I am Yours (An Alpha Male BDSM Romance) Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Linnea May

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

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  I am Yours

  A BDSM Romance with a difference

  Content

  Part 1: Yearning to be Yours

  Part 2: Becoming Yours

  Part 3: Being Yours

  Part 4: Secretly Yours

  Part 5: Completely Yours

  Also by Linnea May

  Part 1

  Yearning to be Yours

  Prolog

  “It doesn’t matter how you look, what you wear, how you fix your hair, how much makeup you use. To me you are naked, exposed, and transparent. I can see what makes you truly beautiful.”

  He gently stroked my hair in that possessive manner I only knew from him.

  I looked up at him. His dark gaze was fixated on me and when I tried to look away he instantly grabbed my hair and pulled me back up. His expression was strong, unyielding.

  He moved forward, pushing my back into the wall behind me. Leaning forward he whispered, “What have I told you?”

  So many things, I thought. But I knew that was not what he wanted to hear.

  “To look at you when you’re talking to me,” I replied. “Sir.”

  “And wasn’t I talking to you just now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, why did you lower your eyes?”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry. You are mine. I want you to obey, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He straightened up without moving away from me. My eyes followed his. I hardly dared to blink. And I was thankful that he was making me withstand his gaze. It was mesmerizing. The way he looked at me made me shiver.

  “Now,” he said. “What have we agreed on?”

  I just stared back at him, incapable of answering, even though I had an idea of what he wanted to hear.

  He did not appreciate my silence.

  I winced in surprise when he suddenly yanked my hair, forcing my head back in my neck.

  “Answer me!” He hissed.

  “That… you would check,” I whispered.

  “Check what?”

  I felt my cheeks blush. Oh God, he was seriously going to do this. Here, in public, so close to the main streets of Shinjuku. Anybody could walk by and see us. Anytime.

  “Check what, my cute little girl?” he asked, obviously noticing my embarrassment. And enjoying it.

  “Check if I was… excited to see you,” I answered in a very, very low voice. Withstanding his dominant gaze had suddenly become so much harder. I could hardly resist the urge to look away or close my eyes in shame.

  He smiled. “Good girl.”

  His hand wandered beneath my skirt. Skillfully surpassing any fabric that was in his way, he got where he wanted to be.

  To check.

  To check if I was wet just from seeing him. I knew I was and it filled me with shame. Shame and wonder.

  He had prepared me for what was going to happen, yet I was shocked with disbelief when his hand actually wandered between my legs.

  “You are such a good girl,” he whispered when he found what he was looking for. Gently stroking my clit, feeling my wetness, he kept talking to me in his deep, soft voice.

  “My pet. My cute little girl.”

  Behind him, from the corners of my eyes I could see people walking by. They were not paying any attention to us. Or so I hoped. Would they have done so, they would have seen it. There was no way around it. They would have noticed his hand beneath my skirt, the shortest I owned. The skirt I was wearing because he had told me to do so. I had prepared the groundwork for this public intrusion. I had obeyed his command to dress like this. Like the slut I was. For him. I was covered by a long, black cardigan that ran down to my knees in an attempt to hide my getup from others.

  “Why are you so wet?” he asked. His finger was still stroking my clit.

  And again, I just stared at him, unable to reply and refraining from the urge to roll my eyes at him. He knew very well why I was wet.

  “Why?” he repeated. “Why, my pet?”

  Instead of replying, I opted to make a mistake that would most definitely aggravate the situation and lead to punishment: I closed my eyes and helplessly shook my head. “Come on, I…”

  His reaction was sudden and fierce. One of his fingers slipped inside of me while the other hand pulled my hair, tilting my head back with such force that it made me wince in surprise and pain.

  “Sto—”

  “No!” he interrupted. “You answer me now!”

  I could only squint at him due to my overextended neck, while the pain at my sculp was competing with my growing arousal. He pushed his finger deeper inside me.

  “You can either whisper it in my ear or I’ll make you scream it out loud. It’s your choice, my pet,” he threatened. “Will you reply to me now?”

  He loosened his grip on my hair, just enough for me to be able to nod.

  “So. Why are you so wet?” he repeated his question.

  And I finally whispered my reply.

  “I am this wet because I am excited to see my master.”

  Again, I looked up at him. This time it was in anticipation. Did I satisfy him? Was this the answer he had waited for? The right phrasing?

  He smiled, but kept pushing.

  “And what do you want?” he asked.

  Slowly, he pulled his finger out and continued playing with my clit, carefully observing my reaction. He could tell. He saw every tiny flicker of my eyes, noticed the shivering, my slightly opened mouth — every little detail. He knew he could make me come right here and there, in the middle of a public place, surrounded by hundreds of passersby. Their chattering, cars, buses, advertisements, guards, traffic lights, and everything else that was sound in the busy district of Shinjuku — it all faded behind my sweet, endearing vertigo.

  He drew closer.

  “What. Do. You. Want?”

  And this time my reply followed in an instant.

  “I want you to fuck me, please.” I whispered. “Please, master.”

  He smiled. Content. Sovereign. It was one of the most erotic expressions I could imagine, followed by the most wonderful words that could escape his lips.

  “Good girl.”

  1

  I returned to Tokyo, knowing what to expect. Or so I thought.

  I had been here before, I knew the language, I knew how to ride the subway, how to get food, how to get beer, how to get around in general. Japan is a place that one can get accustomed to just as well as to any other country of the modern world.

  And Tokyo is just as buzzing, big, busy, and crazy as you would think. It is also a lot more beautiful than most people expect. And, sometimes, a lot calmer.

  I was to work at my country’s embassy in Tokyo. The city had long become a second home to me, even though I had only lived there for a year and visited two other times for an even shorter period. It had been my dream to live here, work here, and actually have a life here.

  When I stepped off the plane at Narita Airport, I was in my late twenties and single. My longterm boyfriend, Leif, and I had broken up about six months before I was to start my job in Tokyo. We had been together for seven
years, not always monogamously.

  After we broke up, I listened to one of my friends and distracted myself with dating. And fucking. A lot. I had developed a taste for it. It was like an epiphany to realize that I enjoyed seemingly meaningless sex with men I hardly knew. No attachment, just fun. The sex I was having now differed so much from the sex I knew from my relationship—and I liked it. But it felt like I never got enough. The satisfaction was short-lived, and sadly, so was the sex itself. I knew I was missing something, but I had yet to find out what it was.

  I also knew I might have to put more effort in satisfying my needs here in Tokyo. As a tall, pale foreigner with light brown hair and green eyes, I might have been a singularity to Japanese men, but their fascination was not the kind of attention I appreciated. I did not like to be gawked at, and I did not want to be an exotic adventure. Western men, on the other hand, were mostly drawn to cute, pretty Japanese girls.

  So, dating wise, this could be a challenge. Even finding some decent fun could be a lot harder than I was used to.

  Of course, I had no idea what was waiting for me. Or rather, who was.

  This story is not about Japan. But I would argue that my new home, Tokyo, did play a significant part in the play that life staged for me.

  After all, it was here that I met the wolf. And by meeting him, I also met a new side of myself. In a city that we called home, and in which both of us would always remain outsiders.

  2

  For me, the journey into submission didn’t start with pain. It didn’t start with a good spanking or with being tied down or getting slapped in the face.

  It started slowly. With a text. A message from a stranger.

  I had been back in Tokyo for about a month. Most of the settling-in process had been completed: meeting up with old friends, getting my apartment into shape, coming to grips with my new job at the embassy. I was back and I felt at home.

  All that was missing was physical contact. Understandably, sex and dating were not among my most important priorities during my very first few weeks. But now that I had settled in, I felt it was time to get back out there and see what Tokyo had in store for me.

  Thank God I was living in a time that had adjusted to busy and shy people like me. You could anonymously swipe people’s faces on your smartphone while waiting for the subway. It was a dating app that made it possible for him to find me. He didn’t exactly message me, but subtly indicated his interest by adding me to his favorites.

  It was hard to tell, what he looked like because he used a slightly blurry picture. I could faintly detect his facial features: dark eyes, and equally dark hair. He might have been good looking. But it was not his picture that hit me. His words did. There was one passage in particular that instantly drew my interest.

  “I am dominant,” it said. I was standing in line at the supermarket across the street from where I lived, and I had to put my phone away right after reading that paragraph. So it was during the act of paying, collecting my groceries, and getting out of the store, that this word kept floating around in my head. Knocking against my forehead, down my spine, against my ribcage. Dominant.

  As soon as I got out, I grabbed my phone to read it again. It was still there. “I am dominant.”

  And there was more. “I’d like to show you how beautiful you are in a different way than most guys.”

  As I was standing there, outside my everyday supermarket, groceries in one hand, phone in the other, there was an instant desire spreading throughout my entire body. All I wanted was to find out what that different way looked like. And what it meant if someone called themselves dominant.

  I knew I enjoyed letting go of control. At least once in a while. And definitely when it came to sex.

  His profile was so direct, so different to most others I had seen. Something about him instantly intrigued me. And I liked the fact that he had not written one of those lame “Hi, how are you?” messages. In fact, he had not written anything, but left it up to me to react to his subtle signal of interest.

  My message, on the other hand, belonged to the category of the lame. All I said was, “Hi.”

  He replied within a short moment.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  I decided that it was best to get home before writing back. Put away the groceries. Eat something. Think about what to say next. Usually, this was not a problem. No big deal for me. As in most cases, it was the guy who would start asking questions that I could pick up like a ball and just toss back and forth.

  But what would I write to this one? Under interests he had listed a few random things, such as movies and food. But most of them were less random. Kissing. Licking. Pleasing. Playing.

  Pleasing.

  If he called himself dominant, wouldn’t it be his job to take charge and start this conversation for real?

  Apparently, it was. And he did.

  “So, tell me. What made you say Hi to me?” he asked.

  By now, I had reached home and was sitting at the kitchen table, letting my instant ramen soak. I had never been a great cook, but every time I got to Tokyo, my eating became extra lazy—and not necessarily healthy.

  “I liked your profile.” I wrote.

  But of course he wouldn’t let me get away that easily.

  “What did you like about it?”

  “Your interests, mostly.”

  “Which ones in particular?”

  I stirred the ramen while staring at my phone. Ah, what the hell.

  “I like playing, too.”

  His reply was quick and short. “Is that so? What kind of playing?”

  This was interesting. We had completely skipped the usual openers that I had gotten tired of a long time ago.

  I wanted to play. Especially with this one. Even if my interest was mostly sparked by one word. Or maybe a few, if you wanted to count his further description. But that one word…

  Dominant.

  I had the feeling that this man might be my chance to finally test my limits. I did not know it then, but boy was I right.

  “Well?”

  He was still waiting for his reply. I decided that I should stick to being who I was and remain careful. For now.

  “You know,” I wrote. “The kind of play that a lady cannot speak of.”

  That sounded almost conservative. More than I wanted it to.

  “So, you consider yourself a lady?” he asked.

  “Of course!”

  And then he said… nothing. For what felt like an eternity, there was no new message. Enough time passed for me to wonder whether I bored him, annoyed him, or just rendered him speechless. I felt it was still my turn to write something. So I typed.

  “A lady who likes to play.”

  Genius, right?

  Still, no reply. Was this part of the game? Had I said something wrong? I put my phone on the table and started slurping my noodles. Yet, my eyes were glued to the display from afar.

  His reply finally came after I had washed my bowl and was about to open a bottle of wine to drink in front of the computer.

  “Let’s move this conversation to Skype chat.”

  So we did.

  3

  “Hey.”

  I stared at my screen in anticipation. His screenname was ookami, which meant wolf in Japanese. Just as I was going to ask him for his real name, I got distracted by him sending me a JPG file.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Me,” he answered. “Non nude, I think.”

  “Glad you warned me.”

  I opened the file and saw an undoubtedly tall man with very short black hair. Not much of a surprise from what I had been able to tell from his blurry profile picture. It was a full body picture with him standing tall, hands in his pants pockets, in what looked like a messy office. He was wearing a dark gray suit and a red tie, smiling at the person behind the camera. Dark eyes. Almost black, it seemed. He was handsome. A man with rough edges. And a confident smile. I liked it a lot.

  Never
theless, my response was rather uncharming: “Yes, thank God, you are wearing clothes!”

  “Hey… it’s not that bad underneath…”

  “Okay, let me see then!”

  He sent me another file, adding, “I don’t want you to say I’m all talk…”

  I hesitated and took a deep breath before I opened this one. It was unusal for me to exchange intimate photos this fast, to say the least. I closed my eyes when I clicked on it. Don’t be ridiculous.

  He was not all talk. And he was naked in this one, showing his upper body up until the part that now really interested me. Ripped, with buff arms, and light-brown perfect skin with not a single hair to be seen. He was flexing his muscles, emphasizing how well-sculpted his body was.

  He looked delicious. Too delicious. Maybe he was tricking me. I couldn’t see his face in this one. Who said it was even him?

  “Oh yeah, that’s not too bad.” That must have been the understatement of the year.

  “Glad to hear it,” he wrote.

  I leaned back, staring at the screen. He was not typing, probably waiting for me. I had never done this before. Not like this.

  But there was a first time for everything.

  “So… you like pleasing?” I asked, still staring at his picture. That perfect upper body made me realize how hungry I had been for the past few weeks.

  His reply came almost instantly.

  “God yes…”

  He hesitated.

  “Sorry, I do enjoy going down on a lady more than I should.”

  That made me chuckle. “More than you should? I doubt any lady has ever complained about that.”

  “But there’s one thing I like even more. Looking at her sexy expression in a mirror while doing her doggy style,” he added.

  One of my favorite positions. We might work well together. Very well. Especially if that body he had sent me a picture of actually belonged to him.

  He excited me. I wanted to hear more, see more, and meet him, sooner rather than later. The conversation reminded me of how long it had been since I enjoyed myself with a man. Too much time and power had been invested in moving countries and settling into my new job. I was stressed out and longing for relaxation and fun.