Kismet of Submission: Episode 17

The default buzz: He reads the text. “im sorry”

Without hesitation he replies, “The door is still open.”

When Tamara locks the door behind her, cringing in the short foyer like a whipped cur expecting the worst, he rolls sideways propped on an elbow, and softly pats the bed—three times.

She sits down, back to him and slips off her flats. She shivers when his v-splayed pads trace her hunched vertebrae. There is no interrogation forthcoming so she surrenders to the inevitable. ‘It’s okay if you punish me, Sir. I deserve a good hard paddling for running off with your car.’

‘Turn around and face me, Tamara.’

‘I can’t.’ The pause is not lengthy. ‘Sir. You shouldn’t want me. I’m messed up… inside. I see other people—normal people—and I wonder why I had to suffer. Why does God hate me so much? Why did an eight-year old girl have to learn about sex through rape and abuse? I can’t do a relationship, Sir. I don’t know how. All I’ll ever be is a burden to you. A worthless sack you drag behind you.’

‘Tamara? There’s only one question I have for you at this time.’ Stoking her tense back, he sits up and swings around to her side. ‘Will you obey me?’

The pause—this time—is very lengthy.

The response is tremulous but clear. ‘Yes.’

‘Good girl.’ Hugging her with one arm, the other hand flicks the television off, tossing the remote aside as he stands. ‘Come on. We’re going to take a shower—together—and you’re going to receive your first lesson in obedient submission through pleasure and punishment.’

Finally! Some skin: hopefully, some sex. Voyeurs or not, as readers the question that always arises, is whether or not the sex is germane to the prose. Romance can be smooth as silk with metaphoric fireworks bursting in joyous wonder, as the happy virgin succumbs to the rampant rod of the virile, dark, dangerous (yet strangely tender and emphatic even though he’s just run through the dastardly villain with his mighty sword) hero who has rescued the fair maiden—of good breeding in disguise—from her impetuous and rash decisions to balance the scales of justice on her own. Such temerity shall not go unpunished. Erotic ravishing soon follows to restore the natural order of things. Erotica mixes clichés and metaphors with strategic clinical terminology; the plot serving as the device leaping between sensual encounters coming fast and furiously. Smut, aka porn, throws all pretense of style out the window and allows both the author and reader to shamelessly masturbate to outrageous scenarios. So what route will this story take? Pull back the heavy-duty vinyl commercial grade shower curtain and take a peek.

Expecting, at the very least, to be tossed out if not arrested for grand theft auto; the transition from fugitive, to romantic naked shower, is so disorientating Tamara can only flail for what she hopes is an appropriate response. ‘Oh! Sorry about the elbow, Sir.’

‘That’s okay. I didn’t actually need that rib. Hotel tubs aren’t built for two.’

‘Sir? Is it okay to say that you have a great body?’

‘Only if I get to tell you that your body is gorgeous.’


He cuts off her self-disparaging onomatopoeia with a wet palm over her mouth. ‘Be silent, Tamara. Allow my hands to learn your past and show you a better future.’

The enclosure may be cramped, but there is ample space for Sir’s nimble firm fingers to go to work. Tamara flexes her shoulders as the pulsating pressure of the water beats the back of her neck.

‘It’s not the most profound philosophic ponderation,’ Sir apologizes as he massages her right hand, ‘but every woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing nude has, at the ‘bare’ minimum, been dissatisfied with her body. Some even—as I suspect you do—feel outright hostility towards flesh in its natural exuberance. Men, on the other hand,’ switching to the knuckles of her left fingers kneading and pulling out the kinks, ‘are simple creatures. Ruled by our cocks, we have far less stringent standards for beauty.’

‘I can feel your ‘standard’ bumping against my tummy,’ Tamara murmurs as soapy hands stroke her lean arms.

He ignores her pun. ‘Your arms and fingers for instance, tell me you work hard for a living. A waitress? Or—in our PC world—a server of food. Your shoulders are strong; used to carrying burdens without any help. Your face is lined with life lived. Visible scars covered by foundation—here, and here—the secret invisible trauma flashes in your stormy eyes.’

Tamara makes a small sound of disappointment when he steps back. She watches his eyes move lower, lingering on her saggy breasts then burrowing between her thighs. The dampness she feels is not hot water. She clenches her fists and tries to relax. His scrutiny is thorough, but she senses—despite his erection—his lust is firmly under control. His next question reinforces her conviction that she’ll never be able guess his thoughts.

‘Did you breastfeed?’

Her mouth moves without volition. ‘I was fifteen, Sir! I didn’t even know I was pregnant!’ His touch is searing when palms cup and lift, thumbs rotating aureoles and strumming engorged nipples.

‘Your mother?’

‘Died when I was seven.’

‘The father of your daughter?’

‘A shotgun wedding.’

Your father?’

‘An abusive alcoholic.’


‘Not him.’

Tamara gasps as his lips suckle and fingers palpitate.


‘Your husband?’

‘A fucking monster.’

Her eyes close with a primal moan when his tongue flickers and teeth nibble.




‘Assume the position!’


‘You heard me, Tamara. I’m sure you’ve watched enough cop shows to understand. Turn around, face the wall and assume the position.’

‘What are you going to do, Sir?’ Tamara is unable to keep the quaver from her tone. A potent mixture of arousal, confusion and fear, she needs to know what he plans to do first.

‘What else? It’s time for a cavity search.’

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


  1. I love the emotion this piece evoked…she is so wrecked, and yet, he shows her acceptance… Well done, LS 🙂


  2. I agree. You are always so great at creating empathy with the characters.


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