Dismissed, Sterling nods. Then he straightens his cuffs and leaves the way they’d come. Mallory follows a moment later, emerging into the lobby just as Sterling passes through the old-fashioned revolving door.
For the first time that day, Mallory smiles, a fully unguarded smile, as she watches him hail a cab. She feels rested and calm and refreshed. Only Sterling can manage that. He is something more than merely her assistant. He is pure, fucking gold.
SWITCHING STRUGGLES
Leandra vane
Charlotte held Nate’s wrists together, his warm pulse thumping against the pads of her thumbs. The hum of conversation and snapping of whips across the dungeon faded away as he kneeled before her. She had topped Nate in the past, but now they were waiting on James, who had been Nate’s Dominant over the past year. It was going to be a mindfuck scene—no restraints, just Charlotte holding Nate’s wrists, and she was more than willing to fill the role.
Charlotte noticed Nate was trembling, and she sensed it wasn’t from anticipation. She was about to ask him what was wrong when Nate forced his hands apart and pushed her back. A second pair of hands clasped around Charlotte’s wrists, capturing them above her head.
James’s voice sounded above her, his words crisp and defined. “Nathan, please inform Charlotte what is taking place.”
Nate’s gaze sharpened in attention and his body shrank into his submissive demeanor.
“So…sticking to the parameters of the struggle scene you negotiated last month, Ian considered the names on the list and has appointed James and me to help him. I’ll be acting on behalf of my Master who will be giving me commands in order to complete the scene Sir Ian has requested. Since we’re in the dungeon your safewords are red, yellow, and green. Sir Ian informed us that, knowing you, the F word will also suffice as green. Is there anything you need before the scene begins?”
“Fuck off you fucking traitor,” Charlotte spat.
Nate nodded. “Good to go, then.”
“Thank you, Nathan,” James said. “Now get out of the way. I will let you know when I need you.”
Nate backed away and kneeled. “Yes, Sir.”
Charlotte’s nostrils flared as heat, excitement, and arousal seized her all at once. A primal fight-or-flight urged her muscles to tighten and made her fingers tingle.
Warmth flourished on Charlotte’s ear as James whispered to her, “You get a five-second head start. I suggest you make the most of it.”
James dropped her and Charlotte caught herself with her palms flat on the carpet. Charlotte launched back up but she only managed four or five steps before James crashed behind her, seized her arms, and immobilized her flight.
“Nathan. Shoes.”
As her flats were pulled off and tossed aside, Charlotte caught a glimpse of her rose-red-painted toenails.
“Shirt.”
Nate carefully began to unfasten Charlotte’s shirt. His breath was shaky, along with his fingers. James quickly grew impatient.
“If you can’t be faster, my pet, I’m not going to let you help anymore.”
Nate grimaced, but clutched the fabric in his hands and tugged, the snaps flying open, and he forced the shirt down around her shoulders.
Nate then reached around and unclasped her bra with an ease that was admirable considering how much Charlotte was writhing and reminding him what things she could do to him in revenge for his treachery.
James had to rearrange his hold on her to get the rest of her clothes off. His warm hands cupped her plumped muscles, holding her firm against her best efforts to get away. Nate unbuttoned her jeans and peeled them off along with her panties. With James’s arms wrapped around her and Nate’s hands on her bare skin, Charlotte began the blissful descent into subspace.
The two men dragged her naked through the maze of players to a massage table near the back of the dungeon. Her tits bounced ferociously as she made the most of her permission to struggle. Despite her screaming and thrashing, she was lifted onto the table and held in place.
A single glance stopped Charlotte’s hopeless protests with a gasp.
Ian strolled over to them, his long hair pulled back, a sharp suit transforming him from the peaceful, laid-back guy that everyone else knew. But as he towered over her, she knew Sir Ian was vexed by her show of being the loudest person in the dungeon that night.
Charlotte prepared herself for a lecture, but he remained resolutely silent.
Ian ran a hand over her jawline and his thumb slipped over her bottom lip. She nipped at it and for a moment he let his guard down. Charlotte sucked his thumb into her mouth. She rolled her hot tongue over his thumb and pushed out her lips, brazenly locking eyes with him, knowing how much it turned him on and how he knew she was still defiantly testing his authority.
When he pulled his hand away, she expected a swift retaliation, but none came. Instead, he placed the tips of two fingers firmly on her sternum and slowly brought them down her abdomen, around her navel, and through the coarse coils of her pubic hair. He nudged her legs apart and directed the other men around her where to hold her. His voice was far away now, and he made it a point to show he wasn’t talking to her. About her, yes, but not to her.
Ian wasn’t going to use restraints, or blindfolds, or even commands. The three of them were going to hold her down and he was going to do to her what he saw fit.
Charlotte’s mind danced in a jagged waltz. Had she seen any toys stored under the massage table? Did James or Nate have room on them to hide floggers? Was Ian going to take off his own belt to use on her?
The possibilities dissolved in her mind as she gave in to the sensations of hands on her body, the divine pressure on her wrists, her ankles. Her legs were pried apart and a strong hold braced her thighs, opening her for all to see.
Ian’s two fingertips returned, plunging deep into her wet cunt. He began to thrust and caress and unravel her with his simple touch.
With every move or spasm of her muscles, the men’s strong hands held her in place. As she gasped and whimpered, tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She surrendered and allowed herself to be turned inside out by her love for them, the complete trust she held toward these men to let them do this to her.
With that, she found the molten center of subspace and vulnerability. It wasn’t orgasm, but it was a release she’d been needing for a long time. When she resurfaced, her body was limp and the hands were holding her up rather than holding her down, supporting her, helping her sit up.
Charlotte was trembling all over, drunk on subspace and adrenaline. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. She saw Nate was sitting on the edge of the bench with her. She blinked, realizing the scene had been for him, too.
As their tops went to fetch some water, Charlotte drew Nate close to her, nuzzling her face to his.
“I fucking love you; don’t forget it,” she said, and felt him smile against her cheek. After a moment, she nudged him away. “But don’t think I won’t give you a punishment for your betrayal.”
Nate’s smile only widened.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said. “I did my best to earn a good one.”
FLAGGED FOR REVISION
Elna Holst
It was pelting down. From what she could make out through the dizzying web of droplets that had turned her reading specs into a blindfold of sorts, the overcast sky showed no sign of letting up. Yes, she was wearing her glasses. Nothing but her glasses, in fact.
Edith shifted her weight to her left, in an attempt to give her right leg a rest. Pins and needles were all the thanks she got for this. She sighed and put her foot down in the mud again, rivulets of rain streaming down her sides, down her thighs, as if she were the centerpiece of an overflowing fountain. It was a nice image. Pity it was freaking freezing.
The slick flagpole to which she was strung up, arms hoisted high above her head, creaked in the wind. The cold was eating into the very core of her, her skin mottled with goose pimples, her short, usually spiky hair saturated, f
lattened to her skull. And then there was the other kind of exposure, though Edith doubted anyone else would be barmy enough to climb the steep path up the hill in this weather.
And that, right enough, was the reason she was standing out here in the first place. Turning her head, she tried to squint over the rim of her frames to where she had last seen her companion on this miserable quest, marked in their respective diaries as a “leisure activity.” In other words: their much-anticipated summer vacation, which Edith had energetically lobbied they should spend not on some tedious, everybody’s-doing-it Mediterranean cruise (who were these “everybody” anyway? There wasn’t a single soul among their acquaintance who was going on a cruise this year), but rather on a walking tour of their native soil, getting in touch with nature, roughing it, free as larks, lonely as clouds, setting up camp beneath the stars.
She ticked off her list of inane arguments to the steadfast rhythm of the driving rain. The rain. Of course it would bloody rain. This country was fucking famous for it.
As they locked up and left their car in the long-term parking lot this morning, some ten miles south of their current position, her wife’s face had been a blank slate of silent quiescence—a sure harbinger of a storm to come.
The weather gods had taken the hint. They’d been going for no more than an hour before the first drops fell, and Edith’s chest had tightened with foreboding. Selma had stopped to look up at the sky, her right eyelid twitching. Then she’d shrugged and asked Edith to take their waterproofs out of her rucksack.
Sel always came prepared. Even when Edith knew she’d much rather have brought a pile of light reading, and some even lighter swimwear.
A crack of lightning blotted her already blurry field of vision, followed by the rattling of thunder. She swayed with the surprise, slipped in the mud, but didn’t—couldn’t—fall. Selma knew how to tie a knot.
Oh, didn’t she just.
Heat flashed through her, momentarily, as she remembered how—after she herself had pitched their tent, and Selma had prepared their meal in the relative dryness of the campsite’s permanent shelter—Sel had asked her, very quietly, to get undressed after supper.
Edith never disobeyed a direct command. Once she had swallowed down the last of her broth and bread, she stood, rinsed and put their things away, and proceeded to zip off her rainwear and remove her jumper, jeans, socks, tank top, and underpants. The chill of the damp air made her nipples pucker, and it took all of her mental strength not to wrap her arms around herself.
Selma smiled faintly. Edith felt a trickle of moisture responding between her legs. She sat up straighter.
“I’m not happy with you, Ed.”
Edith’s head fell forward. There was a lump in her throat, tears burning at the corners of her eyes.
“Do you know why I’m not happy with you?”
“You wanted to go on a cruise.”
Selma shook her head. “Try again, Ed.”
“You said it would rain.”
“You’re getting closer. I had my suspicions. But more to the point: what did you say?”
“I said it wouldn’t rain.”
“Almost. What exactly did you say?”
“I promised. I swore to god it wouldn’t rain. I…” Edith’s voice broke off as she remembered precisely what she had said. “I said you could strip me down and put me out for the night if it did.”
Selma’s smile widened.
There was a glint of yellow on the outskirts of her impaired vision. Edith’s head was spinning; her considerable muscular stamina—always a source of pride and pleasure with her life partner—had turned to putty in the downpour. She made an effort to stand tall, but failed ignominiously.
The bright marigold raincoat drew closer. Warm hands touched her numb skin and pulled her slippery body into a tight embrace.
Edith made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob.
“Hush, baby, there’s a good girl. You’re on your last leg, aren’t you?”
Ed nodded. Her teeth chattered too much for intelligible speech.
“I’ve decided to revise your plans for the night. It is my prerogative, after all, even if you are the most adorable ornament this old pole ever had the honor of being bedecked with.”
Selma slid her hand up Edith’s flagging arms and released her bonds. Her arms fell free; her whole body would have fallen, except Selma was there, holding her, half-carrying, half-dragging her toward their tent. There was the unmistakable sound of the zipper opening the canvas door, and Edith tumbled onto soft, dry, slightly rough material. Towels. Terry-cloth towels spread over their joint sleeping bags. She heard the rustling of Selma removing her waterproofs and boots under the flysheet, then the zipping of the door closing up again.
“There we go,” Selma said softly. “Now we’d better get you dried off, or I’ll have no use for you tonight.”
Edith managed to roll over on her back, making a feeble gesture with her bloodless arm. Selma tutted her tongue and set to.
The hard, insistent rubbing of terry cloth against her flesh made sensation flood back into Edith’s hands and feet, arms and legs, in turn. She tingled all over, her toes and fingers curling with the sweet, minute ache of it.
As her tormentor worked over her torso, the material grating her swollen tits, a new kind of storm was brewing in Edith.
She wet her lips. The rubbing abruptly stopped. She groaned.
“You know, I think I know what will make us both hot enough.”
Selma finally removed Edith’s spectacles. Her adored face was prettily flushed as her finger trailed down to Ed’s half-open lips.
“You want me?”
“Yes.” Edith struggled to shape her mouth around the key phrase. “P…please.”
She was amply rewarded.
GROCERY RUN
Rose P. Lethe
With only two items on the list—cumin and dish soap—it should have been a quick trip, especially at this time of day. At just past eight on a Tuesday night, even the crowds at the big-box store Jess frequented would be thinning. She would pop inside, grab the two items that hadn’t made it onto her weekly grocery list the first time, and then pop back out. It would be easy—ten minutes at most if she hurried.
And Jess would hurry. Valerie had certainly seen to that.
“You tend to get distracted,” she had said, with Jess bare-bottomed and bent over her lap, ponytail swaying as she wiggled. “Let’s see if we can’t do something about that.”
A pair of Ben Wa balls in her cunt and a metal plug in her ass—“The sooner you get home, the sooner they come out.” So yes, Jess would hurry.
The plug in particular was a bully. It was small but heavy, with a curve so sharp that she felt it in her pussy as well as her ass. Even through two walls of skin, the thick bulb at the end could put a pressure against her stupidly sensitive G-spot that was heavenly, usually.
With the added Ben Wa balls, it was hellish. Both holes felt overly full, and every step seemed to rock the toys’ weight into her sweet spot, producing a sensation that was almost like a cramp. It made her want to stay in her parked car, just curl up in the driver’s seat and not move for hours.
But she had the shopping to finish.
So she got out, trudged across the asphalt, and passed through the automatic doors into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the store. She was waddling a bit, walking like she had a massive pole between her legs. It seemed unreal that something so small—each toy could fit in one palm—made her throb like this, not just in her cunt or ass but throughout her whole abdomen. A pulse of discomfort, dull but insistent, moved through her like ripples in a pond until she was walking with one arm curled protectively around her lower belly, her handbag threatening to slide off her drooping shoulder.
Cumin, she reminded herself, and dish soap.
The baking aisle was deserted, so Jess paused in front of the spices for a brief respite.
Valerie had used a veritable flood of lube earl
ier, inserting the balls and then the plug. It was beginning to leak out of her now. She could feel her panties clinging to her vulva as she tilted her hips, her labia slipping along her clit as she squeezed her thighs together, a growing wet sensation between her asscheeks even as she stood still.
It was filthy and embarrassing, but the bad sort. Why was she doing this?
Her handbag buzzed once, then twice. She shrugged it off her shoulder and fished her phone from its depths. Sure enough, there was an incoming call. Valerie mobile, said the screen.
Jess answered with a tense “Hello?”
“Hey.” There was a melodic quality to Valerie’s soft, chipper voice, the way she drew out the vowel like a musical note. Just hearing it drained some of the tension in Jess’s body. “How’s it going?”
“It’s…” Jess considered. It would be so easy to say, I don’t like this. So easy to say, Red, and be allowed to make the discomfort stop. “Intense,” she decided.
There was a pause. Jess pictured Valerie on the couch, twirling her glossy brown hair around one finger as she analyzed Jess’s tone. “Are you alone?”
Jess glanced around. The aisle was still empty, but she could hear the shuffle of footsteps nearby and the distant squeak of cart wheels. “Yes.”
“Yes, what? What do you call me?”
And just like that, Jess remembered herself. The discomfort didn’t matter, nor did the filthiness and embarrassment of standing in the middle of a store with both her cunt and asshole slick and full. She wasn’t here because she needed to finish the shopping; she was here because Valerie had told her to come. Valerie had wanted her to do this.
Jess swallowed, ducked her head, and answered in a barely audible whisper: “Daddy.”
She burned from her cheeks to her ears and all the way to her nape. Another glance reassured her that no one was around, no one could hear her, but even the possibility that someone could walk by, see her standing here calling her girlfriend Daddy over the phone…
“Is it uncomfortable?” Valerie asked. There was a smile in her voice that made Jess want to hide her face in shame—the good sort—knowing she was about to be toyed with.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 2