Big Book of Submission Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Yes, Daddy.” Jess shifted her weight, jostling the toys and making them press into her G-spot anew. Her breath caught, and there was a quaver in her voice. “It’s too much. I’m too full.”

  “I know.” Valerie’s voice dripped with mocking sympathy. “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you? Hmm. How about this? Give me a little squeeze of those thighs.”

  Jess did hide her face this time, covering it with her free hand while humiliation and—god help her—the stirrings of arousal poured over her like hot wax. Squeezing her thighs was how she liked to come. She breathed into the receiver, “Daddy, I’m in public.”

  “Alone in public. Or did you lie to Daddy?”

  Lowering her hand, Jess scanned the aisle. Still deserted but for her, no one even passing by on the ends.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Valerie said warmly. “Because you’re a good girl. So be good and squeeze for me.”

  For you.

  Jess crossed one foot over the other and squeezed her thighs together. The balls slipped a little deeper into her cunt, and the plug gave a little wobbling thrust into her ass. It felt like she was being jabbed in her G-spot, but fuck if her clit didn’t throb at the motion.

  “That’s it,” Valerie crooned into her ear. “Another.”

  Jess obeyed, squeezing again and again while her gaze darted from one end of the aisle to the other, watching for passersby. When she came, it was a pitiful thing, nothing more than a weak ripple through her clit, accompanied by a huff into the receiver, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t her orgasm. It was Daddy’s.

  “That’s it. Perfect,” said Valerie, sounding so pleased, so proud, that something in Jess pitched upward and soared. “You did so well.”

  Feeling light and giddy, she snatched the cumin from the shelf. It wasn’t quite the floaty nothingness of subspace, but it was as near as she wanted to come to it in public. Her cunt was looser and wetter now, the pressure and the fullness less uncomfortable than before.

  Heading for the dish soap, she whispered into the phone, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “Don’t forget to get yourself a candy bar,” Valerie said. “You’ve earned it.”

  CONFERENCE CALL

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  It’s close to six, and I’m still waiting for the call. Lifting a slat of the blind with my finger, I gaze wistfully into the parking lot. Patti and Linda are heading for Linda’s car, laughing at something as they teeter on their heels. They’ll be going for drinks at Muldoon’s, our usual Friday evening haunt, and I wish I could join them. But I can’t. Once, bored and frustrated, I skipped out on a conference call. I haven’t made that mistake since.

  “Juliana.” At the sound of that oh-so-familiar voice, I swivel in my chair, back to face the monitor. He’s watching me from his seat in the office down the hall, his brow raised.

  “Sir.” The response is automatic.

  “Max, are you with us?” he enquires. Another,

  smaller window opens on the screen, as our colleague in the London office joins us.

  “As always. Good to see you, Iain.” Based on the time difference, it must be almost midnight where Max is, but he looks bright-eyed and alert, handsome in his sober black business suit. “Miss Winston.” He acknowledges me with a nod.

  “If we’re all here, then we can begin. Juliana, remove your jacket.”

  “Yes, Sir.” There are no niceties, but I didn’t expect them. We’ve been sharing these calls long enough for me to know that, with him, it’s always straight down to business. It’s why he makes such a good Master; he knows how to read the mood in a room, and give me what I need, sometimes even before I know I need it myself.

  Aware of Max watching from his vantage point across the Atlantic, I shrug off my jacket, and hang it over the back of my chair. The white blouse I wear is sheer enough to reveal the pink-and-black underwired bra beneath. A bra too tarty for office wear, but my Master likes it. As does Max.

  “Undo your blouse.” Another curt order, and one that sets a pulse beating heavily between my legs.

  I fumble with the buttons, unfastening four before I’m told to stop.

  “What do you think, Max?” My Master’s voice holds a note of disinterest. He’s aware, of course, how much the idea that he’s not in the least bothered by my display turns me on.

  “Very nice.”

  “She has gorgeous breasts, doesn’t she?” Master comments.

  Max seems to be fidgeting in his seat, as though he needs to readjust himself. “Mmm. Two perfect hand-fuls, I’d say. But I don’t feel as though I’m getting the best view of them here.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can do something about that.”

  I’m expecting to be told to take my bra off, and my hands are almost halfway to the catch at the back when Master says, “Lift your tits out of the cups, Juliana.”

  Hurriedly, I obey, thrown a bit off guard by the request. In moments, my breasts rest on the silk fabric, pushed up a little way by the wiring. It’s a sight that’s somehow much ruder than if I’d been asked to take it off entirely.

  Max lets out a small groan. He has so much less composure than my Master, and I know it won’t be long before he’s freed his cock from his suit trousers so he can jerk himself off to the sight of my willing humiliation.

  “Pinch your nipples, Juliana,” comes the command.

  I do as I’m told, wishing it were Master squeezing the tight nubs between his fingers. Or Max. I’ve never felt his touch. I wonder if he’d be rough, or whether he’d prefer to use his teeth to bite them. Juice trickles from my pussy as I imagine Max taking my breast in his mouth and sucking greedily on it.

  “She has a surprise for you, Max.” Master’s voice cuts into my reverie. “Stand up and show him, Juliana.”

  It’s obvious what he’s really asking me to do. Without hesitation, I get to my feet. Aware of Max’s gaze on me through the video link, I slowly ease my tight skirt up my legs. I know he’s a stocking man, so he’ll adore the sight of the black hold-ups I’m wearing, and the soft flesh above them, revealed as I lift the hem all the way up, to show that I have no panties on. Max bites back a moan, and I swear I hear the sound of his zipper coming down.

  “Fuck—she’s shaved,” he murmurs. “Oh, that is exquisite.”

  “I got her to do it especially for you. Don’t you wish you could reach out and touch that pussy? Feel how soft those juicy lips are?”

  “Yes, I do.” Max fights to spit out the words, and I’m sure he’s uttering them between strokes up and down his dick. “You’re a fucking lucky bastard, you know that, Iain?”

  Master chuckles. “Well, right now, neither of us is able to have the pleasure of feeling that wet cunt of hers, so I guess she’ll have to do it for us. Touch yourself, Juliana.”

  I shouldn’t be so eager to do this, but I put my hand to my pussy without hesitation. When I skim a finger over my clit, tremors shudder through me, so strong that I know it’ll take all my willpower not to orgasm without permission.

  “She’s such an eager little slut,” Master comments, “but it’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely gorgeous.” A stranger’s voice. A woman’s voice. I don’t look at the monitor to see who’s joined the conference call. I can’t. Just the thought that a third party is watching me play with myself has me coming all over my fingers, sobbing and gasping as my legs threaten to give way from under me.

  I’ll be in so much trouble when Master gets me home, but I don’t care. As my breathing slows and I gather my scattered wits, I risk a glance at the screen, but the woman has gone. So has Max. Only Master smiles at me, love and fond indulgence mixing in his expression. There are so many things I want to say, chief among them, “Who was she?” and “Please tell me that wasn’t a one-off,” but Master doesn’t give me the chance to ask.

  “See you in the parking lot in five, boss,” he says. “We’ve got a table at Muldoon’s and the drinks are on you.”

  And w
ith that, our roles revert to normal and Iain, the best PA I’ve ever employed, shuts down the call.

  LISTENING TO HER

  Eve Pendle

  I listen to her every night. Whatever time she gets back, whoever she’s with, I’m there, eager cock in my hand, desperate to hear her doing unspeakable things to someone who I wish were me.

  I hear them laughing in the corridor, my housemate and the man she’s brought back. He’s got a deep voice that complements her husky drawl. I’ve been lying on my back in bed, waiting for her. As I always do.

  She goes out every Friday and Saturday night. She must go to clubs, though she doesn’t frequent the usual student places. Every time she goes out, wearing tight leather trousers or a short red dress, she comes back with someone. Usually a man, but sometimes a woman.

  She put up two eyelets above her door when she moved in. I asked her about them after she’d been giving me study advice in the corridor, and she said they’d been there when she moved in. I didn’t say anything, but I looked at all the rooms when I arrived, and I don’t remember seeing them.

  “Take your clothes off.” Gemma’s voice is warm and authoritative, even through the wall.

  I hasten to comply, stripping off my boxer shorts under the duvet.

  “Demanding, aren’t you?” There is the sound of clothes crumpling onto the floor.

  I do this sometimes, playing along with whatever she’s doing, imagining it’s me she picked. But I’m quiet. These walls are ridiculously thin. I can hear everything. When Gemma masturbates, on the days she doesn’t go out, I hear her every moan and sigh.

  “Yes.” Her voice is teasing. “I demand that you hold up your arms.”

  He laughs.

  I slide my hands up the sheets. The cotton sheets rub along my skin, the smallest friction but it feels like a burn and it sensitizes me. I imagine I can hear Gemma pacing around him. I fantasize I’m there and she’s moving around me, securing ropes around my wrists and slipping the other ends through those eyelets.

  “Spread your legs.”

  I do as she says and my feet are now at the corners of the bed. With me spread-eagled under the duvet, if someone saw me they’d just think I slept like a bed hog. Except my cock is making a bulge. Just the sound of her commands makes me hot and hard, especially since I’ve been anticipating this since she smiled at me in the corridor earlier on her way out. She was wearing a short dress made elegant by its high neckline and pattern of flowers and birds. It was so tight you could easily see the outline of her every curve. I tried not to drink in the sight of her when I wished her a good evening. But she’s a drug.

  He gasps.

  My mind blazes with what might be happening through the wall. She’s grasped his naked dick and is roughly jerking it. She has a sly smile on her face, satisfied at her power. He’s at her mercy, knuckles white as he holds his bonds and she plays with him.

  My left hand has snuck down between my legs, and my fingers are stroking along my dick. In the dark, I imagine myself her toy. I can almost deceive myself that it’s her hand on me and her bonds that hold me down.

  “Mmmm. You taste delicious.”

  There’s a wet noise and a deep groan from the man.

  She’s sucking him. He’d be able to see her dress riding up since she was leaning, or even kneeling to take his length in her mouth. He would see the soft shape of her breasts from above and her blonde hair falling all around his dick. I have to stop touching myself for a second because the vision is almost too much.

  It’s perverted, but I spit on my hand and the lubrication for an instant is a facsimile of what is going on next door. Sliding my finger and thumb firmly, I allow my foreskin to slip back and the super-sensitive flesh underneath, the head of my cock, to emerge. I do it again, and again, focusing on the top inch as I listen to Gemma and her latest pickup toy make noises of pleasure.

  A thud of hard hitting soft bangs through the air and he grunts. Gemma giggles.

  “Fuck,” he says in an undertone, “that—”

  Another strike and he cries out again.

  “Take it like a man. Or do I have to go easy on you?” I can hear a little bit of scathing, a bit of teasing in Gemma’s tone.

  The next smack is loud. My hand has sped up. I can’t help it.

  She’s hurting him. My fingers dig into my cock and I stifle a gasp as the sharp pressure shoots into me. It’s so good and so wrong to like this vicarious pleasure-pain. I don’t know whether I’m a sadist or a masochist, enjoying the sound of this man’s discomfort as well as wanting it myself.

  “Give in. Come,” she urges him and delivers another blow.

  I won’t listen to her again. I swear. She’s too much. But even as I think this, it’s a lie. How many times have I said I won’t? Still, I’m here, cock in my hand, keeping myself on the edge, forcibly resisting orgasm.

  Just this once more.

  The man’s breath is coming quicker now and so is mine.

  “I like to see you so desperate. I’m soaked, and I’m going to make you lick up all that cream,” Gemma croons, even as there’s smack after smack of blows, only slightly muffled by the wall.

  That’s too much. I explode, my climax wracking through me, blocking out everything.

  I hear a door close, followed by heavy footsteps in the corridor. I open my eyes, but it’s dark. The sheet above me is sticky with come. I feel the familiar embarrassment creep across my skin, even as my dick is still semi-hard under my fingers.

  “Did you enjoy that?”

  I look around without thinking, but of course Gemma’s voice is coming through the wall. Yes, I did, I want to say. I want you to do everything to me that you did to him. I want to be yours. But I stay silent.

  “Arjun, answer me.”

  The sound of my name rips through me. She said my name, through the wall. I heard it and now I am completely still. I am paralyzed with mortification that she knew I was listening, arousal that she knows I liked it, and fear that perhaps I imagined her saying my name.

  I lick my lips. I want to say something. I want her to come in here and force me.

  There’s the sound of water running. Footsteps from the corridor.

  “Arjun.” Her tone is stern and seems a bit louder, as though she’s walked over to the wall that divides her room from mine. I didn’t imagine that. Surely I didn’t?

  “Next time, you’ll have to join in.”

  THE BACK ROOM AT THE SALOON

  Donna George Storey

  She pulled her wrapper over her nightgown and tied the sash snugly. It felt odd to be in her nightclothes with her hair still properly dressed, but John had asked her to leave it up tonight.

  A good wife gladly submits to her husband’s desire.

  Her pulse quickened at the thought. She felt like a bride, unsure what lay ahead. On their real wedding night, John was gentle and full of sweet words. Afterward, he promised their relations would become more mutual as they adjusted to married life. Men of experience assured him it would be so.

  As time passed, she did indeed respond to his caresses with increasing ardor, but had yet to share his final pleasure.

  Until one night, when they were tipsy on champagne after a dinner with friends, she dared ask him shyly about his education in matters of the flesh. Even in the darkness of their bedroom, her face burned with the brazenness of it. She was surprised at how readily he confessed: he first knew a woman at eighteen when his uncle took him to a parlor house. The woman was pretty, plump, and kind. That encounter lasted all of five minutes, John told her with a rueful chuckle. He’d indulged a few times more in college—always careful to take precautions for his health—but had since renounced that vice.

  “Nothing compares to what we have, my love—a true union of hearts and minds.”

  She was reassured of his devotion, but his story left her unsettled in a different way. The images that filled her head—the woman baring her large, pink-tipped breasts to his virgin eyes, her soft
arms pulling him close, John’s grunts as he found oblivion in a stranger’s body—inflamed her so keenly that she knew the fullest joy of the marriage bed at last.

  Her response delighted him, and he coaxed a shameful confession from her in return—that while he’d embraced her, she’d imagined she was his harlot.

  The next time they lay together, he whispered forbidden words in her ear, painting pictures of sensual license no decent woman should see.

  Once more she reached satisfaction.

  She wondered aloud if there was something wrong with her that she craved such depravity.

  “It’s nobody’s business what a man and his wife do in private. Trust me, dear, and all will be well.”

  And so, at his confident knock, she opened the door.

  She found him in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, his collar open about his sturdy neck. Gone were the coat and vest, and along with them, his proper demeanor.

  “Come to the back room with me, my girl. Don’t be afraid. I’ll treat a fine miss like you just right.” His tone, too, assumed the impudence of the lower orders.

  She gave him her hand and followed him down the hallway. The walls around her shimmered, melting like candlewax. Suddenly they were walking through a saloon, redolent with the earthy scent of whiskey, the hum of male conversation. The men at the bar stared, undressing her with glittering eyes. This was a place a decent woman could only dream of, half with fear, half with longing. With John as her guide, she could finally enter into the heart of this mysterious realm.

  The back room—his dressing room—served their needs well: a standing closet, a washstand, a camp bed. He’d prepared the side table with a napkin and a glass of water. She caught her breath. So that’s how it would go tonight.

  John closed the door and turned the key in the lock, although the hired girl had gone home hours before.

  “Let’s see you in your shift.” He pulled her wrapper open and gave her an insolent once-over. “You look too proud a lady to come to a place like this, but we all know looks can be deceiving. You’ll give me what I want, won’t you?”