The Submission Factory

  THE SUBMISSION FACTORY

  by

  BECKY BELL

  Published by Chimera Books

  ISBN 9781780804637

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

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  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Becky Bell. The right of Becky Bell to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Chapter One

  I opened my eyes. I had been sleeping deeply and knew I had been dreaming, long convoluted dreams, but I couldn't remember a single one of them.

  For a moment I thought I might still be dreaming because though I knew my eyes were open I couldn't see a thing. But when I tried to sit up and found I couldn't move I soon realised this was no dream. What felt like broad leather straps were buckled tightly around my ankles, above my knees, around my thighs and above and below my breasts, binding my arms to my sides. I couldn't even roll over because another strap around my waist was attached to either side of whatever I was lying on.

  As if that wasn't disconcerting enough, I hadn't the faintest idea where I was or how I'd got there. In fact, I soon realised, the only thing I could remember was a woman, a silky-haired brunette. I had no idea who she was but I had this vivid memory of watching her slip out of a clinging red dress. Under it she had been wearing a lacy black basque and sheer black stockings, their black tops pulled taut by her suspenders, in sharp contrast to the flesh of her creamy thighs. She had slender and beautifully contoured legs and wore black high heels, and I could remember her telling me I must lie on my stomach on the floor.

  That's all. Absolutely all. I searched my mind for other memories but there were none. It was as if it had been wiped clean. I could remember every detail of the brunette, the way her sleek black hair had been swept up into a chignon to reveal her elegant neck and how her big, pulpy breasts had billowed against the low cut bra of the basque. She wasn't wearing panties and her dark pubes had been trimmed neatly. The memory of her was tinged with a distinct sexual desire but, though my mind was blank, I did not find this odd because I was sure I had felt that sort of attraction for a woman before.

  But who was she? More important who was I? That information was missing too.

  I tried to flex my muscles against the leather straps. It was no good. The bondage was too tight. I could barely manage to rock my body from side to side. The only real movement I could accomplish was to raise and turn my head. As I experimented with this I became conscious of another sensation. I was incredibly sexually excited. Apart from the straps I was naked and my clitoris, trapped between my tightly bound thighs, was hard and throbbing. My nipples too were erect.

  Considering my condition and my lack of memory I felt remarkably calm. I lay in the dark with my eyes open, and after a while detected the faintest chink of light coming from under a door. I listened for any sound but could hear nothing.

  I don't know how long I lay there. It might have been an hour it might have been a minute, there was no way I could keep track of time. The image of the brunette did not fade, nor did my sexual excitement. I would have given anything to be able to free my hands and touch myself. I knew it would only have taken a few brief moments with my fingers to frot my clitoris to orgasm. But I just lay thinking of the brunette's penetrating brown eyes and the way they had stared at me with an unwavering intensity.

  The door opened suddenly, flooding the room with light. I screwed up my eyes but the light penetrated through my eyelids. I groaned in pain.

  'She's awake.' It was a female voice.

  'Good, right on schedule.' So was that.

  I heard footsteps approaching the bed. I managed to open my eyes though tears still clouded my vision. For a moment I could not believe what I saw. I was lying on a narrow metal-framed bed with a thin mattress in a room with concrete walls. There was no window. Looking down at me was a slender woman dressed in a glistening black rubber catsuit. Even her head was encased in a tight rubber helmet and the only features I could see were her mouth, her big green eyes and the tiniest glimpse of her nostrils through holes in the rubber. The holes surrounding her eyes and mouth were outlined in red. The catsuit fitted her like a second skin and moulded itself to her large breasts, wasp-like waist and long legs. It had even folded into the crease of her sex.

  Her fingers pulled my eyes wider open and she stared deep into them.

  'She's fine. Reactions normal.'

  'What's happened to me? Where am I? Who am I?' I mumbled.

  'You are who we want you to be. A name will be chosen for you during the treatment. You won't be able to remember anything. That is normal. We have wiped your memory clean. From now on your life will be very different.'

  I felt a weight resting next to me. Before I knew what was happening a rubber ball was forced between my lips. Straps were buckled tightly behind my head. 'No more talking now.'

  I could smell a musky perfume mixed with the unmistakable aroma of rubber. The woman took my pulse.

  'She's a really pretty one, isn't she?'

  'Come on, we'd better do number six before we get back to her.' This was another female voice, though I couldn't see who it belonged to.

  They left, closing and locking the door behind them. Once more I was plunged into darkness.

  'We have wiped your memory clean.' Those words echoed in my head. Except I could still remember the brunette. I concentrated on that. I began to remember other things. I remembered being in a car. It was going very slowly in traffic. It was a big limousine and I was sitting in the back seat. I tried to remember all the details of the car. Then I realised I had been sitting next to someone, a man. I tried to see his face but it was vague and indistinct.

  The car was pulling over to the side of the road. The door opened. I got out. The man got out. He led me inside a small, modern building. He was saying something but I couldn't remember what he said. It was all like a dream, fuzzy and incoherent, but slowly I began to remember more and more.

  A door opened. It was the brunette, but this time she was fully dressed. She was smiling, kissing the man on the cheek, ushering us in. I could see her lips moving but couldn't hear what she was saying. The man was talking too. He told me to sit down.

  Then I realised who he was. It was my husband. I was married. But I couldn't remember anything about the brunette. I was sure I'd never met her before. Why had my husband brought me here? Now I remember what she said. There was a sort of spinning wheel made of coloured glass and I was looking into it. I remembered more and more clearly. There was a feeling of drowsiness.

  I was fighting it. She kept telling me to go to sleep. I closed my eyes and pretended I was asleep but I wasn't, not at that stage anyway. I heard the brunette tell my husband the treatment was very effective and he would see a completely different woman when it was completed. I heard him leave. After that, though I concentrated
hard, I couldn't remember anything more.

  I lay with my eyes open in the dark room. I searched my mind again. Why had my husband taken me to the brunette? What had she done to me?

  Then it all hit me. We were supposed to be going to see a marriage counsellor. That was it. The brunette was supposed to be a marriage counsellor. I'd had an affair. I felt myself blush as I thought about it. It all came flooding back. I'd had an affair - the first time I'd ever betrayed my marriage. My husband had found out. He'd threatened to leave me. We'd had row after row until suddenly he changed his mind and said that some of what had happened was his fault, that he'd neglected me because of his obsession with work.

  He wanted to try again. But even if hypnosis was part of marriage counselling I very much doubted that making me lie on the floor while the counsellor paraded in a lacy black basque was also included in the agenda. I was struggling to understand.

  How I got from that room to bondage in this prison I don't know. But I knew what the woman in rubber had said was not true. If they had tried to wipe my memory of everything it had not worked. Minute by minute my memory was flooding back. I remembered all the details of my affair with Jack, the extraordinary way we met and all the things he had done to me, unconscionable things, things I had never dreamed I would like, things that made me feel deep shame and at the same time the most profound sexual pleasure.

  I had to think quickly; at any moment rubber woman would return. This had to be something to do with the brunette and my husband. She'd talked about a treatment. What did that mean? The point was that if I told rubber woman she was wrong and that I had all my memories I was completely vulnerable and unable to do anything to prevent them repeating the treatment, and this time ensuring it did work. Clearly my best plan, for the moment at least, was to play along with whatever happened and look for a chance of escape.

  A moment later I heard the key turn in the lock. Rubber woman returned. Again she sat on the bed beside me. My sexual excitement had not diminished.

  'We are your friends,' she said. 'We are here to teach you, to help you understand.' She produced a short rubber rod about the thickness of a finger. She squeezed it between my thighs, and it began to vibrate against my clit. I did not have to fake the real pleasure I felt as the vibrations increased. The woman's other hand cupped by naked breast and squeezed it gently. Her fingers centred on my nipple and pinched. My breasts had been reddened by the constriction of the straps on either side of them and already felt incredibly sensitive, and this manipulation only increased my sexual torment.

  'You see how I can make you feel?' she said.

  The rubber-framed lips leant forward and while her hand continue to play with my left nipple her mouth descended to my right, sucking and nibbling.

  I moaned with pleasure, wriggling against the bondage. Then quite suddenly she bit and pinched both nipples simultaneously and I felt a wave of pain. But the pain only served to intensify the pleasure emanating from my clitoris and I gasped. Rubber woman did it again, and again, and I realised I was on the brink of an orgasm. I squirmed under the effect of these excoriating sensations.

  Perhaps if my memory really had been wiped this treatment would have come as a shock to me. But it hadn't. In fact I remembered perfectly well that this was not the first time I'd experienced this unique blend of pleasure and pain. It's what Jack, my lover, had done to me; taught me what I loved, needed, craved. This is what had transformed my sex life from a repetitive chore to a mind-blowing and profound need.

  I arched my body against the leather straps and knew the feeling of being in bondage, of being completely powerless to stop the woman doing whatever she wanted to do to me, was only increasing my excitement. As she bit and pinched my nipples again and the vibrations from the rod seemed to increase, I shuddered to an astonishing climax.

  'You see what I can do for you?' she said.

  She knelt on the bed and straddled my shoulders. I found myself staring up into her crotch. The shiny black rubber parted to reveal a slit from the top of her mons right around to her anus. The area had been assiduously depilated and I could see the crinkled flesh of her labia. The mouth of her vagina parted and I saw the scarlet wet flesh inside.

  There was little doubt what she was going to do. I knew it wouldn't be my first taste of a woman, and Jack was responsible for introducing me to my own bisexuality. I'd had no idea I could get sexual pleasure from another woman until he insisted I had sex with one while he watched.

  She lowered herself onto my mouth, then wriggled her hips so her sex was smeared across my face. I could do nothing but inhale the intoxicating scent. As much as I would have liked to kiss and lick her the gag prevented me. I felt my clitoris throb. Jack had awoken my submissive fantasies, feelings that, before we'd met, I didn't even want to admit to myself that I had. My bondage now was more extreme than anything he'd applied, but that only made it more exciting.

  She pulled back slightly and a finger slipped between her labia. Sweat was running off my forehead and my heart was pounding, but I could not take my eyes off her finger as it nudged her clitoris from side to side. In moments she was gasping with pleasure as she came.

  She moved forward again until her wet sex was pressed against the gag, then laughed and got to her feet. Without another word she turned and left the room. The door closed.

  I realised my whole body was bathed in sweat. I lay alone again inhaling the strong odours of her sex, and my own, mixed inextricably together. My heartbeat slowed. My nipples ached from the pinching they had taken, but nothing diminished my sexual excitement and I could feel my thighs slick with my juices.

  I looked around the room. The only light was from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. I expected it to be turned off at any moment. The walls were painted grey and the floor was linoleum. The only furniture was the single bed, a wooden chair and a glass-fronted cabinet. One wall had two sturdy metal rings bolted into it above head height, and there were two more at floor level. There were also ominous-looking chains hanging from the ceiling.

  It was not easy to keep track of time and I don't know how long I was left like this. My thoughts turned to Jack, to what he had done to me, and what he had made me feel and the ultimate humiliation when my husband found us together. The trouble was I couldn't regret what I had done with him. I had never experienced such heights of passion. I remembered the beautiful brunette too. I remembered her walking towards me, her nylons rasping. I was looking straight into her eyes. The only gap in my memory was what she had done to me, and how I ended up here. Whatever it was I knew my husband had been behind it. I discovered I could just manage to rub my thighs together, which produced a wave of sexual feelings. I could easily bring myself off again, but I refrained. I had the feeling I was being watched and didn't want anyone to know just how turned on I was.

  The door opened again. Two women entered; the original figure and another in an identical outfit, though she was shorter and had smaller breasts. I could see there was a slit in the rubber between her legs too, and I could glimpse her sex lips. Unlike her companion she was not shaved, and had black pubes.

  She unbuckled the belts at my ankles, knees and thighs, leaving my arms bound while her companion undid the strap that held me to the bed. The gag was eased out, then without a word they strode back to the door and left again. The shorter one came back a moment later with two metal bowls. She placed them on the floor by the door, then shut and locked it again.

  I struggled to sit up. Oddly, despite being bound so tightly for I don't know how long, I felt no real pain. There was a dull ache in my muscles but it wasn't at all unpleasant.

  I realised I was starving hungry and the bowls must contain food. I managed to get to my feet but nearly fell over I was so shaky on my legs. Rather than risking toppling over without the use of my hands to break my fall, I got to my knees and crawled over to the bowls. There was water in one and a sort of stew in the other. I ate with difficulty, almost overbalancing as I snuffled in t
he bowl trying to catch the meat between my lips. Drinking was even more difficult.

  The extraordinary thing was that even this humiliation did not diminish my profound excitement, my juices seeping down between my thighs.

  The large swimming pool glistened in the night like a huge diamond, its blue mosaic tiles lit by underwater lights. A five-piece band played on the vast terrace where every shrub and tree had been draped with tiny white lights. The guests, men in evening dress, women in fabulous creations of silk, satin and lace, talked or danced or helped themselves to food from three tables groaning with delicacies. On one there were plates of oysters, pates, cold lobster, smoked salmon, salads and caviar in silver bowls surrounded by crushed ice. On another were hot dishes. The third, surmounted by an ice sculpture of a dolphin, held magnificent displays of the art of patisserie, tarts in every colour and flavour, chocolate roulades and crystal bowls of crème Chantilly and crème anglais and, at the very end a collection of French cheeses under a vast thermostatic cloche.

  Barbara Harrison surveyed the scene with dismay. She hated parties. But her husband had just signed a contract worth over a hundred million euros to supply the Federation de France Nord and she could not get out of attending the celebrations. She watched her husband, Anthony, talking animatedly to Jeanne Christophe Brichot, the Managing Director of FFN. A rousse he had called her when Barbara had introduced them, the French expression, apparently, for a redhead, and Barbara was definitely that, her hair the colour of beech trees in autumn.

  'Hi!'

  She looked around. A man had appeared at her side. He was tall with a broad chest, a chiselled chin, black curly hair and piercing brown, almost black eyes. He exuded calm confidence and superiority.