The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  With a nervous glance at the curtain, she double-checked that no one could see her from the other side. Claire pulled her skirt up as she looked back at the screen of the phone. Image by image, she appeared on the telephone screen: her stockings, the garter belt, her naked pussy. Claire had one more thing to check before she could continue with her task. She took a small step closer to the phone and put her left foot on the bench. Yes! The image on the screen was what she had in mind. The lighting in the cubicle was perfect. Light from the ceiling reflected in the mirror and back at her. The image was without shadows. Every detail of the folds of her pussy was visible on the screen.

  Claire took the phone from the cradle and changed it to RECORD VIDEO. When the phone was back in the cradle, she put her foot back up on the bench and started to stroke her pussy. His voice was inside her head: Do it slow. The images must be clear. If the image is blurred, there will be consequences. She pinched her outer labia, rolling them between her thumb and forefinger. The inside pink of her pussy appeared on the screen in the cradle as she pulled her labia. Pinch those cunt lips. Pull them. Hard. With her fingers spread, she pushed her pussy lips aside and watched as more of her wet pinkness appeared. Spread your lips. Show me your lust. The sexy images on the screen caused her nipples to harden in reaction.

  It took every inch of her self-control to move her fingers over her clitoris at a slow pace. The intimate images made her horny. The adrenaline coursing through her body made her itch to move quicker. She spread her fingers once more, opening her lips, looking at the glistening of her soft flesh. Claire pushed her fingers into her wetness and smeared her fluids to her clitoris. Push your fingers in deep. Her clitoris ached under her fingers. Her body begged for more. She breathed harder. The assignment was clear: You will masturbate in the fitting room and film your climax. I want proof that you have executed my orders. As nervous as she was, she’d thought it would take long to reach her climax. She’d been wrong. The familiar tingling of an orgasm building and her increased breathing told her different. Just a few seconds more…

  “Are you succeeding in there, miss?” she heard the voice of the fitting-room assistant call out to her as she approached.

  Damn! For the love of…! Why now? Why hadn’t the woman waited just two more minutes?

  “Um…” she faltered, “um, yes, everything is fine.” Her voice was husky with lust.

  Her skirt had just dropped into place when the curtain opened. She took the clothes from the hook and gave them to the woman. The woman had questions in her eyes. Claire was sure that her body obscured the view on the telephone. The assistant looked surprised when Claire almost grabbed the two nightdresses from her hands.

  “I will try these on now,” she managed to say in a voice quivering with desire. The curtain fell back in place.

  Claire dropped the nightdresses to the floor and turned back to the screen. In one smooth movement, she pulled her skirt up again and rested her foot on the bench. Claire sighed as the image of her intimate folds appeared on the telephone screen again. No shadow. Just the glistening of her pinkness. Her fingers pushed in deeper and spread her wetness toward her button. She pulled at her cunt lips, pinching them. Claire kept her eyes fixed on the tiny screen. I want to see every movement, my horny little slut. Her fingers rekindled the fire in her clitoris.

  With agonizingly slow circling movements, she touched her clitoris. She pressed harder. Pulled her clitoris and circled it again. Her nipples ached. She wanted them touched. Pulled. Pinched. Her fingers danced over her throbbing nub. Her knees went weak when she climaxed. A low moan escaped her mouth. With her foot still on the bench, her legs spread wide, Claire supported herself against the side of the cubicle. Her hand covered her throbbing pussy. Inhaling deeply to catch her breath, she tried to calm herself before leaving the cubicle.

  Claire sensed movement and turned her head sideways. There, on the other side of the curtain, was the fitting-room assistant, watching her through the crack between the curtain and the cubicle wall. The rawness of unvarnished lust in the woman’s eyes had Claire hoping she’d be granted permission to return and pursue that look.

  SPIDER

  Valerie Alexander

  Siobhan twisted and writhed on the bondage table, her long, pale legs flexing as her red hair fell toward the floor. I could see her toes flex as the dom fucked her with a candle, moving it in and out of her swollen, wet cunt just an inch or so until she wailed in frustration. She was lost to the sensation, oblivious to the men gathered round to gawk at her. Their cocks were hard. I wondered if she was going to get fucked by all of them.

  My boyfriend nudged me. “Don’t you know her?”

  “Kind of.” The aloof makeup artist who worked at the mall was barely recognizable here, naked and moaning and desperate to be degraded. Hopefully it wouldn’t be awkward the next time I saw her at the store. I really didn’t know what the protocol was. Play parties weren’t my usual cup of tea.

  “Kate, Devon, you made it.” The bearded host appeared with a smile. “Come out back and I’ll show you the kind of cross I can make you.”

  I kept a cool face as we passed a caged girl, a shirtless man with red welts crisscrossing his back, and another girl bridled like a pony. We were here because the host made bondage furniture, and Devon and I were commissioning him to build us a St. Andrew’s cross—if we could afford it, that was. Bondage furniture tended to be expensive.

  I ignored the doms eyeing me and smirking. Though I’d been sexually submitting to Devon in private for eight months now, I’d never had the desire—or the guts—to take part in the scene, as people called it. Somehow I didn’t think I could get turned on by a spanking or whipping here the way I did in private.

  Two voices rose in argument and the host excused himself. Devon looked at me and shrugged. Much as he liked mastering me at home, play parties weren’t his thing either. Nor was he an especially dominant presence in the real world; tall, slight and bespectacled, Devon always struck people as the young professor type, not a man who liked to truss up his girlfriend in rope and nipple clamps.

  We passed into the backyard. Electric candles were glowing in lanterns hung from the trees but they didn’t illuminate the shadowy figures moving around with cups of beer in their hands. I smoothed my dress over my ass and spied a hammock tied between two trees. Perfect. “Let’s hang out here,” I suggested, and climbed in. To my surprise, the hammock sagged beneath me. I immediately rolled onto my side. I tried to push myself up but found it embarrassingly hard.

  The host stepped forward from the darkness. “That’s not a hammock,” he said.

  His smile was kind but I still felt like a neophyte, tangled in this odd rope swing that seemed rigged to trap me. “How do I get out of this?”

  “You don’t,” he said, stepping up and rolling me over in a circle. “That’s the point.”

  I was completely entangled in the rope swing now, facedown and facing away from the party. Which was partly good, because at least people couldn’t see my face burning with embarrassment. But it was also partly bad, because my ass and legs were facing the guests and I knew my dress wasn’t quite long enough to cover my panties in this position. What a rookie move to make—mistaking some kind of bondage swing for a hammock and getting tangled in it.

  The surrounding men had noticed, and I could hear them drawing up behind me and assessing my ass.

  “Take her underwear off,” one said.

  “The dress too,” said another one.

  “Devon,” I snapped.

  He was laughing. “What? You’re the one who climbed in there.”

  The bearded host looked at him. “You want me to get her out?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” Devon said. “She does looks appetizing all bound up like that.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you—she provides some entertainment and I’ll give you a hell of a deal on that cross.”

  Devon grinned. Goddammit. Of course I wanted the St. Andrew’s cross
as much as he did, and getting a break on the price would be great. But what did “entertainment” mean?

  “You don’t have to fuck anyone,” the host said, reading my mind. “But putting on a show would be good.”

  An electric bolt went through me. The one thing playing with Devon couldn’t provide was indulging my exhibitionistic streak. I nodded hesitantly.

  The host rolled me over once more. I was firmly trapped in the ropes now. My arms were bound at my sides, with only my head free at one end, and my ass and legs emerging from the other. Devon moved behind me and pushed my dress up to my waist, tucking it into the ropes. Then his fingers hooked into my panties and pulled them all the way off.

  I gulped. My face felt hot and my whole body trembled. I’d never been so helpless in public before, especially in front of strangers.

  I swallowed hard and spread my legs.

  Devon’s fingers brushed my clit. I moaned and the men laughed. Then two stepped up and apparently posed on either side of my pussy; I couldn’t see them but I could hear the camera phones clicking. “Can I touch her?” asked someone else.

  Devon ran his fingertips up my thigh and stopped. “Kate…?”

  I nodded. “I want to be fucked,” I whispered, so only he could hear. “But safely.”

  It was the most shameful confession of my life. I was spreading my legs at a party for a bunch of strange men, making myself available to be used by any interested taker. Getting gangbanged: that was something only the biggest sluts did. My face and body were burning as Devon said something to the men about what I wanted, and a collective dirty howl rose up.

  “Oh god,” I muttered as the first man stepped up between my legs. A faceless, anonymous stranger was going to fuck me, and one after that, and one after that… My nipples ached with the pain of desire repressed as his condom-wrapped cock pushed inside me. My blood pounded through me like a hot flood. I was breathing hard and totally bound, and as he began driving in and out of my pussy, I succumbed to my own powerlessness. I was just an object, helpless to resist the men lining up behind me; that degradation set every nerve ending in my body on fire. I moaned and twisted feverishly in the ropes. The first man groaned and shook; a second man replaced him, but he came too quickly and then a third began fucking me, slapping my ass with every thrust.

  “You’re so lucky,” one of the men said to Devon. And as I began to come in euphoric throbs, my pussy squeezing the anonymous cock inside me, I smiled because I knew he was right.

  THE CHROME-PLATED CONNECTION

  Ginger F.

  Don’t you think that’s enough computer time for tonight,” says his deep voice from behind me.

  “In a minute,” I reply, while working on the paragraph I’ve been laboriously constructing for the past five minutes.

  “No,” he says. That word makes me flush. I stop typing. He beckons me to follow him out of my office, and I do. “What had you so focused?” he asks.

  I’m in the bedroom when I look at the clock. Heat crawls up my neck and turns me red. It’s almost an hour after our agreed upon playtime. I’ve screwed up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “There’s no excuse, but—” With both of us working from home we’ve had a hard time maintaining balance, and our connection has suffered as a result. In an effort to remedy the situation we’ve set working and playing hours with each other. This evening I had clients who required a late meeting. After the meeting I found myself on a certain kinky social networking site, and lost track of time.

  “You see, Sir, someone was wrong…”

  “Oh, on the Internet?” he asks, smirking. We laugh, but his face quickly returns to stern.

  “It’s not—”

  “A good excuse? No.”

  He takes me by the nape of the neck, pulling me closer to him. The kiss is languorous, his mouth working at mine, his thumb caressing my neck. “You can make it up to me in service,” he says, whispering in my ear.

  I press my cheek to his, and breathe him in. “Yes, Sir.”

  As my clothes begin to disappear, so do his. I leave my panties and bra on, knowing his preference for this aesthetic. “It looks like you weren’t entirely unprepared for our date,” he says, placing his hands on the band of my black lace panties and toying with the upper part of my ass.

  I suck in a large helping of air. “Thank you, Sir.”

  His hand is at the base of my skull and his fingers dive into my hair, not so much pulling as guiding me in the direction he wants me to go. He places me on top of the bedspread and reaches into our bedside drawer. Items clatter as he gropes for his desired object. When he acquires it, he leaves it pooled on the pillow, glittering in the light of the lamp.

  It is time for me to serve. I smile.

  Everyone needs his release and my Master finds his in controlled pain—his control over the person giving him the pain: me. My fingers caress the cold metal object left on the pillow. Picking up the nipple clamps, I let them dangle in a line of chrome delight, swaying gently.

  He smiles.

  He’s lying down, and I straddle him. His hands clasp my hips, still toying with the line of my panties, and make me squirm. I let my nail drag over his nipple, and with a deep breath and a smile, I begin to play.

  I start by pressing the clover clamp to his nipple. I can hear him suck in a breath. I use my other hand to start toying with the other nipple as I tease my Master with the lightest pressure from the clamp, opening and closing it at intervals. His eyes are shut and he’s pressing his head back, but his hands remain firm and unyielding on my hips. When his fingers dig in I know it’s time, and I let the first clamp establish itself on his flush flesh.

  Now I press my lips to his other nipple, licking and biting at it, but he takes me by the face and taps me on the cheek with his open hand—an almost slap. “No biting,” he says, but he’s smiling. I place the next clamp, and begin to tug and play with them. I can feel him relaxing beneath me, his cock hard against my lace-clad ass. Extending my arm, I play with it, teasing it. I move to the side of his body and take hold of the chain that connects the clamps with my lips. “Good girl,” he moans, his eyes opening to watch me.

  He reaches out a hand and tugs my panties down, then spreads my legs. His fingers dexterously work my clit til I’m moaning and forgetful of my duties. My hand becomes still on his cock, and the chain begins to slip from between my lips. He removes his hand from my slit and shoves his fingers into my mouth. I am awake again. I lick my wetness from them, the metal from the chain nudging my teeth.

  “Thank you, Sir,” I attempt to articulate from between his digits.

  He closes my lips around the chain. “Quiet.”

  My cunt is dripping, and I want to come, but I know better than to speak. I spread my legs wider and try to keep my head in the same position, with my lips connected to the chain. I sit back a bit farther, hoping he will see how swollen I am. I can’t help whimpering, and I reach out to stroke his cock, so he will be pleased.

  “Should I let you come tonight?” he asks. “You can’t have wanted it too much, if you forgot about it.”

  “Please, Sir.”

  He cups my chin and puckers my lips so that I release the chain. He removes one of the clamps from his chest and removes one of my breasts from the bra, to attach the clamp to its nipple. I press my chest forward, aching for the feel of more of him on more of me. We’re linked.

  I lean into the sensation, straining the chain between us. “Good girl,” he praises again. Then, pressing his hand to my shoulder, he pushes me down, and follows me. His hand reaches between my legs, and it’s all I can do to not call out to him. As my breath begins to quicken, he enters me unceremoniously, but I am wet enough and instantly begin to throb. He keeps his thumb on my clit. The chain goes taut and then lax as his body moves with his thrusting, making both of us writhe. As I watch the glittering light of the chain between us, I feel pressure building inside of me, threatening to spill over.

  “Please, Sir. S
oon, it’s going to happen soon. Please, Sir, please say I can. Please.”

  “Yes,” he says, and I do. My body spasms beneath his. As the throbbing begins to subside I can feel him pulsing inside of me. He collapses, and we gently reach across our bodies to remove the clamps. They sit between us.

  “Was it a hard day for you?” I ask, yawning.

  “It was,” he says, stroking my hair. “Yours?”

  “I managed,” I say, scooting forward to be closer to him, and moving the clamps out of my way. His arms wrap around me.

  After some silence I whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me serve you…and for the orgasm.”

  Warm arms and his scent surround me. His face is peaceful, and our legs intertwine for sleep.

  HOW TO FAIL

  Laurel Isaac

  First he was spanking me with a paddle. It got very intense very fast, and it hurt. A lot. Like being skinned, like getting kicked repeatedly. I was past being able to cry, just stuck in the pain, knowing I couldn’t take it, but not knowing how to talk.

  Aside from the thwacking, the bedroom was very quiet. The roommate was out of town. Daddy Owen was focused and moving about swiftly. My gasps into the bedspread had gotten quieter and quieter; it was as if someone had lowered the volume on my thoughts. A loose panic wove through my mind, spiking occasionally, but I almost couldn’t hear it, distracted by the intensity of the spanking and muddled about what exactly I was supposed to be doing. Owen was like a machine, completely on task. He had his favorite hard cock strapped beneath his jeans and was whaling on me, his bare-ass boi (to everyone else, a proper butch dyke). I could tell he was enjoying himself. Working up a sweat, on a mission.

  All I could think was how I must be doing something wrong. I must have forgotten some technique I usually use, or there must be something wrong with my body that the feeling good wasn’t kicking in. Maybe if I waited a little longer it would start to. Maybe this was how it always was in the beginning? If only he’d slow down I might be able to figure it out, but the paddle abruptly landed squarely in the middle of my right cheek. The throbbing felt like it had shocked me right in half. I let out a sob. And there it was again, and again. If only I had a minute, I might be able to…but the strokes kept landing, bludgeoning, deafening. The Tegan and Sara poster went fuzzy before my eyes. I began to feel like I was being swung around the room, seasick and powerless.