'Submersed' First Snippet

New story. Think it has a good plot. Will publish soon. 

Unfortunately there is macabre. A rarity in one of my tales. But remember, probably the largest selling genres of books are murder mysteries. So go figure the moral equivalence when concern over 'consent' versus 'non consent' is now such a significant factor in writing and reading D/s fiction.  

Enjoy 

*****

Submersed

Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows

Prologue

The battered car accelerates onto the interstate. ‘Not fast,’ the driver tells himself. No speeding. But not slow. He must make it to his next stop in time. At the precise time. Too soon, he will draw attention in lingering about. Too late and the deal is off, his prized acquisition worthless.

Short wave scanner blaring, the drive brings stimulation, adrenaline, anxiety. No soothing music, he must listen for activity... police activity... and watch the road with diligence.

Engaging in his skills in a rural area has advantages. He can move about at his schedule, no traffic jams, limited surveillance. Conversely, the roads are sparse. With alerts and bulletins such can be easily monitored, readily cordoned off.

There comes a moan from under the blanket in the passenger seat. Perhaps not enough sedative, but there is nothing to be done now. The next stop... ten minutes. There, after contact and additional instructions, he will inject anew.

He reaches to his right, under the blanket, his hand smoothing about naked flesh. Ostensibly he comforts.

“Just a few more hours, sweetheart... then to your new home.”

From most, the words would tend to sooth. But not from the gravelly voice of abductor John Anderson Tilly. And his intention is not to bring composure but to instead test the level of consciousness. When his fingers find a nipple and firmly pinch, he is quieted in not hearing a screech of pain. His package is merely hallucinating, the sedative sufficient.

The scanner squawks. There is activity. The interstate highway is being blockaded at the river one mile ahead. Though the abduction has brought attention, there is no panic. There is an alternative route. Easily taken. It is the timing which will suffer.

Off the interstate. A secondary road to the south. A left turn returns the car towards the east. With the local authorities no doubt engaged in the road block, he knows he can speed, make up for lost time. Fast, faster... with pending darkness the surrounding farm fields become a blur. Then comes  a sign, construction ahead.

‘I cannot slow,’ John Anderson Tilly tells himself. ‘The next instruction point. Arrival must be on schedule.’

But the construction is more than minor. The locals are aware. John Anderson Tilly is not. The bridge of the secondary road is out. In approaching a detour sign, John Anderson Tilly’s sense of direction suggests the alternative route will take him north, back to the interstate and the road block. No slowing, time of the essence, he reaches for the Google maps function of his cell phone, swerving around the detour sign, attention occupied in finding another route over the river.     

With the distraction, the speeding car ascends the ramp to the missing bridge. When John Anderson Tilly looks up, the windshield shows nothing but water. He swerves. The car veers to the right. Heavy braking, down the embankment, the vehicle stops not until water’s edge is reached. Then it topples, to the right, passenger side into the river.

John Anderson Tilly, no seat belt, is tossed about, head hitting the steering wheel to join his captive in unconsciousness. Even the cooling water, slowly immersing the car, does not revive him. And his package... doomed. The new home reached is celestial.   

Aida Benson

The mammoth woman of color lies supine on a work bench, legs of power folded, knees at her chest, bare feet pressing a bar of steel above, weighted with some three hundred pounds. She pushes, legs straightening. The bar slowly rises within the stanchions. She smiles. Anyone observing would think the deed to be strenuous. Then she flexes. The bar slowly lowers, knees returning. Pressing again, with force, the weighted bar now effortlessly pops upwards, seeming to be a balloon kicked into the air.

Warmed, the workout begins in earnest. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm steady and fluidly easy, the repetitions many. 

Nearly nude, the seclusion of rural Alabama makes outdoor exercise invigorating for Aida Benson. It is only a tight sports bar, inhibiting breasts of size from flopping about, that is worn. With breezy wafts of fresh air, the quick evaporation of perspiration augments the invigoration. And knowing that subservient tongue and lips wait nearby to cleanse brings ascendant thrill.

The leg lifts end a most exhausting two hour exercise routine and her servant stands, water bottle and towel prepared for presentation. The tall muscular form rises and silently beckons. With adoring eyes glued... her servant obediently responds.

Dusk approaches. The biting flies and mosquitoes of the river will soon claim the night. A warm bath will be drawn. Perhaps she will share it with her servant, offering a rare privilege.

“Enough exercise, Pansy. Come. Kneel for me.”

The nakedness of her servant prances forth, knees bending, eagerly dropping, the water bottle handed over along with the towel. The empty arms reach forth, relatively slim and tender, the alabaster hands lovingly embracing the mammoth mocha buttocks, wet and warmed with vigor.

“You so much enjoy my taste,” Aida letting herself be guided, parting her thighs, her well trimmed uncovered mons to be aligned with an eager mouth.

She towels her shoulders, the height of her six foot frame putting her upper body out of reach. Then feeling the mouth enshroud, lively tongue slithering past her labia to swish at her urethral opening, she opens herself, always marveling at the neatness, not a drop ever to touch the soil... just as with the flooring of her home. Such training... such eagerness to please... self imposed discipline.       

Deed completed, the towel stills and a smiling Aida drinks. The sweat of her thighs, legs and buttocks is reserved for the oral attention of her servant. So cute, the page boy styled hair the only covering, the entire body denuded of hair, the lack of tan lines evidencing the denial of clothing at all times and all places. 

“Quickly, Pansy,’ she admonishes, “the flies will eat more of me than you.”

With that comes the sound of a roaring engine. Down river. The opposing side. With the bridge out, it has been quiet of late, the noise thus drawing attention. Clamor follows. Aida steps away from the lapping tongue. Dashing down to her dock, she catches the sight of the car, rushing down the embankment, into the water, flipping to one side, the mud slowly engulfing.

Retired, yet medically well trained, Aida knows to respond.

“Pansy. Into the house. Have my kit ready.”

Donned only in her sports bra, Aida knows it is no time for modesty. Oars grasped. To the end of the dock. To her boat.

It is a racing scull... for exercise... of limited utility in an emergency, other than that Aida’s arms of steel will propel her down river and to the embankment of the missing bridge in less than a minute.

If there is a life to be saved she has the skills to do it.