Forced Lesbian Submission Books 1-10 Page 9

  I nod.

  “You want to win in this life,” she says, “You gotta fight. If you don't, then you get fucked.”

  * * *

  “You know, I'm not just the captain anymore. I'm the assistant coach,” I say, leaning back in Coach Morris's chair. “And Coach Morris thinks you're a good player.”

  Kora smiles. She knows compliments from the coach don't come easily. She's taking pride in it right now.

  “But just because she thinks you're a good player, doesn't mean you get to stay on this team and coast. She might be out on vacation right now, but she's left personnel decisions up to me. And even though she hasn't seen these grades yet, I can bet you any amount of money that you wouldn't make it a day if she were here. You'd be gone as fast as possible. She doesn't tolerate lazy girls.”

  “But she knows I'm a good player,” Kora says, the realization that she's about to lose everything dawning on her, “Doesn't that mean something?”

  “Yeah, it does. And I know that, too. And ever since she came here a few months ago, she's turned this team around. We are actually winning games. Teams are actually scared of playing us. And that's thanks to strong players like you.”

  Kora smiles again. Compliments from me are as rare as they are from Coach Morris.

  “And that's why I'm giving you a chance. I'm not just going to drop your ass, but it isn't going to be easy. You're lucky you have me right now, and not her.”

  “Thanks, Tiff.”

  “Don't thank me yet. I said it wasn't going to be easy.”

  “What do you need me to do?” she asks.

  “I want to know what you're willing to do to stay on this team.”

  “Anything,” she says, “I love volleyball. It's the only thing that keeps me sane at the moment. I'll raise my grades; get tutors if I need to.”

  “Good. Now I want to know how much you're willing to fight for it?” I ask.

  “Like, I said, I'll do whatever I need to.”

  “I need to see that fight. Come with me.”

  I bring her back to the storage room and lead her in. I close the door behind us, and as Kora turns around to face me, I grab her hair and push her up against the wall.

  “What the fuck!” she yells.

  I wrap my hand around her throat, and slap her across the cheek with the other.

  “Shut up! I told you I wanted to see what fight you had in you,” I say, squeezing my grip.

  “Are you fucking crazy? Stop! You're choking me.”

  “I'll give you one chance. You escape from my grip, you get to stay on this team. You don't have to worry about your grades. I'll do your homework for you,” I say, “You don't escape, and I own your ass.”

  Kora struggles, giving it a fight I didn't have in me when Coach Morris had me against the wall. Kora's actually strengthened herself somewhat. But not as much as I have.

  I have trained to never be a loser again. She can't break from my grip because she doesn't have the fight in her.

  “Okay,” she says, “I can't do it. You're too strong.”

  “And you expect to win with that attitude. You just let me do whatever I want to you? You gonna let your opponents do the same thing,” I say, backing off.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Coach Morris gave me a lot of things. A lot of chances. But I'm finally going to get the one thing she never gave me,” I say, undoing the button to my shorts and dropping them.

  “I'm going to get my pussy eaten.”

  - - -

  Conquered by the Woman of the House

  Where the hell is she?

  “Erin, it's the right thing to do. And it's for your own good. Just calm down.”

  “Daddy, don't tell me to calm down,” I say. He goes meek, just as he usually does, but it's a little less helpful than I was hoping. His silence is little consolation as the chaos and din of the masquerade party makes it difficult to find Gail on my own.

  I look through the crowd, and since everyone's wearing masks, I try to match what little I remember of her body shape to the body types I see. I'd only met her twice before, but I vaguely remember her slim and athletic body, her shoulder length black hair, and the few inches she has on me. Oh, and she's also got a major case of resting bitch face.

  That's the crazy part: She's my stepmother, but I've only met her twice!

  My daddy met her about 5 months ago, around late August, right after I left out-of-state for my sophomore year of college. They'd been together for 3 months before they rushed into marriage, and I'd only seen her once when I swung by in mid-October and once during Thanksgiving. That's it.

  Now she's throwing a New Year's party in my daddy's house, the gold digging whore. What else would you be when you rush to marry a man who bathes in money? I mean, I know my daddy doesn't really bathe in money; he's more modest about it. But the one thing he's got that stands out? His palatial home―my house―which would make any whore need to wring the moisture out of her panties.

  I trek through the house, examining the people throughout, with my daddy tailing me and complaining about my improprieties and such: It's not proper for a southern girl to be stepping on toes and blah-blah-blah. All I know is I'm closing in, and I need to set her straight. After traveling through the dining room, the comfort room, and the pool house―passing a good 200 people (now you know why it was hard to find her)―I come across her in the kitchen, talking to a number of daddy's business partners.

  I know why my daddy married her: She's beautiful. I got stuck comparing myself to her the few times that I saw her. She's definitely better looking than my momma, who's 10 years older and has never been one to take care of herself. I've always tried to at least. Even if I've got my momma's short height, I've got her wavy brunette locks, and I've avoided her roundness.

  Gail, though, looks amazing in the beige dress she's wearing: the loose frill over her chest, the pearls around her neck, the elbow-length black gloves, and the smoky silver eye shadow visible under her black and white masquerade mask give her the appearance of high society.

  She looks elite, like she belongs here. I'm in a turquoise cocktail dress with slits down the sides to show and accentuate the thighs and butt my momma gave me. It may not be high society, but it looks damn good on me. She may look intimidating, but I hold my own, and I don't take shit from no one, especially some woman overstepping her boundaries. My daddy would be a lucky man if he didn't happen to marry a treasure hoarding harpy.

  I step in between her and the partners she's talking to. “What's your deal?” I ask, “Why are you telling my daddy to cut off my school funds?”

  The partners cut off conversation and glance at each other. She looks from me to them and says, “Gentleman, I'm sorry. If you'd give us a second, I'd appreciate it.” They walk off, continuing their conversation elsewhere, while I wait with my arms crossed, hoping I made her look like a dumb bimbo to all my daddy's friends.

  “What gives you the right?” I continue, “How am I going to enjoy college if I don't have some spending money?”

  Gail looks at me, her eyes steady and unflinching. Her mouth is pursed, unmoving. Is this monster even breathing?

  “Honey,” my daddy jumps in, catching up in his efforts to stop me, “You need to relax and be nice to your stepmother. You shouldn't speak to her like that.”

  Stepmother?! I'm about to explode on him until Gail steps in.

  She puts a hand up to my daddy. “I'll take care of this, Richard. Just make sure the guests are entertained, please.” She turns toward me. “Let's continue this in my bedroom.”

  As we head out away from the party, I watch Gail walk ahead of me. She may be a snooty girl from Maine, but her hips have an incredible sway, dipping and bouncing from side to side. Her heels are tall, sure, but her gait is natural, swinging wide in what I can only think of as confidence; a display, like a man puffing out his chest with swagger. I guess I've just never seen the female version of it.

  The bedroom is
far enough through the house that all the music and boisterous businessmen are muffled and barely audible. As we enter the bedroom, it's quiet enough that you'd actually be able to sleep if you wanted to.

  Gail closes and locks the door behind us. She moves to the bench in front of the king sized bed and sits on it. She takes off her black mask and sets it down. Her face is stone as she looks at me, saying, “So what is your problem, exactly?”

  I scoff. She sounds like she's dismissing me already. “You think you're tough shit stepping in and fucking up my family?”

  Her look is both condescending and incredulous. “You know your mother cheated on your father, right?”

  My cheeks flush. “Yes, I know that.” It's just hard to acknowledge that my mother would up and leave us like that; I don't even like to admit it to myself.

  “Then it's clear I had nothing to do with it. I know it might be upsetting that I'm here―in your life―but your father and I are happy where we're at. I know it's unfamiliar, but we love each other.”

  “I don't know about that. My daddy was married for a long time. My momma skips out on him and he's all alone, then he jumps in and marries you in a couple months? I don't know if he's got his head on right, especially when some woman jumps into his arms after seeing everything he's got.”

  She stands and laughs, “If you're implying I'm in this for the money, you can rest assured, I'm not. I've grown up around this kind of money all my life. My family owns everything from retail stores to hotel chains. Nothing I've seen here blows me away. It's nice and all, but it isn't deciding who I love. You're father is a kind and warm man. You should know he's got great qualities beyond his money.”

  She's trying to make me sound like I don't know my own daddy, but I'm avoiding that route. “Maybe, but that doesn't mean you can come in her telling my daddy how to raise me.”

  She steps in close, and the harshness I know deep down dominates her demeanor shows itself. “Well, someone has to,” she says, “I may not be your mother, but I seem to be the only one around here strong enough to put an end to your shit.”

  I feel the heat rise up in me. She's taking a crack at both my parents. Maybe my mother did leave, but: “My daddy isn't weak.”

  “No,” she says, softening her edge, “Your father isn't weak. Deep beneath, he's a strong man. He didn't build his company up on weakness.” But just as she softens, she hardens. “But you―you and your mother―made him weak. Your mother walked all over him and then left him for another man, ungrateful for what your father did for her.”

  I jump in, “Yeah, and what're you doing? He wants to give me money for school, and you're making him stop. You're the one walking all over him.”

  “No, what you're doing and what I'm doing are completely different. You're using him. I'm making him a stronger man, getting him to do what he no longer has the ability to do: stand up to you. In time he'll learn and start doing it on his own.”

  The proposition scares me. Would my daddy really start to cut me out because she's making him? My God, he did say it was the right thing to do, that it was for my own good. He's already getting there. “Just leave him alone. Why are you trying to mess with him?”

  “Because he has a weakness for you,” she growls, “And from the little interaction I've seen between you two, all you do is attack it and play on his emotions. He does whatever you want. You're a vulture, and I'm tired of it. Your father is a good man, but he's tired of it too.”

  The bile catches in my throat as this bitch keeps talking like she knows my father. “You don't know him,” I yell, “You've been together for five months! You've been married for two. You're a rebound.” I smirk at her, waiting for her to feel the sting of my words.

  “Hardly,” she says, coolly, “But if you want to play that game, at least he's rebounding somewhere safe, away from all the mental abuse you and your mother heap on him.”

  Her words are cold, but they fire me up for the last time. I take a swing, intent on hearing that marvelous hollow sound a slap makes connecting with an arrant bitch. Really, it's the moment I look forward to in any argument.

  But I'm stopped short. She catches my hand with her opposing one, seizing my wrist before my victory. I try to pull my hand back, but she doesn't budge.

  And then I catch it. This twinkle in her eye, attached to the subtlest of smiles. It's as if she was waiting for this moment, drawing me in to react. How I notice this I don't know. Her features barely move, frozen in her resting bitch face. But something comes alive in her.

  With a swiftness and strength I did not know she had, she pulls me by my arm toward her as she steps back, yanking me off balance. I stumble forward as she sits down on the bench in front of the bed. I fall forward with her, but she catches me, and suddenly she spins me and I'm lying horizontal across her lap.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell, my words come out as unbalanced as I just was.

  “You really think you can hit me?” she asks, anger flashing through her voice, “It's the parent who strikes the child.”

  As she presses down on my upper back, pinning me to her legs, she reaches back and pulls my dress up. I can hear the fabric stretching and ripping as she forces my tight dress up my legs.

  “Stop it!” I yell, beginning to panic as my ass is exposed, “You're ruining my dress. What are you doing?”

  “I'm going to fucking spank you,” she says. It's the first time I've ever heard her swear.

  “You're not my momma. Let me go,” I say as I struggle against her athletic grip. But I can't move as she leans into me and pushes me with her body weight. She grabs the band of my turquoise, lace panties and pulls up on them, driving the wedge into my pussy. The fabric grinding between my lips sends a shock through my system, and she pulls so hard I lift myself off her lap.

  “Oww, Jesus, what are you doing?” I ask for the third time, unable to believe anything that's happening at the moment.

  She grabs the fabric further down toward my ass crack, where it's thinner, and pulls up as hard as she can. The strip of thin fabric drives straight into me, pushing into my pussy, sliding against my clit, chafing my asshole. This time I lift off her lap from Gail's own strength, holding me up by the force of the sheer cotton.

  I let out an oomph of pain, but it's also mixed with a moan of pleasure. I can feel myself getting wet from the incredible pressure. As she lifts me higher, the panties drive further into me, and the pleasure and pain are simultaneously increased.

  But just as the pleasure really starts to build, the fabric begins to stretch and tear. With one powerful yank she pulls on the strap, lifting me high up, but dropping me immediately as the fabric snaps and I land hard on her thighs.

  I barely catch my breath before she―my underwear no longer in the way―starts spanking me. Her hand is firm and comes down fast and hard.

  “Stop hitting me!”

  “From here on out, I'm your mother, and you're going to start doing what I say.” Her hand ricochets off me and the stings build up as my skin tightens from the contact.

  “You're not my fucking mother. You're just a gold digging whore,” I say, my anger coming at probably the worst time, trapped in the grip of someone slapping me.

  But instead of hitting me harder as I expect her to, she stops. She slides me off her and I fall to the ground on my knees. I think she's going to relent, but instead she stands and reaches down, grabbing my dress and ripping it upwards, pulling it off me as if I didn't struggle against her at all.

  Awake now from my punishment, I rush to cover my tits. I'm naked now except for my heels and ripped, tattered underwear hanging from my hips.

  “Holy shit,” I say, “Are you a fucking pervert or what?”

  She grabs my hair and pulls my head back. “You're going to respect me from now on, and I'm going to make sure of it.”

  “Yeah fucking right, you crazy bitch. I'll never respect you, you fucking home wrecker.”

  “You watch me,” she says.

/>   I reach up and try to pull her hand off my hair, but as I do that, she swings her other hand down and slaps my small, exposed nipple. The sting shoots through me and I feel my nipple harden right away. I reach down to cover myself, but she yanks my head back hard, and I unconsciously reach up to stop here. She takes this moment again to slap my other nipple. It too hardens, and I'm caught between my hair being pulled out and my body being exposed.

  “Ouch, what do you want from me?”

  “Nothing now,” she says, “Just for you to obey me.” She yanks my head around. “Stand up.”

  I shuffle to my feet and stand up, raising my arms to my head as she still grips my hair. As I look up at her, her head darts in, and she plants a kiss on my lips. Her tongue penetrates my mouth and circles my tongue. I push my hands against her shoulders, but my effort gives way as I melt to her passion, and my hands merely rest on her as she bites my lip.

  She pulls away and I squeak out, “Oh my God, what are you doing?” Like a broken record, I can't figure out what she's doing to me. Is she trying to fuck me? My mind can't wrap around what's going on, but my pussy gets it right away, as it's already wet from her hands and her tongue.

  “You don't understand. When I'm done with you, you're going to obey me.” I yelp as she pulls me to the side of the bed and bends me over it. She lets go and I lie there for a second trying to form my thoughts. “Don't move at all,” she commands.

  She moves away from me. I don't know what she's doing, but I just start sputtering. “I'm sorry, all right. I didn't mean to be a bitch,” I say, “I was just angry and frustrated and didn't know what to do.” But of course I did; that was the whole point. It just didn't work like I wanted. I thought she'd fold. Every person I've ever confronted had always folded.

  She doesn't say anything. She's gone for a moment, and I'm not sure if she left or not. By the time I consider getting to my feet, I feel her come up behind me. She grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back. I feel a couple leather straps go across one arm to the other, just above the elbows. When she secures them, I can still bend my arms, but I can't get them out from behind me.