Big Book of Submission Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Warmest Regards,

  Mr. Clark

  I forgot how to breathe. The Ball was the biggest event of the year. It was held at a local zoo. Dominants dressed as predator animals and chased the submissives, dressed as prey. Only the uncollared, unleashed submissives would be chased. I’d seen the collar. Desire built up inside as I pulled out the costume he’d picked for me.

  A beautiful faux-fur bunny outfit greeted me. I pulled out the floppy ears and couldn’t hold in the laughter that bubbled up and out. I knew I couldn’t say no. Laying the costume back down, I opened the door. Samuel stood in the hallway.

  “Please let Mr. Clark know that I’ll be joining him this evening. I’ll need a short time to get ready.”

  “Yes, Madam.” I closed the door as he pulled out a cell phone, most likely to text or call Mr. Clark.

  I flew to the bathroom and started the shower. While the water heated up, I stripped and set out the favorite scented lotion Mr. Clark had gifted me with a few months back for the holiday season. Before long, I was lightly scented and wearing a beautiful floppy-eared bunny costume complete with fuzzy tail. I tucked the collar into a small pouch-purse that I could easily carry without hindering anything my Sir planned.

  Upon arrival, I saw many Dominants dressed as predators; lions, tigers, and bears. Oh yes! Mr. Clark was dressed as a wolf. His grin suited the costume perfectly. I lowered my eyes and offered the pouch. Other submissives were uncollared all around me. The prospect of being chased by Mr. Clark sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn’t wait.

  “My dear.” Mr. Clark held his arm out for me and I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow. We went into the zoo and found the center gathering place. “Would you allow me to be your only Master, Ms. Hartley?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Clark. Sir.” Heat filled me. I had never thought he would be so bold, but it filled me with joy.

  “Then I shall hope to catch you, my pet.” I lowered myself to my knees in front of him and before I could lower my eyes as well, he lifted my chin. The heat of a thousand suns fell upon me, and I felt love blossom inside.

  An emcee started speaking and we all listened as he welcomed us to the zoo and gave us information about it, the animals, and how our contributions would be used. The rules for the game were stated. My wolf had to catch me, or I’d belong to another this evening. Then the bell rang and the submissives were off like greyhounds.

  Moments later the second bell rang and the predators gave chase. I had found a place to hide in some thick shrubbery after outrunning someone dressed, oddly enough, as a cheetah. Listening to her call, “Here bun bun,” did not coax me one bit. I held my breath as she stalked around looking for me. My shades-of-gray pelt blended with the shadows. Animals made noises in the pens nearby, rustling and snuffling, sounding anxious like me.

  After she left, I took off the way I’d come only to have a falcon block my way. The feathers on their mask were amazing but before I was forced to take a closer look, I was scooped up and carried off. Struggling, I attempted to slip out of the hold, until I heard Mr. Clark’s soothing voice.

  “Calm, my pet. I have you now.” He held me tightly in his arms as if he were afraid I might be taken away at any moment. Mr. Clark headed to the stage and set me down there. It wasn’t long before others joined us and the game ended.

  Mr. Clark took the collar from his pocket and I settled on my knees, my eyes lowered, chin pointing up. The collar settled around my neck. It was a simple black strip of leather with a charm in the shape of a floppy-eared bunny just like the one we’d originally bonded over in the pet shop.

  That night I went home with Sir. He bathed me and petted me until I begged for more. And, like the teasing Dominant he is, he made me wait as we curled up together for a good night’s sleep, whispering naughty ideas of his plans for me tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that.

  THE AMAZING LUCINDA

  Heather Day

  It’s not the kiss of the rope on my skin that does it, nor the well-placed strokes of her fingers on my helpless body. It’s the look in her eyes that drives me wild and gets my pussy throbbing with want. The look of pride at her work as she reclines, arms crossed, on our sofa. The look that says: Go on then, get out of this one.

  My arms are tied securely behind my back. I start to flex them, testing out the bonds. She raises an eyebrow and turns over the hourglass. The subtle whisper of the sand threatens to set my nerves on edge, but I can’t afford to panic. I have three minutes to escape and need my wits about me.

  There is a professional reason for our games; onstage she is the Amazing Lucinda, Mistress of Magic, and I am her glamorous escapologist. We make quite the handsome double act, her with her top hat, tails, and long black hair, me with my blonde bob and tiny, sequined outfits. We’ve garnered a bit of a cult following over the years—mostly queer women, I can’t help but notice.

  But once the curtain falls, she is again my Domme, my love, and my wife. The one who captured my heart as soon as we started performing together five years ago. That doesn’t mean she goes lightly on me though, far from it.

  She knows locks present no challenge to me at all, buckles even less so. She knows that my joints are particularly supple and that I can reach around rope to untie knots with my long fingers. But she also knows by now exactly how to strip away these advantages.

  That is why, after securing my arms behind my back with a complicated series of knots, she wound another length down the front of my body, between my breasts and up and under my pussy so that it sits there snugly, rubbing my vulva and teasing my clit in the most maddening way with every movement I make to try and free myself. It is why she added, in one final touch of cruelty, the silver nipple clamps that bite into my sensitive buds in such a way that I can never decide whether I love or hate them.

  She is very pleased with herself. I can hear it in her voice when she says, “Two minutes left, my dear.”

  I force myself to breathe steadily, to ignore as best I can the sensations of pleasure and pain flooding through my body and instead analyze how to break the bonds she has woven around me. I stretch my wrists up toward the knots and wriggle my arms methodically, trying to loosen the rope’s hold on me. She’s wrapped me up tight, and although I adore the feeling of being held in the embrace of her ropework, my professional pride forces me to try and find a way to escape.

  “One minute,” she says, standing over me, hooking a finger under my chin and looking straight down into my eyes. “I can’t wait to carry out your punishment.”

  Oh, she is cocky. I close my eyes, trying not to think about how wet her words make me, but the slick juices flowing between my legs, coating the rope, make this almost impossible.

  Nevertheless, my fingers finally reach the first knot and work quickly to untangle it. Eventually it unravels and I feel a small surge of triumph, but this is tempered by the knowledge that there are several more knots between me and victory. I flex my arms again, seeing if I can shrug any of them loose, but they hold tight. I realize I am in danger of failing at this task and a fresh wave of adrenaline—part determination, part anticipation—pulses through me.

  I stretch my wrists farther and move my nimble fingers with a new focus, methodically tugging at the knots. I don’t want to fail. I know I can do this. Sure enough, the rope begins to loosen and the next knot unravels. The rest will be easier.

  I am almost there, nearly free, when my Mistress decides to make things more interesting. In one swift movement she releases the clamps from my nipples, causing them to throb and stiffen with a sudden rush of blood, forcing a gasp of pure, agonized pleasure from my lips. My hands go limp and useless, their task forgotten.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  I would say that was unfair. I would say she plays dirty. But neither statement would cut any ice, and complaining would only make my punishment ten times worse. After all, she would say, she is my Mistress, and she can do as she pleases. And she would be right.
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  As she begins a countdown of the final ten seconds, I smile. I hear the last of the sand whispering its way through the hourglass. I know I am going to fail. If my pussy wasn’t aching with want, if my nipples weren’t still sending tiny shocks of pleasure through me, I would be able to focus enough to untie that final knot. But instead, I give in. I give in to the pleasure and the pain and to whatever delights and horrors she has in store for me.

  Because sometimes, with a Mistress as devious and beautiful as Lucy, losing can be the sweetest reward of all.

  HIS

  Jade Melisande

  Ava stood trembling in the deep shadows of the alcove, her heart hammering in her chest. She stared, an unseen observer, as Noah leaned over the woman’s body, blade in hand. As one, the woman and Ava both caught their breath as the tip of the blade slid across the flesh of the woman’s back.

  “Easy,” she heard him say. She felt the air go out of her lungs softly, sweetly, like the kiss of his blade across her lips. She heard the woman’s expulsion of air at the same moment. A trickle of blood, shockingly bright against the woman’s pale skin, trailed down her rib cage and dripped onto the floor. Noah reached up and wiped the blood away gently; the woman moaned beneath his hand.

  Ava felt an answering tightness in her belly. She imagined his hand on her like that. It had been so long since she had felt any man’s hands on her. Two years, to be exact. Her eyes closed; she bit back the familiar pain. Oh, to let the pain go, to have it cut away… Why couldn’t sorrow work like that? She longed to give herself over to his touch, as this woman had done. To lie there beneath his hand, allowing him—trusting him—to carve upon her body with his blade.

  To lay herself open to him.

  Desire, hot and sweet and fierce, swept over her, and she gasped with the intensity of it. For so long she and Noah had danced on the edge of this desire, each playing the role of hunter and hunted, as desire and fear and longing had flared and banked only to flare once more between them. She wasn’t sure she still had what he wanted her to give. Noah insisted she did, insisted that it hadn’t died in her the day that Rubin, her partner, her lover, had died. That it was merely hidden away inside of her, waiting for her to surrender herself to it again. To him.

  She opened her eyes and found him watching her, the tip of his blade raised in one hand, the woman’s body an intricate swirl of lines and liquid beneath the other. His eyes were dark, almost as dark as the blood on his hands. The woman moaned again, shifting on the table, every movement a plea for more. Still Noah watched Ava; watched her watching him.

  Heat curled its way up from her belly, spreading across her chest, into her face. It curled downward, too, swirling and pooling between her legs. Her skin burned, her breathing quickened. Her body throbbed in time to the music coming from the speakers.

  She wanted him. Wanted to be his, wanted to feel his mark on her.

  The woman sighed, a breathy exhalation of pleasure. Noah held Ava’s gaze for a moment longer, and then turned his attention back to the woman. With gentle strokes he began to wash the blood away, leaving behind the tracings of the cutting.

  Ava turned abruptly, backing deeper into the shadows and then out of the alcove altogether, feeling guilty for her intrusion upon their scene. Still, she felt Noah’s eyes on her, the question in them, long after she had left them.

  She lay curled into the corner of a couch in a small side room, enjoying a moment of solitude after the noise and excitement of the party. Kurt’s parties were always well attended, and a quiet spot was hard to come by. In days past, she and Rubin had been a fixture here, along with half a dozen others. Noah was part of that inner crowd as well. After Rubin had died, Ava had sequestered herself and locked all her needs and desires away. But little by little, Noah had chipped away at her reserve, drawing her farther and farther out. Ava was a submissive at heart, but that heart was not easily won, and in the end it wasn’t Noah’s dominance that had called to her. It was his quiet strength, his boundless patience with her as she struggled to come to terms with losing not only the love of her life, but the man she had considered her Owner.

  Still, she held back from him. How could she give herself completely to another, when losing Rubin had been so devastating?

  Ava looked up as Noah entered the room. “Ava,” he said, stopping in front of her, “it’s time.”

  Ava’s heart began a slow, steady hammering. He touched her cheek.

  “Say yes,” he said. “Be mine.” He held out his hand.

  With a shaky breath she rose and placed her hand in his. He led her through the warren of rooms, her mind and heart racing. Finally, he stopped just inside a small, intimate space in which a table stood before a fireplace.

  “After this,” he said, his lips close to her ear, “this will only be for you and me. Your body is the only one I want to mark. Your body, your mind, your heart.”

  Moments later, she lay facedown on the table, naked before him. She felt his eyes, then his hands, tracing the curves of her body. Her skin glowed with heat that had nothing to do with the flames flickering in the fireplace.

  “Ava,” he said, “sweet Ava. You’re all I’ve wanted for so long. Will you be mine?”

  Ava turned her face to his, gazed up into his dark eyes. “Yes,” she said at last, and surrendered to his touch. To her own need. Her mind slowed. It felt as if the world held its breath as she waited for the first touch of steel against her skin.

  She shivered as the flat of the blade touched her, but it wasn’t cold. It was warm, heated by the desire that flowed between them. Her body thrummed, painfully attuned to his every touch, to the roughness of the pads of his fingers, to the blade against her skin as he teased and caressed her with it. She shuddered as she felt his warm breath on her shoulder, on the nape of her neck.

  Then he had turned the blade edge-side down, and she felt him beginning to trace a pattern in her skin. He drew the blade carefully down her back, and it stung, but as it penetrated her body it was as if he penetrated her, opening her, peeling away the layers of doubt and fear and loneliness. She felt the darkness being cut away, leaving only her desire for him, her desire to be his. The sting of his knife was an exquisite accompaniment to the ache between her legs, to the ache that he was releasing from the center of her. She felt herself floating free of everything that had held her down, that had kept her from him.

  “Look,” he said, after. He had washed her blood away tenderly, and raised her to a sitting position. She looked over her shoulder at the mirror on the wall, saw his strong hands cradling her. Then, a single word etched in her skin: mine.

  CARI’S RECITAL

  Rod Harden

  The pretty young woman stepped onto the stage to polite applause. The dress she wore was flowing, full length, pale yellow in color. It covered her from ankles to chin, with sleeves so long that only her fingers were visible from the ends. Walking to the piano with tiny, dainty steps, she bowed briefly to the audience before turning and taking her seat on the piano bench.

  Her posture was impeccable—shoulders squared, back straight, head high. Her jet-black hair fell to the middle of her back, shimmering as it caught the stage lights. Her expression seemed rigid, almost unnaturally so. She sat for a long moment in silence, broken only by a brief, faint, “Hm,” as if she were moaning as she stared at the keys. She shifted her weight several times, each time extending her hands to the keyboard and her right foot to the sustain pedal, before pulling them back, only to shift again. The audience grew impatient, clearing their throats, coughing. At last, she seemed to find the right spot, and began to play.

  As the opening measures of the Chopin Nocturne reached their ears, the audience could tell at once that this performance was going to be very special. The emotion the performer was pouring into the music was palpable. Was that another moan they heard? Were those tears welling up in the young woman’s eyes?

  Only Cari knew the secret behind her performance. Cari and her Master, that is, a
s he had helped her prepare as only he could.

  Her face showed little expression because there was a foam ball in her mouth. Easily compressed to fit between her lips, it expanded once inside. Cari was sure it made her cheeks puff out, but Master assured her she looked fine, and no one would know it was there, as long as she kept her mouth shut. “Like a good girl,” he’d said.

  The long dress hid numerous secrets as well. Beneath its high collar was another collar of thin, supple leather, secured in place with a tiny padlock. It helped ensure she would hold her head high. And hidden under the long sleeves, each of her wrists was locked in leather as well. The cuffs served no purpose while she played, of course, but she knew that later at home they would certainly be used to secure her for Master’s pleasure. Perhaps high overhead to one of the ceiling hooks, or, she hoped, simply to the headboard.

  Lower down, the dress hid another pair of cuffs. These were fitted around her thighs, just above the knees. A short, delicate chain connected them, forming a hobble that forced her to take dainty steps, yet leaving her feet free to work the pedals.

  But these things barely registered on Cari’s awareness now. For there were other secrets as well. The first was inside her bra cups, which were lined with fine sandpaper. She had been made to wear nipple clamps earlier in the day as she had practiced in the nude. Her breasts always swayed more than she imagined when she played this way, and her nipples were already quite sensitive when she put on the rigged bra. And now the pressure of the gritty paper on them was a constant stimulant that hovered just on the edge of painful, an edge she delighted in skirting, especially in public.

  The final secret was the band of steel that circled her waist along with its attachment that extended down between her legs. The chastity belt held in place both a butt plug, which she felt with every movement she made, as well as a small but powerful radio-controlled vibrator locked inside her pussy. Control of the vibrator rested, as always, with Master.