Julie's Submission

Julie's Submission

Claire Thompson

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A reclusive young widow’s world is turned upside down when she posts an ad for a handyman and gets way more than she bargained for. Will takes Julie on a submissive erotic journey that leaves her breathless and aching for more.

 
PUBLISHED BY: Romance Unbound Publishing
ISBN:
PUBLICATION DATE: 2009
WORD COUNT: 41061
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 5 5 5 5 5
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotica, Romantic Fiction
KEYWORDS: BDSM, sub, Dom, submission, dominance, sex slave, D/s, erotic romance
 

EBOOKS BY Romance Unbound Publishing

EBOOKS BY Claire Thompson

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Claire Thompson/2009

One evening we were sitting on the porch and an almost cool breeze blew my hair, which I had let down from its restricting ponytail as the air had cooled. Distracted, I put a fingertip into my mouth.

"Why do you do that?" Will startled me out of a reverie.

"Do what?"

"Bite your nails like that. What have you got to be nervous about out here in the peaceful country?"

We were out on my nice old wrap-around porch. I was sitting on the step, sewing a button on one of Randy's old work shirts I had lent Will, and he was standing, leaning against the railing, staring out across the flat plains of farmland.

I leaned my face into the breeze, smelling the clean air before answering. "I don't know, really," I said slowly. "I've always done it. It's just habit, I guess." I looked down at my fingers, at the raggedy edged nails and ripped cuticles. I wanted to suck on my index finger where I'd bitten a little too low and it hurt, but I certainly wasn't about to do that in front of Will now. Setting the sewing aside, I hid my hands under my thighs as I admitted, "I think I'm kind of a nervous person, really."

"I don't agree." He sounded so certain.

"Well, excuse me for saying so, but you don't know me all that well."

"I know, but I get feelings about people. I think this nervous hyper-energy thing you do is a cover-up."

I was at once annoyed and intrigued, not sure if I should be insulted or not. I waited for him to continue, which he did. "I think you're really a calm, deeply serene person who hasn't found what she is looking for yet. Yeah, life's dealt you some shit, but that doesn't change a person's underlying nature.

"I think maybe something's missing in your life, and you rush around going nowhere looking for it. But you haven't defined it yet. Maybe it isn't any one thing, exactly, but more a state of mind. Maybe it's an acceptance. That's something we all work toward, I guess."

"Huh," was all I said, but he got me thinking. In addition to the obvious stuff of being a widow, I did have a secret. A painful secret that I took out sometimes and wrapped around myself like a hair shirt.

I couldn't have babies. We'd tried for years, Randy and me, and finally after all the pills and poking and tests, they told me to forget about it. We could adopt, they told us. I was willing, but Randy wasn't.

"You don't know what we'd get," he'd tell me. "Bad genes. That's why the kid's up for adoption in the first place. Bad genes. Bad parents. Bad news."

I protested at first, but he was adamant. And we had each other, he'd remind me. What more did we need? His will was so much stronger than my own, and his ways were so winning, and I always backed down. Now I found myself wondering what would have happened if I'd insisted? Would he have gone along? Would I have a child now to nurture, now that my husband was dead and cold in the ground, and "our little universe" was just some distant sad memory?

I sighed deeply, shaking my head to shake out this crazy cobweb of useless "what if" thought. Leaning forward on my elbows, I felt Will slide down so that he was sitting next to me on the top step. I was aware of his closeness, but I didn't turn toward him. Something had shifted in the air between us. I felt him move closer still. I saw him from the corner of my eye. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I wasn't afraid.

He turned his face toward me, and slowly lifted his arm, like he was approaching a rabbit or wild deer. He brushed a strand of hair from my face. I started; he had never touched me before, till now even seeming to avoid being too close to me.

His finger brushed my cheek as he moved the hair from my face. I felt the touch like something electric against my skin. Something alive. He didn't speak; he just stared at me, his eyes again penetrating the muscle, the bone, the essence of me until I turned away, flushed, heart thumping absurdly in my chest. His finger again on my face, this time under my chin, lifting my head, forcing me to look at him. He leaned down, his lips slightly parted. Oh my god, he was going to kiss me, I was sure of it. I jerked back, suddenly frightened, Randy's memory a screaming cacophony of protest in my head. This couldn't be happening. Shouldn't be happening. Julie! Randy!

But Will couldn't hear the spirit's silent shouts, and his other hand came around behind my head, holding me still, no escape. He continued to lean down, inexorably, until his lips found mine. It was a gentle kiss, but there was no question. No permission asked. He just took what he wanted and I found myself kissing him back. His lips were soft and warm, compelling, and I found my own mouth parting, seeking his offered tongue, enfolding it, accepting it like a little bird greedy for what I had forgotten I craved.

This time when I pulled away he let me, watching me with those eyes, now hooded, his expression obscured. I felt flushed and I was breathing heavily, my mouth open, trying to get oxygen, trying to collect myself. I could feel myself falling, falling into something dangerous, something forbidden. My guilt was sharp as razor blades as the spirit of Randy slid up into my mind's eye, his face a mask of reproach. He'd always been a jealous lover and even in death he remained so. But his image paled as Will leaned forward again, this time taking me in his strong arms. Those arms shaped to work the earth, to work machines, to work on me, to hold me, to embrace me, to own me. After another moment, he let me go.

I sat still, trying to recover, my mind reeling with confusion. Randy, Will, my own unmet, pent up desires, my insecurities around this virile man, the possibilities his kiss had just opened up before me, like a vast chasm that I could fall into or run away from.

Ridiculously, I started to cry. Will didn't move. He turned toward me, his face calm, his eyes understanding, but he didn't speak. He didn't wrap his arms protectively around me, for which I was grateful, because the broken dam of tears would have drowned us both.

It wasn't a dainty cry, with tears slipping prettily down my cheeks, eyes luminous and filled with sorrow, like in the romance novels I used to read when I was young. It was a gut wrenching terrible heaving of grief, my reddened nose gooey with snot and gasping raspy keening sobs being pulled from deep inside of me. Will sat calmly through it all, like this happened to him all the time – he kissed a woman and she burst into hysterical sobbing.

Why was I crying? Was I crying for that lost baby I had never had? Was I crying at last the healing cry of true mourning? Was I only now admitting with my whole being that Randy was truly and really dead? He wasn't alive inside of me. That spirit that constantly whispered and directed me wasn't Randy. Randy was gone. And who would be there now that Will had chased him away?

The tears weren't purely sadness. No. It was a combination of that loss, and of a strange little tendril, a green wobbly shoot of, what was it? Hope? Desire? Surely that kiss meant nothing, or next to nothing, to Will. To this rambling man who could just pick up and leave at the drop of a hat. He was a tumbleweed rolling through my life, just like in some corny western, where the girl is left longing while the man rides off in black, tall on his horse, the perennial loner.

And yet to me that kiss, oh that kiss. I'd kissed other boys before, other than Randy. Groping stolen kisses in movie theaters and cars in the two years of high school before I'd met Randy. And of course Randy's kisses had sustained me for all the years of our marriage. I still felt the imprint of his last weak kiss, just before he died, on the stretcher before they loaded him into the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

I burst into fresh tears, quieter now. Instinctively Will understood it was time to hold me, and he did, though still he was silent, waiting for me. Finally I quieted, exhausted, sniffing and wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, totally unladylike. My shuddering breaths slowly eased and at last I was still, just letting him hold me, my mind truly empty for the first time I could remember.

The night was still – just crickets playing their little violins, and the occasional bullfrog burping. Will held me cradled against his chest and I became aware of the steady slow thump of his heart against my ear. He smelled nice. Like the loam from the fields, and something fresh and piney with a hint of lemon. A masculine smell. I tried, out of habit, to remember Randy's smell, and realized with a little jolt that I couldn't. I could see his face, hear his voice, but I couldn't remember his smell! I was losing him. Wait, that was crazy, he'd been dead for six years, I'd lost him years ago. But oddly it was only now I was realizing it, in my bones.

"Oh my god," I said, "My husband's dead." Will held me still; I couldn't see him. He must have thought I was crazy; I think I was, in fact. I had kept Randy like a pearl tucked between my breasts, as if that would shield me from the loss, like a secret talisman against living in the world without him. That kiss had unleashed something, either that or it was just that the timing was right, but for the first time since Randy had died, I wanted to, no, I needed to talk to someone about it.

Slowly I sat up, and Will's arms released me, giving me space as he shifted slightly away from me. Then, as if he could read minds, he tilted his head to the side. "Tell me." I breathed in deeply and looked at him. He sat there looking at me, a watchful, interested expression on his face. And something else too – tenderness. Suddenly I didn't know what to say, how to put it when I wasn't quite sure what it was.

But somehow I began, and I talked and talked, talked until my throat was raspy. And he talked too, sharing about his own losses, and his own dreams until the sky went from black to indigo to gray and purple. Talked out, we went to bed, each to our own bed, though I wondered for a second if he'd suggest something different.
I slept deeply that night, no dreams piercing my consciousness, and in the morning I realized that something had changed. After six years of walking in my sleep, something had awakened inside me. I only hoped I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
 

 
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