Where will he spank next? Oddly, that’s not what I think about. Is it a form of defiance not to think about what he intended me to? At the thought of this inward rebellion, I feel the corners of my lips curl up.
I think about how we got here. He introduced me to spanking playfully, almost a year ago. I discovered I was into it. Gradually, I realized he was all the way into it. But at first it was all implicit. Except for telling me my safeword and how to use it—which he whispered in my ear, as if reluctant to break the spell of our unacknowledged role-play—we never discussed what we were doing explicitly. He gave orders or made requests; I complied or I didn’t. I always got spanked either way, though the spankings for which I gave him excuses were harder. We never discussed the why.
Then one night four months ago he asked me to dinner, rather than over to his place to play. Partway through the meal, he said, “I love playing with you,” and for a split second, I thought he was breaking up with me. I even had time to wonder how I’d find another playmate like him, because I did not want to give up spanking. It’s amazing how fast the mind works, because he hadn’t paused, and when he continued, “and I want to keep doing it,” I felt a jolt of relief in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to need him until that moment. “We can go on just as we have if that’s what you want,” he said. “But there’s more.”
More. I felt the horizon expand and the earth drop from under my feet in the same moment, with the possibility of an undefined more. And then I was back in the restaurant, and I smiled and said, “I’d like to discuss more.”
So now here I am, sweating, struggling to support myself on these damned benches that I love so much, stomach heaving as I try to catch my breath and stop crying, because he’s been whipping my ass with that damned tawse that I love so much—and now I’m supposed to wonder where he’ll spank next.
He showed me a photo once of what I look like in this position—well, not quite this spread, but about the same. I had no idea I could look that sexy. Ass in the air, asscheeks spread—hell, I’d fuck me, and I’m not a lesbian. I made sure he deleted the photo.
That was another thing that changed after that night in the restaurant. Until then, he’d fingered me and made me climax, but he’d never fucked me.
Marking me was my idea. He prides himself on being able to leave my ass sore without marking it. But we talk about things more openly now, so I asked him for marks. He caned me, lovely railroad tracks all over my ass, perfect parallel welts. I asked if I could fellate him to thank him, and he accepted. Now I have welts on my body half the time.
It was a big deal six months ago when he asked me to take off my panties before I came from the office to his house. I haven’t worn panties at all the last three months.
And earlier tonight, for the first time, he told me to undress outside. It was on his back porch; no one could see. But I removed my dress and bra (he let me keep my shoes—this time) and handed them through the doorway, and he left me on the porch. Through the storm door I watched him carefully fold my clothes and set them aside before letting me indoors. It was only twenty or thirty seconds; no one saw. But I almost climaxed just from standing there.
More. How much more is there? There’s nothing vicious in him; I know I have nothing to fear. This is a journey we’re taking together. But how much more?
“Had enough rest, little one?” he asks as he comes up behind me.
I’m an assistant manager. I have four clerks under me. If anyone else called me “little one” my reply would burn his eyebrows off. When he says it, it makes me weak. And wet.
Then he picks up the tawse, and I see the vibrator in his hand. Oh, dammit, not that again. He’s going to whip my pussy and vibrate it. I never know how much of each. He’ll whip me four or five times, barely touch it with the vibe, then whip it four or five more times. Or he’ll give me one hard swat, vibrate me for thirty seconds, one hard swat, then a minute of vibe. I’m going to be bawling and climaxing until I can’t hold myself up anymore, and then he’ll take mercy on me and fuck me till neither of us can do that anymore.
I hear the swish of leather through air and then a loud slap. Fuck, that hurts.
More. I want more. I don’t know what it is, but I want it.
CINNAMON
Lazuli Jones
Sit on the bed. No, not like that. Sit on the other side. Excellent, Miranda. Good girl.” I slid along the bedspread until my body faced the object resting on that side of the bed. The long silk negligee, on loan from Lady Grey, was cool and slippery against my skin. I squirmed, avoiding the object, craning my neck to keep my eyes on Lady Grey.
She was tall, taller than I’d thought, and gorgeous. Mocha skin, curly hair, her eyes smoky and her lips garnet red. A confident figure in her lace and corset. She held a small riding crop in her gloved hand and pointed it at me.
“Don’t look at me. Look over there. Now.” I gulped and not for the first time tonight, the word cinnamon formed in my mouth. Lady Grey had let me choose the safeword and I’d chosen something cute and safe. I could end this at any time. She’d promised me. I’d promised myself.
I looked. In front of me was a wide, full-length mirror. My eyes landed on the negligee draped across my lap and skirted past my face to find Lady Grey’s eyes. My heart pounded. She looked pleased.
“You’re doing great, pet,” she purred. She knelt on the bed. The warm leather of the riding crop tapped my shoulder. “Take this off. Don’t stop until you’re tits-out, or you’ll be punished.”
I could do this. I pulled the straps from my shoulders, letting the negligee fall, baring my chest. It was off-putting, but I could handle this part. Lady Grey had done me a great service earlier: while discussing what I wanted from tonight, while letting me sip some tea and choose my safeword, she’d done something she rarely did for clients, and unlaced her corset.
When I looked in the mirror now, I saw my breasts, the dusky nipples, and the fading scars from my augmentation. Hers had looked the same.
“Touch them,” she commanded. Cinnamon wandered in my head before I obeyed and cupped my breasts, brushed my nipples. A flicker of arousal ignited between my legs and I squirmed on the bed, wanting more, wanting less.
As though sensing the crucial window of opportunity, Lady Grey tapped the riding crop against my hair. My eyes followed the movement, caught her eyes, caught her deliberate pause. “Now strip. Don’t make me punish you, Miranda. Do as I say.”
My hands shook. My fingers sweated against the fabric of the negligee. I hiked it up instead of pulling it down, technically disobeying Lady Grey’s command to strip, but still in the spirit of what she wanted. I pulled the fabric up my thighs, up my hips, shimmying on the bed until the silk was pooled around my waist.
Lady Grey lightly smacked my left thigh. “Spread them. Foot on the bed.”
Cinnamon…
I planted my left heel on the bed, my eyes always on the Dominatrix behind me. She placed the riding crop against the black curls of my hair and sternly said, “Don’t you look at me, Miranda. Do you need to be spanked to obey me? Look at that gorgeous pussy of yours.”
My eyes flickered across the mirror, half-focusing on the dark points of my nipples as they bounced up and down under my heaving breaths. The cool air hit my pussy and I was warm and aroused but the pain and the stitches and I knew it wasn’t going to look perfect right after the surgery but I wasn’t expecting so much swelling and it felt numb and the skin didn’t look right and the stitches and no one told me I’d feel like this and—
“Cinna—”
The riding crop lifted from my hair. In the mirror I saw Lady Grey’s body language shift, waiting for me to finish the word, ready to end everything. The negligee was sweaty in my palm.
“Breathe, Miranda. Good girl.”
The game was still on as long as the word didn’t spill from my lips, and as a Dominatrix commanded me to breathe with her honey-warm voice, I did. I relaxed. Lady Grey had opened more
than her corset earlier. We were the same.
I looked.
She followed my gaze and smiled. My pussy looked small, the curls tight and tiny. It wasn’t swollen anymore. The stitches were gone. I could barely see any scars. I was looking at it.
“Touch your gorgeous pussy,” Lady Grey whispered in my ear. I jumped, almost forgetting her presence, feeling guilty at the thought. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without her ordering me to do it. “Touch it until you come.”
I’d barely looked at it in the last year, let alone touched it. Cinnamon tickled my tongue but I swallowed it, letting the tapping of Lady Grey’s riding crop on my wrist goad me to action. I put my palm flat against my pussy, releasing a small sigh. It felt good. I’d read some books and some forum posts about how to go about masturbating now, but none of that mattered at this moment. I touched myself, slid my fingers along the folds, the numbness gone—I hadn’t even realized it was gone—and found what had become my clit. Touching it sent little electric tingles up my pelvis. My chest heaved, not with panic this time, but with passion. I barely noticed when Lady Grey took my hand for a brief moment, rubbed a sweet-smelling lube on my fingers, and let me go back to myself.
I touched and rubbed, my wrist moving quickly in a motion I was learning for the first time, my fingers a blur, feeling myself swell, warm and wet, the tingles growing until the heat of unfamiliar orgasm bubbled between my legs. I panted, shivered, pushed out an expletive or two, and when the delicious pleasure faded, Lady Grey was there behind me, supporting my back, supporting me.
“Good girl, Miranda,” she purred. “Good girl…”
1,000 WORDS
LN Bey
Dear Ellen—
Thank you for submitting “1,000 Words” for consideration for my anthology. However, it is not quite what I am looking for at this time. While your narrative is interesting and even hot, I am currently looking for fictional stories rather than memoir or nonfiction.
Best regards,
Editor
And P.S.—So sorry! ;)
Dear Editor:
This is not so much a story as a confession. I know that sounds like one of those “Forum” letters, but allow me to explain, and please, know that it is imperative that you publish this.
I’ll start from the beginning:
When Stephen and I first realized we were both kinky, he told me that he wasn’t the gruff, whiskery, alpha-male type Dom that so many women fantasize about; he was more the strict-music-teacher type, which certain other women fantasize about. Women like me, who have always been in thrall to meticulous—not “fussy”—men with exacting erotic standards.
When we play, he is (or pretends to be) cold, analytical—yet he pays extremely close attention to me, evaluating my posture while naked, my politeness when serving him, my enthusiasm while sucking his cock. He assesses every detail of my body, behavior, and performance as he puts me through my paces, then tallies up the day before he rewards me for my successes—and Jesus, does he—or punishes me for failures. (And Jesus, does he.)
Of course, even the punishments end with a solid fucking, me bound, beaten, and begging for more until I am so wrecked and exhausted I fall asleep in his arms—but that’s beside the point right now.
Where was I? Oh yes. My reason for writing this.
One of his strictest rules, and mine as well, is that no
one can know. We both live in conservative neighborhoods, have conservative jobs. What we do—the cuffs, the whips, the discipline—stays between us. On that we’ve completely agreed, from day one.
Until we didn’t. I didn’t.
If only he hadn’t told me to wear my collar to that office holiday party, underneath my turtleneck.
Damn that Sheila for asking. No, damn me for answering. She was noticing the subtlest things (and how did she know to look? I should have asked myself)—that I was walking just slightly behind him at the party, that I kept my hands demurely clasped. My posture.
“Okay, what’s up with you two?” she asked me in the ladies’ room. She was leaning against the washbasin, lighting a cigarette against company rules. Of course, her husband owned the company. There was a gleam in her eye—she knew; she also likely knew I was half-drunk.
“You can’t tell anyone,” I said.
She crossed her heart.
I turned down the collar of my turtleneck and showed her the collar he had me wear to remind me that I was his—black leather with a symbolic silver loop.
I expected a giggle, a jaw dropped in amazement.
Instead she gave me a very… knowing look, one that only Stephen had ever given me.
“Well now, isn’t that an interesting thing,” she said, put out her cigarette under the faucet, and walked out.
Fuck.
“Anything you’d like to add?” Stephen said, back at his house. As we did every Friday night, I stood before his desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, only naked. And, as always, he sat behind the desk, his ledger book in front of him. This was part of our game that I found so oddly cold and hot at the same time—he saw it as his duty to tabulate the blows that would shortly be applied to my bare ass by either the flogger, if my transgressions were minor, or the cane, if they were major.
I really, really hate the cane.
“No, Stephen.”
“How could you?” he said, angry.
Did I mention I hate the cane?
“I’m sorry!” I said. “She knew. She could tell. I thought she was…a soul mate.” I was still a little drunk; I really didn’t want to have to go through all this. Couldn’t we just commence with the caning and fucking?
“She’s my boss’s soul mate!”
“I’m sorry.” I went ahead and bent over the desk, pressed my breasts against its hard surface; my nipples hardened against the cool varnished wood. I stepped up on my toes, as he expected—my ass was presented high, ready for the beating. I gripped the edge of the desktop and waited.
“This is bigger than the cane, Ellen. You broke the rule.”
“I know.”
He walked around the desk, ran his hand down my back to my hip.
“Do you know what they want to do?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Ron and Sheila, who else?” He squeezed my ass, hard.
“No.”
“They are very intrigued. They would like to see you in action, in the playroom, since I pretty much had to admit I have one. You hanging by your wrists seems to be Ron’s preoccupation. How many whips I have, is Sheila’s.”
“What? No! Stephen, please. We have a rule.”
“Yes we did, didn’t we…”
Shit.
“I’m so sorry!”
“Yes, I know you are. And you’ll be even more so, receiving your caning in front of two strangers, won’t you? Well, almost strangers, anyway.”
“Stephen…”
“Lessons must be learned, my dear, you know how things work.”
“You’re enjoying the idea!”
He shrugged.
He was still caressing my presented behind. The thought of being whipped—caned—in front of his boss and Sheila…
I lowered my face in embarrassment. His ledger was still open on the desk, just inches away. I looked at the columns of numbers, the neatly written words, all charges against me.
“Mr. Landon?” I said, much more formal. Perhaps if I could keep steering him into schoolteacher mode.
“Yes, Ellen?”
“Isn’t there…some other way, for me to learn my lesson?”
He sat down on the desktop.
“Such as?”
“Maybe…I could write an essay, a paper. You know, like ‘What I Did This Summer.’ Only…what I did wrong tonight, and how sorry I am.”
He looked up, deep in thought.
“Hm. That’s an interesting suggestion. One thousand words, perhaps? On how very, very sorry you are.”
“Yes! And of course, I’d still accept the cane, i
f you want.” Better now, than in front of anyone else.
He nodded absentmindedly.
“Mm-hm. I like this idea. Yes. You’ll write it right now, bent over the desk. No cane will be necessary, tonight, but I’m adding a little incentive to make sure you take it seriously.”
“Anything! Anything but a public whipping.”
Even if “public” meant two.
“Ah. Well, that’s the incentive, my dear. You’ll write it, and be as truthful as possible.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll publish it.”
“What?”
“We’ll find an anthology of those filthy stories you like, and you’ll send it in.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll have to think of a pen name…”
“No. You broke our rule and exposed me. Now you’ll expose yourself, one way or another. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does.” One way or—?
“Because here’s the thing: if it doesn’t get accepted and published…”
“Yes?”
“Then Ron and Sheila will get that show they’re requesting.”
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Lucy Felthouse
Yvette!” Jack snapped. “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Sir!” I’d only missed a bit. Maybe a couple of words. And it wasn’t my fault.
“So what’s the problem? Are you uncomfortable? Would you like a cushion?”
“No, Sir. I’m fine, thank you. It’s just…” As another noise filtered in through the double glazing, I was unable to stop my gaze slipping in that direction.
“What—?” Jack strode past me, all stompy and masterful.
I allowed myself a shiver of pleasure at his demeanor. He was sexy when he was grumpy, though naturally I didn’t enjoy it when he was grumpy with me.
He peered out the window to see what had distracted me. “Neighbor is mowing his lawn, that’s all. Can’t very well go round there and complain about that, can I?” he muttered.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 18