Submission

by Alex Algren

  I grabbed her hair and pulled her into me.

  A hard kiss. It wasn’t the first kiss I’d given her in the few minutes she’d been home, but the others—on the stoop, in front of the cabby and the neighbors—were tame in comparison. This was the way predators would kiss if they did such things: tongue, teeth, a sense of barely restrained violence, as if I was trying to kiss through her skin and down to her bones. She opened for me, melted, then something seemed to click and she went from passively enjoying the kiss to giving back as good as she was getting, tearing into me like I was into her.

  I liked it. I liked it a lot, her tongue dancing in my mouth, her naked body grinding against my still-clothed one. But she’s supposed to wait for a signal from me before letting loose that way, in case I’m in a mood for her to lie back and wait, to be a passive object I pose and mold. (I wasn’t, at the moment, but that was not the point. The point was her forgetting her place for a second.)

  Fingers tangled in her short, dark hair, I pulled her head back, forcing her to look up and into my eyes. “Who do you belong to?” I asked. Demanded, really.

  “You, Master,” she said. But it wasn’t convincing enough. She sounded thoroughly kissed, thoroughly hot and bothered, and ready for anything as long as it got her to the sex she must’ve been craving even more desperately than I was. (At least I could jerk off while she’s gone. Unless she’d been bending the rules, and I doubted it, she didn’t even have that pleasure.) But that’s not the same as believing, deep in her bones, that she’s my property, to treat her as I like, within reason.

  She knows it. But right then, she didn’t really believe it.

  I could prove it, as I’d originally planned, by a teasing, protracted blending of pain and pleasure. I could prove it by taking her now purely for my own gratification, pushing her to her knees, using her hot little mouth, then telling her to unpack and take the nap she probably needed. (I’d make it up to her later—I enjoy making her scream with pleasure far too much to deprive her for long—but using her like that does get the point across.)

  But I had a different idea.

  I let go of her hair, shoving her gently away. “Upstairs,” I ordered. “Now. Take the weight off your ring. And use the bathroom. I may not be letting you up for a while.”

  As soon as we could manage it, I was as naked as Deirdre was, and Deirdre was on her back, spread-eagled on our bed, cuffs holding her in place, their burgundy leather looking striking against her fair skin. Her eyes were wide, her pussy was glistening, and she was giggling in that way she does sometimes, half excited and half nervous. I’m sure she was expecting something more along the lines of the original plan, riding crop and knotted cat-o’-nine-tails and perhaps the singletail, toys and clamps, pleasure and pain building to an orchestrated crescendo that would bring her to orgasm and tears simultaneously.

  Later. Tomorrow, or maybe later this evening, after a nap and dinner. We had time.

  Now, though, I stood at the end of the bed and took one of her feet in my hand. I’m not a foot freak, but she does have pretty feet—movie-vixen-red toenails, soft skin, high arches. Gently, at least at first, I massaged the foot, even working my fingers under the cuffs a little to get at the Achilles tendon. As I expected, I was rewarded with sighs. When Deirdre’s in the business world, she wears heels a lot.

  When she seemed sufficiently melted, I went to work on the other foot.

  When I was pretty sure her brain was as far away as it had been when she was half a world away, I casually asked, “Whose foot is this?”

  She giggled, either because it seemed like a ridiculous question or because what I was doing at that second tickled. So I repeated the question, a little more forcefully, running my nails down her instep.

  So lovely, seeing her muscles tense and shift under her smooth, gleaming skin at the stronger sensation.

  This time she got it. “It’s my foot,” she said slowly, “but it belongs to you.”

  If you don’t live the way we do, that may sound like crazy talk—but the words were what I wanted to hear.

  It took longer than I would have liked. But it was the correct answer, so I rewarded her by sucking and nibbling on her pretty toes, kissing her arches, occasionally digging in with my knuckles against the fleshy parts to give a jolt of stronger sensation.

  Seems she wasn’t the only one who needed a refresher. I’d forgotten, if I’d ever known, how much she liked having her feet played with. She squirmed and giggled and moaned and made little pleading noises. I knew they were pleas for stepping up the action, for moving my kisses up her leg, but I chose to take them as pleas to continue what I was doing.

  I liked looking up and seeing her spread open, her pussy lips slick and swollen and oozing honey, her clit so stiff that the shiny titanium ring stood at attention, her cunt occasionally pulsing from need.

  My dick was pulsing too, eager to enter her, to sense my slave’s more-than-willing body moving under me, to feel her cunt convulse around me until I exploded.

  We doms are always reminding our slaves that they need to be patient. But that’s a lesson that goes both ways. In the state I was in, I wouldn’t last long once I was inside Deirdre, and I had a point to make before I could do that.

  So I made myself be patient and worked on her feet for a while longer, until I think both of us were ready to lose our minds.

  “Whose feet are these?” I asked her again.

  And this time Deirdre answered without hesitation, “Yours, Master.”

  With that, I kissed and bit my way up her right leg.

  Slowly.

  Lavishing attention on all of it, not just the obvious places like the back of her knee and the exquisitely sensitive skin of her inner thigh, but the bits I usually ignore: her shinbone; the lovely, rounded swell of her calf muscle; her knobby knees.

  “Whose leg is this?” I asked, just before I pressed my lips into the hollow at the top of her thigh.

  “Yours, Master.” Her voice was shaky with need and hope, hope that I would move from there to her aching clit.

  I didn’t. I licked away some of the glistening juices that had dripped onto her thigh, spent a little while glorying in the rich, musky smell of her arousal. Then I moved to her other leg and reclaimed that one in the same slow, painstaking way.

  This time, I left bite marks on her thighs. And this time when I asked my question, her “Yours, Master,” was a growl. Her body arched as she said it, opening her legs even more, pressing her hips against the air as she had against me, and I could tell that even a slight touch between her legs would bring her off.

  I couldn’t promise it wouldn’t bring me off too. Just feeling her sweet clit and pussy under my lips and fingers, seeing and hearing her convulse in orgasm, was about to push me over the edge.

  My whole body felt hard and sensitive as my cock—and that included places like my elbows. Even my hair felt as if it was on fire, sensitized as the air moved over it.

  And if I felt like that, I could only imagine how my poor, lucky slave felt, teased like this after a few weeks without even the solace of her own fingers.

  Just what I wanted.

  So I continued working my way up her sweet body.

  I took possession of her hipbones.

  Her belly, that soft little curve between her belly button and her mound, the one she hated and I adored.

  Belly button, upper abs, ribs. All mine.

  The valley between her breasts. Definitely mine, and I played with fire to brush my cock there until we were both trembling and I had to resort to thinking about something, anything, else. (Monty Python routines. Dinner options. Whether I’d paid the cable bill yet.)

  Neck. First my hand, gentle but firm, across her throat. “Mine,” I growled. “Even your breath is mine.” The other hand over her mouth and nose for just a second. No more than that, but she convulsed as if she was about to come. Light nibbles and nips where the skin showed in business clothes, and a hard, claiming bite where i
t wouldn’t. Mine. Definitely mine.

  Shoulders. Biceps and triceps. The sensitive inside of her elbows. The more delicate muscles of her forearms.

  Fingers. Here I slowed down even more, sucking, nibbling, reducing her to incoherent pleas.

  God, how I wanted to take those spit-slicked fingers and wrap them around my cock, order her to jerk me off—not that I thought she’d need an order to get the idea, but we’d both get even hotter from my saying it.

  I took a deep breath, counted to ten.

  Then worked back up her arm and down, down to her breast.

  Hovered there. Sunk my teeth in. Teeth and tongue and lips all working on her pink, swollen nipple, and this time, “Yours, Master” bubbled from her lips unprompted. “Yoursyoursyours” as her hips thrust up and her eyes glazed over, and she came.

  Sweet Jesus, I don’t think I’d ever seen her come before without being touched, somehow, between the legs. Close, sure, like she’d been with my hand on her throat, but not actually going over the edge without a cock inside her or fingers, a tongue, or a toy on her clit.

  That did it.

  I positioned myself between her legs.

  I slid my eager cock over her cunt lips, still twitching from orgasm.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please, Master.”

  Her beautiful face was red, twisted with a combination of pleasure and need. Barely human, and utterly gorgeous.

  “Whose cunt is this?” I demanded.

  “Yours, Master.”

  “And what should I do with my cunt?”

  This was hard for her, most of the time. Even after a few years together, she still had trouble making herself say the words—and at the moment, saying much of anything coherent had to be hard. (I knew. I was having a little trouble myself.)

  “Please…please…” A deep breath, and her eyes got even wider, her pupils so dilated that black ate almost all the gray. “Please, Master. Fuck your cunt.”

  I was inside her before she got the words out.

  No need for subtlety and patience anymore. I was pounding, fucking her hard, biting wherever I could reach as I did, glorying in her heated, musky smell, her wetness, her reactions, the fact that she belonged to me as much as one person really can belong to another.

  I felt the second orgasm roar through her, felt it, I think, almost before she did, or at least before she started screaming.

  “Good slave. Very…good…slave.”

  There was so much I wanted to say—that she was beautiful, and more beautiful than ever with her face twisted with passion; that I loved her; that I’d missed her terribly; that I was proud of her for being able to move between her two worlds and be so amazingly good at both roles; that I was the luckiest damn man in the universe just to have her in my life, let alone as my slave. And again, that I loved her and always would.

  But the brain–tongue connection wasn’t working right. I could form the sentences in my head, but all my tongue wanted to do was taste Deirdre’s skin and make the occasional rabid-animal noise.

  My whole body felt like a cock, and my cock felt like a volcano about to erupt, and Deirdre was coming again, or maybe still coming, around me, and I tried desperately to hold off a little longer.

  Then she screamed “Yours!” and contracted even harder around me, like an orgasm inside her orgasm, and I couldn’t possibly stop this time.

  Hips jerking, everything else frozen by the force of what was pouring through me, I threw my head back and howled.

  And somewhere in the howl were words, awkwardly choked out: “My slave. Always. Never forget.”

  I collapsed, or just about, using the last vestige of control not to let my weight go and crush her. I cuddled her for a minute or two in that position, then forced my brain into gear long enough to undo the cuffs.

  I lay down next to her, gathered her into my arms. “Welcome home, beloved slave,” I said, surprised how hoarse my voice sounded. Not so much from the shouting at the end, although that probably had something to do with it. More as if I was holding back tears.

  “It’s good to be home, Master.” Deirdre’s voice was hoarse, too, and suddenly she was crying. Smiling—grinning dreamily, like a well-fucked slave should be—but crying as well. “I can’t give up work, and that means going away sometimes. I need that too, need to use that part of my brain. But you’re my home and I’m glad to be back.”

  And I kissed her tears away until we both dozed off, my slave girl cradled in my arms where she belonged.

  Mine. Home at last. And not likely to forget anytime soon where she belonged, or to whom.

  I BREATHE YOUR NAME

  Tess Danesi

  It’s the feeling of absence that wakes me. Normally, when I first stir, Dar’s hard chest is pressed to my back, his exhalations soft and warm on my shoulder, his arm draped weightily over my chest. His presence is a heavy one, ominous at times and comforting at others. Whether it’s because of his size—at six three he looks down on most of us mere mortals—or the gravitas that often defines his state of mind, I’m used to feeling surrounded, even encompassed by him. Regardless, it’s a feeling I treasure.

  As I slowly rouse, stretching my arms over my head, feeling the weight of my heavy breasts, dusky nipples erect in the air-conditioning, shifting upward, I recall him, what must have been hours ago, whispering in my ear, “Come run with me this morning, pet.” Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I see it is now just seven in the morning. I don’t clearly recall answering him. I love my sleep and tend to rise slowly. And it’s a weekend; I don’t have to be up. Dar, however, rarely varies his routines. So, given that it would have been about five, I’m sure I just turned over, groaned unintelligibly and was instantly slumbering peacefully again, leaving him to run by himself. This is as it should be. At five foot two, my pace is not very speedy at all, and Dar runs as if to punish himself. I much prefer the slow stretch of a yoga class to pounding the pavement. When I want to punish myself, I have only to goad Dar and I can be assured he’ll do so in ways that fulfill me on a much deeper level.

  Sitting up, I brush back several long mahogany strands of hair that have decided to adhere stubbornly to my bottom lip and then let my toes dig deep into the thick-piled antique Persian rug, a rug softened by strands of silks woven painstakingly into the complex design. Dar, while requiring little, is fond of excellence and craftsmanship in his creature comforts. His hard-earned money gives him the means to indulge most of those excesses. With me, he has the means to indulge his more sadistic excesses.

  Despite it being mid-July, the air-conditioning makes me shudder now that I have emerged from my cocoon of blankets. Stroking my palms along my arms to ward off the chill, I find myself closing my eyes, enjoying the eroticism of skin on soft, creamy skin. Before long, my mind has begun to transpose my light touch with Dar’s rough one. Evidence of his sadism, my own masochism really, is often written clearly on my body, necessitating carefully chosen clothing on most workdays. I love each of the bruises that linger for weeks on my skin. Pressing them, feeling the dull ache, brings the memory of his touch back to me, but I realize that others will more than likely see them in a very different light. Rising, I wrap myself in the light cotton robe that rests over the arm of the club chair.

  As I near the bathroom, I hear the sound of the shower and close my eyes for a moment, picturing Dar, soaked black hair just long enough to caress his collar clinging to his head and dripping down the back of his neck, water droplets beading on his smooth olive skin. I feel a familiar, pleasurable tension shift to my cunt at the thought.

  My clit throbs as I recall other scenes that have taken place in his sleekly modern bathroom. The time he came upon me showering, breaking his number-one rule—make sure to turn on the ventilation fan when you shower. As punishment, he turned the ecstasy of my shower into a trial of endurance by simply changing the temperature from blissfully warm to freezing cold. But, as usual with Dar, pleasure follows pain. That I have chosen to endure th
e pain, or even find pleasure in it, confuses my best friend, Maggie. Hell, just what motivates my quest for pleasure through suffering confounds me at times. But then, Dar had wrapped my shivering body in a large fluffy towel and carried me to bed. With his warm body pressed to mine, my teeth stopped chattering and my body stopped shaking. I stopped questioning and just surrendered to one sensation after another. Finally, he turned me onto my belly, raised my hips high and plunged into my depths, each increasingly brutal thrust of his hot, hard cock melting away my lingering icy anger until the harshness I had endured only minutes before seemed light-years away. That’s Dar’s magic. Like wind taking the billowy smoke rising from a chimney, Dar’s kiss, his touch, his words of endearment and declarations of love disperse the suffering I’ve endured.

  I realize how this sounds, I do. You’re probably thinking, Oh, poor deluded thing, she’s being abused and doesn’t even know it. But I assure you, this is not the case. I went into my relationship with Dar over two years ago with eyes wide open to the level of his sadism. He never lied about his dark desires; if anything, he made himself out to be far worse than the reality. And I craved it then as I still do now. While no one has ever been capable of causing me pain in the way that Dar does, neither has anyone ever been so tirelessly my champion. I am his to cherish and to protect and to hurt, but not harm, as he sees fit.

  There have been times he’s gone too far, times when he has left my faith in him shattered into so many jagged little shards that neither of us were sure we could repair the damage. Through him, I’ve found that my own heart isn’t always as light and loving as I like to think it is. In this very bathroom, the threshold of which I am about to cross, I sat with briny tears burning undulating trails down my cheeks contemplating how, for once, I could make him suffer. I settled on holding the straight razor that has been his shaving preference for years to his throat while he slept. Not to cut him. No, not that. But to see his eyes open wide in fear, to see his cool, always-in-control demeanor crumble, in the misguided hope that he’d understand all that I have endured for him. Had I been thinking clearly, that it wouldn’t end well, or at least not with my desired outcome, would have been obvious from the start. But we managed to come through even that. I can’t say that he fears me now; we both know the truth is that the only danger he was in that night was of the razor accidentally falling from my trembling hand.