Submission

by Alex Algren

  Now it’s just a matter of how long we can each take it. I can feel his cock but this is more important, more urgent. “You need someone else here, don’t you, someone to make sure you stay in place,” he says. He’s just talking, but I bristle; I’d say recoil, but I have nowhere to go. In my head, I say no, but I don’t try to speak it. It’s true, though; I’d hate to have someone else here intruding on what we are sharing.

  One tear, then two, then more start to form. Damian must feel them, but he doesn’t comment. Instead he shifts just enough to roll me over then coil his hand in my hair. “I know, Billie, I know,” he says so softly I almost don’t hear him. I let the rest of the tears start to fall and somehow he seems to get heavier, or I get lighter. He settles himself on top of me and I let the energy pass between us, let his body transform mine with all the places where we touch. Maybe my tears are here because I wish we truly could become intertwined, wish I could chisel out parts of me so he could sink into them. Instead we have this, and I lie there with my eyes closed, compressed between what I wish for and what is possible.

  When he finally rolls to his side, I am hot from his skin. I still feel him all over me. I do smile then, and that’s followed by a laugh, as I run my hands over my arms, feel my lungs fill back up. His now-soft eyes watch me, calculating, deciphering. I’m his puzzle piece to figure out, I sometimes think. I don’t tell him what I’m thinking, because even we have to treasure our secrets, as minor as they are. But as I snuggle up against him, I’m aware of all the parts of me that burn with his heat, that are marked, branded, his. I don’t need to see them to know they’re there, and that with one swivel of his hips, one turn of his body, he could bring me right back there. I’m bound to him in ways that transcend our physical limitations. I move closer and closer until my face is buried in his sweaty, salty chest. He puts his hand on my ass and drags me closer, tightening his grip into a squeeze, holding me right where he wants me. I wouldn’t dream of trying to get away.

  A NECESSARY CORRECTION

  Debra Hyde

  Somewhere, somehow, she had said too much. Kiana knows this the instant the wooden clamp touches her tongue. Blindfolded, she had expected the rubber bit or the tube gag, perhaps even her panties, but when the clamp grabs her, she knows she has committed a verbal transgression. As it tightens, she wonders what it was.

  First, Gordon had ordered her mouth open. Now, he binds her, hands to feet, like a calf waiting for the brand. He cinches her to the hoist over their bed, pulls it until it draws her limbs into the air and she rests on her back. He leaves her there, appendages pointing to the ceiling, like a naked piece of meat.

  And yet, she isn’t. The clamp keeps her from falling into the objectified state that comes when she feels like meat. Although she longs for that nirvana, her bizarre grin, made wide by dowels and nuts and bolts, will not allow it. Its intensity does not allow so simple an ecstasy.

  But what did Kiana do to deserve this? She had been pleasing to Gordon all evening, demurely moving about the party crowd naked, following Gordon’s lead, always at his beck and call. She had kept to his right, a step behind him, her eyes down, her hands clasped behind her back. She had been obvious in her submission, yet understated and graceful. Never once had she attempted to draw attention to herself.

  Her tongue throbs now, its circulation compromised by the clamp’s fixed grip, a constriction that, while not exactly painful, is not particularly blissful either. If anything, it is sublimely defined. The clamp hugs so strangely that her body floods with endorphins and she floats in ethereal delight, borne on the wings of pleasure perverted.

  Gordon had originally designed the clamp as part of a set meant for her breasts, but after a rare instance of impertinence on her part, he had discovered another, highly effective use for it. It had startled her that first time he had applied it, but it had thrilled her as well. Peculiar and overwhelming, it had quickly suspended her in an endorphin haze. Effectively, it had rendered her mute and mentally murky.

  She gulps, swallowing spit. It is an exaggerated, gross movement, not the subtle clearing of accumulation that, like eyes blinking, one does without notice. And in the process, a slice of discomfort snaps at her. The small stretch of flesh that connects the tongue to the mouth snags between her lower front teeth. It is a split second sensation, over as soon as Kiana recognizes it. But it always scares her. It always feels as if that slender sliver of flesh will lodge between her teeth, stuck there until ripped free by sheer panic.

  The frenulum, Kiana thinks. It’s called the frenulum linguae.

  She thinks it odd that its Latin nomenclature is so closely cousined to that of male genitalia. She wonders if Gordon’s anatomical equivalent is stretched tight by an aching erection. Does he take devious delight when he watches her swallow? Does the sight of her dry, cracked lips surrounding her obvious, inflamed tongue ignite him?

  Lips. Labia oris. The mouth is, to Kiana’s amazement, the only place where labia and frenulum meet in noncoital unity. Blow jobs aside, she adds.

  Why she remembers these things under the sway of Gordon’s implements, she cannot say. In the fog of endorphins, her mind often wanders into weird places where strange word associations abound. Sometimes, she wonders if extreme bondage is, in its own way, as near a psychedelic trip as one can get without drugs.

  She must swallow. Perched on the precipice of disaster yet again, her panic seated in a single, seized breath, Kiana finds resolution in the space of exhaling. Her frenulum remains free.

  A shuffle of movement. Gordon, approaching. The bed sinks under his weight, tilting Kiana toward him. Like the flesh catching against her teeth, it is a diminutive sensation, likely imperceptible to Gordon, but she feels the pitch profoundly and gasps. She senses his stare, but his inspection, she knows, will not end with his gaze. It will become tactile, and she braces for it.

  His hand closes over the globe of her left breast and squeezes, compressing it so fiercely, she pants guttural gasps. Retreating, fingers go to her nipple and toy with it. Pulling and pinching, they test its give, a luscious attention, and Kiana ignores the uncompromising clamp at her mouth, the mounting ache in her shoulders from prolonged bondage, the strain of the hog-tie on her body. Yearning, she hopes Gordon will continue to grope her; she prays he will linger there. She wishes she could come from this decidedly delectable torment.

  But Gordon quits her nipple, dismaying her. His hand travels down the bony terrain of her torso, across the swell of her belly, and settles between her legs. He brushes the lips of her cunt, teases its slit. Kiana trembles. She feels delicate and yielding, like clover in a stiff, summer breeze, its flowers risking the tear of the wind to find the sun’s rays.

  Intrusion, abrupt and merciless. It shreds her pastorale—penetration robbing her of whatever dignity her brief fantasy has lent her.

  It’s Gordon’s big, thick thumb that pokes about, twisting, turning, and stretching her. Her muzzle does not stop Kiana from begging him to stop this humiliation. She squirms against it, tries to escape it, but the hog-tie holds her fast and when her limbs flare in sudden, stiff pain, she surrenders the struggle.

  Gordon’s brutishness wins. It always does. And Kiana would not have it any other way. Long ago, she had ceded such power to him, never to contemplate recalling or reclaiming it, always glad to be its thrall, to be its sexual subject. Kiana wants it no other way. Kiana craves it no other way.

  His thumb still in her, Gordon leans forward. Kiana feels his breath upon her face and, in the rhythm of his breathing, she hears his arousal. She knows he’s rock hard and ready to fuck her. But she also knows this lesson must play out in its entirety.

  His tongue brushes against hers, its touch so strong, Kiana flinches. Gordon flicks it about, mimicking a French kiss, but Kiana’s tongue is so thick and tender that the kiss feels volatile and shocking. Capriciously, Gordon pulls away from her and rises from the bed. Voided, Kiana pants, her anticipation rising. She knows the lesson nears its apex.


  “Do you know what you did?” he asks.

  She balks. She doesn’t know the answer, only the obvious. She stammers to admit, “I talked too much.”

  Her words sound, naturally, like she’s speaking with an impediment, but somehow Gordon understands her. “To whom? When?”

  She shrugs. Although her gesture is abbreviated by bondage, Gordon comprehends this too.

  “After your scene.”

  The scene. Kiana remembers the succulent experience that Gordon had orchestrated at the party. He had strung her up, arms and legs spread wide between two pillars. He had clamped her nipples and strung the length of chain from a ceiling hook, making it supremely taut. It had stretched her pinched nipples obscenely and, peering down at her tits, Kiana had practically drooled at the sight of her nipples treated to this extremity. The pain was delicious, savory, and she had hoped it would last forever.

  And then Gordon had whipped her. He had flogged her ass until it reddened and blazed hot to his touch, her back until it was laced with stripes. From behind, he had plied the flogger between her legs, at first soft and slow, just enough to arouse her, to make her want to come. And once she was roused, he had driven her roughly, thrashed her into a frenzy. He had pushed her almost to the peak of orgasm, but not quite. Her nipples screamed, her cunt seeped, and her body anguished, craving release.

  Gordon had tossed aside the whip, grabbed her about the waist and jammed his hand between her wet thighs. His thumb sought out her ready nub, sending shudders through Kiana when he found it.

  It took only a few swift strokes to make her come—she had been that ready—but Gordon kept at it until a second wave overtook her and anguish turned to ecstasy, willing submission to wilting exhaustion.

  Kiana smiles, such as she can, at the memory.

  “That was nice,” she says, remembering how sweetly she had swayed, bound, in postorgasmic glow.

  “Not the scene,” Gordon corrected. “Afterward. Someone asked you about the clamps, the nipple play. Remember what you said?”

  Afterward…nipple play. Ah, yes!

  A couple had asked her what it felt like. Newbies, she remembers. She had had enough wits about her to describe how arousing and amazing the scene was. She had even counseled the couple to start with the gentlest of clamps and work their way up to more challenging ones. She had advised them to take their time experimenting and experiencing. She had said…

  She had said, she had said, she…she had babbled. She had monopolized the conversation—had not let the couple get a question in edgewise.

  Dismayed, Kiana sighs.

  “That couple. I blathered,” she confesses, discovering in the process that blathered is a word that does not lend itself to a tongue clamp. Worse, that Gordon understands her nonetheless.

  “Yes. Exactly. And what was the penalty the last time you made this error?”

  The cane. Ten solid strokes, no warm-up. Kiana’s wordless whine says it all.

  Gordon presses the cane flat against its starting point, her ass. Kiana quivers; she knows these strokes will be brutal, an absolute test of her endurance. And likely to steer her clear of mistakes in the future. When the cane leaves her skin, she braces for its strike.

  The cane sings as it sails toward her ass. Its impact is severe, its sting made worse by the rounded position of her ass. Kiana yelps and sobs follow but they’re crocodile tears, insincere and false.

  “Ten,” Gordon states.

  “Thank you, Master,” Kiana lisps.

  “I will not monopolize the conversation,” he adds.

  “I will not monopolize the conversation,” Kiana struggles to repeat.

  The cane strikes again and sends Kiana into a long wail.

  “Nine.”

  “Thank you, Master. I will not monopolize the conversation.”

  She keens at strikes eight through six, barely able to utter her assigned mantra, and discovers agony in strikes five through three. And she weeps her way through the last two strikes. Tears flow down her face, spill onto the bed, forming a different kind of wet spot.

  But the cane has done its job; its fury has ended, and Kiana begins to calm. This necessary correction has come to its conclusion. Gordon fusses at the rigging and frees her from the hog-tie. By default, she expects him to want her stretched out across the bed and ready for a spread-eagle finale, but Gordon surprises her.

  “On all fours.”

  Her limbs complain, but she stoically ignores them and stiffly moves into position. Challenge and chastisement have reduced her to unmeditated obedience; she complies without hesitation or resistance. She is at her deepest level of submission, a place of visceral actions and reactions, a place unthinking and, thanks to the tongue clamp, unspeaking.

  Gordon aims his cock at Kiana’s swollen slit and, poised to part her, he says, “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.” Then, he shoves himself deep.

  Kiana lurches, her breath catches in her throat, but she manages to muffle a whimper. Gordon’s thrusts skewer her, deep enough to bang against that inner limit, that spot not sweet but wholly sensitive. Kiana knows Gordon is using his cock to test her resolve. She holds her tongue.

  Gordon groans. Kiana knows he is staring at the welts on her ass, his handiwork. He gets off on seeing her skin marred by his directives and determinations, on seeing his lust expressed in flagellation’s frippery. This fuck, she knows, is all his, meant only for his pleasure, his climax, his satisfaction. His cock has been too hard for too long; the patience of punishment meted out gives way to the haste of lust.

  Kiana loves this voracious, selfish rutting. She loves being pummeled, used. Wantonly stupid, she drools. Spittle spills over the clamp, drips from her mouth, but, lost in the intensity of Gordon’s fucking, dazed and doped by pleasure’s opiates, Kiana is beyond all propriety.

  Until Gordon pushes her one last time. His thumb again, this time forcing its way into her ass. He reams her, probing and pulling, pushing her endurance to its limits, all to make her squeal. Finally, unable to withstand this final assault, this cruel penetration, she crumples. Finally, she utters a sound and it shocks her to hear a lowly bleat escape her lips.

  But Gordon bellows at the sound of her surrender. Victory throws him into orgasm. He slams his cock into her, balls slapping, and comes. Carnivorous in his climax, he is beastly, spilling into Kiana, pumping with a prowess that diminishes only when he has nothing left to spew.

  Drained, he rests against Kiana. His predatory edge fades as his breathing slows from panting, and when he finally pulls himself free of her, his spunk dribbles down her thigh. My cunt cares no more about propriety than I do, Kiana thinks.

  Gordon draws her to him then and together they collapse into a shared embrace. Briefly, he interrupts it, pulling the blindfold from Kiana’s eyes, loosening the clamp from her tongue. Gordon wiggles it free, but not before Kiana cries out again, her tongue tender and sore.

  His index finger flies to her lips. “Shhh,” he tells her. “Not a sound.”

  And when he takes her into his arms again, he presses his lips against hers and seeks her tongue. Kiana cannot suppress her reaction, but this time, in Gordon’s languid embrace, it is the small sounds of love and adoration that she utters. This time, dominance sated, Gordon does not correct her. Instead, his kiss deepens—and captures Kiana all over again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel.com) is a writer, editor, blogger, and event organizer. She’s edited more than forty anthologies, including Spanked; Bottoms Up; Please, Sir; Please, Ma’am; and Best Bondage Erotica 2011 and 2012. She is senior editor at Penthouse Variations, sex columnist for SexIs magazine, and covers sex, dating, books, and pop culture widely.

  Often based on her own explorations in the world of D/s and BDSM, TESS DANESI looks into the darker side of erotica, writing with raw honesty about that shadowy area where pain becomes pleasure and pleasure pain. Tess has been published in several anthologies ed
ited by Alison Tyler and Rachel Kramer Bussel as well as in Time Out New York. She blogs about life, death, and everything in between at Urban Gypsy (nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com).

  Having experienced a tongue clamp firsthand, DEBRA HYDE tries never to speak out of turn—or too much. Fortunately, she’s free to write at length without penalty. Her short erotic fiction appears in numerous anthologies, most recently Got a Minute?, Lust: Erotic Fantasies by Women, Hard Road, Easy Riding: Lesbian Biker Erotica, and the notable She’s on Top/He’s on Top collections. Her erotic novel, Inequities, was published as part of the new Neon Books imprint in late 2007. She writes the long-running web-log, Pursed Lips, and creates the occasional podcast, Pursed Lips, Speaking.

  TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS writes romantic erotica and erotic romance for lusty people who believe in true love. Her short fiction has appeared in Passion: Erotica for Women; Best Bondage Erotica 2011; Orgasmic; Spanked; Playing with Fire; and other anthologies. She writes erotic romance, mostly of a paranormal bent, for Samhain and Phaze.

  Called a “Trollop with a Laptop,” a “Literary Siren,” and “The Mistress of Literary Erotica,” ALISON TYLER lives to be naughty. She is the editor of more than fifty erotic anthologies, including thirty-five for Cleis Press, most recently Morning, Noon and Night and Sudden Sex. Please visit alisontyler.blogspot.com.

  LUX ZAKARI’s stories, poetry and reviews have appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2009 and Girl Crazy, as well as on the websites Clean Sheets, Oysters and Chocolate, The Erotic Woman and For the Girls. Her first novel is Coercion. For details, visit luxzakari.com.