The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  The crop is black and blue. Garrett jokes that it’s the same colors as the hues it imparts.

  “How are you, Izzy?”

  Vibrating…

  “I’m better.”

  “Better now that you’re alone with me?”

  “God, yes,” I say, forgetting myself. I blush like we’re new lovers. He smiles, running the crop along the back of my thigh so a slow tremble begins at my knees and seems to roll through me like a wave.

  “Good. I’m glad. Now let’s say we work out all that angst.”

  The pocket watch is gone, but I know what time it is. I nod and try not to brace myself. It’s better if you don’t.

  “Put your hands up,” he says. I see that his cock is hard just saying it. This is a matter of will—my will and his.

  I put my hands up like I’m under arrest.

  He strives to make me break. I strive to persevere. In the end, everyone wins. I like my pleasure with a pain appetizer. Garrett likes to watch my face as I struggle and either surrender or succeed. I am rewarded when I win, and rewarded when I lose.

  The crop slides up the back of my thigh, whisks pleasantly along my bottom, drags lazily along my lower back. I don’t know—not at all—where he will strike. The urge to brace myself is nearly overwhelming.

  The first strike—much like a snake—comes along my flank. I must not put my hands down. Not until he says that he is done. The natural urge is to cover yourself when hit. I must resist that urge.

  The second and third blows crisscross each other and my arms begin to shake. My pussy clenches, hot and greedy. I chew my bottom lip to focus. He taps the crop against my pounding clit—gently, but enough to make me quiver. I cry out but keep my fucking hands up.

  The crop bites at the top of my thighs, the swell of my ass, the crack between my cheeks. It snaps at my legs and my calves and I tremble, sweating just a bit on my upper lip. But I keep my arms up as my anxiety ratchets higher but then begins a swift descent. I am finding my peace, my Zen.

  Four more sharp blows and I am sobbing but my hands are up like a good sub and I haven’t covered myself against his blows. I’ve kept myself open to him.

  “Good girl,” he growls and drops the crop. “I’m very pleased.”

  So pleased that he grabs my aching upper arms and spins me to the wall. He plants my hands against the cool plaster and knocks my legs wide apart. A single finger is inserted into me and he flexes it. I shudder and sob and he laughs softly.

  “Do you know how wet you are?”

  “Yes,” I confess.

  And then he’s in me. Big hands gripping the bell of my hips, his cock nudging me apart before thrusting in again, deeper and deeper it seems with every stroke. I push my forehead to the wall and shut my eyes and let all the worry left in me spiral away. He’s here and taking care of me and I won. I was successful. I was a good girl.

  Garrett’s mouth comes down hot and wet on the back of my neck. The skin prickles and my nipples spike. He’s driving into me with quick, brutal thrusts. My womb clenches up, my pussy grows taut. He finds my moisture and spreads it to the plump knot of my clit. In just a few slick swirls, I’m coming. I succeeded, I am allowed.

  I climax with a great sob, feeling utterly boneless. Empty of worry or stress or fear. I’m empty but for him. He yanks my hips back against him, presses his teeth to my neck and whispers, “Good girl,” once more before coming with a growl. The room grows silent. My hands are still up.

  CRUNCHES

  Annabeth Leong

  Long before I noticed myself getting wet while doing sit-ups for Shira, she attracted me. Her thick librarian glasses seemed incongruous with her brightly colored workout clothes. Considering her abundance of lean muscle, she had a magically generous ass. I wanted her immediately, even more than I wanted to be like her.

  The way I am, that meant I also wanted to do as she said, as much and as well as possible. I wanted to hear her call me a good girl.

  Sexual fantasies blurred most of our initial consultation. I kept imagining sweat dripping off the ends of her long black hair as she tied me to the suspension training hookups dotting the gym walls and forced me to pull at my restraints until I passed out from the effort. When she asked if I thought she would be a good personal trainer for me, I just stammered.

  The first few months, even when I thought she didn’t know, my desire got me unprecedented results. It warmed my heart to think about the complimentary notes she could write into my file, about how I was so hardworking, so dedicated and so devoted to our process. I couldn’t have cheated on her dietary suggestions any more than I could have slept around behind a beloved girlfriend’s back.

  The pounds melted off. I did double takes at the elegant shape of my neck in my shadow. Every movement I made, I felt Shira watching, controlling and approving—even when I was alone.

  One day, after she’d put me on the adductor machine and had me squeeze my thighs together against heavy resistance, I gave in to the urge that had been building. I rushed home, ripped off my sweats and jumped into the bathtub with my vibrator in hand. I held myself in a half crunch (careful to pretend I had an orange under my chin for proper neck position), and stayed that way until my pulse pounded like a jackhammer and it felt like every drop of blood in my body had gathered just below my tightened abs. I shoved the vibrator deep inside my cunt, switched it to maximum intensity, then clenched every muscle in my body until I came. As I gasped and shuddered, hot water splashing around my shaking thighs, I could have sworn I heard Shira’s voice, counting off the spasms.

  The next time she squatted near me while I did crunches, the smell of my arousal wafted from my cunt, sharp and undeniable. Her face didn’t change, but a few moments later, I scented an answering tang. I moaned softly, but only the burning red of my cheeks acknowledged the sound.

  When she emailed my weekly workout instructions later that evening, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Crunches and adductors and the locust and the exercise bike—a routine guaranteed to arouse me beyond all reason. I had hidden nothing from her. And at the bottom of the email, an especially odd note: Remember, you can always stop a session if you feel uncomfortable for any reason—just tell me you need to take a break. I must also formally request you refrain from other workouts of any kind. I don’t want you to stimulate your muscles on your own, without my supervision.

  I stared at my computer screen. I don’t know how the message would have looked to someone who’d never tried BDSM, but I couldn’t mistake Shira’s hidden meaning. She’d given me a safeword and an order to refrain from masturbation, all without stepping out of her role as my personal trainer.

  I needed to tell her I understood, that I was more than okay with this turn. Biting my lip, I typed, “Shira, you are my one and only exercise mistress.” A little cheesy, but clear enough, I hoped.

  The week of stimulating exercises combined with no orgasms had me vibrating with need by the time our next appointment came around. Now I could barely breathe whenever Shira’s slim fingers adjusted my position. Toward the end of our workout, she ordered me onto the exercise bike, guiding me so far forward my clit mashed flat against the hard, thin seat between my legs.

  I wanted to moan, but we scheduled our sessions for right after I got off work, when the gym was packed. People worked out less than two feet away from me in every direction. Shira’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder blade, implicitly commanding me to remain in place. “Do you need to take a break?” she whispered.

  “God, no.” It sounded like the orgasmic plea it was.

  Her smile cleared away any remaining confusion. This was sexual. “Did you follow my instructions? You haven’t been doing extra workouts, have you?”

  “No.” I stayed in place, restrained by the pressure of her hand as surely as by a rope harness.

  “Good. I can’t have you overstimulating yourself.”

  I wondered if someone overhearing would pick up her naughty meaning.

  “I think
it’s time for crunches,” Shira said.

  My legs shook as she led me off the exercise bike and over to a mat. I got into position.

  “You’ve gotten strong,” she told me. “We need to increase the challenge.” She took the largest round, flat weight from a nearby rack and settled it over my chest and belly, flattening my torso.

  “I can’t—”

  “Hug it tight.”

  I crossed my arms over it.

  “Now crunch.”

  My muscles trembled from the strain of holding up the weight. My nipples rubbed against it. Shira settled near my feet, her hands trailing down the backs of my calves, then holding my ankles in place.

  I gasped and panted. My cunt felt tighter than a clenched fist.

  Shira looked straight into my eyes and adjusted the weight so the edge rested on my mons. It was so heavy, I felt its pressure squeezing the subterranean part of my clit, where ordinarily only the most powerful vibrations could reach. “Hold that up until you feel every muscle in your body release. Give me your best effort.”

  I needed her approval even more than I needed an orgasm. I tightened my core and humped that weight for all I was worth, grunting as I did. Still holding one ankle, Shira leaned forward and pressed the weight harder against my body, increasing the tension inside me without touching my clit directly.

  I came with a whimper, falling flat on the mat with sweat pouring into my eyes. Shira removed the weight immediately, replacing it on the rack and returning with water in a small paper cup. “Good girl,” she said, and my entire body thrilled to the words I had longed for. “How are you?”

  I smiled as much as I could manage through the lingering burn in my abs. “I think we need to schedule more sessions. Maybe three times a week?”

  She clucked her tongue, her eyes devious behind the slight fog on her glasses’ lenses. “You’ll have to come to my home office if you want to work out that often.”

  BUTCH UNBOUND

  Salome Wilde

  I caught myself holding my breath again. I was spread, impossibly wide, in every sense of the word. No one before Lakeisha had ever been able to do this to me, had ever wanted to. I felt the burning in my lungs that meant I would have to give in, take another ragged breath that would communicate my submission better than any pleading or safeword. Lakeisha was opening me, owning me, and I craved her control with every inch of my bound, aching flesh.

  “My baby’s pretty pussy needs fucking, doesn’t it?” she mocked, tugging my pubic hair.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as my hands balled into fists, straining against the cuffs that were locked behind my head.

  Lakeisha yanked.

  I yelped, a sound so wrong I’d never regain my reputation if anyone other than Lakeisha ever heard it.

  “Tell me, baby,” she cooed, as if she hadn’t nearly brought tears to my eyes with that merciless grip. She was teasing me now, fingertips trailing through the thatch she’d threatened to shave on more than one occasion.

  I bit my lip, desperate not to yield to her manipulation. I was no one’s “baby.” My cunt was no “pussy,” pretty or otherwise. I longed to wrench my ankles free and slam my legs together, trapping her hand with the dark, thick, muscular thighs I showed to no one but my Lakeisha-girl.

  She threaded her fingers deeper and squeezed. When she pulled up, I hissed through my teeth. “Bitch.”

  Lakeisha laughed. “That’s right, baby,” she answered, voice sweet and rich as only my vicious black femme could make it. “I’m a bitch.” She released and patted me gently, condescendingly. “But right now? You’re my bitch.” She shoved two fingers into me, hard.

  “Fuck!” I hated this just as much as I needed it. Even though I knew it was coming. Even though I hadn’t given in to the taunting this time. Even though I was bigger, stronger, rougher. None of it did me a bit of good. My cunt was hers because I wanted it to be. I was her bitch and then some. I twisted in the bonds, and she laughed more fully as she climbed over me and shoved her sweet, shaved pussy in my face as she added a third finger and pumped me.

  “Shit,” I gasped. “Lakeisha…shit!” Any other complaint was smothered with dark, wet flesh, ground across and over my mouth. Her weight on me meant I couldn’t even get my tongue in to taste her. I had to take whatever she gave, however she chose to give it. I could barely breathe, barely see the round, honey-brown ass rocking back and forth as she took her pleasure from me at both ends. Slowly, I yielded to the rhythm, as I did every time, mind diving into shame as my body rose to glory.

  To our friends, I was Lakeisha’s Daddy and she was my girl. My arm fit just right around her slim waist, fingertips tucked into the front pocket of her tight jeans. She loved my short natural and I loved the dark curls that rippled over her shoulders. She made me flex for her, and I made her come for me.

  The first times we’d fucked, it was just as it should’ve been: I gave and she took. Fingers, strap-on, mouth: I made my baby girl peak and shatter and beg for more. The power was delicious and familiar. But Lakeisha wasn’t satisfied with familiar. She loved her Daddy, but she wanted to love Lisa, too. Lisa. I wasn’t “Lisa” except on my driver’s license and at Mama’s house for the holidays. Even at my warehouse job, they used my last name.

  But New Year’s Eve betrayed me. Long before midnight I was drunk as hell, and my girl was too gorgeous in her electric-blue thong to deny. She had me tied up in knots even sailors don’t know before I thought about stopping her. By then it was too late for anything but straining and cursing until she broke me…and claimed my heart forever.

  I was arching into her thumb as it worked my clit while she rubbed my soaked face raw. I could feel her swell as I fought climax. The butch in me needed her to come first, while the dominant femme in her wasn’t going to have it. The fight was terrible and beautiful until I felt her hand at my rib cage, edging along the bottom of the bandages that bound my chest. From beneath her flushed, swollen pussy, I whined.

  Lakeisha paused, then slowly climbed off. Her wide brown eyes locked with mine. While one thumb brushed my clit with determined lightness, the other was slipping beneath the elastic of the binding.

  Every tensed muscle in my body was screaming no as my mouth hung open. Having Lakeisha control me sexually had made love and lovemaking new and miraculous. From oversized anal plugs to devious paddlings—I never balked. But this…was this the ultimate submission my girl needed?

  I was terrified. I felt cold sweat breaking out as Lakeisha’s first finger over the cloth met her thumb beneath. I imagined her reaching into the night-table drawer to take out the little knife she liked to tease my pussy with and slitting the bindings completely. My small, soft breasts were released—large, dark nipples suddenly hers to lick and bite, pinch and pull…or suckle, becoming my baby in a way I couldn’t bear to contemplate. I pulled my mind away as she tugged at the formerly tucked tail of the bandage. Time stopped.

  Lakeisha had seen me wrap so many times. She’d even helped me for a week after I’d sprained my wrist. And we’d been naked together plenty, stripping down after a workout or showering together. But we’d never fucked that way. We’d hooked up in the first place because she liked who I was—a bound butch in oversized shirts, baggy pants, and kicks. Nothing we did in bed would change that, I thought. Clearly, though, there was a part of me she still wanted to expose. My parted lips couldn’t form the word Don’t as my gaze hardened, betraying the truth that while I didn’t want limits to my submission, I didn’t want this, either.

  Lakeisha looked away, and then gave the tiniest of nods as she carefully but firmly tucked the cloth back in. She sighed softly as she lay beside me, wrapping an arm across my chest, her head on my shoulder. My heart was pounding in my ears. “Why did you stop?”

  “Hard limit, Daddy,” Lakeisha murmured, kissing my collarbone. “Not yours, but mine.”

  I smiled.

  THE PRODIGY

  Valerie Alexander

  The gray fog of dawn was j
ust beginning to lift over Las Vegas as I left my sleeping boyfriend in bed. Philip looked as pretty as ever in the sheets, his dark-gold hair and rich-boy features turning him into a sleeping Adonis, but I felt no urge to wake him up. Once he’d been my Master, my dom who knew how to degrade and subjugate and thrill me. But over the last week, it had become obvious that our once-hot connection was dead.

  We’d come to visit his very rich and very kinky friend in Vegas to rekindle the kind of games we used to play. His friend’s enormous villa was dedicated to BDSM, with frequent play parties and an elaborate dungeon. But Philip had been at the casinos every day and drinking every night; he hadn’t dominated me once since we got here. I didn’t actually care if he ever touched me again, but I was aching for a good hot scene with some beautiful brute.

  I was also aching to see Alejandro one more time, but that wouldn’t be happening, either.

  Alejandro was the nineteen-year-old pool boy. Aloof, tanned and silent, he’d been my secret pleasure on this vacation. His face was moody rather than handsome, his full lips curling into a sneer when the other guests gushed over his bronzed chest and tattooed arms. But the way he flexed his hip to net the leaves out of the pool, letting his pants fall down just enough to show off his rock-hard abs, said he wasn’t immune to being admired. Alejandro knew how to package himself: the unattainable boy who was all ink, muscle and attitude.

  I hadn’t bothered flirting with him. He was way too young to master me the way I needed, despite his lofty arrogance. And besides, I’d heard of other villa guests trying and failing to enjoy an hour of his surly charms. So I made small talk with him while I was tanning and left it at that.

  Unfortunately today was Sunday and I figured he didn’t come in on the weekends. I wouldn’t see him again before leaving tonight. But I tried not to think about that as I walked through the house in my short cotton nightie. All the other guests were sleeping in whatever bedrooms they’d staggered off to hours earlier. One couple was asleep on the sofa, her naked but for her pearls, him naked but for her panties. I stepped outside, my bare feet cold on the patio. Then I heard a familiar noise: the click of the backyard gate.