The Master // Jake Kiszka

On Heavenly Ground

Submission; The action of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person.

The dictionary liked to paint an objective picture of the word. It would have you believe that the word implied weakness and subordination. That to give yourself over to complete and total submission would mean to relinquish all power.

But that was simply not your experience. Not as you came to understand it. To you, submission was a choice given freely. It was not a selfless act. It brought you a level of satisfaction no other type of love could withstand.

The type of love that knew no boundaries. The type of love that taught you patience and tolerance. And above all else, submission brought about the type of love you craved.

Jake was standing by the car, impatiently tapping his fingers on the roof. Silently begging you to make more haste as you tumbled out of the house wearing the white linen summer dress he had laid out for you that morning.

With no underwear.

"If we're late because of you, I'll be putting you over my knee when we get back." He warned, opening the passenger side door for you.

You stopped to give the tip of his nose a little kiss as you climbed inside.

"Promises, promises..." You sighed, in no hurry at all.

There was no desire to attend the venue you were heading towards. Driving through east Nashville on a warm afternoon should have felt more content than it did that day.

Especially when Jake's hand came to rest on your exposed knee. Hitching it up a little further, revealing your thigh as you weaved through the easy traffic. But all you could feel was impending dread, gnawing away at you from the pit of your stomach.

"I'm about to lose my job." You predicted, nervously wringing your hands in the hem of your dress.

Jake was superfluously calm. Keeping one hand on the wheel as he kneaded the flesh of your upper thigh in his other. His eye on the road and the beginnings of a devilish smirk on his lips.

"This meeting is a mere courtesy." He replied, tugging the hem from your worried fingers. "They can't take your job away from you if you're not on the payroll. And even if you were, I'm not about to let my own management team dictate to me who I can and cannot fuck."

He was wearing the Paul McCartney sweater you liked best on him. Long sleeved and snug against his waist. Sitting above a pair of cuffed pants, you couldn't take your eyes off him as he drove. Watching his knuckles flex on the steering wheel as he turned it, feeling his other hand grow increasingly more curious about the fact he knew he hadn't left any underwear out for you.

"I feel like I'm on the stand." You affirmed, mindlessly taking the hem and twisting it in your fingers once more without thinking. "I feel as if I'm going to have to go in there and defend what we have."

Jake churlishly swerved the car, pulling into the sidewalk near the Frothy Monkey Café. You sat there, in mild shock at the aggressiveness of his parking as the windows went up, shrouded by tinted screens as people walked by.

"Alright, that's it." He sighed, reclining your seat whilst pulling your fretful fingers, once again, out of the fabric of your dress.

You bit down on your lip as your seat went back. Consumed with knowing you were about to get soothed or corrected. Either of those outcomes were welcome as your heart beat drummed away beneath your trembling breasts. Keeping quiet as he leaned over you.

"Who do you belong to?" He asked tentatively, drawing his gaze sinfully slowly down from your eyes towards the quivering curve of your breasts.

"You, Sir." You replied, gripping the edge of your seat with anticipation.