I imagined how I would look as his Neptune’s Angel, my red hair unfurled like the banner of a beautiful sailing vessel. I was his treasure. Now he was making me his jewel of the sea.
Nelson tapped my foot, and I lifted it. He bent my leg, placed the sole of my foot on the pole, and knotted it in place.
He had never used these particular rope designs before. They highlighted the femininity of my breasts and the lips of my vulva.
After he had finished the design, he rubbed sunscreen on my fair, uncovered skin. He executed a future visual plan of enjoyment. No burn, just rope marks. His sure and steady fingers worked me with the motion of the waves, causing my arousal to build. I shook.
He shifted me and the pole to an angle, replicating the maidenhead’s direction pointed out to sea.
He retrieved his camera, snapping pictures of me as I hovered in this wanting, needy phase. I hung forward into the world of the sea. My breathing shifted. The shudder clicks grew distant, and I felt consumed by the churning ocean.
Nelson stimulated me by alternating strokes to my erect nipples and then my clit. The ocean whispered to me. “You are his. Submit.”
He read me so well and knew exactly when to stop the touches before I moved into an orgasm. Sweet torture. Today, it was amplified. But I would do this for him, for us.
He revved me up, and then backed off, over and over.
I ached, I craved release, and I wanted him.
The wind whipped me, the sun cooked me, and the rope held me in my angled position as a roar belted out of me and spewed into the air. Its potency would have done the job of keeping another safe, Nelson safe, from everything. That was the last thing I remembered until I felt his wet, warm mouth in the heart of my sex.
As Nelson’s hand held my bent, roped leg, his lips and tongue devoured me. He pulled on my lips with his mouth. I was lost in pleasure. His teeth grazed my clit, and he drew it into his mouth with pulsating sucks. My urgency and his determination might be the death of me. The ropes allowed the orgasm to rumble through me. It broke me apart. At that moment, I was the maiden on the front of the boat, and the waves broke over me, again and again.
Nelson righted the pole and removed the ropes. His tender touches and kisses nudged me to wakefulness as I lay in his arms.
“There you are.”
“Nelson.”
“My beautiful sea angel.”
“We went there, into the deep.”
“We did, love. I have the pictures.”
“I expanded myself to take it all in.”
“I know.” His thumb stroked my thigh and then he traced the rope marks on my skin. “It’s imprinted on you.”
“Yes, and the ocean has pounded it into me, forever.”
WHAT SHE WANTED
Olivia Foxe
Dev wasn’t a pussy, he just wanted to fuck one.
He repeated the thought to himself while his knees shook with the urge to buckle for Camille. His cop’s uniform felt rough on his skin as the breeze from the hot afternoon brushed his face.
Standing on the balcony of his apartment, he crossed his arms, aware of the bulge of his biceps and the way Camille’s eyes latched on to them, then moved down his body in appreciation. His cock twitched in his pants. Beads of sweat rolled down his spine.
Dev wanted to claim Camille like he’d done to the other women he took to his bed, but that wasn’t what she wanted.
“Well, Dev?”
Her voice dragged over his senses, rough like a cat’s tongue.
They’d been playing this game for weeks, her asking, him not saying no. At least he’d been playing, hoping she’d change her mind. But she hadn’t. Her gaze licked over him again and she leaned back against the railing, then turned to look over her shoulder to the street below. The afternoon light and shadow played perfectly over the lines of her face, the mahogany skin, her long and delicate neck.
When he first saw her, he imagined her riding him, her pussy clenched around his cock while his hand tightened around that seductive neck of hers, her gasps toward orgasm dragging his up from the base of his spine. But it never happened that way.
“It’s getting late,” she murmured.
He’d invited her over after work with the promise that she’d get what she wanted. But now his pride rebelled.
“You don’t have to go,” he said.
Camille straightened. She was tall, taller than any woman he’d ever dated—or fucked—but still only managed to match his height in the high heels she always wore.
“Why should I stay?”
His lust was a hot brand in his belly, firming his cock even though it should have made him limp to think of the things she wanted. But he only grew harder when her gaze dropped to his crotch. Not now. But his dick wasn’t listening.
“You’re very…impressive.” Her voice hummed with approval. “Nothing you say will change how much of a man you are.” She paused. “How capable and strong.”
Her words soothed something in him. Something he hadn’t known needed gentling. He’d had a long day at work. Some asshole tried to blow himself up and used a fake connection to terrorists in the Middle East as an excuse. Everyone on his team had been on edge, and after that shit show, the word came about a cop brutalizing a Black kid in a nearby suburb. His fellow cops weren’t perfect, but he wished the bad ones would just disappear so the rest could do their jobs in peace. He wanted to release all of that.
“Tell me,” Camille said.
A sigh leaked out of him, and he thought she didn’t hear it. But her eyes latched on to his.
“Hm. Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t leave yet.”
After another pointed look, she walked past him, brushing the sleeve of his uniform with her bare shoulder. Her stilettos rang against the tile floor.
She headed for his bedroom, her leather purse in hand.
Camille had never been in his room before, but she easily made herself comfortable. Flung the windows open, refilled the glass of water Dev kept on the table. She even turned down the bed, leaving the dark expanse of sheets an ocean of invitation for her body, and his.
Camille slipped off her high heels. And although she was abruptly shorter than him for the first time since they’d met, she suddenly seemed more powerful.
“You’re tense,” she said. Her hands landed on his biceps and his muscles trembled. “Come.”
Camille tipped her head toward the bed, an order, and Dev couldn’t find it in himself to resist.
He stripped and climbed into the bed.
“May I?” Camille asked.
The “Yes” spilled out of him. He knelt in the bed.
“Good.”
She reached for her purse, pulled out something red. Rope. It spilled from her hands, slithering onto the sheets. Camille stroked his cheek.
“Tell me about your day,” she said.
Then, as he talked, the words apparently waiting to fall from his tongue, she tied him up.
The rope felt like silk and her touch both soothed and aroused him, stroking the already-there desire until his cock was aching. Any resistance drained from him with each knot, each stroke of her fingers. The rope bound his wrists behind his back and to his ankles, the silk brilliantly red over his muscled thighs. At the end of it, he felt…secure.
“Dev.” He lifted his head but it was an effort. “How do you feel?”
He licked his lips. “Good. Fine.” He actually felt better than fine, the tension from work gone, leaving only the heat of his arousal, his dick thick and dripping.
Camille brushed her thumb against his mouth at the same time as he licked his lips again. She caught her breath when his tongue wet her finger. Her nipples hardened under the thin blouse and the smell of her wet pussy changed the scent of the room. Dev’s mouth watered.
“What would you like?”
Dev confessed what he wanted most in that moment. “I want to taste you.”
The corner of her mouth curved up. Then she stood on t
he bed and pulled her skirt up, revealing plump pussy lips and slick arousal dripping down her thighs. Surprise and desire slammed into Dev.
“Ask and you shall receive.”
With one foot balanced on the headboard, she put her pussy to his mouth. Gratitude rushed through him, and he opened his mouth wide to devour her like a starving man uncertain of when his next meal would come again.
Camille’s clit was firm under his tongue, her sounds of pleasure falling into his ears, washing over his body, pooling low in his belly. Her hand tightened in his hair, a familiar pain he welcomed. The lust gripped him harder. Her pussy moved against his mouth in a desperate rhythm.
“You’re so good for me.” She groaned and bucked against him, her nails pressing the back of his neck, holding him firm as she chased her pleasure. His name fell from her lips, then she shuddered, whispering how good he was. How strong. How perfect. How—!
The orgasm burst over him, a sudden and overwhelming tide.
Dimly, he felt the splash of warmth on his belly, his chest, heard his own groans while he came, untouched except for the rake of her nails down his neck, her pussy dragging over his mouth, the silken ropes on his flesh.
“Gorgeous,” Camille murmured.
Then she untied him. A pillow appeared under his head and her sighing breath gusted over his lips, a kiss hovering a touch away. Leaning over him, she was like his own guiding star.
“Good?” Her breath brushed his lips.
He closed his eyes and his body surrendered into the sheets, relaxed and thankful. “Very.”
Her mouth touched his, and the sensation of it, light and firm at the same time, followed him down into sleep.
LIGHTNING STRIKE
Sommer Marsden
There are no hidden places inside me. Not from him. From the rest of the world, yes. From Jackson, never.
He knows what I crave, what gets me off, and takes great pleasure in keeping me off balance. My pleasure is his pleasure but it comes on his timetable, not mine. It comes in his rhythm, and I have to keep up.
The room is drenched in the odd underwater light that only comes at true dawn. His fingers skate over my hip bones, circle my mons, travel up my belly until the muscles shake. My brain is overthinking and he damn well knows it. Will he go down on me? Use his fingers? Will he flip me and fuck me the way I crave? There is always that moment when I’m airborne for a split second and I cry out. Then I crash back down, gravity doing its work, and he’s sliding into me. What will it be, what will it be…
My mind races but Jackson knows the secret ways to silence it.
He puts a fingertip on my forehead and puts his lips to my earlobe. “Shh…” The heat of his breath and the utterance cause a tremble, a line of goose bumps marches up my neck and disappears beneath my hair. My scalp prickles. “Stop trying to see it in advance.”
Then his fingers are back, stroking down the tops of my thighs, drawing patterns and loops on my belly.
His hand drifts up until he covers one small breast and groans against my neck. Because according to him, my breasts are perfect. Perfect size, perfect feel, perfect smooth skin and pink nipples. I smile…until his fingers close over my nipple and pinch. Hard. I hiss between my teeth and my hips shoot up like they’re on a string and he’s just yanked it.
“I know you like that hard.” His teeth are raking across my shoulder as he talks. Now there are teeth on my skin and the pain of his pinches. The rat part of my brain, the part that is trying to see three steps ahead, begins to weaken. Soon it will shut down.
I relish the shutting down the way some people relish a good meal or an expensive garment. The silence in my head is golden. A gift. Treasured.
He pinches again, and I feel my body ripple.
“Don’t move,” he says. “If you move, Nick, I’ll stop.”
Nick…Nick… No one calls me Nick. To the rest of the world, I’m Nickole. In this bed, with him, when I am to obey or be denied, I am Nick.
My brain flares with anxiety. So that’s the game. To stay still despite the urge—the need—to move. No cuffs or butt plugs or ropes today. Just my own strength and willpower. My ability to control my body when he touches me, which is like holding back a tide during a storm.
His fingers have moved from my hips to my pussy. He delves into the folds of my sex and brushes a fingertip over my clit. His fingers already slick with my wetness. I’m soaked and he’s barely touched me yet. Not the way I need.
I bite my tongue to keep my body from arching up to meet him. It’s second nature, like breathing, and I nearly fail. That fast I almost lose my chance to go to that place he always takes me.
He dips his head to kiss my neck, drags his tongue down along my shoulder, then follows with a nip of his teeth where he’s kissed. I moan, both from the pleasure of the things he does and how well he knows me, and the strength it takes to keep my restless body utterly still.
His fingers drive into me, two fingers surging into my wetness. He curls them, finding my desperate places. His thumb finds my clit and presses. I clench my fists, my body caught between pleasure and focus. I need to keep myself under control when all my body wants to do is scatter like ashes on the wind.
“Good girl…”
I recognize my urge to curl toward him at the last second and stay the way I am. On my back, his body pressed against mine, my legs splayed in a sluttish way that says, Please do all the things you do to me. Please make me feel all the things you make me feel…
He kisses down my body and his mouth finds my mound. He licks me softly. I’m nearly crying as he parts me and traces my labia with his tongue, getting close but not close enough. My body wants to slam up to meet his wet mouth and yet I have to hold on. My fingers clutch his dark-gray sheets, my eyes prick with tears that I pretend are from the brightening of the room, but are due to sheer frustration.
When he finally closes his mouth over my clit, I sob. My body shakes slightly just from the force of it and Jackson pauses. “Careful, Nick.”
I go as still as I can. His tongue circles and flicks my clit. His fingers drive in and out, and I am trying so hard not to move that sweat dots my chest. “You may come at will,” he whispers.
And just like that, I do. A gunshot. A lightning strike. I come even as I struggle to keep my soaring body tethered to earth.
He’s helping me now whether he knows it or not. Big hands pressed to my thighs, keeping me flat.
Just as I adjust, I’m moving. Being flipped. I lose contact with the bed for a heartbeat and then crash down again as he hikes me to hands and knees. His hand comes down on my right asscheek. A flurry of blows that make my pussy flood and my brain shut down. I always try to count, whether I need to or not, but I can’t. It’s too fast and the pain and heat is too much to keep my mind on a leash.
I love it.
I buck when the blows land but grit my teeth to focus on no motion beyond the ones I can’t control. The assault moves to the other cheek. The resounding crack of his palm on my ass is deafening. I bow my head and breathe, tears leaking from my eyes.
They end as suddenly as they begin, the silence in the room a tangible presence.
“You’ve done very well, Nick.” His chuckle is dark. Cold black water rolling over rocks in the winter. “Now you may move if you need to because I’m here for mine. And mine won’t be gentle.”
A shiver slips up my spine, and I arch my back as he drives into me. One hard smooth thrust, and his fingers bite into the meaty part of my hips. Every time he thrusts his cock drags across the sweet spot. He chuckles again, hand in my hair, tugging.
“Come with me,” he commands.
Another lightning strike. They say it never strikes twice. They lie.
IMAGO
Anna Sky
The hypnotic buzz of the gun before it touches me is enough to send flickers of need shooting through me. It’s a Pavlovian response; my nipples harden, my cunt pulses and flutters, and dammit if I don’t nearly salivate.
You might think I’m a slave to the tattoo gun, but you’d be wrong. The loops and swirls, whorls and shading, the colors and monochromes are reminders of who I am but they do not define me.
It’s the process that does: a multifaceted reflection of everything I am and want to be. The injection of ink into my dermis is cathartic. The pain as the needle pierces my outer shell hundreds if not thousands of times a minute takes all thought away, leaving just me and my breath. And I do breathe; I breathe to physically still my body and to explore the echoing emptiness of my mind. Later on, I’ll masturbate hard, allowing the heaviness in my cunt the release it so desperately craves.
I’m careful now, choosing a new tattooist if I feel my desires have become too obvious. In my head, they’re always Master or Mistress of my flesh as I submit but I want to keep it pure, not marred by their discomfort as my lips slightly part and my cheeks take on a pink flush.
My body has become a canvas, a riotous carnival of ink. It’s an homage to the pain I endure and showcases my ultimate, unquestionable submission. Every time I go under the needle, it refreshes my fervor and what started as a small, butterfly-shaped challenge between friends is now the story of my life.
I’m the quiet girl, the introvert. Cocooned and cosseted, I was brought up to think tattoos would damage my job chances and were an ominous thing that “other” people did. Somehow though, before we went our separate ways to university, my best friend persuaded me to get something small, easy to hide. It would be our secret connection, a reminder of having known each other since before either of us could remember.
I still remember that first time, walking into the shop with Kel. She was suave and confident next to my awkward jumpiness. We scanned the boards trying to find “our” design, sure that we could bond over a stock image. In my naïveté, I didn’t know a whole world of custom design work existed. I know better now; I understand the pride of a tattoo artist, the culmination of honed artistry and the application of pigment to create a permanent piece of art. Unique images combining on my flesh in a living, breathing canvas.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 8