Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, Inc.,
2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: Fuse/Getty Images
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-054-4
Contents
Introduction: The Many Meanings of Submission
I Want to Feel You • JOY FAOLÁN
Naughty Prof • LOUISA BACIO
Strip • MEDEA MOR
Training My Dom • TILLY HUNTER
Dear Sir • KAY JAYBEE
Put Your Hands Up • SOMMER MARSDEN
Crunches • ANNABETH LEONG
Butch Unbound • SALOME WILDE
The Prodigy • VALERIE ALEXANDER
Beautiful • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS
Lariat • MICHELLE AUGELLO-PAGE
Toasted Marshmallows • TILLY HUNTER
The Shoot • D. L. KING
Sunday in the Art Gallery with George • ELIZABETH COLDWELL
The Third Plug • NICK MAMATAS
Others • JADE A. WATERS
Without Question • LUCY FELTHOUSE
In the Darkness • REGINA LAFAYETTE
The Test • KRISTINA WRIGHT
Patiently Waiting • ALYSSA MORRIS
Brunch • L. C. SPOERING
Love and Salt • ERZABET BISHOP
Brazen • KATHLEEN DELANEY-ADAMS
Story Time • INARA SERENE
Princess • AMELIA JUNE
Contact • SHENOA CARROLL-BRADD
For Her Art • ELISE HEPNER
Working It Out • ROGER MARKSON
Control • CATE ELLINK
Unanchored • CORRINE ARUNDO
Fucktoy • LADY LUCRETIA
Caramel • KATHLEEN TUDOR
The Bulldog Breed • LISETTE ASHTON
Mistress Raven • OLIVIA ARCHER
Following Orders • JADE MELISANDE
Writer’s Block • KITTEN BOHEME
Help! My Wife’s a Former Dominatrix! • ANGELA R. SARGENTI
That Moment When • MARTHA DAVIS
The Dinner • ERZABET BISHOP
Room with a View • ROSE DE FER
Fitting Assignment • MARIE REBELLE
Spider • VALERIE ALEXANDER
The Chrome-Plated Connection • GINGER F.
How to Fail • LAUREL ISAAC
Crush • GISELLE RENARDE
Housebroken • LAILA BLAKE
Stronger Than Steel • ALVA ROSE
Student Becomes Master • ROB ROSEN
Where the Sun Don’t Shine • CORVIDAE
Object • REGINA KAMMER
The Control Tower • OLIVIA SUMMERSWEET
Long Skirt • GIGI FROST
Breathless Obedience • CÈSAR SANCHEZ ZAPATA
Mine • ROXANNA CROSS
Second Date • ALICE GAUNTLEY
Table Manners • M. MARIE
Teddy, Bare • JERE HAKEN
The Problem Is, I’m a Bitch • CORRINE ARUNDO
The Lost Suitcase • TAMSIN FLOWERS
The Rhino • C. MARGERY KEMPE
Marni’s Working Area • DOMINIC SANTI
Lost in the Feeling • NICOLE GESTALT
Choker • SEAN FINN
Reverse Psychology • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Aftermath • MICHAEL IN TEXAS
Takedown • MARIEVIE
Hard Things • JOY FAOLÁN
Breathless • DORLA MOOREHOUSE
Perfect Gentleman • DONNA GEORGE STOREY
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION: THE MANY MEANINGS OF SUBMISSION
Submission means so many different things to different people, which is why I’m delighted to present to you sixty-nine varieties of serving, spanking, obeying, taunting, teasing, worshipping and more. These very short stories offer a glimpse into the mindset of those who live to serve, who desire to be bound or spanked or told what to do—or perhaps all three. They get off on giving themselves over to the men and women who control them, whether in the bedroom or the world beyond.
When the narrator of Corrine Arundo’s “Unanchored” is ordered to masturbate, the “submissive vixen” shares some of the magic of the command: “I love the words, like sharp pokes into my cerebral cortex, tricking me into forgetting everything else but this moment.” In many of these stories, a pet phrase or command is enough to trigger the submissive’s desire.
What many of these submissives want is to be seen, acknowledged, known and valued precisely for their eagerness to give every part of themselves over to another person. “I want to never be able to hide from you,” Joy Faolán writes in “I Want to Feel You,” which perfectly encapsulates the way the tops in these stories exhibit their mastery from the inside out.
You’ll find so much here, from naughty professors to sadistic former students to sex clubs, art galleries, photo shoots and more. Wherever the setting, the submission exhibited in these stories runs deep, far below the surface of the recipients’ tender skin, far louder than their cries of pleasure (and pain). Whether you read one story a day or devour them all at once, I hope these quick and dirty stories turn you on to new authors and new naughty possibilities.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
I WANT TO FEEL YOU
Joy Faolán
I want to feel you.
Not just physically. I don’t just want to feel your cock inside my cunt or your hand in my hair or your breath hot upon the shell of my ear as you whisper to me. I do want those things, but I want more than those things. What I want is deeper and bigger than us both.
I want to feel your power from across the room. I want to know, when I feel your eyes digging into the back of my head and your gaze chasing me through the crowds and finding me despite my attempts to hide from you, that I’ve become the object of your desire. I do not want to feel that I am someone you have to convince of something. I don’t want you to “hit” on me. I don’t want you to walk up to me and charm me or tell me jokes or offer to buy me a drink. It’s not that I don’t enjoy that sort of behavior. I take it as a compliment when men do this to me, but you and I both know that there is something much better, much more powerful, to be had. I want you to pursue me. I want you to hunt me down and make me your own. I want to know that you are convinced that you own me long before I even decide if I want you. I want to be your prey.
I want to feel you.
I want to know, as I walk out of the party that night, that your eyes are following me to my car. I want to feel uneasy about it. I want to have doubts and fears, but I want the knowledge, deep inside of me, that I will belong to you, eventually, because you want me to. Because you’ve decided. Out of all the other things in that room, I want to be the thing that you’ve chosen to be yours.
It won’t be a courtship. I don’t want you to ask me on a date. I want you to tell me where I’ll meet you, when, and how I will be dressed. I want to feel you inside my head. I want to be confused that you know so much about me when I’ve told you nothing. I don’t want to understand that it’s because you’ve been watching me for months. I don’t want to know that it’s because you made up your mind that I was yours long before I knew you even existed. Not yet.
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I want to feel you.
I want to feel you taking me over, your tendrils curling through my soul and wrapping themselves around every intimate fiber of my being. I want you to know everything about me. I want you to study my face as we sit in silence. I want you to watch in amusement as I squirm in my chair, uncomfortable in the quiet and wanting nothing more than for you to say something. I want you to watch my mannerisms when I am nervous, happy, fearful, sad, anxious and every other emotion. I want to never be able to hide from you.
I want you to systematically hunt me down, emotionally and mentally, and trap me in your cage. I want you to own me in ways that I will never fully understand. And I want it to be because you decided that you own me. I want it to be because you wanted me so much that it did not matter whether or not I wanted you. I want to be your obsession.
I want to feel you.
NAUGHTY PROF
Louisa Bacio
You say I’ve been a “bad girl” and ask if I want to be punished. If only you knew how naughty I’ve been.
Left my dirty clothes on the floor, forgot to change the empty paper-towel roll and smart-mouthed you. On purpose.
I can take what you can give me, and more. You know my limits, and how to stretch them, as you stretch me—wide.
We met in college, like many couples. Except you were the returning student, and I the professor. Every time you came to my office hours, you called me “prof,” with a slight turn-up of your lip and a semi-mocking tone. Should I have known then how quickly you’d get me to lift my skirt, bend over the desk and let you spank me?
On the first day of the fall semester, you sat in the last row, chair tilted back, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over your chest. While the rest of the students were the expected age, late teens to early twenties, at twenty-nine, you were only a few years younger than me. Among the lanky boys in the class, you stood out as a man, with broad shoulders and a self-confidence that unnerved me.
I tried to ignore the stare of your blue eyes, the curl of blond hair that refused to stay off your forehead. How I wanted to twist it. And each week, you moved one row closer, until midterms, which brought you to the front. As I lectured, each time I passed, the scent of your cologne filled my senses.
I’d never had a teacher-student relationship. It was a barrier I wouldn’t break. On the day of the final, you borrowed my textbook. One by one, everyone finished, turned in their tests and left, until only you and I remained in the room. You stood, stretching your arms upward, your blue T-shirt lifting to expose a taut belly covered with a soft curling of hair. I tried to look away—to look occupied with something else—but you caught me, and smiled. By your saunter to the front, I could see you knew your power.
Already, you controlled me. I just didn’t know it yet. I hadn’t surrendered my will.
As you handed over the book, your fingers grazed mine. “You know, Ms. Yvette, I really enjoyed your class. It’s a shame I won’t have you again. I’m graduating.” Your voice lifted at “have,” offering a double meaning.
Heat flushed up my chest, and my cheeks. “Thank you, Scott. It’s been my pleasure.”
“Not yet.”
The moment you walked out the door, I lifted the book to my face and inhaled your alluring scent. You’d left a mark on my property. It wouldn’t be the last.
I flipped through the pages, stopping on a blue Post-It note stuck on titillating.
Friday, 7 p.m. Coffee shop on Grand. Wear your black skirt, nothing underneath.
My hands shook. Could I? Would I? The message didn’t ask. It demanded.
Anticipation tingled through my sex, and I grew wet. I’ve never dated someone so forward. Although I’d harbored fantasies of submission and giving up control, no one had ever followed through. I’d hinted with my last boyfriend, but he never took the bait. Did something in me call out to you?
The days passed slowly, until Friday evening finally arrived. I dressed, sliding up the skirt, putting on my panties, removing them, then putting them on again. It wasn’t even a date, was it? I didn’t plan on sleeping with you on our first date. How would you know if I wore them or not? I stuffed a pair in my purse, and right before getting out of the car, slipped them back on.
You stood outside the restaurant, in the shadows, leaning against the wall. “Hey prof, over here.” I moved toward you, and the minute I was within reach, you slid your hand over my ass, pulling me against the hard ridge of your cock. Your mouth pressed against mine, taking what you wanted. If anyone had seen us, they’d have pegged us for longtime lovers.
Trailing small bites along my neck and chin until reaching my ear, you said, “Such a naughty girl, not listening to me.” To make sure I knew what you meant, you snapped the elastic of my underwear on the curve of my ass. “Now I’ll have to punish you so you listen next time.”
A warm heat rushed between my thighs. No matter how much I tried to fool myself, I became fully aware of your intentions. You guided me toward the back alley, a hand on my elbow. Darkness blanketed my sight. When we reached the farthest depths, you pushed me against the brick wall.
“Hands up high, and spread your legs wide. I want your ass out.” You punctuated each order with a slap to my inner thighs, forcing them apart. Your fingers flicked over my core, feeling the slickness. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Do you agree to this?”
My voice stuck in my throat. My mind told me to say no and get the hell out of here. There was still time to stop whatever was about to happen. But I didn’t want that.
“Yes.”
Without another comment, you reached under my skirt, gripped both sides of my panties and ripped them off. “In the future, you will listen to what I say, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now for your lesson.” You stuffed my own panties in my mouth to silence my screams, and folded my skirt up, tucking it into my waistband and leaving me exposed. The unfamiliar texture on my tongue distracted me, until the first smack hit my bare ass. Instinctively, my hips pivoted forward, and you held me steady.
You continued to spank me barehanded. One cheek, and then the other, until my flesh burned and you moved lower to the curve of my ass and upper thighs. Tears spilled down my face as I lost count.
“Hush,” you said, your fingers soothing over the soreness. You pushed your fingers into my aching sex and rubbed my clit with your thumb. I moaned against the gag, and pushed my ass against you. “You took it like such a good girl, and now you get your reward.”
I heard the sound of a zipper going down, then the foil of a condom wrapper. Your thick, hard cock nudged against my pussy, and you dove into me, to the hilt. My knees rubbed against the wall from the force, and I steadied myself for the fucking I was about to receive. One hand slipped under my bra to tweak my straining nipple, while the other massaged my clit. Already on edge, I shattered, my body convulsing in climax. You pumped into me until you came, biting me on the shoulder.
“You’re mine now.”
A week later, I moved into your condo.
* * *
Here we are three years later, and I’m still not trained. As you open the front door, you take a look around. Your gaze lands on me lying on the couch, watching cartoons, my feet propped on the armrest.
“Have you been a good girl?”
“No.”
Oh, baby.
STRIP
Medea Mor
Strip.”
The command came suddenly, his voice waking her from her reverie.
They were in his car, on their way home from a family get-together. They’d just entered the snowy lane that served as a back entrance to their sleepy town. They’d be home in less than ten minutes.
“Excuse me, Sir?” she asked, not sure whether she’d heard him correctly.
“Strip,” he repeated.
She obeyed, as she always did when he gave her that order. A titillating bolt of anticipation shot through her as she unfastened her sea
t belt, but taking off her long winter coat in the narrow passenger seat proved to be a harder task than she’d anticipated. She nearly hit Sir in the head as she pulled her right arm from her sleeve, causing him to swerve. No sooner had she succeeded in peeling off the coat than the next challenge presented itself in the form of her sexy black minidress. She heard him chuckle beside her as she struggled with the long zipper and clumsily wiggled from side to side to wrench the tight garment down over her hips. She was glad he’d told her not to wear any underwear that day; two items fewer to struggle out of made her assignment just a little less cumbersome.
“The boots, too, Sir?” she asked a little tentatively when she had folded her coat and dress and put them on the backseat.
He shook his head. “Leave the boots on, girl.” He continued driving, a mysterious smile playing on his lips.
She sank back into her seat, wondering what he had in mind for her. Was he going to let her sit naked next to him to display her to the world, showing off his devoted toy in all her glory? Or was he going to pull over to the side of the road, slide his seat backward and fuck her while she rode him, the snow-laden trees the only witnesses to her moans and his groping hands? Or was he finally going to make good on his promise to fuck her over the hood of his car? That would be a chilly experience, she suspected, what with the car having been outside in midwinter temperatures for hours. However, she trusted Sir implicitly, and if having her on the hood of his car was what he wanted, she’d comply. What was more, she’d probably enjoy it. She couldn’t deny that the thought of being taken on his car sent a small thrill through her, raising goose bumps on the back of her neck. When she looked down, she could see her nipples poke forward, hardening at the thought of his hands on her body and the cold bite of the steel below her.
They drove in silence for two more miles before he suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. “Out,” he commanded.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Out, Sir?”
“You heard me, girl. Get out of the car.” To her dismay, he showed no intention of getting out himself. His seat belt remained resolutely fastened and the engine kept running.
“But…but it’s at least five miles to our home, Sir,” she protested. “And it’s freezing.” And I’ll probably catch pneumonia and die, all because of this whim of yours. That is, if I don’t die of embarrassment first.
The Big Book of Submission Page 1