She nodded, her eyes trained on the carpet.
“Well, no use lingering with idle chatter. Lie down on the bed.”
Thrilled at his audacity, she obeyed.
He stretched out beside her and began to make love to her. Pushing her nightgown up to her neck, he caressed her breasts and stroked her between her legs, patiently and knowingly, until she relinquished all dignity in a chorus of soft, lewd moans.
Then came that velvet voice in her ear: “You are a frisky one. What d’you say we take a trip to Paris tonight?”
Only a few weeks before, John had taught her about “French love,” how sporting men would pay extra to get their pleasure from a woman’s mouth. Curious, she found the courage to try it, for just a moment.
A good wife gladly submits to her husband’s desire.
John lowered his trousers and sat at the edge of the bed. She knelt between his legs.
Submit to him. A good wife submits gladly.
His manhood was so long and thick, she wondered how she’d managed before. Timidly, she kissed the length, then took the tip in her mouth. He’d been thoughtful enough to wash and smelled faintly of soap. Soon she found her courage and was moving up and down like the dasher of a butter churn.
“Your French is well nigh native tonight,” he said in a thick voice.
Apparently satisfied with her progress, he lifted her to the bed and mounted her quickly. But then he was
patient again, letting her move against him as he suckled her breasts and stroked her neck and shoulders. “That’s right, my pretty whore,” he whispered, “fuck me good, you sweet, wet trollop.”
How was it that such wicked words could uplift her, free her, make her soul soar?
You like it all, don’t you, you little cocksucker?
With that final endearment, she came undone in his arms.
He held her for a moment, his own pleasure still unquenched. Usually he spent on her belly as they wanted to wait to start a family, but she found herself overcome by a perverse desire: “Darling, would you… please…finish up in Paris tonight?”
She knew John was never one to deny a lady’s wish.
He felt harder this time, and she took him so deep he knocked against the back of her throat. She could taste herself on him, but that excited her even more. In but a few minutes John stiffened and groaned. His flesh pulsed against her tongue, flooding her mouth with thick, salty wetness. Thus he revealed a new masculine secret to her—the taste of the essence of his lust.
Afterward, he gallantly offered her the napkin for her lips, the water to refresh her mouth.
“Was that truly all right for you, dear?” he asked with concern.
“Oh, yes. I felt so bold. Did you like it?”
He laughed. “So very much. That was a first for me, you know. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
On her wedding day, her mother confided that a good wife must find it in her heart to submit gladly to her husband’s desire.
She never said how easy that would be.
WINTER GAMES
Allyson Shannon
No one’s out here. Are you going to do it?”
I glance around and it’s true, we’re alone. This public park is empty, as one would expect in the midst of winter in Michigan. There’s no snow on the ground but it’s cold and ugly out; everything is varying shades of gray. We’re in a parking lot far from the water, where there’s nothing to see but bare trees and asphalt, the kind of place where people go to do the kinds of things he’s proposing I do. I turn the heat up a notch and look at him sideways. “I will but only if you tell me to instead of asking.”
“I’m working on it,” he says, his gloved hands curled around the steering wheel. I get wet imagining those hands on me, pressing me down to my knees once he really gets the hang of this.
“It’s okay. If I don’t want to do something, I’ll say my word. All you have to do is tell me and I’ll do it. So tell me.”
His hands tighten on the wheel, he clenches his jaw, and I can see the quick rise and fall of his chest under his puffy coat. He licks his lips and his eyes make another sweep of the area before coming to rest on me. “Sorry. Newbie nerves.” He smiles, his teeth flashing movie-star white against his deep-brown skin. “Take off your mittens and pull your tights down. No panties, right?”
Even with the heat on, the seat is still cool against my bare ass where my skirt has bunched up. “Right.” I flip it up so he can see that I complied and then tilt my hips forward and spread my thighs so he can see how ready I am.
“Fuck,” he groans, his gaze riveted to my hard clit, nestled in my trimmed bush like a fat pink pearl. I watch, fascinated, as he gives in to his desire and lets his cool, commanding side take over. He sits taller in his seat, the smile fading as his eyes rake over me like he owns me. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come for me.”
Yes, Sir. I don’t call him that out loud; I don’t call him anything but his name when we play. It’s not a necessity, at least not yet, while he’s a baby Dom. I simply say yes and do it.
The sound of me fucking myself is obscenely loud in his small, eco-friendly car. This won’t take long. Being told what to do has me halfway there, but I hope he stops me a few times just to make me suffer. I want him to make me beg for it. I’m silent, focused, my teeth sunk into my bottom lip. He’s watching me, his eyes flicking back and forth between my face and my fingers in my slippery cunt, and occasionally out at the parking lot around us. One minute he’s over there on his side of the car, practically vibrating with lust; the next, he’s looming over me, yanking my coat open and shoving my sweater up around my neck. I left the bra at home with the panties so there is nothing to get in the way of his squeezing hands or his lapping tongue.
“Don’t stop,” he grumbles around a mouthful of tit and I feel it in my pussy, my fingers moving faster as the need to come intensifies. I try to touch him, to hold on to him with my free hand, but he catches my wrist and holds my arm down the way he knows I like it. I’m close and I feel compelled to let him know, hoping he’s feeling cruel enough to make me wait.
He cuts off my warning with a hand over my mouth. The gloves are still on because he knows how much I love the smell of leather warmed by his skin. He tells me to stop, but I’m not sure that I can. I’m in the place where a well-chosen word can set me off.
“Hey.” He’s in my face, one hand still covering my mouth, the other tightening around my wrist in a way that I’m sure he thinks will ground me but is instead pushing me closer to the edge. “Hey,” he repeats. “Look at me…breathe. That’s it. Good girl.”
Once I’ve got myself mostly under control, he takes his hands off of me and slumps back in his seat, huffing and puffing like he’s the one who’s about to blow while it’s me who’s sprawled out half-naked in a car in a public park in broad daylight, desperate to come but struggling not to.
“Don’t move.” He pops his door, letting in a blast of cold air that makes it difficult to keep still. By the time he gets around to my side, he’s already got his belt undone, his jeans unzipped, and his cock out. He opens my door just wide enough to wedge his body between it and the car.
“I’m literally going to freeze my tits off.”
“Then turn the heat up and get busy.” He leans down and gives me a smug look. “Unless you’ve got something else you want to tell me.”
In the month or so that we’ve been doing this, there hasn’t been one instance where I’ve had to safeword out and I’m not about to now because of a little frigid air. I crank the heat up to high and place my hand over his on his cock, scanning the area once more.
He cups my cheek, stroking my lips with a leather-sheathed thumb. “I won’t let anything bad happen. I’ll take care of you.”
I know both of these things are true. We wouldn’t be playing these games if we didn’t completely trust each other.
“You’re taking too long.” He winds my braids around one hand and holds my chin with the
other so that he can thrust into my mouth, a power move that he knows my body will respond to. “Maybe we should just go home.” His threat of delayed gratification might as well be an order to come, and my clit obeys. For a moment, I forget where I am. I don’t care about getting caught out here or about the cold or even about him. The only thing that matters is how good he makes me feel—until he pounds a fist on the roof of the car, his cock pulses, and I hurry to swallow his come down.
“Are you okay?” Once he’s dressed and in the driver’s seat again, he helps me get back into my clothes and passes me a thermos of hot cocoa. He zips my coat, pulls the furry hood up, and tucks my braids away inside of it, pausing to take my face tenderly in his hands for a kiss.
“I’m fine. A little chilly but nothing you can’t fix with more cocoa and a nice, long cuddle session.” I get warmer just thinking about the way he pampers me after we play. “You’re getting so good at this. How do you feel about me calling you Sir?”
PRIVATE MESSAGE
Erzabet Bishop
Her bare pussy had touched his chair. It was the only coherent thought running through Dale’s mind as the meeting ran into the two-hour nightmare that as CEO he had to endure every Tuesday. He always hated Mondays but after yesterday he was going to have to rethink that one. He’d known the new senior engineer was a firecracker when he interviewed her, but never in his wildest imaginings had he quite envisioned this scenario.
And he’d bet money the reason why lay somewhere in yesterday’s decision to put the new project in the vicinity of his old standby principal engineer instead of rewarding her with the account she’d brought to the table.
But she was too new. Untested.
She had a right to be angry. But this… The fucking shock of it had almost rendered him speechless. Picking up the phone thinking it was another one of the security team’s test drills, all he could do was stare.
Steve’s monotonous financial rhetoric had left his brain in a fog, but the instant the alert went off on his phone, Dale’s eyes snapped to the screen. Georgette stood in his office doorway, her expression mutinous, a single piece of paper crumpled in her hand as she took in the empty office. He took in the tight black skirt riding up the sculpted planes of her ass, the sweater molded to her perfectly lush breasts.
She must have waited until his secretary had gone off to lunch to try and corner him in his den. Checking his watch, he grimaced. It was well after noon and the team was starting to get restless. But they wouldn’t leave until he did.
And clearly she’d expected him to be at his desk—unlike yesterday, when she’d entered his office thinking no one was looking. Today, displaying an awe-inspiring measure of boldness, she’d proceeded to raise the hem of her skirt, draw down her panties, and sit in his favorite chair.
Sliding her fingers inside of her slick sex, she’d writhed and moaned her way through a vigorous bout of self-pleasure, her legs splayed out, hips thrusting as she’d stuffed her hungry pussy with first two fingers, then three.
Not to be outdone, she’d fondled herself to a bois terous completion, using his personal handkerchief that he kept in his desk drawer to tidy herself up.
She hadn’t known he was watching. She also didn’t know that he’d barely made it to his private bathroom to tame the lust boiling in his veins at the thought of her finger-fucking herself. He watched it, over and over again, stroking his length until he was spent, hot jets of come spurting against the shower wall as he nearly collapsed.
No doubt she thought she still had the upper hand. The woman was a human resources field day, only he had the evidence he needed to keep the situation contained. And the ball was very much in his court.
Well, he wasn’t about to disappoint her in her quest to teach him a lesson.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” He rose from his place at the head of the table, handing the reins of the meeting over to his more than capable second in command.
Gaze sharp, his eyes narrowed at the footage streaming live from his office.
Fuck. She was in his chair. Again.
Are you ready to submit?
He’d typed the one-line email before the meeting, his mouse hovering over the SEND button. Just sitting in the chair where he knew she had been only hours before had hardened his cock until his suit felt like it was suddenly a couple of sizes too small.
Installing the cameras hadn’t been his idea, but with the constant threat of industrial espionage and hackers, his security team had insisted on one located in his office, that only he had access to.
He rounded the corner of the hallway, passing his secretary, Meredith, on the way into the outer office.
“Give me two hours. I have a private meeting.”
“Yes, Sir.” Meredith gave him a brisk nod and continued on her way.
He entered his office and shut the door, locking it.
Georgette lounged in his chair, legs crossed and heels up on the desk. Her elegant eyebrow shot up in question, the rich scarlet waves of her hair falling in soft waves down her shoulders.
“The answer is no.” She rose, her heels sliding off the desk and to the floor.
Instead of saying anything, he laid his phone on the desk, the picture of her from yesterday, fingers buried inside her gleaming pussy, emblazoned on the screen.
“You bastard.”
“You may want to rethink that.” He stepped forward and yanked her toward him, her breasts mashed against his chest.
“I want that account.”
“No.” His cock hard, he walked her back toward the desk, pushing her onto the spacious wooden surface.
“I could sue you,” she whispered against his lips before biting down until he groaned and tasted blood.
He met her gaze, his own then trailing over to the phone. “You started this, kitten.”
Something clicked behind her eyes, and he felt her tremble against him.
“What do you want?”
“I sent you a private message earlier. That should have made everything quite clear.”
He flipped her over so her body was draped over the desk, the rounded curve of her ass taunting him through the fabric of her black skirt. He thrust his cock against her and a soft, strangled sound erupted from her lips.
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
He ran his hand down her back, finding the flesh beneath the elegant sweater. Curves. She was all woman and as his hand pressed firmly against her, she struggled, turning over so she faced him.
“Why are you doing this?” Her eyes were wide, reality setting in.
“Because I can.”
“It was a prank.” She wiggled against him, but he held her fast.
“Never tempt a wolf who’s hungry for dinner, Red. You might end up on the menu.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.” The sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “You could have any woman here.”
“But I want you.” His fingers slid along her inner thigh, brushing against the sopping, thin barrier of her panties.
“Why?”
“Submit,” he whispered. She had started this game. And he would finish it.
“No.” Her response was strangled, but her lips opened in invitation.
He wound his fist into her hair and edged his right hand beneath the elastic, his finger sliding inside of her heat at the same time he tugged her head back, dragging a gasp from her lush mouth. She bucked, his knuckle teasing the erect nub of her clit.
And then he stopped.
Heavy lidded, her eyes met his and she licked her lips as he peeled off his tie and reached for her hands. “Last chance.”
“Yes.” All the breath left her as his fingers worked the silk tie over her wrists, his cock twitching with every movement.
But not yet. His hands cupped her generous breasts, pinching her nipples as she arched against him, the soft skin of her thighs opening to him at last.
METAMORPHOSES
Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Miss Jenkins’s feet are aching and she’s more than ready to head home. “Cheerio then. See you in the morning.”
Miss Jenkins puts on her headscarf and gloves, and readies her umbrella. She made a good choice in appointing Evie as assistant librarian. Such a helpful young woman; it’s the third night in a row she’s offered to close up.
Miss Jenkins encourages the last few stragglers as she goes. “You’ll be late for supper, boys. They’ll be ringing the gong. Put that one back carefully, Philip—it’s heavy. No running now. The prefects are on the prowl.”
She’s out the door, the boys ushered ahead, and Evie is alone. The first drops of rain are hitting the window. The lights flare, then dim. The electricity was only put in the year before. Better than gas, more reliable, unless there’s a storm.
Evie’s tidying the card index when she hears the door open, the swish of a gown, and the familiar footstep.
“Good evening, Headmaster,” she says.
“Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Third stack down I believe, top shelf.”
Evie comes out from behind the desk, heading to the Classical Literature section. Yesterday, it was Alice in Wonderland, the day before that, Byron’s verse.
She slides the rolling ladder along from its resting place at the end of the row.
The upper shelves are dusty. She makes a mental note to clean them; Miss Jenkins can hardly be expected to climb ladders at her age.
Evie’s on the fourth rung, stretching up, when she feels his hand on her ankle.
“The green volume, not the blue,” he tells her.
Her fingers fumble on the spine. It’s now, beforehand, that she feels most unnerved. She’s still herself: apple of her father’s eye, church on Sundays, doesn’t stay out late. She’s a good girl, isn’t she?
Since she began working here, she’s not so sure.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 4