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Sammi's Surrender [MultiFormat]
eBook by Valentine Adams

eBook Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
eBook Description: Tied Hand and Foot She Found Liberation! Adopted by unloving parents, Sammi struck out on her own to make her way in the world. But an automobile accident left her broke, in debt and with temporary amnesia. Then Sammi found a roommate who not only had a room and bath to rent, but wanted to help her change her life. Of course there was a price. Sammi had to agree to submit to a man who was a very stern Dominant. Sammie didn't realize what she was getting into. At first she was frightened by being bound and oreered to submit. But then she began to realize she secretly was coming to love it. This new exciting book by the author of Escape into Bondage and Captive Journey once again explores the inner most desires that satisfy women and men behind closed doors, but this time the doors are his very own! Here is a unprecedented peek inside the life and mind of a bestselling author of bondage erotica.

eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2008


14 Reader Ratings:
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CHAPTER 1.

For those of you who have been reading my books for a while, you probably know that I'm a college professor. I teach courses dealing with American Culture. They might include things like economics, politics, history, entertainment, customs, styles and those other topics that exist because of people and whose properties are primarily about the impact each of them have on the people. You've certainly heard that whole discussion about the tree falling in the woods and whether or not any noise was made if there was no one there to hear it. Well, it's kind of like that, but the things I deal with tend to be a little more concrete. I've gravitated to this profession for the very same reasons as those that make me write stories. I've been consumed with the "human condition" for as long as I can remember. I watch people and I love nothing better than communicating and corresponding with them. So, teaching is the perfect place for me to be and American Culture is the perfect area for me to concentrate my efforts.

I started my professional life as a journalist and I'm sure it was for many of the same reasons I cited above. But news only allowed me a small portion of my current chosen life. And in most instances, I saw people at their worst. And most people have a best side that far outshines the bad side. So here I am.

Now there is a curse in this as well. I've realized that as I watch people and since I'm a writer, I tend to want to finish stories for these people that will end with them being happy, with achieving exactly what will cause them to feel better about themselves. I've theorized that this attitude I have is a perversion of what might be called a Pygmalion Complex. Pygmalion was a mythical Greek artist who sculpted the perfect woman and promptly fell in love with her. Of course the problem was that she was made of stone. But that's another story.

There is an entire area of study surrounding just the Pygmalion phenomenon. There is a "complex" and an "effect." No kidding! Let's get the Pygmalion Effect out of the way first. There are studies in education showing that students who are expected to perform above a certain level will most often exceed their own expectation because of the acknowledged expectation of their teacher. In other words, expect higher and the student will perform higher. Expect lower and that's what you get.

Now, more important to this story is the Pygmalion Complex. It isn't always as simple as the explanation we just had for the effect. Usually, the person in the teaching role, or the superior role, has an almost uncontrollable desire to "fix" what he sees as shortcomings in the student or underling. And here is the root of the story I want to share.

Once upon a time, I was married. I like to tell folks that I once was married for a few hours. But it was actually nearly four years. She was smart, sexy, and ... well ... narcissistic. The first few weeks were pretty good. But you can't stay in bed forever. The next few weeks were okay. Then it was all down hill. You know, if you're the worst son-of-a-bitch alive, there are only so many things about which someone kind find fault and offer criticism. I must have been worse, because the list she came up with numbered in the hundreds. Seriously, I've come to understand that some folks' needs are just ... I was going to say different, but the hell with that, their needs are just unreasonable.

Finally, I caught her in bed with a co-worker from the station. Gave me the opportunity or maybe the excuse that I needed to dump her sorry ass and to leave a lousy job. Another three years of school and here I ... was. I've been teaching now for nine years. I'm finally an Associate Professor, and I can honestly say that I am completely satisfied and happy professionally. And don't get me wrong; my personal life is just fine too. Of course, that didn't happen immediately, but it did happen. And that is this story.

* * * *

When I first joined the faculty here. I was just past thirty and not all that much older than some of my students. I remember the very first day of classes that fall. Because of my not thinking, I wore a light blue oxford cloth shirt and even though I had taught classes in grad school, they were someone else's classes so it was more like giving a presentation rather than being the teacher. So I was a little nervous. By the time I went to my office after two lectures, my armpits were wet down to my elbows! Never made that same mistake again. And the fabric of the shirt looked more the color of denim, so everyone who saw me knew exactly what had happened.

But there was something positive to come out of that first class. Sitting in the very first row right in front of my lectern was Sammi. Samantha Nicole Fairchild was almost invisible. For starters, she only made five feet tall by lying. And at four eleven and a half, she still looked very thin at only about eighty pounds. And everything about her was small; tiny wrists and hands, about size three or four shoes and what she called her "hen hangers" meaning her legs since when you cut the hen's throat you hang her upside down by the legs to cure. Of course I wouldn't be privy to this genuine insider information until nearly two years later.

But it wasn't just the incredible smallness of this girl, but also the genuine plainness of her as well. Her hair couldn't decide what color it might choose to be, somewhere between light brown, red and blonde, and it was an absolute wreck most of the time. My class was early in the morning and at first I thought it was perhaps just bed head, but would later learn more about that as well.

From every indication, Sammi wanted to be invisible. She avoided speaking in class like most folks avoid jury duty. There were times when she would respond that she didn't know or wasn't prepared when I knew that not to be true, having already seen the work in front of her. I'd love to say that my theory as an educator was ... but I had no theory. What! It was my first year.

About half way through that semester, the day before Halloween in fact, Sammi was in an automobile accident and nearly died from a head injury. She was unconscious for two weeks and then had memory loss for another several months. In fact, she was forced to drop out of school and lost her financial aid. And under typical circumstances, that would have been the end of that. But Mother Nature takes great pleasure screwing around with things. Sometimes they are good things, others not so good. In my case, I've experienced both from this particular situation. But let me not get ahead of myself.

* * * *

The next spring, Easter weekend came just into April and the students were gone for spring break, so I had some free time. When I became fairly sure that this new professional gig was the perfect one for me as was the area to which fate had brought me to teach, I had decided to buy a house. I'd found an old two-story home in a very old and settled neighborhood. Most of the homes were well maintained, but the community was in a transitional mode, with older folks selling out to younger starter families. All the houses had garages, most of which were built at a time when cars were smaller and the typical household only had one.

The house I had bought had belonged to a widow whose husband had been gone for more than fifteen years. It needed a lot of TLC, including a new kitchen and other improvements as well. The mortgage payment was manageable for me though, as were the other costs related to living there. My problem was having enough to make the renovations and improvements. A fellow faculty member suggested that I either get a roommate or divide the house into two apartments.

The idea of two apartments just seemed too costly so I advertised for a roommate. There were two bedrooms on the second floor with a bath and there was a large bedroom on the main floor with a bath. So the roommate would get the one downstairs and the two on the second floor would be my bedroom and study.

That Easter weekend, late Friday afternoon, I was taking advantage of the extra time by painting the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Within seconds, it impatiently rang again, this second time; to me it seemed more insistently. Climbing down from the stepladder, and wiping my hands as I headed to the front door, I was shocked to open it and see none other than Sammi standing there.

"Hello. How are you?"

She smiled up at me, not really looking up completely, but just sort of tilting her head slightly to one side, squinting her eyes as she raised her left hand to slightly shade her view.

"Hi. My name is Samantha Fairchild. I saw your ad for a roommate?"

"Hi Sammi. How have you been? I heard about your accident. I hope you're doing well now."

This time she did glance up and with a look of complete astonishment on her face.

"Do I know you?"

"Yes. I'm Doctor Adams, your former professor at the university."

My name and position had no apparent effect on her.

"I don't go to the university. I want too, but probably not for a couple of years."

I had heard about her accident and that she had lost some memory, but this was the first time I'd seen her since her last day in my class, some six months ago. I pushed the storm door open wider and motioned for her to come in.

"Come on in Samantha. I'll show you the room."

After she had seen the room, she wanted to discuss details of just how this would work. I hadn't really thought about it either. But from her questions, I began to understand that many things would have to be decided and shared with the potential roommate in order for this to work.

"Samantha, you are not a student are you?"

"No. I plan to go back to school in maybe a year or two. But for right now, I'm doing therapy and working. I don't make much money so I can't afford a place of my own."

"What can you afford to pay for your room and board?"

"I make about three hundred dollars a week. So I'm thinking the most I can spend is about five hundred a month for rent, utilities and groceries. I know that isn't much. I've looked at several places already and most want that much just for rent. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I might have to go home. I sure do hope not though."

I did some calculations in my head. She couldn't eat all that much. She would be a lot bigger if she did. And five hundred a month would really help my budget.

"Did you like the room?"

It was the first I'd painted. The natural white was meant to go with anything and be easy to repaint should that be needed. I'd cleaned the windows and waxed and buffed the hardwood floor. There was a double bed, large dresser, bedside table and an upholstered armchair with colors that matched the braided carpet on the floor. There were no draperies but the windows were covered by new mini-blinds.

"Oh yes. It seems very nice and the neighborhood seems to be quiet. Can I bring a couple more things? I have a computer desk and a small television and books. I love books."

"Of course you could. But there is one problem."

Immediately her face fell and she looked down into her lap where her small hands were wringing each other.

"I know it's not enough money. But I can clean the house for you too. I'll keep it clean, all of it. And I can cook. And I'm only working twenty-five or thirty hours a week, so I have plenty of time. I'd be glad to cook and clean."

There was only one description that could begin to explain her facial expression and that was pleadingly hopeful. The money hadn't been the issue. Of course, I wasn't going to reject the offer to cook and clean. I am pretty good in the kitchen, but I not only suck at cleaning, I really hate it.

"Sammi. What about when you go back to school? I'm a professor at the university."

She thought about that for a moment and smiled with relief.

"I just won't take your classes."

That sounded like a winner to me. And at the time she was not a student there anyway. What could it hurt?

"Okay. If you want to move in here, let's do it."

* * * *

Sammi left me that Friday about six in the evening and as promised, she was there bright and early Saturday morning. She had convinced a neighbor, or maybe it was her former landlord, to help her move the few things she had left. She would later inform me that she had sold things to other students, as she had needed money over the months after her accident.

I helped her get things settled in and then went back to my chores of cleaning up after the late night finish of the painting job in the kitchen. I had to admit I was pleased with the new look there. I'd painted the old knotty pine cabinets and with the new stone-look countertops, it didn't remotely remind me of the original.

I'd been admiring my work for several minutes when I realized that Sammi was standing in the doorway watching me watch the room. I felt a little sheepish and was about to apologize for my self-praise when she shook her head in a positive way and complimented the job herself.

"Did you do all this? It's really nice, looks brand new."

That really made my morning and I didn't mind smiling about it. I emptied my hands of the cleaning products I'd been putting away and turned to my new neighbor and roommate.

"So, how about some coffee?"

It was my intention to make it, only meaning to ask if she would like some as well. She smiled and nodded once and headed to the countertop where I'd just put the coffeemaker minutes earlier.

"I didn't mean for you to make it. I was just asking if you wanted some coffee."

A brisk negative shake of her head without turning toward me was the immediate response.

"A deal's a deal and I'm the cook."

She didn't even ask where anything was, just started looking.

"Why don't you go get a shower and I'll have java in a few."

* * * *

When I came back down fifteen minutes later, the downstairs already oozed the rich earthy fragrance of Colombian beans and the smile on my face as I went into the kitchen had more to do with finally feeling at home here in the new place than anything else. She looked up from her efforts at the range as I came in and immediately responded to the smile as if she had done something stupid.

"What? Did I ... you're smiling."

"Yep, I love that smell. I'm beginning to like this roommate thing already. Do you know that I was married for four years and this is the first time anyone has ever made coffee for me in my own kitchen? Thank you very much for making me feel at home. It's been a long time."

The expression on her face told me that she was still not so sure that I hadn't been laughing at her. But she did finally allow her worries to be distracted by the apples she was cooking in a skillet. I had just enough time to get a mug of the steaming black nectar when she put plates on the table with bacon and fried apples with toasted English muffins.

Just imagine if this was the first time someone had made me coffee, what a treat that breakfast was. We sat quietly stuffing food almost as if we were attempting to avoid talking with each other. Finally, I just had to say something. I could see that since she was finished, she was thinking about cleaning the dishes. I wanted to talk with her. I needed to know things.

"Sammi, I can't tell you what a treat this was. But would you mind waiting a few minutes so we can talk?"

She didn't respond as such. But she visibly sagged back into her chair as if she was expecting a lecture about some bad behavior.

"I know you were in a pretty bad accident. What do you remember about it?"

"I remember tremendous noise. But the doctors said that I couldn't remember that because I lost some of my short-term memories from my injuries. But I swear I do remember the sound of the crash."

"What do you remember from before the accident?"

"My memory of stuff like a year ago is fine. I remember being accepted to the University. And I know that I went last fall. I don't remember any of that. Although I do have ... it's sorta like remembering a dream sometimes. I can remember being on campus and even walking into a particular building. But then it goes away."

"Will you ever get those memories back?"

"The doctors don't know. I think I will though. I've remembered stuff from the time my memory is missing."

"Did they say if it would be okay if someone told you about some of those times?"

"Problem is, I don't know anyone who could do that. I mean I'd love it, but who would do it?"

"Well, I was one of your professors last fall."

It was the most eager expression I'd ever seen on her face.

"Really? What do you remember about me?"

"I know that you're a bright girl. And that you waited to start college until after you'd worked a couple of years."

"Yeah, I'm twenty one now. I know that I was twenty when I started last August. What class did you teach?"

"American Culture."

She didn't respond but sat in thought as if she was trying to remember me or the class or anything else about it. Then suddenly she blushed bright red. Her hand went up to her face instantly, covering the betrayal of her embarrassment.

"Why does that embarrass you?"

She only shook her head to indicate a negative reply and didn't say anything else for several minutes. Then it occurred to me that maybe she remembered something related to that class, probably a boy.

"Did you remember something ... or someone?"

The bright pink had pretty much receded until I asked that question and then she went bright again, and once again shook her head as if she could shake it off. Maybe it was time to pursue a different tack.

"Do you remember what you wanted to do as a major?"

Finally at the change of subject, she seemed to relax ever so slightly. At least this gave her something else to think about.

"I really want to be an environmental scientist. I want to work outside."

"Like the outdoors do you?"

"It's just that I don't like being in an office. I was a receptionist for three years after high school. I hated it."

We were both quiet for a couple of minutes. Surely we couldn't have run out of interest so quickly. I was about to get up and go out onto the porch when what she had said resonated with me.

"Let's get fresh coffee mugs and go out onto the porch. The porch is the reason I bought this place."

And we did exactly that. Once we were seated in the matching cane Kennedy rockers, they were the first furniture I bought after buying the house, we settled into a pace.

"So tell me about your injuries. How are you doing?"

"My head went through the sunroof of my car when it rolled over. I made contact with the pavement squarely on my noggin. I was wearing my seatbelt but the top came down to meet me. If I hadn't been it would have cut my head off."

She chuckled softly and her voice was just above a whisper.

"And I would have lost all my memories."

I really wanted to explore what had been so embarrassing in the kitchen, but I thought it might be best left alone for now. But I didn't want to stop the talking.

"So if you stayed here after the accident, I'm going to assume that your family and friends are here?"

She was quiet and apparently considering what to say or how to say it. But finally, with a tear running down her cheek, she told me her story.

"I'm pretty much on my own. I never really got along with the folks who raised me. I was in the foster system and was adopted when I was six. People couldn't have kids, but then promptly the year they got me, she had a baby, and a girl to boot. Pretty much after that, I was an outsider. They used me as a baby sitter, then as I got older, as a maid. They weren't mean to me, but they didn't really care about me either. And I worked after high school because I had no one to help me with school. I left home at seventeen and I haven't seen any of them since."

"I only moved here last fall when I came to school. I don't really know anyone here. I've dated maybe five boys in my life and only one of them more than once. I don't like boys my age. They're silly and often stupid and mean. No thanks."

"So I did all of it alone. But I don't mind. Things are lookin' up finally. Of course, I owe like a million dollars to the hospital. The accident was my fault. The only insurance I had was liability on the car and just student health insurance on me. That paid about five thousand dollars and the bill was like nearly a hundred thousand, seriously. So there went school. And I'm working three jobs to try to pay bills and live."

She hadn't looked at me during this entire revelation. I was sure that she had never told anyone about her problems before. Probably that was because she had no one to tell. Finally she looked up at me with a forced smile.

"I guess now you'll probably want me to move out. I'm such a loser. And I live hand to mouth, payday to payday."

The comment so shocked me that I couldn't respond at first. Finally the fog in my mind fell away enough for me to realize what she had just said. Then in what sounded, even to me, like my admonishing father voice, I scolded her.

"No! First of all, you are not a loser and I don't ever want to hear you say that again. And secondly, I want you to stay. You should know that everyone lives from payday to payday. I needed a roommate after all. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And now you have a friend here, me."

And if there is going to be a prolog to this story, I suppose this is it. Sammi and I have been roommates for nearly eight years. She has proven to be easy to live with and far more pliable than any man has a right to expect from a woman. But our situation changed almost five years ago. And while the changes were at first subtle, the result to which they have now taken us are huge. And that is the story. So relax and enjoy what you're about to read.


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