college professor's salary was just a pipe dream. It was a gleaming obsidian black Porsche 911 Carrera GTS, the perfect blend of performance and comfort. Like Chantal, the body was sculpted to perfection with graceful curves to its flared rear fenders and slim LED lights that gave it a sharp, almost feline stare. I opened the passenger door to see a pleasing mix of leather and black carbon fiber, minimalist and luxurious.
She slid into her seat, her slit dress falling open to let me feast my eyes on her seductive legs. Her driving style was as graceful as she was, effortlessly moving the gated shifter. The car scattered colorful fall leaves as it hurtled down the country roads on the outskirts of Northampton.
We arrived at Vivian's house exactly thirty minutes after our text exchange. I'd been to her home once before, an old Victorian like mine but with modern bones. From the street it looked modest but well-kept, with its weathered gray clapboard and black trimmed windows. Chantal opened the front door for me and I was greeted with the seductive smell of Vivian's cordon bleu, a classic French dish using pounded chicken breasts covered with a layer of prosciutto and a ribbon of gruyere, then dipped in egg wash, rolled tightly, secured by twine or toothpicks and then coated with a fine layer of bread crumbs. My stomach growled. I had three beers and no food. I was hungry.
"I'm here in the kitchen," Vivian called out.
Like the rest of the house the bones of the kitchen were old - worn wide plank oak floors, exposed beams painted a soft matte black - but everything else was redone. The cabinets had flat panel doors painted a charcoal gray with brushed brass handles. The countertops were a yellow granite with faint white veining. The commercial gas range dominated the back wall, flanked by open shelving. A rectangular frame of blackened steel pipe hung over the butcher block island, with polished copper pots and pans suspended from it on "S" shaped hooks.
Butter hissed on the skillet as Vivian gave the chicken breast roulade the finishing touch of a golden crust. Vivian was standing over the stove, the sleeves of her cream colored silk blouse rolled up, and the top of her black cigarette trousers covered by a slate gray apron that showed traces of flour. She was barefoot, heels neatly placed in the corner.
I was in Vivian's lair along with her tigress. I was walking in during act three of a four act play. I had no idea what I was doing there. So I stood there, watching Chantal stand behind Vivian, nuzzling her neck. Vivian shrugged her off.
"If you want to be useful, spoon on the sauce," Vivian snapped at her youthful girlfriend. The Domme placed a roulade, the golden crust still sizzling, on one of the three empty plates on the counter. Chantal went to spoon the tarragon cream sauce on the center.
"Uh-uh," Vivian murmured. "Angle the sauce slightly left, not center."
Chantal did as she was ordered and then furrowed her eyebrows.
"Why are you this bossy?" she asked, seemingly annoyed.
Vivian flipped another roulade on the second plate. "Because you're doing it wrong."
"You're lucky I like you," Chantal retorted, covering the roulade with the creamy sauce in the way Vivian insisted.
"I don't believe in luck," Vivian fired back. "I believe in standards."
"You should open a restaurant," Chantal said mockingly, poking the bear.
Vivian stopped what she was doing. "Are you begging to be punished little one?"
"Always," came Chantal's reply.
The prospect of seeing Vivian discipline Chantal got me excited. I could see that I was being drawn into a complicated three-way relationship when I barely had the capacity to manage a relationship with one of them, let alone both.
