The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales

by Rachel Bussel

  Nathan is moaning around his gag and straining against his ropes, trying to thrust his dick harder into my mouth.

  “You boys,” Karen laughs. “Put something warm and wet around your cock and you don’t care who or what it is. Now, Rosie and I are going to sixty-nine on the picnic blanket. Lee, I want you to keep going until Nathan comes and make sure you swallow it all down like a good little slut. Rosie thinks I should beat you with her riding crop while you suck. I’ve explained that you’re too pathetic a creature to withstand pain, but if you don’t swallow every drop I might beat you anyway.”

  An animalistic growl erupts from the back of my throat. It’s pretty much the only sound I’m capable of as I concentrate on overcoming my gag reflex. I can hear Karen and Rosie moving around behind me and I’m so tempted to turn round to see if she and her friend really are licking each other out. I try to picture it in my mind, but I want to see it for real. Nathan can see what’s going on and from his insistent moans and squirming, it seems the view is to his liking. I resist the urge to stop and look, instead trying to see how deep I can take Nathan’s dick. The choking sensation sends adrenaline shooting through my pelvis and has my own cock at attention. I’m burying my nose in his pubes and the tickling discomfort and mildly musty smell only make me harder.

  I actually start to imagine how a crop landing across my shoulders or my ass might feel. Would it make me cough and splutter as Nathan’s thickness stifled my cries of pain? I try to shake the image. I don’t like pain. But it won’t go away.

  Nathan’s movements become jerkier. A salt tang seeps over my tongue as his precome oozes. I’m vaguely aware of the feminine noises behind me getting louder. Then my mouth is flooded with liquid, thicker than water but still sliding easily down my throat, so easily I barely register the taste. I suck and slurp, not letting a single drop escape my lips. Christ, I’ve done it. I’ve sucked him off. Another man. My best friend. And I don’t want to let that cock go.

  I rest a moment with it softening on my tongue. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to turn and see Karen and Rosie together. Before I can make up my mind what to do, Karen is there at my side. “Well done, honey,” she says, rubbing my shoulder. “Come and help me make a fire.” I let Nathan’s dick slide out and he grunts as it drops from my lips.

  I kneel, my cuffs separated but still hugging my wrists and ankles, to pile up dry sticks we’ve collected and coax them into flame. My gaze is pulled toward Nathan, still bound to the tree as Rosie beats his chest and the front of his thighs with her crop. He’s pressing his head back into the bark and his eyes are shut tight. His groans are somewhere in the gray area between pleasure and pain. Even when I wrench my eyes away, the sound of the crop is there, rhythmic, in the background. Thwack, thwack, thwack. It has me wondering.

  “You seem very interested in that riding crop,” Karen says. She’s got a marshmallow on a stick above the fire, its surface browning. “Are you changing your mind about pain?”

  I wish I were gagged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps we should borrow it. Have a gentle try.” I don’t have to answer as she holds the stick to my lips. I shape my mouth around the crisp shell and sticky sweetness oozes over my tongue.

  THE SHOOT

  D. L. King

  Do you mind if I touch him?”

  I was working on a new body of images illustrating male submission. Yes, I know, it’s a recurring theme with me, but I do so like the appearance of the male form restrained and straining. I was looking for subjects between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five with specific characteristics, so I’d sent out a call to dominants in the international community. I explained the project and invited them to send photos if they were interested and willing to come to New York for shooting sessions.

  Evidently, my reputation is such that the offer of a free print will coax people from across the globe to travel to my studio. The farthest reply was from a woman in Japan. She was planning a trip and sent the most delightful photo of her plaything. Language barriers often cease to be a problem when sex and art take over. In the photo, Kazuhiro was transformed by his Mistress’s intricate rope bondage. If Tatsumi arrived here in time, with Kazuhiro, he would be a lovely addition to the show.

  But now, the woman standing in my studio shrugged her shoulders. “You have carte blanche. I’ve seen your work, that’s why we’re here.”

  I ran a fingernail over his nipple and watched it react. “What’s his name?”

  “Jordan.”

  Jordan’s Mistress was getting a signed print of her choice in payment for today’s session—that, and first refusal of the finished prints of her boy before the show opened to the public.

  “Very nice, Jordan,” I purred. Turning to his Mistress, I asked if she’d brought his shaving things. She said she had and I told her to set them up on the table by the reclining barber chair. While she got everything ready, I directed Jordan to take off his sweatpants and climb into the chair. After fastening his wrists and ankles, I raised the chair to a comfortable height for his Mistress.

  The sweats were loose on him but there was still a mark that would show on film so I had a bit of time to kill. All in all, it wasn’t too bad; it would have been a much bigger time waster if he’d worn jeans. Of course, I prefer to have boys arrive at my studio naked, but that can only occur in winter. Boots and a coat somehow seem out of place in the summer. I took my time setting up the lighting.

  A half hour later, we were ready to begin. “Okay,” I said. “When we communicated, you indicated you preferred to shave him dry, with talc, but I’d like you to use shaving cream today. The contrast pops so nicely in black and white, especially with the steel and mother of pearl of the straight razor.”

  As she began to shave Jordan, I started shooting: close-ups of her black-gloved hand pressing down on the base of his erection and the razor flashing in the lights, medium shots of his crotch, half shaved with her black silk-clad torso as the background, a long shot, including his face—head back, eyes closed and mouth open. I shot from a slight angle, just beyond his feet, taking in the whole scene along with the edges of the black seamless paper roll, the light stand in the corner behind his head, and black electrical cords snaking around the floor. The industrial look can sometimes be the most intimate and voyeuristic.

  I could imagine the finished prints on the gallery wall. Yes, these pictures would go well with last week’s. Jordan, pale and russet, juxtaposed with the obsidian and pink of Geoffrey; I would hang them as diptychs. The two would pair so nicely for the shaving pictures.

  I shot fast, as I always do. “All right, if you’re finished with the front of him, let’s have him on all fours on the table.”

  His Mistress released him from the chair and walked him over to the low massage table. His cock stood proud and swung from side to side as he walked. Once she had him positioned, I walked over, gently ran my hand down his back and cupped his perfectly rounded ass. Although his breathing sped up a bit, to his credit, Jordan hadn’t made a sound since he’d entered my studio.

  “Very nice, Jordan, arms in front of you now, on the table,” I said as I patted his bottom, giving him the clue to raise it. “That’s it, now open your legs for me,” I said, gently pushing and prodding him into the position I wanted. I ran my finger up his hard cock and pulled and stretched his balls down in back. An involuntary shudder coursed through his muscles. “Very good, Jordan. Later, Mistress will give you a nice reward,” I whispered, as I smoothed my hands down the backs of his thighs. “Won’t that be something to look forward to?” I detected a small tensing of his muscles as a drop of precome slipped from the tip of his cock and splashed onto the table, between his legs.

  I fastened him to the table with black leather straps just below his knees and elbows, and at his ankles and wrists. It was all about the contrast. With Geoffrey, I’d used white leather straps. What a lovely pair they’d make.

  Satisfied, I asked his Mistress to complete the shav
e with his balls and anus. Using the bristles of the shaving brush to apply the creamy soap, she swirled it again and again over his pulsing opening. Helpless to fight it any longer, he treated us to the music of his lovely, deep moan.

  I finished these first shots, impressed with Jordan’s composure, and curious to see how he’d do during the strap-on shots. I always like to think ahead during a shoot. My thoughts kept bringing me back to Geoffrey.

  Geoffrey’s master kept him in excellent shape, as fit as Jordan’s Mistress kept him. Perhaps I’d ask to have them brought in together for one more shoot. I could see the close-up of Geoffrey’s cock entering Jordan’s delicious ass. As I said, it really is all about the contrast.

  SUNDAY IN THE ART GALLERY WITH GEORGE

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  George has been looking at the woman’s ass for the last ten minutes. I know it’s only rendered as a series of broad charcoal strokes on canvas, but he’s studying it as intently as if it were warm, bare flesh. Yes, he may be an ass man, but this is taking it a little far.

  I scuff the toe of my black patent T-bar shoe on the wooden floor, trying to attract his attention. We take turns at choosing how we’ll spend our Sundays, and as soon as he said he was going to take me to the art gallery I knew I was in for an afternoon of sheer, unrelenting tedium.

  “Can we go yet?” I ask, my voice loud enough to make the frumpy, middle-aged woman admiring the reclining nude to our right turn in my direction. Her gaze scans my too-short skirt, my swinging ponytail tied with a childish polka-dot ribbon, and she can’t keep her obvious distaste from her expression. Wherever she thinks my place should be, it’s certainly not in the hushed confines of an art gallery.

  “Be quiet, Mina. We’ve still the Pre-Raphaelites room to visit.”

  Oh god, the Pre-Raphaelites. George’s favorites. Endless depictions of faux-medieval melodramas and sulky-faced women with lips like bruised fruit.

  “Don’t wanna see the boring old Pre-Raphs,” I whine. “Wanna go for a hot chocolate.”

  George’s patience, which has been steadily wearing thinner since we arrived two hours ago, snaps. He grabs me by the arm. “I’ve had just about enough of your acting out, young lady. Come with me.”

  His grip is almost hard enough to bruise as he hauls me out into the corridor, and it sends an excited thrill shooting straight to my pussy. In truth, my panties have been wet almost since we left the house, my mind racing with thoughts of how I’d bring my husband to his breaking point. I catch a glimpse of the frump as he drags me away; I can’t tell whether she’s shocked or secretly delighted that I appear to be getting what’s been coming to me. If only she knew.

  Glancing around, George spots a roped-off corridor, with a sign reading STAFF ONLY hanging from it. It’s perfect for our needs, and he slips the looped rope off the metal pole that keeps it in place, so we can slip through into a private area. We’re breaking all kinds of rules by being here, but that only makes my heart beat a little faster, my pussy flood with sticky juice.

  A few feet down the corridor, we come across an alcove with a narrow window set in it. The thick windowsill will make a perfect sitting spot for George; the fact the window only looks out onto the museum’s waste bins means we’re unlikely to be spotted from outside.

  “God, I’ve been longing to do this to you,” my husband breathes as he guides me onto his lap. I wriggle and pout, trying to stop him flipping up my skirt to reveal my white cotton panties, but it’s a perfunctory effort. I want him to do this to me, to go further and pull down my panties to bare my bum. Even though there’s a possibility some staff member might discover us here, I need the shame of exposure.

  Instead, he bunches up the fabric of my underwear in one hand and smoothes the fingers of the other over my naked cheeks. My dominant husband, the avowed ass man, can’t resist taking a moment to play with my raised half-moons.

  “Oh, Mina,” he sighs. “What a wicked little brat you are, embarrassing me in public like that.”

  “Yes, and you love it, don’t you? What else was I going to do, wait till you’d dragged me round the Pre-Raphs?”

  Even now, when my punishment is assured, I can’t resist annoying him further. It’s in my nature, coded into my DNA. I’ve never been the kind of submissive who complies meekly and sees obedience as the ultimate virtue. I’m a brat, just like George says, and I thrive on pushing and provoking him until he gives me what we both want.

  “Oh, Mina, you’ve really done it now…” That’s all the warning I get before he starts to discipline me. His palm cracks against my cheeks, delivering smack after smack. Without any kind of warm-up, there’s no gradual introduction to the pain. It’s there from the very first swat, raw and intense. But time dictates George do this hard and fast, and already I’m responding. It’s hard to stifle the cries that want to burst from my throat, but I do my best, and my muffled moans and kicking heels can’t fail to let him know the effect his slaps are having.

  With my panties twisted in his fingers, the cotton pulled taut against my cunt, there’s a delicious friction on my clit as I wriggle and squirm. George is hard, too; his baggy trousers managed to disguise his excitement as we toured the gallery, but here, the thick rigidity of his cock is all too apparent to me as I writhe on his crotch.

  “Are you sorry?” he asks me, as he brings his stinging assault on my bottom to a halt. I wish I could see my cheeks; they’re hot and tender, and they must be stained a vivid crimson, but unless he permits me a visit to the ladies’ room, I won’t have the chance to admire them. And he won’t be doing that, not yet; it would give me the perfect opportunity to sneakily relieve my maddening need to come, and that only happens when my Master permits it.

  So it’ll be a sore, frustrated brat who follows her husband round the Pre-Raphaelites room, all too aware of the throbbing in her ass and the itching in her pussy. But it means the reward for taking my spanking without complaint will be all the sweeter when it finally comes.

  George understands my needs so well, just as I do his, and that’s why we complement each other perfectly. When I finally get to come, with his cock buried deep in my ass, it will be with a silent thank-you to whoever decreed this willful, bratty submissive should find the man who really knows how to tame her—if only for a little while.

  Next weekend, it’s my turn to choose our Sunday outing. I think I’ll suggest the science museum. I hate going there, and I’ll never be able to still my bored fidgeting. George will need to do whatever it takes to see that I do. What fun we’ll have…

  THE THIRD PLUG

  Nick Mamatas

  The third plug wasn’t the hardest, as you thought it would be. After two weeks of training, it slides in easily…almost. The first plug felt so big. Now, with Sir’s palm warm on your ass, cool lube flowing like a snake down your bottom and the largest plug your man owns wedged tight inside you, you can’t help but giggle, and giggle again at the swat you get for giggling.

  “Put on some panties,” Sir says, his voice close and hollow in your ear. “Those lace boy shorts this time.” He usually likes thongs, but they tend to look a little ridiculous on a plugged rear. You wiggle your butt at him and stand up from over the bed. “Yes, Sir,” you say and try to saunter to the bureau to get dressed. The plug makes walking a bit hard, but you can feel it flaring out your hips, forcing you to move like a whore, the way the heels Sir has you wear sometimes do.

  “How do you feel, slut?” he asks.

  “Is this it, Sir?” you ask as you slide on your panties. “It feels…big. It makes me want a cock in there, but—”

  “Wait,” he says and you know the conversation is over. The schoolgirl skirt and camisole go on next, and then you’re out for the day, just another couple, except that you have to very quietly ask permission to give him a kiss on the cheek or leave his presence. He keeps his hand on your ass as you walk around the mall and whenever you sit he slides his hand up your skirt to massage your thighs. You’re distracted, squ
irming in your seat—but not by that. His words were what did that: “You tell me when you understand,” he said, after approving the way you put your hair up to show off the back of your neck. “Today, you tell me when you get it, slut.” Get what?

  You’re in the food court at the mall, drinking almost comically oversized sodas. Sir’s picking at some awful glop he calls “automatic curry.” It’s so strange—you never go to the mall. Neither does he, ever. He had even printed out directions, which you’d spotted on his bureau when he took the belt to your ass for being five minutes late to his home. Sure, you call him “Sir” and sometimes, when your sweaty back is on wrinkled sheets and you catch a glimpse of gray chest hair, come out with “Daddy”—but he doesn’t shop at the mall. You’re pretty sure most of the furniture in his apartment came right from the curb, or was there when he moved in. At least he lives by himself, and off-campus, so you put up with the socks—hell, one time you found a sock, along with half an onion and a jar of mayonnaise, and nothing else, in his fridge—for your get-togethers.

  Your mind wanders, and really, so does his. He’s not looking very dom-like at the moment, eating as he is with a plastic fork out of a Styrofoam clamshell, just like everyone else. You’re still feeling somewhat hot—you like showing off your cleavage, though you worry that the flesh over your thighs is forming a visible roll, and your shoulders feel a little fat, too. You wish he’d look up at you. You squirm in the plastic bum-mold of your own chair and slurp from your straw, feel the plug between your thick cheeks and a bit of wet comes back to your thighs. You wish you could run off to the restroom to finger yourself, but dare not ask Sir for permission.