Carl liked for me to use my hands to spank him because when we’d first met, I was beating a goatskin drum at a local Goombay festival. He said he’d known then that I would be a good spanker. I brought my hands down on his ass in time to the music.
“Yes, my Goombay lover.”
Carl liked to call me his Bahamian Goombay lover. Goombay was an African Bantu word for rhythm, and I had rhythm on that ass, wildly beating him red. When my final symphony ended, I lubed up and shoved my dick into Carl’s ass and he groaned like an animal. It had been too long for both of us.
I fucked him hard and fast. The little cock cage banged against the piano and Carl begged me to release him. I grabbed his hair and shoved his head down.
“You don’t get to come until I tell you to,” I growled. I increased that sweet, punishing rhythm he liked, and pretty soon he was sobbing for release. He’d reached his limits. I pulled out and spun him around. Carl had that crazed look in his eyes, like he was about to die if he didn’t come. His cock was red from straining against steel for so many hours.
Still I lingered before kneeling in front of him and unlocking the little latch. I carefully removed the cage. I swear I kissed his cock maybe three times, and just that easily he came, beautifully and gloriously loud, spewing his pent-up come right into my face. His beautiful face scrunched up in pure sweet agony was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen, and I beat my dick to an explosive finish as I watched him come a second time.
I looked up at Carl, and he looked down at me. He seemed so at peace. Our world consisted of just the two of us; all of his stress was on my face and dripping down my body. I stood up. Now I could kiss him and tell him how much I loved him. Now I could hold him and feel the rhythm of his heart next to mine.
DIXIE CUP
Anastacia Lucretia
Warm. The air-conditioning was doing its best to cool us down. But with the temps in the nineties outside, the room was still warm. The fucking probably didn’t help things either. Sweat covered both of us as we lay side by side, eyes closed, random body parts touching each other.
She and me. My Domme and I. It was a Saturday afternoon; we had both gotten up, had our caffeine together, and then went our separate ways to deal with the things in life that most people push off until the weekend. I brought home lunch, and afterward we decided to nap. The truth in the previous statement was this: there was in fact a bedroom involved, and we both did go in there to sleep. But so far, little sleeping was being done. It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t stop touching her.
Touching led to kissing. Kissing led to groping. Groping led to more and once you added nipples into the mix, napping wasn’t going to happen. She ended up face-sitting me, grinding her pussy onto my mouth, lips, and tongue until she reached down and pulled herself as tightly as possibly against my face and came. So very Domme.
With her come drying on my face, we lie there, her hand slowly playing with my nipples. That’s a good sign for me because if she stops touching me, we’re done and I don’t get a chance to make my own mess. But she’s still using a finger, flicking it up and down across my nipples. I make a low sound and turn toward her, kissing her.
“Please,” I say. Nothing else is necessary. I don’t need to ask for something specific. I don’t get to choose. My Domme will decide if I should mess and, if yes, how I should do it. And while that unequal power seems unthinkable to your average vanilla guy, it’s how we both prefer it. My sexuality is Femdom. It’s the only way I fuck these days.
Her eyes are still shut when I lever myself up to an elbow and kiss her stomach. I say a little prayer to the fertility gods of old, asking them for help. I want to mess. I want to come. She opens her eyes and turns her head to look at me. Her eyes lock on to mine. “Up. Off the bed. On the floor.”
I kneel. She rolls and sits on the bed, bending to reach for the second drawer from the top and coming out with a seven-inch latex dildo. Kneeling between her legs, I kiss her knee. She reaches down and plays with a nipple. “You better start,” she says.
I’m already half-hard as I begin to jerk my cock. I close my eyes and feel myself get fully hard. I still smell her pussy on me. I’m kneeling in front of my Domme, and I know she’s watching me. She’s always watching me.
I hear her say, “Open.” I open my mouth and narrow my eyes a bit. I see the cock in her hand begin to slide past my lips. I feel her begin to use little fucking motions, in and out of my mouth. My hand on my cock begins to work faster. I try and keep my mouth closed tight around her cock.
“Cocksucker,” I hear her say. She knows that doing this for her makes me feel dirty. She knows that having me suck “cock” makes me feel more than a little humiliated. With my mouth around one of her dicks, I feel like I’m being used. I feel very much not like a guy, but more like a slave whose purpose at this moment is to just be a thing—a sucking thing.
“You look so good, sucking my dick. Bitch.” Faster now. I make a noise, then another. I hear her say, “In the cup.”
I look. She’s handing me one of the little Dixie cups from the dispenser she keeps on her nightstand. When she put them there I didn’t understand. But she told me that nothing breaks a vanilla guy faster of his old life than cleaning up after himself. That a guy who will clean up and eat his own mess begins to leave vanilla fucking behind. That the taste of his own come, time after time after time, ingrains submission into him like nothing else. So for weeks now when I’ve been allowed to mess, she has me finish in her little Dixie cup, then holds it to my lips and pours the salty come into my mouth to swallow.
She bought a package of one hundred cups. She said when I’ve used all of them and her dispenser is empty, after I’ve swallowed one hundred of my own loads, she was going to take me to get a small Dixie cup tattooed on me. On the front of the cup will be a big letter C, indicating the Roman numeral for one hundred, or come eater. She said I would find greater submission in this. That I would be far from vanilla. I believe her.
I take the cup, glance down, and put the head of my cock in it. She pulls my nipple while pushing her cock farther into my mouth. I close my eyes and take a breath, hoping that my aim is true. I hear, “Don’t you fucking stop, bitch,” and I feel the rise and know I’ve made some kind of noise. I’m dimly aware that I can’t breathe very well from the amount of cock that’s in my mouth. She pulls again on my nipple and fuck, I just do that thing where I try and hold back for a half-second because I know it will make that first spurt harder. I feel myself go. I begin to mess, my hand jerking very fast. I feel the sides of the cup on either side of my cockhead and hope I’m where I need to be because she’s watching.
I slow down. I bend forward and rest my head on one of her knees as I milk the last bit of come out of me and into the cup. I open my eyes to look. Nothing on the floor.
I straighten up in time to see her put the cock down. She leans over and kisses me on the lips. “Good boy.” I wordlessly hand her the little cup but she doesn’t look in it; she knows what was done. She was watching. Her other hand pushes my bottom lip down and open. I close my eyes and feel the liquid move past my lips onto my tongue. I swallow. They say it’s a tablespoon, but trust me, it feels like more.
I swallow again and hear her pitch the used cup into the trash. I rest my head again on her knee. We stay like that for a few moments, letting that energy swirl between us. I will eventually use that one-hundredth cup, and I have no doubt she’ll have some other challenge ready for me so I can continue to be and become what we both need me to be: Hers.
MUM
Charlie Powell
Before the baby, she’d worried about having to deal with all the sick and shit, but it’s the endless saliva that’s been the greatest shock. Now the gifts from people who’d been there already make sense. She’d expected stuffed toys, cute sleepers, nappies, but instead there was just an endless stack of muslin cloths. They’re six months in now, and the appearance of teeth has only made things worse. Not only is she consta
ntly covered in drool, she’s up half the night trying to pacify a fretful child with sore gums.
It’s killed her sex drive.
Friends talk about the way motherhood makes them feel their body—their tits especially—is no longer their own, and while she sees what they mean (her nipples are dry and cracked from all the feeding), it bothers her less than the way that tiredness and lack of time have led to a sex life that’s distinctly vanilla.
She misses kink.
“I’ve booked a hotel,” Mike tells her, as he paces up and down the bedroom, rubbing Jessica’s back and wincing at her furious tears.
“Why? Oh god, have I forgotten our anniversary?”
“No! You need a break. We need a break. My mum said she’d look after Jess.”
It’s true; they do need a break. She feels like motherhood has become her whole identity in a way she never would have predicted. Pre-Jess, she’d have gone all soft and gooey at the thought of her baby saying “mama” or people referring to her as “Jessica’s mum.” Now that it’s reality, sure, it provokes love like she’s never felt before, but it also makes her slightly wistful for the days when she was just “Susie.” Not to mention the days when she was “slut,” or “bitch,” or “whore.”
“Do you think we should stop calling each other ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ in front of the baby?” she asks Mike. “After all, she’s too young to understand. Perhaps we should start using our real names again?”
“I don’t mind ‘Daddy,’ actually,” Mike says, winking at her. “Though I’m happy to answer to ‘Sir’ if you’d prefer?”
“I’ve never called you Sir!”
“It’s not too late to start!”
The hotel is stunning, an old country house with a huge four-poster bed, a roll-top bath, and a bottle of champagne on ice.
“For now or for aftercare?” Mike asks, gesturing at it, and she knows this is his way of asking if she wants to submit or if she’d prefer to go vanilla.
“For aftercare.”
“Sure?”
“Dead sure.”
“Lie on the bed.”
She reaches for the zip on her dress, but he stops her. “Clothes on, please.”
Susie does as she’s told.
The weight of his body and the feeling of his lips on hers bring her back to herself. Her breasts may still be heavy with milk but right now, her body is hers and hers alone. He takes his time unbuttoning her plaid shirt but then he sinks his thumbs into her soft, pale flesh and she mewls with delight.
“Look at me,” he says, and she opens her eyes to meet his gaze, hoping that he’ll hit her. She’s always loved the feel of his palm connecting with her cheek, the shock of it, the way it leaves her with no choice but to be utterly present in the moment.
He doesn’t slap her. Instead, he spits, fiercely, right into her open mouth.
It’s the hottest thing she’s ever experienced. Somewhere at the back of her mind, clouded by lust, she remembers a friend complaining that her husband never actually listened to the things that bothered her, he just pretended to listen until she calmed down.
Mike has been listening.
Every time she’s wondered aloud at the fact that she used to get off on fluids—spit, semen, tears—whereas now she spends most of her day mopping them up, he’s heard her.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you, too,” he replies, and spits again. The warm, wet blob of saliva hits her squarely on the forehead.
“More,” she begs.
“Ask nicely.”
“Please.” “Please what?”
“Please, Sir.”
All the things the baby has tried to claim as her own, Mike takes back for the two of them. He pulls Susie’s hair in thick, grasping handfuls until she yelps in pain. He bites her, leaving marks on her neck that she knows will turn purple before the morning. She knows too that she’ll gaze at these bruises in the mirror once she’s back to her normal routine, reliving her sexuality between night feedings and nappy changes.
Then, once he’s reduced her to her old, submissive self, he makes her suck his cock, pushing his length deep into her mouth until her own saliva runs down her chin. He scoops it up and wipes it across her cheeks, mixing it with his.
He pushes her skirt out of the way, her knickers to one side, and with a single thrust, he’s inside her, thick and long and oh so good. They’ve had sex since Jess was born, of course—often, in fact—but this is the first time since the baby arrived that it’s been like this. She comes hard, and quickly, and he does too, filling her with semen, so that she is soaked with him from top to bottom.
There’s saliva in her fringe, on her face, dripping down between her breasts. Her mascara is smudged beyond repair. She’s a mess, but she feels wonderful.
“I’m not sure we have time to shower before dinner,” he says. “Not if you also want to drink that champagne.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she says, digging deep in her handbag. “I’m sure I have something in here I can clean up with.” And as she pulls out a muslin cloth, one of the million spares she carries everywhere, both she and Mike dissolve into laughter.
TWENTY-NINE
Rose de Fer
Lara braces herself. She stands on tiptoe and bends forward over the padded armchair, gripping the seat. The leather creaks beneath her hands. She can feel Michael behind her, the displacement of air as he positions himself at an angle to her.
He lifts her skirt and she closes her eyes, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. Then his fingers are inside the waistband of her panties. He pulls them to her knees.
Lara takes a deep breath, preparing herself. She wants to make him proud.
Michael doesn’t speak and neither does she. She knows both what to expect, and what is expected of her.
After a few moments she feels the cool caress of the little leather whip. It’s disarmingly small and inoffensive to look at, but she knows its kiss can be vicious. Michael trails it over her bottom, teasing her for a moment. The calm before the storm.
Then he brings it down and the room rings out with the sharp crack of leather against bare skin. It doesn’t hurt much, but as always, it takes a moment for the sensation to fully blossom. Lara gasps and waits until it has reached its peak before she counts.
“Two.”
“Good girl.”
The next stroke falls and again she waits for the stinging warmth to spread before she counts.
“Three.”
The whip lands again, harder this time.
“Five.”
And again.
“Seven.”
Michael pauses to stroke her, running his fingers over her cheeks. Right now her bottom is only slightly warm. She knows it will be burning before he is finished.
The next strokes come in a brisk volley, one right after another. She gasps, trying to keep track. There are four in all.
She calms herself and then speaks the numbers. “Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen.”
“Very good.” Michael is smiling behind her. She can tell. It makes her smile too.
But her smile vanishes instantly as the next stroke falls. This one is much harder, and begins to challenge her composure. She yelps, kicking her leg up as the sting washes over her. Then she counts.
“Twenty-three.”
Another stroke, this one even harder.
“Twenty-nine.”
Michael stops, once more caressing her tender bottom. Lara relaxes, sagging over the armchair. Her punished skin is tingling, the pleasure and pain producing a heady cocktail of sensation. She waits for him to tell her she can get up.
And waits.
When she feels the tails of the whip tickling her bottom again, she gives a little whimper of confusion and protest. They’ve already reached her age. Is he planning to give her one to grow on?
He answers her silent question with another volley of strokes, and her disorientation makes it difficult to keep trac
k. Four. No, five. She counts them aloud.
“Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven.”
Behind her, Michael chuckles softly. And suddenly she catches on. Yes, she is twenty-nine today. That means twenty-nine strokes. Quickly she performs the calculation. She’s had fifteen already. But she can’t factor far enough ahead to know when he’ll stop. All she can do is keep count and try not to lose her place.
The whip falls again, harder. The stinging leather tails elicit little cries and gasps from her and she wriggles over the chair. It is all she can do not to reach back and rub the burn out of her cheeks. But she stays focused.
Another three strokes. Fifty-three, fifty-nine, and sixty-one. Another four. Sixty-seven, seventy-one, seventy-three, and seventy-nine.
For a moment she loses count. Was it twenty-one or twenty-two? Another stroke falls as she decides it’s the latter.
“Eighty…” She hesitates. Oh god, is it eighty-one or eighty-three?
She hears Michael pulling the tails of the whip through his fingers, slapping it against his palm, prompting her. Twenty-three is eighty…
“Eighty-three!”
He laughs softly and pats her bottom. “Very good,” he says.
The numbers are getting harder now. And so are the strokes.
Eighty-nine wrenches a cry from her and it takes her some time to compose herself enough to speak. She pants out the number for him, and when the whip lands again, she realizes she has lost count.
She freezes in horror, staring wide-eyed at the blank wall before her as her mind spins its gears frantically.
This time he has to prompt her. His deep voice says her name, a low sultry warning tone.
“Eighty-seven,” she ventures uncertainly.
She can tell by his silence that it’s wrong. Blushing to the roots of her hair, she hangs her head in disgrace, her entire body burning with the shame.
“Lara,” he says gently, “what is three times twenty-nine?”
She visualizes the numbers in a dance, circling and combining like cells. And she groans as she sees the divisors neatly carving up the number. “Eighty-seven,” she says with a groan.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 21