At Her Feet Read online

  Synopsis

  During a night of Web surfing for celeb gossip and masturbatory material, digital marketing producer Suzanne Kim stumbles across an intriguing thread while checking her profile on kinklife.com. Suzanne isn’t exactly looking, but the request for a very specific type of submissive from the attractive mistress, Mami-P, is hard to resist. Though the two hit it off during their first online conversation, Suzanne never imagines how strong their real life attraction and compatibility will be. After a few missteps in training, trust, and communication, Suzanne finds a deep love with her mistress, Pilar.

  Overworked and overstressed in her daily life, Suzanne comes to crave their relationship for the visceral escape it provides, but before they can make the ultimate commitment, someone from Suzanne’s professional life threatens to disrupt their perfectly balanced bliss.

  At Her Feet

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  At Her Feet

  © 2013 By Rebekah Weatherspoon. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-990-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: September 2013

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

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Cindy Cresap and Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Better Off Red: Vampire Sorority Sisters Book 1

  Blacker Than Blue: Vampire Sorority Sisters Book 2

  The Fling

  At Her Feet

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Meghan O’Brien and Andrea Bramhall for encouraging me to write this story.

  Thank you to Kasey Dickerson for being the Liam Fey of my dreams.

  Thank you to Radclyffe for signing off on this story when I was a little afraid she wouldn’t.

  Thank you to Cindy Cresap for hugging it out with me.

  Thank you to Sheri for all the pink.

  And lastly, thank you to Tecora and Steph for believing in me when I wanted to throw in the towel for the two-hundredth time.

  Dedication

  To Summer Youngblood.

  Our next place will have a room just for you.

  Chapter One

  It’s a little after eleven p.m. My TV’s on, but I’m sitting at my desk. I’m bouncing back and forth between Twitter and a few gossip sites, waiting for my porn to load. I’m at that point in my life—twenty-seven years old, employed, but pathetically single. I’ve been burned by my sexual escapades. Not physically. I’m squeaky clean, and I never approved of fire play, but I’ve had a piece of my heart charred to a nice black. I’m social enough, but too picky and too developed in my tastes to go for something casual or meaningless, so it’s me and my hand for the time being. I mind. I can’t pretend I don’t. That burning still hurts a little.

  I note the time and the fact that I’m already wet just waiting for my porn to load, and I decide to check out my kinklife account. After Laurel, I almost abandoned my profile. At first, I kept it to spite her, and then I kept it in the hopes that I’d find something new. I gave up on that months ago, though. Now I go look out of curiosity. Laurel’s since deleted her account, so I’m not worried about that 160 x 160 pic of her leather-clad breasts, but I think of that picture just for a moment as I glance at the word SINGLE next to my own 160 x 160. I ignore the lines below, the declaration of my patheticness. I know what it says. Looking For: Mistress, Mommy, Teacher, Long-term Relationship.

  I’m a member of forty-something groups on kinklife. I cover ground from anal play to spankings, and a few more colorful things in between. Some I’ve learned from Laurel, some I’ve learned on my own. I look at the events and updates. The Lesbian/Bisexual group in Sherman Oaks has a spa day planned for the weekend. I don’t respond to the general invite. I can’t do groups. There’s a seminar on puppy training at the dungeon in Pasadena. I’ll be skipping that, too. DirtyJenna celebrates her first time with photographic proof in the Squirty Girls Club. Been there, done that.

  DomNick, a nice man I met a few months ago at a rope-bondage class, has posted pictures from his weekend. He’s offered several times to take me in. Nothing official, he’s promised, but he likes me and hates that I don’t have a Dom looking after me. He is nice, but I’m just not interested. I like a few of his pictures and leave a comment that says I’m glad he had a good time but leaves no illusion that I wish I’d been there.

  I click on Lesbian Mommies and little girls. There’s no plan here. I just click the link.

  I found BDSM between the pages of a book, but it wasn’t the scenes of bondage that captivated me, or even the juiciness of the sex acts themselves. It was the relationship between the Dominant and the submissive that moved me. They weren’t strangers brought together by a need to exchange pain, though over the years that scenario has appealed to me. It was the way the submissive felt about her Dominant. The way she yearned to give up her control to him, and the way, at every turn, he met that surrender with sensual challenges and respect. They were lovers, partners, in every sense.

  I’d never come close to that type of relationship before, but I understood that yearning. I’d searched for it in my previous relationships, though not in the same terms, and not with such transparency. I wanted to give myself to someone. I still do. I didn’t find that opportunity until I met Laurel. And with Laurel I found that with giving there has to be some sort of getting. That’s why they call it erotic power exchange, not erotic power life suck. But that’s what happened with Laurel.

  I followed her blindly, anxiously down a certain path. She taught me things, showed me a way of living and fucking I’d never experienced before. I gave her my submission, and she got my loyalty, and my obedience, and my body when she needed it. I gave and I gave, and she got. Luckily, I was able to see that she was draining my well dry. I needed more for myself. I think that’s what attracted me to the idea of the Mommy or Daddy Dominant and the submissive, adult-little girl relationship.

  The title itself caught me off guard at first. There’s so much to a name at any given moment, so much meaning to what you call someone so close to you, but the more I talked to other submissives, who not only prided themselves on being labeled a little girl but knew the power it carried, owned the level of intimacy that came with such a name, the more the idea of being someone’s little girl grew on me. I’ve read and discussed different philosophies on the matter, and the differing opinions only highlighted how many kinds of Dominant/submissive relationships there are.

  In some instances, the title of Mommy or Daddy turned submissives off, for obvious reasons, but when it came to identifying with others, or slapping a name to the situation, that’s where the couple would fit. What they actually called each other was for their ears only. For some it was about age role play and age regression. For others it involved relinquishing a certain sense of responsibility to your Dominant while giving in to their sadomasochistic demands. But I always saw a common theme: an affection that went beyond tending t
o your submissive after a physically or emotionally demanding scene. There was also a level of protection that seemed to be bound to a genuine sense of possessiveness on the part of the Dominant. This is my little girl, and I will protect her not because she is my submissive or even my property, but because I love her. I think all Dominants care, the good ones anyway, but this was more than that.

  Pieces stuck with me, and when I finally approached Laurel on the subject, I had a sense of what that type of relationship meant to me. I work hard. Overtime at the office isn’t unusual for me. I’m responsible and giving, at times to my detriment. I was happy to submit to Laurel’s hand, or flog, or paddle, but I needed more. I needed her affection with my subservience. At the end of the day when I felt my job weighing me down, and after she’d used my body until I nearly lay limp, I needed her care.

  The other submissives I interacted with bragged shamelessly about the love they received from their Daddy Doms. One little girl I chatted with briefly online had an entire blog dedicated to her love for her Mommy Mistress. The sadistic side of Laurel, that I did enjoy, was present in those blog posts, but their relationship was so much more. More pampering and spoiling, more patience, more rewards for submission given freely. I mean, they cuddled. Pictures of her pinkened ass, glowing after a thorough spanking, graced the pages right beside photos of her Mistress stroking her hair. I wanted that sort of love in my life.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it, but that meant Laurel had to give. So I told her about those Dominants and their submissive little girls. She knew all about them, but she humored me. Flogged me all night when I was done arguing my case, and then she said she’d try. It wasn’t her style, but she said she would try. She couldn’t. She didn’t really want to. Things ended, and that’s putting it nicely. I moved on.

  And now I try to be patient while I wait for the right thing. The right person and the right situation. The right type of submission for me. I mean it when I say I’m not “actively” looking. Still, it’s the third post that catches my eye and sends a small spark of excitement over my skin.

  Mami looking for her little girl—Los Angeles, posted by Mami-P.

  Beside the post title is a small photo of a gorgeous Latin woman. Her lipstick is bright red, and her hair is up in white curlers. The picture only features her face, but that’s enough for me, and clearly, it’s enough for others. Kinklife.com caters to a worldwide audience. Little girls from all over are begging for a Mommy to take care of them. A few Mommies had listed in a strange cluster in the UK. I’d seen one post for San Diego, but not L.A.

  That small spark, the pinch of hope that tightens my chest, quickly fades once I look at the date. This post has been up for four days and has twenty-four comments. That means only two things: our Mami-P has up to twenty-four offers, twenty-four little girls vying for her attention. Or our Mami-P has had a few offers, but a conversation thread has sprung up between her and a special little girl.

  I’m curious to see who has beaten me to the punch even though I wasn’t really looking. I click the link and find it’s a mixed bag. Eleven little girls seem to be doing the virtual shove to the front of the line. Two state that they are from L.A. The others beg for an online relationship. Mami-P doesn’t give clear responses to any of them. The rest of the posts are an exchange between Mami-P and Mommy4LilBit. M4LB seems to be trying to unload her little girl on Mami-P. She’s not into any of it. I look at her initial post again.

  Mami looking for special adult little girl for serious long-term relationship. No games. Sorry, but no infants or toddlers, and no incest play. Must be local.

  I read it three more times, and then I click her profile. Her status matches mine: single.

  She’s about as active on kinklife as I am, but I’m not looking for her friends or groups. I go right for her pictures. There’s only three. I look again at her profile picture. She’s very beautiful; that hasn’t changed. The other two photos pique my interest even more. In one, she’s caught by some onlooker as she observes a conversation. She’s sitting in a lawn chair, and she’s knitting. A woman with a skill is always nice. The third picture actually makes me wet.

  Mami-P posed for this portrait beside a vintage sewing mannequin. She’s in full ‘50s garb: a calf-length red dress with white polka dots, and black heels. She’s wearing makeup, and pearls, and a killer smile. My imagination jumps ahead. I’m in her kitchen and she’s lecturing me about proper etiquette. I’m nodding, soaking it all in. I’m in awe of her knowledge. I want to learn what she has to teach me, but really I’m waiting patiently for her to bend me over the counter and fuck me.

  I click the private message link below her profile name and type Hi! in the subject line. I give her my real name, tell her I’m local, and ask that if she hasn’t found someone already, if she wants to talk. I hit send and remind myself that it might be another four days (or never) before I hear back from her, but that doesn’t change the fact the spark is back. My body is buzzing. Hope. Anticipation. I’ve been guarded and cautious, but when it comes to something or someone I want, I’m an optimist. It’s led me to a great job, this positive thinking, and some great friends. It also led me to Laurel, but Mami-P is ten times hotter than Laurel, so I’m willing to let myself get a little excited about this. The worst thing she can say is no.

  I check Twitter again.

  My porn’s loaded, but I’m not ready yet. I open another tab and search for another video to watch. When that’s done loading, I’ll watch them both. That’ll give me enough of a distraction.

  I’m clicking links like crazy—news, gossip, Twitter, back to news—and nothing’s sinking in.

  An alert box pops up at the bottom of my screen. New e-mail from P.Castillo. I open it and find just two lines.

  Hello there, sweetheart.

  Would you like to chat?

  Beautiful and she e-mails in complete sentences, which is truly a rare thing these days. Do I want to chat? Yes. Yes, I do.

  *

  Our conversation over ychat is short. I’ve wasted my wank time, and we both have to get up in the morning for work, but we do cross some important ground.

  Her name is Pilar. I tell her to call me Suzy. She works as a wardrobe stylist, and she lives in Miracle Mile. I tell her about my apartment in Koreatown and my job in digital marketing. I tell her straight off that I think she’s pretty. I ask if she wants to see my picture. She does. Her approval of my looks seems genuine. She asks if I am mixed, politely, thank God. I get this question all the time, but some people don’t know how to ask it without making me sound like a circus freak.

  My mom’s Jamaican, which accounts from my brown skin, and my thick hair, and my butt. My dad’s Korean, which accounts for most of my face and my last name. I confuse people, trust me. People say I’m pretty, but I attract the exotic fetishist that just wants a mixed girl on their arm or under their gag for the novelty of it. My 160 x 160 is a picture of a white kitten for that exact reason.

  She asks me how old I am because I look like a baby. I tell her I’m twenty-seven. I tell her she looks really, really old. I add a smiley face. She tells me she’s thirty-nine. I tell her she doesn’t look over thirty, which she really doesn’t. She says she likes younger women who know when to lie.

  She tells me she’s second generation from Mexico. Her parents live in Long Beach. She asks me what I’m doing up so late. I tell her about the porn. She asks me to send her the links. She sends me a smiley face and tells me she likes my taste in X-rated material. By this point, I’m yawning, and I know I can’t fall asleep during our client presentation tomorrow.

  I ask her if she likes me so far. She says yes and asks for my phone number. She says she was serious in her post, reminding me that she’s looking for something fun, but monogamous and long-term. She says she’d like to talk soon. Online play isn’t her thing. Thanks to Laurel, it’s not my thing either. I tell her to call me when she’s free in the next couple days. She says she will.

&nbs
p; Before we log off, she tells me not to stay up too much longer. This simple command is sweet, and I find myself smiling behind my clenched knuckles. I tell her I can’t wait to talk to her again. She says the same. I say good night, and she says sweet dreams. I skip the porn and get right in bed. I fall asleep thinking about Pilar in her polka-dotted dress and her smile.

  *

  Something needs to change at work. My job isn’t hard when it’s running smoothly. I execute digital marketing campaigns. I don’t have to code. I don’t have to design creative components. I’m like that closer lady on TNT; I make sure the websites, and contests, and banners, and apps we’ve sold to the client get done. But here’s the problem: I have too many accounts, and we don’t have enough producers to help me out. I manage accounts for a theme park, a candy company, and a national optical chain. These are pieces of cake, especially since the theme park’s marketing pushes are only in the spring.

  But we’ve recently taken on a major account for a fashion company, 21 And Up, that caters to older teens and young twenty-somethings. I was psyched about this acquisition for like five minutes, until Valerie put me in charge of their mobile app. The work is easy. The client is a nightmare.

  I’m on the phone now with Katie, our account exec. She’s only across the office, but we’re a social bunch. If I get up, I’ll face a gauntlet of conversations—and Mitch’s magic tricks—before I reach Katie’s desk. And that’s if I don’t run into Liam. My best friend and I have no business working in the same office.