The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales

by Rachel Bussel

  Ashamed, I asked, “Could you lighten up a bit?”

  I didn’t know if it was my tone or what, but Owen pulled his solid body back fast and then was staring right at me, interrogating me.

  “Has it been too much for a while?”

  Or at least it seemed like an interrogation. I felt stuck, afraid to say anything in case that meant he wouldn’t come back. We were silent, both of our queer hair mussed, the bed askew.

  “Kinda,” was obviously not the answer Owen was looking for. He sighed dramatically and seemed pissed.

  Owen sat down on the bed. I stood around feeling awkward, naked. He took another deep breath.

  “Boi, come here.” He opened his tattooed arms so I could climb into his lap. I wrapped my legs around his torso, bare against his clothed frame.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  He ran his warm hands over my back and kissed the top of my head.

  Owen hugged me to his chest, smooshing my cunt against his belly. I worried about leaving a wet spot, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “I never want to hurt you,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

  I didn’t understand. I felt like a failure—not like anything bad had happened on his end. But slowly it started to sink in. It had been scary. Heavy strokes coming out of nowhere so fast I couldn’t assimilate them. Having to act tough when I was in so much pain. I sniffled and collapsed onto his shoulder, tearing up. Owen reached for a soft blanket and wrapped it around my back. I’d been really scared. I hadn’t known what was going on or when it was going to stop. Tears moistened his neck as he stroked my short hair. I’d felt so alone. It was only in being so close to him now that I noticed my vulnerability, which had been there all along. I curled into him.

  “Safewords,” Daddy Owen began in a gentle voice, “are not just for catastrophes.” Daddy spoke softly about communicating in scene and how we were still getting to know each other. I closed my eyes and rested. He smelled really good, like wood fire. I felt like I could breathe him directly into my core. If I breathed enough of him in, maybe I’d have him inside of me, protecting me like this all the time.

  By the time Daddy was finished talking, I was enjoying how warm my butt was and wanted more.

  “Please, Sir, would you spank me again? I promise I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much.”

  Then I was back in the saddle, bent over, breathing in his clean bed.

  The slaps came slowly. Daddy hit my bottom with his hand and rubbed away the pain. Ever so slowly, he increased the intensity, so I was rocking into his fingertips, wanting to feel every crawl of the sting across my flesh.

  I was drifting into a very happy place when the strokes started coming in a long train close together. A tremendous sadness entered my body.

  “Sir,” I murmured. “I think I need more time between strokes tonight; I think that’s the problem.”

  “Thank you for telling me, boi,” Daddy said.

  And then, quick as magic, I was flying. Daddy pulled me tight against his hip, clasping my labrys tattoo. A paddle landed over and over in surprising and perfect rhythms and locations, bringing symphonies of sensation—like coming, like eating. I could taste the leather in a hundred different flavors. The pain wiped my palate clean.

  I was right at home, drooling on the bed, whimpering.

  Daddy interspersed some strokes with rubbing my clit, but not enough so I could come.

  “Aw, you want to come? So sad for you,” he mocked, and returned to beating me. His hand cupped the heat of my ass.

  Then his hand was gone, wrapped around something new and snappy and I was going to scream.

  My butt was so hot, my whole body was sweltering. My cunt was dripping down my thigh. I was shaking, some part of me close to maxing out.

  “Please, Daddy, not much more,” I got out.

  Daddy took this into consideration. Four more, he decided. He said I could take four more. And then I did. Four big crashes that felt amazingly good. In one, two, three, four, I was beaten out of myself and then back in. I panted.

  Daddy’s hand reached for my clit. I needed to come, but was falling over. Daddy moved me onto the bed, then jerked me off. Daddy stroking boi’s cock, dirty dirty. Claiming ownership of boi’s whole body. Massaging the shaft, flicking the tip. Until I came, rapidly, curling into a ball with the force of it. The spasms pricked sharply like needles; I squirmed and groaned. My come leaked everywhere.

  Daddy pulled me under the covers and spooned me, palming my tits. Suddenly I was buried under quilts of love. “I’m so proud of you. You’re beautiful.” Daddy held me tight.

  “When you’ve recovered, I want you to suck me off.”

  And I couldn’t decide what I wanted more—to stay harnessed to his heart or to have my mouth between his legs immediately.

  CRUSH

  Giselle Renarde

  She comes home to find him wearing her panties and snaps, “Get those off.”

  “Why? I’m not stretching them.”

  “I don’t care. Get your own underwear.”

  “I have my own underwear. I like yours better.”

  She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but she can’t help smirking. He looks damn good wearing nothing but sheer red underpants. They cling nice and tight to his otherwise naked body. All she can focus on is the rising swell of his erection.

  The panties are mesh and see-through from the right angle, like cling wrap cradling his big dick and his balls. He’s hard already. God, is he hard! The bulbous head of his cock pulses like a heartbeat. She can actually see that through the fabric.

  One step forward and she’s wet. The gusset of her panties—the ones she’s wearing—is already slick with juice. She walks closer to him in her vicious spike heels. They click-clack across the parquet, backing him into the bedroom. She doesn’t usually wear shoes in the apartment. The people downstairs complain a lot. But just for this, just for him, she keeps them on.

  “Get down.” She strips off her jacket, unbuttons her blouse. “Down, on the floor. Go.”

  He sits on his ass, with his back against the bed.

  “Spread your legs,” she says, dropping her skirt. “Wider. Attaboy.”

  Red panties cradle his balls like ripe fruit. They looked good enough to eat.

  She licks her lips. “I know what you want.”

  “Do you?”

  Pushing his head against the side of the mattress, she straddles his face. “You want to taste my pussy.”

  “No,” he says, innocently.

  “Brat.”

  “I will if I have to,” he tells her. “But it’s not what I want.”

  “Do you want to torture yourself?” she asks, taunting him. “Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  He doesn’t hesitate long before biting her cunt, right through the tight layer of black lace. She hisses. It’s better than good. His nibbles send shock waves down her legs and up to the nipples hardening inside her black bra. She likes to coordinate.

  “I wish I could fuck you with my clit.”

  He glances up at her. “Fuck me where?”

  “Your throat,” she says. “Your ass. If my clit grew big and hard, I’d slap it across your bratty little face. I’d smack your cheeks. I’d spank your ass.”

  A whining noise emerges from his throat.

  “You want a nice little taste?”

  When he nods, she pushes down her panties and steps out of them. His nose disappears beyond her thick black bush. When his tongue finds her clit, it’s so hot she gasps. Hot, thick, and soft as velvet. She breathes deeply, trying to hold herself together. His tongue is too much. Much too much. She’ll come if he keeps at it.

  She takes a step back, and he looks at her, pleadingly. “More?”

  “Later.”

  He grins, opening his legs wide. She stands between them, watching his cock throb. All she wants is to fall on the floor and let his dick impale her face, but she knows what he wants, and his
wants are her most vital concern.

  Setting her foot in position, she lifts the toe of her shoe. The stiletto heel slides closer to her panties—the ones he’s wearing—until he hisses in anticipation. He drives his palms firmly into the floor, like he can feel the pressure already.

  It’s going to be good. She’ll be firm with him. Unforgiving. She knows what he likes.

  “Crush,” he says, drawing out the shhh sound.

  She’s doing his bidding. Might not look that way to an outsider, but she is. This is what he wants. He needs to feel the base of her shoe against his hot cock. She nudges his swollen tip with her patent-leather toe, and he hisses, knocking his head against the side of the mattress. She sets her weight on him, little by little, building pressure.

  The expression on his face would look like pain to anybody else. But she knows what he likes. She strokes him with her shoe, up toward his cockhead. Pressing her toe against his tip, she lifts her heel off the ground.

  “Does it hurt?” she asks. She’s crushing his swollen head. Of course it hurts.

  He says, “No.”

  “Well, then.” She sets her stiletto in the center of his ball sac, lowering the heel slowly, torturing him. “I guess I’ll have to do better.”

  A sound emerges from his throat, somewhere between a screech and a howl. He’s a prey animal, caught in her clutches. She sinks her heel into his balls. Her weight remains mostly on the other foot, the one on the parquet, but she’s digging into him good and hard. Every time she shifts, even slightly, he whimpers, pressing his palms harder against the floor.

  “You’re never going to come,” she tells him.

  “No?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  Not for a while. Not for a good long while. She sinks her heel a little deeper into the fleshy mass of his balls, and he squirms, whines. The pain is so blatant she can taste it on her tongue.

  Tongue…

  She’d almost forgotten…

  “I’d like to come now, I think.” Dislodging her heel from his crotch, she straddles his body, pressing her pussy against his mouth. “You’re going to make me come.”

  He looks up at her in reverence. When he nods, his lips brush her clit. He opens his mouth and she rides his face. His tongue strokes her—liquid warmth—and she melts all over his cheeks, spreading juice down his chin.

  She thinks about his hard cock, about his huge, swollen balls. Why is it so fulfilling to press a cruel heel into the most sensitive part of his body? Is it the rush she feels when she’s certain her stiletto is about to puncture him? Or the thrill of knowing he would never ask anyone else to provide this sort of pain? He would never trust anyone else to do what she does.

  Cupping his head with both hands, she thrusts her clit against his tongue. She’s so close. He’s going to make her come.

  HOUSEBROKEN

  Laila Blake

  Her kitten was lying in a patch of sun on the hardwood floors. Her eyes were closed against the bright light but she had her arms stretched out into the air above her, moving slightly this way and that. It looked just as if those beautiful, nimble fingers were trying to spin a dreamlike, golden fabric out of the millions of little dust and glimmer particles in the air. Or maybe like her arms and hands were bathing sensuously in the sunlight trying to wash away the stale, grimy winter pallor in the early spring sun.

  The tiny bell on her kitten-collar chimed whenever she moved her head a little this way or that, sparkling like her pink lips with their ubiquitous honey-scented gloss. All of her seemed to glow as she lay there ivory-pink, her knees pulled up in a shallow angle, leaning against each other, her toes wriggling a little. She never did lie completely still—for that she needed ropes and cuffs, commands and punishments. For the moment, though, Imani allowed it, smiling at her kitten’s antics and the way, in her apartment, her kitten could let go completely, with no care in the world but Imani’s pleasure and her own, attaining the purest sense of freedom humans could find.

  Sitting in the old-fashioned rocking chair she had picked up at Camden Market from a grisly antiques dealer for ten quid her first week in the country, Imani swayed gently. It was a comfortable Saturday morning, the kind that passed almost without her noticing the perfection of its simple pleasures. Imani’s breasts were full and warm outlines under the flowing white kaftan robe she had pulled on to make breakfast a few hours earlier. Her long, proud legs were open, one thigh resting on the side of the chair, a cup of coffee balanced on her knee. The bright color of the translucent fabric contrasted starkly with the deep, dark color of her skin.

  Softly, like the kiss of a butterfly she ran the tip of a peacock’s feather over her kitten’s stomach, smiling at the little movements that showed her pleasure, the tingling of the bell and the tiny whimpers. She found the arch of her rib cage and traced along its path. Her kitten flexed her stomach and released again. Imani ticked her belly button, trying to drill the feather into the small, tight hole to make her do it again. She was rewarded with a tiny squeal and little kicks into the air.

  Her kitten’s nipples hardened at the soft contact as she arched up her chest for more. The silence in the room was only broken by her shallow breaths and the soft chimes of the bell on her collar. Her hands were on the side of her body now, palms pressed flat on the floor to support her billowing chest.

  “Touch yourself,” Imani said in her characteristic quiet voice, her accent dripping like honey and cream. “Slowly. Not your clit yet. Touch inside, push as deep as you can.”

  Her kitten smiled up at her; her little English rose. She was chubby and short where Imani was thin and tall. Where her kitten’s face was round, with pink cheeks and bright blue eyes, Imani had the strong, noble features of ancient tribes, only accentuated by her proudly shaved head. Her kitten’s hair was long and silky and always in tangles; she found it everywhere when she vacuumed or shook out her pillows. The way she was sitting with her legs apart gave her kitten just a peek at the dark, creamy wetness between her legs. Wiry curly hair grew on her mound but she kept her kitten’s shaved, preferring an unmarred expanse of pink.

  Curling in a little, the kitten reached down, obediently circumventing the top of her slit, and pushed two fingers deep into her cunt. She whimpered at the slippery warm wetness she found there, then pulled back and pushed down harder. Her body curled in on itself even more as she gasped.

  “Stop,” Imani all but whispered; she didn’t need to raise her voice to establish her dominance. “Taste it, suckle your fingers.”

  There was no hesitation, just an immediate movement of her arm and a moment later her fingers were in her mouth and she was sucking at them noisily, just the way Imani liked. She smiled to herself.

  “Good kitten,” she cooed approvingly. She loved her yielding sweetness, her smiles and her eagerness, the way she sought touch and praise with every fiber of her being. Stretching out her long leg, she ran her toes over her kitten’s stomach and nonchalantly, taking a sip of her coffee, she slipped them between her labia. The kitten moaned hard around her fingers and Imani rubbed her toe hard over her clit until her kitten couldn’t keep still anymore, billowing and wriggling under the onslaught of pleasure.

  Imani tutted; her foot stilled and she pulled it away. With the elegance of a dancer, she moved her leg again, gently brushed her toe over her kitten’s pink nose and left a trace of her juices.

  “Clean,” she commanded her; the arousal had slowly trickled into her voice as well, making it hoarse and more accented. There was a soft popping sound when her kitten pulled her fingers from her mouth and started to lap at her toes instead. Imani closed her eyes and exhaled a shallow breath, fingers gripping at the side of the chair.

  “Fuck yourself again,” she exhaled as she pushed her toes harder into her kitten’s mouth. Her swirling tongue was hot and wet and felt deliciously dirty around her toes. The sensations doubled when her moans added a layer of vibration to the connection.

  “No, not your clit.
No coming yet.”

  She wanted to ride that beautiful mouth raw but she had all day—all weekend—to enjoy her pet. She could make herself wait. Fucking her mouth with her toes gave her that tingling dirty feeling that her kitten knew so well how to arouse. She only pulled them out when her leg started to ache. Immediately, the noise level rose. There was no sight quite like this one: her kitten, rolling on the floor and fucking herself at her behest.

  “Do you want to rub your clit, kitten?” she asked, a little breathless herself. Unsurprisingly, the kitten nodded hard, yowling softly in as much elaboration as she could manage in that state.

  “I want you to recite that poem,” Imani whispered, “the one I like. And you make yourself come for me.”

  Her kitten whimpered and scrunched up her forehead for a moment, lining up the beautiful words all in the right order before she let her fingers pull back the hood of her clit.

  Imani leaned back again and smiled. She had always thought that the sound of abandon and orgasm fit the melody of Keats like nothing else.

  STRONGER THAN STEEL

  Alva Rose

  Even when he’s on the edge, even when he finally breaks and his hands grip me a little tighter, he’s quiet, strong, restrained. Always the picture of control.

  Tonight, when he comes home from his week on a remote construction site, I’m going to take that away.

  He is always rewarded by the sound of his name coming breathless and distorted from my mouth, by the hard upward curve of my spine and the bucking of my hips, the slickness that spreads pale, wet butterfly wings on my thighs, and tonight I will get mine. I will see his strong, tanned brow wrinkle, his jaw with a week’s hair growth falling open, pulsing veins stretching up his aching forearms. I will leave him no choice.