The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I was breathing hard by the time she dropped the vibe on the bed. “Slap my pussy,” she barked, getting on her hands and knees. If it sounds incongruous that a woman could be so controlling while she’s asking for such a naughty thing, you don’t know Sasha. There’s nothing weak or needy about her; I’m well aware that, should I refuse her requests, she could easily find a man—or woman—to take over my duties. We’ve even discussed it—she loves me deeply, but she has needs, ones that aren’t negotiable. I admire her for knowing what she wants and making sure she gets it.

  Plus I love looking at and touching her pussy, even if that means slapping it with my hand. I still felt the wetness with each stroke. “Get the plug,” she said after ten smacks. I glanced at her as I fetched the butt plug; Sasha had a pillow stuffed between her lips, lest she whimper too loudly. “You’re the whimperer,” she once told me.

  I got the lube and, rather than gently licking her anus, then massaging her tender hole, as I would have preferred, I slicked up my thumb and shoved it into her ass. “Yeah,” she grunted, shoving herself back against me. I fucked her with my thumb until I knew she was ready, then repeated the process with the red butt plug.

  I didn’t need any more orders. I dragged her to the edge of the bed, massaged her asscheeks for a few seconds, pulling them apart and pushing them together, then gave her clit a sharp pinch for good measure. Once she was positioned on the edge of the bed, I rammed my cock into her. This is the one time when I truly feel like the alpha male I could’ve been in another life. How could I not want to shove my dick inside the tight, beautiful cunt of the woman I adore?

  Once in a while she lets me make love to her. Today, she dictated the pace. I slapped her ass as I pulled all the way out and rammed back in, focused entirely on giving her the hardest fuck of her life—and not coming too soon. I’d made that mistake early on and my backside had paid the price. I held on to her cheeks as Sasha said, “Don’t hold back on me, slut boy, give me all of that nice fat cock.” Her fingers had found their way to her clit, which made her even tighter. I speared her with my cock, drilling into her wetness as fast as I could.

  “That’s it, fuck me harder than you’ve ever fucked anyone.” The faster I went, the more urgently I needed to come, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask. Thankfully, after a few more thrusts that almost sent me flying backward, Sasha came, tightening around me. “Fill my ass,” she insisted. I eased the plug out and replaced it with my cock, immediately erupting inside her.

  She let me rest a few minutes before I got to run her a bath and wash her hair. “Sweet boy,” she crooned. I’m not, actually—not with her—but I loved hearing her say it anyway.

  AFTERMATH

  Michael in Texas

  When the alarm clock rings, my back is to it. I roll over to hit the snooze button and my asscheeks feel like they’re on fire. I gasp in surprise. When I’m asleep, I forget I’ve been spanked.

  I’ve been in much worse shape. Some mornings after I play hard, my hips feel frozen in position, and it’s agony to move them. This morning I’m merely sore. If I move carefully, the pain is nothing special.

  I ease my legs over the side of the bed, stand up gingerly and totter to the bathroom, where I pull up my nightshirt and twist to examine my ass in the mirror. It’s completely unmarked. Even after all the times we’ve played, I’m still amazed how hard he can spank me and not leave a mark. The night before, after he’d used his hand, a leather paddle, and the hairbrush, both my cheeks were cherry red, and now they are their usual color, even though they’re sore to the touch. He knows just how hard he can spank without bruising.

  He once told me he learned to do that because some spankees need to be discreet. I said there was no need to be careful with me—for better or worse, no one sees my bare ass except him and me. He replied that someday he may tell me to show up for a date wearing nothing below the waist except a thong, or with my skirt tucked up to display my bare ass, and if he does, he’d prefer it be unmarked.

  As if. He doesn’t have that kind of authority. At least, I never told him he did. We never agreed on it. I mean, I don’t think he has that authority. If he told me to do something like that, I’d just laugh at him. Wouldn’t I? In any case, I certainly wouldn’t do it. At least I assume I wouldn’t.

  He once suggested that after a spanking, whenever I’m sitting down, I pull up my skirt so my bottom—at least the part below the panties—is bare on the seat. It was a suggestion, not an order—he knows better than that. On the drive to work, I try it. The upholstery is scratchy against my thighs; it tingles and itches. I become aroused. I feel ridiculous, so at the first stoplight, I pull my skirt back down. My ass muscles burn when I raise my hips.

  At work, as I squirm in my chair and hope no one will notice, my mind keeps wandering to what we did last night, and what we might do next time. I think about what positions he’ll use, and whether he’ll hold me down or require me to maintain position on my own. I have trouble maintaining position. When I move and he has to wait before giving the next spank, it makes him impatient and he gives me extra. I think about what implements he’ll use, and how many of my clothes he’ll remove. He loves to spank me naked. He loves to touch me and make me climax, but he’s never fucked me. I’m not sure whether I’m insulted or relieved by that. I guess there’s no reason it can’t be both. I wonder what I’ll do if he ever does try to fuck me.

  Our spankings are role-play. Not naughty schoolgirl or lazy secretary or kidnapped by pirates; that’d make me feel silly. But at some point, while we’re together, he says I need a spanking, and I say, “Nuh uh,” and he insists, and I sulk, and eventually he grabs me and spanks me, and I resist, and say it’s unfair, and call him every name in the book, which makes him spank me longer and harder. As long as I never say “red” three times in a row, he can do whatever he wants. I’ve never safeworded, and sometimes when I’m squealing, and my eyes are watering, and I’m laughing at how ridiculous it is, and trying not to cry, I wonder why not. Am I curious how much I can take? Am I curious how much he’ll give? Do I not want to admit he can dish out more than I can stand? Do I actually enjoy the pain? Do I enjoy it even when it becomes so intense that it no longer arouses me?

  In the middle of the afternoon he sends a text. It says to come to his place right after work, and to arrive not wearing panties. He wants to play again today? Does he have any idea how sore my ass still is? It’s too soon. And no panties? If I do that, it’ll give him the wrong idea. I want to be spanked, but I don’t want to be ordered around; I’m not a submissive. Besides, how would I do it? I’m not going to take them off in the car or in some filthy public restroom. I’d have to do it here at work. I’d have to walk through the office with no panties on. What if someone found out?

  I just won’t do it. I’ll tell him I’m busy tonight. No, I don’t want to disappoint him. I’ll go ahead and play, no matter how sore my ass is. We’ve done that before. It makes my arousal more intense, even though it hurts like hell. But I’m definitely going to show up with my panties still on, and if he spanks me for that, then fine. Maybe that’s what he wants me to do.

  When it’s time to leave work, I go into a toilet stall, take off my panties and put them in my purse. I blush as I walk through the office; thank goodness there’s no one around to see. I become aroused again. By the time I get to the car, I’m almost ready to climax. He’d better not get the wrong idea from this.

  But he will; I just bet he will. Next thing I know, I’ll be walking up to his place with my bare ass hanging out. And I’ll hate it. And love it.

  TAKEDOWN

  Marievie

  Just go,” he says. “I will find you.”

  I spin around, staring at him. Find me? This is a farm. Acres of pastures and woods. A few red barns too, turned into versatile dungeons for all kinds of kinky pleasure for this long weekend of FetFest. It could take him hours to find me, no? And what about…?

  He’s not even looking at me. His expressi
on makes it clear that questions would go unanswered. Friendly enough, but firm. An expression that over the last two years I’ve learned to respect and defy, embrace and reject, both love and fear.

  I rummage through my bag. Miniskirt and leather top? Black corset and stockings? Meaningless choices in light of his demand. I put on what my trembling hands find first—short skirt, pink lacy top, forget any panties. I leave the tent he set up for us two days earlier—not without trying to catch his eye, but he doesn’t look up from the cruel contents of his infamous Bag of Props. He pays me no attention.

  My mind is racing. What did he come up with this time? As much as I love his kinky creativity, its fulfillment often means surprise, always pain. Confusion. Excitement. Curiosity. Stomach-churning fear—that too.

  I head left, up the muddy little path that leads to a barn-turned-dungeon. One of my favorite couples of the weekend is playing on the prayer bench outside. The night before they’d seduced a sweet blonde together. They’d taken public advantage of her—including ropes and crops, a strap-on and his cock—with such pleasure and skill that their scene got a top listing in my repertoire of masturbation fantasies.

  Sadly, they soon pack up and head off toward the bondage barn, holding hands, emanating confidence and happiness. I stroll behind them, my eyes fastened on his strong arms, her curvy figure, my mind replaying the moment they both penetrated the tied-up, suspended blonde last night. My thoughts start to wander happily through kinkyland…

  Suddenly, there’s a sharp whoosh right behind me. Before I can recognize it and bolt, two arms grab me from behind, hard and hurting, hoisting me onto a shoulder. I gasp for air, my heart hammering. Through the terror, somehow, I realize these are his hands restraining me.

  Outrage. How dare he scare me like this? I try to kick, wriggle furiously, pound at his back with my fists. But with his arms firmly around my legs and my head dangling down his back, it’s useless. I start howling in rage. Utterly unimpressed, he keeps walking across the lawn, bypassing groups of tents and kinky people looking on curiously, eventually throwing me onto the grassy center field with force, knocking the breath out of me. I howl, trying to get up, attacking him with hands and feet and teeth. He just holds me down on my back with his weight, panting, determination showing in icy eyes that finally meet mine.

  A deep voice: “I think you’ll need this, Sir!” Something heavy lands by my head. I turn and recognize the black leather case: his Bag of Props. Apprehension flushes through me at the realization that all this was planned, scripted, arranged beforehand. On an adrenaline high, I flip over, trying to coil my way out from under, hungry to chase down the mean conspirator.

  The body above me is too heavy, the grass too slippery, his grip too tight. Instead, he turns me back over, grabs my wrists right above my head. I feel bondage tape being wrapped around first my wrists, then my legs. I struggle in horror, groaning. Both of us are covered in sweat by now, so the tape keeps slipping and my hands and legs stay free. As he leans over to reach into his bag, I grab anything within reach, clawing the grass, his shirt, his chest, until my hands get hold of his kilt and I tear it off, leaving him naked but for boots and socks.

  I burst out laughing, mocking him—enraging him. His grip on my wrists tightens, his expression hardens. He pushes me down again, pinning my hands underneath his knees with all his weight, reaching over to the left. Turning, I realize what he is doing: screwing hooks into the ground! Metal hooks, the kind used to fasten wild dogs on leashes.

  Panic washes over me. Immobilized on my stomach, I manage to free my right hand and start throwing the props from his bag as far as I can—rope, more hooks, whips, a crop. He cries out in frustration, forces me down hard, and in one swift motion grabs rope and both my hands, tying them tightly behind me. I gasp in pain as he ties my feet together too, making me feel utterly helpless, vulnerable.

  He gets up. I can see him out of the corner of my eye collecting his scattered dom tools. Escape on my mind, and freed of his weight, I move in the only way possible: I start rolling down the hill. Laughter from the sidelines. I realize to my embarrassment that quite a crowd has gathered, seemingly enjoying the spectacle.

  Of course I don’t get far. Long strides come after me, catching up before I reach the bottom of the hill. Grabbing the rope tied to my wrists, he starts pulling me behind him, fury radiating from his body. My shirt is torn and my skirt pulled up, exposing breasts and legs, skin scraped from being dragged up the hill. My mind races desperately for another escape.

  But there is none. Arriving back where he left his Bag of Props, he just drops my arms and uses his foot to roll me over on my stomach. When he reaches for the bag, my body stiffens in fearful anticipation. There is no mercy in his retaliation, his use of the leather paddle on my ass, my back, and those tender spots on my thighs! Over and over again, my cries fueling his enthusiasm, his endurance.

  I gasp, my body nothing but pain and resistance. Covered in dirt, mouth filling with it every time I move my head. Thoughts of escape fading, strength waning. Now he’s back on top of me, heavy, tying each outstretched limb to the hooks placed in a rectangle around us. Soon I am spread out like a canvas, my pussy exposed to everyone on that lawn.

  He gets up, pleased. Puts his kilt back on. Now choosing his weapons carefully—the crop, then a whip, again!—he takes his time, relishing their impact, undoubtedly enjoying his audience. When I hear the switch, followed by that familiar, rattling sound, I have already given in, my mind curled up in the pain, my body immersed in surrender. My pussy open and wet, ready for the oversized, pumping dildo at the end of his fuck saw.

  HARD THINGS

  Joy Faolán

  You know how some people just have something you can taste from across the room? You can smell it on them. You can feel them coming from a mile away. I never understood how they got it. It’s a glow, a shining light in their aura that I can’t describe. It’s like they know something I don’t. Like they’ve taken a piece of Life and claimed it as their own and nobody can ever take it away from them. I’ve always wanted that for myself. Who hasn’t?

  For several weeks, I had been asking my Mistress for a Hard Thing that I could do for her. I find that doing Hard Things is important because I have an intense need to give of myself and show her that I love her. I wished to give of myself in a way that would please her. I wanted it to be something for her pleasure alone, even if I found it not pleasurable…or, as it turned out, even if it consumed me with fear.

  We had only spoken briefly about what we wanted to do during the precious few moments we had for a scene at a local event. When she asked me, “What do you want, Joy?” I found it nearly impossible to tell her. This wasn’t because I was having problems communicating. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It is just that for me, play is not about the activity. It is about giving myself. It is about showing my submission through my suffering. When I play, I give the person I am playing with specific lines that are not to be crossed. As long as they play within those lines, I enjoy it because I get off on the pleasure of my partner. As soon as I dictate or even request a specific activity, it becomes about me, and I cease to get what I need out of the scene. Ma’am was very understanding about this, and after listening to my current list of limits, which included needles, she uttered three fateful words.

  “What about scalpels?

  I froze. Shit. My heart leaped up into my throat and my stomach took a nosedive down into my lower intestines.

  Fuck!

  I am unsure exactly how long it took my intestines to reorganize themselves in my body, but as they did, I came to a realization. This was my opportunity. This was my Hard Thing. My chance to give back to her, for all she has given to me. To show her how much I loved her. And god, I loved her. So much that it hurt.

  I said I’ve never let anyone do that before. I said I was scared. I said I didn’t know what to expect. I said I knew it would make her happy. I said I knew this was my Hard Thing. And then…
>
  Then I said yes.

  I knew that this would be intense. I knew it would not be easy. I knew, actually, that it would be the hardest thing I have done for her…for anyone.

  I spent a good portion of the week before the event trying to gear myself up for the cutting scene on Friday. “We’ll start small,” she assured me…and I had to stop myself from typing, Um, Ma’am? Have you met…you? She does nothing halfway. I knew this would be no different.

  I told her every night that I was frightened. I assured her that I was trying to work through my fear and that I was excited and eager and scared to tears all at the same time. And she, in her patient and quiet way, calmly watched as I worked through my panicked emotions and arrived, inevitably, at submission.

  Walking into the medical dungeon was hard for me. I was dizzy. My heart was pounding in my ears. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just knew if I stepped the wrong way on those heels I would teeter and fall flat on my face. I remember sitting in the chair while she set up, grinning over at me every now and again, cracking jokes. Then, just before we started, she took me in her arms and hugged me tightly. She told me I was her treasure and that if I didn’t want to do this, I didn’t have to. She told me that if I didn’t feel I was ready, I could back out. That if, halfway through, I decided that I didn’t want this anymore, I was to tell her. But I had already decided.