She put her stiletto heel on my shoulder blade and pushed me down until my upper body lay across my thighs and my face was on the floor. The first faint stirrings of want started in my pussy. The crop came down on my ass quick and hard, with no warning. Ten strokes, without any words from her. The concrete was cool on my forehead. The pain in my tongue had devolved into a dull throbbing ache, and I started to drool.
She slipped her fingers into my slit, rubbing my juices around like she was savoring my slickness. She stepped away, adding ten more strokes of the crop. My breath started to come hard and fast. She repeated this routine until a final set of ten hits that she delivered to my soaking pussy.
She stepped to my side and pulled me up by my hair. With her face less than an inch from mine, she said, “Look at me.”
I looked up into her beautiful blue-gray eyes, my own widening with recognition. She could be the one to master me.
“I see you, Nikki. I see what you are. I will hurt you and I won’t hold back, like I’ve always had to. I will hurt you physically and emotionally. I see right into you.” I shivered deep inside, intense satisfaction burning through me. “Lie down on your back.”
I flattened myself, staring at the ceiling. She arranged my arms straight out from my shoulders. She then gingerly stepped on them, the hard soles of her boots digging into my biceps. She slipped the points of her stilettos down the insides of my arms, catching at the skin until they reached the ground.
“Uhhh.” The stabbing pain of the stilettos and the pressure of her foot on my arms—it was so much to take. I felt a quick flood between my thighs and my nipples tightened. “Mmmm.”
“Oh, now those are some nicer sounds.” She squatted down over me and yanked the clothespin off my tongue. “Now, what do you want to say to me?”
“Please, Mistress!”
“Oh good,” she said nonchalantly as she fiddled with a zipper in her tight leggings. It zipped all the way back to her ass. As she exposed her shorn pussy to me, shifting her weight, she pushed it down on my face.
I groaned into her and started my job.
THE LOST SUITCASE
Tamsin Flowers
He said it wasn’t my fault. As we watched the empty carousel turning, the other passengers disappeared through the exit. Eventually we followed them, empty-handed, and when I apologized he said no one was to blame. But we’d gone away for one reason only, and the missing case contained everything we needed. He said it wasn’t my fault, but I knew he would punish me for it anyway.
At the hotel he sent me for a massage; he would phone the airport and chase the missing case. But despite the best efforts of a beautiful Norwegian girl, I couldn’t relax. I kept thinking about what he had planned for me and how now none of it could happen. Back in the room, still slathered in massage oil and wrapped in the hotel robe, I paced up and down. Maybe they’d found the case and he’d gone to fetch it. Or maybe he’d gone down to the bar to take the edge off his disappointment with a gimlet. I went to the minibar and fixed myself a gin and tonic with nervous hands.
By the time he came back I had drunk two thirds of a second g&t. He arrived carrying a couple of carrier bags from Target.
“They think the suitcase went to Miami,” he said.
“What’s in the bags?” I said as he flung them onto the bed.
“You’ll find out later.”
We were down at the pool when he decided it should start. I was working on my back tan while he read Faulkner. I heard him put his Kindle down and felt his hand on my shoulder.
“Go and wait for me upstairs,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
In the room I stripped off my bikini and knelt at the end of the bed. A mixture of excitement and fear churned low in my gut. Although he had tried to hide it, I knew he’d been annoyed when the suitcase went missing and I wondered what he would do without its contents.
I didn’t have to wait long. He came up to the room less than half an hour after he’d sent me up. He pulled off his robe and threw it on the bed and, with my head bent, I could just see that his trunks and leg hairs were wet; he must have taken a swim after he sent me up. I heard a rustling noise as he pulled something out of one of the shopping bags. I wondered what it might be.
“Stand up.”
I stood and he came up behind me.
“Close your eyes.”
Soft, silky fabric slid across my eyelids as he tied the mystery item at the back of my head. Our blindfold had been in the case but, of course, he could easily replace it with a new scarf. I wondered about the rest of the paraphernalia. But I couldn’t ask him. Now that the game had started I could only speak when spoken to.
He left me standing in position and I heard a clatter as he emptied the carrier bags onto the small table by the window. He seemed to be sorting through multiple items. After a minute or so he came back to me. Again he stood behind me but this time his hands went to my neck. He pulled my hair to one side and slipped a collar around my neck. It felt rough and hard compared to the soft leather collar I normally wore. He caressed my neck as he fastened it, and his touch sent a flutter to my loins. Had Target started selling bondage gear?
“It’s from the pet department,” he said, reading my mind.
One of his hands cupped my right breast, and he sucked my nipple into his mouth. I tried not to sigh or fidget but his kiss sent a shimmy of desire through me and my legs trembled.
“No reaction,” he said, and something bit down hard on my nipple.
At first I thought it was his teeth but then he took hold of my other breast and sucked it until the nipple pebbled up hard. The combination of his soft mouth on one side and the fierce pinch on the other made me gasp.
“Clothespins. Thank you, Target,” he said and then my left nipple felt the bite.
I took several deep breaths, savoring the burn at the apex of each breast.
“Hands in front,” he said.
He had handcuffs as well. The clunk as they did up sounded cheap and tinny but they would do the job.
“Later you can put on the whole policewoman costume for me,” he said with a dry laugh.
He seemed to be enjoying the need to improvise.
“Bend over the bed.”
I knew the position he meant. I knelt beside the bed and leaned forward until my ass was bent over the edge. I loved this moment—and I hated it. He knew it, and made me wait until the anticipation of what might be coming next had me squirming. I wanted it and I didn’t want it in equal measures.
A sharp shock of pain, a lingering after burn.
“There were so many things on the shelves at Target to choose from,” he said. “I could have bought a leather belt. Electric cables. A table tennis paddle. A canoe paddle. A wooden spoon. A ruler. Let me count the ways I could mark your skin.”
All the while he continued striking my ass, first one side, then the other, building up the intensity slowly. It was his special skill. I couldn’t begin to guess the object slapping hard and flat against my flesh and after a while I couldn’t even process his words. I lost myself in the physical sensation, living and breathing only for the moment when he would transform the pain into pleasure with a slick of lube and the work of a finger or two.
Finally he tossed his implement aside, and I heard a metallic clash on the tiled floor.
“What?” I gasped.
“A skillet,” he said. “They had it on special and we could do with a new one.”
He lifted me up onto the bed and swiftly brought me off, sliding a lubed finger into my ass and working my clit to make me moan and writhe as I came against his hand. Then he flipped me over onto my back and fucked me long and hard until he too hit the jackpot.
We lay side by side, glistening with sweat and lube, the blindfold and handcuffs discarded.
“See, babe, everything’s okay. It didn’t matter about the case.”
I heard a knock at the door and he slipped on his robe to answer it. I pulled the sheet up to cover my naked body.<
br />
The bellhop who’d shown us to our room earlier stood in the doorway.
“Your suitcase, sir,” I heard him say. “Sent from the airport with apologies.”
It was going to be a good weekend.
THE RHINO
C. Margery Kempe
She knew they called her “the Rhino” but that didn’t matter to Sheila. The boss had to be the boss. There wasn’t room for deadwood in the organization. Deadlines were deadlines. If she didn’t chew them out, she’d be the one out on her ear tomorrow.
Not that she’d ever been much of a pussycat.
Part of her enjoyed the fact that people moved a little quicker when she loped down the corridor. The bespectacled young mail clerk might refer to her as “the lesbanian on the seventh floor” but he was likely to stay in the basement. She was the one who’d turned Nofziger and Smith from a deadbeat chaser of other companies’ discards into the hottest ad agency in town.
And the Rhino led the charge.
Her assistant buzzed her. “Mr. Howarth on line three,” she said before hanging up. Sheila smiled. Bridget knew she would always take his call. Her pulse quickened.
“Mr. Howarth.”
“Ms. Evans. Six p.m. We’re trying something new.” He broke the connection and a thrill of anticipation sang through her veins. Sheila savored the echo of his words. Cryptic as always, yet he was not one to disappoint.
From the night they’d met six months ago at the social-media mixer, he’d continued to surprise and excite her, for he had recognized something within Sheila she’d had no idea lay in her heart: a need to abandon all control.
They’d begun conventionally enough with movie dates and roses. She’d enjoyed them, but she’d discovered a new thrill on a night in when he’d ordered her to obey—playfully first, then with solemn concentration. What began as telling her what to eat and when, turned into waiting to be told when she would be kissed—and how. The memory made her quiver.
Sheila found this need shocking, exhilarating and—initially—puzzling. She had always moved with confidence. If she didn’t know the answer, she would ask. If someone doubted her, she would offer proof. If she didn’t like a situation, she would pick up and leave.
Until he’d said, “Put that fork down,” and she had obeyed.
There was a knock at the door. Bridget opened it and popped her head in. “A-Team is ready for you.”
“Thanks, Bridget. I have Ben Faulkes penciled in for five today; call him and shift it to tomorrow. Or whatever might be convenient for him.”
“Will do.” They both left, Sheila striding on ahead to the conference room while her assistant stopped at her own desk. Sheila had no idea she was smiling.
Her working team must have taken it as a good sign, for they visibly relaxed at the sight of her. Maura appeared eager to run with the new proposal. “We’ve taken on board your suggestions. The new drawings have really come together.”
Anthony clicked through the pictures, annotating the changes, while Sheila did her best not to let the words We’re going to try something new drown out the presentation. Her skin itched to be stroked. It took all her will not to charge out of the room; he would have made her wait until six anyway.
“Well done, well done,” Sheila said at the end. “I like the fox particularly. It’s just the right symbol: the spirit of the country invades the city. Perfect.” Their faces shone with pleasure. “Maura, I want you to pitch it on Friday.”
“Me!” The young woman showed a mixture of joy and terror.
“Absolutely. You’ve earned it.” Sheila smiled quickly. It wasn’t the same smile as earlier. “Both of you; make sure everything is spotless and seamless. The last few slides showed the haste of revision, Anthony. We want that account.”
“Yes, Sheila,” they all said together.
Sheila grinned at that. “Then we celebrate.”
The rest of the day seemed to crawl by, but Sheila forced herself not check the time too often. Leaving at five meant struggling through the rush hour press of flesh; the tube was always packed at that hour. Sheila found the walk to his flat soothing after that madness.
But as she rang the bell her pulse quickened; she fought the urge to touch her nipples, which felt hard already.
“Ah, Ms. Evans, welcome,” he said as if he had forgotten their appointment. A quick kiss on her cheek and then he guided her onto the entryway’s white plush carpet. Sheila bent to remove her shoes but stopped halfway.
“Yes,” he said walking on into the sitting room, “you may remove your shoes.”
Sheila’s heart pounded; she knew she was already wet. To look at him, you wouldn’t necessarily guess how provocative he was. Mr. Howarth (he was always mister) looked the epitome of the middle-aged, middle-class sort of fellow. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, although the warm intelligence of his eyes gave away much to a careful observer.
He returned from closing the curtains and smiled up at her. Sheila towered over most men, usually causing annoyance, but Mr. Howarth didn’t measure himself against anyone. “Long day? You must be tired.”
Sheila shook her head but didn’t otherwise move. He took her shoulder bag and laid it on the little table, then led her into the sitting room, positioning her on the white rug. The fireplace crackled, casting warmth and light across the room.
“We’ll soon have you comfortable.” He slipped her jacket off and threw it over the back of the comfy chair. Then he reached up to unbutton her blouse, keeping his gaze locked on hers. They had the same smile on their faces. When he slipped off her blouse, he leaned forward to bite her nipple through her bra.
Sheila whimpered.
When she stood in only her bra and knickers, Mr. Howarth took off his tie, brought her hands together and lashed them tightly with the silk garment. Sheila felt a surge of excitement pound in her breast. What’s he going to do?
Gently, he led her over to the leather armchair and bent her over the arm. They had discussed spanking, but Mr. Howarth had not accepted her plea—or so she’d thought. Sheila found herself quivering with anticipation despite her awkward position. Something about the way her bottom thrust upward made her feel so vulnerable.
She wasn’t the Rhino now.
Mr. Howarth stood beside her, perfectly in control. Only his voice hinted at his own excitement. “I’m going to spank you. I suspect it may hurt. I don’t want you moving, Ms. Evans.”
She nodded her head to show she understood. Sheila’s heart thudded against her rib cage.
His hand stroked the silky globes of her cheeks. Sheila smothered a moan. Silence was all. He pulled her knickers down to her knees, trapping her legs in the fabric, then sliding his hand up to her cleft. Finding it wet, he tsked. Sheila gasped as his fingers fluttered between her lips, then just as quickly withdrew.
It seemed like forever before his hand fell with surprising sharpness. The blow hurt more than she’d imagined it would, but before she had time to think, another fell and another and another. It was everything at once: the pain, the heat, the methodical timing, the care he took, the joy she knew.
Bliss.
MARNI’S WORKING AREA
Dominic Santi
The bright-pink speeding ticket was taped to the side of the nightstand. Even without turning my head on the pillow, I could see where my wife, Marni, had underlined 30 miles over the speed limit in a construction zone. I wiggled my bare butt against the sheet. The handle of Marni’s big black leather paddle extended over the edge of the nightstand, right above the ticket.
Looking at the paddle made my cock throb. Marni’s clothes weren’t helping my self-control. She has long, wavy brown hair and the kind of round, full curves a man can really get a grip on when he’s riding his wife hard and heavy. Her long, flowing skirt swayed with her hips and her slinky button-down shirt clung to her huge, heavy breasts. Her nipples poked out stiff and long. Damn, I loved sucking Marni’s tits!
I licked my lips and concentrated on her breasts,
trying not to look at her right hand. It was covered with the translucent glow of a white rubber glove. My eyes darted back to the nightstand. I couldn’t see the prostate milker, or the big pump bottle of lubricant, but I knew they were there. I came from being spanked, every single time—unless my balls were emptied beforehand.
Marni used to make me masturbate until I climaxed before she paddled me. Then she discovered that fucking cock-milking toy. Her new routine gave a whole new meaning to the word dread when I fucked up. She walked over to the side of the bed, her hips swaying and her boobs jiggling, frowning so hard my balls wanted to climb inside and hide. She picked up the lubricant and squeezed a long, slick stream over her middle finger.
“Pull your legs up and back.”
Her finger was like a heat-seeking missile, zeroing in on my asshole, yet it was slick and cool. I gasped as she slid it deep. She pressed up toward my belly button, right into the hypersensitive place where my orgasms started—the place I’d learned the hard way was my traitorous, touch-hungry prostate. I groaned as a drop of precome leaked through my cocktube.
“You’re exceptionally sensitive tonight.” She rubbed until another small stream oozed through. “You should get an excellent milking.”
Just like that, her finger was gone. Then she was holding that fucking prostate milker. The fat part glistened with lube. Marni said it was shaped like the life-sized inside of a rectum. I had no idea if she was right. I’d never looked up my ass. All I knew was that when she slid the milker in, it felt like it was made for me. I couldn’t help squeezing. I gasped as it slid over my prostate, the knob beneath pressing up hard in back of my balls, massaging from the outside as well. The handle snugged into position in my crack.
I shuddered with each squeeze, trying to relax my hips in spite of the awesome fucking feeling. Precome ran down my cock, each drop getting me that much closer to Marni’s paddle and a world of fire-assed, hurtin’ bawling. But each squeeze felt so good, I couldn’t make myself stop.
“Lower your legs and keep squeezing.” Marni pulled off the glove and tossed it in the trash.
The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales Page 21