Bitsy’s Inhuman Submission Ch. 08


Sorry for the long wait, but I hope it was worth it. I am back at work at the story after a lengthy “pregnant” hiatus. I have the middle and the end of Bitsy and Stuart’s saga written, but now I have to fill in the blanks. I hope to be posting more in the coming weeks. Thanks for continuing to read! This takes place in the hours after the shattering discoveries made in Chapter 7. I do have to confess that, as usual, Bitsy and Stuart took control of the chapter away from me; this is not how I intended the chapter to go. Enjoy!


Bitsy smoothed the fine silk of the red skirt over her curves. What had possessed her to wear something so slinky to the IPD headquarters she couldn’t say, or rather she wouldn’t admit. As the slick fabric roused the nerves against her skin, the seductive whisper a reminder of her Master’s touch, she felt an answering wetness tease the bald lips between her legs.

She attempted to think of anything—sports (of which she knew nothing), cars, and finally, the vile organ that beat within Tracy Bathory that some may confuse for a heart—to quench the juices that made her mound glisten. Instead, of their own accord, her fingers slid from the steering wheel to tease at that juicy apex. She spread her legs, causing the already short scarlet skirt to hike even higher up her thighs.

Admit it, that infuriatingly taunting voice castigated. Admit that you wore red, HIS color, in homage to him, because you are obsessed with him, because you love him, her internal voice continued to press her, goad her. Vignettes of her fantasies, awakened and nourished by his domination, filled her mind, fueling the pulsing heat that her fingers continued to coax.

As the needle displayed a speed far beyond the limit, she slammed on the brakes. Chest heaving, her breathing harsh within the confines of the Camaro, she responded to the voice in her head aloud, “I’m not obsessed with him, and I certainly don’t love him. It’s the Stockholm Syndrome or something, or a latent sexual addiction. I can just imagine going to see Anna now for counseling. My cousin would pass out—or go into labor—if I explained to her how I responded to him. “

As for the fantasies that dictated her thoughts lately, the inescapable images of what she yearned to experience at the king’s hands, she had no answer. For the first time in her life, she, Bitsy Dracula, the confirmed workaholic of the family, could not focus on her vendetta against Tracy Bathory and her followers in the wake of the daydreams that seemed as inevitable as breathing.

A truly insane part of her mind even toyed with the idea of telling him about her involvement in the IPD, of him finding her in her penthouse office, closing the door to the office, locking it, and demanding that she strip and kneel before him, offering herself on every horizontal—and vertical—surface in her office for his enjoyment.

The Camaro slid smoothly into the designated space for the Commandant General of the IPD. Bitsy, in her guise as Alyssa Mason, slid her face down into her hands in frustration. Her fingers twisted in her long blonde hair, a sharp contrast to the ebony curls that fell in a waterfall down Bitsy Dracula’s back. She looked up into the rearview mirror, her grayish green eyes mocking her. A wry smile touched her lips. King Stuart would never make the connection between his temporary slave and the plain-Jane drudge that peeked at her in the mirror.

And that was a good thing; she reminded the internal voice resolutely as she stepped out of the low slung sports car and locked it. The long, narrow heels of the red stilettos made clickety-clack noises on the smooth concrete as she hurried to the entrance of the most exclusive piece of real estate in Paris, the IPD headquarters.

Just as she told herself that, her cell phone, the one that Bitsy Dracula would be answering, beeped. A text message. Her breath caught in her throat.

Where are you? was the laconic sentence that filled the screen.

The submissive voice within, mardin escort one that Bitsy now recognized as a more playful, impish facet of her personality, fired back a coy, “Around.”

Predictably, the king’s response sent delicious shivers down her back to center as vibrations in her molten core. Unobtrusively, Bitsy crossed her legs, biting her lower lip to keep the aroused moan at bay that his words induced. “That pettish evasion is not attractive, pet. As a result, there will be…consequences.”

Bitsy’s mouth and pussy watered as her mind exploded with images of possible consequences: the crop, nipple clamps, orgasm control, exhibitionism, humiliation. Which would he choose? Her text was a half-hearted attempt at placation. “Consequences, Your Highness?”

“You will call me within 90 seconds to receive your punishment. If you fail to do so, you won’t like the results.” Imagining the humiliation that this phone call would probably cause, Bitsy hurried past Elyse at the reception desk.

Clutching her phone like a poisonous snake, she raced to the elevator, breathing a sigh of relief when Marcos, her Master’s brother and her very own assistant, held the door open for her. Her breathing coming in short pants, her glazed look of trepidation focused on the phone, and her right foot tapping a tattoo on the marble of the elevator floor, she created a picture of anxiety that led Marcos to ask, “Is everything alright, Miss Mason?”

She didn’t bother to correct him on his use of her formal name; instead she simply dictated her instructions for the day, “Hold all of my calls and appointments. I will be in a…phone conference…for the foreseeable future.”

The doors opened on the top floor, and Bitsy’s nervous feet propelled her to her office. Barely nodding at her sister Ginger who waited with a stack of affidavits for Bitsy’s signature, she slammed the door of her office, barely registering Ginger’s interrogation of Marcos about Bitsy’s behavior.

Her stomach roiled in her belly as she dialed his number with only two seconds to spare. He gave no word of greeting, only an order, “Wherever you are, strip. Then, you will take a picture of yourself and send it to me via text message. You have two minutes.” A click let her know that he had disconnected the line.

Fingers shaking more from anticipation than remorse slid her skirt down her legs. She unbuttoned the blazer, smoothing her hands over the erect tips of her breasts. The moan that had been held back now burst forth as she tweaked each of them before smoothing down her torso to tease her pussy lips. Bitsy left the fuck-me heels on as well as the public collar.

Two attempts at digitally archiving her nudity later, she managed to send a provocative shot to her Master, one that revealed splayed legs, a hand teasing her pussy, while another hand held up a breast to her mouth for her to suck on her nipple. The now-present ebony cloak of hair teasingly hid the other breast from view.

The phone rang, and his coldly amused voice congratulated her, “Very arousing, pet. You are inside, then, and alone?”

“Yes, Master,” her voice was a breathy moan.

“And in an office setting, I see,” he continued. “That must mean that you have some very intriguing toy options at your disposal.”

“Toys, Master?” Surely, he couldn’t mean….

“All sorts of intriguing possibilities, pet. Look inside your purse,” he commanded.

Her fingers clutched on a small box. “What is it?” she asked, although she feared that she knew exactly what it was.

“It’s a webcam, pet. You’re going to be a movie star today and make a special, private porno especially for me.” He broke off and chuckled.

Her stomach twisted at his directions. She remembered the humiliation of this morning; even though part of her yearned to be his plaything subject to his every whim, Bitsy knew that giving in to this demand would risk revealing her…obsession…with him and his van escort dictates.

“Hello? Are you still there, pet?”

Her voice unsteady, she answered, “Please don’t ask this of me, Master.”

A cold silence on his end mocked her. “Master?”

“Yes, slave?” His voice was coldly unemotional, standoffish even.

“I…can’t do this.”

“You will do this, slave. You forget that you have no choice.” The passionately demanding Master had disappeared in the wake of this arctic, unforgiving aristocrat. “Now, here is what you will do….”

* * *

Stuart gripped his cock with his hand as he looked at the picture Bitsy had sent. He could hear her muttering to herself on her end of the connection. She sent that image to enflame him, he knew. The king also knew that his cock would probably explode shortly, listening to her playing for his delectation. Watching her tease her body would be almost too pleasurable.

He accepted her invitation to view her camera. As she came into focus, he bit back a groan. She wore red stilettos that formed a seductive contrast to the public collar and soft pale skin. Pre-ejaculate beaded at the tip of his cock.

His pet sat perched on top of a large office desk, endearingly uncertain. “Lean back, slave. Place your hands behind that fuckable ass. And spread those legs wide as you did in that picture.”

Her lips were set in a mulish line. She wasn’t playing the reluctant innocent; for some reason, she actually wanted to not do his bidding. He would change that, he decided; he would make her yearn to be the slut that seethed just beneath her ice bitch exterior. That slutty interior continually teased his senses, making her his obsession. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t safe…for either of them.

Slowly, the slut began to take over her demeanor. Her head fell back, her nipples ripening from the breeze in the air conditioned office. His harsh voice a growl, he stated, “Take the black binder clips. Place one on each nipple and clamp them shut. Look at the camera while you do it. I want to see every sensation in your eyes.”

He palmed his shaft, smearing the fluid that seeped from his tip down to his balls, turgid from the enticing display. The anticipation in the lime green orbs changed to an aroused wince as the plastic jaws bit into the strawberry-tinted bud that topped the cream of her breast. She repeated the action, the groan of pain giving way to one of pleasure.

“Very good, my little pain slut. You never knew you were a masochist, did you?” The hand bobbing up and down his engorged shaft quickened. He would not be able to stave off his orgasm for much longer.

“No, Master.” His slave almost purred her answer.

“Tell me what you are while you tug on the metal part of the binder clips. Tell me slave!”

Her pink tongue lapped at her full lips that were enhanced by a scarlet gloss. He remembered the caress of that tongue, of those lips and curved his other hand around his balls, squeezing them in time to the movements of her tongue. “I’m a pain slut, Master. I’m a masochist who needs it to get off. It’s my secret kink that makes me come and come.”

“It’s very admirable that you admit it, slave. Because of your insolence earlier, however, I think you need to be punished a bit more. Stand up and bend over the desk and grab that ruler. I find it very interesting that you have that wooden ruler in that office. It seems a bit out of place.”

Bitsy whimpered as her clamped breasts made contact with the cold lacquer of the desk. “Spread your legs, slut; let me see those naughty juices pouring out of your thighs. You may come when you feel the need to. You will spank your ass hard until I come. You may cease your self-punishment when I reach my orgasm. At that time you will again sit on your desk with your legs spread. Do you understand, slave?”

“Yes, Master,” came her muffled response. The ripe white globes of her ass twitched enticingly ankara escort as scarlet-tipped nails the same hue as her lips curved around the heavy wood of the ruler.

“Begin, slave.”

Whap! The ruler made immediate marks on her tender ivory flesh. Pink, then red, then purple welts appeared on the fresh canvas. She did not spare the rod for her punishment. Nor did she spare herself any orgasms; she climaxed four times from the stinging deep burn of the smacks. “Turn your head,” he directed, as semen spurted from his cock, painting his toned abdomen.

At the sight of the enticing trails of tears glistening on her cheeks, her sharp teeth indenting the lush curve of her lower lip, he couldn’t hold back a second, immediate orgasm. When she heard his shout of exultation, she turned completely, balancing again on the edge of the desk.

Gradually, he came back to Earth. “Lovely, slave. Now, you will pick up that black magic marker.” At her look of confusion, he explained, “I abhor tattoos, and they are hardly appropriate considering the brevity of our connection. I want you to write the words ‘slut,’ ‘pain slut,’ ‘bitch,’ and ‘slave,’ on your naughty bits.”

Soon, her flowing script decorated her breasts, the mound above her pussy, and her ass cheeks. “Stand and turn, slave. Let me see the extent of your artwork.” She pirouetted before the camera, blushing from his applause.

“One last thing, slave. I want you to pound your pussy with that marker.” Completely acquiescent now, she hurried to spread her legs. The marker disappeared within her still-clenching cavern. One plunge…two…three…and her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body wracked in orgasmic shivers that made her breasts bob gently.

“Remove the clamps now, slave.” He chuckled when her breath let out in a hiss, then laughed when she hissed again at the removal of the second makeshift clamp.

When she could speak again once the throbbing on her nipples slightly dissipated, she retorted, “I will never think that office supplies are innocent again.”

Stuart laughed again. He looked at his watch; the Count would arrive for their meeting shortly, and the king still had a mess to clean up. “Do not be late this evening,” he stressed, his tone completely sober. The second evening of the full moon hung heavy on them both.

“I promise to be back before sundown. I won’t be late again.” Like Stuart, Bitsy realized the full implications of being outside after nightfall.

“Until then.” Stuart clicked the X in the corner of the video window and severed the phone connection.

* * *

Bitsy ruefully slid her skirt back over her hips; then, she tugged on her blazer. As she bent over to retrieve the ruler that had been part of her desk organization set, her skirt slithered over the welted, sensitive curves of her ass. The lava between her pussy lips began to drip again.

A no-nonsense knock interrupted the start of another salacious fantasy. She unlocked the door and opened it to reveal her older triplet sister. Ginger cocked a knowing brow as she slid in the office.

“Oh, shut up,” Bitsy told her still-silent sibling. Ginger shook her head, laughing quietly, causing the masses of honeyed curls to dance against her shoulders.

“Just so you know: I sent Marcos on an errand when it started to get really noisy in here.”

Bitsy flushed a shade of scarlet to match her lips, nails, and clothes. “It’s not what you think,” Bitsy hedged, pulling back her own now-blonde hair into a chignon.

“I hope not, but I have a feeling that it is exactly what I think it is. Bitsy, you are being careful, right?”

Shocked at the rare concern in her sister’s gaze, Bitsy stammered a bit, “Careful? Of c-course I’m being careful.”

“I sincerely hope that you are. Regardless of how tough you think you are, Stuart is an old hand at the love ’em and leave ’em game. Thankfully, he never took much interest in me,” Ginger added.

Bitsy rushed to protest. “I don’t love him. I love Michael.” Even to her, her protest sounded hollow and false.

Ginger merely raised her eyebrow again and turned to leave, leaving Bitsy to struggle to believe the lie she had just told her sister.


Please let me know what you think. I am at work on Chapter 9 and hope to post it soon!

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