The Big Book of Submission

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  When I say I decided, I mean that I was determined to do this in the way one is determined to lose weight or finish a project by a deadline. I wanted so very badly for my Mistress to be proud of me in a way she has never been before…but the peace about my decision didn’t come until after I felt the cold, sharp steel dragging along my flesh. I didn’t accept it until after I felt her drawing it across my skin and the heat of the blood that seeped from the wound travel through me. The sensation trickled across my flesh and shot out through the tips of my fingers and toes, and I couldn’t help but gasp at each little jolt of warm, intoxicating pain.

  I don’t know how long I lay there while she carved into my skin. I was dizzy. I was trembling. I was crying. All I could hear was her voice every now and again, telling me I bled for her so beautifully and how proud she was of me. What a good girl I was being.

  Somewhere in the midst of it all, the heat of the pain and the blood melted my fear away and left nothing but perfect submission, perfect trust and perfect love. There was nobody in the entire world in those moments except her and me, Owner and property, bound by pain.

  You know how some people just have something inside them that you can taste from across a room? You can smell it on them and feel them coming from a mile away. Like they’ve taken a piece of Life and claimed it as their own. Now I have it, too.

  I have faced one of my most intense fears. I have walked through darkness, trembling and frightened…and not only did I survive, but I found light and love to embrace me as I came out the other end.

  And I wear the marks of my journey with pride.

  BREATHLESS

  Dorla Moorehouse

  The ridges of your index fingers press against my trachea, and I know that there will be exactly ninety heartbeats until I lose consciousness. Every time we begin, there’s always the knowledge that accidents do happen, that people make mistakes, that they count wrong, lose control. Every time we begin, there’s always the fear that this will be the last minute of my life, that something will go wrong and I’ll never wake up. And then my family and friends will find out my dirty secret.

  But if I’m going to die, at least I’m going to enjoy myself.

  A staticky tingle runs along my neck and around my collarbone. Then, after the first dozen beats, the rest of my body starts to register what’s happening. The sparks of sensation hop down my spine and roll down my chest until my nipples perk up, and both electric paths meet in my cunt. Now my legs are twitching, and I attempt to hook them around your hips, but you widen your stance. Your hands are all I get for now.

  You won’t even kiss me, not like this. That’s for after, to reward me.

  You won’t do a single thing to me except hold me there and watch me gasp, watch my face flush, watch me thrash with a mix of arousal and fear.

  No touch other than the pressure against my throat.

  No look but the hard control in your eyes.

  No words. We have other ways to communicate.

  At twenty beats, my heart rate accelerates, caught up in the lack of air and the surge of my adrenaline. If you don’t notice when the speed change happens, if you miscount, I’m in danger. Before I know it, I’ve lost count. Now, my life really is in your hands. I let my vision wander a minute, gaze on your ever-hardening cock, then zero back in on your face before the tunnel vision sets in. Your face is my focus. Your eyes are my strength and my trust.

  I focus on your hands, meditating on your skin and the pressure it provides. You’ll leave a few marks on me, two purple thumbprints in the gap between my collarbones, and from the correct angle, they’ll look like a heart. I love the way those marks linger, the way I get to wear the evidence, even though I’ll have to spend the better part of a week being careful with my wardrobe. I don’t want to deal with questions—or worse, assumptions.

  Trying to zero in on the feeling of your fingertips, on the bruise forming beneath my skin, I close my eyes, yearning to become pure sensation.

  But you don’t let me keep my eyes closed. Eye contact turns you on; staring into my dilated pupils as my body trembles, knowing your power over me, makes your cock grow even harder, makes your biceps tense. You shake me just a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep me here, in reality.

  Eye contact lets you know I’m still conscious.

  As I get closer to my limit, instinct tries to have its way with me. My fingers fiddle with the smooth cord attached to the bell I’m supposed to ring if I need to stop, but I won’t let instinct win. I won’t let fear take over. I want the reward that will come from my endurance. I feel my pulse everywhere when you have me trapped like this, and it’s strongest in my cunt. All that rhythm, tightening my muscles, leaving me desperate for release that might not ever come if you forget yourself, if you hold me just a little too long.

  Suddenly, your hands pull away. The bell drops, muffled by the carpet as my fingers engage, grip your shoulders, and I arch my hips to welcome your cock, pull you toward my panting lips for a kiss. I’ve barely had a chance to draw a full breath, and already your cock is inside me.

  You never go slow, and I don’t blame you. I’ve seen you growing harder by the second, your dick straining away from your abdomen, stiffening as I struggle. I pull you deeper into my body, muscles trembling as oxygen flows back in, hooking my legs and refusing to let go this time. Even though I’m lying down, I get a head rush, and for a moment I think that now I’m going to pass out, but I breathe deep, focus on your eyes, which are now fluttering open and closed as you get closer and closer to orgasm.

  My own body has been ready from the moment you circled your fingers around my throat. The energy stored up rips free, and this—this is worth every bit of risk I take when I let you choke me. Heat slams out of my lungs and races out of my cunt and up through my chest, down through my legs, leaving me quaking against the pillows. When it’s done, I’m swept right back up into your body, still rocking and thrusting, still absorbed in your own tension. I squeeze my thighs even tighter, gripping you so deep in my body that you can barely pull back. Your quads suddenly go rock hard and you stop moving, bracing yourself against me. Your fingers clench against my shoulders; there will be more bruises there, more marks of your ferocious devotion. As you reach your apex, rough, ragged breaths spill out of your throat, and when you’re finally spent, you collapse on top of me, your heart pounding so hard that I can feel it setting off my own rhythm.

  When you regain your senses, you place soft kisses at the spot on my throat where you’ve bruised me, and then move your lips along my collarbone, brushing the other areas you’ve marked in your passion.

  “Are you sated, love?”

  These are the first words I’ve heard from you since the moment you walked in my door, slammed it shut and carried me upstairs.

  “Yes.”

  Tonight, when we go to dinner, I might not wear jewelry that conceals the bruise at the base of my throat. Tonight, I might not wear a high-collared shirt, or something with sleeves. Tonight, I might let people see, let them stare. Assumptions be damned.

  Perhaps some secrets should be left open.

  PERFECT GENTLEMAN

  Donna George Storey

  It’s strange to be ringing her doorbell in a suit and tie. Perversely, he feels a stirring in his groin. She made it clear he wouldn’t get any tonight unless he proved himself the perfect gentleman. Not that he’s exactly gentleman material. The world of fancy manners and elaborate rules is about as sexy to him as a moldy fish fork.

  She, on the other hand, looks very sexy in her old-fashioned dress cinched at the waist, hair swept up like a 1950s movie star. She waits outside his car, gazing regally into the distance, until he realizes he’s supposed to open the door for her.

  It’s not a very promising start to the evening.

  At the fussy French restaurant, he finds the menu incomprehensible and the waiter a pompous ass. She watches him the whole time, a smile playing at her lips, as if she knows he’s hard as a
rock under the white linen tablecloth.

  Back on her porch, she extends her hand. “Thank you. I had a lovely time.”

  Enough is enough of this stupid game. Impulsively, he pulls her in tight for a kiss. She shakes free, glancing disapprovingly at the bulge in his trousers. Obviously he’s failed the test.

  Then she smiles and invites him inside.

  Settling beside him on the sofa, several chaste inches away, she asks if he likes being a gentleman.

  “It’s not exactly my style, but you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “The pleasures of restraint.”

  “Self-restraint,” she corrects him. “It’s turning me on, too.”

  His cock twitches. Suddenly his chances are looking much brighter.

  “Do you want to keep playing?” she asks.

  A simple Fuck, no, and he’d have her naked in bed in an instant, but something dark and twisted inside him makes him shrug and say, “Sure, why not?”

  She narrows her eyes, cat-like. “Aren’t you going to try to kiss me again?”

  “May I?”

  She giggles, but opens her mouth to him easily enough. Their tongues dance. She makes mewing noises, like she always does when she’s ready to go at it. Yet whenever he tries to touch her breast, she twists away. She’s not wearing a bra, either, but some weird, rigid undergarment—a corset? His penis throbs in his pants, oozing precome.

  “Control yourself, please. Remember that I’m a lady.”

  In spite of her protest, she’s the one who practically pulls him down on top of her. She wiggles, as if to resist, but it’s the same move she makes when they’re fucking, to get more friction on her clit.

  “No, please,” she whimpers as she lodges her thigh between his so she’s putting just the right pressure on his cock.

  “Come on, let’s do it,” he begs.

  “You know I’m saving myself for my honeymoon.”

  Cut the crap, he almost blurts out. Suddenly he understands those suckers in days gone by who proposed in the heat of the moment. He’s so desperate he’d do anything to get inside her pants. Stealthily, he grasps the hem of her skirt and eases it up. His fingers meet bare thigh above a band of stocking. He shivers. As coy as she pretends to be, the little cocktease is soaking wet down there.

  She pushes him off, straightens her clothes. “I don’t think you are a gentleman.”

  He blushes, oddly ashamed of his animal urges, which doesn’t make sense because this woman is no spotless virgin. She’s let him fuck her ass and liked it.

  She purses her lips. “The trouble is, if I send you home now, you’ll just play with your thing by yourself, won’t you? That’s bad for your character.”

  He smiles weakly. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to lie.

  She lifts her eyebrows. “But if you follow the rules, my rules, there might be hope for you. Will you be good?”

  Does he have a choice? Kinky game or no, the woman always has you by the balls anyway. Of course, her “rules” are more dominatrix than Miss Manners. She orders him to pull his trousers and briefs down to his ankles. Then she makes him jack off so she can see what boys do to their willies when they’re being naughty.

  “And don’t you dare come. A gentleman doesn’t make a nasty mess in front of a lady.”

  She stands before him, eyes fixed on his busy hand. Slowly, she removes her dress, revealing a whorish, red satin corset and matching panties.

  “Come here, damn it,” he breathes.

  “Keep wanking, you dirty little masturbator.” She starts touching herself between her legs. “It’s just like when you’re at your computer, jerking off to porn, isn’t it?”

  He stops, panting.

  “Good. You’re learning self-control. We’ll make a gentleman out of you yet.” She jerks her chin at him. “Now back to work.”

  A few more tugs under her gaze and he has to stop again.

  “Poor baby. You’re doing so well.” She sits next to him and wraps her dainty hand around his shaft. “If I rub it, do you promise not to make a mess?”

  He chokes out a pleading “Yes.” Why does he love this so much? The insults, the frustration, the delicious pleasure of being seen for the horny bastard he is.

  She jerks him, faster and faster. “Don’t you dare come,” she sings. “Stop me just in time.”

  “Stop,” he hisses.

  She brushes his cheek tenderly. “How long has it been like this? You were hard when you came to pick me up, weren’t you?”

  He nods.

  “Four hours of expectation. Not bad for the first time. When I’m done training you, you’ll be a perfect gentleman who can stand up in a lady’s presence all night long.”

  The thought of such sweet torture makes him groan.

  “Tonight you’ll get a reward for trying. But you can’t touch it anymore. Keep your hands flat on the sofa like a good boy.” She stands and heads for the kitchen. What he’d do to bury himself in that luscious, scarlet satin ass.

  She returns with a timer and punches in one minute.

  “If you don’t come by the time this goes off, the next stop for you is a cold shower.” Her eyes sparkle with challenge.

  The numbers tick down.

  His fingers tingle helplessly at his sides. “Can you, uh, do something to help?”

  “I suppose I could.”

  Forty-five seconds to go.

  At last she bends over and takes his throbbing cock in her mouth.

  Hot. Liquid. Heaven.

  He’s so used to holding back, he instinctively steels himself against the sensation.

  Thirty-eight seconds.

  Her soft lips fuck him, up and down. For such a proper lady, she gives head like a pro.

  His balls ache terribly from the hours of cruel teasing. Suddenly his thigh and ass muscles stiffen. His cock slides deeper into the wet softness. With a strangled cry, he shoots straight into that taunting pink mouth, flooding her with his seed in spasms of spine-shattering bliss.

  She swallows it down to the buzz of the timer’s bell.

  “Such lovely manners,” she whispers in his ear. “But I’m sure you can do better next time.”

  He sinks back into the sofa, floating.

  Maybe there’s something to being a gentleman after all?

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel.com) is an author, editor and blogger. She has edited over fifty books of erotica, including Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission; Please, Sir; Please, Ma’am; He’s on Top; She’s on Top; Cheeky Spanking Stories; Bottoms Up; Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica; Lust in Latex; Flying High; The Big Book of Orgasms; Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex; Anything for You; Baby Got Back: Anal Erotica; Suite Encounters; Going Down; Irresistible; Obsessed; Women in Lust; Surrender; Orgasmic; Fast Girls; Do Not Disturb; Going Down; Tasting Him; Tasting Her; Caught Looking; Hide and Seek; Crossdressing; and is Best Bondage Erotica series editor. Her anthologies have won eight IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards, and submission-themed Surrender won the National Leather Association Samois Anthology Award. Her work has been published in over one hundred anthologies, including Best American Erotica 2004 and 2006. She wrote the popular “Lusty Lady” column for the Village Voice.

  Rachel has written for AVN, Bust, Cleansheets.com, Cosmopolitan, Curve, The Daily Beast, Elle.com, TheFrisky.com, Glamour, Gothamist, Harper’s Bazaar, The Hairpin, Huffington Post, Inked, Mediabistro, Newsday, New York Post, New York Observer, Penthouse, The Root, Salon, San Francisco Chronicle, Time Out New York, xoJane and Zink, among others. She has appeared on “The Gayle King Show,” “The Martha Stewart Show,” “The Berman and Berman Show,” NY1 and Showtime’s “Family Business.” She speaks at colleges, conferences and sex toy stores, does readings and teaches erotic writing workshops across the country. She blogs at lustylady.blogspot.com and Tweets @raquelita.

  f Submission