by Unknown
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
WHAT YOU DESERVE
COFFEE BREAK
CHATTEL
UNDER DIRECTION
THE LETTER
RUN, BABY, RUN
TACKLING JESSICA
SAFE, SANE AND CONSENSUAL
THE GOLDEN RULER
I ALWAYS DO
PINKY
THE BREAKING POINT
SHINING IN THE DARK
ROOM #3
DUO
BREATH
SILVER FISH IN THE CRYSTAL POOL
THE SECRET OF TIME TRAVEL
BARED
IN HIS CONTROL
PAPER DOLL
SUBBING
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: LUCKY NAUGHTY GIRLS
I’m so lucky to have such a naughty girl like you in my lap,” Jake tells Deirdre in “What You Deserve” by Lori Selke, the opening story in the book you’re about to read. In many ways, that sentence, its promise and passion, its claim and command, is what this book of kinky erotica is all about. There are a lot of naughty girls, a lot of laps and a lot of men who understand that, in fact, they are lucky—whether they ever voice it or not—to have a hot, eager, filthy-minded woman eagerly awaiting the chance to serve them.
The other half of the equation, one that is vital to any BDSM story, but especially those told with an eye toward female submission, is that the naughty girls themselves know how lucky they are—and if they don’t at the start of the story, they do by the end. They know they are lucky to have discovered a seed of submission somewhere within them and someone to complement and nurture that growing seed. They are lucky because they own their darkest, dirtiest desires, even the ones they struggle with, the ones that turn them on despite being taboo or unnerving in some way.
Actually, they are more than lucky; finding a master, a top, a boyfriend, a husband, a lover or simply a man who gets an essential truth about their submissive nature doesn’t just happen. Well, sometimes it does, but I believe it takes a certain kind of prowess to activate and draw forth those kinds of dominants, the kind you can trust with your body and soul, your pussy and your power. What I’m trying to say is that the women here don’t just wander down an alley and find a man to pin them against the wall; even when they encounter a sexy stranger, they are making a choice to obey him, to follow their own lust as much as another’s command.
In “Room #3,” when author Emily Bingham shuts the door on her characters, she invites us into a tale where we don’t know who is touching the narrator, nor does she; we only know how much she likes it. When the narrator offers up her body, she enters into the unknown, a thrill in and of itself: “The moment I knocked on this door, I consented to become his plaything. From here on out I have no say in what will happen. No words are to leave my mouth in this space; I am at his mercy. I can only hope I’ve made a wise choice.” In all the stories you will read here, a woman makes a similar choice, and we get to luxuriate in the ways that actively making that choice, owning up to our most dastardly, wanton, wicked fantasies can be a ticket to a ride we never want to get off.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco as I quote from Kristina Wright’s “Coffee Break,” wondering what I would do if a hot barista said to me, “Go to the bathroom now. Leave the door unlocked. Get undressed. Kneel on the floor facing the door.” Actually, it’s not the barista who delivers that message in her story, but it made me picture what I would do if I were handed a steaming cup of joe and such a command.
The stories in Serving Him are about everything from scenes in dungeons to the ways playing with power can extend beyond what we do when we are “playing.” In “Safe, Sane and Consensual,” by Ariel Graham, she takes that hallmark of BDSM safety and reflects on the ways we “safeword” when dealing with polite society. “May I ask what the spanking is for?” Aaron asks Annie, and his answer just may surprise you.
There are plenty of surprises in store in this book, and whether you’re a novice or a seasoned BDSM player, I hope you’ll enjoy the exchanges to be found here—of dirty talk, power, roles, toys, games. These characters test each other, pushing boundaries from both sides of the top/bottom equation. Often it’s the women who push their men to push them, to stop being polite and start holding them down, making them open wide, forcing them to relinquish a kind of power they are eager to let go of.
Many of the stories here are as intense as the acts described; I see them as tender, but they are likely to take your breath away, make you tremble or quiver, make you just a little bit afraid. That edge of awe and fear, of want and need, of excitement and surrender, is just where I hope these stories keep you. You don’t have to be a naughty girl (or boy), in real life or in your dreams, to enjoy the twenty-two hot stories in this book, but I have a feeling they will bring out your inner naughtiness, whatever form that takes. I feel lucky to get to share them with you.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City
WHAT YOU DESERVE
Lori Selke
He left me a voice mail the morning of our date. “Tonight, my dear Deirdre,” he rumbled into the phone, “you’re going to get what you deserve.” He added a few details—a time for me to appear at his apartment, instructions to let myself in and read the note he would leave me on the dining room table, which would provide further guidance.
Jake and I had been dating long enough for me to not only have the key to his apartment but a small dresser drawer dedicated to my personal effects in his bedroom. We were an item. We only had eyes for each other. Our friends laughed admiringly at our continued chemistry.
If they only knew.
I wasn’t Jake’s full-time submissive. Neither of us was interested in that. But when we were together, the energy was undeniable. I wanted to please him, and he loved to put me through my paces. We’d figured out our mutual kinkiness early on and indulged it every chance we got. I’d worn a play collar for him once or twice—okay, a couple dozen times. He had toys he’d bought just to use on me. A little trust game like this one was par for the course for us. Something not too heavy, but not entirely frivolous. Serious fun.
It was a journey we’d embarked upon after one too many nights entangled together, whispering our sexual secrets to each other in the dark. Somehow it was always easier for me if I couldn’t see his face when I made my true confessions. He had noticed how turned on I got when he pulled my hair, yes he had; when he slapped my ass once or twice, or held my head down on his delectable cock. He liked to watch me blush when he trailed his fingers along my jawline. The rest felt as inevitable as gravity.
If I was ever supposed to be ashamed of my submissive desires for Jake, then I must have cut that class in school.
I rushed home after work and quickly showered and changed my clothes. Jake’s voice mail hadn’t left any specific instructions as to my attire.
So I dressed for myself. I put on a casual dress with a black crossover top and a pretty black-and-white graphic print skirt—it always made me feel like an old-time, pre-Technicolor movie star. Black bra, black panties, bare legs, men’s-loafer-inspired pumps. Kind of like what I’d wear to the office, only a little bit funkier.
Jake worked in customer support. He liked it partly because nobody ever saw his face—or his shoulder-length hair, or the tribal tattoos on his forearms, plus the one on the web between his left thumb and forefinger. He’d had a dissolute younger life that he’d only begun to divulge to me, but he’d reined it in when he started to go gray at the temples. Suddenly health insurance became a priority,
too, and the debauchery could wait for the weekend.
Or nights when I slept over. Whatever worked.
I let myself into his apartment as instructed. And also as instructed, I found and read the note on his little two-person dining table, which was bare except for a slim little dog collar I was so very intimately acquainted with already, as well as a blindfold, one of those ruffled satin sleep-mask styles. This one was pink. The note simply said, Put these on. So that’s what I did. First the collar, then the blindfold. Then I carefully perched on the edge of the dinette chair and waited.
He must have been waiting down the hall, perhaps in his bedroom; I heard his footfall on the carpet. He’d taken his shoes off. I straightened my back, hands in my lap, already squirming with anticipation. But instead of feeling his touch or hearing his coarse whisper close to my ear, I heard the clanking of pots in the kitchen, then the gentle chink of china on the table next to me.
The first words he spoke to me were, “Open your mouth.” So I did. He slipped something inside it, to sit on my tongue. “Taste it,” he said. It was salty and tangy and sweet and creamy and chewy. Eventually the sensations sorted themselves out. Half a fig, stuffed with goat cheese and sprinkled with thyme and honey, he told me as I chewed. He gave me another. I licked leftover honey off his fingers.
He continued to feed me by hand—slivers of lemony roast chicken, slices of cheese, cubes of bread, olives, room-temperature cherry tomatoes that popped in my mouth. I tried not to giggle or bite the tips of his fingers, but it was hard. It was hard to hold still and let myself be fed. But when I got too fidgety, he just said, “If I have to, I’ll tie your hands behind your back.” I stopped fidgeting.
“Slow down,” he said again after a few more bites. “Savor it. We’ve got all night. Don’t worry, I guarantee you’re going to get what you deserve.”
At that phrase, I pressed my thighs together and swallowed another bite. Carefully. He put a straw to my lips. I sucked in cool water. I tried to concentrate on the flavors and textures in my mouth, on the press of his fingertips when he wanted me to open, but suddenly the image of Jake dressed as a severe schoolmarm, ruler in hand, spectacles teetering on the tip of his nose, popped into my head. I tried to suppress the giggle starting to burble up from my throat and failed.
“Are you laughing at me, young lady?” he purred, right next to my ear. It didn’t help. Another terrified giggle escaped me. And then I was stuck in a hysterical laughing fit. “I’m sorry,” I managed to mumble between giggles and gasps for air. “I’m so sorry, Sir, I’m not laughing at you, I’m just laughing, I can’t help it.” I forced the last word out. “Mercy!”
In response, I heard the low rumble of Jake’s own laughter. “Mercy? For what? I haven’t done a thing to you yet except feed you dinner. Are you telling me you’re ready for dessert?” I could feel him move away thanks to the breeze of cool air against my ear where before had been his breath, hot and moist.
The tines of a fork pricking my lips prompted me to open again and accept a bite of strawberry cake. With strawberry frosting. And another. And another. At some point he switched to feeding me with his fingers again and soon I was licking crumbs off his fingers and he was smearing frosting on my cheeks. I started laughing again and said, “Uh-oh.”
He put a frosting-smeared finger to my lips to shush me. “Never apologize for laughing,” he said. “Even at me.” I could almost hear the smirk I knew had to be gracing his face right now. “I think you’re done with your dessert,” he called from somewhere in the kitchen. “Now it’s time for mine.”
And that’s when I realized my panties were wet.
“I heard how you called me Sir.” That hot breath was back, tickling my ear. “We never negotiated that, you know.” He kept his finger pressed against my lips. “Don’t apologize. I know you. I know you want to. But I don’t want you to. So hush. Hold still. Listen.”
I held still. I could hear him shift his body next to me. There was a pause. Then I found myself pulled roughly into his lap and tipped over, my butt in the air. He pushed up the skirt of my dress but left my now-damp panties in place. “You’re not gagged,” he reminded me, “and I expect you to let me know if I should stop for any reason. Now,” he said as he wound his free hand in my hair, “what was that about calling me Sir?” And he smacked my ass firmly with his open palm.
I yelped. He smacked me again. “Well?” he said, and punctuated his question with a third blow.
“I don’t know, it just slipped out!” I cried, sounding embarrassingly hysterical already. Suddenly there were tears threatening in the corners of my eyes, and it was getting hard to breathe through my nose. Jake just kept swatting my butt with a steady, slow rhythm. “Don’t apologize,” he warned me, and I burst out sobbing instead. He slowed his spanking pace, but he didn’t stop.
“I’m flattered that you chose to call me Sir, sweetie,” he said in his smoothest of tones. “That’s not why I’m spanking you. You haven’t been a bad girl. You’re a good girl. You’ve done everything I’ve asked so far. And you’re going to get what you deserve.” He punctuated his last sentence with a pounding blow. “But not yet. I’m spanking you because I like it, not because you deserve it.” He rubbed my sore ass for just a moment with his hand. “You like it, too, though, don’t you? Even though you’re crying.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Just a little bit,” he replied. “I can tell. Your panties are soaked.” He smacked me right between the legs, cupping my vulva, to emphasize his point. I yelped. He hit me there twice more. “I’m so lucky to have such a naughty girl like you in my lap. A girl who likes it when I spank her.” Smack. “Who gets wet when I spank her.” Smack. “This girl here in my lap, she’s going to get exactly”—smack—“what she deserves.” Three more smacks, and then he pushed me roughly to the floor.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he said. His voice was turning rougher, hoarser. “Stick that bright red butt up in the air.” I scrambled to comply.
He pulled my panties down.
I felt the shock of air hitting my wet, wet pussy and I wanted to crawl away, hide under the table, except that I was still wearing the blindfold and wouldn’t be able to see where I was going and would surely hit my head on the table leg or something stupid and embarrassing like that. I knew the sight of my bare ass in the air was nothing Jake hadn’t seen before. But before, I’d always been able to watch him watching me. Now I couldn’t see anything at all. Was he scrutinizing my last pubic hair trim job? Noticing some strange deformity I couldn’t even see?
Was he laughing at me? All eager and spread and unable to see?
I sat there on my hands and knees for a moment that kept stretching out like taffy. Why didn’t he do something? I strained to hear the sound of a belt buckle releasing, a zipper being pulled down. I heard nothing, for too long. Then, too far away, a plastic clink. He was putting something on the table. A brush to spank me with some more? Some other nefarious toy?
Then I heard the buzzing.
“Remember when I asked you to masturbate for me?” he asked.
I blushed. It had only been a week or two ago, and it was one of the hardest things I had ever done. Also one of the hottest. “Yes,” I said, biting back the almost-automatic addition of “Sir.” What was wrong with me?
“Well, I took notes,” he said. “So I think you might appreciate this.” And he pressed whatever was making that buzzing sound gently up against my clit and started making slow circles with it.
I struggled to keep my butt in the air, my legs spread wide enough for him to reach his target. “Hold still,” he said in his low grumble. “Let me do the work.” So I held still, and my knees trembled, and my whole body flushed. “Tell me when you’re getting close to orgasm,” he said. “Tell me if I need to stop, or change up. Talk to me, Deirdre. Tell me how it feels.”
I hated him for one hot second. The last thing I wanted to do right now was think in words. I wanted to melt blissfully
into the carpet beneath his hands in a puddle of moans and soft sighs, but the bastard was making me talk. He’d probably ask for full sentences. He wasn’t going to get them. “That feels good,” I managed to say between increasingly rapid breaths. “Don’t move. Don’t stop.”
He chuckled. “All right.” And then he slapped my ass. “Keep talking. Tell me what you like. Tell me how it feels when I touch you. When I tell you what to do.”
“It makes me so hot. You’re making me so hot. Oh, I want you. I want your hands, I want your cock, I want you to keep doing that to my clit. I want you to take me, use me. Oh, god, I can’t believe I just said that. Please don’t make me beg. I hate begging, I hate talking, please don’t make me talk any more, just let me come.”
“Nobody’s stopping you from coming,” Jake said.
“Oh,” I said, and I could feel muscles inside me shifting in response, in preparation.
“Deirdre,” Jake said, leaning across my back to put his mouth near my ear again. “What do you think you deserve?”
I froze. The sound I managed to make in response was merely a whimper.
“You don’t know, do you?” he said to me. I nodded mutely. “Well,” he said, “I do know. You know what you deserve, my sweet little lover? Pleasure. Attention. Release. And at least one orgasm tonight. Are you ready to give it to me, sweetie? Are you ready to get what’s coming to you?”
I would have laughed at the pun but I was too close to the edge. I mustered another nod of the head.
“Do you think you can come when I tell you to?” he asked.
I whimpered again. I was by now well beyond coherent speech.
“Try it for me,” Jake whispered. He waited a beat, then two. Then he said, still in a soft voice, “Come for me, Deirdre. Give me your orgasm. Show me what you can do. Come get what you deserve.”
And when he spoke those words, the crest of the wave I was riding broke. My knees buckled. My hips started rocking against Jake’s hand, and I moaned as I collapsed sideways onto the carpet. Jake moved with me, keeping his hand between my legs, deftly switching off the vibrator and cupping my pussy as he arranged himself next to me, spooning me. I shuddered beside him. I could feel myself slick with sweat and pussy juice, and I smelled the tang of my come in the air.
