Fifty Shades of Submission

  Fifty Shades of Submission

  By Loris James

  © Copyright 2013 Origin Books. All rights reserved.

  Fifty Shades of Submission is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  PART ONE – SASKIA

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chapter Six

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART TWO – SLAVEHOOD

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  PART THREE – THE PAINTER

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  PART FOUR – THE RUSSIAN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  PART ONE – SASKIA

  Chapter One

  “The great object of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even though in pain.” - Lord Byron

  I am twenty-two years old, well educated, and I’m going to be a writer.

  When I turned twenty-one I inherited my father’s vast fortune and business empire, but I have no interest in it. I have not touched a penny of his money due to the circumstances under which I left our family home when I was fifteen. From that time, till his death, we never spoke or saw each other again and I was rather surprised, after everything that had happened, that he had not disinherited me, his only son.

  I have never had a stomach for business. From the moment I received my inheritance I appointed a large and reputable firm of attorneys to handle my business. Thankfully, they deal with everything on my behalf and I am free to get on with my life.

  I am alone in the world – without family or relatives of any kind, and I have decided to spend the winter in a small and remote country hotel in the mountains, shutting myself off from the world, reading books and thinking about the novel that I am planning to write.

  I suppose I spend too much of my time reading but the habit started when I was a child. My mother died when I was five, and my father dealt with his grief by immersing himself in his business and spending a great deal of time away from home. I think I reminded him of my mother because I look a lot like her – I have her fair hair and blue eyes, and the shape of my hands are identical to hers.

  In my early years I was raised by a succession of servants and nannies. They came and went frequently and I soon learnt not to become emotionally attached to any of them. So books became my friends, my family and my comfort.

  This is not a very fashionable hotel, and even in the full season of summer it is never full. It has none of the amenities of the more successful hotels in the area; there is no Olympic-sized swimming pool, or tennis courts, or golf course, or satellite TV - or indeed any of the modern conveniences expected of a respectable country inn these days.

  It is out of season and I am the only guest, which suits me perfectly. I spend my days on the sunny terrace, immersed in my books and hardly see a soul.

  Occasionally, I get a lift into town with Mrs Wilson, the owner of the hotel. She’s a frumpish woman in her fifties with a taciturn manner and a permanent scowl. I think she distrusts people even more than I do – which in itself is not a very good recommendation for being involved in the hospitality industry.

  She goes into town once a week to stock up on supplies while Mr Wilson, her husband, holds the fort. I usually accompany her to get more books from the lending library.

  She is a terse woman of few words and we usually bump along the narrow dusty country road to town in her ancient pick-up truck in complete silence – which suites both of us. I get the feeling that she does not much like men in general.

  Yesterday, in a drab and dusty antique shop in town, crammed with useless bric-a-brac, I bought a faded photograph of Venus, the goddess of love, on a whim. My father used to have a life-sized marble statue of Venus in his study when I was a child, and it reminded me of him.

  When I got back to my room at the hotel I put the picture on my bedside table, supporting it with a book, and looked at it.

  The goddess of love is completely naked. She has full breasts and wide hips that are seductively voluptuous, and long flowing red hair that streams like flames about her beautiful face and body. She partially covers her breasts with one hand, and her female genitalia with the other. She is looking slightly downwards and the expression on her face is one of melancholy and introspection, as though reflecting upon all the loves lost and squandered by mortal men and women.

  I wrote the following words on the back of the photograph:

  Venus – goddess of love, sex and desire. The seductress and lover of mortals, embodying sexuality, temptation and sensual pleasure. Oh, to endure the love and sweet torment of a beautiful woman who treats me without pity. Like Samson, who put himself into the hands of Delilah, and kept his eyes fixed upon his beautiful betrayer until the very end, drunk with rage and insatiable love.

  I looked at the words and reread them - sentimental romanticism? I smiled wryly and stuck the photograph in one of my books.

  Chapter Two

  “Thou art to me a delicious torment.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

  I breakfast in a shady garden alcove of climbing ivy that has been trained over a wooden framework on the hotel terrace just outside my room. It is pleasant sitting on the sunny terrace on a warm wintry country morning with nothing more pressing to do than simply indulge myself in my favorite pastime: reading.

  Around mid-morning an expensive German sports car arrives with its top down and pulls up in front of the hotel and a tall, graceful woman dressed in a long fur coat alights. She has red hair that catches the sunlight like fire, and is wearing large dark glasses that obscure most of her features. She begins to stride gracefully and confidently towards the hote
l’s reception area, then turns her head and sees me. She pauses for a brief moment, looking at me, before continuing on her way into the hotel.

  A while later Mrs Wilson appears and asks if I have something to read for the new guest. A spare book perhaps?

  “It seems she’s bored with country life already,” she mutters darkly.

  “Which guest?” I inquire.

  “The one who checked in this morning. She says she’s a widow. Apparently her husband died recently of some illness. She’s come here to recuperate. She says she needs peace and tranquillity to recharge her batteries.” Mrs Wilson scowls as though she disapproves.

  “She’s staying for a while?”

  Mr Wilson shrugs. “She says she may spend several weeks here. Like you.” Her last words seem like an accusation. She and Mr Wilson probably like to have the place to themselves over winter.

  “Well,” she prompts impatiently. “Have you got something for her to read? “

  Happy to oblige, I go to my room and gather up a couple of volumes and hand them to her.

  The new guest did not show herself at dinner tonight. As usual, I dined alone in the hotel’s drafty and antiquated dining-room with its dark wood-panelled walls and dusty ceiling fans and dreadful floral carpet. The room smells of stale cooking - a residual of thousands of meals served over a number of decades. The one redeeming quality is the huge inglenook fireplace that hosts a cheerful fire every evening, warming the room considerably and even giving it a somewhat cosy feeling.

  After dinner, I go to my room, undress, and lie down naked on the bed and masturbate. As usual I move my cupped hand along my penis and begin to stroke in slow, steady movements that soon become intensely pleasing. I think of the picture of Venus with all her voluptuous charms and imagine myself holding that naked body in my arms, lowering my lips to kiss those perfect breasts, moving her hand away from her genitalia and going down on one knee and burying my face in all that lush fragrant pubic hair…

  My strokes become more urgent and eventually I bring myself to a climax, groaning softly with sensual pleasure. And it is precisely at that moment that I remember that my picture of the nude Venus is in one of the books that I lent the widow - my rambling scribblings are in the hands of a strange woman. What will she think of me?

  I lie in the dark for a while but can’t sleep. Tonight, for the first time since coming here, I find my room strangely confining and oppressive.

  There is a woman in the hotel; from the look of her – a beautiful woman with long red hair that cascades richly over her shoulders. I feel almost like a primitive animal that senses her scent on the breeze. The sight of her has aroused me and made me restless. I have the feeling that she is out there in the night somewhere and I have an overwhelming urge to track her down and find her.

  I get up and get dressed in jeans and pull on a T-shirt and decide to go for a walk.

  Outside the moon is full. I go out onto the terrace and stand there, soaking in the scents and sounds of the night. It always amazes me at how still the nights are out here in the country. The trees and the landscape in the distance are faded away into the night like black ink, and I feel as though I am the only person alive in the world.

  Some power seems to draw me toward the meadow beyond the gardens of the hotel. I begin to walk. The night is cool and I feel a slight chill. The air is heavy with the sweet fragrance of wild flowers and the pine forest nearby. The fragrance is wild and intoxicating. Stars quiver overhead, faint in a silvery ink-blue sky. The field beyond is smooth and silent in the silvery half-dark. As always I am drawn to my favorite spot in the garden – the moss-covered stone statue of Venus presiding graciously over the pond at her feed, to the soothing sound of water cascading into the pool. I pause for a moment at the statue of Venus and look into her cold, inscrutable stone face. I imagine that once she was a real and beautiful woman - a warm-blooded a goddess who loved and broke the hearts of both gods and mortal men, and was punished for her needs and turned to stone right here, in this wild and sensual place.

  I smile at my foolish romanticism and walk on, heading for the pine forest. Where is she – the mysterious red-headed woman? Is she out here wandering in the night or warmly tucked up in her bed?

  I am on the main foot path that leads to the heart of the forest. I have walked it many times and am familiar with its twists and turns, and the almost wonderfully overpowering smell of pine needles. The dark shapes of the trees overhead are silent and overbearing. I have always found walking alone in a forest at night to frightening and exciting at the same time. There used to be a forest near our house when I was a boy and I used to force myself to walk alone through the length of it in the dead of night to prove to myself that I was brave.

  I also went there to hide from my stepmother. It was the only place that she would not come looking for me. The forest was my refuge on many occasions.

  Ahead of me there is a clearing, bathed in silvery moonlight. There is a stone bench in the middle of the clearing and I see her sitting on the bench. For a moment I catch my breath sharply – she reminds me of the nude Venus in the photograph in almost every way. But this Venus is not naked, she is dressed in her sable fur coat. Neither is she the beautiful stone statue guarding the pond in the meadow; this is the goddess of love herself in the flesh - warm-blooded and long-haired and draped in fur.

  She has come to life for me, this Venus, like the statue sculpted by Pygmalion who came to life for her creator.

  I stand and stare, mesmerized by her. Her pale alabaster face shimmers in the moonlight. Dark fur flows from her shoulders and cascades to the ground, hanging about her like a luxurious shield. In the moonlight her lips seem very red and her cheeks begin to take on color before my eyes, like a statue coming to life. Two green rays seem to emanate out of her eyes and fall upon me. She laughs softly.

  Her laughter is at once gentle and mysterious. It cannot be described, and it takes my breath away. I feel as if she is about to cast a spell on me; turn me to stone. Punish me for being a man and having the audacity to look upon her sensual, flawless beauty.

  In an instant I yearn to possess her, but instead I turn on my heel and flee, almost running. Now and then I pause to catch my breath. Her laughter follows me through the dark leafy paths, through black impenetrable thickets where no moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my way back to the hotel. I am lost and wander about confused, cold drops of perspiration on my forehead.

  Finally I stop and gradually my breathing subsides and everything becomes perfectly clear and distinct once again. There’s the fountain with the statue of Venus, and there’s the short avenue of neatly manicured rose bushes, and there’s the outline of the old country hotel in the moonlight which I am slowly approaching.

  Another couple of steps and I am safe once more inside my room. I close the French doors and make sure the curtains, too, are closed. Then I sit on the side of my bed in the dark and wait to catch my breath. Slowly I begin to calm down and reflect on what had happened.

  Venus on the stone bench in the forest clearing had been thrilling to look at, yet frightening in a way that I did not understand. It was almost as if I had some sort of foreboding that this women meant to harm me, even though I had never met her before.

  And of course, she isn’t a statue or a goddess of love at all - she is the woman upstairs with the red hair. The widow with the expensive sports car and sable fur.

  Chapter Three

  “Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.” -

  Francis Scott Fitzgerald

  In the morning the magical silver-lit atmosphere of the previous night was gone, dissolved by the warm logical comforting rays of the wintry sun.

  After breakfast I go out onto the terrace and read. But this morning I am distracted. I keep looking up for a glimpse of the red-headed Venus, but there’s no sign of her. It’s as if the vision of last night had been nothing but an apparition – a figment of my imagination. />
  I settle down eventually and become absorbed in my book. I am comfortable in the arbor, reading in the Odyssey about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers into beasts.

  There is a soft rustling in the twigs nearby and then on the terrace close by.

  The rustle of a woman’s dress…

  And then she is there, standing before me: the red-headed Venus, without her fur coat. This time she is merely a widow dressed in a skirt and a polar-neck sweater and yet— oh, what a woman!

  She stands there in the white shimmering midday wintry sunlight, the sky is a deep blue and there are no shadows or ghosts, and she is looking directly at me, her body full of poetry and grace, her face indescribably enthralling…

  What enchantment and softness plays about her full mouth! Her skin is translucent and infinitely delicate. How abundant her red hair; how tenderly it cascades about her long elegant neck! Now her eyes meet mine— and of course they are green. Eyes whose power is intense and deep and unfathomable.