Submitting

by Rose de Fer

  Emmett was in there, busy making adjustments to the giant-sized bed. He had thrown a pile of pillows into its centre, and went on to take a selection of clanking, jingling objects from a holdall beside them.

  He looked up as we entered and gave me the merest flash of a smile. It was enough to dispel any doubts or fears I might have had. If he’d looked upset to see Charles handling me so intimately, I wouldn’t have been able to go through with the rest of the afternoon’s schedule.

  So I let myself be scooped against the older man’s chest and thoroughly kissed once more, one hand on my tight-skirted bottom while the other held me in place by the neck.

  By the time we broke apart, Emmett had unpacked the essentials and was sitting in a Regency armchair in the corner. He looked light and refreshing, mouthwateringly attractive in his pale suit and sky-blue open-necked shirt; a foil to Charles’s darker and more formal presentation.

  I knew I shouldn’t look at him, though, so I tore my eyes away as quickly as I could and fixed my attention on Charles, waiting for him to give me my next order.

  ‘When I bring a whore up to a hotel room, I expect her to know why she’s here,’ said Charles, plucking at the half-undone neckline of my shirt. ‘Why are you still dressed?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ I mumbled, fumbling and tugging the offending garment away from my body until I stood in the half-cup bra, nipples at attention over their pointless cradle of lace.

  ‘I wonder why you even wore a bra at all,’ mused Charles, running his thumbs across the stiff red buds. ‘Such a flimsy pretence. No, keep it on. You might as well. It doesn’t hinder access in any meaningful way. Now, the skirt.’

  The skirt, in its bunched-up state, required a lengthy process of easing down if it wasn’t to be ripped. Bending over took me away from Charles’s scrutiny, and I was grateful for the small mercy. When eventually it reached my knees and fell the rest of the way, I knew my brief respite was over.

  I stepped out of it, pushed my shoulders back and stood self-consciously aware of his attention and the disgraceful near-absence of knickers.

  ‘You weren’t joking about the knickers,’ said Charles, inspecting the area. ‘They leave nothing at all to the imagination. They provide framing rather than coverage. Turn around, let me see the rear view.’

  I did so, keeping Emmett deliberately unfocused at the periphery of my vision.

  Charles put a hand mid-thigh and ran it slowly up, past my lacy stocking-top, over the bump of the suspender button, up my inner thigh until it cupped my bare, shaved pussy, making me spread my legs a little.

  ‘Does your Master make you keep this shaved?’ he asked, pressing his fingers between the folds of flesh.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So he should. So would I. I wonder what he’d say if he knew you were wet right now, very wet, on another man’s hand?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d be surprised, Sir,’ I said, which made Charles chuckle. Another sound, something breathy, reached me from the corner of the room. Emmett was enjoying this.

  ‘He wouldn’t? He knows you’re a slut, does he?’

  ‘He tells me all the time, Sir,’ I said.

  Charles ran his fingertips slowly, torturingly, between my lips and over my clit, bringing his other hand round to flick at my nipples.

  ‘Does he like to have you used by other men?’ whispered Charles.

  ‘This is my first time, Sir, but yes, I think he does.’ I wanted very badly to look at Emmett, but I held myself rigid and obedient.

  ‘It’s a very good test of submission, I think,’ said Charles. ‘I wonder if you’ll pass?’

  ‘I hope so, Sir.’ His fingers continued to feather-stroke my clit, too lightly, so that I wanted to grind myself down on them.

  He pulled them away and laid a sharp smack on my bottom.

  ‘Enough of that. This isn’t for your pleasure, after all. Get over those pillows with your bum up high.’

  I climbed on to the bed and arranged myself as he desired. Once I was in the correct posture, he crossed my wrists in the small of my back and cuffed them tightly just above my buttocks.

  Moving further down, he spread my feet wide and attached my ankles to a spreader bar, ensuring that everything between my legs was open and accessible to him.

  Once I was helpless, he stood back and admired his handiwork.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  I mewed into the duvet as Emmett cleared his throat and said, in an uneven, husky voice, ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Do you often have her like this?’

  ‘As often as I can.’

  ‘Ah, so would I. You’ve brought along quite a few interesting toys, Emmett. I’m not sure where to start. Can you recommend anything?’

  ‘I think – you’re going to spank her, yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That goes without saying.’

  ‘OK, then I think taking a spanking with her plug in really brings home the reality of her situation.’

  ‘Ah, good. I can imagine she’d find that very humbling.’

  ‘She does. Here – this is the lube we use.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I gritted my teeth. Emmett was a bastard! How did he manage to put his finger right on the button of what I’d find most shameful and difficult to take? It came of knowing me and my kinks through and through, and understanding how to get me quickly into the required headspace.

  Charles loomed behind me on the bed and I felt the first blood-chilling drops of lubricant between my cheeks, soon joined by his fingers, rubbing it enthusiastically into my crease and the tight pucker at its centre.

  ‘Does she get plugged a lot?’ he asked.

  ‘When she needs it. We kind of keep it for “best”, if you know what I mean. So it doesn’t get over-familiar. It’s used more for discipline than pleasure.’

  ‘Ah, yes, discipline,’ said Charles, gloating over the word. ‘I can imagine you have to be strict with her.’

  ‘She knows her place,’ said Emmett. ‘But she forgets it from time to time. A firm reminder is sometimes needed.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Charles finished massaging my ring and introduced the coldly slick rubber tip of the plug in place of his fingers. ‘Has she been recently punished?’

  ‘Just yesterday,’ said Emmett, over my little gasp of discomfort as Charles began to push it in. ‘A minor infraction. I just had her over my knee with a leather paddle for ten minutes, then six with the tawse. As you can see, it wasn’t hard enough to leave evidence, but she was red and hot for some time afterwards.’

  ‘I wish I’d seen it,’ he remarked. ‘No, keep still, Suky.’ He smacked my bottom hard on both cheeks, a punishment for squirming as the widest part of the plug stretched me without pity. To make sure I knew who was in charge here, he held it there, at its most uncomfortable point, until I was still and compliant, then he pushed it all the way in.

  ‘There, your spanking is going to feel very interesting now,’ he said, twisting the flanged end this way and that, sending tremors through my bottom that made my pussy clench and quiver in sympathy. I was soaking wet, the evidence gathering in a dewy layer on my thighs.

  He turned his attention to the array of implements on the bedspread, picking up each one, weighing it in his hand, stroking it, tapping it lightly against my buttocks or between my thighs. I recognised each one from its own tactile quality without being able to see a thing that was being done to me. That was the riding crop…that was the ruler paddle…that was the knotted flogger.

  ‘I think I’ve made my decision,’ he said at length, and I resisted the strong urge to look around and see what he held in his hand.

  ‘Good choice,’ said Emmett.

  ‘Thank you. Now then, Suky, keep that bum up high for me. Do you think you can keep your voice down, or would it be better if I gagged you?’

  That depended on what he was using – but I didn’t say it. I calculated the likelihood of Charles using one of the milder toys and found it to be
low.

  ‘Perhaps a gag, Sir,’ I said.

  ‘Very well. Emmett, could you do the honours?’

  Emmett came to stand by my head. I gorged on the sight of him from the corner of my eye, drinking in his long fingers as they stroked my face, putting the long rubber gag in place. He pulled down my jaw, settling the gag between my teeth, and fastening it gently, but with unforgiving tension, at the back of my head. I wanted very badly for him to kiss me – just a brush of his lips on my cheek, anything – but he didn’t. My heart sighed as he went back to his chair to watch.

  Charles stood at the side of the bed, from which I deduced that his weapon must need to be wielded at arm’s length. That ruled out some of the oval paddles, and the short, thick strap.

  He laid it across the fullest part of my bottom, and I knew my fate.

  The riding crop. Better than the cane, but only just.

  ‘So, then, Emmett,’ said Charles. ‘What does a sound thrashing look like for our Suky?’

  ‘She can take quite a bit,’ said Emmett. ‘You don’t need to hold back. I’ll know when she’s had enough.’

  ‘Good,’ purred Charles. He drew back the crop. I tried not to clench up.

  He sliced it down smartly, so that it landed square across the flange of the butt plug, causing mad vibrations to mix with the sizzling smart. I moaned into the gag. As a statement of intent, this was quite something.

  He didn’t wait long to lay on the next stroke, and he placed it in exactly the same spot. I chewed on my gag helplessly as he repeated, with quick cruelty, the same manoeuvre over and over until I was bucking on the pillows. Only then did he turn his attention to the rest of my bottom.

  His treatment was similar even then – he concentrated on one stripe, over and over, until I could picture the deep crimson bar sinking into its white surroundings. It was almost unbearable, and he put plenty of wrist into each snapping smack. He moved slowly around my buttocks, making sure he achieved full coverage. No patch of skin was going to be left untended, and Emmett wasn’t going to come to my aid, no matter how much I tried to bounce and writhe out of the target zone.

  Emmett knew I could take it. He’d given me more and harder than this before.

  ‘I hope she’s going to feel this for a while,’ remarked Charles to Emmett.

  ‘A whipping with that will leave bruises,’ said Emmett. ‘She won’t sit comfortably for a good day or so. The best I’ve managed is four days, after a really hard caning.’

  ‘I’d like to cane her sometime,’ said Charles, whipping my upper thighs with brutal and systematic efficiency.

  ‘Well, you can, of course,’ said Emmett, his breathing heavy now. ‘You know the arrangement.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles, a long and satisfied exhalation. ‘There, now let’s try…’

  My bottom and thighs were on fire, as if a layer of skin had been stripped from them. Charles moved the whip between my legs and began to flick it, quickly and devastatingly, between my inner thighs. Their tender skin was soon overwhelmed and throbbing, causing Charles to slap the leather tip of the crop upwards, catching my spread pussy and pulsating clit so cruelly yet so sweetly. It burned like buggery, but I opened myself up to the pain, embracing it, showing my obedience and submission to the two men who now demanded it.

  He spanked my pussy until I let out a sob into the gag, then he let it go and gave my bottom and thighs a sound and salutary reprise of their earlier treatment, just in case I’d forgotten to feel sore.

  Only then was he content that I’d taken what I deserved. He threw down the crop and crouched down by my head to untie the gag.

  ‘You’re a very well-whipped little whore now, Suky,’ he said softly, stroking my cheek. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say to me?’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘You needed that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Very much, Sir.’

  He turned to Emmett.

  ‘I’m in awe, Emmett. You’ve trained her so well.’

  Emmett didn’t reply for a moment or two, and the pause caught at my heart. Was he pleased with me? Had I been everything he’d hoped for?

  ‘I’m so very, very proud of her,’ he said, and his voice shook on the second ‘very’.

  I pressed my face into the bedspread, letting the tears soak into it, then I let myself look at him. His face shone with love, a transfiguration.

  I pushed my bottom out, enjoying its heat and tenderness. I could take all that again, double, triple, if it was for Emmett. Anything for Emmett.

  ‘So,’ said Charles. ‘What shall we do next?’

  Making Movies

  Ludivine Bonneur

  Mason made me take his Merc today even though he knows driving it turns me into a nervous wreck. For a saloon it feels like a tank and God knows what he’d do to me if I put a scratch on it. And he made me wear that little leather skirt I bought that barely keeps me decent and was intended purely for the bedroom, for his pleasure. He knows things like this burn me, and in truth I know him well enough to guess he’d send me straight out wearing it. I got every single eye in that place judging me, either lustfully or scornfully, and the ground simply refused to swallow me up. My blood felt like hot soda in my veins. I swear some old bastard over by the dairy counter muttered something about me being a filthy whore. I can’t say I didn’t feel like one.

  So I’m still trembling now, my mind a-whir as I try to negotiate my exit from the parking lot. I’m taking extra care to look and make sure the road is clearer than clear. I’ve got the image flashing through my head of those three college guys grinning and eyeing me up and plotting in whispers about what they think of me and what they want to do to me. That’s not helping. I blink and try to concentrate. The road is empty but I keep my eyes right as I pull out in case some sneaky so-and-so tries to come out of nowhere – and then…wham! I actually shriek with the shock. The body bounces up towards me to smack against the windshield before rolling back down the hood to drop out of sight. I swear I was only going, like, three miles per hour but I know if you aren’t extra easy on the gas this baby can reach sixty in the blink of an eye. And so I’ve hit her.

  I know it was a her. The flailing limbs were lithe. I saw the ponytail under the baseball cap. My mind pieces the fragments to tell me she was a jogger, in vest top and tight leggings, with smooth, tanned calves bare above white sneakers. And now I’ve killed her. Or maimed her for life. Whatever, she hasn’t got up. I want to stay sitting here for ever so that I don’t have to drag my shocked, shaking body out to go witness the mess I’ve made of her. But I can’t do that. The air is suddenly warm on my skin, out of the realms of the Merc’s air-conditioning. There are no sounds coming from the front of the car, no moans and groans to assure me it wasn’t a fatal hit. I creep forward inch by inch, trying to delay the sight of her all broken and bloodied, as if somehow she might miraculously mend in the meantime. Then I do see her. She is sitting on the road glaring at me. In a threatening but measured tone she says, ‘I’m going to have you for this, you bitch.’

  I gawp in silence and blink three or four times. At first I think it is Jennifer Lawrence herself – a chestnut-haired Jennifer Lawrence. The similarity of the cheeks and eyes is so uncanny she could be a double. But the eyes are a bright green, not blue. And the lips are fuller – more reminiscent of Angelina’s. But then that’s me: since I’ve been transported across the Atlantic and immersed deeply into the sublime madness of Hollywood, I think I see A-listers in every face I set eyes upon. I cannot think outside the movies, can’t really separate the fact from my fantasy any more. My world has become a thrilling, sunny montage of beauty and glamour that I have been brought here to serve.

  Strikingly pretty this woman may be; one thing that she isn’t is dead. Nor does she seem to have a scratch on her. However, this escape from injury hasn’t apparently dampened her fury. Glowering expressions always send the quivers right through me.
I can’t help it. They defeat me in an instant. I have no answer to any kind of power used against me. I buckle and yield in the next breath, as if just doing so brings me a comfort I crave. So when she holds out her hands for me to take to help her get up, I clasp them immediately and start pulling, even though I’ll be even more at a disadvantage with her off the floor. Then she is right there in front of me, strong and toned, gorgeous and unnerving at once, all sweet scent and eyes like fire.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ I stammer. I’m hoping my accent will make her cut me some slack. People over here have said it makes me sound more innocent.

  ‘You didn’t see me, you blind British bitch,’ she snarls, moving closer, ‘because I’m guessing you always have your dumb blonde head so far up your own ass. Was my fluorescent orange top not bright enough for you? Or were you too busy wishing you’d worn a skirt that showed off your prissy cunt completely, instead of only half showing it?’

  This tirade sees the last of my strength disappearing south. My pulse is racing and I feel hot to my core. My skin tingles with nerves. My breath is already too heavy to enable me to speak, so I can’t tell her it was only an accident, and that I was, in fact, trying to be super-careful when she jumped out of nowhere onto my car. I can’t tell her that a girl as stunning as her has no right to be angry at the world ever, let alone so foul-mouthed and nasty to someone who actually doesn’t deserve it. I can’t tell her how flustered and blood-fizzed her confrontational closeness makes me, how unfair a target I am in my weakened state. Or that the reason it makes me so beside myself is because it turns me on so much.

  ‘I didn’t…’ I start to say.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ she cuts in. ‘And every camera in this parking lot will have recorded that, which is why I’ll have no trouble suing your trash-whore ass for every single dollar it has ever earned you. Unless, of course, you do something else for me.’

  Her face is inches from mine now. One dip forward could see her take my trembling bottom lip between her teeth if she should so choose. I can almost feel the heat from her mouth. She has one eyebrow raised as if impatiently awaiting an answer. Except I’m standing here clueless.