Flash 52 {9}: The Long Road Home

Time again for another Flash 52.   This week's picture was an awesome form of inspiration for me but as a result the flavor of it was definitely not my normal fare. I hope you enjoy this more...shall we say vulnerable side of the lifestyle as a submissive learns that what she ran from is actually what she should've been running towards.  Enjoy!

Flash 52 {9}: The Long Road Home 

The pebbled drive felt rough under her shoes. It’d been so long since she’d traveled this road. Her stomach heaved threateningly. She hadn’t eaten anything this morning but a piece of dry toast and a cup of tepid tea. Her palms were sweaty as she rubbed them over the denim of her jeans. 

As she got closer the fog, which had been thick, parted to show the house at the end of the drive. It was a place of many fond memories and a few not so fond. Rising unbidden were the memory of his words as she’d left in a flurry of accusations and tears. 

“You can always come home, Lauren. We’ll be waiting - me and my flogger.” 

He’d stood so strong and sure of his place in the world, while she struggled with her need to submit, to feel the lash of leather and its warming sting. It had scared her how easily she’d allowed herself to be whisked into what he’d wanted. She’d felt as if she was being consumed whole by him, until there was nothing left of her. The feminist she’d been raised to be had protested, and finally she’d fled his arms, certain what she was feeling was nothing more than great albeit kinky sex. Her world shouldn’t revolve around him. It wasn’t healthy. Or so she’d thought. The six long months apart had proven otherwise. Now she could only hope he still felt the same. 

Climbing the porch steps, she gathered her courage up. She wasn’t prepared for the flood of nerves as she stopped in front of the massive oak door. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to press the doorbell. Inside, she could hear the sound of it echoing through the foyer. Stepping back, she waited for him to answer the door, but wasn’t surprised when it opened and Winston, his butler, stood in its entrance. 

“Ms. Lauren.” His bushy white brows barely rose. “Master Charles has been waiting for you. If you’d please come with me?” He stepped back and gestured her to come in. Hesitantly she crossed threshold, pushing the door shut behind her. “This way.” Winston cocked his head, as she slowly made her way across the foyer. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d left. The hard teak wood gleamed under her feet, while the crème colored walls lightened the hallway as she followed him. 

When he stopped in front of Charles’s study, she wet her lips nervously. She was here once more. Waiting to find out what her fate was. Winston rapped on the closed door, before backing off. Barely muffled through the wood, she heard his deep beckon. She placed one foot in front of another, but just before she opened the door, an unexpected smile crossed Watson’s face. “I’m glad you’re back, Ms. Lauren. Sir hasn’t been the same since you left.” 

She nodded. “I haven’t been the same either.” 

Then she opened the door to face her destiny. Entering the room, she was immediately enveloped in a feeling of homecoming. In the fireplace the flames crackled, throwing shadows around the darkened room. The only other point of light was the small lamp on the corner of the desk. Sitting at the desk was the man who’d haunted her dreams since she’d left so foolishly all those months ago. She tried to eat him up with her eyes, her fingers tingling with the need to smooth out the furrow in his forehead as he gazed impassively at her. As she stopped in front of the desk, she had to lock her knees against the instinctive need to drop to the floor and beg his forgiveness. 

“Lauren.” His tone was cool, as he fidgeted with the pen between his fingers, the constant motion the only clue her presence was affecting him at all. 

“Sir.” The honorific passed her lips without bidding. She hoped to meet him on a more equal ground than last time, but with her weakening knees, her hard nipples, and growing desire to submit to him, she knew it had been a vain delusion on her part. Charles sitting in his immaculate shirt and tie, his self-composed air, and dark features affected her more strongly than any model or hunk gracing the market tabloids. As usual. 

Finally tossing the pen aside, he sighed. “I need the words, or this goes no further.” 

Her knees buckled and she caught the edge of the desk to stay upright. His eyes flared briefly but he remained seated. She was going to have to say them, she realized. There would be no evasions or accusations later when things became too intense. If she was committed to him, she was going to have to admit it to not only herself, but him as well. “I…” she stopped and tried again. “I’m here to be punished, Sir.” 

“But you’re not mine to punish anymore. You wanted to be free.” The finality in his voice had her eyes burning. 

“I was scared, Sir,” she whispered, her free hand plucking at her jeans. 

“Why?” The simplicity of the question didn’t fool her. If she didn’t give him a good reason for her actions she would find herself outside his realm once more. 

“You showed me a side of me which I was taught was wrong in so many ways. My mother was a bra-burning advocate of feminine rights. To submit to a man was worse than stealing in my home. My father was cowed by her, doing everything she said. I didn’t know how to handle being in your control. It felt good, but still taboo.” 

He studied her thoughtfully. “And your mother’s opinion matters to you.” 

She nodded. “It did.” 

Steepling his fingers, he stared at her. “And now?” 

She licked her lips. “She can take a flying leap. I need what you can give to me. Woman’s lib be damned.” 

He sighed, looking a bit saddened. “I have no issue with your mother’s views, but you obviously do. In many ways they mimic the foundation tenets of BDSM.” 

“But my need to submit is the opposite of what my mother stands for.” Her protest seemed to fall on deaf ears as he continued. 

He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. The essence of Woman’s Lib is to allow a woman to choose her own path, whether it be as a strong confident business woman, a lover, or a Master’s submissive. If the woman has the choice to decide, her rights haven’t been violated, nor is there anything wrong with choosing a traditional role over what you have told me your mother wants for you. It is your choice.” 

Her eyes widened as what he was saying sank in. “I never thought of it that way.” 

“Obviously not.” He sat back. “You could’ve easily had all three with me, Lauren. I never wanted you to give up your career. I only wanted your submission when we were together.” 

Her heart plunged as the enormity of what she had done sank in, of what he’d tried to explain to her the day she’d ran. “And now Sir?” 

“That all depends upon you. If you can accept your punishment and agree to wear my collar, then we will move on, as if this was nothing more than a test for both of us. If not, then I bid you ado and request you never cross my doorstep again.” His eyes were no longer cold. The raw intensity of his hurt singed to the bone. “I will not go through this again - if you run again.” 

“And if it becomes too much?” She bit her lower lip. “You have to admit, it can be intense between us.” 

His nostrils flared. “Then you stay and talk to me. We’ll work through your fears, but there will be no more running … for either of us.” 

“Okay.” She whispered, agreeing to his terms. As long as he was willing to talk, she could handle the sometimes overwhelming sensations being with him caused. 

“The words, Lauren.” He reminded her. 

“I’m yours, Sir.” The moment the words passed her lips, the atmosphere in the room changed. The almost familiar desire pulsated between them, as he yanked open a drawer next to him to pull out a collar she’d seen before. It was the same one he’d wanted to place around her throat before. 

“Come here, Lauren.” He crooked his finger at her. 

Walking around the desk, she sank to her knees beside him, lifting her hair out of the way to expose her throat. A moment later she felt the brush of the leather. 

“With this collar, I vow to protect and cherish you, Lauren VanAmpstead. Giving you what you need but not always want, including my love. Do you accept it - knowing I will demand your submission in every form of our everyday life – that the moment you cross my threshold I expect to own every fiber of you: your body and your submissive soul?” 

The heartfelt words brought tears to her eyes, shameless she let them flow down her cheeks. “Yes, Sir.” 

“Then accept and wear my collar with pride, because it is the first time I’ve collared the woman I love.” The leather tightened and the snick of the small padlock was loud to her ears. “Look up at me, sub.” The tender way he said it only brought a fresh flood of tears on. She lifted her head to meet his dark eyes, the love in them only tempered by the lust and dominance, which were such an integral part of him. “You’re mine now.” He brushed the tears away. “Or at least you will be once we deal with your punishment.” He slipped into a role she had been hungering for since she’d left, as his Dom side took over. “Over my knees now. You’re going to receive a swat for every week you were gone as atonement for the hell you put me through.” 

“Yes, Sir.” She scrambled to obey, knowing the punishment was only fair. As the first blow fell, she began to count off, finally realizing while it had been a long road she’d traveled, she was finally home.

©Dakota Trace All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.