Broken Submission

Rock Bottom

The candles barely shed enough light to illuminate her silhouette in the mirror. She sighed, squinting as she tried to make sure that there were no clashing colors going on with her outfit. She needed to turn the electricity back on, somehow. Amelia knew what she had to do, what she had to give up. But she wasn't ready.

Amelia relaxed against the restraints. The Club was her outlet—a way to relieve the tension that constantly filled her. She loved the burn and the impact of a paddle. Sometimes, that was the only thing that could get her out of her head. But tonight, even Jerrol's punishing blows couldn't keep her from running in mental circles. When the scene was over, she thanked him and made her way toward the front.

It wasn't until she left the main play area that she felt the drop. The empty hallway swam. Her backside throbbed from the scene, but she barely noticed as her hand shot out to touch the wall for balance. Her stomach clenched, angry and empty, pain and nausea bubbling to the surface. She waited for the feeling to pass as it always did, but instead, it intensified. Her eyes closed right before she hit the ground.

Two voices filtered into her brain. She vaguely recalled being picked up and the journey from the hallway to wherever she was. Her eyes fluttered open. She was laying on a couch while the on-site doctor and the club owner spoke quietly.

The doctor was a young woman who didn't partake in the scene and showed a confusing enough mix of submissive and take no shit behavior to make all but the thrill seeker doms leave her alone. The club owner--Derek Jensen--used to be a consultant in the military before retiring.

He was in his late thirties, built not with Hollywood-type muscle, but like a man was supposed to be, with a solid chest and broad shoulders. His dark brown hair was so thick that it stuck up in natural spikes all over his head like a sleepy bear's.

He paused when Amelia moved, green eyes scanning her with such intensity that she froze, immediately looking at the floor. The doctor— Sam—did doctorly things, checked her pulse and her pupils, then set a water bottle and a granola bar on the table before her.

"Eat this, and when you're finished with him," Sam nodded to the owner, "come see me in the recovery room, okay?"

Amelia nodded, and Sam touched her chin, silently asking her to meet her eyes. When she saw that she had Amelia's attention, she nodded. "Do not drive before coming to see me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

Derek stepped in. "Yes, thank you, Sam. I will personally ensure that she comes your way."

Sam nodded and left them.

Amelia stared at the floor, only the very tips of his shoes in her line of sight. She jumped a little when his hand appeared, holding out the granola bar. Her nerves were shot from passing out. She was jumpier than a kitten abandoned on the streets.

"Eat." His voice had taken on a deep, rumbling quality.

"Yes, sir," she murmured and opened the granola bar, the loud crackle of the packaging making her wince.

Derek stared at the sub who had still not met his eyes. His club was not high protocol. Subs were allowed to—and usually did—make full eye contact. In her case, he doubted she knew what color shirt he was wearing. He studied Amelia, noting her flinch as the metallic wrapper of the bar he'd handed her crackled. Her auburn hair draped in front of her face like a curtain, concealing a pert nose and a small mouth, as well as huge brown eyes that saw everything. That is—when they weren't staring at the floor.

He'd taken notice of her on the main floor, as he had most subs. Derek tried to know everyone personally. This sub—just enough of an exhibitionist to do impact play on the main floor, but no public sex, including oral. She was small, short, and would have been considered boyish if it weren't for her tiny waist accentuating what curves she had. She had a few play partners but never seemed to get serious. He doubted it was because she had wild oats to sow.

Realizing that he'd been staring at her while she sank deeper and deeper into his couch, Derek moved to the chair across from her. She finished her granola bar and flattened out the wrapper, despite cringing once more at the noise. She set it on the table.

"Amelia." He let her name hang in the air. Her shoulders hunched.

"Yes, sir." It was barely a whisper.

"Why were you found passed out in a hallway just minutes after finishing a scene?"

Amelia had never been fond of aftercare. She craved it, but the reality of sitting on her partner's lap after an emotional roller coaster ride, their sweat mingling... She barely suppressed a shudder. Most of her partners accepted this—not always happily—as just one of her quirks. If they didn't... they stopped being her playmate.

"I was tired, sir," she said. "I was going home." Her stomach churned with the granola bar. She'd tried not to scarf it down, but every instinct had told her to cram the whole thing into her mouth at once.

Derek waited for her to elaborate. As the silence stretched, he changed tacks. Her quiet demeanor had made him want to comfort her. But he had been notified the first time that she had refused aftercare. He kept an eye on the situation and while he didn't like it, she genuinely seemed to handle being without it. So maybe this sub didn't respond to a gentle touch. He could oblige.

"Take off your shirt."