The room was slowly being filled in as the bulb warmed, and Nina could hear the scrape of chairs and feet, the chatter of voices down the narrow hall lending a sort of musicality to the scene, disjointed and distant as it was.
“Skirt up.” Her voice didn’t waver with the commands, and she kept her eyes on Lizzie’s; the student, in turn, seemed unable to tear her own away, even as she flipped up the hem of her skirt and inched it up her thighs, holding it at the waistband.
She was clean shaven, but her cunt was already swollen and purple, an almost startling contrast to the white of her thighs. Her head tipped back against the wall, next to a narcissist’s epitaph scrawled in uneven black letters, her eyes following Nina’s descent to the floor, like water cascading, one fluid movement, her skirt billowing and pillowing around her knees when she landed.
There was a time allowance—there always was, either by design or by the sheer fact that they were in a busy restaurant during the Saturday brunch rush, and Nina wasted no time pushing Lizzie’s thighs apart and forcing the girl to rise up on her toes again to keep level, her ass pushing away from the wall almost automatically. Nina had to giggle, and Lizzie whined at it, her big dark eyes still on the woman on the floor, but already unfocused, fingers kneading at the fabric clutched in her hands.
Nina used only the tip of her tongue first, pressed to that crest at the top of Lizzie’s sex, slipping down that little hill to meet the exposed tip of her clit. Lizzie’s response was quite instantaneous: a sudden high-pitched whine, quickly choked as she ducked her chin, an effort to keep herself quiet. Her hands were occupied, so she couldn’t bite at her palm. Nina flashed her a smile, conspiratorial, and repeated the motion, and again, a teasing, testing flick, back and forth, too much and too little at once.
Lizzie sputtered out something that could have been English, or Swahili, or some long-dead language, pulling her skirt up over her belly as she tipped her pelvis closer to Nina’s mouth. Nina let her advance for just a moment, flat of her tongue caressing the girl’s clit, slit and smooth inner lips all at once, before she drew back.
“You know what you’re supposed to do,” she said, eyebrows raised, all teacher with her glasses and patronizing expression.
“Please please please,” came that pant, without hesitation, the lips on Lizzie’s face gone purple, too, with that same rush of blood. She was nodding her head with each syllable, eyes blinking desperately already against the tears pooling along the rims.
Nina’s mouth curled in a smile. “There you go.” And there was a reward for that, of course, tongue pushing her folds apart, firm this time, lapping along her clit, over her wet pussy, with full intention and attention now.
Lizzie squirmed over Nina, desperation making her pull her skirt higher and higher until it was locked under her breasts, hands pressed to her ribs. She whined and wiggled and pleaded, and, when she came, it was with a squeal, like she’d been pricked with a needle, her body spasming up from the wall before smacking back against it, shaking.
Nina wiped her mouth and got unsteadily to her feet, her own cunt pulsing, neglected. She was dizzy as she reached for the phone and touched the screen so it illuminated, the speakers turned all the way up.
“Good girls.” His voice was warm over the line, and the light above the sink finally synced into place, as though waiting for his commentary, just as they were.
Nina rubbed her cheek to her shoulder and Lizzie fixed her skirt, face flushed. “Thank you.” They spoke in unison, like dolls with their cords pulled.
“Come on home, then,” he said, and there was the distinct clink of his belt over the line, clear as day. “I miss you.”
LOVE AND SALT
Erzabet Bishop
Good, you’re here.” Mrs. Coulter smiled and held out her hands for me to hand over my clothes.
I put down my bag and slid my shirt over my head. Not wearing a bra was preferable on Tuesdays. Besides, it saved time. Slipping off my sandals, shorts and panties, I knelt on the ground at her feet and allowed her to add whatever accessories my Mistress had in mind for today’s activities.
Mrs. Coulter brushed my hair and gathered it into a ponytail. She slid a blue nylon dog collar around my neck and snapped on the leash.
“Get up.”
I lowered my eyes to the floor and did as she bade me. It had been a week since I’d seen my Mistress and my pussy yearned for her touch. Still, I wondered why a nylon collar and not my leather one. Had I done something to upset my Mistress? The thought had me biting my lip in frustration and I almost missed an instruction.
Mrs. Coulter led me into the kitchen and ordered me to sit on the floor. She then tethered me to a new ring that had been placed on the island. Interesting.
“Wait here.”
I knelt in Mistress’s favorite position, with my knees bent and separated, my shoulders back, thrusting out my breasts for her inspection. I knew from experience that I had better be ready or face a punishment.
“Victoria. How lovely to see you.” Mistress entered the kitchen, still in her work clothes. The silver-gray suit and frosted lavender blouse highlighted her waves of dark curls. I longed to feel them against my flesh.
“Yes, Mistress.” I lowered my eyes, a smile brightening my face.
“Get up so I can see those beautiful breasts.”
I wobbled a little as I stood, keeping my hands behind my back and my breasts thrust out toward her.
“Lovely. Now, remove my clothes.” She unhooked my leash, and I hurried to do as she commanded.
I draped her jacket on the top of one of the kitchen chairs. Fingers shaking, I unbuttoned her blouse and let the silken fabric pool under my fingertips as I unfastened the buttons. She slid out her arms and, clad in her bra, bent down and kissed my left breast.
“I have missed you, my girl.” Her slate-gray eyes twinkled with mischief. “Now, hurry.”
I moved behind her and slid the zipper down on her skirt. Her bra was easy to unhook, but as I knelt down to remove her shoes and underwear, I paused to kiss her shoe.
“Impertinent girl. Did I tell you to kiss anything? Five paddles for you. Now finish the job.”
“Yes, Mistress.” I carefully pulled off her shoes and placed them by her clothes. She was not wearing any panties.
“Good. Now go and stand at the counter with your ass pointed to me.”
As I heard her bustling around the kitchen, moisture began to pool between my legs. My Mistress was most inventive.
“Now, you will hold still and count to five.”
I braced myself on the counter and as the first slap came, I winced.
Crack!
“One.”
“That was for your willfulness.”
Crack! Crack!
“These are for your daydreaming. Pay attention or you’ll find yourself unhappy for the rest of the evening.”
“Two and three. Thank you, Mistress.” I hiccuped a sob as the heat crackled in waves across my bottom.
“This one is for my pleasure.”
Crack!
“Four,” I sobbed, tears running down my face as she hit me particularly hard.
Crack!
“This one is for yours.” She rubbed her heavy breasts against my back and brushed her thatch of hair against my flaming ass.
“Five.” Thank you, Mistress, for correcting me.” Liquid boiled between my thighs as the scent of my arousal flooded the air.
“Good. Now up on the counter and lie flat. I have a special treat for both of us tonight.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I climbed up as she’d ordered and lay down.
“Now, what is my favorite drink, my lovely slave?” She was gathering things from around the kitchen and placing them above my head, where I could not see.
“I would think, Ma’am, that your absolute favorite is the salted caramel mocha, if I am not mistaken.”
“Good girl. Since I have not seen my favorite slave for a week and I also long to taste my favorite dr
ink, what do you think we should do?”
“Whatever my Mistress pleases.”
“I quite agree.”
Mistress tethered me down to the counter with soft nylon rope attached to built-in rings. My pulse pounded as she took out the first two squeeze bottles and drizzled something cold across my breasts, belly and just above my mons. The smell of chocolate and caramel tickled my nose and I moaned, delighting in the sensation as her mouth began to move across my flesh.
“Hmmm. Very sweet. Caramel suits you, my dear.” She squeezed out some more over my breasts and reached for the salt, shaking it over me. Starting at my breasts, she roamed her way just upward of the apex of my thighs and licked at the sticky caramel and chocolate she had poured across my needful flesh. “Now, I wonder. Are you ready for more?”
I moaned, hungry for her lips to devour me in my most tender of places. She had touched me every place but where I wanted it the most.
“Lovely.” She moved between my legs and began to nibble along the side of my moist folds.
I writhed under her ministrations and shrieked as she sucked my erect clit into her mouth, my hips bucking against her face.
“Oh my god. Oh my goooodddd!” I screamed as she gave a long and languorous ice-cream lick down my folds and entered me with three of her fingers, stretching me wide open.
She hammered my pussy with her fingers and sucked my clit into her mouth, sending sparks of electricity through my body. I came, shuddering, against her hand as she mouthed her way back up to my breasts, pleasure meeting pain as she nipped at my erect nubs with her teeth.
Mistress stood and wiped her face with a moist towel, then kissed me long and hard. I could taste myself on her tongue. I moaned against her mouth as she reached above my head for another temptation. Holding up a small cup of ice and a butterfly vibrator, she plucked a piece of ice from the cup and inserted it into my heaving cunt.
“Ohhhh!” I breathed as she secured the vibrator around my hips and positioned it for its fullest potential against my clit. The ice made me writhe against my bonds. She smacked me on the thigh. I began to pant and struggle to get myself under control. The ice burned as my pussy clenched around it greedily.
“Stop.” Mistress gave me a stern look and flicked on the vibrator.
Pleasure and pain ricocheted through me as the pulse of the vibrator took over. I could barely breathe.
Mistress smiled wolfishly and turned the dial higher.
“I think it’s time we tried a blended iced latte. What do you think?”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
BRAZEN
Kathleen Delaney-Adams
I want you to hurt me.
I am kneeling in the parking lot of the bar, already in agony after mere minutes on the asphalt. Although we have been loving and fucking for years, I still dress to impress you (read: make you hard) and tonight I went all out, femme guns blazing, before you swung me up on the back of your bike and drove me to the dyke bar for a poetry reading. Now my slinky dress is hiked up high somewhere around my thighs, surely my pussy is showing and my new heels are no doubt scratched to bits. I hear the chatter and curious mutterings of passersby on their way to the reading. I feel anxious, for I am supposed to be performing at the open mic, and you grabbed my upper arm in your hand and dragged me out here before the andro-mistress-of-ceremonies called my name.
I feel anxious, for I have no idea what you want.
Every time you touch me, my need expands beyond me, outside of restraint. Incapable of controlling it, I dissolve into liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless you hurt me, use your hands on me with a violence I recognize as your love. I am left waiting for your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.
Your face looks more than slightly dangerous with need, and relief washes over me when I see the smile lurking behind your eyes. That mix of dark and sweet in you had me, claws in deep, from the moment we met. Bad boy with brutal hands or irresistibly charming butch—no matter, I was a goner. Still am. You cup my head tenderly in one hand and unzip your jeans slowly with the other, savoring the sudden gleam in my eye. How I love the sound of your zipper. I tremble as much from anticipation of what is coming next as from the sharp pain in my knees and legs.
The first time you marked my face we had been fucking for days, your cock claiming me as if you had waited a lifetime for my cunt. I pushed you, pleading—it was so big it hurt me, and fear and desire warred inside me. You called me your whore and made me take it, and in that moment, I would have done anything for you.
The first time you marked my face you were slapping it in the front seat of my car, your other hand gripping my hair, calling me filthy while I sobbed. The next morning your handprint was visible on my cheek, purple and blue. I felt terrified and elated.
“Do you like to make me feel good, baby?” you croon, and I melt. I nod eagerly, bite my lower lip, want to scream, “Yes!” and throw myself at you. But you don’t want that; you have asked me to kneel in front of you and wait for your instructions like a good girl. So I wait, wetter by the minute, my pussy creaming and slick, just the way you like it to be when you touch me.
“Show me how good.”
You are stroking your cock languidly. I cannot tear my eyes from you, your hand, your girth. Your cock drives me crazy—watching you handle it even more so—and I gasp, “Yes, yes,” as you move it closer to my mouth.
When you say, “Let me come down your throat,” I swallow you whole.
I have craved. For an eternity, I have craved. I thought tenderness happened at the moment I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now I realize that I was wrong. Tenderness is the moment I break and you push me beyond—beyond fear, beyond limits. Tenderness is the way you carry me into my craving and stay with me while I struggle. A moment snaps inside me and I am flying toward you and you knew all along I could take it.
I have never been so safe in all of my life.
I forget everything but this feeling. I forget the parking lot, the queers around us entering and leaving the bar, the noise, the nervous rush I feel when you fuck me in public. I forget all of it, and work my mouth on you like it’s all I live for. I take you inside me, every inch, gagging and choking, and use my spit to lube you up some more so I can take you in even farther down my throat. I breathe through my nose, and when you are in so deep I can no longer do that, I let the tears and snot run down my face.
“You look so beautiful, baby, so beautiful.” Your voice is ragged and so damn sexy I feel weak and grip your legs for support.
You call me “beloved whore” when I please you, and I live for those words, to see the look on your face when I have been a good girl for you, when I take your cock, when I make you come down my throat, when I spread my legs for you without being told. Other times, you call me a filthy whore because I beg for your cock. I cry because I want you to tell me I am good. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, debased, hurt. And I cry because I worship you and do not know how to make you see what you are to me.
You are moaning now, leaning back against the brick wall, your hands cradling my face, your eyes closed. I am clutching your legs to hold myself up and crying openly, watching you as you begin to shake, violently, a muffled cry, before you come in my mouth and down my throat. Your possession washes over me and inside me. I am yours, and I know in that moment, you are mine.
Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy, tear-streaked, makeup stained, puffy and bruised face, and I know, from your eyes I know, I am beautiful. And you are whispering. “My princess,” you whisper. And I am precious.
“Mmmmmm. Nice, girl.” You open your eyes and wink at me. You pull the ever-present handkerchief from your pocket and hand it to me to clean myself up while you re-tuck your cock into your jeans and zip yourself up. You lift me to my feet, holding me to your chest for a moment until my trembling abat
es and I stand on my own. Your arm around me, we walk toward the door of the bar. The muffled applause and guffaws from a handful of onlookers grow louder when you pull me into your arms again to kiss me.
“I love you, darling,” you whisper in my ear. “Such a good girl.”
I am still grinning when we reenter the din and noise. I only hope I have a moment to collect myself before it’s my turn at the mic.
STORY TIME
Inara Serene
No. That is just not happening.”
“Oh? Are you telling me what to do, cupcake?”
He could have picked a thousand other names that, to anyone else, would have been more degrading. Slut, bitch, whore—even cunt, though I detest the word—any of those would have been preferable. But he had hit on a nickname that genuinely made me squirm. I hated the sickeningly saccharine sound of it, and all that its frosted syllables implied.
The first time he had used it, he sprinkled it casually into our conversation. I don’t think he had guessed just how much I would hate that term of supposed endearment, but my vehement response told him everything he needed to know. And once he had hit on something he could use to tease me, to make me uncomfortable and indignant, he sank his teeth into it and refused to let go.
“No. Fuck. I wouldn’t say that…I just…please? Please don’t make me.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a sardonic smile.
“You know the more you tell me how much you hate the idea, the more I want to make you do it.”
My gaze dropped to my folded hands, and I examined the ring on my left index finger with undue attention. Even the barest hint of suggestion of the threat rendered me pliant and demure. His words traced over the outline of the tattoo he had imprinted on my psyche, making me visibly shake with the knowledge that I was his, and he could do as he wished with me.
“I know, Sir. How about I’ll just be good, and then you will have no reason to punish me?” I asked, my eyes lighting up hopefully.
The Big Book of Submission Page 8