by Unknown
“I don’t believe we did. And tonight won’t work for us.” Pause. “Because.” She floundered. She could say we had plans, of course. But we didn’t. Her parents had been preempting our plans for so long that it didn’t matter.
Breathe, I thought at her.
“Because we haven’t made plans for tonight and weren’t planning to have anyone come over.”
Okay, I’d set it up. My heart still skipped a beat.
“No, I’m sure you could pick up something on the way, but—” Breathe. “That’s not the point.”
I heard Elvira’s voice rise. I heard no words, but I could guess.
“Maybe you should have confirmed with us before three o’clock this afternoon, then,” she said. When I looked at her now I didn’t have to be covert. Her face was white and her eyes very wide and she had no idea I was there.
On the other end of the phone, the voice got louder and now I could hear the second voice joining in. Henry. I almost said something. My hands locked together as firmly as Annie’s when she’s told to keep them out of my way.
Annie said into the phone, “Ple—” and I blanched.
And then she stopped. She never finished the word please. She stood and listened and I saw reality catch back up with her and saw her lack of interest in what reality had to say. She waited until what seemed to be a very high-pitched squeaking stopped and then she said, “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad, but it also wasn’t my intention for you to assume an open invitation to dinner every Saturday. Let’s give it some time, shall we?”
And then my very proper wife breached etiquette and left it trembling behind her in the dust. “Once you and Daddy stop shouting, you can give us a call, invite Aaron and me for dinner, and show me what a proper salad is all about. Or I can pick up a pizza on the way over.”
She hung up. Not with dramatic flare, she just pushed off and put the handset back in the cradle.
“How does pizza sound for tonight?” she asked. “With one of those movies where suddenly orphaned children go on to have fabulously happy lives and rule kingdoms?”
I kissed her, swung her around once, endangering kitchen cabinets, and set her back down. “Done,” I said. “Pizza. Movie. Beer even. But first, you get a very, very special reward spanking. I need you to take off your shirt. Right. Now.”
She didn’t even look surprised. She just grinned at me and pulled the T-shirt over her head. “I submit,” Annie said.
THE GOLDEN RULER
Giselle Renarde
Hit me, Lowell. Oh, god, I need to feel the sting of your palm on my ass. I need it; I need it; I need it. Are you listening, Lowell? Can you hear me? I need a spanking. Now.
Meghan’s face burned as she inched across the carpet. He was sitting on the couch, scotch in hand, acting like she didn’t exist. There she was, buck naked, wrists bound behind her back, ankles tied together, and he was pretending she wasn’t there. If she had to crawl across the living room like a caterpillar, so be it. Anything to get closer to him.
And he just sat on that leather couch, cool as a cucumber. She wasn’t even on his radar, was she?
Look at me, Lowell. I’m down here, laid out at your feet. Can’t you see me? Can’t you see how much I want you? How much I need you? God, Lowell, just spank me now!
Of course, she couldn’t say anything—not with her own cotton panties stuffed in her mouth. Meghan looked up at him pleadingly, but he still wasn’t paying attention. He had that jazz station on the radio, and he just sat there with one leg crossed over the other, listening intently. Meghan couldn’t see past his knees, but she was pretty sure his eyes were open. His eyes were open, he just wasn’t looking at her.
Lowell? Lowell, you know what I need. You’re the only man in the world who knows. Why can’t you just give it to me? Why can’t you look down here at the woman on the carpet and bloody well spank me already?
It was Lowell who’d tied her up this way. She’d knelt on the floor, patient as a saint, naked as a jaybird, and waited with her wrists crossed behind her back.
When she’d entered the room, he was fixing himself a drink behind the bar. The house phone was crooked against his shoulder, and Meghan had jumped when he started talking into it. Because talking wasn’t at all the right word. Yelling wasn’t the word, either. It was something in between, a commanding sort of speech, and Meghan realized very quickly who was on the line.
They were having problems with the phone company these days. Meghan usually handled the bills, but she was at her wits’ end with this one. Their payments were supposed to have gone down when they bundled their home phone and Internet, but instead they were paying more every month. Each time Meghan contacted the utility, something else got screwed up. Their fees skyrocketed one month, and the next their Internet service was inexplicably cut off.
It was such a huge annoyance Meghan didn’t want to think about it anymore. She just wanted everything to be fixed, but she felt like nothing was working. They weren’t getting it. They weren’t hearing her. All this bureaucratic stupidity was getting her so anxious all her muscles seized every time she thought about it.
“My wife has called you seven times in four months.” Lowell’s voice was low, and though he sounded entirely calm, it was the kind of tone you couldn’t argue with.
Meghan listened keenly as Lowell fed the customer service person all the information she’d muddled through for months. When he took on a task, he made it seem easy. He’d have this resolved in five minutes.
The measured timbre of Lowell’s voice had a profound effect on Meghan’s body—making her heart race, her pussy pulse, her asscheeks tingle in anticipation. The words didn’t matter. This gesture was key. She’d tried and tried to resolve this stupid phone bill thing by herself, but she just couldn’t do it. Not alone. And though it had never crossed her mind to ask Lowell for help, it lifted a weight from her shoulders that he’d taken it on.
I’m yours, Lowell. Show me why I’m yours. You can resist me, but can you resist yourself? You know what you want to do. Spank me!
She’d stripped in front of him while he harangued the phone company, and he hadn’t batted an eye. He’d watched her intently as she unbuttoned her shirt, opened it wide, slipped it from her shoulders, let it fall to the ground. His gaze burned her collarbone until she’d unclasped her bra and tossed that aside, too.
Meghan loved the way he stared at her breasts—with fire in his eyes, and a snarl in his voice. Any other man would have been rendered mute by the sight of bare breasts, but Lowell went on talking to customer service. His only tell was the growl behind his words. Maybe they took that as a threat. Meghan didn’t.
Do you remember that line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream? “Use me but as your spaniel—spurn me, strike me.”
Once she’d stepped out of her skirt and plain panties, Lowell had made his way out from behind the bar. He went off book with the phone company, winging his facts and figures as he bound her wrists and ankles with kneesocks. Even so, the information he conveyed remained surprisingly accurate. One of his most striking qualities was that he actually listened when Meghan spoke.
I am your spaniel, Lowell, right here at your feet. “The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.”
He’d bound her and left her on the carpet, returning to the bar where he’d set the stack of phone bills. And his best pen. And his golden ruler. Cork on one side, metal on the other. It wasn’t real gold, of course. It looked more like burnished bronze, a business gift, but they’d always called it the golden ruler.
Why won’t you look at me, Lowell. I’m right here, down at your feet!
She could hear the woman from the phone company apologizing—a rare achievement in itself—but Lowell didn’t say, “That’s okay.” He didn’t say, “No problem.” Nothing like that. They gave him what he wanted and he said, “Very good.”
Those words ran through Meghan like a storm, making her pussy pulse, clench, want. Ache. Oh, yes, that was the w
ord: she ached for him, and not in any idle sense, not in the sense of juvenile longing. Her pelvis throbbed to be filled by him. If she didn’t feel the immense girth of his cock pounding deep inside of her soon, she felt she would really and truly die.
I am yours, Lowell. This body is yours. Take pleasure in it. Use it. Do whatever you want, just touch me with your skin, with your fingers or your cock, or your lips or your tongue. Touch something of you to something of me.
He’d hung up with the phone company and brought his scotch to the sofa, turning up the radio en route. Lowell didn’t need to gloat, because she’d heard the resolution through the phone: three months of free service, further reduction in their monthly bill after that, all sorts of perks thrown in. How he managed these things, she’d never know, but every time he took on a task, he battled it into submission. Was there any man more alluring than one who could take on a utility and win?
Please, Lowell. I’m not above begging. You know that about me. I would do anything for you. I’m yours—yours alone and yours completely. You can spurn me if you wish, but I pray you show me mercy. Put me out of my misery, Lowell. Spank me, fuck me, anything!
Once she’d managed her caterpillar crawl across the carpet, the golden ruler became her focus. With her hands tied behind her back, it wasn’t easy to lift her head, but somehow she managed, tilting to one side, setting her weight on that shoulder and pressing her forehead up from the carpet. She turned to gaze longingly at the bar. She couldn’t speak, could only moan through the damp panties shoved in her mouth, but she slanted her head in its direction and yelped. Lowell knew her well enough to read her thoughts. He’d know. He was sure to know.
The ruler, Lowell. The golden ruler: do unto others…? What would you have me do if our positions were reversed? If it was you here on the floor, your hands tied behind your back, your ankles bound with a kneesock, a pair of dirty underwear in your mouth? All I want is to feel the sweet sting of metal against my ass. Bring that ruler down on me again and again. Smack me, slap me, and don’t let up until you’ve pelted my backside raw. That’s what I want, Lowell. I want to be red and ruined. Do it!
How long would she have to wait? This thick tension tied her stomach in knots, but Lowell didn’t seem to feel it. Or maybe he just refused to acknowledge it. Maybe he did that to torture her as she crouched at his feet, cheek itching against the rug.
The ruler, Lowell. Spank me with the golden ruler!
He knew. He must know. Why couldn’t he get up from the sofa and grab it—it was right there on the bar!
Grab the golden ruler! Smack me with that slip of metal. I want to see it gleam again under soft lights. I want to see it shimmer as you hold it up to strike me, and then hear its length break the sound barrier when you bring it down on my ass. I want to feel that sting.
Do you have any idea how I clench when you punish me? Do you know how much it hurts? It isn’t an idle twinge, Lowell. It’s pain. It’s real pain. Did you know that? Can you hear it in my voice when I scream? Is that why you gag me now? You don’t want to hear the anguish in my voice?
He adjusted his position on the sofa, and the leather croaked beneath him.
No, you want it. I know you want it. You take pleasure in my pain. When you spank me with your hand, when you smack me with the golden ruler, when you fuck my throat or ram my ass, you see the tears welling in my eyes. I plead with you. You see the agony on my face. But you don’t stop because you know I want more, always more.
And you love me. You give me all this—not only the house and the car and the dealing with the phone company, but the discipline—out of love. I need your firm hand, Lowell. Without your correction, I’d have run off the rails long ago. You keep me in check. You do it for me, don’t you, Lowell? You restrain me, you punish me; you make me wait, to teach me, shape me, make me a more resilient person.
The ice clinked in his glass as he shifted on the sofa. When he leaned into its firm embrace she heard him groan. It was a sound of relaxation, pure pleasure. The pleasure of power.
But this is torture, Lowell. To ignore me, to erase me—this is the ultimate wielding of your power over me, over this woman who loves you more than life. And, Lowell? Lowell? Can you hear me, Lowell?
And then, with apparent care, Lowell picked his feet up off the ground and brought them to rest in the dip of Meghan’s back, nestled right up against her bound hands. The weight of his feet brought out a moan in her, muffled by the panties in her mouth. A connection. Finally, some connection.
I will kneel at your feet forever.
I ALWAYS DO
Kiki DeLovely
My Daddy calls me a word architect. So I pick up my pencil and start drawing up the blueprints to thank him. I make painstakingly precise calculations, planning out every last detail, figuring out how to write him into my life and make the design structurally sound, but it inevitably seems to wobble. Perhaps the most beautiful compositions must.
I’ve had plenty of Daddies in my day. They’ve come and gone, dropping in on my life, some having greater impact than others. No matter how many times I’ve tried to deviate and experiment with other forms of submission, it’s always the archetype of Daddy I find myself kneeling at the feet of, time and time again. Daddy/babygirl play just does it for me. It’s what gets me going, what gets me off, what gets me there.
This particular Daddy, however, makes me bow my head in an all-new way—I look up at him through thick lashes in awe, batting them just slightly. From the first time I saw him, it was as if he was walking into my life again. He’s always felt familiar; we’ve had a certain amount of ease and comfort between us. After the first weekend we spent together, I knew this was… different. This was it.
If I hadn’t believed in past lives before, his inexplicable presence in my life surely would’ve sold me on the concept. How could someone—someone who’s hardly known me—know me so well? And I him? There’s a certain vibration we feel in each other’s cells, and the hum of it can be sensed across great distances. It’s this unspoken connection that magnifies his dominance over me. And still, amidst the depth between us exists a level of playfulness in the ways we spark off of each other. Before we even got together, he was already my Daddy. And the very first time we played, it started off innocently enough.
“Daddy! Wanna play a game?” I asked sweetly, knowing the answer even before I blurted it out. Yet I waited eagerly for his affirmative response.
“Yes, babygirl, I’d love to.”
“Gimme your tongue.” And from the moment he stuck it in my mouth, I could feel his hard-on begin to rage. I sucked on it skillfully and diligently, as I would his cock in a few mere hours, but he was only willing to take so much of my game. He wanted to be inside me and he needed it right then.
“Lie down on your back. Spread your legs and close your eyes.”
I obeyed. I’m nothing if not obedient. Well, except for the times I’m being bratty…but this was definitely not one of those times.
“Touch yourself for me.”
He knew how badly I wanted his cock, so he gave me something else entirely. He wanted to see if I’d acquiesce to what he saw fit to do, to see how far he could push me.
As my fingers tentatively circled my clit, I heard him fumbling around in the nightstand—and was that the sound of latex snapping against skin? The anticipation made me drip. Then I heard nothing. For about five seconds that felt like hours, I heard nothing, but felt his gaze, heavy and proprietary, all over my body. And that just made me all the wetter.
As I started to relax and enjoy the feel of him watching me get myself off, his fingertips brushed my lips apart, the shock of his touch making me jump just a little. His other hand immediately reached for my hip, a comforting reassurance of his presence. I gasped, then sighed and still never once opened my eyes.
His fingers were sliding into my pussy before I caught my next breath and soon he had managed to fit the entirety of his hand inside me. Shifting his other hand from my
hip, he pressed the palm of it hard against my belly, as though he was willing it to sink in right through me and meet his fist in my cunt. I writhed under the pressure, reveling in it. Squeezing my eyelids shut tightly so that I wouldn’t be tempted to take in his reaction, I felt my muscles spasm one last time as I soaked the sheets underneath me.
“You can open your eyes now, babygirl.”
With one hand still inside me, he wrapped the other around my ass and scooped me up onto his lap before I realized what was happening. Breathless and all the more aroused by both the motion and this new, incredibly intimate position, I cooed to him, “You’re so strong, Daddy. Not just anyone can pick me up and fling me around like that.”
I swear I could see the sparks my eyes were giving off in the reflection in his.
He whispered to me, taking me back down to earth, “I love how I knew the precise moment before you were about to come—just from the feel of your clit getting hard from inside you. I couldn’t help but press up against it while you rode your orgasm out against my fist.”
That’s how he came to have a nice purple bruise on the top of his wrist.
Can’t say I had ever bruised someone’s wrist before. Or at least not to my knowledge. But his hands are big, like the rest of him. Taller than me, even, and raised in Texas, he’s the embodiment of a tall drink of water. I don’t remember the last time that I had taken a fist that big…but it had been a while.
A dominant who also just so happens to be a masochist is sometimes hard to find. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a bottom through and through. The need to submit runs deep in my veins. But there’s coincidentally something so fierce in my desire that it makes me long to dish it out just as hard as I can take it. Luckily for me, this Daddy likes pain. And so I deliver. Sometimes I get to slap him. On special occasions I even make use of a cane or two. And always, always, I bite. Tonight I’m feeling daring. Like pushing the envelope.