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The Commitment

By:S. E. Lund


Submission was my guilty pleasure. My secret desire. People might look at me and see me as an intelligent capable woman, a grad student who won the Thesis Prize for my writing about Africa. Daughter of a Chief Justice and potentially-future Congressman. But I wasn't that perfect little daughter. I was a woman who let her Dominant lover tie her up, blindfold her, introducing her to the world of D/s, who went to a dungeon party and was spanked in front of a crowd.

I sat in my apartment, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the solitude. I smiled to myself as I thought about my short but intense love affair with Drake Morgan, MD, bass player, philanthropist, looking forward to meeting him later at the apartment on 8th Avenue, eager for whatever plans he had to use my body.

The week before we were leaving for Nairobi, Kenya, and Drake was at his charitable foundation for a meeting. I spent the morning packing, waiting to meet him in hopes that we could play out a scene from his letters – something I'd been waiting for since I signed his contract and agreed to be his submissive.

As his submissive, I had to wait for him to decide the time was right so despite the ache in my body thinking about it, I squelched the urge to question him, ask for it.

At about eleven, my cell buzzed. I hoped it was Drake saying he'd be there early, but it was my father calling from his office using Facetime.

"Hi, Daddy," I said. I couldn't help smiling at the image of him on my phone, sitting at his desk with his readers perched at the end of his nose, his bristle-brush haircut and square face reminding me of a bulldog.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said in his characteristic gravelly voice. "Elaine and I want to take you and Drake out for dinner before you go away. What do you say? Anyplace you'd like to go?"

"I'll ask Drake. I'm sure he'd love to go out with you both."

"Call me back when you know."

"I will."

The call ended and before I called Drake, I checked my email but there was nothing except spam and daily news headlines I subscribed to.

My cell rang and so I checked the call display. Drake Morgan, MD.

"Hi," I said, smiling, my pulse increasing as I imagined what order he'd give me. "I was just going to call you."

"Kate, I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding preoccupied. "Something came up and things have taken longer than expected. I'm going to have to put our meeting off until later tonight."

Our meeting. He must have someone in the office with him and was using code to refer to our scene. Disappointment flooded through me.

"Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine. Just some business to wrap up before we leave."

"My dad called and wants to take us out to dinner tonight. He said the restaurant was our choice. Do you feel like joining them for dinner? Is there somewhere you'd really like to go?"

He paused. "Of course," Drake said. "How about we all go to the Russian Tea Room one last time?"

I smiled. "Only if you agree that we don't sit in a booth."

He laughed at that and then spoke in a low deep voice as if trying not to be heard. "Don't tempt me, Ms. Bennet. You've got my mind working overtime thinking of ways to enjoy you while we're in public."


"Katherine," he said, his voice firm. He said nothing for a moment. "Hold on a second." I heard him speak to someone, wishing them well and thanking them for the meeting. Then, the sound of a door closing.

"Sorry," he said. "I had someone in my office."

"Drake, we could never do anything when my father's there…" I said, despite being titillated by the whole idea.

"Of course not. But we could arrive a bit early…"

I sat there, biting a nail, wondering how to respond to the tone of his voice, which was definitely authoritative, brooking no argument.

"What time would we meet them?" he asked.

"The usual time. Seven-thirty."

"Tell your dad it's my treat and that I insist. I'll reserve the fourth floor at the Russian Tea Room. Now, as for you, Ms. Bennet, I'll pick you up at 8th Avenue at 6:45 and we'll arrive a half hour early. Remember my rules for going out in public. I want you wearing that black dress you wore at the fundraiser and your stockings and garters. Nothing underneath. Put your hair up so I can see your collar and get at that neck of yours. You'll be so wet when we get to the restaurant, I imagine I could make you come very easily."

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting with my urge to argue. "If you really want this."

"I really want this, Katherine. I'm getting hard thinking about slipping my fingers inside of you while we're sitting at the table. I'm going to have to do some serious meditation and deep breathing to get rid of my not so little problem before I go to my next meeting…"