SUBMISSION AGENDA:

EMMA'S STORY

I've had more than a few requests for follow-ups or sequels to the saga of Submission Agenda. As a treat, I decided to focus on a few short vignettes, re-tellings of the original story from the point of view of the prey. These will jump all over the story and work as stand-alone stories, offering a fresh take on the voluntary enslavement of the world's greatest heroines. In addition to seeing the Agenda from different angles, there will be a few spaces in the plot filled in as well. 

I've decided to focus heavily on Miles' first conquest, the lovely White Queen, Emma Frost, as she plays a part throughout the story but is not always at the center of the action. What is it like to serve as a love slave to a megalomaniacal young boy? Emma will find out.

If anyone has any plot ideas or suggestions, please send them my way.

 All feedback is much appreciated: benchleyfan01@yahoo.com.

(II) EMMA ENSLAVED

Emma Frost stepped gingerly out of the cramped shower stall, drying her shoulder-length blonde hair with a plush white towel, and caught her own eye in the bathroom mirror. Slowly she lowered the towel, staring into the mirror, appraising the appearance of her own nude body.

Frost was a beautiful woman, possessed of supermodel good looks - skin white as a folded napkin, icy blue eyes, a perfectly formed nose and thick, full, pink lips. She had a dynamite body and took more than a little pride in admiring its naked glory - high, buoyant, rounded breasts capped with puffy pink nipples, a washboard stomach, tiny waist and flaring hips, a small thin bush of blonde pubic hair and long, muscular legs. She turned and admired the curve of her back, the swell of her full ass. She smiled and grasped that ass, squeezing and lifting it, then watching it bounce briefly in the mirror. 

A beautiful woman indeed. But as Frost resumed vigorously drying her hair, her thoughts drifted from mere admiration of her spectacular face and body to the realization that her looks no longer belonged only to her. For now, she had a Master.

It had been a particularly bizarre day for Emma Frost - in some ways the worst of her life, in other ways clearly the best. Just that morning she had been congratulating herself on Frost Enterprise's upcoming acquisition of a Chicago-based company that would net her billions of dollars. She had flown out to the Windy City as both a representative of her corporation and Charles Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters; the head of the company she would soon own was a young boy - 16 years old and already tremendously wealthy and successful - and also a mutant. 

In the course of their brief meeting it became apparent that he was a potentially very powerful mutant - he had managed to dull her prodigious telepathic talents and nearly forced himself upon her sexually before she excused herself. 

She had panicked and begun to question her own stability on the way to the airport to leave Chicago - after all, a 16 year-old boy had nearly raped her. How could this have happened? She had passed out upon reaching her private jet and woke to find herself bound and blindfolded to a bed. Then the horror truly began.

Robbed of her psychic powers yet again, Emma was helpless to resist as she was viciously sexually assaulted - an anonymous rapist climbed atop her and titfucked her, humiliating and ravishing her. Using her body like a toy, for his own sick amusement. And worst of all... she had loved it. 

Somehow, this assault on her decency and womanhood had brought about her own extreme arousal, culminating in an orgasm the likes of which she'd never known. It shook her to her core, blowing her away totally even as she screamed in resistance, mourning her own weakness. Emma had always loved the feeling of sex, and had always enjoyed exploiting men to gain advantages, using the promise of her own body to put her in positions of power. But it had never felt like this before. Afterwards, she was released and her blindfold removed, and the rapist revealed his true identity: it was the boy, of course. Just a kid, but capable of devising and executing a horrible plan. His previously unidentified mutant powers were sexual in nature, and he smugly informed Emma that she was to be the first in a series of superheroine conquests in a vague plot to seize power. She would serve him as a willing love slave, his devoted slut for all time.

If someone had told her all this the day before, Emma would have scoffed. To be a pawn in some adolescent power fantasy was so far below her, it was a joke. She was a superior woman, an aristocrat, an alpha-class mutant, an X-Man. But, God help her... she couldn't fight this boy. Couldn't fight the feelings he released deep within her. In the wake of her brutal tit-rape, as Emma's head slowly cleared of the post-coital stupor, she realized her fundamental nature had been rewritten.

First she noticed... well, she could call it an itch, but that was far too small a word for it. It was more like an all-encompassing urge, a deep yearning for orgasm she'd never known, even in her moments of highest arousal. It sat somewhere within her, in her pussy and in her gut, in the back of her brain. In her soul. She was never unaware of it now - it was never far from her mind. Clearly, the boy's mutant biology had engendered this accursed, lovely feeling in her. Furthermore, she felt a constant haze, almost like the feeling of alcohol robbing her of inhibitions. It made her will weak... she realized she would do anything now to feel that pure pleasure of orgasm again. Anything. She had no resistance. 

Strongest of all was the hunger. Different than the unrelenting urge to orgasm, this was a specific and profound lust for one thing in particular: the sexual fluids of her Master. She finally realized, in the daze that followed her titfucking, that the semen with which he had doused her face and chest was... wonderful. It tasted heavenly, it sensitized her flesh to an unbelievable degree wherever it touched her, and to taste it... Well, to say the least, Emma now realized that the only time she would ever feel satisfaction again in her life was when she drank her Master's cum. 

After Emma's conversion to a new way of life, the boy-Master ordered her into the bathroom at the rear of the private jet to clean up. The psychological shock that came with apparent enslavement compelled her to do his bidding without question, but as Emma showered in silence she had considered her predicament. She had fought villains and heroes in her time, faced more than her share of adversity, triumphed over opponents, forged her own way of life. She thought she had things figured out. Now, to be reduced from a strong, independent woman to a... whore... by a mere boy... it was humbling. And a bit terrifying. As the cold water rinsed away the sweat and remnants of precious cum, Emma had stared ahead blankly, contemplating the life ahead of her and the meaning of it all.

Now she stared at herself in the mirror, lifting her skirt and white panties from the counter. Slowly, she re-dressed herself according to her Master's orders. "Lose the bra" had been his exact words, and she of course knew why: unlike her blouse, stockings, underwear, and skirt, her push-up bra was soaked in the boy's ejaculate, run-off from their earlier encounter. Half-dressed in front of the mirror, Emma cradled the brassiere in her hands, squeezing the damp lace. Not dried yet. She hesitated a moment, remembering the way he had pulled down the straps then peeled it away from her chest before proceeding to use her body in a way no man ever had before. Then Emma lifted the undergarment to her face and sucked deeply, drawing the last bits of that sweet, sweet cum into her mouth. She moaned softly, swallowing hungrily, like a starving dog cleaning scraps from a bone, and didn't stop until she was sure she had gotten every last drop from both cups. Then she breathed deeply and let the brassiere fall to the floor, wiping her lips clean and then licking the dregs from the back of her hand. Already, her pussy was boiling with lust again, just from the taste.

"Fuck," she said to herself, meeting her gaze in the mirror yet again. She considered her features. She had known this face for many years, but had never known it would ultimately be the face... of a sex slave.

She began applying make-up.

****

Emma strode out of the bathroom and back into the cabin of the private jet. Before her, reclined in a leather chair, was the boy she now called Master. He had not re-dressed since their last encounter; he had simply thrown on a pair of pants, which were open at the crotch to reveal his erect cock and swollen scrotum. She had noticed earlier that his testicles were of tremendous size; his cock was not particularly huge, but his balls were distracting. Perhaps that accounted for the massive amounts of sexual fluids he produced. She licked her lips at the thought.

His eyes were closed, two fingers locked on his right temple, a sure sign of a psychic trance. So, Emma surmised, he did have some sort of telepathic capabilities. That would explain his uncanny ability to effortlessly depower her. What a remarkable creature, she thought as she admired his prostrate form and prominent genitalia, reflecting on her own swift downfall. It was as if he had been designed specifically to debase and conquer the opposite sex, no matter their advantage. And he was only 16. Where would he be in ten years with proper training? He could be a God; she could help him along the way, teach him...

Presently, his eyes opened and he pulled his hand away from his temple, ending a session on the psychic plane. He smiled to see her standing before him, redressed, ready, and looking positively delicious. Emma felt pride to know she could impress him. She ignored the inherent, deeper sting of shame that came with sexual servitude. That would pass in time, she supposed. And she knew the rapture he could give her more than made up for her abandoned independence. Her Master would provide for her now.

 "Things are coming along nicely," he said. "I've just received word that Scott Summers has been killed."

"What?" Emma faltered. Cyclops, the leader of the X-Men... gone? "You must be kidding."

"I told you earlier, you would not believe the scale of my plans, slave. I have it within my power to bring you all down. The men I'll eliminate, and the women I'll fuck until they're mine."

Emma was shocked. To hear someone so young speak so casually of death and enslavement... She sat abruptly on the bed, disbelieving.

"No, stand," he said, gesturing to a space before his chair. "You're going to dance for me."

Emma turned her head, eyebrows raised. His cock stood between them, a pole representing her new life.

"I'm not much of a dancer," she smiled. "Sebastian Shaw used to have me perform for him in the Hellfire Club. Let's just say I've always been better on my back than on my feet. I could... show you..."

She ran a finger up her stockinged leg, a picture of seduction.

"You'll do as you're told, slave," he replied sharply. 

Emma was taken aback by his commanding tone. He was right, of course; she had no ground to deny his wishes. She could withhold the pleasure of her body, the only thing she had to offer him. And, she supposed, he could just as easily withhold his cream, the only thing that really mattered to her anymore. Hardly a fair trade-off.

"Yes, Master," she said, realizing it would be a phrase she would probably repeat myriad times in the future. She stood, eyeing him up and down.

"Do I get any music to dance to?"

"Just dance, slut."

Emma gulped and shuddered. To be spoken to in this way... It was beyond disrespect. Somewhere between total contempt and abject lust. This egomaniacal little boy knew exactly how to treat Emma in order to drain her self-respect. She never would have allowed it, never in her old life. But this was not her old life. She was beginning a new life as a slave to one man's pleasures. A life under his cock. 

The White Queen conjured in her head a thumping bass beat, a generic dance groove. She closed her eyes, imagined she was in a club in her younger years, carefree... not in a private jet standing before her new boy-Master... and she began to sway her hips. Slowly, seductively, enticing. She could show this boy, teach him that her beautiful body still gave her some leverage. She owned her ass, her tits, and she alone knew how to use them best. Back and forth, back and forth... 

Hands on her knees, she slowly crouched, pursing her lips and opening her eyes, throwing her best "Fuck me" look to this boy. He was smiling thinly, but did not look overjoyed. Not yet, but she could fix that. His dick stood at full mast. How she wanted to taste that penis again, that cream. It drove her to dance harder, more sexily, like she wanted it bad.

"I can still feel your cock between my titties, Master," she murmured, crouched and bouncing to her imagined beat. She threw her head back and bunched her tits together through her silk blouse, still bouncing, presenting magnificent cleavage to him. 

"God, it made me so hot... You knew I couldn't resist, knew you could rape me and I would beg for more, didn't you? I thirst for your cream, Master. You know that, don't you?"

His crooked smile widened, eyes dark with sick pleasure. He had told her after reveling in her rape that she was one of many women he had enslaved - he claimed to have made supermodels beg for his cum. But he was the first superheroine he'd ever taken. That made her special among the ranks of his slaves. She reversed her position, still bouncing, thrusting her ass toward him with wanton zest. 

"You haven't even touched my cunt yet, Master," she cooed, wagging her fine ass within her short white skirt. Then, slowly, she rose, never stopping the swaying, bouncing, lustful dance. She rolled her hips, moving her body like a liquid.

Emma strode sexily over to the bed where just half an hour before this boy had ended her life as she knew it, feeling his eyes following her. 

"Don't you want it? Don't you want to feel me from the inside?" She grasped one of the brass bedposts and swung around it, beginning an expert pole dance. "I want it, Master. I want it bad. I want your... your fucking COCK!"

She thrust her hips against the pole, rocking with it, pushing her tits against it, sliding down it then popping back up, licking it suggestively, riding it. In a flash of passion, she tore open her blouse, freeing her beautiful tits once more. She rubbed against the pole again, squeezing the cold brass into her prodigious cleavage, licking the metal and her own naked flesh with equal vigor. 

"Oh gawddd," she moaned, throwing back her long wave of blonde hair. She was becoming more aroused, dangerously so. This close to his exposed cock, talking dirtier than she ever had in her life, she was so hot. She'd never felt the need to talk dirty before; her body was a promise enough to men who desired her. But she liked to think she was pretty good at it. There was no visible response from her Master, however. He simply sat, motionless, hands at his sides, fully erect but apparently unwilling to touch his mighty shaft. All this talk and he wouldn't even touch himself. His cock just stood there, taunting her.

She decided to switch her tack. Never stopping the swaying of her hips, she detached from the pole and walked to within inches of him, then began to dance more furiously, whipping her hair back and forth, rocking her hips like a madwoman. She grabbed her tits, squeezing them hard, squeaking a little, surprised at her own arousal. She had better be careful: she didn't want to push herself to climax while he just sat there.

 If he really had fucked as many women as he boasted, taken whomever he wanted and desired since puberty, then he would be used to all the talk. He had asked for her to dance, and that's what she did. But she was tired after such a busy day. She only wished to make her Master happy. Again she turned away from him, then slowly descended into his lap, sighing as she felt his rigid cock rubbing along the skirt-covered crack of her ass. At last she heard him grunt, softly but noticeably. She threw a glance over her shoulder and saw him biting his lower lip, sweat on his brow, a look of consummate frustration on his face as he fought to restrain himself. His hands were balled into fists, clutching the arms of the leather chair. She chuckled and he instantly shot her a furious look, nostrils flaring. He looked like a child that wasn't getting his way. Yet she knew it was his almighty force of will keeping him from taking her.

"I'm the first," she smiled winningly, rubbing her ass back up his shaft then descending again, teasing him with the promise of skin-on-skin contact. "But there will be many more. They will all fall before you, Master, I'm sure of it... the X-Men, the Avengers... I can see it now... Psylocke fucked silly... Jean Grey... feasting on your cum... All of us... yours... Yessss..."

He raised one hand and placed it firmly on her rear end as it rubbed up and down over his organ. The other hand at last wrapped around his tool but did not jerk. He simply held onto his cock as a bead of pre-cum swelled from the tip of his glans, disappearing into the fabric of her skirt.

"Unhh," he groaned, gasping. The tension was beginning to prove too much for Emma; her slow rubbing of his dick became more swift and insistent. She had to push him past the edge, show him her dominance, rob him of a single orgasm just as he had robbed her of her freedom. She might be addicted to his cream, but she could still make him scream. She could smell that cock, the scent of his cum in the air, his lust tangible, flowing through her lungs. She was hotter by the second, pussy flowing with juices by now, she could feel it dripping down her thighs, over her stockings. Worst, she could by now feel the pre-cum seeping through her skirt and panties, into her ass, giving her a deep desire for anal penetration that rivaled her desperate longing to have her cunt speared. She gasped in sympathy with her Master's low moans, by now practically bouncing on his lap. 

"Goddamn," Emma breathed, watching sweat droplets roll over her jouncing titmeat, her nipples painfully hard. "Oh Master... Oh please... Gimme that cock... I'm gonna scream..."

"I can sense your thoughts, Emma," he grimaced, still refusing to jerk himself. "I know you... ugh... you think if I give in first then you've won something..."

She could not respond, could not form words now, only issue a slow, pained cry. His hand left her ass then came back, hard, spanking her loudly. She yelped, tears escaping her eyes, but never stopped bouncing for him. 

"You bitch," he said. "You know nothing... You'll do as I wish, forever... You are my slave... unh... I am your MASTER!" 

He spanked her again, even harder, and this time her whole body quaked. She was close now to orgasm, and he still had yet to take her cunt.

"Beg for it," he grunted. 

She could only respond with a long moan, and he spanked her harder than ever now.

"Use your words, slut!"

"Pleeeease," she whined. "Pleeeeeease, Master... Take me... Make me feel... like a woman... so fucking... good... unh... oh... Oh! Oh!"

The White Queen yelped every time he spanked her, helpless, unable to stop dancing, locked to his prick, so maddeningly close and yet so far. 

"Beg, you fucking whore!" he shouted. "Beg your Master!"

"Hoooonhhh... Pleeeeeeeeeez... Your cock... Give me... your cock... Fuck me... Fuck me... Please, God, fuck me... I want it... I neeeeeed it...  Master... Uhhgawwddd..."

"Good enough," he said simply, reaching up to sink a hand into her newly washed blonde hair, pushing her forward as he rose from his seat, cock jutting obscenely, dripping pre-cum in a near-constant stream now, shaft glistening. He shed his pants swiftly. Emma's knees buckled and he held her up by the hair, throwing her onto the bed face-down. 

Emma Frost's mind was a jumble of fucklust and deep shame. Not shame at being treated in such a way... shame that she could not make him cum. Not only had she failed to show any superiority - she had failed as a slave to bring pleasure to her Master. She had strength enough to turn her head, peering backwards as she prepared to be used.

The Master bared his teeth furiously, lost in a ragelust that frightened Emma. She shook as he viciously hiked her skirt up around her waist, presenting her nearly naked ass, one broad cheek red from the brutal treatment it had already received. Her stocking garters snapped and he chuckled, admiring the view. He growled, digging his fingers into her soft assflesh, and she moaned into the sheets, pussy on fire.

"Fucking whore bitch," he hissed, spitting nearly incomprehensible obscenities as he yanked her panties down. When they wouldn't come fast enough past her round ass, he simply ripped them, tearing them apart furiously as he breathed more hateful curses. 

Finally, he exposed her ripe cunt, Emma catching her breath as the cool air hit her glistening pink lips. Her body shook and she moaned like a bitch in heat, every fiber of her being begging for intrusion. The Master spread her long legs wide and pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, then lifted her hips and guiding her swelling ass toward his rock-hard cock. He positioned the bloated head at her pussy and she squealed, grasping the sheets in anticipation.

"I own you," he whispered. "For now. For ever!"

Then he pushed forward, sliding into her willing, wet pussy with ease, eliciting a tortured scream from Emma Frost. With his first thrust, she finally came, ass raised high. 

"Guhhhh-gawwww!" she cried, twisting her hips, gyrating under him as he reared back and thrust into her again. The pleasure was enough to break her mind. It was better, a thousand times better, than when he had taken her tits, the memory of which sent a shard of lust through her, spiking in her nipples, which dug into the bed covers. 

He began humping her savagely, bent over her back, grasping her hair again and pulling her head, causing her neck to crane painfully. She drooled heavily onto the bed, eyes rolled back, panting like the whore he insisted - and she now knew - she was.

If there had ever been something like a doubt in her mind, he had eliminated it. He was her Master, her everything, and she was nothing but a common slut now. Holes to be fucked. Her fuck-crazed mind drifted back to the first words he had spoken to her upon her awakening, when she was still blindfolded and bound to this very bed, before she knew the glory: "I am your lover and your Master, Emma. Your body is to be my plaything, your mind my possession..."

"Yes," she cried aloud. "Oh, God, yes!"

Any man capable of gifting her with this pleasure deserved the title of Master. Now, Emma wondered if this boy had turned her into a whore, a slut, or if she always had been. As if reaching a moment of clarity, Emma faced the awful truth.

Then, for a while, the capacity for such complicated thought left the mighty White Queen as she devolved into simple fuck meat. Her first orgasm subsided and she immediately began building toward another, only to have it prematurely triggered as her Master tensed and began spurting deep into her pussy. Dimly, she recalled how earlier she had balked at the tremendous amount of cum he spilled onto her chest during her rape, but now she screamed uncontrollably as his load blasted into her. Her eyes crossed and she shut them tight, shouting herself hoarse. Another life-altering climax rolled through her, impossibly stronger than the last, and her legs quivered lamely, dangling off the edge of the bed. The Master spanked her again, laughing crazily. 

He pulled out of her, gripping his cock tightly, and flipped Emma's limp body, continuing to laugh as more powerful flumes of bright white cum arced over her body, splattering onto her exposed tits. A single rope landed directly down the center of Emma's gorgeous face and she gasped at the feeling, fingers shoved deep in her cunt in an attempt to fill the void left by his absent penis. 

Before the rolling pleasure of her latest brain-frying orgasm had a chance to subside, the kid grabbed her by the hair yet again. She blubbered helplessly as he pulled her back off the bed and fell to her knees as he backed away. He yanked her forwards as he plopped back into the chair, his cock softening and drooping, coated in a sheen of her juices, bobbing before her blurry eyes. 

"Clean it," he grunted, releasing her. Emma, dizzy from the furious fucking she had just received, shook the stars out of her eyes and got to work licking the dick clean. She ran her skilled tongue up and down the shaft then took each heavy testicle into her mouth, one at a time, suckling gently, enjoying the taste of his and her juices on his genitalia. He let out an appreciative sigh and she secretly swelled with pride at a job well done. She sensed him hardening and lengthening yet again, filling her mouth with hot meat.

Soon it was apparent that she was no longer cleaning his dick - she was expertly blowing him, wrapping her pink lips around the glans and sucking hard, tongue diving into his piss slit repeatedly, earning a contented groan each time.

They remained that way for a while - the boy-Master reclined, perfectly relaxed, Emma suckling on him like a devoted infant at her mother's teat. Her cock-sucking skills were excellent and soon his happy vocalizations were becoming more demanding. He stroked the head of his first superheroine slut.

"Mount me," he commanded, and Emma looked up with grateful eyes. Her pussy still ached for him. She expected it always would.

Body still mostly numb, Emma climbed slowly onto her Master, straddling him, eagerly guiding his cock to her pussy once more.

"Wait," he said, and she pouted briefly before realizing his intent. He dragged a knuckle up her bare stomach, between her breasts, tracing the line of cum he had deposited on her earlier, collecting it on her fingers. Finally he presented these fingers to her mouth and she sucked hungrily, without question. He gathered the trail of jism marking her beautiful face and she took it readily, eyes locked on his as she swallowed it, tongue searching his fingers for any drops she might have missed. 

The two shared a tender moment, eyes on each other, each understanding their role perfectly now as his cum headed down her throat. Then the moment was through, the boy reaching down to tear Emma's blouse wider, shuffling it down her arms, throwing it to the floor. He hiked her skirt up higher, allowing her to spread her legs even wider as he entered her yet again.

"Ooooooooh," she cooed, filled by him, her whole world revolving around him in that moment. "Oh, yes."

She rocked back and forth carefully, working her way down his shaft, and placed her hands on his shoulders. She was in control now, riding him, but she had no misconceptions about her position. A slave. Following orders.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head to the ceiling, letting her hips do the work. The muscles in her thighs tensed as she rode him with increasing urgency, demanding another divine climax. What had begun as gentle rocking motions became emphatic downward thrusts, making the chair squeak and her boy-Master moan, a grin plastered on his young face.

"Sweet Jesus," she whispered as the pleasure his prick gave her swelled in her guts. She turned her head to look out the window beside them. The sky was dark, the sun setting on her first day as a fuck slave as they approached the lights of New York City.

"Thank you, Master."

TO BE CONTINUED