Maddeningly, Cari knew exactly when he planned to turn the vibrator on. He’d told her, even marking the spots so she would memorize them along with the music itself. There would be no surprise involved, only anticipation, intense anticipation. The first time had been before she even started, when she had taken her seat, causing the long delay as she got “comfortable” on the bench. And now she was approaching the section of the music where it would begin buzzing inside her again.
She couldn’t help thinking about it, praying it wouldn’t cause her to lose control. Master loved doing this to her—tormenting her, teasing her, keeping her on edge. In public, though, it was even worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide which. She hated it and loved it at the same time. Exhilarating, frightening.
At last, the moment came and went. Her fingers continued playing, remembering the music for her as her mind disengaged. Had the audience seen her shudder? Had they heard her whimper?
Before the piece was over Master buzzed her three more times. By the time she finally lifted her hands from the keyboard at the end she felt exhausted. Her body continued quivering, her inner thighs damp with her arousal. She looked up and saw him standing in the wings. He smiled and nodded. She’d done well. His approval washed over her like a warm embrace.
Cari stood, tentatively, turned and accepted the applause from the audience, reminding herself not to smile too broadly lest the foam ball in her mouth become visible. As pleased as she was that she got through it successfully, the next challenge now filled her mind: How was she ever going to get through the Liszt?
BEAUTIFUL
Kendel Davi
They say that black don’t crack but hands don’t lie. I’ve spent a fortune on moisturizer, lotions, and skin-firming cream but my hands still scream my experience on this earth. Years of typing have given them a long sinewy look. Right now, my veins percolate under the surface of my skin from the red nylon rope securing my hands to the arms of this chair. I try not to stare but the restriction of blood flow has created a sculpted appearance, as if my hands were carved by an expert confectionery artist. If they had been on display at an exhibit, the realism would be astonishing, but what I need most right now is an escape.
Derek clears his throat. I pop my head up to see his reflection of disapproval in the full-length mirror in front of me. I force a smile, but he seems unmoved. The only thing on my body besides this nylon rope is a pair of black stilettos, so there is no escape for either of us. That’s exactly what he wants. He grits his teeth and whispers, “I wish you appreciated your body the way I do.”
It’s that calm but eerie tone of his voice that grabs me. It’s devoid of emotion except for frustration. I glance at him, watching the muscles in his jaw flex. He holds his tongue from lashing out at my focus on what I perceive as my physical imperfections.
“Tonight I’ll teach you how to embrace how exquisite you are.”
This evening started off as a nice romantic dinner at a five-star hotel. He’d rented a suite on the top floor that overlooked the city. Every few months we’d plan an evening away from the doldrums of our lives to reconnect with each other. Tonight, Derek had gone out of his way to make this evening as perfect as possible. Somehow, between the second glass of Riesling and the dessert, I found myself staring at my hands. Here in the hotel room, the flickering candlelight strobes against my skin. I whisper, “This is what Nefertiti’s mummified hands must have looked like.”
I never intended him to hear that but the familiar clench of his jaw let me know that he had. Then an unexpected laugh broke from his lips. There was nothing sinister about it, but the way he dismissed my comment should’ve been a warning. On the elevator ride to the top floor, he gave my hands soft, delicate kisses. He unzipped the back of my dress as we walked down the hallway. By the time we reached the door, it was falling off of me. In a flight of fancy, I let my cocktail dress fall as he opened the door, and stood there naked except for my heels. His eyes devoured every inch of me as his body blocked my path.
“I should make you stay out here.” The right side of his lips curled with excitement. “You know they have security cameras in these hallways?” Panic gripped me and I pushed Derek out of the way as I bolted past him into the suite.
“I have something better in store for you anyhow.”
I’m not sure if better was the right word. He’s tied me up before but not like this. Every element of my nakedness is now on full display. The same strand of nylon rope secures my arms and legs. It also weaves the rope around my breasts and across my thighs, leaving my pussy open, willing, and exposed. The more I struggle, the tighter the rope grips against my flesh. The stress of not being able to move forces me to sweat, wiping away the concealer that covers my crow’s feet. The muscles in my neck rage into view under the tension. That one large vein that runs down the center of my forehead throbs as if it’s about to burst. The experience of my years is on full display as I turn my focus toward Derek.
His dark gray suit brings out the hazelnut of his skin. His hair, now more salt than pepper, glistens from the overhead light. His appearance has a rugged cuteness. If he had continued to dye his hair he could look fifteen years younger with ease. Then again, as a man, he has that choice and right now I hate him for that.
“Look at yourself, Jamila.”
I feel his erection against my naked back as he steps behind me. I lean back, hoping my stimulation against his cock will spark his need to untie this rope and ravish me. But why would it? Derek has me exactly where he wants me. The mirrored closet in front of the bed leaves me no choice but to accept what I see. This is who I am, wrinkles, veins, and all, and for a brief moment, I embrace that this is what fifty-five looks like on me.
The tension in the ropes appears to relax. My eyes scan every naked inch of my body until my stressed breathing reaches a calming norm. That’s when I hear Derek sucking on his fingers. I glance up right before he removes his index finger from his lips and places it on my clit. He pulls back on the hood. Tension shoots through my body. Now every muscle and vein in my body appears ready to rip through my skin.
“Watch your body as I make you come.” I fight looking at myself, but a pinch of my already erect and aching nipples allows me to give in to him.
“It’s okay. Let go for me.”
He slips his finger inside my glistening cunt. I squirm in an attempt to get him deeper inside me. My body contorts in desperation as Derek keeps me on the precipice of coming.
I beg, “Please,” but his control is relentless.
“Just watch.”
He gives my nipples a flick and slides another finger inside me. My face is no longer recognizable. The wooden legs of the chair creak as I try to get his fingers where I need them to be. I gasp with all my focus on my reflection, understanding the purpose of this journey. In this moment of physical anguish, I unearth the beauty of seeing myself as he sees me. He senses my acceptance and bends his fingers, forcing me to come. My head falls limp, and I’m panting from fatigue as Derek glides his fingers from the depths of my pussy. I hear him sucking my juices off his fingers before he lifts my head. He gives me a kiss and turns my head so I can see the results of tonight’s escapade.
“How do you feel?”
Through glassy eyes, I gaze at my ravished form. As my body returns to its normal state I mumble, “Beautiful.”
He steps in front of me and pulls his hard cock from his pants. He tosses his jacket aside before stepping between my legs. My body trembles from my recent orgasm but my need to have him is paramount. Derek places the head of his cock at the opening of my cunt and fills me up as he purrs, “Yes, Jamila. You are so fucking beautiful.”
MY GIRL, MY BOY, MY ENBY
Annabeth Leong
Today I want you to be my girl, the text message said.
I scowled at my phone in a way I never would have done to Rory’s face. I had already slicked back my hair. Waiting for me on my bed were dress pants, a pressed white shirt, and my f
avorite tie. I’d been planning to go boy today.
Do I haaave to? I typed back.
Extra vowels are whining, not a safeword. So yes.
Damn it.
Rory didn’t mind back talk, as long as it was accompanied by obedience. I went over to my closet to figure out how to handle the change.
The hair could stay, I decided. The tie, too, because I liked it. I put on the white shirt but left my binder off. I swapped out the dress pants for a pair of orange shorts and accessorized with dangly earrings and some sparkly rings. Voila. Girl enough.
I snapped a picture for Rory, and I had to admit I felt pretty and coy. What do you want your girl to do?
Girls just wanna have fun.
I pouted. Fun? That was the worst command of all, the very hardest, something I would never choose on my own. All day?
Yes. The park. The ice-cream store. A treat for yourself to keep. And an orgasm at the end.
What are you even getting out of this?
Haha. Bratty girl.
I did as I was told, as best I could. I walked around the park uncertainly. I managed to order a small ice cream, and I almost enjoyed eating it. After visiting four stores, I found a weird little magnet made by a local artist, painted with colors that matched my girl-mood well.
Then I went home, undid my shirt and shorts, and lay on the bed for the orgasm.
I nestled my audio recorder on the pillow next to my head, then began to touch myself.
I coaxed the pleasure out of my body, slowly, sweetly, gently.
After I finished, I played the recording for myself before sending it to Rory. My breaths sounded a little surprised. My moans were soft, the pitch of my voice high. I came with a full-body exhale. It was the sound of sinking deep into welcoming mattresses.
I attached the audio file to a text. Being a girl wasn’t so bad.
Today I want you to be my boy.
The instruction couldn’t have come at a better time. This was a day when I wouldn’t have known what I was otherwise, when I needed Rory to help me out by defining me, to give me enough of a push so I could put clothes on and get out the door.
I pulled on boxers, made my binder nice and tight, picked out low-slung jeans that hung off my hips, and added a boxy short-sleeve button-up. I didn’t want Rory’s boy to look careless, so I drew on a little eyeliner and put a unicorn-shaped stud in my left earlobe. How do you like that?
Very much.
And?
And I want my boy sweaty.
Do I get to come today?
Like a cherry on top.
Oh, that last instruction made me feel mischievous. It begged to be taken literally.
I texted Paula. You free tonight and horny?
LOL. Why?
I called her and explained, and that led to me with my pants and boxers pushed down to my ankles in her kitchen after work, crack lubed, Paula slowly feeding a thick plug into my ass—with a handle shaped like a cherry, which I’d remembered from a previous playdate.
Next thing was to get on top and get sweaty, and I made very sure Paula enjoyed that process. I didn’t even think about coming until she was begging for mercy, cursing me out, and swearing her clit was too sensitive to take any more.
Then I tried to shock my own pleasure out of myself, hard and fast, and Paula was nice enough to reach around at just the right moment, smartphone in hand, and capture a short video of my asscheeks pulsing rhythmically around that bright-red cherry handle.
Today I want you to be my enby.
My heart leapt in my chest. This command came from Rory so rarely, but these were the days when sex was about neither holes nor sticking things in holes. It became creative and other, and something Rory liked to do in person.
I put on a ruffled skirt over unshaven legs. I rolled a lacy camisole on over my binder. I used glittery eye makeup but left my lips natural. From the back of my closet, I pulled out my heaviest, most ass-kicking boots.
I rushed to Rory’s place like genders were ice-cream flavors. I’d picked up one of each, and I needed to get them all into Rory’s mouth before they melted.
Rory opened the door. They didn’t get into costuming the way I did, so they wore simple black. Jeans, T-shirt, eyeliner. Long black hair tied at the back of their neck.
I spilled into the door, kissing everywhere I could reach. Rory let me for a few minutes, then reasserted their control.
“Down,” Rory said. I dropped to the floor like a dog, not bothering to look around the space. I’d been over to Rory’s apartment a couple dozen times in a couple of years, and I always left with only the vaguest impressions of walls, floors, and furniture. Rory was all I ever looked at.
“Put me in your lap and brush my hair for a while,” Rory said.
We did it right there in the narrow foyer. Their hair was so soft. I lifted the brush to my nose after every few strokes to smell their shampoo and their scalp. Rory moaned and writhed and smiled blissfully. They rubbed my crotch with the back of their head. They slid their hands underneath my skirt and gripped my thighs with sharp fingernails, making me gasp and tense.
Then their eyes turned catlike, cold and green, and they said, “I’m going to tickle you now, until you can’t breathe.”
They pushed me onto my back, dug into my ribs and my armpits and the vulnerable places behind my knees and the points of my hips. They let me feel their weight. They shoved their thigh between my legs to hold me in place. When I cried out, they winked, and did everything harder.
I know people who wouldn’t call that sex, who would say this wasn’t like what I’d done with myself as a girl or what I’d done with Paula as a boy, but those things had only been sex for me because they were for Rory, and now I was Rory’s enby and my head floated and my heart filled and my body surrendered and nothing could have felt more intimate.
I lost my breath. My toes pointed. My muscles went stiff. I spasmed everywhere, not just in the traditionally sexy parts. Then Rory and I gave each other goofy grins, and as soon as we recovered enough to move, we went into the bedroom and did it all again.
A JAMAICAN AFFAIR
D. Fostalove
Nelson sat on a chaise longue in the middle of the third-floor studio apartment as Jamaica wheeled two metal clothing racks from behind a curtained partition. He’d been a client of hers since she first appeared in a local alternative weekly five years prior. Although he knew their sessions were business to her, Nelson felt a special connection to the internationally known Dominatrix.
“Do you see anything you like?” Jamaica asked, as she lit another joint.
“I hate when you smoke.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jamaica put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray while Nelson sorted through a few outfits on the first rack before turning his attention to the second.
“This.” Nelson grabbed a black-and-beige striped satin dress. “With those tan stilettos I like.”
Jamaica glanced at the dress. “It’s a little matronly for our plans. Are you sure?”
“It’ll accentuate your curves.”
Jamaica then wheeled over a metal makeup case and opened one of the drawers, retrieving various shades of lipstick. Nelson surveyed the colored tubes in Jamaica’s outstretched hand before pointing out a vibrant cherry color. She asked if he’d like to see her with or without makeup.
“Without, but wear your dreadlocks up in a bun. You know how I like that.”
“Whatever you want.” Jamaica disappeared behind the curtain to change, reappearing moments later to model Nelson’s selections.
He loved what he’d chosen for Jamaica and held up two thumbs. “You look striking.”
“Thank you.” Jamaica glanced at the gold watch on her wrist. “We’re running a little behind. Are you ready?”
He nodded. She walked before him and spun around slowly, briefly modeling for him again.
“You’re so good to me.”
Jamaica winked and grabbed her keys from an accent tab
le. “Let’s go.”
“No kiss for hubby before you head off?” Nelson asked as they exited.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Jamaica leaned down and gave him a kiss. “See you in two hours, okay?”
“Yep.” Nelson checked his watch. “Have fun, my dear.”
“Thanks. I will.” She smiled.
Nelson sat in his car thirty minutes prior to his date with Jamaica. He opened the email app on his phone and pulled up the classified ad they’d written together days earlier: Sheepish older business exec, younger jet-setting wife looking for aggressive buck to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. Scrolling down, Nelson’s heart pounded at the seductive body shots of Jamaica that she’d allowed him to take.
Closing the ad, Nelson found the email reply from “Brick.” When he saw the photos and response from the six-foot-three personal trainer who looked like he’d stepped right out of a prison yard instead of a gym full of suburban soccer moms, Nelson knew he’d found the man to satisfy Jamaica in a way he never could. They quickly called him, explained the details of their exchange, and made arrangements for Jamaica to meet him at a hotel downtown.
As Nelson’s mind wandered to Jamaica and Brick, he thought about masturbating but a knock on the window broke him away from his fantasies. He glanced up to see Jamaica waiting with a smile. Hand-in-hand, they entered the Moroccan restaurant and stopped at the host’s podium. As Nelson opened his mouth to speak, Jamaica squeezed his hand firmly. He flinched, remembering; he was to be seen but not heard.
“Reservation for two, last name: Cuckold.”
The hostess scanned a folder. “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Cuckold, please follow me.”
Nelson almost laughed at Jamaica’s absurd humor, but maintained his composure as they followed behind the hostess who led them to a plush booth.
“I hope this is to your liking.” The hostess placed two menus on the table as they sat.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 12