Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission

by Unknown

  Fair enough, I thought, since his hands are fairly fucking formidable. This thought was followed by my wailing scream as he dug his fingers deep into the big muscles of my thighs, fingers pushing with insane force into the crease where my hip socket hid within muscle and tendons, pushing me to the place where speech becomes an eel in my mouth and I can’t quite manage words, stuttering and spitting syllables to beg for… what? Mercy? That is a fucking laugh because when I start to feel that real pain; when I can see him observing the edges of my composure fraying: it is just getting good, and mercy simply isn’t in the cards.

  I was hiccupping and writhing away from him, trying to escape the thrumming pain in my muscles as he squeezed, compressed and pulled them to places where my wordless verbalizing became a stream of shouts and moans, and I think if you’d been there and closed your eyes you might have thought you were front row in the amen corner of your friendly neighborhood Pentecostal church. Except I wasn’t even trying to pretend the ecstasy and the surreal glossolalia were due to anything but unrelenting pain and protracted torment at the hands of someone I trusted completely. And as the pain became more intense, my body’s energy and charge around pain focused it to a shaking climax that wracked me, again and again, as I felt myself break apart and resolve into a heaving panting orgasmic response.

  And then my hiccupping breath escaped me.

  And failed to return.

  I tried again to inhale and found myself strangely desperate for breath. Not in a wheezy asthmatic way. Not in that stabbing-pressure-to-my-head, strangulation way. I just…couldn’t inhale. And I couldn’t figure out why. I blinked and connected solidly with him as he observed my face, looking into my eyes and no doubt seeing my confusion. He leaned in closer to me and I realized then I couldn’t breathe properly because his arm was between us, aligned underneath my breasts, compressing my rib cage evenly. No pain, no muss, no fuss—but I couldn’t. Fucking. Breathe.

  I put my hand against his chest, at first with a sort of pleading flutter rather than roughly pushing him away. And he backed off.

  For a moment.

  I caught my breath and took in as much air as I could, only to feel him leaning in again, face inches away from mine, and I could feel my heart squirming in my chest, lungs shuddering, diaphragm confounded in its standard action. My body had been doing this job for just over forty-two years and hadn’t previously encountered an external force that bothered to interfere with it in this way. But here it was, and there he went, pressing again with a force that was almost gentle and didn’t hurt, not really, but terrified me all the more because I felt my vision narrowing and a small white-hot panic blossom behind my eyes. I’d only felt this type of diminishing of my faculties once before, and that was a very bad moment. I had feared then that I might be dying and now that same genie erupted from the bottle and the thought occurred to my confused mind that the logical result of him continuing on the path we were currently exploring was my suffocation.

  I shoved him as hard as I could, gaining another lungful of air and another opportunity to vent my slipstream of confusion as I watched him watching me and he permitted me this struggle, as I twisted away and dragged myself a few feet before he brought me back and pulled me over and under him and pushed down on me again and I sobbed. Shaking, I felt my chest relax, strangely, as he leaned in again and pushed.

  And again.

  And again.

  The cycle of resistance was winding down. I was drained—drained, and impossibly aroused. Even as I whined and suffocated, my cunt was wet. With a shift in his leg, he pressed himself more closely to me. I could feel his cock and knew my suffering was feeding him, too.

  Even as I was dimming, he was feeding, and I luxuriated in being drained—drained and trapped in his eyes as I watched him watch me fading, saw his eyes dilate even as my eyes drifted shut and I moaned, my hand no longer pushing him away, but instead resting on his arm. I let go. I did not hurt and my panic had died into a sweet terror…not of him, though.

  I wondered what it might be like to have the last thing I saw be his eyes on mine, that barely visible smile, lips parted to inhale the last wisps of breath that escaped mine. I lost my desire to fight. In that moment I remember one thought, swimming upward from the murky depths of my consciousness…the thought that I did not need to fight him. Fighting him was not what I wanted, never what I wanted. What I wanted was to graciously, gratefully endure whatever he gave me. And as I gave him that, my wordless pleas again becoming manifestations of the slippery, beautiful terror, I was so totally his that I let go of myself and gave myself to him. And there was nothing, nothing at all in those moments that would have driven me to assert my will against his.

  Not even the will to breathe.

  The heat of his gaze as he took in my acquiescence, my submission to this torment, suffused me, his energy surging even as mine ebbed and oh, such sweetness…

  Then I was breathing again. Then I was in his arms, safe from him. Safe with him. Then there were tears, and then there was more. Then I lacked words and took his hand in my hands and pressed his hand to my lips, over and over again.

  I crawled up and knelt at his feet, sobbing and wet and shaken and his.

  Everything I could say about those moments, that conversation we had without words, all of it sounds like hyperbolic histrionics. There are ways and there are ways that power exchange manifests. Manifesting power to give control of my autonomous functions to another human being…and to do so voluntarily, to look into the eyes of another person and give him everything is a sweet emotional narcotic.

  And I am fully addicted.

  SILVER FISH IN THE CRYSTAL POOL

  Gina Marie

  Later, he will tell me that he thought about that scene, planned it, choreographed it to the smallest detail. He knew when I would whimper, when I would beg, when I would twist against the bark and spread my quivering legs. Later, he will grin and lick his lips and tell me how beautiful I looked in the sunshine, how when I collapsed backward against the ropes, then forward into his arms, I made an ethereal, animalistic sound, like an angel being fucked by the devil.

  But right now it’s happening, and so intense, so immediate, so raw that I can barely express what it feels like. We’re out in the weeds and the trees on the dry side of the mountain. Ponderosa country. The air is hot and dry and smells of branches and dust, the vanilla of ponderosa sap, the bitter salt of sweat, come, pheromones and thick, sweet musk rising.

  “The tree has my name on it,” Alec says, grinning like a boy and looking it up and down, giving it a loving pat on the belly, tapping me gently on the ass.

  “This is a perfect tree for the tree whore.”

  My tree is sturdy and rough. The bark is warm against my skin. I can smell the pine oil in my tree’s exhalations. My tree. My lover. My ropes and buckles and straps.

  My lover knows what I want and why I want it. He knows that the sun on my flesh is like food, that his lips against my blinded face and muted mouth are like fire that stokes my soul into believing that all things are possible. He knows that pain is pleasure and that my need to walk on the steep edge of it is marrow deep. Alec strips me naked in the sunshine and begins teasing my flesh. Our skin begins to melt in the heat, and our bodies become indistinguishable from each other.

  Before Alec wraps the scarf around my eyes, he buckles the thick vinyl cuffs around my wrists. The sound of metal and vinyl, the smell of it heating up in the sun and against my damp skin makes me weak. I can feel my clit pulsing in the warm breeze. I can smell the molten core of my earth, bark and moss and spore, as it is lifted gently by the wind in the trees.

  A creek gurgles in the distance, “Let go, let go, let go, let go.”

  Next, my lover binds my torso and legs, the bark hot and harsh against my naked ass and back. He can’t stop grinning. He knows. He knows I have lived every day of my life for these few moments.

  The blindfold is next. Suddenly, summertime is gone and I am left to dan
gle there in the wind and birdsong and creek babble, a feeling like floating and being tied to the tracks all at once. I hear a gentle rattle and feel a sharp pain on my nipples as soft fingers clamp them between a heavy metal chain. Then follows a sharp pain between my legs as he places rubber-tipped clamps on my swollen labia. My head swings sideways, hair clinging to the bark. The disembodied “he” is ready with a strip of tape that he presses firmly across my mouth with his large hands, then he tugs on the chain as he moves the whip handle between my legs.

  The whip doesn’t strike, it strokes. At first. The soft-as-silk elk-hide fringes feather across my skin like a thousand butterfly kisses. The darkened sky is comforting as he brushes my ears and neck with his lips and whispers dirty, dirty words that make my nipples burn.

  The next puff of wind catches a drop of wetness winding down my thigh. The sensation of it traveling across my skin—this tiny but significant offering to the sex gods—makes my legs begin to shake.

  The whip comes down hard on my belly, my breasts, my thighs, my pussy. The sting and scent of leather, skin and my own excitement cause a chemical reaction and my blood is replaced with surging electrical currents.

  I jolt against the ropes. I am moaning into the tape. And then everything stops. Silence, except for the sound of air rushing in and out of my nose, the wind in the branches, a twig underfoot. Minutes go by and nothing happens. I am dripping into the pine duff, every sense on alert for the next electric zap, whip strike, kiss. The next sensation is the whip handle sliding between my legs. Suddenly, swiftly, the tape is off my mouth and the taste of me is on my tongue, the leather handle wet with my juice and pressed against my lips, hard and wet. Very wet. He pulls it back and forth across my mouth. The drop of wetness on my thigh is now a rivulet, a cool little river of come leading from the mountains to the ocean.

  And then the world stands still with this one whispered sentence, the sentence that flays me more harshly than any whip or clamp or hand. His fingers flutter against me when he says it, reaching deep inside. “You’re not wet, lover. Why aren’t you wet?” The breeze catches the river of juice streaming down my thighs and my mind is tumbling.

  “I am so wet,” I stutter, my lips now unbound but clumsy. “I am so wet.”

  “No, no you’re not, baby. Don’t you like this? Doesn’t this feel good?”

  “Oh, it feels so good, so good.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re not wet. Do you want to come, baby? Do you? Well, you can’t come until you’re wet. Don’t I make you wet?”

  My heart is racing as Alec flogs my thighs, pulls my head sideways by my ponytail and inflicts small, sharp bites on my neck and breasts. A woodpecker knocks wood in a nearby tree. Something, probably a pinecone, falls and bounces in a stinging glance off my bare shoulder. He tugs at the labia clamps and pushes me to my knees, shoving his cock deep into my throat. “Maybe this is what you need,” he growls, his voice the red-hot interior of a rumbling volcano.

  My brain, a lightning storm of desire, is consumed by the length of him, smooth and warm, stretching my lips. My knees are grinding in the pine needle duff as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, pulling out just long enough to allow me a drooling, gasping breath. I strain at the cuffs, wanting to wrap my arms around his muscular ass, feel the heat rippling across his skin.

  He shoves his cock in deep and holds it there against the song of my throat for an eternity. Juice is streaming down my legs. Wet, so fucking wet.

  He is tugging on the nipple clamps. I am straining into the cuffs. My desire is as big as the sky. I am upside down. Not wet? Not wet? Lips on my neck. Hands between my legs. Nipples taut and burning. Not wet?

  Alec fingers my clit again, pulls on the labia chain, bites at my nipples. I fall forward against his chest and scream against the ropes. Pain and pleasure flash in the sweat-soaked wilderness of my mind.

  “Mmmm,” he says, slapping my ass and smacking his lips, shoving his pussy-soaked hand into my mouth. “That’s more like it. About time you got excited. About time you got wet. About time you got ready for me.”

  Orgasm hardly matters anymore as shadow figures, voices, chants, growls, whispers, chains, slaps, leather sting and the thrust of silicone cock and vibration of thick, smooth plastic take over my body. But I come, oh I do. I come and come and come again, in my mind, in my mouth, my clit, my cunt, my heart, my head. He is in me now, sending me spinning from the inside out, master and mind, body and brain. I am spinning through space, the owl at dusk, the deer bounding in and out of dawn, the silver fish spinning in the crystal pool.

  At last, I collapse against the ropes and scream so loud I don’t recognize the sound of my own ecstasy.

  As soon as Alex releases me from my binds, I reach between my legs to feel it for myself, the quenched thirst of a thousand sunflowers blooming in the desert. My fingers emerge, glistening, from my own pussy. I wipe myself across his temple and swat at his ass. “You!” I exclaim. “You are so bad…not wet.”

  Later he will chuckle and nibble at my ear. “Sure had you going.”

  “You sure did,” I will reply, a dark, damp spot spreading into my jeans at the steakhouse after work. “You sure did.”

  THE SECRET OF TIME TRAVEL

  Jacqueline Applebee

  I am black. My lover is white. I call him Sir, partly out of respect, but mostly because it makes him smile. We are each other’s opposite in many ways. I have short hair that curls tight against my head. Sir’s hair is long and fair; it swishes down his back when he bends to kiss me. His every thought can be seen in his bright blue eyes. No one knows what I am thinking when they look into my brown ones. I am an unlikely incident. I am smaller than I seem. Sir is huge when he stands over me. There is no question that I love him.

  I’ve been working as a community debt adviser for over five years now. We get the ones who nobody else will touch, the shopkeepers who lost it all in the riots last summer, the alcoholics who couldn’t hold it together. We deal with all the shit that blows through the door.

  Mister Munroe had twenty-seven credit cards. He used to run a chain of takeaways on the south coast. Ever eat a chicken kebab in Bournemouth? That would probably be one of his. But then Mister Munroe’s wife left him. He started letting things slip. Debt collectors surrounded him like the vultures they are. They picked him clean, leaving nothing behind but worthless plastic. Mister Munroe’s health went the same way as his kebab shops. He was in my office this morning shaking with tears. I only managed to get three debt collecting agencies off his back, but it gave us the time we needed. Time is something I’m interested in; time travel in particular is a hobby of mine. My antique silver pocket watch is a constant reminder that time is precious, but I have undeniable proof that time can be twisted, bent and forced back in on itself. I know the secret, you see.

  Sir has wide flat hands. His veins are blue beneath his skin. He takes off his belt, looping it over his knuckles. I feel myself getting wet; everything starts to tingle. My knickers are white with little hearts dotted all over. They are soaked by the time my lover taps his belt impatiently against his thigh. He watches me as I push my knickers down. My brown skin is moisturized with smoky shea butter. I wonder if it is that or my arousal he can smell when I see him sniff the air.

  Sir often wears aftershave with notes of cinnamon, cloves and other spices I cannot name. I always think of Christmas when he is near. I reach up on tiptoes, kiss him on the cheek. He smiles, and then he presses me back against the nearest wall. “You cannot get round me that way,” he says. “Little girls need a firm hand.”

  “But I’ve been good,” I complain, my voice a whisper.

  My lover’s hand whips out to hold me roughly by the chin. I feel my eyes prickle with sensation. There is a potential for tears of pain or joy. It’s all down to Sir. He leans closer, his voice a hiss. “Do not lie to me.”

  I hate chopping onions. I’m a lover of gadgets but there aren’t any that actually work at Lola’s place. Lola has b
een my friend since we were both kids; as the only black children in our school, we were both exotic novelties. We were naturally drawn together. Our friendship has lasted throughout the years.

  Lola collects men like trading cards; she’s got a guaranteed shag waiting for her in every London borough except Tower Hamlets. The rest of her life is chaotic. I try to ignore the brown envelopes stacked on a shelf by the sink, but I already know what’s inside every one of them.

  Lola pounds a ball of dough. Her arms are strong and smooth. We’re having poppy seed bread with our dinner. Quite surprisingly, a naked man walks in, raises his hand in greeting and then fills the kettle with water. I don’t know where to look. I wipe my eyes, try not to slice my face with the knife.

  Lola calls out over her shoulder, “Tommy, this is Jennifer.”

  Tommy holds out his hand, shakes mine with enthusiasm. “Oh, the money girl.” He tilts his head. “That’s awesome. Smart is so sexy, you know?” I feel Tommy’s eyes rake over me. Even though he’s the one with no clothes on, I suddenly feel extremely vulnerable. I try not to look down, but my gaze is drawn to his cock. He’s getting hard. I turn away, attack the pile of potatoes with a shaking hand. “See you later maybe?” Tommy asks. I say nothing, hold myself still.

  I try to distract myself with the food smells that waft about my head. It must have worked, as I jump when Lola comes up behind me. “Tommy’s got a friend who’s just flown over from the States. We could all go out together.”

  “I don’t think so,” I mutter.

  Lola sighs dramatically. “I forgot you’re only interested in kinky old blokes.”

  Lola never used to be this way. I don’t know when she became so judgmental.

  Sir beats me with fast light swats. His belt makes a whooshing noise as he moves. I giggle; I can’t help myself. This is how I always respond at first.