The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  He shot her his sternest look. “I believe I gave you an order, girl.”

  That humbled her. “Yes, Sir,” she mumbled contritely. The last thing she saw before she turned away to open her door was his smile, an odd mixture of triumph, curiosity and anticipation.

  She got out of the car, a little nervous but strangely turned on by the thrill of not knowing what was in store for her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir give her an encouraging smile as she slammed the door shut behind her. Then, to her acute horror, he drove off—slowly, very slowly, but unmistakably increasing the distance between himself and herself.

  She stood rooted to her spot for a second, too petrified to move. As the cold wind howled around her and snowflakes melted on her breasts, she followed the car with her eyes, scarcely able to believe that he’d leave her like this in the middle of winter. She breathed a sigh of relief when the car came to a halt about one hundred feet down the road.

  She stepped forward, hearing the molten snow splash under the high heels of her boots. The road was slippery, and she had to watch her step in order to avoid slipping.

  When she was nearly within touching distance of the car, she caught Sir’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was smiling at her, teasing her, challenging her. She smiled back, not really understanding the nature of the challenge, but determined to rise to it, anyway.

  He revved the engine. Slowly, ever so slowly, the car pulled away from her again, leaving her to the company of the wind and the snowflakes.

  She understood the challenge then. He was watching her in his rearview mirror, avidly following her every move, her every facial expression. She’d better give him a good show.

  Straightening herself and pulling her shoulders backward, she took a deep breath, allowing the crisp winter air to pervade her lungs. As she began to walk, she relished the cold wind lashing her skin and making it tingle. Each time a snowdrop alighted on her arms, she felt a thrill she had not experienced since childhood—a joy once cherished but forgotten, a throwback to a time when she’d been innocent, before she’d met him.

  Suddenly, she began to enjoy the challenge. As she put one foot in front of the other, exulting in her nudity, the cold and the opportunity to show off for Sir, she felt her hips sway from side to side, and the sexiness of the move sent a pulse of pleasure coursing through her, resonating deep in her pussy.

  He’d pull away from her again when she reached the car. She knew it in her bones, but the thought didn’t faze her, because at some point he’d stop and reward her for putting on such a good show. She knew that in her bones, as well, and the thought made her pussy pulse with excitement.

  Focusing her eyes on the tiny rearview mirror she could see in the distance, she gave him her most seductive smile. Then she took another step forward, and another, swaying her hips in a way he’d once told her drove him wild.

  Onward, ever onward. Toward him and toward her reward.

  TRAINING MY DOM

  Tilly Hunter

  He started it. We’d flirted by text for weeks. Filthy texts: I want to feel your hard cock deep in my throat, I’m going to lick your pussy until you scream…

  Tell me where your imagination’s been today, I wrote during a quiet moment at work.

  I thought about some handcuffs, came the reply. His mind was obviously not on office business either.

  I asked for clarification: For you or for me?

  I was thinking of using them on you xx.

  Halle-fucking-lujah.

  I’d wondered how to suggest that he might like to tie my wrists to the bedposts. He’d shown promise, pinning me down at the elbows with his arms and holding my hands. He was strong. We’d messed about, me trying to escape his grip, glad I couldn’t, breathless by the time he pushed my legs apart with his own and shoved his cock inside me. But actual bondage…I didn’t want to send him running for the hills. We had a definite spark, obvious from the moment mutual friends introduced us, and I really thought we could have a future together. He’d even mastered how I like my tea. Strong and sweet.

  But I couldn’t go on letting him think vanilla sex was enough. He had the potential to give me what I needed, but I agonized over how to coax it out of him. Jeez, the man didn’t even watch porn on his laptop, let alone the sites I was drawn to late at night. He thought vanilla was just a flavor of ice cream.

  I think that’s a very good idea, I replied. Later, over a glass of wine, I confessed, “Actually, Sam, I’ve been wondering how to ask you to tie me up. I love it when you hold me down and fuck me hard.”

  He hadn’t thought through the implications of one pair of handcuffs, the fact that with my arms locked in metal behind me it would be difficult for me to lie on my back for sex. And he seemed uncomfortable with the idea of making me do anything. Even after he cuffed me and I got to my suddenly weak knees and tongued his cock into my mouth, instead of grabbing a fistful of hair and fucking my face, he helped me to my feet, sat me on the edge of the bed and licked my pussy. He finally relocked the cuffs at the front and used a scarf to tie them to the top of the bed, then fucked me into mindless incoherence. It was a start.

  After the cuffs, we bought a gag. And I showed him the blindfold I owned. The ropes. The nipple clamps. All this stuff I was familiar with. But not Sam. Sam didn’t know that if you’re gagged facedown, drool is going to pour out of you onto whatever is beneath—his pillow, the carpet, bathroom tiles. Sam didn’t know that the shape of my nose meant I always had a sliver of vision under the bottom of the blindfold, unless he tied something over the top to press my eyes closed. And Sam didn’t know that the initial bite of the clamps was just the start. That eventually the nipples would numb only for fresh pain to flood in with the returning blood on their removal.

  These things I taught him. Slave training in reverse.

  Now, we’d booked a dirty weekend in a cozy cabin, miles from civilization, for our first anniversary. Sam really came into his own as a dom. And yet he was still Sam. Tender, considerate and far more romantic than me. I hadn’t even noted the date we’d first met, but a couple of months ago he’d asked, “Would you like to go away for our anniversary?”

  “Sure. When is that exactly?”

  So there we were, isolated in the middle of nowhere. Where no one could hear me scream, as he put it. I was standing naked on a hard slate floor beneath the mezzanine bedroom, arms high up my back in a box tie, rope wrapping them tight against my torso. More rope strung up from there to the bars of the balcony above, pulling me onto my toes. Ball gag, silk blindfold and silver bar nipple clamps screwed tight—and then screwed some more.

  I’d taught him to let me squirm before moving in for the action. That night, he left me until I was a whimpering, drooling mess, then he swung me to face the wall and spanked me. He’d perfected a ruthless, swatting action. He aimed right for the most tender spot he knew—not the meat of my butt but to the side, near my hip. I danced for him, hopping from one foot to the other, squealing around the gag, until I thought I could bear no more. I swung myself back, pressing my ass into the cool wood paneling for protection. He had other ideas. He tugged on my nipple clamps until I winced. Until I danced away and exposed my ass again.

  It turned into a game. I heard him chuckle about it. I’d turn my front to him and he’d abuse my nipples. I’d turn my back to him and he’d beat my ass. I was screaming, “No, no, no,” through the gag, but never once wanted to use the safe signal, a decisive shake of the head accompanied by three low grunts. He left me no time to analyze, no willpower to resist. When he reached between my legs and rubbed my clit, I came in seconds.

  He half-carried me to bed and held me while I fell asleep. The next day we walked in the woods, hand in hand. Lunch in a country café followed by tea and cake. Sensible footwear and shower-resistant fabrics. Admiring a view, enjoying a moment of sunshine between clouds. Simple pleasures. Normal holiday activities. Damp throbbing in my cunt the whole time, kept frustratingly strong by his gentle hand on
my ass, his tongue darting between my lips, his strong chest pressed against my tender nipples through clothing. Normal couple activities.

  “I’ve got an anniversary present for you,” he told me as we arrived back at the cabin. It was beautifully wrapped in burgundy paper with gold bows. He was thoughtful in everything. I opened it carefully, not ripping the paper. A collar. An inch-wide leather collar with a traditional buckle. I idly wondered if my trousers’ shower resistance worked from the inside. Otherwise I’d be sitting in a puddle.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. I looked him in the eye and said it louder. “Thank you.”

  “From now on, when we play, I will put this on you. When we’re finished, I will take it off. You do not touch it. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Oh yes.

  “If you want to play, you may ask to wear it. But you must get to your knees, place your hands behind your back and bow your head before saying the words: ‘Please, Sir, may I wear my collar?’ Understand?”

  “Yes.” Oh yes. Sam buckled it around my neck and I wore it with pure indulgent joy for the rest of the weekend and the journey home.

  DEAR SIR

  Kay Jaybee

  Dear Slut,

  As you were not permitted to speak, your task today is to write a detailed account of how yesterday’s events made you feel.

  Sir.

  Dear Sir,

  Forgive me Sir, but this was the first time one of your fantasies frightened me.

  It wasn’t that it would hurt, or that I’d feel small or neglected. I have faced your ropes, clamps and whips. You’ve kept me tied in a cupboard, spanked me until my flesh blooms from pink to scarlet, bound and gagged me before playing with my helpless body for hours, and sent me shopping wearing only a short coat, leaving me fearful that I’ll accidentally flash my butt or pussy to the world. These humiliations I don’t fear.

  I confess, Sir, I’m often anxious in the fulfillment of your fantasies; my palms prickle, my pulse races but anticipation makes my clit burn. As I obey you, my thighs become slick with need, and sometimes, Sir, I fear my breasts will swell so much with desire for you that they’ll burst from my bra.

  Afterward, Sir, when I’ve done what you’ve demanded, my sense of achievement is huge. Especially when I’m rewarded with a climax for a task well done. A task completed for you. To make you happy, Sir.

  If I haven’t performed to your standards, then my palms sweat. My body trembles, and my heart rate triples as, naked and trembling, I excitedly wait to see what I’ll have to do to make amends for disappointing you.

  This time though…this time I was afraid in a very different way. I couldn’t stop thinking this was your way of replacing me. That after seven years, you’d become bored with my service. I’ve been expecting dismissal since my fortieth birthday, Sir. Every day I think it will be the day you swap me in for a younger model, with less marks of life upon her fresher flesh.

  Yesterday the shine in your hazel eyes was as deep as I’ve ever seen, as you took me by the wrists, pushed me to my knees and instructed me to listen as I sucked your cock. An opportunity had arisen for us to live out one of your long-held fantasies.

  I’m always grateful to be allowed to take your length within my mouth, Sir, but as I listened yesterday, goose pimples dotted my arms, and it took more effort than I’ve ever known not to react negatively to your plan. I could tell by the speed with which you came between my lips that you were more excited by this than your low steady voice was letting on.

  You’ve shared me before. Invited men here, and instructed me to do their bidding as you looked on, your pride in my obedience as intoxicating to me as any of their touches. There have been women here, too. You have carefully placed advertisements for females who have always wanted to be with a woman, but have never dared, have brought strangers to our home to use me in whatever way they want. I love observing you, Sir, as you become voyeur, your strong hand wrapped around your cock, wanking in time to these willing amateurs’ laps at my clit.

  Yesterday was different. I wonder as I write for you, Sir, if perhaps you saw the uncertain fear in my eyes as I obeyed you. I hope not. Truly, Sir, it never occurred to me not to obey.

  We were to visit a younger woman. Much younger. A twenty-year-old. She, you informed me, had let you know in no uncertain terms that she wanted you. You’d initially informed her that you were spoken for, but she hadn’t given up. In the end you bluntly told her there was only one circumstance in which she could see you fuck. A circumstance she agreed to.

  You gave me one hour to shower and dress in my best underwear, black hold-up stockings, miniskirt, and a black vest top. Then I was to slip on a sweater and boots and wait for you in the car. I was to say nothing. Nothing at all.

  I felt sick as you drove, your cock visibly hard beneath the denim of your jeans, your red shirt crumpled, your short hair spiked up, the stubble around your chin making you look every bit as attractive as when I first knelt before you.

  Young and mature. That’s what you wanted. You would fuck us both at the same time. You would enjoy observing her young skin against mine. Sir, never have I felt so frightened. How could I compete with a woman half my age? I was so conscious of the gray within my hair, the wrinkles that highlight my eyes. Sir, I was convinced I’d enter her home as your Slut, but leave as nothing.

  You kissed me as we stood on her doorstep, before placing a finger on my lips. Despite my unease, I felt the frisson of power you engender flow through every fiber of my being, hardening my nipples as it shot on a course that aimed between my legs with ultimate certainty.

  The front door opened. She looked at you, Sir, and then at me. Her eyes gave little away except that she was nervous. I hadn’t expected that. It was her home, yet you pulled me up the stairs into her flat, leaving her to trail behind us. The way you looked at me, Sir, it was as if your blazing eyes were telling me you’d never wanted me more.

  You stripped me faster than ever before. I thought my blood would burst from my veins it was pumping so fast. My competitor’s eyes widened as you told her to strip at the same time as you did.

  Once naked, oh Sir, it was not her you fell on, but me! Your lips met mine, and your cock buffered against the slight pot of my belly. It was so hard not to make a sound. I remained mute though. This girl wasn’t going to take you from me because I’d failed.

  Twisting me to look at her, I saw how huge her tits were, how rounded her belly was, and I was desperate for you to let me fall upon her pliant flesh. Thank you, Sir! For you pushed me down, burying my face between her luscious breasts, letting me squeeze and flick her nipples, as you slipped on a condom and slid inside me.

  Pushing a finger into her glistening channel, you took us together, your eyes never leaving the line of contrast where our flesh met. Mine light and fit from regular sex, hers softer, pale, plentiful, and deliciously yielding. I could have become lost in her, but only because you were there, Sir, only because you wished it.

  It was your eyes that took away my fear, Sir. When you told me to put my finger inside her while you played with her tits, and she filled my palm with juice, yelling out her joy, I knew that this truly was one of your fantasies. This was not about replacing me.

  I hope this account pleases you, Sir.

  Slut.

  PUT YOUR HANDS UP

  Sommer Marsden

  It’s all through the party that I wait. I love the company, our friends and family over to see our new home, but under it all runs a thread of distraction. A steady pounding beat of arousal that catches me in my throat, my chest, between my legs.

  He’s wearing his pocket watch. The round watch is in the small pocket of his vest, the shiny chain clearly visible. Everyone is commenting on how suave he looks. Garrett smiles and blows it off with a joke. But I can look at that chain and hear him in my head: Put your hands up…

  I flutter around like a coked-up butterfly, briefly forgetting what’s going to happen to talk to someone I love or someone I h
aven’t seen in ages. But then he walks in and I see that chain and my cunt flexes wetly and my mind goes a little fuzzy. His hazel eyes find me, and he grins that grin that turns me to nothing but liquid and hope.

  It’s already eleven at night and I wonder if these people will ever, ever leave.

  Finally, thankfully, they do. When the door snicks shut, Garrett turns to me. “You got yourself pretty wound up about that party.”

  “I always do,” I admit. My voice is just little puffs of air.

  “You know I don’t like that. You should have more faith in yourself as a hostess.”

  I look at my feet. I really had worked myself up into a froth. I’d snapped at him and I panicked and at one point even cried that we would not have enough food or booze or guests.

  I’d been a mess.

  He looks at the watch as if regarding the time. He’s not. “Go upstairs, Izzy.”

  I turn on my heels, my body thrumming with anticipation. Anticipation of pain. Of pleasure. Of peace. Garrett will take me all the way up so that I can come all the way down.

  When I reach the top of the stairs he yells, “Get ready for me.”

  I don’t have to ask. I know exactly what to do.

  I take my dress off delicately, then drape it over the back of the armchair by the bed. I roll my hose down, careful to remove my panties and my bra and fold them neatly. Then I sit on the end of the bed with my knees pressed together to wait for him.

  He takes his time coming up the steps. Every time his foot strikes the carpet I grow more restless inside, more desperate.

  When he enters the room, I stand. My feet are planted dead center on the throw rug. It looks like a big black-and-gray bull’s-eye. I curl my toes to the nap and try to remember to breathe. He smiles at me perfunctorily as he walks past me. I hear the whisk of his belt coming out of the loops. His clothing whispers conspiratorially as he takes it off. Then there is a sudden crack of sound and I jump.