The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Please—” she started, but bit her lip at the frown that came over Van’s face. Yes, it was fun and games, but the reality was that she hated disappointing him.

  A further reality was that obeying him, even in something as embarrassing as this, turned her on. She could smell her own excitement wafting up to her already, could feel the slickness between her thighs, and a glance over at both men’s trousers revealed that neither of them was unaffected either.

  She slid her hand down her blouse and slipped it under the waistband of her skirt, which, she acknowledged, was a little ridiculous, since her legs were spread and anyone looking their way could see exactly what she was doing. But it gave her the illusion of invisibility.

  Her pussy was indeed wet, her copious juices smearing her thighs. Her lips were swollen, and when she stroked her fingers across her clit she couldn’t stop the gasp of pleasure.

  Around them, the party continued; people drank and talked and pretended not to see her, but she caught their covert glances.

  “Do it,” Van growled in her ear as she hesitated. “Make yourself come.”

  Cara moaned, laid her head back and began to stroke herself in earnest.

  Her fingers pumped, circled and rubbed the sensitive nub at her center as the orgasm began to build. She panted and closed her eyes, knowing that they were watching her—Frank and Van and the others. Embarrassment flooded her but she couldn’t deny the tension, the tightness, the building, blinding ache between her legs. Her belly and cunt clenched as she fucked her fingers into herself faster and faster, until the orgasm finally crashed over her and she turned her head in to Van’s chest to stifle the scream that tore from her.

  Moments later she lifted her eyes to see every head in the room turned her way.

  She turned to look up at Frank, who smiled widely at her. “I could get to like giving orders,” Frank said. And she could definitely get used to following them.

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  Kitten Boheme

  Claire stared at her laptop, fingers drumming on the keyboard. As usual, she was the last patron left. The shop was closing soon and she was still no further in her writing than she’d been when she’d sat down.

  “I need an idea,” she sighed, beating her forehead against the keyboard. She suffered a chronic case of writer’s block. “Any idea…” Her computer typed gibberish each time she smashed her head into the keys. It wasn’t productive, but it was more writing than she had done all day.

  “How’s it going?”

  Claire whimpered.

  “That good, huh?”

  She looked up. It was Alex, the barista. She smiled sheepishly, always startled by how attractive he was.

  “Anything I can help with?” Alex asked.

  “Are you a creative genius who only moonlights as a barista?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then just more coffee,” Claire sighed, holding out her empty mug.

  “You need a distraction,” Alex suggested, returning with a full mug. “When you stub your toe you forget all about the pain in your hand.”

  She looked at him quizzically, not really sure that stubbing her toe could help.

  “Watch.” He took Claire’s hand, laying it palm down on the table and holding the cup above it. Intrigued, Claire gasped as it poured over the back of her hand. She couldn’t move from the table, instead riveted as she watched coffee pool around her fingertips. It wasn’t hot enough to burn, only warm enough to make her skin blush. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed the momentary pain.

  “You’ve forgotten your writer’s block, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose.” She looked at her hand. “More?” Claire surprised herself with her eagerness.

  “I’m closing up shop. Stay as long as you want, so long as you listen and do what I say. If you don’t want this say, ‘Starbucks is better,’ and walk out the door.” Alex grabbed her by the face, his thumb and forefinger straddling her chin, pulling her gaze up to his. “Understand?”

  Claire nervously agreed.

  Alex released her. “Good girl.” He slid a hand up the nape of her neck, grabbing a fistful of long hair as he pulled her out of her chair and up on her feet. “Let’s go lock the door.”

  Claire didn’t move, unsure what he wanted from her.

  “I don’t repeat myself,” Alex growled. Taking his free hand and running it down her thigh, he delivered a sharp slap to the back of her knee. She lurched forward, her skin tingling, her knees weak. She walked, almost automatically.

  “I’ll show you how the door works.” Alex locked the door, giving it a push; it opened a crack. “It’s locked from the outside. No one gets in, but you are free to go.”

  Smiling, Claire flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED. The shop may have been closed, but she was open for something new.

  “Good.” His breath was hot against her goose-pimpled flesh.

  “Follow,” Alex ordered. She followed, surrendering to him. When they reached her table, she sat. “No!” Pulling her up by her hair, he swept the chair away deftly with his foot. “Bend over, and put these on the table,” he said, slapping her forearms.

  Claire obeyed. She turned to watch Alex remove his apron. He put a hand on either side of her face, directing her gaze straight ahead; he positioned the makeshift blindfold over her eyes, tying it tight. Taking her hands, he guided her fingers to the home row of the keyboard.

  “Write,” Alex said, grabbing the hem of Claire’s skirt and flipping it up over her back. From under the blindfold, Claire tried to envision everything he was doing. She felt him take hold of her panty hose, pulling until they ripped from waistband to crotch.

  “Type!” Alex gave her a sharp spank.

  She began, writing furiously, revealing every thought and sensation—the stinging pain from his hard slaps; the way she could feel his eyes on her body, admiring her like a trophy. The more she typed, the wetter she got; she could feel her pussy dripping. She wanted to plead for his cock. She turned to look back at him. Her fingers slipped off the keyboard.

  “Put your hands back.” The punishing slap was hard. Claire whimpered, scrambling to replace her fingers on the keys.

  He was silent as he pulled away. She realized just how cold and vulnerable she was without his firm hands against her near-naked skin.

  “Panties off.”

  She hesitated. His hand was on the back of her head, closing around another fistful of hair, pulling her ear to his mouth. “You will do what I say or you will get out.”

  Quickly removing the ruined panty hose, Clare shimmied out of her panties and presented them, craving his approval.

  Alex took the wet panties from her hand. “Mouth open.”

  She parted her lips, and he slipped her panties in, gagging her. Soon Alex’s hand was on her back, forcing her back down over the keyboard, forearms on the table, fingers on the keys. She cleared her mind, ready to type.

  His zipper rasped. Anticipating a hard cock bumping up against her, Claire moaned, the sound muffled by her gag. Alex thrust himself into her. She bit down hard on the panties, thrilled by the pain of his sudden entrance. She concentrated on his every motion, transcribing it moment by moment.

  All too soon, Alex pulled the panties from her mouth. “Read.”

  “He entered me from behind, his hard cock filling me up. Each thrust methodical, his hands on my backside, spreading my cheeks apart for a better view as he slipped his cock all the way in and all the way out, enjoying complete control of my pussy. Another hard, stinging slap against my thigh, and my knees buckled. I righted myself, ready for him again. He gripped my hips and started to thrust harder and wilder. He stopped, commanding me to turn my head. I obediently turned. I could soon feel him standing next to me. He seized my face and pried my mouth open, slipping his cock in; I gagged as he pushed it deep into my throat, forcing me to swallow it. I struggled to keep my fingers on the keys, to keep typing. Grabbing my hair, he forced my head up and down, barely allowing
me a breath between strokes. There was a hard crack against my face as he slapped me; I was terrified and wanted more. He slapped again, his cock still working deep inside my throat. He held my face against him, his come hitting the back of my throat. Finished, he pushed me away. I swallowed, wishing I could see him.”

  Claire stopped reading and waited.

  Alex removed the blindfold. She could tell her makeup was smeared and runny, her hair tangled and knotted. Claire beamed at him, grateful she’d given him what he wanted.

  “I’ve cured your writer’s block,” he said.

  Another wave of wetness hit as she looked at her screen. She watched as Alex disappeared into the back room. She selected the whole document and hit DELETE. The page went blank. She smiled, knowing she would be back tomorrow. With writer’s block, of course.

  HELP! MY WIFE’S A FORMER DOMINATRIX!

  Angela R. Sargenti

  Never marry a former dominatrix.

  Unless you like to be beaten, of course, and then it’s pretty fun.

  Painful, but fun.

  Usually.

  This time, it wasn’t so fun.

  It was just a normal Sunday evening, where we cap off the weekend with my weekly punishment. My wife takes my discipline very seriously, and as usual, she made me take a shower and put on my pajamas.

  After that, I had to meet her in the living room, where she let me watch TV until she was ready to spank me.

  There she sat on the couch, quietly doing her needlepoint. Something seemed to be bothering her, since she was quieter than usual, and she made me sit there on the floor with my teddy bear for a very long time.

  Finally, she set her needlework aside and said the words I was dying to hear.

  “Shut the TV off and come here, Dave.”

  “But, Ma’am…”

  “Now, young man. Or do you want to go to bed directly after your spanking?”

  I shook my head and turned off the TV, and then I dragged myself over to stand beside her.

  “Pants off, Dave. And I mean all the way off.”

  “Even my undies?”

  “Yes. Those, too.”

  Well, this was something new. She normally starts my spankings over the top of them, and once I’m warmed up, she pulls them down for the real thing.

  The most she’s ever done before is make me take them down at the same time as my pants.

  My heart pounded fiercely as I watched her spread a clean towel across her lap. When she glanced up at me again, her eyes bored into me.

  I tried to hide behind my teddy bear, but she yanked it out of my hand and flung it to the floor.

  “Go get me that hand lotion over there,” she ordered.

  “What for, Ma’am?”

  “Just never you mind. Go get it and get your ass down here before I really get mad.”

  I obeyed her immediately, and once she had me over her lap, she let me have my bear back. I clutched it to my chest and positioned myself with one hand on the floor, up on my tiptoes.

  It’s amazing how my wife’s hands can be so hard and yet so soft at the same time. She sensually worked the lotion into my ass. It felt pretty nice having my butt massaged like that, but all of a sudden, she smacked me hard.

  “Well, Dave. What’ve you been doing with your week? Anything special? Like ditching work and going to the ballgame with Bob?”

  How the hell she found out about that, I’ll never know, but I swallowed hard, wondering why my mouth was so dry.

  “That’s right, Dave. I know all about it. I know how you lied to me and let me think you were going to work, when all you did was call in sick and jeopardize your career. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

  “Yeah, I know, Dave. You’re always sorry. But this time, sorry doesn’t cut it. You lied to me, Dave. Do you know how much that hurts?”

  And she did sound hurt, which almost made me want to cry myself.

  “A lot?”

  “That’s right, Dave. It hurt a lot. And that’s why I’ve decided you should hurt, too. A lot. Now shut up and hand me the bath brush.”

  “Oh, Ma’am, not the bath brush. Please?”

  “Let’s go, Dave,” she told me. “I have things to do.”

  So I obeyed and reached down for the bath brush, which lay on the floor in front of me. It’s heavy and solid and one of the worst implements we own.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  I pictured her sitting there admiring it, turning it over and examining it from all angles. My calves were starting to ache, and I wished she’d get on with it.

  “Very nice, Dave. I’m pleased with your obedience.”

  “Thanks, Ma’am.”

  For a moment, my wife remained silent, and then she placed the nice, cool wood upon my skin, rubbing it against my soon-to-be roasting ass.

  “So tell me, Dave. How many runs did your team score?”

  “Eleven, Ma’am.”

  “Eleven? My goodness me. That just so happens to be the number of swats you’re getting, too.”

  “Oh no, Ma’am. Please?”

  “You know I hate it when you beg. Just for that, we’ll make it an even dozen, and I want you to count each one and say, ‘One, I’ll never lie to you again, two, I’ll never lie to you again.’ You got that, Dave?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Good. Now let’s get started.”

  And with that, she struck the first blow. Fire spread immediately through my left buttcheek, searing me so badly I almost forgot my instructions.

  “Count, Dave. Now.”

  “One, I’ll never lie to you again.”

  “Good boy. Keep ’em coming.”

  The next blow brought my feet off the ground, and I twined them together to bear the pain.

  “I swear to god I’ll never lie to you again, Ma’am.”

  “Hmm. I bet you won’t.”

  Blows three, four, five and six were quick but devastating. I choked back tears as I counted them off, and my wife waited until she heard each one clearly.

  Seven almost broke me.

  “Ow! Please, Ma’am. I won’t lie to you again. Ever.”

  But she showed me no mercy. I thought I’d lose my mind, they hurt so bad, but still she made me count, the evil bitch.

  “Please, Ma’am. No more.”

  “Nonsense. We’re celebrating your team’s big win.”

  “But they lost.”

  “Really? What a coincidence. So did you.”

  And though I couldn’t see her face, I knew her expression was grim and forbidding. She hauled back and let the next one fly.

  “Oh god,” I wept shamelessly. “I can’t take any more.”

  “You can and you will, Dave. And after I’m finished here, back in the corner you go. I’ll set the timer for ten minutes, and then I want you ready for the prison strap.”

  What?

  You don’t know what a prison strap is?

  Then let me enlighten you.

  A prison strap’s a thick and heavy piece of leather shaped like a fraternity paddle. It has a handle that’s perfect for small hands like hers, and it gets its point across very quickly.

  Thank god.

  Since it’s so heavy and cumbersome, her arm got tired fast, so all I had to endure were a few swats.

  A few swats were enough, though.

  Trust me on that.

  I stood there in the corner waiting for the timer to ring. Ten minutes might not seem like a long time to you, but when your nose is planted against the wall and you’re standing in an awkward position, it’s an eternity.

  Such an eternity I was almost glad when that timer rang.

  But having to face that prison strap?

  No one could be glad about that.

  No one.

  THAT MOMENT WHEN

  Martha Davis

  There was that moment when I first saw his ass. Tight enough to bounce a quarter off, highlighted in tailored gray suit pants. Above it,
under a white shirt, broad shoulders and a well-muscled back, not overdone like baby-oil-soaked bodybuilders, just strong. He returned my appreciative gaze with eyes so rich they’d make Hershey’s beg for the recipe.

  “Hi. I’m Alicia. This is my second year teaching first-year Algebra.”

  “Wes.” He shook my hand, held it a moment longer than necessary in a grip that made me simultaneously soak my panties and have to lock my trembling knees to maintain balance. “First year English Lit.”

  Wes asked me out and over the next couple of months he proved himself witty, intelligent and beyond charming. I spent many a daydream moment—there was just something about this guy.

  But the newness of me and Wes began fading, revealing all his secrets from his life before there was a me and Wes.

  “You aren’t his normal type,” said one of his old college buddies the first time we were introduced, “but you’re adorable. I can’t help but like you.”

  Later, I asked, “What did he mean?”

  Under much prodding, he confessed a past in which he tied up his lovers and did totally indecent things to them. My charming, sweet-tempered, easygoing Wes—who would have thought? How intriguing!

  “Why don’t you do those things to me?”

  “I don’t do them to anyone any more.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes subs don’t realize they can push a Dom’s limits, too.”

  “So you retired? How sad.”

  His eyebrows arched.

  I surfed the Internet for days, studied the pictures I found, fantasized. Wes’s mouth dropped in amazement when I tossed a picture in his lap and said, “I want you to do that to me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Wes’s version of “No comment.”

  A full week passed, making me half crazy wondering what else I could do or say. I researched even more. He acted like nothing happened. Then last night, after dinner and a movie, we returned home and I found a dusty cardboard box sitting on the living room coffee table. He must have put it there before we left when he came back in for his forgotten wallet.

  “Take all your clothes off. Turn slowly while you do so I can see every curve.” He spoke soft and deep. “Then get on your knees with your hands clasped behind your back. Open your mouth wide enough to hold a dick.”