Big Book of Submission Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Jack stepped back in front of me. “The window is closed, Yvette. I can’t really do any more than that.” He shrugged.

  “It’s okay, Sir. He’ll be done soon. I can ignore it. It’s not that loud.” Ever since he’d given me that look and ordered me into the bedroom, my pussy had ached, and I had yearned for his orders, to do his bidding. To please him. I certainly didn’t want to displease him by allowing the next-door bloody neighbor’s garden maintenance to get in the way of our scene, but it’d be tough to remain entirely focused with that racket going on.

  “Hmm. All right, then. Let’s continue. So, where were we?”

  I hoped like hell that was a rhetorical question, because I’d been distracted enough by the noise outside that I hadn’t, in fact, heard all of what he’d said. I bowed my head and waited, mentally keeping my fingers crossed that Jack would answer his own question. Luckily for me, he did.

  “Come here, take out my cock, and suck it.”

  “Yes, Sir!” I almost got carpet burns on my knees as I eagerly shuffled forward. I reached out and undid his zipper. Slipping my right hand through the gap, I maneuvered until my fingers closed around his shaft—which was rigid, red-hot, and irresistible.

  Carefully, I popped his cock out through the opening in his boxers and trousers, where it stood proudly, looking just as tempting as it felt. All purple and swollen, raring to go. Licking my lips, I pumped my fist up and down his length a couple of times, before closing my mouth around his glans. Immediately, the delicious, musky, salty taste of him hit my taste buds. I hummed happily and prepared to start sinking farther onto him.

  Just then, a high-pitched roaring sound reached my ears.

  Jack picked up on my flinch. Stepping back—and slipping his dick out of my mouth in the process—he exclaimed, “Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s really distracting you, isn’t it?”

  I sat back on my heels and pouted. “I’m sorry, Sir! I can’t not hear. If I could switch my ears off, trust me, I would.”

  Jack’s expression softened. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s just…kinda ruining what we’ve got going on here.”

  I bit my lip. “Yeah, I know. But what are we supposed to do about it?”

  Jack opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. I could almost see the lightbulb appear above his head. Quickly, he tucked himself away, then turned and headed for the door, throwing over his shoulder, “Back in a minute.”

  I frowned, wondering what the hell he was up to.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to wonder for long. Jack soon returned, grinning broadly. “I’ve got the solution to our problem, my love.”

  “Y—you have?” He didn’t seem to have anything with him—but wait, maybe he did. His right hand was closed, as though holding something.

  “Yep. Voila!” He lowered his hand to my eye level, then opened it. Sitting on his palm were two tiny metal things, with black rubbery-looking ends.

  “Wha—are they earplugs?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. But they’re so much better than the regular kind. Put these in and you won’t hear a thing.”

  Tentatively, I scooped them off of his hand. “But that means I won’t be able to hear you speak. I won’t know what you want me to do.”

  Jack’s grin widened. “I’m sure I can make myself understood. Shall we give it a go?”

  “Yeah…all right.”

  He explained how to fit the plugs, then waited while I did so.

  One ear done; already the world’s volume had been turned down. When I popped in the second, it was indeed as though my ears had been switched off. It was bizarre—I could hear myself breathing and swallowing, but otherwise…nothing.

  Jack waved, drawing my attention. He put up his thumbs and arranged his face into a question.

  I nodded.

  He gave a curt nod back, and smiled. Then he gestured toward his crotch, raised an eyebrow. He’d been right—he could make himself understood.

  I soon had my husband’s shaft in my mouth once more. This time, though, there were no distractions. I poured my entire being into sucking and stroking Jack’s luscious dick. He was my only focus—nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. The downside was that I couldn’t hear any sounds he made, any moans, groans, expletives.

  But that made me all the more aware of his other reactions: the tensing of his thighs, the jerk of his hips, the hands he’d fisted in my hair. Each subtle twitch, the increase of precome seeping onto my tongue, told me he was growing ever closer to climax. And I was ready.

  Suddenly, as I bobbed up and down on his saliva-slick shaft, Jack froze. His hands tightened in my hair, sending sparks of pain dancing across my scalp. Then his cock twitched between my lips, and juices flooded my mouth. I swallowed them down happily, eagerly, buzzing with delight and arousal at his climax, secretly hoping I might soon be allowed one of my own.

  I carried on swallowing and gently sucking until Jack’s climax abated, then let his cock slip from my mouth. Looking up at him, I pointed to my ears, raising my eyebrows in query.

  He nodded.

  Carefully, I removed the plugs, immediately missing the quiet.

  Jack asked, “How was it for you?”

  “Totally amazing! I missed not being able to hear you, but I was so aware of everything else, how you moved, how you felt—”

  “Good. But you can’t keep them. I need them for work.” He held out his hand.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Well, then, you’d better order me some, hadn’t you?”

  “Consider it done. And just think what it’ll be like if I spank, whip, or flog you while you’re wearing them.” He gave me a wicked grin. “You won’t be able to hear what’s coming, or when.”

  The thought made my heart race, and my mouth went dry. Clumsily, I pushed the plugs into Jack’s outstretched hand. “Go. Now,” I said, not even caring that I wasn’t supposed to be the one giving orders. “And for god’s sake, pay the extra for express delivery.”

  WARNING

  Valerie Alexander

  This is how it starts. It’s just the two of you—in your bedroom, in the dead of night. All those exciting new toys are there, the leather cuffs and leash and collar, the state-of-the-art thigh restraints, maybe even bondage furniture if you’ve splurged. But those other comforts are there too: your pillows, your bedside clock, and the button-down you wore to work that day. Signifiers of a banality that you can step back into at any moment, if you need to.

  But of course you don’t need that, you’re on fire for each other. You slap his face, pull on his leash until you’re trembling as hard as he is. It’s no longer a game. He’s lost in submissive euphoria as soon as the spreader bar locks around his ankles. Kissing him, you bite his lips until pain shoots to his cock and stiffens it. I’m not taking anything up my ass, he announces early on and you respect that limit until you notice over the summer how his ass keeps rising up like an offer at certain moments. So you present a ridiculous ultimatum: if he fails to obey, his beautiful ass is yours for the plundering. He agrees, then fails to obey. And presents himself for defilement.

  You’re the only ones who know. There’s a wall between your scenes and your daily life. But the wall starts to disintegrate on the day you force him to wear your black underwear to work, or maybe it breaks through with a crash when the neighbors watch from their upstairs window as you order him to crawl around your backyard. He keeps his eyes downcast when you run into them at the neighborhood block party, the humiliation making him hard right there—harder, after you casually insult him—and then you hustle him back home, where you bind his hands and tell him how the neighbors are laughing at him, mocking what a weak and desperate slave he is. And he comes without being touched.

  “You’re a joke,” you tell him as you strip off his jeans in the laundry room. “A pathetic spectacle.” But what you’re really thinking is that this is getting out of control.

  You can’t stop fucking him in the shower, up agai
nst the tiles with a knife at his throat. He’s so luscious to behold when he’s tied to a chair, gagged and hard as you rumple his hair. You like the captive stoicism of him in chains, silent and pouting beautifully. You like the reddish marks imprinted on his skin. You love the way his eyes go dreamy when you take out the black rubber slapper. The way he grunts with relief the first time it cracks against his skin.

  He doesn’t know who he is anymore. You don’t know who you’re becoming.

  Autumn arrives in a shower of scarlet leaves. In the firelight, him painting your toenails or serving as your footstool, there begin to be things unsaid. Are you mine? How far would you go for me? How much can I hurt you? His thigh muscles look more sculpted when he rakes your front yard. Maybe he’s working out for you, you don’t know, but you do know you love the uxorious votary he is becoming: bringing you gifts, pouring your iced chai, rubbing your feet. This wasn’t part of the map you thought you were following as a couple but it’s rising up in both of you like a fever. His devotion, your expectations.

  You walk toward him naked in spike heels. An uncertain smile; your favorite kind. You kiss him. He knows enough by now not to kiss you back, that his mouth is yours to command. You’re so tender with him. Then you push him to his knees and fuck his mouth, his fingers moving inside you until that feral hunger in your blood goes electric and you ejaculate into his mouth. “Hold it,” you command—and he does. You leave him like that, with a hard dick and a mouth full of your come. Because his happiness is yours to dispense and dismiss, and you want him to remember that.

  But later you give him everything, because he is so very beautiful and obedient after all. “My lovestruck little bitch,” you say, tracing the imprint of your teeth on the back of his neck, where earlier you bit him like a mother wolf disciplining her cub. The next day, you order the barber to cut the soft curls hiding his nape so your ownership can be seen.

  His hair is still short for his office Christmas party, which is at a fancy hotel downtown. Dancing in the bluish lights while an orchestra plays, his body shakes as he holds you tight and his cock presses against you. It’s been months now since you fell together down the rabbit hole into this dark wonderland and nothing will be stable again, everyone else shrinking as the two of you grow more enormous in each other’s eyes. Blotting out the world until all that’s left is a private temple of beautiful cruelty.

  Up to the room where you order him to strip and get on the hotel bed on all fours. His body looks like marble in the diffuse city lights. He looks so trusting that you don’t quite know how to be worthy of him. You don’t know how to deserve this invitation to subjugate him, own him, control his worship. That’s the night you bind his wrists to his ankles so he’s on his knees facing the hotel room mirror while you slowly fuck his ass from behind. He stares at his reflection as if he’s in a white-hot dream of degradation, as if the naked boy in the mirror is his beautiful and carnal hero. You want to tell him that you’re in love with everything someone else might recoil from in him, so you say it wordlessly with a hand on his cock and your eyes on his in the mirror, fucking him faster until he cries out and comes on his stomach. Afterward you press his feverish body against the cold windows and say, pointing to the city lights beyond the falling snow, “I’m the one who gives you everything and the one who takes it away.” And he looks back at you with a gratitude that says he will follow you long after you’ve both gone blind with this need.

  At least, that’s how it started for us.

  POWER SURGE

  A. Zimmerman

  I first saw him manning the public pool lifeguard station. His back was to me. Half a forearm, one hand, a section of back, a shaved head, the occasional glimpse of leg—parts, not a person—yet I was riveted. Slouching low in a chair, I left my sunglasses on to hide my staring.

  When his shift ended he swung to the ground, his lanky stride carrying him rapidly past me. Both nipples were pierced and a brilliant collage of tattoos scrolled down his arms, the artwork as impressive as the man.

  Through the grapevine I learned he was engaged and so ignored him with mild success. I had shelved the idea of “Mr. Right,” focusing on “Right Now,” sometimes even “You’ll Do.” I was not going to contemplate “Already Taken.”

  The end of his engagement started our friendship. We fell into long, intimate phone conversations and platonic weekends away, weeks turning into month and months into years. At one point I found myself explaining power relationships and me being submissive. In turn, he admitted lovers of both sexes had mentioned finding him naturally dominant. I silently agreed; more than once over the years I had caught myself automatically doing his bidding.

  A few months after our initial power conversation, the topic came up again at my house. This time I leaned toward him in a way I had never allowed before. He angled to me while explaining he found BDSM interesting and felt he needed to experience power to properly wield it. On a fact-finding mission to learn by doing, he would put himself in my more experienced, albeit submissive, hands.

  Although caught by surprise, there was no question I would do it. How could I not? Using my favorite memories as guides, I sent him to my room with instructions, then wandered the house collecting a range of objects. My mind filled with plans, I entered the bedroom with a question.

  “Scale of one to ten. Anxiety?”

  “Five.”

  As instructed, he was lying on the bed wearing the blindfold from the nightstand drawer and had stripped to briefs. The array of bedside candles was lit. One lavender, for relaxation. One apple, to release anxiety. And a scent-free paraffin taper, in case things got interesting. Dropping my armload of stuff, I watched him fidget, lacing and unlacing his fingers while crossing and uncrossing his ankles. Knowing this was a mind game, I waited for him to break the silence. It didn’t take long.

  “Do you like looking at me?”

  “Why?”

  “I like knowing people like my body. Do you—”

  “Not relevant.”

  Sure, I liked looking. End of discussion. This was about him, not me. I focused on the situation at hand and facts to be established.

  “Safewords?” I inquired.

  “Yellow and red.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Yellow slow down, red stop.”

  Okay. He understood. A pair of tights was wrapped around the leg of the headboard, slipknot loops tied into the ends to create soft restraints. Showing him how to get himself free of the light bondage, I took a deep breath and secured his arms over his head.

  He woofed in surprise as a bed pillow landed on his head. I dropped another on his chest, followed by several smaller pillows on his arms and groin. I randomly hit him with pillows, making him flinch repeatedly as blows landed from different directions with varying force, creating a mild sensory overload.

  “Why pillows?”

  “No talking,” I reminded him. “Brief answers or safewords only.”

  “Can I ask what’s next?”

  He was pushing my authority exactly the way I pushed people. What went around was coming around. How annoying.

  “No.”

  “Will you talk me through—”

  “No talking.”

  “But—”

  “Are you talking?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  His hands clenched. I tossed a pillow over them, acknowledging I had seen his reaction but was ignoring it. I continued bludgeoning him, being careful not to create a rhythm.

  “My fingers are cold,” he announced, startling me.

  It had been twenty-five minutes. I had been in his position with those restraints for upward of four hours before becoming uncomfortable. Checking, I discovered his hands were icy. He must have been channeling tension up through his arms, flexing and making the slipknots tighten.

  Inexperienced, I had missed it. Clearly the power of bondage was balanced perfectly by the risks. I had to focus. Power wasn’t as much about being in charge as it was abou
t caring for someone else. I had to be more careful.

  “Shake it out,” I advised, releasing him. “When you feel warm, arms to your sides.”

  I fluffed a nylon feather duster until he let his arms fall to the mattress. His hands twitched as I danced the duster over him.

  “You can hold on to the bed,” I offered.

  His arms shot out, his fingers curling around the edges of the mattress until his knuckles went white. Both his nipples were hard enough to lift the rings off his chest and there was a definite bulge between his legs. I tapped his erection, then tapped between his tense thighs. He ignored the nonverbal cues, forcing me to speak.

  “Spread.”

  As he settled into the more vulnerable spread-eagled position, I tried to slide his briefs lower using the duster and failed.

  “Count to fifty. By forty-nine, briefs are gone.”

  His lips moved as he counted under his breath.

  “…Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…”

  He pulled his briefs off and flopped back, displaying a porn-star worthy erection. Of course. If we weren’t having a platonic relationship he would have had a pencil dick. So not fair.

  Abandoning the duster, I hooked one of the tines of a serving fork through a nipple ring, tugging to make him moan. Doing the same to the other ring made his cock jerk. Tracing loops down his stomach made his head tip back. His spine arched and he dug his heels into the mattress. A guttural groan rumbled his chest as goose bumps danced over his skin. When I reached the base of his cock, his erection jumped and he groaned again, thrusting toward the kitchen-utensil-turned-sex-toy.

  “Harder,” he murmured. “Please…”

  Adrenaline surged through me. Sex was fun. But this? This was wildly different. This wasn’t about me; this was about what I could do, about him begging for me to do it. The power was impressive, more enticing than I anticipated. My hands started shaking.

  Selecting a spatula, I used the flat surface to knock his cock downward. A smack to the underside drove it against his stomach. A few more strikes had it swaying. He thrust his hips up for more. I flattened his balls with a snap of the spatula.