Short Story (Free) ✍️ The Requirements of My Submission
Desire Sharpened by Discipline, Trust Forged in Obedience
Three of my short stories are leaving Substack today at 6 pm et! So here is a new one that I hope you’ll enjoy. — L.H.
It begins with a summons.
Not a word, not even a sound – a presence, electric, irrefutable, entering the room behind me. I am not to turn until he tells me, so I listen: the soft hush of breath, the gentle clink of cufflink against wristwatch, the almost inaudible exhale that means he is watching.
He waits. He always waits. He waits until I’m trembling with anticipation, until my thoughts scatter and collect themselves again into the shape of longing.
I want him to see me quake. I want to please him – yes – but just as much, I want to be noticed. For the restless ache that his attention conjures in me to be seen in full.
And tonight, I know I am in trouble.
He speaks, finally. His voice is silk cascading across stone: “It has become apparent, little one, that I must clarify certain elements of our arrangement.” He lets out a sigh signalling his current exasperation, “Matters I once thought required no explanation.”
A flutter in my chest. A signal of fear, as well as something much sweeter.
“Your impetuous – bordering on insubordinate – behavior of late demands punishment.”
I distinctly feel the heat and moisture gather between my thighs as he chastises me. He sees it too.
“Yes, I see how your mouth quivers. Hold yourself together. Breathe.”
I do. I breathe, low and slow, until my body obeys the command of his tone. I am a good girl. I want to be a good girl. His words strip me down further than any dress I could slip from my shoulders. He exposes me for who I am, the sum of my desires.
He continues, a slow, deliberate lesson, each word a soft bruise pressed into my skin.
“You will look me in the eyes when I speak to you. Only speak when spoken to. You will address me as ‘Daddy’ or ‘Sir’—never by my Christian name.”
I nod, wordless, desperate for affirmation. The rules are so simple and absolute. Yet every reiteration sharpens my focus, reins me in, makes my body softer, my will more pliable, my submission sweeter.
He moves closer. I feel his warmth, the gravity of his command.
“You will listen to my words, hear their meaning, and you will obey. Your submission is not only required – it should be enthusiastic.”
I nod solemnly, maintaining eye contact as required.
“You will maintain the utmost standards of hygiene at all times. Clean, soft, scented. Your skin is for my hands, my mouth, my pleasure.”
He lists, with the precision of a clinician, the details of my body’s stewardship: my skin, my pubis—bare, soft, unscented but for my own musk. My asshole: immaculate, waxed, and, for him, bleached.
I feel myself flush, not with shame but with a heady sense of ritual. I am being prepared, cherished, owned.
“In addition,” he says, “you must perform regular enemas, so your asshole is ready for my use. Should I require your ass, and you are not impeccable,” he enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “you will always have water on hand for a quick flush. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” My eyes locked with his, my voice barely a whisper, but it is enough.
He steps even closer, so close now I can smell the resinous spice of his cologne.
“Your holes are mine. I dictate their use. Even your consent belongs to me, and yet—” He pauses, letting the words linger, weighty and generous. “You may withdraw it at any time, and I will honor it. But know that if you do, this is over. Without condition or recourse.”
My heart pounds in my chest, a wild, terrified gratitude. I want nothing more than to give myself again, and again, each time with more trust than the last.
He reviews the practicalities: my appearance, always cultivated for his pleasure. At home, nude or in the barest of lingerie. In public, dresses that flirt with decency, sheer tops and necklines plunging, hems that beg for a hand to creep beneath them. And, always, always – no panties, no bra, never when I am with him, or even apart.
“Do you understand the rules regarding your dress code, girl?”
I nod, heat radiating across my face and chest. “Good.”
Then, the final lesson, the truest core of our dynamic.
“Your pussy is mine. Your use of it, and your pleasure, at my sole discretion. You will not touch yourself, nor allow anyone to touch you, unless I command it. You will not come without permission. If you do, if you cannot help yourself—” He smiles, cruel and kind at once. “You will be punished.”
I remember the last time: his hand at my throat, his body pressed tight behind me, the word come a permission he withheld until I was nearly sobbing. When I finally broke—when my body betrayed me—I thanked him for the punishment, for making the act itself so precious.
He continues, and now his voice grows softer, more intimate. “All of my come is to end up inside you. One way or another. Whether in your pussy, your ass, or down your throat, yes. But also on your face, your breasts, wherever I desire. If I paint your face, you will clean yourself and lick your fingers. If I share you with another, as I have before—”
He pauses, and the memory floods me: the taste of another woman, the feel of her body above mine, his cum dripping into my open mouth as I climaxed under the twin assault of shame and ecstasy.
I am aching, already wet. But there is more – he will decide my punishment later.
For now, he simply dismisses me: “Go. Strip your clothes and clean the day off your body. Pay special attention to your asshole as you bathe. When you are done and dry, come alert me, and then kneel before the bed until I come to join you.”
I do not speak. I do not ask questions. I am, in this moment, obedience personified, perfected, trembling with the knowledge that my body, my will, my very self has been seen – and shaped for him.
As I kneel, naked and clean, the air cool on my bare skin, I wait – pulse fluttering, mind alight with eager expectation. I do not know yet what my punishment will be.
But I know, in my core, that it will make me his again.
Looking for more short-form filth?
It begins not with words, but with silence. Presence is its own summons, and I let her feel it before she dares to see it. She knows I am behind her. She knows I am waiting. The trick is in the waiting—stretching that tether of anticipation until her mind shakes like a held note.
She is restless lately. Testing edges she knows better than to cross. I do not scold in haste. I do not punish without cause. But when I do, she learns. My rules are not whim. They are structure, architecture for her longing.
Tonight, I tell her. “Little one, you’ve forgotten yourself.” I hear the tremor in her breathing. She is already wet, already betraying herself. And she knows I see it. That’s the first correction—she will not hide from me.
I walk her through the terms. Eyes up. Voice contained until I release it. Names that define our contract. Daddy when she needs comfort, Sir when she needs steel. Never my given name—that belongs to the world, not to her.
I make hygiene sacred, because ritual is half of obedience. Clean, waxed, perfumed only by her own salt. Every hole, every inch, prepared as an offering. She flushes under the weight of it, not from shame, but from belonging. This is how I make her body feel owned and honored in the same breath.
I remind her: “Your holes are mine.” It is not vulgar. It is truth. Every use, every permission flows from my hand, but so does her freedom to withdraw. That condition binds us tighter than the cuffs ever will.
When I dictate her dress, I do it not for provocation alone, but because it keeps her in the headspace she craves. No panties, no bra—ever. Skirts that ride high enough for me to reach beneath with no warning. Tops cut so low she thinks of me every time a stranger’s eyes linger. Even apart, I keep her marked.
But the marrow of it is this: her pleasure is not hers to command. She will not come without me. If she does, she will feel the sting of my hand, not in cruelty, but in correction. Punishment is my way of reminding her that climax is not a release she takes. It is a gift she earns.
And when I do finally give that gift—when I allow her body to crumple and seize under mine—she thanks me even for the pain that carried her there. Because what I strip from her is not choice, but burden.
She kneels now, freshly washed, her body gleaming with discipline. I can smell her restraint. I can feel the pulse in her throat from across the room. She waits for punishment, and she will receive it.
But not all at once.
First, I will keep her there. Let her mind circle itself until her need burns hotter than fear. Then I will lay my hands on her—not gently, not cruelly, but deliberately. Every inch, a reminder that I own not just her body, but the tempo of her desire.
By the time I decide how she will break tonight, she will already be thanking me.
Because she knows—her punishment is not cruelty. It is the proof she belongs to me.
Fucking fantastic! I applaud you. 🔥🔥