by Unknown
SUBBING
Rachel Kramer Bussel
It’s just for a day,” Jesse wheedled, begging her best friend, Taylor, to fill in for her on the job. “And you’re already kinky,” she added, like that sealed the deal, like Taylor would want to spend her Saturday bending over to get spanked and pretending to drool over some guy she wasn’t interested in. It was true, she was kinky, not to mention single, but even though they were best friends, Jesse didn’t know everything that Taylor was into. She didn’t know how much Taylor had loved it when her ex, Brian, choked her, his big meaty hand wrapped around her slender neck while one leg pinned her down and his fingers pressed deep inside her. Jesse definitely didn’t know how much Taylor liked it when Brian had called her a slut and “threatened” to bring his friends over to fill all her holes and cover her in come. The dirtier the talk, the harder she’d come. But that was with Brian, not some stranger, even though, she had to admit, when Brian had teased her with the idea of being his whore, getting paid to service his friends, she’d practically crushed the fingers he’d been fucking her with.
In the end, it wasn’t the excitement that made Taylor say yes, but the fact that, even more than she was a bad girl, she was a good girl. She knew Jesse would’ve done anything for her, and she couldn’t refuse this rare favor. If she’d fill in for a friend working a cash register or serving as a teaching assistant, her other closest friends’ current jobs, she couldn’t refuse to get fucked for cash. Well, not fucked, Jesse clarified. “No sex,” she said, either ignoring or not seeing Taylor’s slight slump of disappointment. Wasn’t getting fucked the best part, the icing on the kinky cake?
“Okay, you just let them order you around, spank you, tie you up, stuff like that. Some of them want to see you do things to yourself, like suck your own nipple or put a butt plug in. But they can’t take photos of you and they can only touch you if you let them. You get a flat fee and you get to keep whatever tips they give you. And dinner wherever you want is on me.”
“What should I wear?” Taylor asked. Fashion first was always her motto.
Jesse laughed. “Whatever you want. They’re probably going to want you naked anyway. Some of them bring in clothes for you to try on. It’s a job, Taylor; you don’t have to love it, you just have to pretend to.” Jesse gave her all the details, along with a hug and a smile, and left Taylor alone. The obliging friend plopped down in front of her TV, but all she could think about was the fact that tomorrow at this time, she could be doing anything, with anyone. Well, not anything, but almost; the thought made her wet, and before she knew it, the TV was off and her electric vibrator was in her hand, making her come as she envisioned two men toying with her, one pressing her down onto her knees to suck the other’s cock while he beat her with a riding crop. She knew as her orgasm hit she wouldn’t have to fake anything; even a guy she wasn’t into was a guy paying for her services, paying for her to show him what a slut she really was. She would be subbing, but she wouldn’t be acting, she didn’t think.
Taylor showed up for the gig in what she thought was appropriate attire: a simple yet relatively see-through white T-shirt, her nipples jutting forward just enough to make it clear she didn’t have on a bra, and a pleated black and red schoolgirl skirt, along with knee-high white socks and shiny black loafers she’d borrowed from her roommate. When in doubt, go for the schoolgirl look, she’d figured. She’d debated until the very last minute—panties or no panties—but had decided on plain white cotton; she could always take them off. She’d packed a toy bag just in case the dungeon didn’t have exactly what her clients requested, although how she could predict what they’d want, she wasn’t sure.
“Hello,” she told the woman at the dungeon’s front desk, who explained that most of the women working there were dommes, and most of their clients usually filled the role she was going to play today. Some of the men were switches, but the ones who mainly wanted a professional sub, which cost more, were usually rich and had limited time on their hands to find a girl willing to do the things he wanted them to do. Plus there were plenty of civilian women who actually wanted to get spanked and strung up, so the rich types didn’t have to look too far for girls willing to take orders. The ones who wanted to pay for it had a reason and usually wanted something beyond the average kinky girl’s regular repertoire, and Taylor was grateful for that, since she didn’t consider herself an “average” anything. She read over the rules, which mentioned the company safeword that all clients were required to agree to, and waited, wondering if it was a faux pas, a mark of an amateur, that she was wet as could be. She was definitely glad she’d worn the panties.
She spied the men coming in, but couldn’t discern a pattern. Most were at least in their thirties, many in their fifties, mostly white. Some were hot and hunky, but most were average; it was like a Wall Street parade, no hint of the business about to happen inside from these men’s attire. And then she was called on. “Tina,” said the clerk, using the name she’d picked, a simple one she would surely remember, one she was sometimes called by vague acquaintances who saw her rarely and couldn’t quite recall her more manly moniker. She smiled to herself, knowing that if Jesse hadn’t asked her to sub as a sub, she’d be sitting at her favorite coffee shop right now, hunched over some tedious manuscript she was copyediting. This was sure to be far more fun, not to mention lucrative.
She entered the room and wondered where to sit: on one of the chairs? On the floor? Should she stand? They said that the sub was truly the one in control of any kinky scene, but she wasn’t so sure about that. Suddenly Taylor had butterflies in her stomach; she wanted to do a good job, on principle, and she wanted it to hurt, in a good way. She needed that rush of endorphins that only submission could give her, and as she took a deep breath in through her nose and slowly let it out through her mouth, she smiled to herself. Yes, she was woman enough to own that she wanted this, that she wasn’t really in a chilly dungeon for the money, but for the rush, the thrill, the wetness. She was there because whether cash was involved or not, this was where she belonged.
Taylor decided to kneel, and kept her hands behind her back as she waited for the door to open. She’d been given a buzzer she could press to get security if she needed it, but when the door opened and an older man, one surely at least twice her own twenty-four years, entered, she knew she wasn’t going to need it. He wasn’t her usual type; he was a little more distinguished yet country, no hint of hipster about him; his aura was stern without trying. There was something old-fashioned about him, like he would be as happy handling a worn leather belt as he might using an implement found in one of her favorite sex toy stores. This man could beat her all over and she’d probably just ask for more. The trick, she’d learned early on, was in holding off on letting them know just how much you liked it. That wouldn’t be hard, because Taylor—Tina, she reminded herself—liked struggling, even if it meant the internal struggling of keeping her deepest fantasies hidden.
“Hello, Tina, sweetheart,” he said, his smile both sweet and sadistic at once. She glanced immediately at his crotch, a bad habit she’d picked up somewhere along the way with guys she was hot for. She could see the outline of his cock against his jeans. “Daddy wants to have a word with you.” He took the chair and ragged it across the room, resting his hand on his cock. She looked up at him, grateful he wasn’t overly polite, wasn’t polluting their time with niceties that would do nothing for her pussy. He knew what he wanted, and so did she. “I have your allowance right here,” he said, holding up what she could see was at least a hundred dollars more than her fee. “Crawl to me, pretty girl,” he said. “Crawl to Daddy.” She did, wondering if he could tell how wet she was, wondering if he knew this was her first time, wondering if any of that mattered.
He kept talking as she reached him, seamlessly sliding the bills into the waistband of her skirt. “I know it was really Janet who stole the car, but since you told me you did it, you’re going to get punished for it. You understand, don�
�t you?” Somehow, his voice was soothing, deep and sexy, like he was trying to seduce her, yet the power behind his words vibrated through the air. “Janet will get punished even worse,” he said, “but you need to learn not to cover for her. You never lie to your Daddy again, do you hear me?” He didn’t yell, but it was the quiet roar in his voice that cued her in. She knew she could back away if she wanted to, but she had no desire to escape; instead, she was irresistibly drawn to that cruel yet sweet voice, its roughness promising pain as well as tender understanding. “Now get me my whip,” he said, pointing to a riding crop sticking up out of his briefcase. “Bring it to me between those pretty lips.”
She shuddered as she did it, realizing it had been three months since she’d last been beaten, and two more since she’d had someone talk to her like this. Well, not like this, exactly; she’d only played at being a “bad girl,” but never Daddy’s bad girl. This was different, doubly, even triply hot for all the taboos they were breaking. “You’re to keep your panties on, but I want you to show me how wet you are, Tina, show me how much you need to be punished.” She pulled down her panties and bent over with the crop between her teeth, her ass in the air. Taylor spread her legs just enough to show the stranger, her new insta-Daddy, how slick her sex was. She started to inch backward, and stopped. Her punishment wasn’t going to be a beating there, nor would there be a reward of his fingers or tongue or cock, as she was used to. Her real punishment was that she’d have to wait until later to touch herself there, where she most wanted it.
“I’m going to have to punish you even more for looking so good and teasing your old man, aren’t I?” he asked, almost to himself, as he turned her around and grabbed the crop. He stood then used the crop to push her against the wall. “Hands up,” he said, and she reached above her, holding on to the metal hooks fitted just for girls like her. He lifted her T-shirt and shoved it between her lips. “Keep that there or I’ll rip it off; I bought it for you for your birthday, so technically it’s mine—just like you are,” he said.
She was aching, dripping, frantic before the crop even touched her. The first touch wasn’t a strike but a tease, as it brushed against her hard right nipple like a feather would, except this feather was made of leather, and she knew it wasn’t always going to feel so gentle. The man ran the crop all along her front, under each breast, along her gently sloping belly, up her neck. He let it rest gently against her cheek and meandered it along her underarm until she almost sighed in frustration. It was on; he tapped it against one nipple then hit the other one. Each nipple rose to attention, and after only a few slaps of the crop, Taylor was gritting her teeth, torn between watching the leather tip strike her tender nubs and closing her eyes to try to deal with the pain, the heat, the glorious rush she got each time the toy landed on her.
Just when her nipples felt like they were on fire, the man once again moved the crop down her body, this time to her inner thighs. He lifted her skirt and nudged her legs apart with his knee, then whapped her inner thighs. Taylor clutched the metal tightly, lest she sink down to the ground or be tempted to grab the crop and rub it against her wetness. The tender, padded flesh leading up to her sex had never been given quite so much attention, and Taylor bit her lip, aching with the sharp, pointed heat he managed to convey so expertly, like he was born to beat girls like her. She could almost forget they were actually playing a game, one in which she got paid for this, and simply be a girl who liked pain, craved it, needed it. It wasn’t until that exact moment that Taylor—as Tina—fully owned her innate submissiveness, her masochism that made even the hint of pain, like when the head of the crop teased her by merely resting against her skin, cause her to feel like she wanted to writhe in ecstasy.
Taylor mashed her lips together, suddenly longing for something between them, something to suck on or simply fill her up, and the look she gave the stranger was one of pure desire, one she was sure he could read just as clearly as the tears that sprouted to her eyes when he let the crop dangle and brushed a thumb lightly over her trembling lower lip. He moved closer, pressing her tight to the wall for a few seconds, then withdrew and raised his hand to her cheek. She shuddered so hard she thought she might come. “There’s so much I’d love to do to you, sweet girl,” he said softly, an equally fervent need crashing right through his voice. Taylor knew they were sharing a moment, a real one, despite its trappings, and her pussy actually hurt as it clenched around nothing. He’d landed one slap across her tender face and brushed away the tear that trickled down, when a buzzer sounded, signaling they only had five minutes left. Taylor twitched, wondering if the sub could request more time.
Get a hold of yourself, she thought. This is a job, a favor, not your life. But it is, another voice inside her said. Not this dungeon, but this—the pain, the submission, the fierceness they both inspired in her—was her life, and it was as real as her wet pussy and hard nipples, as real as the crisp dollars the man had given her.
“Be a good girl for Daddy, Tina,” he said, then lifted her up, carried her back to the chair, spread her across his lap and spanked her extremely hard, over and over again. She could tell he was spanking her faster than he ordinarily might have, and she let the tears flow, let herself be a good girl and a bad girl, a woman doing a friend a favor and a misbehaving daughter, a woman who loved pain the way some women loved shoes and a brat who’d misbehaved and needed punishing.
When he lifted her off his lap and placed her on the ground, he kissed his fingers and pressed them to her lips. “Good-bye, beautiful,” he said, then reached into his pocket and pressed some more bills into her hand. It wasn’t until she got home that she saw he’d also included a slip of paper with his phone number and one word: Daddy.
Taylor just shrugged as she sipped her iced coffee while Jesse asked her about her day. There’d been other men, but they’d seemed like children compared to him. “Oh, you saw Dylan, huh? He’s a charmer. Hot, if you’re into silver foxes.” Jesse’s voice was light, teasing, with no hint of the intensity Taylor had experienced. Taylor sipped her drink and smiled just as lightly. There was no reason to tell Jesse she had already called him and told him that Tina had crashed his sports car and needed him to pick her up at the mechanic’s. He’d told her he’d meet her later, and that she was such a bad girl, he was going to focus on improving her behavior exclusively and let Janet fend for herself. Apparently, there were some things you couldn’t find a substitute for, and Taylor didn’t mind one bit.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JACQUELINE APPLEBEE (writing-in-shadows.co.uk) is a British writer who breaks down barriers with smut. Her stories have appeared in publications including Best Women’s Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Penthouse and DIVA magazine. Jacqueline hopes to write a best-selling novel so she can live in a lighthouse with a few adoring fans.
VIDA BAILEY is an occasional writer of erotica, living in Ireland. She has stories in Alison Tyler’s Love at First Sting and Sommer Marsden’s Dirtyville. More stories are soon to be published in Kristina Wright’s Steamlust and Shanna Germain’s Bound by Lust anthologies. You can find out more at heatsuf-fused. blogspot.com.
EMILY BINGHAM is a sex and food writer in Portland, Oregon. A connoisseur of words and exotic experiences, she has been published in Best Bondage Erotica 2011 and various websites, including Cleansheets. Her adventures in the world of kinky rope fun can be found at her erotic writing blog queano-frope. com/.
KIKI DELOVELY (kikidelovely.wordpress.com) is a queer femme performer/writer whose work has appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2011 and 2012, Take Me There: Transgender and Genderqueer Erotica, and Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica. Kiki’s passions include artichokes, the Oxford comma, and taking on research for her writing.
ARIEL GRAHAM lives in Northern Nevada. Her work has appeared in several erotic anthologies and online sites such as Clean Sheets, Oysters & Chocolate and Fishnet.
JOY, also known as lyricalsongbird, has been an active participant in What It Is We Do for nine years
and counting. She identifies as a female slave and takes pride in the service she offers to others. She writes from real-life experiences from her own personal journey.
ERRICA LIEKOS finally realized she could write about all the dirty things she likes to do in bed so long as she didn’t use her own name. This is her first pseudonymous publication.
GINA MARIE lives, writes and dreams in the Pacific North-west. She has authored erotic fiction for Clean Sheets, Oysters & Chocolate, Lucrezia Magazine, Sacchi Green’s Where the Girls Are and Ily Goyanes’s Locker Room, among others. She is also a published poet and photographer. She keeps a sexy blog at aphrodites-table.blogspot.com.
MAXINE MARSH draws her inspiration from the dark, sexy depths of horror, mythology and the kinky. Her erotica has been featured by Freaky Fountain Press, Vagabondage Press, Pill Hill Press, Oysters & Chocolate, and in Seducing the Myth, edited by Lucy Felthouse.
JADE MELISANDE lives in the Midwest with her two partners and one neurotic dog. A web designer by trade, she writes about her adventures as a kinky, bisexual, multi-partnered woman in her blog at piecesofjade.wordpress.com. She has previously published short erotica in anthologies such as Orgasmic, Lesbian Lust and Power Play.
