Kismet of Submission: Episode 11

Tamara receives another hug from Susan, this time in farewell, and Sir nods; then follows back out into the real world of endless possibilities. Her stride is quick and choppy, shoulders hunched as if fighting against a stiff headwind and flaying hail. She senses Sir closing in and panics. ‘Air. I need air.’

Fixated on the glowing green EXIT sign, she plows through the meandering crowds, adrenaline dumping to facilitate her mindless flight goaded by a single word.

Run.

The late afternoon heat slams into chilled body as she bolts through the glass doors out onto the curved concrete concourse. She pivots right and trots past the line of vehicles picking up passengers. A wide pillar beckons. Tamara abruptly stops. Knuckles scrape the rough surface when she covers her face and leans forward.

Over the sound of her thumping pulse, she becomes aware of music: Bollywood dances forth from taxis to her left. She peers over; men in bright shirts, baggy trousers and rubber sandals chain-smoke and passionately converse in rapid Hindi, briefly subsiding whenever a fare arrives.

The urge to get in and flee is so strong; she takes a step toward the first cab at the stand. She hears him, nearby, but not crowding her.

Sir coughs and clears his throat. ‘Would you like your purchases before you leave?’

Tamara grips her elbows and shivers despite the heat. ‘I’m scared.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t think. I’m… hopeless.’

‘You know what I think, Tamara?’

‘No. What?’

‘I think, you and I, should go back to the hotel bar, get a refreshing ice cold adult beverage, and chill out with a cuddle.’

Tamara lets out a helpless giggle. ‘Oh, Sir.’

Sir holds out his right hand, palm up, and, after a deep sigh and shrug, she allows him to tug her back from the edge of panic. The contact of their entwined fingers is searing.

Drone-like, we fly above his car returning as a homing pigeon to the hotel. Our pulses too, slow, as the sedan idles at red lights and turns into the parking lot. Dusk is fast approaching from the east, while off to the south, dark clouds sail close to the cool wind promising rain later in the evening. We skip past their entry, and slip inside his—their—room to lurk in the corner. We’d like to see some action soon, maybe another spanking or even sex. This emotional stuff is hard to read. The metallic ‘snick’ of the swiped cardkey and they enter.

Sir sets her bags on the quasi-desk/table while Tamara juggles her purse and two bottles of local craft beer.

‘You know, Sir, that this so-called craft beer is actually brewed by one of the conglomerates.’

‘Really?’

‘It used to be a small operation, but the owners sold when a rainmaker made an offer,’ she lowers her voice to gravelly growl and sneers, ‘youz can’t refuze.’

Sir laughs. ‘You do that pretty well.’

‘Thanks. Insomnia and late-night cable.’ She twists the caps off, and hands over his beer.’ Tilting the beverages, they cross brown bottles with a clink and toast. ‘Cheers.’

He slugs down half the malt, and wipes the foam from his lips. Kicking his shoes off, he retrieves the remote, and clicks on the wall-mounted television. The screen pops up to the default setting of hotel advertising and a local business scrawl. He glances at the plastic channel guide.

‘I’m going to freshen up.’

He grunts and drinks, eyes never leaving the rapidly scrolling pictures flashing by as the numbers climb into the double digits.

Tamara rolls her eyes. ‘Men.’

As she opens the bathroom door and heads towards the bed, the familiar theme and the announcement, ‘This is Sportscenter’, causes yet another sigh and slump of the shoulders. She tugs down the corner of the king-size bedspread and fluffs the pillow behind her head. Sipping, as he sets his empty down, she pretends to be engrossed in the afternoon baseball highlights. She sighs again.

‘Bored?’

‘Nope.’

He harrumphs. ‘We could watch something else.’

‘This is fine.’ She rubs the back of her neck and spins the pillow ninety-degrees, then folds it in half. ‘You did say the remote is yours… and… you’re the Dom… sooooo… I’ll just sit here… being quiet… and submissive… don’t mind me… yup… I do love me some double play action… ooooh… a homerun! A dinger! A bleacher burner blast! A round tripper! A base clearer! A—ack!’ She squawks as Sir pounces on her. ‘Don’t spill my beer!’

Sir nips the bottle away, and crouches over her. He notes her breath is fast and her pupils dilated. His hands rest on the fuzzy blanket, close to, but not touching her ribs. ‘Somebody is being bratty.’

‘No, Sir. Everything is fine. I’ll be quiet now.’ With a clenched teeth grin, Tamara looks up at him and nods emphatically.

He reaches down and gently strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Are you sure? That you’re fine?’

Tamara nods again and blinks rapidly as her eyes swell with moisture. As she breaks into halting sobs, Sir scoops her up, cradling her tight against his chest with her hands curled at his pecs. He strokes her back in long sweeps with one hand, rocking ever so slightly with his chin pressed to her temple. He can still smell her shampoo.

The talking heads natter on.

His shirt is wet.

She apologizes, dabbing at the dampness.

He pops up, opens the travel size tissue box and plucks out half the contents with one pull.

‘You don’t know your own strength,’ she says with shaky humor.

‘It’s my superpower. Don’t tell anyone. Next thing you know, I’ll be in bathrooms across America hanging toilet paper, roll’s end facing up.’

‘Everyone knows the end hangs down, Sir!’

Tamara wipes her face and blows her nose. He holds out a palm, she drops the used tissues and he pivots, shooting them towards the wastebasket. It bounces off the rim… and drops in.

‘Nice shot!’

‘Top Ten list for sure.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know, I was thinking…’

‘Yes…’

‘Well, considering the stress you’re feeling, Tamara, I think—I know—you could benefit right about now from a good spanking.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

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