“Please, Mistress, please make me come,” I beg. “I’ll do anything you want, just please make me come.”
“You’ll tell her, then?”
“God, yes.”
“Swear.”
“I swear I’ll tell her. I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll tell her.”
“Then, here,” she says, unhooking the shackles again. “Go pleasure yourself, then get dressed and go home.”
The talk with my wife is painful and tear filled. At first she doesn’t understand that Mistress and I haven’t slept together, have never slept together, but when I finally make her believe it, she stops me.
“Then what do you go for?”
“To be punished, absolved of all my transgressions. It’s kind of like confession for the Catholics.”
“This is your biggest transgression of all, if you ask me, sneaking around and lying.”
“I know. Lately I’ve been feeling worse and worse about it.”
“Feel better now? Because give me your belt. You want to be punished, let me do it.”
And the miracle is, she does. She punishes me atop all those welts on my ass. It takes her a few minutes to get into the swing of it, but she really comes through, and when it’s over, she calls Mistress Lorena herself and tells her she doesn’t think I’ll be needing her services any longer.
“We’re going to do it the old-fashioned way,” she tells her. “At home.”
THE GIFT
Victoria Blisse
He’d known to expect a present, known it would be something good, but he hadn’t known what it would be until he opens the hotel room door and sees his present on the bed. Naked.
He locks the door behind him and approaches the offering. From this angle he can only really see her ass and spread legs, stretched apart with the aid of a sleek, steel bar, her ankles encircled by black leather connected to the restraint with a few chain links. Her hands are bound with cuffs at the middle of her back, the same black leather, steel attachments, and chain.
Her hair is spread haphazardly over her shoulders, her cheek pressed to the sheets, facing away from him. He walks to the other side of the bed, wanting to see her face.
He smiles, noting his implements lovingly arrayed beside her. Crops, paddle, flogger, and something new. Black, long, threatening, with a beautifully turned wooden handle. Picking it up, he lovingly caresses it, looking intently as it shines, the Delrin plastic hard and unyielding. Joe notices her straining to watch him. So, with a smirk, he flexes the cane in the air. The unmistakable sound makes her nostrils flair. He repeats the action.
She hates canes but she loves them. They’ve been a talked-about thing, threats and promises, but he’s never used one on her before. Unwilling to force her forward—that benefits neither of them—he’s waited for her to make the first move.
And now it’s resting in his hands.
Bending low, he places his face in her line of sight.
“Well, Elizabeth, I can see you’ve been busy.”
He uses her full name when they play. It puts her immediately into his control.
“I knew you would treat me—you always do—but this is just the perfect gift for me.”
He watches the corner of her mouth curl in satisfaction.
“Now, what do I do with you? It would be particularly evil of me to just leave you there, wouldn’t it?” Joe turns and sits at the head of the bead. “To deny a pain slut what she desires would really rather satisfy my sadistic streak. The ultimate punishment.”
Sitting silently, he watches her. She moves her fingers and intakes breath. He lets the silence roll on, uncomfortable and heavy. Taunting her with its emptiness.
“But you have been such a good girl, going above and beyond to provide me with the perfect birthday present. Although you did deny me the pleasure of watching you getting all trussed up like that. I bet that was wonderfully entertaining.”
More silence. She hates to wait, but it is an essential part of any scene for them.
“And you have left out all these beautiful implements for me, including something shiny and new. It would really be a shame not to break in my new toy.”
Joe picks it up, taps his left hand with the tip.
“Maybe it’ll be all I use.”
Standing, he grabs all the implements and moves them out of her line of sight.
He takes his time undressing, slowly unfastening his belt, making sure it clinks loudly so she knows what’s going on.
When he touches her, she startles. Trailing just one finger over her buttocks, he contemplates his next move as she moans, a little release of pressure.
“What’s this?” he asks, taking the finger between her buttocks, lower, through her wet lips and running up and down between them. “You are soaked already. What a slut. Bound up and waiting and so fucking wet for me. Damn.”
A sharp slap to the left buttock shakes her whole body. He follows quickly with a strike to the right.
“I think I want to physically hurt you, Elizabeth. I want to let you give me the exact gift you planned. Tell me. Tell me what you want to happen.”
“Well, Sir. I wanted to surprise you. Give myself to you to do with as you will.”
A hard, flat-palmed slap shakes her.
“Not the clever answer you think I want to hear, Elizabeth. What do you want?”
“But Sir, if I tell you, you won’t give it to me,” she whines.
“If you don’t, I won’t give you anything,” he growls.
“Well, in that case—” Another crack makes her squeal and dance her feet within the give of the straps.
“I was hoping you’d come in and hit me with all the things, Sir. To give me amazing marks, to leave cane stripes, Sir. Then I want you to fuck me, like this, use me. That’s what I want.”
Gripping the cane, he presses it against her flesh.
“You want to be hit with all the toys but I just want to play with my new one.” Tapping it gently against her, he continues. “I’ll give you those stripes. Red, burning stripes across your delicate, white skin.”
Lifting the cane higher, Joe brings it down with confident ease, hitting but not at full strength, not yet.
“Ah!” she yelps.
“Hush now. Don’t want the whole corridor to know what a pain slut you are.”
Another impact, a little harder, and she whimpers.
Joe switches back to light taps, gently stinging, then pulls his arm back into the air. Elizabeth clenches, anticipating the hit. He cuts the air with the cane but stops the strike before it lands.
She lets go of her breath, relaxes, and then he hits, without warning.
“Fucking ouch!” she yells.
“What did I say?”
“Fucking ouch, Sir,” Elizabeth repeats at a normal level. “And sorry but it hurt a lot, Sir. It just exploded out.”
“Damn, impulsive woman.”
A hit to the back of her thighs elicits a whine, quietly blown through clenched teeth.
“Better.”
The next blow has her calling for leniency. If she meant it, she would call amber. It is just part of the game. So he leaves her another rapidly developing stripe of red across the backs of her thighs.
“How does it feel?”
“Hot and tight, and rolling and stinging and it really fucking hurts, Sir. It won’t go.”
“No? What about if I do this?”
He hits again, once, twice, three times in quick succession.
“That,” she squeaks, “that makes it all the worse, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“My pleasure.” He smirks.
And the strikes continue and she strains harder and harder not to make noise and he delights more and more in his control and her submission. When she is striped, sore, and snuffling back tears, he fucks her.
“Jesus Christ, you’re wet and tight, you pain-loving, submissive sub.”
He doesn’t hear her response; her face is buried in the sheets and she is not forming words. It’s j
ust pure pleasure spilling from her lips.
Joe pulls on her cuffs, arching her back and using that extra stability to fuck her all the harder. Her cunt clutches; she is rolling in pleasure, in the zone, completely and utterly used, hurting and in ecstasy. He feeds off that, coming hard when he just can’t take any more.
“Happy birthday, Sir,” she mumbles, as he begins the process of releasing her.
“Thank you, Elizabeth. You’re the best.”
BOTTEGA LOUIE
Zoey Trope
Hi. I’m Gavin.”
That was the first and last time He referenced himself by name. Later it would be Sir, then Daddy; perhaps eventually Master. It makes me blush every time I hear His actual name in public now, knowing that to me, He represents so much more.
But it started with “Gavin.” I knew I was in trouble because I wanted Him immediately. It’s surreal how all my previous “looking for” criteria seem to have described exactly Him, a Dominant male with a cast-iron soul, seasoned with salt-and-pepper hair; aged, mellow, and neat…just like His favorite whisky. We barely touched but I could feel His eyes on me the entire night, lassoing my body as I walked through the door.
The intensity escalated as we were seated across from each other. It formed such a tight grip on me that it was difficult to breathe. I’d barely caught my breath when He presented a small pink box of chocolates from Bottega Louie. I was already smiling; now I was smitten. Needless to say, the attraction was immediate and He pulled me in with every detail he revealed about himself. When it came time to order, I was prepared for my palate to be one of the first things he would claim and refine until it was as He wished. Everything He ordered, I craved. It fed my hunger to be across the table from a man who knew He could have His way with me, but chose instead to slowly mold my attention to fulfilling His desires and denying me mine.
Before dinner ended, He casually mentioned that he had another gift for me, and handed me a folded Ziploc bag. Confused, I unfolded the empty bag and asked what it was. What he said next sent my mind racing. His soft words silenced the entire restaurant. “I want you to go into the bathroom, take off your panties, and bring them to me in this bag.” His voice was calm and stern, and my body was paralyzed by His words. I desperately wanted to invite Him to take them off at the table, but that would lack the discretion and class that I needed to present in order to impress Him. I raced to the bathroom, eager to present Him with my submission. I returned and proudly handed Him my panties, carefully watched as He tucked them into His coat pocket. He helped me into my coat and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
As we walked toward the pier, the cold breeze tickled up my thighs. His words tugged on me like a leash and I followed obediently until He stopped to reward me with one kiss. His warmth made me weak and I wanted more. But no matter how much I threw myself at Him, He continued to withhold His touch.
Foolishly, I reached out to pull myself closer into Him to satisfy my hunger for Him. He reacted with a single glance that signaled the utmost disapproval and disappointment. With His rough hands, He grabbed a fistful of my hair, peeling my desperation away until I was hovering within a breath of His lips. I was shaking, not from the cold ocean air, but from the unbearable distance and silence from Him. Suddenly, He struck my left cheek with His forceful hands.
“I don’t like being grabbed.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
He leaned in and softly whispered into my ear, “Good girl.” The waves crashed into the pier and my world was silenced. My gaze was fixed on Him even as He looked away, making sure no one saw Him. The heat and sting from His palm on my cheek finally dissipated. The slap awakened my desire for submission. In one gesture, He reminded me of my place and made me want more. But I knew I had to wait.
It would be another week before He planned to see me again. He sent me home with my first assignment. I was allowed to indulge in one chocolate a day from the pretty Bottega Louie box. And as a thank-you, a sexy photo dedicated to Him. “Remember, just one choco late a day,” He reminded me before he said good-bye for the night. I was thrilled to comply and committed to pleasing Him.
During the cab ride home, I carefully plotted out my daily photo shoots. I had seven photos with which to seduce this man into giving me more of His irresistible self. I decided I couldn’t wait until morning for a taste. I opened the pretty box as soon as I got home. I stripped naked, posed with one piece of chocolate melting in my mouth, and confessed to Him that His kisses taste much sweeter.
My ritual continued daily with careful attention to the mise-en-scène. Wine, chocolate, and a bubble bath seemed like a no-brainer. I could tell He approved. He taunted and tortured me with the reminder that He was carrying my Ziplocked panties with Him everywhere He went. “You’re in my back pocket, underneath me, where you belong,” He teased. By the end of the long week, He’d sent a photo of His big brown leather bag, torturing me with the details of where my panties were stored along with His toys and, most importantly, my collar.
When we finally reunited, He sent me straight to His hotel room. I felt completely naked as I walked through the door. He had seen every part of me. I recognized His leather bag and my eyes widened as I scanned through His collection of restraints, spreader bars, paddles, and floggers. He ordered me to strip and drop to my knees. He pulled out a black leather collar with multiple rings.
“I need you to recite this to me every time you put your collar on. This is how you serve me from now on. Repeat after me…”
“Desire…”
“Devotion…”
“Obedience…”
“Gratitude…”
After I recited my mantra, He pulled me up to my feet. I was struggling to stand up, but He kissed me in a way that made me yearn for Him even more. He held my face in His hands and quizzed me. “How do you serve me?”
“With desire, devotion, obedience, and gratitude, Sir.” He gently pulled my hair away from my nape as He wrapped the collar around my neck and locked it into place. “Good girl.”
Twelve months later, I can barely make it through my entire mantra or taste a piece of salted caramel from Bottega Louie without being reminded of how I felt that first week. He gifted these rituals to me, allowing me to feel closer to Him despite the distance between us. When I wake up without Him, I slap myself five times, repeating my mantra. When I go to bed without Him, I taste a piece of His chocolate and bring back the memory of our first night together. All of these rituals please Him. I know that I have to earn His adoration, His attention, His authority, and most importantly, His love, with my desire, devotion, obedience, and gratitude.
LASHED
Dr. J.
The waves lulled us in the middle of the ocean. On the side of this historic replica of an eighteenth-century sailing ship, I sat with Nelson. Sailing this vessel had been Nelson’s dream. As he toyed with his new rope, we watched the palette of the early morning sky flash a sailor’s warning of red.
Nelson was a seadog from way back. His skill set made him reliable at our craft.
“Do you trust me?” His hesitant words hit me as he stood and faced the sea.
His question seemed out of place. His stance was edgy and agitated. I knew this behavior well.
Nelson had always taken care of me, my well-being, my safety. But today, he expressed a need. It was evident he wrestled with it; I could feel it. I became privy to a personal process of his, with me.
For him to grapple with an idea meant that I would too. For when he pushed himself, he pushed me. When he surrendered to his true nature, I yielded entirely to mine.
I joined Nelson, looking out. I picked up the end of the rope and offered it to him. “Show me.”
With both our hands on the line, he caressed my thumb. When our fingers touched, I slipped mine to intertwine with his, and the dominant place in him expanded. Warm, firm, calloused fingertips pressed into my hand. He let out a deep breath.
“Undress. I have something unique in min
d.”
I created a pile. My bra and panties followed my shorts and a tank top.
Nelson opened a bench seat and pulled out a gauzy piece of fabric. He draped it over my shoulder, and it floated past my hips on both sides of my nude body. I felt more naked wearing the flimsy material than only sporting my bare skin.
Nelson pointed. “Stand in front of this pole.” I faced the bow of the boat as a wave rose, and salt spray misted my face.
Nelson looped my hands to the pole. The intensity with which he worked the loops suggested an artist weaving on a loom or a fisherman making nets. The sentiment was gratification.
“How’s the tightness?”
“It’s good.”
“You know I like a particular tension.”
“I do.”
I was mesmerized by the sensation of the pattern he created on me. As the gulls overhead squawked, I owned a secret part of myself. I had yearned for another level. Did he know? His calm almost made me combust. I was dropping into that other place inside myself when I realized he was talking to me.
“Sorry, what?”
“I want to create you as my ‘Neptune’s Wooden Angel.’”
The intensity and control of his words shattered something deep inside me, primal, urgent. “May I ask what that is?”
He nodded. “At one time in history, carved maiden figures graced the prow of wooden sailing ships.” Nelson paused to test the rope’s tension across my flesh. “Lookouts, if you will. There to ensure safe passage for sailors.”
The morning light caused a sparkle in his eyes. “Am I that to you, Sir?”
He secured a knot then kissed my cheek. “You are and more.”
“Tell me. I will go there.”
“I intend to photograph you, bound to this pole. You are my personal maidenhead, recreating history and demonstrating, as in the days of old, my might and wealth as an owner. Your beauty will grace this ship and me.”
He grabbed my face and kissed me fiercely, nipping my lip, drawing blood. Marked.
He was mine; I was his.
The sting of the salt settled into my cut lip, as he lashed me to the pole. I inhaled the ocean scent. The strength of her nature grew in me.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 7