The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I’ve been studying his body, putting together the teeny-tiny pieces: the very point on his cock that, when pressed with the tip of my tongue with exactly the right amount of pressure, causes the shaft to go a little more rigid; which sounds that bubble out of my mouth at the moment of climax cause his eyes to flutter closed; what happens the second before he stops letting me have my way and wrestles me onto my back or my knees; what might otherwise make him lose control.

  I started a mental log of the times he would come up behind me and grab my ass while I got dressed in the morning. It reliably happened when I wore a particular pair of lace boy shorts, the lime-green ones with a single bubble-gum-pink bow that stopped just above the crease that forms between my thighs and my ass. If I happened to stand on my tiptoes and lean over my vanity to grab a bottle of perfume or an eyeliner pencil, he’d spring out of bed, lock his arms around me and growl into my ear, baring his teeth and pushing his hips against my lower back. He’d wet his finger with his tongue, slip it between the lace and my skin and with quick accuracy pinpoint my clit and circle it over and over. I’d feel the smooth head of his cock separated from my cunt by millimeters of bunched-up fabric, pushing back and forth between my thighs until he hooked his fingers around the crotch of my underwear, tugged them aside, and parted my lips with his swollen manhood. And when moisture began spreading over its surface, that’s when he’d push into me, so slowly, making me feel every ridge and vein as it stretched my soaking hole.

  And I would writhe and gasp and pound the vanity with my fist, yelping his name and pushing back to take him deeper, trying to gain some tiny scrap of control, trying to find a hair-thin crack in his composure as he worked me into unhinged ecstasy. I never found either.

  I know exactly how the night goes whenever he returns from a week away on a job. He’s always aching to touch me, to smell the faint floral notes of my moisturizer and run his toughened hands over the smooth flat of my back. When he first gets his hands on me, he’s as close to abandon as I have ever seen him, as vulnerable, as sensitive to my voice and my touch as he can be. But he regains himself quickly, because more than anything, he wants to make me come, and for that, he must focus.

  He has tried a few times to let go and hand me the reins, but he just can’t. He says he wants to, with great sympathy in his voice, but he’s used to control. His will, his instincts and his arms are too strong to let that happen.

  But he is not stronger than steel.

  A pair of shiny double-lock handcuffs are dangling from the center of our curly forged-iron bed frame. As soon as he left on Monday, I went out and bought them, and every evening, I held them and clicked them shut and unlocked them over and over again, acquainting my hands with the curves of the smooth, cold steel. I’m quick with them now—hopefully quick enough.

  When he gets inside, he’ll wrap me up in his arms, kiss me, breathe against my neck, then run into the bathroom and whip off his filthy, sweaty shirt. He’ll scrub his hands with pumice, and return to the bedroom smelling of oranges. He’ll lie down next to me and take a few minutes to bask in the comforts of home: clean, well-worn sheets, privacy, leisure, love, and a bed he shares with his adoring wife. Once he’s done that, he’ll pull me on top of him (and even in doing this, direct me just where he wants me at that moment) and rest his hands on my hips, give me those few moments to do to him what I please, but he won’t be ready for what I do tonight; he’ll never see it coming. And that’s how I’ll get the upper hand.

  The lights are dim. The waistband of my lime-green boy shorts just barely peeks out under my black yoga pants, and the dryer is buzzing downstairs. As I begin making the bed, I hear the deep rumble of his car coming up the driveway, its headlights shooting beams of light across the pale bedroom wall. I feel myself tensing up, blood beginning to redirect itself between my legs as I put the pillows in their cases and tuck the fitted sheet around the corners of the bed.

  I’ve planned everything so carefully. I’m so sure of what I’m going to do once he’s immobilized beneath me. Tonight, I’ll say his name once and only once. Tonight, I get mine.

  Just as I arrange the pillows high at the head of the bed—the cuffs safely hidden behind a deep layer of soft, inviting fluff—I hear the front steps creaking. I hear his keys jangling as he selects one from the ring, the lock turning and clicking into its open position, the whoosh of the door separating from its airtight seal, and him sighing as he finally returns home from a long, hard week.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed, calming my nerves with one last, deep breath as he crosses the house. He steps into the bedroom, and I rise to my feet.

  He wraps those big, powerful arms around me, kisses me again and again, then breaks away to wash his hands. When he rejoins me on the bed, he stretches out next to me, lying with his head inches from the nightstand. On it are two new silver keys on a small ring.

  But in the dim light, he hasn’t noticed them.

  He has no idea.

  STUDENT BECOMES MASTER

  Rob Rosen

  He’d looked almost the same—older, of course, but the face of the teenager I’d coached years earlier still rose to the surface.

  “Let me out!” I hollered. The gym’s closet door was shut tight, leaving me in utter darkness.

  He banged on the wood from the other side. “Mister Jones,” he replied, voice muffled. “What do we say?”

  I gritted my teeth and yanked at my tethered wrists. “Please.”

  I waited, beads of sweat dripping from my brow before stinging my eyes. My bare knees ached as I maintained my crouched and bound position. He’d surprised me, showing up after school had finished for the day, the last student long gone. He’d surprised me even further with his wrestling skills, considering how weak they’d been the last time I’d seen them.

  The door creaked open, a shaft of light momentarily blinding me. “Good boy,” he cooed. I squinted up at him, sucking in my breath as yet another surprise greeted me. He was naked now, hard as granite, billy club of a cock swinging as he strode into the closet, a hand quickly rising before slamming into my exposed rump. I stifled a moan as best I could, but my rigid prick gave me away. “Good boy,” he repeated.

  “John,” I managed. “Please.”

  He grunted and smacked me again. “Not John.” Smack. “Mister Matthews.”

  My cock throbbed. He smacked that next. Ass to cock, cock to ass. “Mister Matthews,” I reiterated. “Please untie me.” Even to my own ears my plea came off sounding rather weak.

  He crouched down, our faces barely an inch apart. “Funny, your voice says one thing, but your prick says something else.” He got on his knees and rubbed his dickhead against my lips before smacking my cheek with it. Again I moaned, body quaking in rapt anticipation. “You were a fucking sadist in my youth, Mister Jones. What’s happened to you?”

  He rammed his stellar cock down my throat. I gagged as the aroma of crotch sweat filled my sinus cavity. A tear then streaked down my cheek as he extricated his meat. “Is that what this is about?” I rasped. “Revenge for teaching you how to be a man?”

  Again he grunted, his dick thwacking my cheek, left side, then right. “Sure, we’ll go with that,” he replied. “And now it’s my turn. Student becomes Master, Mister Jones. Think you can pass the test?”

  A rush of warmth spread through me. He was right, of course; I had been a bit of a sadist, but a good coach teaches by discipline. Guess I taught him too well, by the looks of things. Like he said, student had become Master, in more ways than one. Funny thing was, I’d never known how much of a masochist I could be as well. Go figure.

  “Not much of a fair fight,” I said, locking eyes with him.

  His face moved into mine again, his hot breath hitting my mouth. “I was just going to leave you here. To be found in the morning.” He bit my lip, teasingly at first, but then with enough force to make me yelp. “Until I saw how much you were enjoying yourself. Little head always gives the big head away, you see,
Mister Jones.”

  I smirked. “Both your heads look awfully big these days, Mister Matthews.”

  He pulled my lip with his teeth, then replied, “Guess I grew up a bit since you last saw me. And out.” He stood, cock hovering above my head. “As to that fair fight, here’s your lesson for the day: life ain’t fair; get over it.”

  He scooted behind me, yanking my bindings even tighter as he went. Each pull and tug sent an eddy of adrenaline coursing through me, pain and pleasure combining as one. “You always were a bad sport, John.” Fine, I was egging him on. But the slap I got across my ass was well worth it.

  “And you were always a prick.” He grabbed my prick as he said the word, yanking it between my legs, causing my back to arch and a fresh bead of sweat to trickle. He smacked the head, my body tensing each time flesh met flesh, until my brain swam in glorious pain.

  “And is revenge as sweet as they say it is, John?” I asked, as he spat at my exposed hole. I winced in expectation, again as double digits thrust deep inside of me. He rooted around in there. “Are you planning on finding your answers up my ass?”

  He didn’t reply at first. When he did, it was with a sigh. His fingers then retracted. Suddenly, he was face-to-face with me again. This time the kiss was soft, his eyes open all the while, searching. When our lips parted, the sigh repeated itself. “I already got my answer, Mister Jones.”

  I stared at him, confused, cock so hard it felt like it would burst on its own accord. “And what is that?”

  He smiled and stood. “That I’m better than this.” He moved to the door. “Than you.”

  Out he walked, the door closed behind him, darkness again complete. “John!” I hollered. “Mister Matthews!” I rolled over on my side. “Please.” It came out a whimper.

  A minute went by, two. Thankfully, the door creaked opened again. His cock was in his stroking hand. “But maybe not that much better.” He strode over and stood above me. His body spasmed a moment later, a soft moan escaping from between his lips as he shot his hefty, aromatic load onto my face. I licked it off my lips, my own cock suddenly erupting as his spunk hit the back of my throat.

  I gazed up at him and winked. “When’s my next lesson, Master?”

  He smiled down at me, then turned and left, leaving me to my sticky humiliation.

  WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE

  Corvidae

  It was one of those rare luxuries for San Francisco: a warm, sunny day, and Elise had the afternoon off to enjoy it. By the time she got home, the sun was hitting their small outdoor deck just right. She wasted no time before stripping off her clothes, strapping on a bikini, anointing herself in lotion and spreading out on a striped picnic blanket on top of the warm wood.

  Elise sighed deeply. She had been looking forward to this all morning. The heat of the sun dissipated the tension rooted in her back and shoulders while a light breeze wicked away the clean sweat beading on her skin. It felt like her skin was purging the suffocation of the stuffy suit she had been confined to all morning. Her mind retreated as she stretched luxuriously across the blanket, her thoughts awash in a warm glow like the pink light leaking through her closed eyelids. She was just starting to drift away when her phone buzzed.

  She sighed again, this time in resignation, and groped for it, praying it wasn’t work trying to contact her. But she relaxed when she saw her boyfriend Jordan’s name in the heading of the text message. Hey babe! How’s your afternoon off?

  She wanted to tell him in detail how perfect everything felt right then, but a picture was worth a thousand words, and a lot easier than squinting at the phone’s keyboard. She grinned as she took a shot of her current view: her body stretched across the deck under blue sky, the golden swell of her hip, long muscular legs sprawled across the bright blanket and the tiniest triangle of fabric perched on her mound at the center of it all. Satisfied, she sent it, amused at how it would tease him to see something like that while stuck in the office.

  The phone buzzed again a few minutes later. I don’t like the look of that suit. You’re going to get tan lines. You know I don’t like anyone but me marking your skin, Pet.

  A thrill shot through her. He wouldn’t have called her “Pet” unless he had some sort of game in mind. She hesitated, then replied. What would you have me do…Sir?

  There was a longer delay this time, but when his reply came it was short. Take it off. Now.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She sat up and looked around. Their house was on a hillside, with a commanding view over the city, but they were surrounded by other houses and buildings that had a clear line-of-sight view of the deck. She couldn’t see anyone at the moment, but it wasn’t impossible that someone else might be home early in the middle of the day. Someone could even be watching her right now from the shadows behind their windows. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought.

  Her phone buzzed again. You better do as I say, Pet, or your spanked ass will be worse than a sunburn after I get home.

  She shivered, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable. But no matter how anxious she felt, pushing herself would please him, and pleasing him excited her.

  Slowly, she lay facedown on the blanket. The thin bars of the deck railing didn’t obscure much, but she could at least keep a low profile. After a deep breath, she untied the strings of her suit and wriggled the two halves of the bikini off.

  She grinned to herself, pleased at following his instructions. Then another text came through. Send me a picture, Pet. Faceup. I want to see the sun on those glorious tits.

  She stiffened and took another nervous look around. A light breeze tickled her butt, teasing her as she worked up her nerve. Finally, she rolled over onto her back, sprawling as flat onto the blanket as she could.

  She lay there, heart pounding. The sun was indeed shining on her breasts, and the warmth helped her relax again. Another puff of breeze licked her nipples, reminding her that she was now exposing skin that hadn’t seen direct sunlight in who knew how long. Her vulnerability started to shift from terrible to delicious.

  She held her phone up at arm’s length for a picture, cupping her breasts with the other arm and smiling shyly into the camera. She sent it to Jordan and waited for his reply.

  Minutes passed. She waited nervously, gradually enjoying the sensation of sunlight warming her secret places. She gasped lightly when a colder breeze rustled her fluffed pubic hair.

  Finally, the phone buzzed. That is very lovely. Now I want you to worship yourself properly, Pet.

  Her breath quickened again. He could only mean one thing by that. She had never exposed such an intimate act to broad daylight, but submitting herself both to Jordan’s will and the open sky excited her. She ached for warmth to fill her inside as well as out. She cast one more furtive look around, then slowly spread her legs, opening herself to the light and the sun.

  The warmth hit her inner thighs and lips and sank deep into her, as insistent as the touch of a lover. She reached down and explored herself, slick with sweat and excitement. She slid her fingers inside, first one, then two, engulfing them in her velvety heat. She spread her legs wider, all concerns of her neighbors disappearing as she thrust while stroking herself with her thumb. Her dampness spread across her thighs and leaked down between her cheeks, creating cool patches on her skin as it evaporated. Her free hand stroked and teased her sun-ripened nipples. She braced her feet on the blanket and tilted her hips, working her wrist harder. She could almost feel Jordan’s approving gaze as she writhed under the sun. The thought pushed her closer to the edge.

  Just as she was about to release her ecstasy to the heavens, her phone buzzed again. She groped for it with her free hand. Very good job, Pet. Come inside now.

  She stared at her phone for a moment in confusion, then turned to look into the house. There, leaning nonchalantly on the back of the couch, just on the other side of the sliding patio door, was Jordan. He was still dressed in his work clothes, one hand holding his phone and the other idl
y stroking himself through his pants. His dark skin helped him blend into the dim light inside the house, but she could see his Cheshire-cat grin even through the glass’s glare.

  Her thoughts flashed from surprise to amusement. All of her nervous glances around and not once had she looked at the windows right behind her. She smiled and locked eyes with him as she slowly drew her hand out from her pussy and licked her fingers clean before texting a reply. Why don’t you come join me outside, Sir?

  OBJECT

  Regina Kammer

  Well, it was embarrassing, really.

  Intriguing, beyond a doubt. But mostly, at this stage of the affair, Nigel was a bit abashed and a tad uncomfortable. Especially his prick.

  He was supposed to be having dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in San Francisco. “Ten-thirty, Tuesday,” his girlfriend had said.

  “Seems a bit late for a Tuesday.”

  “Look, that’s all I could get. It just opened. Everyone wants reservations.”

  “All right, I suppose that will have to—” He had stopped. She hated when he quibbled.

  But Mandy had smiled. “God, I love your accent. I could listen to you talk all night.” Had patted his cheek. “I’m paying, by the way. Remember, Nige, ten-thirty. I’ll meet you there. It’s down the street from the BART station.” Good thing. He was hopeless at finding his way around the city.

  And, in typical nouveau-exclusive fashion, there was no sign on the door. He wandered up and down the block a couple of times, checking addresses against his scrap of paper. He knocked tentatively on an ornately carved wooden door with a number scrawled in chalk.

  The door cracked open. A stern female face scrutinized him up and down. “Yes?”

  “Number seventeen?”