The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  FOR HER ART

  Elise Hepner

  The houselights flashed against the backs of my eyelids and a zing of belly-tightening fear clenched way down deep. No amount of breath in my lungs would provide an anchor to reality. This was my glitch in time—a way to prove myself while taking pride in my body. Soon the doors would open and my installation would be open to the public. I would be on the best kind of pedestal—one in the works for three long months.

  My sharp, jagged inhales made my muscles quake, which twitched the metal harnesses attached to my suspension cuffs—until the tinkle of noise shuddered down my taut muscles, curling my toes. While I focused on my legs spread in a wide V, icy air from the grate far below my feet pressed against my flushed inner thighs. The rush and low babble of people being let into the art gallery sharply snapped awareness into every inch of my burning flesh.

  I forced my eyes open with a quick scan of the pool of strangers streaming through the double doors, filling the industrial gallery space amongst the twinkling sconces. Against the tight cinch of my full-body cuffs my pulse tripped and my reality scattered, making my mouth dry. The first set of wide eyes alighted on my nakedness—a woman with full lips and gorgeous brunette hair cascading down her insanely low-cut dress, barely a scrap of leather covering her cooch. Her cheeks lit up with the sweetest pale-pink flush. Her gaze ate me up. Every second turned into an hour as her lingering attention forced my nipples tight. Awareness tweaked along my naked flesh as if an invisible hand were skimming all over the supersensitive bits.

  Our eyes locked. Her tongue slicked across her lips, making me wet. Her irises were wide with need, and I imagined mine mirrored her lust. The scatter of voices and peals of laughter died away. And as some expensive perfume prickled up inside my nostrils, her small manicured hand flitted through the air, as if she intended to touch me. But only the tight caress of air licked against my belly. My intent, voyeuristic friend took three short steps to the right—and pressed the button to the side of me with the heel of her palm.

  With a slow blink the rest of the room came rushing back when the chatter reached a staccato pitch.

  There was no escaping the woman’s choice—no pushing away the next several seconds in my vortex of helplessness. While what felt like the whole world watched, I remained suspended, at the mercy of my audience when the hidden trapdoor in the floor pulled back. The cranks shifted, gears crying out. Meanwhile the mammoth mounted dildo pressed up closer toward my exposed pussy. Still a few inches below my slick labia, another press of the button and the sex toy would flirt with my cunt.

  “Interesting,” Glamour Girl remarked with a subtle purr. When she eyed the button again my gaze searched outside our circle to the waiting crowd. Would she do it again? Spoil all the fun?

  I was in a room full of strangers intent on having my body, on hive behavior and doing whatever they pleased with me. Was there someone to hold her back and give me a chance to regroup? My brain buzzed on a frazzled, needy frequency.

  But that was the test—wasn’t it? Would they give me what they wanted and give in to their base desires? Or would they look and not touch?

  The up close and personal master of my fate moved back in front of me with a coy smile that tipped my helplessness into an emotion ragged with desire. Goose bumps trickled all along my skin, even beneath the suspension cuffs. I couldn’t catch a full breath even if my life depended on it. My pussy muscles clenched down, fingers molded into fists. While my body radiated defiance, I wanted to crack because of the hum of machinery below me. One little push, and I was at their mercy, on the cusp of falling into submission while pinwheeling through a gauntlet starting with pride and shifting toward desperation.

  The crowd gaped at me. Others milled around, enjoying my paintings that adorned the other three walls. But I was the artist on display, raw sexuality my burden. More people pulled in close and their stares devoured me from my painted purple toes to the rainbow dreads pulled up in a topknot on my head. No need to obscure their perfect view.

  They needed to ogle the goods to make a complete decision, before pressing the button that shifted me that much closer to release, and them that much closer to depravity. Would anyone else step up and make me their bitch? Toy with my body for their own pleasure—or even admit they wanted to see me penetrated in front of so many random onlookers?

  While my social experiment played out beneath me, the weight of other people’s choices pressed on my body like a million mouths, tongues and teeth, teasing me to the point of breaking. Their gazes burned through me. Body language hinted at their indecision while I lay trussed up for their pleasure, to use or not use as they wished. I could still sense the mere inches that separated the toy from being pressed inside me. It was a blessed relief, and yet I was left with no release. Every inch of me on the knife’s edge, while my juices were slick and sticky on my inner thighs.

  The brunette vixen who held my undoing in her hands skimmed the lines of my body again, as if I were property. Her head tilted, mouth pursed in indecision. But when she winked and blew me a kiss, I knew my night was far from over.

  Button, button, who’s got the button?

  WORKING IT OUT

  Roger Markson

  Most people say going to the gym is torturous, but they don’t know the half of it—unless, like me, they take lessons from Lucille. See, Lucille isn’t just a “fitness instructor,” she’s also a professional dominatrix, and has found a way to combine her two loves. The idea of a session with a domme had never appealed to me. I’d had too many girlfriends who wanted to tell me what to do; why would I pay a woman for that, when I wasn’t even going to get laid?

  Well, one day last year, when I stumbled into the wrong room at the gym thinking I was going to take a yoga class that would make me sweat and stretch, I got my answer. Under Lucille’s tutelage, I sweated, that’s for sure, but there was nothing yoga-like about it. Instead, she was dressed in what I think of as catsuit-lite—a tight pair of black latex shorts that shone under the gym’s lights, along with a matching workout bra. She sported a ponytail, bright-red lipstick and a whistle around her neck.

  I’d just stepped into the back of the room, but Lucille marched right over to me. “Oh no, sir,” she said, her tone mocking. “You’ll come right to the front of the class. I need to watch you closely to see if you can perform up to my standards. Everyone here is put through his paces. Isn’t that right, class?”

  The five other men and two women echoed their agreement. Why was my cock getting hard? I soon learned that Lucille offered a bit extra in this class, above and beyond your typical workout routines. I was supposed to sign a consent form, but since I’d stumbled into the class, I hadn’t realized. The moment I fell behind in my lunges, Lucille was upon me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kyle,” I panted.

  “Well, Kyle, I have some unusual teaching methods in this class, to keep everyone in line. Are you ready to follow my rules?”

  I didn’t completely know what she was talking about, but I was curious, and besides, I’d joined this gym because I’d heard they guaranteed results. “Yes,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  “Then drop and give me fifty push-ups. You have two minutes. If you fail, you will be punished far worse than the push-ups. Oh, and count out loud.” I didn’t even think about it, just dropped to the floor and began. I figured she’d move on and listen from across the room while she surveyed the other students, but Lucille called out instructions to them while remaining very close to me. Unlike every other fitness instructor I’d ever seen, she was wearing shiny black boots. They were so beautiful it was impossible not to look at them. I found myself wondering what it would be like to lick them…

  No sooner had my mind drifted than her boot was right under my nose. “Clearly, your mind is elsewhere. Helen, please go fetch the whip.” For a second, I was scared, but when I saw the smile on pretty Helen’s face, I let myself go with the moment. “I’m turning you ov
er to Helen for the moment—I can’t waste the whole class on you, Kyle.” Hearing my name from Lucille’s mouth, uttered as both a warning and a promise, it seemed, made me even more aroused. I was pulsing with energy. Was this the famed endorphin rush I’d been searching for? I wasn’t sure, but I followed Helen to a far corner.

  “Now you’re going to do jumping jacks, and I’m going to help you. When I want you to go faster, I’m going to use this whip.” She let her eyes travel down to my bulging crotch; loose workout pants couldn’t contain my erection. “Is that acceptable?” She knew I was going to agree.

  My ass and muscles were sore after the class, but the orgasm I had in the locker room afterward, locked in a stall (I simply couldn’t wait) was one of the best ever. That’s how I found myself getting inducted into kinky exercise.

  The next day, I signed up for private lessons with Lucille. We meet once a week at her home gym, where I get very special tutoring, which she reserves for her favorite students. She’s had custom equipment made. To work out my thighs, she’ll have me use a leg press, while she straddles my face. If I pause at either pushing the heavy weights or eating her out, I get punished.

  Sometimes she’ll make me do hammer curls while she runs her riding crop up and down my inner thighs—if I’m lucky, it caresses my balls and travels over the head of my cock. I rarely get to come in her presence—that’s reserved for special occasions, like when I beat a personal record. I don’t mind, though, because my sessions with her are the highlight of my week—who can say that about their personal training?

  Today she invited another student, Maya, to join us (I, of course, don’t get a say). Maya was hot, so I wouldn’t have objected even if I did get to voice my opinion. She took off her T-shirt and stood before us in just a black sports bra and tight shorts. Lucille wore another of her latex getups, this time in red. “Maya here is doing some special weight training. Why don’t you show Kyle?” And just like that, with no warning, Maya pulled down those clinging pants, got on the ground and did a backbend. At first, I didn’t see anything unusual, but then I noticed a string dangling from between her pussy lips.

  Lucille reached between her legs and drew out a set of silver balls. “We’re working up to bigger and bigger ones, training her inner muscles to be as firm as the rest of her. That’s a worthy goal, wouldn’t you agree, Kyle?” My dick throbbed as I nodded. “I’ll let you help Maya get these back inside.” Whenever Lucille says she’ll “let you” do something, it really means if you don’t do it she’ll punish you—although, since I love her beatings, punishment may not be the right word.

  “She’s had me wearing them all day,” Maya said when Lucille left the room. “I have to squeeze tightly all the time. It feels like everyone can tell.”

  “Is it making a difference?”

  “Definitely. Lucille can now get her second-biggest dildo inside me.” For a second, I was jealous, even as I eased the balls inside Maya. She must have sensed this. “You have to be able to squat with two times your body weight before she fucks you.” She moaned as I eased my fingers out of her. I smiled. Now I had something to work toward.

  “Are you slacking off in here?” Lucille demanded when she returned.

  “I told him about what he has to do to get fucked by you,” Maya said.

  “Well?” Lucille demanded of me. “Get ready to squat. While wearing a butt plug.” Lucille is full of surprises—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  CONTROL

  Cate Ellink

  Visitors at eight, pet.” His soft words, laced with command, make my body thrum.

  Dashiell Traversham is forty, well-to-do and not unattractive, but the attributes I adore are his domination, quiet demands and disciplines. He makes my cunt weep and my eyes run. He fills my holes with his seed and I love him more with each drop expelled. When he enters a room, it shrinks, filled with his scents of sandalwood and the sea. I don’t need to see to know him. I know every lithe muscle. Every dark hair. Every stretch of tanned flesh. How he tastes. How he likes to be touched.

  Dashiell’s words may sound like he’s letting me know his plans, but this is what I hear. “By seven-thirty tonight you need to be completely denuded of hair, except for your head—that hair will be washed and scented, brushed until it’s burnished gold. Refreshments need to be prepared and left ready to be served. You’re to present yourself to the study at seven-thirty, and without a word to or from me, bend over the padded metal frame until your cunt is exposed like artwork, to be admired by my visitors. You may or may not be touched; you have no say in that. You are to remain silent and immobile until I ask you, by name, to act in another manner.”

  I spend the day preparing. Tiny petit fours, delicate sandwiches, decadent peppermint molded chocolates set out. My skin exfoliated until it shines. The bar fully stocked. Every hair removed. Coffee ground and percolated. Flexibility exercises complete. Study dusted and tidied until spotless. Hair brushed with three hundred strokes.

  By seven-thirty my cunt is swollen, my clit tender with anticipation. I knock once on the heavy wood of the closed study door. At his command, I enter and walk to the padded bar. It will bend me exactly in half, taking my weight when my feet no longer can. The thick padded leather cushions ensure there’s no discomfort.

  Stiletto-clad feet spread apart, I drape myself across the bar and bend forward. I feel Dashiell watching. My flexibility has increased since the last visitors. I bend in half fluidly.

  The leather against my hips and stomach is cool. The burn in the back of my legs increases as I lower my head. A cascade of hair smothers the wooden boards. Heavy breasts strain as I swing forward, dropping toward my lowered head, stretching the flesh across my ribs. My nipples squeeze. Blood rushes to my brain in a pounding rush. When I first tried this, I orgasmed from the rush of blood, but I’ve learned control. I wonder if Dashiell remembers.

  His cane was so quick back then. I earned it often. An orgasm followed by the cane equaled a double coming. Punishment and reward.

  My cunt weeps as Dashiell glances at me. He’s a man well pleased, which makes my juices seep.

  The next thirty minutes are the hardest. I want his touch, yet he’s working. I’m desperate for his soothing words, curious as to who’s coming, and curiosity always makes me gush.

  Finally, the doorbell sounds and Dashiell rises. He walks past me without a touch, and inside I whimper. I’d hoped for a brush of his fingers across my cunt, or a slip of his nail along my open lips, or perhaps the lap of his tongue against my clit.

  Nothing.

  Voices. They enter. A woman I don’t know and Dashiell. The woman strides across the room, heels rapping on the boards, and stares at me as if I am an objet d’art. Only the faintest caress of breath lets me know she’s inspecting my cunt. My hole opens as if to stare back at her. Moisture trickles. I worry I’m not pleasing her, not pleasing Dashiell. I want to weep. What if she finds fault?

  She has covered shoes with towering, thin heels. The patent leather shines. I try not to breathe and fog them. Her shapely legs are encased in dark smoke hose; a black dress skims beneath her knees. I’d only glimpsed her walking in; pale flesh, black hair, black dress, red lipstick.

  “Of course.” Dashiell answers a question I have not heard. Muscles inside me tense, waiting. What has been asked? What must I do?

  A crisp floral perfume weaves itself around me but before I can luxuriate in her scent, she strokes the inside of my thigh with her fingernail. Her gasp sucks air across my lips, so I know she’s leaning, examining closely. My cunt clenches as I try not to squirm. The thick warmth of her breath brushes over my anus. She’s staring intently at my hole. It pulls tight in protest. But a breeze blown hard on my clit has my body jerking, both holes relaxing and a wetness seeping through me. I shudder despite myself, losing the fight to remain still, to keep my reactions internal.

  Footsteps patter across the room but they’re background noise. I’m focused on my task. A whoosh and my atte
ntion is brought abruptly back. My cunt clenches just as the bamboo cane strikes across it, hard. I cry out. Pain, shock and a tiny fission of pleasure rip through me. My clit throbs. Nipples tighten. I bite back any other sound or reaction. Oh dear lord. Dashiell hasn’t caned my open lips in so long. The sting pounds through my body, setting it on fire. My hole opens and closes, like my mouth wants to, weeping the tears I cannot.

  A strong smell of candle wax comes to my attention just as a plop hits my anus. At first there’s nothing; it lasts but a millisecond. Then the scalding burn forces the breath from me. A scream echoes in my head. A scream not just of pain but of pleasure, too. My clit throbs until I think it may burst. The pain vanishes as quickly as the wax dries. Only tension, in every tightly wound muscle of my body, remains.

  “How exquisite.” The woman’s voice is breathy and husky. The flick of her nail along my cunt lips almost has me twitching, but I stop myself. The nail—I imagine it long and gleaming red—picks the wax droplet from my anus. Spasms hit. Another mini-orgasm. I almost melt into the padded bench.

  “She holds herself well, Dashiell.” The woman’s voice softens as she walks away from me. I hear snatches of her conversation. “A credit to you…I’d like to show her…” I can’t put the words together. My head is spinning with rapture, trying to fight not only the physical sensations she’s elicited from me, but the mental ones, too. The sheer joy of knowing I’ve succeeded, knowing I’ll be rewarded, knowing I’ve pleased, is more powerful than the cane, wax and tongue put together. I’m almost unconscious trying to fight the sweeping orgasm threatening me.

  But I must wait.

  Eyes scrunched in concentration, I count each breath until my body is under control. Under Dashiell’s control.

  UNANCHORED

  Corrine Arundo