Holiday Submission

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Caro Anderson feared two things. The wrong kind of sexual dominant—and never finding the right one. In her search for a loving yet severe master, a disastrous experience taught her to protect her body and emotions. Yet she longs for a stern master to love. Encouraged by a friend, Caro takes a chance with a handsome British Dom and agrees to spend one weekend exploring their darkest fantasies.

Rhys Devlin believes he's finally found a submissive who desires the same sexual extremes he does. But when he get's perfect girl tied down for the weekend, he discovers he wants more than her body. He wants her carefully guarded heart.

Together they discover how much is enough, and what they truly need. 

**Mature Content 18+ Only!**
Holiday Submission Book Trailer

Excerpt: **WARNING** for Mature Audiences only 18+



England, present day.

The doorbell rang at eight o’clock Friday evening—the prearranged time for her holiday adventure to begin. Caro Anderson gathered her courage, rose from the chair near the fireplace, and walked across the carpeted floor to her destiny, at least for this wintery weekend.

With her hand poised on the knob, she glanced around the room one last time. Candles lit the cozy interior, leather-bound books lined the shelves, and a fire blazed in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the old-fashioned chair and sofa. Nothing modern spoiled the image of a quaint, eighteenth-century English cottage.

She glanced down at herself. Her blond hair hung loose, the ends just brushing the tips of her breasts. Her pierced nipples peeked over a red velvet corset, and below, a long open-front skirt showed only a glimpse of her thighs and shaved mound. She wore white stockings, tied with red ribbon just above her knees.

She’d dressed exactly as the agency said he’d requested. All the other details—the cottage and furnishings—were arranged by him also. And as she’d discovered when she arrived an hour ago, his choices were perfect. The setting suited her every desire. Now she would finally meet him in the flesh, and for the next two days live her darkest sexual dream—complete submission.

Pulling open the door, she drank in the sight of him. Dressed in a long black coat, black breeches, and an elegant white linen shirt, he looked the dashing nobleman—complete with shoulder-length, dark hair pulled back in a queue.

She blinked, awed by his good looks, then remembered to stand back and drop to a curtsy, eyes downcast. “My lord.”

Dry, fluffy snow swirled in around his booted feet when he entered. The door closed and she heard him bolt the lock. She stayed lowered and waited for his first command.

Her senses stirred, attuned to the whisper of satin lining as he shrugged out of his woolen coat and hung it on a peg. The grip of his hand around her arm raised her to stand in front of him.

Tipping her face up, he traced the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb. “You know why I’m here.”

Oh, dear god, his voice. His deep, sexy British voice.

She looked down. “To inspect your new mistress.” Her body shook with arousal.

Leaning close, he whispered, “I’ve come to inspect my property.” He threaded his hand into her hair and jerked her head back, keeping a merciless hold despite her startled gasp. “Mistress is a polite term for what you are and the use I plan for you. Always remember, you’re my servant now, my personal whore. A warm, wet female I can fuck any time, and in any fashion I choose.”

“Yes, as agreed, my lord.” Her cunt clenched, instantly ready for him.

She closed her eyes and felt his lips hover along her cheek, his breath warm on her skin. His mouth paused near hers, but he did not kiss her.

“First my cock, so you’ll understand your purpose.” He turned her, urging her to the kitchen and the large medieval butcher’s block—an innocuous, square surface, except for the chains and cuffs at every corner.

He pressed her down. “Bend over. I’ll start severely, as I intend to go on.”

With one hand on her back, he pinned her upper body to the smooth wood surface. Her head hung over one edge, her rear over the other. She kept perfectly still, docile while he moved around, buckling the cuffs on her wrists and ankles.

She felt him lift her skirt. Warm air from the kitchen stove whispered over her naked haunches. His hand caressed the curve of her of buttocks—a deceptively gentle moment she knew would not last. The tips of her anxious, stocking-covered toes flexed on the stone floor. Her hips writhed in anticipation. Only the ankle cuffs prevented her from widening her legs more to give him better access.

When he reached up to the cooking implements suspended from hooks in the ceiling, a woeful moan vibrated in her throat. He chose a long-handled wooden spoon and laid it on the block by her face.

“What does a slave need?” His question made her squirm.

“A master, my lord…and discipline.” She imagined his view of her quivering bottom, her moist sex and restless thighs.

“And fucking?” He stood behind her, kneading her bottom with strong, bruising hands.

“Yes.” Sweet sin, yes! This slave needs it!

He shifted away and she twisted her head to watch him take a small bottle of oil from a nearby cupboard. He rolled up his long, white sleeves.

“First the discipline.” Moving behind her again, he stroked his hand over the curve of her ass—then he slapped it.

“Unh.” She grunted at the impact. She had only a moment to recover before he picked up the spoon and delivered the next strike. The severity banished any doubts he’d be too soft with her.

“Brace, wench.” The third whack came harder still.

“Oh, god.” She cried out before she could stop herself.

Biting her lip, she bore his mastery for another four swats. On the fifth, he wrung a deep, anguished sound from her soul.

“Good.” His fingers touched the wet crease between her legs. He teased the hood of her clit, then dipped slightly into her cunt.

“Oh, please, my lord.” In mere minutes, he had her begging.

“Yes, your lord and master.” His palm connected to the underside of her rear, slapping the wet, swollen flesh of her labia too. She jerked against her chains, abandoning all reserve when pain and pleasure crashed together.

“Master, please.”

“I like your cries, little slave.” Without reprieve, the spoon followed, burning the same tender flesh with a sharper, focused sting. Three more times he whipped her with the wicked implement, until she screamed for him—until she squirmed and pleaded piteously.

He paused, and oil drizzled on her bottom. Then he delivered another strike.

“Oh god, Sir!” The oil made it worse. She struggled again, pulling uselessly against her bonds. His hand pressed down on her back and kept her pinned. Adding to her torment, the position mashed her pierced, swollen nipples onto the hard wood.

“I might need to gag you next time.”

Next time? She dreaded it—and almost came, thinking of it. She panted her compliance. “As you wish, Sir. I’m here for your use.”

“And pleasure.”

More oil drizzled between her rear cheeks, then she heard the crackle of a foil wrapper. A condom! They had agreed in the contract that condoms would only be used for anal play.

He planned sodomy first.

“I think my inspection should start here. I want to see how well my slave takes cock up her tight little ass.” His fingers began the assault, prodding and probing the rear channel, stretching her open. She squirmed in agitated bliss while he loosened the tense muscle.

Then she felt his cock, the head pushing through the snug ring. Although he’d primed her with ample oil, and she’d been using plugs for weeks in preparation, she hissed at the size of his invasion.

Safewords simmered in her brain, but she didn’t cry out. Instead she sank deeper into the experience, owning it, absorbing it. Distress and desire became her world. She submerged herself in submission. Her master demanded this. The fantasy swirled through her brain, the servant being fucked in the kitchen by her overlord.

He paused and stroked her hip. “You’ve got the sweetest ass I’ve ever fucked, my lady slave.” He stabbed and retreated. A slow encroachment, always shafting deeper. With a grunt, he hilted himself.

“Ah, Sir…” Completely impaled now, she lay cuffed and chained to the block. She whimpered when he pumped into her burning rear with long, decisive thrusts.

“That’s it. Take your master’s cock.” Increasing the rhythm, he used her body for his pleasure.

Her clit ached. Warm arousal slicked her thighs. She heard him curse, passionate and determined. She loved his voice, the harshness of his breath while he worked towards culmination. He leaned forward and clamped one hand on the back of her neck like the clasp of old-fashioned stocks. His other hand fisted her hair and pulled her head back.

A grimace tightened her face, part pain, part devastating ecstasy. She rubbed her mound against the block, seeking contact for the hungry nub between her legs, and then she lifted to meet his thrusts, craving more of this strange new sex. Her moans filled the fire-lit kitchen and were punctuated by his deep grunts every inward stroke.

“Please, Sir, I need…”

“No. You are here for my use, a simple toy for my lust. A receptacle for my cock and cum…fuck!” He shoved deep and held, his abdomen pressed to her bottom, his balls teasing her clit. His grip tightened in her hair, holding her head back while his cock flexed and throbbed inside her exploited channel.

Slowly, slowly, he relaxed onto her, and braced on his elbows.

Her head drooped over the block. She panted through her own arousal, incredibly happy that she’d pleased him. Incredibly happy she’d met him. How deftly he’d locked her into the fantasy and made her forget the real world.

Joy—and flames of lust—curled her toes. She wanted to come. She wanted to hug him.

Just a month ago, when she’d landed a temporary design job in England, a friend from her BDSM group invited her to stay at her London flat. One night, after confiding their fantasies over a bottle of wine, her friend squealed with excitement and pulled out a business card with one discreet phone number written in gold script. “Here, call them. It’s a private D/s matchup agency. It’s free for submissives.”

The decision hadn’t been easy for Caro, but the anonymity of being in a different country bolstered her courage. Perhaps she would find the right man through the D/s service and if she did, she promised herself she’d ask for what she truly desired.

A week later, Caro called, and after exchanging pictures, video clips, and a detailed contract, she’d wound up here—with a vetted, experienced Dom, willing to give her a once-in-a-lifetime chance to live her darkest fantasy.

His teeth nipped her shoulder. “A toy I’ll use often.”

“Mmm…lucky me.” She wiggled against him. She thought she heard a chuff of laughter, but he straightened away, withdrawing his semi-erect flesh.

“I’m not done with you. Far from it.” His voice sounded clipped, controlled—every inch the lordly British Dom. He adjusted her skirt, letting it swirl down over her rear. When he stepped in front to unhook her cuffs, his black leather breeches were half buttoned.

He held her elbow and helped her straighten, turning her and leaning her backside against the block. “Stay there.”

She watched him as he ranged about the kitchen, collecting glasses and a bottle of champagne from the old-fashioned icebox. She still didn’t know how he managed to arrange it all, but she knew this kind of detail took planning and deep pockets.

He’d done so much to make this special for her, and she would show her appreciation by being the finest submissive he’d ever had. Already, he’d proved himself the best Dom. Everything aroused her—his manner, his voice, his appearance.

She dared to glance up again. Dressed in the long-sleeved white shirt, tight black breeches, and knee-high boots, he could be the hero in any historical romance.

Her rear burned from his use.

She felt delirious with happiness.

He poured two glasses of sparkling wine, handed them to her, then leaned back against the counter and met her gaze. “I’ll have to punish you for staring.”

She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Lowering her eyes, she whispered, “Yes, my lord.”

“Take the glasses and set them on the coffee table, then kneel beside the sofa. You may drink your champagne. I’ll be there in a few minutes. ”

She scurried away and sank to her knees on the carpet by the fire. Her hand shook when she sipped from her glass, her ears attuned to his movements in the kitchen. Water ran, cupboards clicked, and drawers slid. When he sauntered into the main room, he held a pair of nipple clamps in one hand, and a small brown bag in the other.

“You need to eat something. I don’t want you fainting.”

“Fainting?” Her eyes darted to the bag. What did he have in there?

He set it on the table and pulled out some napkins and a large sandwich, cut in two.

She chuckled and quickly looked down, but not before she noticed his brows snap together.



Rhys Devlin bit back a laugh when her mischievous expression vanished. He sat on the arm of the sofa. “After I feed you, I have a little torture in mind—and I promise you won’t be smiling. Now, open.”

He'd wanted this woman the moment he first saw her, and immediately set about having a mutual friend “introduce” them online through a private D/s matchup service.

Holding the sandwich to her ruby-red, obediently-parted lips, he ached to kiss them, but he couldn’t—not yet.

Her safewords were “kiss me.”

She couldn’t have made it clearer that this fantasy was about rough sex and male ownership, not intimacy. During their online negotiations he had agreed to her preferences—no kissing, no romance, just fucking. She wanted to be a toy, objectified and used for his lustful deviance.

He’d never had a submissive ask for such extreme role-play. And he’d never wanted a scene, or a woman, as much this one.

Just watching her aroused him. He loved her eyes, her hair, her silky skin. He loved her sexy, provocative mouth, and despite having to wait, he anticipated hearing those plush lips say, “Kiss me.”

Her choice of safewords incited some primitive male instinct to make her say them. But he suspected that’s what she had in mind.

“I’ll hear your safewords before midnight.” He hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts aloud, but he knew her game. If he couldn’t get her to that level of surrender, he wasn’t the Dom for her. She wanted extremes that pushed her limits—and he would give them to her—hard enough to safeword. Then, after he paused and assessed her well-being, he had the right to kiss her…if he desired to.

And desire, he did.

She lowered her eyes. “Perhaps, my lord.”

At least she knew better than to argue outright. If she did, he’d string her up in a minute and lash a good strapping across her tender back and breasts. His hand moved down and cupped one of her lovely tits, then twisted a pierced nipple.

She flinched but stayed quiet. The perfect picture of acquiescence.

“You’ll scream for me, little dove.” He twisted a little more, until she gasped and reflexively moved to stop him. Her eyes snapped to his, her hand paused midair, and his pointed gaze worked well to check her small disobedience. He cradled her face with his palm and traced a thumb across those soft, rosy lips, knowing he would fuck them tonight.

“Drink.” He motioned to her half-finished champagne. “All of it.”



The small flute did not hold much and Caro quickly swallowed the last sip, grateful for the crisp, bubbly liquid.

He placed her empty glass on the end-table. “Now, stand and take off the skirt. My inspection is not over.”

“Yes, my lord.” A maestro could not have played her so pitch-perfect.

She dreamed of belonging to man like this, of being his sole focus, of serving him in the most base, carnal way. Slowly, she rose and untied the wrapped belt, letting the skirt slip to the floor. Her peaked nipples ached, and longing slicked her thighs. Would she come just standing there under his scrutiny?

No, she was not so easy!

He wanted the same extremes she did. The length of his hard cock ridged the front of his breeches, proving his desire ran as fevered as her own. It would not please him if she broke so soon.

She had to resist.

He stood in front of her. Masterful fingers tugged the laces of the red velvet corset and a moment later it fell to the floor on top of her skirt. She held her breath when he cupped each breast.

He handled them, weighing and pinching, assessing his new possessions. Ignoring her moans, he squeezed the ends to red, aching points.

She watched warily when one hand dropped away and reached back to the table.

The clover clips gleamed wickedly when he drew them into the candlelight. “You will wear these on your pretty little tits for the next twenty minutes, and I will watch you suffer.”

“Yes, my lord.” Clover clips hurt—especially on pierced nipples. She’d never had a Dom expect her to endure them so long, yet she wanted to test her boundaries for this man. She wanted him to push the twenty minute threshold—the safe limit for blood restriction to the nipple. An expert Dom knew that. The trust he evoked aroused her even more.

“Brace.” His clipped voice nearly made her come. As she fought the desire, he tweaked her tender nip and let the jaws close on it.

“Ahh, god.” She dropped her head back and centered herself into the pain, reaching beyond for the arousal that would make it bearable. She relaxed into the anguish, connecting to the sensual ache that coiled through her breasts and sex, numbing her mind. Oh, yes, suffering. For him.

The chain linking the clamps jingled softly, deceptively, when he lifted the second one. Again his fingers played her, molesting the other breast's tip. He lowered his head and drew the nipple into his mouth, flicking the ring with his tongue. Hard, menacing teeth abraded the puckered flesh until she feared he’d draw blood. A hard limit for her. Welts, bruising, and scratches were all sanctioned, but not blood.

When she struggled, he yanked her close, and bent her back over his arm for better access. She shook her head, negating his use, but she didn’t protest aloud. Suddenly his mouth lifted, replaced by the hard bite of steel. The small rubber pads made little difference when he let the spring snap shut. 

Agony stabbed through her body and a scream erupted from her throat. Her knees gave out and her weight sagged into him. He held her, keeping her trapped in place. Her safewords hovered on her tongue.

No, she would not say them!

“Very nice, little dove. Now, let’s take a shower. I’ll want to feel your obedient mouth while warm water runs on our naked skin.”

“Shower?” She could hardly think around the pain. Indoor plumbing and refrigeration weren’t historically accurate in her 1700s fantasy, but certain modern conveniences were necessary. The cottage had both running water and a small, old fashioned icebox.

“Come along.” He held her wrists, and urged her down the hall. Movement caused the chain between the clamps to swing and pull. Anguish consumed her. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

A shower. Naked. Now she would see him naked. Oh, she wanted that. She wanted to touch. She wanted him inside her again. She’d never been this aroused.



Rhys held his new submissive’s wrists behind her back and urged her down the hall. He didn’t want to think about the potential after this weekend. Their agreement was only for two days, so at this point, he couldn’t make plans.

Right now, he had Caro Anderson’s surrender.

The curve of her ass already bore his marks, and he had to fight the urge to flatten her against the wall and fuck the hell out of her again. He’d never felt this level of lust for a woman, but he restrained himself.

First a shower, then some dinner for both of them.

Seventeen years of experience as a Dom—half his life—taught him a lot about control. As he'd walked to the cottage tonight, he’d steeled his reserve. Despite what Caro Anderson agreed to during their online negotiations, she might not require the high level of dominance he preferred. He knew he would need to go carefully and gauge her response. His sexuality had a savage side he usually kept leashed. Although his previous submissives loved the rough sex, he’d never taken them past their limits. He’d never explored how far he could take a girl.

Caro asked for raw, unharnessed dominance—sexual savagery. Her fantasy and his meshed perfectly, and so far she’d responded well. Although he’d taken her right to the edge of safewording, she stayed wet with pleasure. They had a chemistry he’d never felt with another sub.

He wanted the same thing she did—a complete power exchange. Now, after touching her, controlling her, fucking her, he realized two days might not be enough time. He would want more.

He also wanted her safewords and what they represented.

A sub wouldn’t choose safewords as provocative as “kiss me” for the sole purpose of stopping a scene. He suspected she would only share the intimacy of a kiss with a man who had earned it. Desire and trust were key issues.

He pulled his shirt over his head and sat on the side of the bathtub to tug his boots off. Leaning back to the spigot, he turned the taps on and tested the water’s temperature.

When he stood, he stroked her shoulder and urged her to her knees in front of him. His hand sifted through her light blond tresses. “Unbutton me.”

Big, expressive blue eyes gazed back at him, her fingers paused on the top fastenings. She glowed with arousal. Anticipation tingled across his skin. His cock couldn’t get any harder.

“Do it, wench.”

She fumbled a moment, but managed to open his breeches. He pushed them down and stepped out.

Her eyes rounded. “Oh my, no wonder…”

“You’re sore?” He flicked the chain suspended between her breasts.

She flinched. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good, I plan to keep you that way—a constant reminder that your singular purpose is my pleasure. You belong to me. If I want to use you while you’re sore, you will submit.”

Her head dropped. “Yes, my lord.”

He wondered if he’d gone too far, but then he caught the subtle shift of her hips. Her thighs pressed together, nervous and aroused.

Now he would get his cock in her. Skin to skin. They’d done the tests. She took birth control. He could come inside her as many times as he liked.

He loved the fantasy of owning her.

Stepping in first, he left the door open and began to wash. He enjoyed how her eyes followed the trails of soap and water sluicing over his body while he lathered and rinsed in quick, efficient motions.

“Join me.” He held out his hand, and helped her step in beside him. Once she had good footing, he tugged the chain attached to her breasts. “Closer.”

She gasped, but he continued to pull her against him. Wet, slippery skin to wet, slippery skin. Reaching around her, he took the soap and lathered her rear.

She huffed, a near laugh, quickly ended when he looped his arm round her waist and yanked her tight, squashing her tortured breasts. He reached up and aimed the water to rinse her bottom. Then he palmed the rounded cheeks and slapped one for good measure.

Stepping back, he sat on the shower seat. “On your knees. Soap your hands and wash my cock. Afterwards, I’ll remove the clamps.”

She sank down before him. Her nipples were misshapen and red, and the damp ends of her blond hair curled around them. Once more, he used the chain as a leash and pulled her closer. “Do it.”

The tension kept her tits elongated into a cone shape. He jiggled the links, letting the weight of the chain bounce and tug her flesh another degree. Her eyes snapped up to his, her face tight with pain, but she reached forward and stroked his sex.

Sweet fuck! Her hands felt good. He savored the anticipation—and the taste of his own blood when he bit his tongue to keep from coming.

The next few minutes would test them both.