She gave him just enough room to slip inside to the pitch-black entryway. Before he could get his bearings, fingers prodded from behind, forcing him to stumble up the stairs to a dimly lit landing opening onto a narrow hallway. He glanced around futilely for the dining room.
His staircase tormentor appeared at his side, a petite but muscular woman in tight jeans and a tank top, hair shorn like a sheep. She indicated the bathroom, a Victorian water closet with a single lightbulb hanging stiffly from the high ceiling.
“You gotta take a piss?”
It took a second to comprehend the abrupt American invitation to urinate. Perhaps a bizarre culinary trend? “I suppose—”
“Be quick about it.”
She stood in the open doorway as he relieved himself.
He’d barely gotten his fly up when she jerked him into a dark, overly warm space thick with the stench of cologne and locker room sweat.
Nothing like a restaurant.
His skin crawled at the eerie sense of other people, unseen, unheard except for labored breathing and the occasional clanking.
“Take off your clothes.”
“Sorry?” This was most irregular.
“Take off your clothes,” Shorn said pointedly. “Give ’em to me. Jen’ll take it from there.”
And when he was completely nude, Jen took it from there. She was over six feet, with a weightlifter’s body and a smoker’s voice. He felt compelled to do whatever Jen said and to keep quiet about it.
“Against the wall.” She provided an encouraging shove.
The wooden wainscoting was cold against his bum, a sensation quickly overshadowed by Jen’s insistent lifting of his arms above his head.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And stop talking.”
A challenging task indeed. Questions swam in his head as Jen wrapped metal bands around his wrists and ankles.
She grabbed his prick. He yelped.
“I guess the ball gag’ll go on first.”
Ball gag? Definitely not a restaurant.
The contraption engendered discomfort and drool. Jen stroked his cheek in a stern, motherly sort of way. “Relax your jaw.”
Which suddenly became rather difficult when she once again pulled on his genitalia to place a ring against his groin, tightening it, fussing with it in the dark.
He swallowed, awkwardly, as she slid something smooth, wet and hard over his cock, like a fitted, rigid condom that clicked shut.
Jen slapped the wall above his head. “We’re a go!”
The lights rose slowly, their soft, sensual glow discordant with the startling surroundings. Nude men lined the walls of the otherwise respectable parlor, restrained in the same manner as he, arms manacled above, ankles fettered below, mouths gagged, cocks encased in clear plastic sheaths with tiny padlocks.
The men were of every hue and decoration typical of San Francisco, yet each of them honed to perfection, their proudly displayed bodies supremely ripped, waxed, and glistening.
That’s when embarrassment for his beer bulge, profusion of hair, and pasty skin nagged at Nigel, competing with the unpleasantness of the blood rushing from his hands and the saliva dripping down his chin.
Feminine titters and giggles filtered from the hallway, followed by shushing and admonishments.
And then women swarmed into the parlor, their eyes wide, their gasps gleeful, their bodies seductively swathed in latex and leather. They took in the sight of each man, their gazes palpable and heavy, raising brows in appreciation, or, in Nigel’s case, bewilderment.
Such reactions kept his growing arousal in check.
Jen and an equally formidable counterpart stood as sentries at the entrance. “Keys will be auctioned off in fifteen minutes—”
Keys? Nigel studied the wall across from him. Above each man was a number and a black ribbon holding a set of keys. He glanced down at his imprisoned cock and farther to his shackled ankles.
“—so make your choices now. Until that time, look all you want, but don’t touch.”
Bollocks. His freedom was in the hands of total strangers, his competition a dozen buffed guys. He couldn’t even use his charming English accent.
The room continued to fill with women, their voices, their fragrances, their breasts, their thighs, their tight bums peeking out from under short skirts. His cock throbbed and ached.
They stared and conferred, pointed and whispered. Most left after the appointed gawking period. A minute later, shouts and cheers filtered in from down the hall.
The auction. Nigel closed his eyes in despair. His stomach growled. He had expected dinner.
Shrieks of delight roused him. Two women in red leather catsuits bounced excitedly before a tanned, hairless hottie, running their fingers across his rippled abs, playfully swatting his confined cock with a leather crop. More women entered, eager to torment their prizes.
And then Mandy sauntered in, red lips smiling wickedly, wearing the shortest damned skirt ever, high-heeled boots climbing above her knees, her breasts straining against a leather corset, a scantily clad girl on her arm. She held his eyes as she straddled the naked thigh of her friend, rubbing herself, leaving a trail of wetness. The girl wrapped an arm around Mandy’s shoulders, drawing her closer, kissing her full on the mouth, massaging a breast as Mandy moaned and writhed.
Well, fuck me. Nigel’s cock hardened, twitching painfully as it struggled to break free.
Mandy pulled back from her friend, surveying his reaction. She went to him, tilting her head with a chiding smirk, then tickled his needy flesh with her black lacquered nails.
“God, you look miserable.”
He was trying to convey relief. Mandy had said they should kink up their sex life. Apparently bondage and a threesome were on the menu that night.
His heart and cock thrummed in excitement as Mandy’s girl retrieved the keys and worked on his shackles, her touch gentle and reassuring.
Mandy kissed his nose as she removed his gag. He dared to catch her lips with his, tangling his tongue in the warm wetness of her mouth.
She moaned her approval. “Hungry?”
“I’m bloody starving.”
“Good. Dinner’s just down the hall.”
THE CONTROL TOWER
Olivia Summersweet
Fog was everywhere that morning—covering the runways, obscuring the view of the bay and fraying nerves in the control tower. The pilots couldn’t maintain visual separation, so we were clearing planes for takeoff one at a time instead of in pairs, as we usually did at San Francisco International.
I was working local control, giving pilots takeoff instructions. Brad, standing to my left, was working as radar coordinator, feeding me flight-progress strips—slips of paper bearing each plane’s call sign, destination and squawk code, logged by controllers as the flights made their way through departure or arrival. We were an assembly line, mirroring the movement of airplanes on the runways below.
I was one of the few women in the business. I was tough, one of the guys, holding my own among the macho men of this profession. But not around Brad. Around Brad, I stuttered. I lost self-confidence. I melted into a puddle. There was something about Brad.
That morning, as he stood next to me, I could smell his cologne. I looked straight ahead at the runways but in my mind’s eye, I saw only Brad: his dirty-blond ponytail, his pecs, his sweet smile. I imagined him stroking my naked body, making me feel warm and soft. He would pay particular attention to my ass. He’d caress my inner thighs, millimeters from my pussy, stroking my asscrack. I would give myself up to him and my labia would swell and moisten; they were, in fact, doing just that as I thought about him. And after I surrendered to him, Brad would violate me in the dirtiest, nastiest, sweetest, hottest ways imaginable. He would spank my naked ass. His finger would stroke my cunt, and touch my asshole, and…
Damn.
“United 830, cleared for takeoff, contact Norcal departure,” I told a p
ilot through my headset, getting him off the runway just seconds before a landing plane set down.
Another close call. These fantasies about Brad had to stop. This month I’d already created a “golden towbar,” two planes nose to nose that had to be towed apart because airplanes can’t back up. I’d been the laughingstock of the tower. I’d been mentally sucking Brad’s cock at the time. I’d never actually seen Brad’s cock, but I imagined it as just a bit longer and thicker than average, with a large, shapely, purple head. Perfect for sucking. My mouth watered again just thinking about it. Please let me suck it, please. I closed my eyes.
Shit. A pilot with a French accent was talking frantically at me through the radio. I opened my eyes. The Air France jet was taxiing toward the intersection of two runways, while a Lufthansa plane headed the same way from the opposite corner. They were on a collision course. My stomach tightened.
“Flight 235 heavy on papa, cross two-eight left, hold short of two-eight right,” I said quickly.
Air France made it through in the nick of time. I took a deep breath.
I was in the process of exhaling when I felt hands behind me, pressing on both sides of my waist. I turned around; it was Brad. My heart began to pound. He’d barely spoken two words to me before, let alone touched me. What on earth?
With a small smile on his face, he pushed a flight-progress strip toward me on the counter. I glanced downward: it was a flight-progress strip, all right. But instead of flight data, there was a handwritten note: I am going to punish you for that ;). 8 tonight, my place. There was an address.
I looked up but he was gone. His shift had ended and Martin, a biker type, had taken his place.
I was stunned. Obviously, he thought he could get away with this. Obviously, he knew how I felt about him. For the rest of my shift I couldn’t stop thinking about the note, trying to deconstruct it. What nerve. What did he mean, “punish?” And why, more to the point, did that word turn me on?
I got through the day without further incident and rushed home to my Noe Valley flat. I was famished but too nervous to wolf down more than an apple and a piece of cheese. I showered, threw on fresh underwear, jeans, a black T-shirt, boots and my bomber jacket and drove to the address in the Mission.
I rang, was buzzed in, and walked up a flight of stairs. At the top, in an open doorway, stood Brad, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
“Hi,” he said. “C’mon in.” He smiled.
I walked in and he closed the door behind us.
“You know I’m going to punish you,” he said, and stroked my face. “You nearly crashed three airplanes today.”
“What do you mean?” I said. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him see that I wanted it. It was too humiliating.
He turned me around and slapped me on the rear, giving me a push toward his living room, where he sat down on the sofa. He pulled me down next to him. He stroked my hair and grazed my nipples, then squeezed both breasts.
“Here,” he said, patting his lap.
I just sat there, uncomprehending, not wanting to comprehend, until finally, unbelievably, he pulled me over his knee.
“You’ve been nearly crashing planes for as long as I’ve known you,” he said. “What’s up with that? It’s about time you were punished for your mistakes. Don’t you think?”
I was silent.
“Say it,” he said quietly. “Say, ‘I deserve to be punished.’”
I heard my own voice, as if from another world, whisper, “I deserve to be punished.”
Brad pulled his hardening cock out of his pants and put my hand around it. He yanked my jeans and panties down below my hips and petted my ass. I moaned. He spanked me once, twice, three times. Once for each nearly crashed plane.
“Count,” he said, continuing.
I began to count.
“Say, ‘I’m sorry I nearly crashed those planes,’ with each count,” he said.
I giggled.
“You think this is funny?” he demanded, and spanked me harder.
“No,” I whispered.
He spanked me twenty times, and each time, I made myself say, “I’m sorry I nearly crashed those planes.” His cock was hard in my hand. I was so wet I nearly came.
He sat me up. “On your knees,” he said. I fell onto my knees and he pushed his cock into my mouth. “Suck.”
His cock was beautiful, just as I’d pictured it. He came in my mouth, then kissed me. He stroked and petted me gently all over, just as I’d imagined.
I got home thinking the whole thing had been a dream.
The next morning, the weather was beautiful; planes moved majestically on the runways and taxiways, glinting in the sun.
“United 816, cross runway two-eight left, contact ground point eight,” I told a pilot.
I looked down; there was a new strip in my pile: 8 p.m. See you then ;).
I smiled.
A Japan Airlines jet took off on 28 left, flew over the bay and headed toward the Pacific.
LONG SKIRT
Gigi Frost
I want to be good for you. I want to show you, through my self-control, how much I want you. We’ve only been together once and I loved your strength, how you didn’t tell me where you wanted me, you just put me there.
But I have a different kind of fantasy, an idea of a way to offer myself to you, if you want it.
In my fantasy, I am wearing a long, slim black skirt made of sensible jersey, the kind I used to wear in high school and college, back when I thought that showing my legs would mean being taken less seriously. I dug this particular skirt out of my thrift-store pile after our second date, when you told me I could write a story for you, telling you what I dream about you doing to me. I’ve been holding on to the skirt, and now it’s about to serve a far different purpose than it used to.
* * *
I stand, alone, in the center of the room. There is only an inch of leg showing between the hem of my long skirt and the ankle straps of my shoes. You walk around me, appraising. I duck my head and look up into your eyes, then away again. Then you are behind me.
I grip the sides of the skirt in each hand and lift it, ever so slightly. I am going to give myself to you, expose my flesh for you, one inch at a time. I practiced in the mirror this afternoon, trying to learn by muscle memory what an inch feels like so I could do this accurately, the same way I use a mirror in rehearsal to learn what height to raise my leg, where to place my hands.
I take a deep breath and try to ground myself, connecting with the floor as best I can in my heels. You start with something thin and stinging on my ankles and calves. I’m not used to being hit so low on my legs but I find it relatively easy to stay in control, to keep breathing and lifting my skirt exactly one inch higher after every blow.
Then you reach the backs of my knees, which you strike with a leather strap. It stings and stays with me and suddenly I am much more turned on than I was before. I start to feel greedy. I want you to strike me again and again. I want your hands, your strap, all over my thighs and ass. I want to lift my skirt all the way up to my waist, or better yet, take it off entirely.
Instead, I lift it another inch. It’s hard to stand here, trying to keep my balance, trying not to move, with nothing to lean against. Soon I’m going to have to ask permission to bend over and hold my ankles, at the very least.
Inch by inch we travel together. It’s awkward, all this material bunched up in my hands, but I can’t seem to get my brain and my hands to work together enough to roll it up neatly and get a good grip. I’ve reached the point where I need to keep reminding myself that I want this, that I want to go slow, that this is an offering I’ve chosen to make for you, that taking our time is always better than instant gratification.
You reach the tops of my thighs and I stumble. I can’t remain standing anymore. My cunt has been speaking up very loudly for a while now. I’m shaking and moaning and breathing heavily. Still, I push myself through one more inch, one more blow, before I find my vo
ice, coming up so quietly from the depths of my submissive state. “Please, Sir, may I change positions now?” I would love to simply bend over and stay on my own two feet, with nothing to brace against. But I’m also hoping that you’ll soon be doing things to me that will make it impossible for me to continue unsupported. So when you ask me what I want, I pause in dreadful silence, unable to decide.
I gamble on the old standby: “Whatever pleases you, Sir.”
But you’re not letting me get away with that easy out. “I want you to tell me, girl.”
Another interminable wait while I collect myself. Finally I come to a conclusion. “Please let me bend over a chair, Sir.” You indicate that I should bring one over. I try to hold my skirt level with one hand as I drag the chair with the other.
I bend over, with no support from my arms, which are still holding the skirt at my hips. You run your hands over the backs of my thighs. I shiver and raise the skirt another inch, exposing the tender crease between my ass and thighs. You tell me you want me to stay still and take five blows on that spot, and I acquiesce gratefully.
I love being told to hold still. I love how it takes every bit of my concentration to obey. Being still makes me more vocal. I cry out and thank you again and again for taking me this way, for pushing me to take more, for hurting me.
After five blows I take a deep breath and reveal the next inch. You take my uncovered ass in your hands and tell me to grip the seat of the chair. You lift my skirt to my waist and I am ready for anything and everything that might come next.
BREATHLESS OBEDIENCE
Cèsar Sanchez Zapata
She arrived shortly after three in the morning.
My Mistress, perhaps you might call her. I’d not had occasion to call her much of anything yet. Our relationship (whatever it was) had developed more organically. It was far more visceral, like a chain reaction—stray dominoes falling one upon the other.
She strolled in, as she was wont to do, having picked the lock with the pin she kept tucked in her hair. I was nearly asleep by then, but the click of razor-sharp stiletto heels on the tiled floor woke me. Through parted eyes, I watched her cast off her wool coat and set the taser she carried—not for protection but reserved for extreme punishment—next to my badge on the foyer table.
The Big Book of Submission Page 18