Nothing Less:
Submissive Women and the Men Who Claim Them
by Reese Gabriel
ISBN: 978-1-942331-04-9
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved
Original Copyright 2010 Reese Gabriel
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
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Pink Flamingo Publications
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USA
Table of Contents
The Licking
The Mercenary and the Lady
Becca’s Dream
K’s Story
Stacy and The Ranch Hand
Humbling Rhiannon
The Bonds of Matrimony
Discipline For Chelsea
Custody
Wendy’s Awakening
Nothing Less
Chapter One
The Licking
It began the day I licked his underarm. We were just messing around on my bed and I didn’t think anything of it. Joey was wearing a muscle shirt that day. It was white and he looked so dreamy. I was down to my bra and panties—like we were playing strip poker without any cards.
I was feeling so sexy and loving all the attention from my new guy. Joey’s such a hunk and when he’d picked me out of a whole cafeteria full of girls my first day of community college, I knew I had graduated to the big leagues. We hadn’t done the deed by this point, but I could feel it coming. I mean, it wasn’t like I was a virgin or anything. I’d been with three guys so far and turned down a lot more. My girlfriends won’t even do group dates with me because all the guys are hanging over me the whole time. I’m not bragging or being a bitch about it. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just a girl like any another girl, whose breasts could be bigger and legs longer, but apparently they all see something in me.
The only one I cared about at that moment, however, was Mr. Joseph Torelli, second year mechanics student and son of a garage owner on the East Side.
“Damn it, boy,” I giggled, playfully fighting off yet another of his attempted gropes to my barely covered chest. “You need to use some deodorant.”
Being a typical guy, and having none of the fifty million hangups that define us as females, he just grinned at me. “I smell like a man,” he said in that totally sexy voice of his—a cross between Justin Timberlake and that dude from Sopranos, the old guy whose name I can never remember. “Makes you hot, doesn’t it?”
“As if!” I snorted with an appropriate roll of my blue eyes. “Now get out of here. I got homework to do.”
Joey easily fended off my pitiful girl slap in his direction. “Make me,” he leered, those gorgeous brown eyes flashing mischief as he grabbed both my wrists.
“Cut it out,” I squealed, trying to make like I hated having him be so into me. “Let me go!”
For the record, my hands were now pinned down on either side of my head. For some reason, this excited me terribly. My heart pounded like crazy and I was wet between my legs, though he wasn’t doing anything sexual yet!
“I will,” he replied, his face lit up the way it always did when he’d thought up something he knew was really clever. “But you gotta do something first.”
I blinked up at him. Half curious, half pissed. “What?”
He ran his tongue over his lips. “Taste me, babe.”
Joey’s left arm shot up, his right gathering both my wrists to keep me in my place. For a minute I didn’t get it, but then he pantomimed it for me, pretending to lick his own underarm.
Taking his meaning now, I moved immediately into proper ‘eeewww’ mode, as in ‘eeewww, that salad is totally brown,’ or ‘eeewww, your gym teacher is like so perving you.’
“Come on, baby,” he purred, turning on that charm of his that ought to be illegal. “Just do it. Do it for me.”
My breath quickened. I was totally aroused from having all this muscle on me, all this attention. It was so unfair he still had on the T-shirt and corduroy pants to boot. No matter what they tell you about equality of the sexes, it’s still us girls who get perved and the boys who do the perving. Look at the TV, the billboards. Who is it parades in panties, smiling and spreading for SI every spring?
Not the chicos, honey. Just the chicas.
“Come on, Mickey, you’re so hot,” he pressed. “You have such a great little bod. Do it. Do it for me.”
Do it for me. I bet anything these words have ruined more women in history than any others. I was doomed, and I knew it. Joey had me wrapped around his little finger. I needed and wanted him too much. Needed him as a boyfriend, a self-esteem booster, too, and believe me, he used that to his advantage. Or how else do you think he’d talked me out of my jeans and sweatshirt so fast?
“All right!” I cried. “I’ll do it!”
Joey stroked my damp forehead. My chestnut hair was a tangled mess, but for some reason he was touching it like spun gold. “That’s my girl,” he crooned.
Rolling my eyes again, covering the lump I felt in my throat, I said in exasperation what every twenty-first century gal says when she needs to keep her cool. “Whatever, Joey.”
He held his armpit for convenient access. I thought I was going to retch. A girl can’t have so much as one hair there, and God forbid she should have the slightest scent. But a guy—he can have a forest in there and smell like a locker room and it’s all good. Scrunching up my face, I moved in for the kill.
“Slow,” Joey coached. “Do it real slow.”
What was with the guy, anyway? You’d think he’d just talked me into giving him a blowjob. I mean, licking an underarm—what could that do for a guy?
A lot, apparently.
See the road we were about to go down had a name. Had anyone told me at the time, I’d have freaked. BDSM was an old people’s game. My folks, I’m pretty sure, were into some of it, because I’d seen handcuffs and a blindfold in my mom’s drawer one time when I was looking for some cigarettes.
Eeewww!
Joey knew stuff about it too, but he was playing possum with me at the moment. All he’d let me in on so far was that I needed to lick his hairy, odorific underarm socket in order to be allowed up from my bed. Trust me, it was gross. But the thing is, he was making me do it. I didn’t have a choice. My tongue was just out there, dabbing, ready to pay homage at the undercarriage of male power.
My first taste was heavy, bitter. Pungent.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered, his voice heavy.
I didn’t. I just kept doing it: delicate, mouth open, juices gushing from underneath my pink, all-purpose cotton underpants. This could not be happening, and yet it was. My nipples were rising up to get in on the action and below that, more womanly things, needs, a turbo boost beyond my already kicked-up boy-seeking radar. It was amazing. We weren’t even petting yet, and already it was more intense than the times I’d had actual sex.
This was sex with a difference. The difference, say, between dry toast and a gooey, chewy warm pastry, the toast being just plain sex and the pastry being…this.
In a very real way, I was re-born at that exact moment. I think Joey was, too. His sweet face looked like heaven. He couldn’t believe I’d done it. Somehow, though, I’d made a man of him just as I’d made a woman of me. Gone was all that awkward first time stuff, and we both knew it.
“Do it, Joey,” I breathed, moving against him as best I could with my pinned arms. “Do it to me. All of it.”
The bra ripped away
in his strong hand. My tits leaped up into his grasp, begging to be man handled. Using the shreds, he tied my hands tight together over my head. I groaned as he slid his hands possessively over my ribcage and under the waistband of my panties. Planting my feet on the bed, I helped him, lifting my buttocks so he could slide the sopping underwear down my legs.
He took it from my ankles and I immediately parted my legs for him. Cupping one hand over my quivering mound he used the other to bunch the discarded silk. “Don’t want you waking your parents,” he explained as he brought it up to my lips.
My eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t going to put them in my mouth? But he did. I had to take the whole thing, too, till my mouth was crammed with pink silk. It was humiliating, being gagged with my own damp panties, but I’d never been so excited in my whole life, either. I came for him almost as soon as he entered me. It was my first orgasm with a boy and only the second of my entire life. He gave me two more in rapid succession.
I took his emission inside me like he was a god. I felt so alive, so sexy.
Afterward, he just lay on my chest, and we listened to each other breathing for the rest of the night. He sneaked out about four a.m. I helped him dress, and that felt hot, too, me still naked as I knelt before him, putting his socks and shoes on his feet.
“Call me?” I whispered at the window.
He nodded.
Of course, he didn’t call and it took ten calls of mine and a forced encounter outside his dad’s garage to finally get his attention.
“Jesus, Mickey,” he complained, his arms outstretched in the stereotyped gesture of every Italian in the world. “What are you trying to do to me? This is my job—my Dad’s job. You’re breaking my balls!”
I put my hands on my hips, chest outthrust in a blatant attempt to draw his attention. I don’t wear belly shirts every day, but when I do, trust me, they work. My tits could be bigger, yes, but the stomach has it all going on. Flat and flexible, hard and velvety. “I wouldn’t have to, Joey, if you weren’t ignoring me.”
He got that guilty look on his face, and I knew I had him. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Over here.” We went behind the garage, back where they keep the old tires. Joey looked so hot in his coveralls, all that grease smeared on his face.
“Look, Mickey,” he began, his dark eyes focusing somewhere behind my head. “I should have told you the other night, but that’s not the first time I’ve done that kind of thing.’
“I didn’t think so,” I giggled, giving him a playful poke in the stomach.
It was rock hard muscle under there. I felt weak all over remembering what he looked like, what he felt like.
“It’s not funny, Mick. See, my Dad, he’s into that stuff, and he gets me all these magazines that tell me what to do. So I…” he paused, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“What?” I encouraged, standing on tiptoes to grab his lapel. “Just talk to me, baby.”
He blinked. I couldn’t believe my big macho Italian was getting weepy. “I use girls,” he confessed. “I fuck them and move on.”
Wow, I thought, he’d actually come out and said it.
“Yeah?” I challenged. “So?”
He looked at me, genuinely dumbfounded. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“As long as you fuck only me from now on, why should it?”
Joey shook his head. “No, see, it has to stop between us.”
“Why?”
“Because the way we made love, Mickey, is the only way I can. If it’s my dad’s influence, or what, I don’t know. But that’s the only way for me. Rough. Dominating.”
I sidled up to him, not caring about the grease. “Well, that’s good news, big boy, because I want more of that ...a lot more.”
Joey backed up, out of my reach. “Do you know what you’re saying? Michelle, I’m talking about S and M, okay? You’re a nice girl. I’m sorry I tricked you. Just go home, okay? I swear, I’ll keep what we did a secret.”
I was no more prepared to go home than I was to change my sex. Falling to my knees—no mean feat in a short skirt—I crawled across the alley to him to show him that I was serious.
“Mick, cut it out!”
I managed to grab the top of the zipper. After that he was history. Submissive or not, a girl who can get her man’s dick in her mouth calls the shots.
“Jesus,” he kept muttering, “we could get caught.”
I didn’t care. I was beyond that. I was serving him, giving pleasure and beyond that, nothing else existed. On my knees was where I belonged. If Joey wanted me somewhere else, that was his call. I was comfortable with him. With him, I knew who I was. And I was happy with who we both were.
Joey accepted me that day, though he’d yet to realize it. When he tried to pull out to spare me his ejaculation, I grabbed at his buttocks, giving an extra twist of my tongue to make sure he had no choice but to spill himself down my throat.
He was catatonic after that. Without even looking at me, he zipped himself and walked away. “Go home, Mick,” he said over his shoulder. “Just go home.”
I did, with a grin on my face big enough to rival the Cheshire cat’s. I had him, I was certain of it.
Sure enough, he called me late that night. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Mick.”
It came out as a lament, but I melted at once.
“So what are you wearing, Mick?”
I sat bolt upright in bed. Nipples at attention. “Just an old T-shirt.”
“Jeezus,” he muttered. “Is that all?”
“Uh huh.”
“Take it off, Mick. Will you do that for me?”
I slipped it overhead. “Done,” I chimed.
“Good. I want you to lie down. I’ve been doing some thinking. I want to tell you some things, but I want you to masturbate while we talk.”
My face flushed crimson. Self-pleasuring was one of the most private experiences of my life. To share it now would be to cross a certain line. And yet, the very thought of him making me do it was causing me to gush between my legs.
“Okay,” I whispered, laying my head back on the pillow.
“Are you doing it?”
“Yes,” I promised, my trembling fingers rubbing over my engorged clit. “I am.”
“Pinch your nipple, Mick. With your other hand.”
I had to cradle the phone on my shoulder. The little nub was rock hard. I went off like a rocket.
“Did you come?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do that again, Michelle.” His voice was lower, more serious.
I swallowed hard. “No one calls me that.”
“I do. You’re a girl; you should have a girl’s name. Start masturbating again, Michelle. I want you worked up while we talk.”
For the next two hours, as I lay drenched in sweat, tossing and turning in sexual frustration, Joey told me what he’d learned in the magazines and from his father. What he wanted to do with me, he explained, was called a lifestyle master-slave relationship. Though we couldn’t live together yet, he would still control me, 24/7, or a reasonable approximation.
The details made me so horny I thought I would die. Over and over, though, he would stop me, making me slow or desist till the need receded. Then we’d start up all over again.
***
The things he wanted to do to me were wicked, downright evil in some cases, but over the course of the next few weeks every one of them would become second nature to me. The first thing he took over was my wardrobe. I modeled the contents of my drawers and closets for him one rainy afternoon and he gave me the ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ on each thing. The plain underwear was a thumbs down. He didn’t like cotton on me, only silk. Preferably sheer. The bras had to be the underwire, pushup kind, so my breasts would feel both vulnerable and bound at the same time, he explained.
The jeans were good, but he wanted them sexier, so I had to cut them off below the belt loops. This made them ride low on my hips. The belly shirts would definitely get more a
irtime now, as would my tight shorts. Sheer blouses were good, especially when my bra was visible. When it came to skirts, there’d be special rules. Generally, these would be worn panties-free, unless I obtained special permission ahead of time.
During the fashion show, Joey, sitting on the edge of my bed, would call me over frequently and feel between my legs for what he called quality assurance. In other words, he wanted clothes that made me hot, too, and not just him. No problem, there. I was dripping before we even got to the really skimpy halter-tops and tight shorts.
He bent me over the bed and fucked me good from behind when I showed him my new bikini. Skinning down the tiny Lycra bottoms, my bare feet wide apart, he gave me the plowing of my life. Afterwards I knelt and licked him clean, finishing with a humble kiss to the tip of his prick.
My bottoms were hanging from one ankle and I still had my top on. It was going to be an interesting summer, I thought happily. The only obstacle I would face would be my parents. My dad in particular is very protective and I didn’t think he’d approve of my walking around half naked. There’d be some sneaking involved, but that only heightened the fun.
Sometimes Joey would call me at suppertime so he could have me do things to myself while my folks were downstairs. He provided me with a special ‘kit’ just for this purpose, which I kept hidden in my closet. In it were all the tools that a good little slave-slut needs, including a vibrator, a huge dildo, a butt plug, handcuffs and a jar of Vaseline. Whenever my cell phone would ring at supper, I’d get this hot, weak feeling all over. Like a tiny electrical buzz. He’d talk dirty to me, right there at the table. I’d turn red, trying my best to answer vaguely enough to avoid suspicion.
“Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
“Take the phone, go to your room, and take off all your clothes.”
“Okay.”
He’d have me strip slowly in front of the mirror, describing my body, baring each part and bringing it to fever pitch. Sometimes we’d use the vibrator and butt plug at once, or maybe I’d suck on the dildo, slurping loud enough to be heard over the phone. All the while, the little demon would chug away inside me.
No two times were ever alike. Sometimes it was, “Make yourself come, Michelle. I wanna hear you squeal,” and “Did you get a clothes pins like I asked? Good, put one on your nipple,” or maybe, “I want you in that silk teddy. Get it now.”
Nothing Less Page 1
