“We’ll try that one again, shall we?”
She grips the seat, knowing it will hurt. He doesn’t disappoint. The leather tails spread sweet fire through her flesh and she cries out, writhing and kicking her feet as it washes over her and through her.
When she finally gets control of herself, she concentrates. “Eighty-nine,” she says. And they’re at twenty-four. Only five more to go. She is determined to make him proud.
Ninety-seven makes her gasp, but doesn’t shake her concentration. With renewed focus, she counts the pair that follow it, twin primes as it happens.
“One hundred and one, one hundred and three.”
Only two more. And she smiles to herself as she realizes that they are twins also.
The whip falls, ringing out in the little room. Lara gasps and whimpers, panting as she gathers herself.
“One hundred and seven.”
She knows the next one is the twenty-ninth. A prime itself, and her age. She holds her breath as she waits for the stroke to fall. And Michael makes it count. Her bottom is alive with stinging pain as the whip falls, its tails splaying over her already sore and reddened cheeks. It is all she can do to stay in position, but she refuses to disgrace herself again.
She takes a deep breath and speaks in a loud, clear voice. “One hundred and nine.”
Michael doesn’t speak. The room is nerve-wrackingly silent. But he doesn’t rattle her this time. She knows that was the final stroke, number twenty-nine. But before there can be any question of it, she lifts her head proudly.
“Thank you, Sir,” she says.
The next thing she feels is his hand, warm and smooth, stroking her bottom. His touch intensifies the burn, but the sensation is wonderful too. He guides her up and gathers her in his arms.
“Happy birthday, Lara,” he says.
She curls into his embrace, feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy from the endorphins pinging around in her brain.
Michael smiles, gazing into her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” he says.
She blushes and lowers her head.
“I think next year we’ll have you count in binary.”
SING
J.C. Parker
I cannot live without Tasha’s music. I’d do anything to hear her play, it doesn’t matter what instrument. That’s why I’m onstage in an empty theater disrobing. My cheeks feel warm as I step out of my panties. The darkness of the auditorium feels as if hundreds of unseen eyes are on me. I’m aware of sweat forming on my body once the breeze in the room blows against my backside. Tasha circles the stage, scanning me with her brown eyes. She’s dressed to perform, wearing a long black gown that touches the floor. Her jet-black braids are tied in a ponytail. Most important to me are her elbow-length black Lycra opera gloves she wears when she plays piano.
I love the contrast of her elegant look to my shameful state. My brown hair extends to the middle of my back. I normally cover my hourglass figure in long dresses to hide my curvy hips. Without my clothes, I feel disrespectful standing before such a talented woman, unworthy to be in her presence. Her hand touches my chin and she says, “Sing for me.”
My lips tighten. I don’t sing, especially not onstage. The pressure to perform makes me more self-conscious over every uncovered inch of skin. I turn my head to hide my blushing face as I try to cover myself.
“No. Display it,” Tasha says, grabbing my wrists and holding my arms behind my back. My knees buckle as I feel the heat from the stage lights touch my breasts. Sweat accumulates, as the open feeling of being exposed sends a warm current from between my legs to my chest. Despite my embarrassment, I’m flattered Tasha sees the beauty in my curves that I often hide.
From behind, Tasha grabs my right breast, squeezing hard enough to make me grunt. My nipple stiffens as the pain signals travel straight to my heart. Even though her grip is hard, the gloves feel like a soft caress, making my toes curl the more her hands leave their red marks over me. I don’t expect her other hand to slide over the dark-brown hair covering my mons. Her fingers brush against the small curls and push against my outer labia. A small pulse grows from within my lower abdomen the more she pets me. A soft rumble travels up my throat and passes through my trachea, muted by my exhales, all giving Tasha’s trained ear data on how she’ll play me tonight.
My tuning is interrupted when her arm wraps around my waist to pull me closer. I feel her hot breath against my collarbone before both hands pinch my nipples, twisting them until I grunt. My throat tightens, doing its best to stifle my desire to squeal.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” Tasha muses before chuckling. I growl as the pressure on my breasts feels as if she’s breaking the skin. Her fingers are precise, applying the right pressure to get a specific sound out of me, as if she knows my body more than I do. By now the pulse becomes a rippling wave of pressure that spreads to my thighs.
“Almost,” she says once she releases my breasts, giving me time to take a deep breath of fresh air. My break is short lived. When she raises a hand to slap my pussy, I double forward as the pain explodes throughout my pelvis. I bite my lip to silence my cry. I’m afraid my scream will echo throughout the building and draw the attention of the night staff. My revealed weakness makes Tasha laugh, and now I feel sweat on my brow.
“Stubborn, are we?” Tasha asks, finally letting go. I sigh as my muscles relax. My breast feels like it was bitten, but now it’s hard as a rock, excited from Tasha’s cruelty. “Fine, I don’t need your voice. On your knees.”
I don’t even lower my legs before Tasha grabs my hair, pulling my head back before guiding me toward the ground, not hard, but with enough force that I barely break my fall with my hands. I stare at the ground that is inches from my face. The amount of disregard to my person sends more adrenaline through me as I anticipate what she’ll do to get sound out of me. I lower my head to stick my backside up, my face turning crimson as I think about how foolish I must look.
Tasha runs both gloved hands over my shoulders and down my back, taking her time to give me a soft massage. The Lycra acts like a conductor, sending a current up my spine before she raises both hands and claps down on my ass. The sharp sting travels to my thighs as I wince. My heart stops when I hear the percussive noise my ass makes. It’s a dull echo that bounces off of the walls. The flesh of my rear cheeks ripples after each spank; I’m so mortified I cover my face. Snickering, Tasha raises her hands and swings so hard I lean forward. This time the sound is so loud I look at her with indignity, biting my lip as I pray no one is nearby to hear my ass being spanked. Tasha’s dark-brown lips spread into a wide grin aimed at me. Her hands rise, this time swinging down in beats of four. Every strike seems to make a louder pop; butterflies are in my stomach now that my ass is a drum. By the time she stops, my posterior is so raw, the air in the room feels like needles. My thighs squeeze together and I feel a dampness between my legs. I should have known resisting her was pointless; she will always get a sound out of me.
“Now sing,” Tasha says, right before sliding her fingers against my labia. My mouth opens as I bury my head in my hands, the soft fabric making my sex ache with every stroke. My voice cracks, trying to remain silent while also loving how my will is about to be broken just from my lover’s fingertips. It’s when she slips her index and middle fingers into my pussy that I squeeze my eyes shut and let out my first cry, a high-pitched noise that fills the auditorium. My lower belly tingles while Tasha plays me, hand turning counterclockwise as it pushes in and out. My body has soaked her gloves so much the suction of air makes a percussive noise while she continues to fuck me.
The final straw is when she reaches around to lift my torso up, holding me tight against her body to grope my breast. Simultaneously, she begins to flick her fingers as fast as she can while twisting my nipples. The barrage of pain sends my pussy into spasms as I scream. My voice resonates throughout the building and I don’t care. Let them see me, wet, naked, completely helpless against my Master, my owner,
my musician.
A TESTING TIME
Suzanne Fox
Only the tension of the seat belt halted Cerys’s sliding from the front seat as the Audi bumped its way across rough terrain and crunched to a halt. She guessed that they had been on the road for about an hour but she couldn’t be sure, and she was clueless as to where they were. Her blindfold masked the outside world from view and she had heard no rumble of traffic for at least fifteen minutes. Apart from the car’s engine, the only sound had been the whooshing of blood as it surged past her ears, pumped by her adrenaline-fueled heart.
They had met online a few weeks earlier and, through their chats, learned a little about the other’s needs and desires, negotiating a fragile path through a maze of protocol and trust. They had met a couple of times in the anonymity of a cheap hotel chain and each time he had hurt her, leaving her purple with bruises and welts. Their play had been rough and exciting, but each time there had been the security of hotel staff and guests ready to raise the alarm if his games got out of hand. Now she was alone with a man who was little more than a stranger.
Cerys licked dry lips with a tongue that was just as parched. She was treading a dangerous path. Was consenting to be taken blindfolded to god knew where with this man, the most irresponsible and perilous thing she had ever done? The realization that she would soon find out excited and terrified her.
The engine cut out.
Silence.
A brush of leather scuffed her neck, sending frissons of tension trembling down her spine before the collar was tightened and buckled. A metallic snap alerted her to a leash attaching to the collar’s ring, and unseen hands released her seat belt. It recoiled like a startled snake into its holster and Cerys flinched. His hands battled hers for control of her wrists before she surrendered to the grip of hard steel cuffs. Her sharpened hearing strained for the slightest of clues. The driver’s door slammed shut and muffled steps circled the car.
Cerys jumped, a small yelp escaping her lips as the door beside her flew open and the leash snapped taut. She tumbled from the car, only stopping when she crashed into the broad torso of the man who currently had control of her. Regaining her balance and poise, she stood motionless, feet apart and head bowed. Waiting.
Fingers tilted her chin, darkness disappeared and a landscape of stippled greenery saturated her vision as he removed her blindfold. Woodland stretched as far as she could see, broken only by a rough, beaten path. Her eyes questioned the man holding the leash but elicited only silence in response.
Hoisting a canvas backpack onto his shoulders, he yanked the leash, dragging Cerys toward the path. She struggled to keep pace with his long strides, picking her way past any roots and rocks waiting to snare her feet. She ducked beneath low branches and stepped over patches of stinging nettles, knowing that any trip or stumble would tighten the leather band around her neck, choking the breath from her. They marched in deliberate silence, which fueled her imagination into overdrive as scene after scene toyed with her mind, teasing and playing her doubts into a meticulous medley of anticipation and fear.
Cerys revered fear. The thrill of living on the edge breathed life into her existence. It ignited the fire that nourished her spirit. It enticed her along the path to pleasures most people never encountered, or only experienced vicariously as they surfed the Internet in shameful solitude or thumbed the pages of the latest socially acceptable BDSM paperback. That wasn’t enough to sate the appetite of her inner submissive. Cerys knew she craved the sting of the whip, the bite of the rope, and the discipline of an alpha man to push her to the heights and depths of pain and pleasure.
Her neck extended and her body lurched behind it as the leash pulled taut. His pace quickened and Cerys matched it. The August sunlight streaming through the leafy canopy scorched her already perspiring skin as she felt the hot rays penetrate deeper, warming her muscles and bringing her blood to near-boiling point. The heat spread farther until she felt a familiar aching in her pussy as it swelled in response. Her inflamed flesh, now fully sensitized to the rub of the crotch rope he had tied beneath her clothing, began to get wetter as the friction increased. Cerys whimpered as the first stirrings of an orgasm blossomed. Imaginings of what would soon happen evicted all mundane thoughts and, for Cerys, the anticipation was almost as thrilling as the scene itself. But underscoring the exhilaration and the expectation ran a cold current of dread. Not the sense of controlled fear that usually accompanied her play, but a deeper, more primal terror that wormed deep into her psyche, urging her to snatch the leash from his grip and race for the security of a crowded space.
The trepidation that had simmered all day was now threatening to erupt. Her life was in the hands of a man intent on causing her pain. The contents of the backpack that weighed down his shoulders were a mystery. She hoped for rope, a flogger, a paddle, or maybe a whip. But what if there were other things—a knife, a hammer, or worse? A rat of dread that wouldn’t be ignored chewed at her stomach.
Blinding sunlight dazzled her vision and she squinted as a clearing opened in the trees. Through the haze, Cerys saw the dark outline of an ancient oak near the center of the glade and she stumbled toward it following the pull of the leash.
In silence, he freed one of Cerys’s wrists, spun her around, and cuffed her hands behind her. She realized she couldn’t outrun him restrained in this way. He tipped open the backpack, spilling the contents onto the ground, and selected a length of hemp rope.
Cerys felt the chafe of rope as he secured it to the cuffs and she broke her silence. “What…what are you going to do?”
His answer was a huff of breath as he hurled the other end of the rope over one of the lower branches. It rasped against the gnarled bark. He pulled the rope down and Cerys’s arms began to rise behind her. She bowed forward as her arms lifted higher, rotating her shoulder joints, displaying the curve of her bottom and tightening the thin rope that rubbed against her cunt. It was now or never. She prayed she would be proved right and drew in a deep breath.
“RED!”
The rope slipped free and her arms fell back down. Strong arms hugged her, pressing her body against his. Warm breath kissed the top of her head and a comforting voice whispered, “Tell me what’s wrong, baby. We can stop if you’re not ready.”
Cerys looked at his face. It was scored with concern. Smiling, she realized she was going to be safe and treasured in his hands.
TRADING PLACES
Myra S. Hart
I watched in anticipation as Adrienne unlocked the door and entered the living room. I wondered how she’d felt, going out shopping dressed like she was dressed.
Her dark hair was short, as it had just started growing back, and was slicked down with gel. Black eyeliner followed the almond shape of her gray eyes. A black suit with severe lines was worn over a lacy corset, pushing up her new boobs so that a mound of cleavage could catch the eyes of onlookers. High-heeled black boots completed the look.
I also knew she wore no panties underneath. My cock was hard as hell thinking about her bare pussy, air rushing underneath that skirt to tickle it, reminding her she was still a sexual being.
I knew she hadn’t been able to recapture that part of herself since the breast cancer. The double mastectomy had stolen that from her. We barely had vanilla sex anymore, let alone any serious playtime.
So, I had an idea that we should try trading places. When I first gave her the flogger with a pink handle, she cried. At first I feared I’d offended her, but then she hugged me hard and said it was the most incredibly thoughtful thing I’d ever done.
Today was our first experiment.
“How was your day, Mistress?” We hadn’t discussed any details of how the role-reversal was going to work. All we’d decided upon was that the safeword would be “enough.” I had no idea what to expect, and it was terrifying and thrilling all at once—like when you reach the peak of a roller coaster.
Her eyes narrowed. “Only speak when spoken to, My Pet.”
/> And so it had begun.
“Yes, Mistress.”
She opened the buttons of her suit jacket, no longer appearing uncomfortable with her reconstructed body as she leaned over her shopping bags, flashing substantial cleavage. She pulled a few toys from her bag. I watched eagerly, wondering what Adrienne had planned.
Selecting a collar, she announced, “We are going for a walk, My Pet. Get undressed.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Do not look at me unless I allow it.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I took my clothing off slowly, deliberately, and stood before her holding my hard dick, eyes cast downward. She walked over and said, “Get on all fours.”
Hmm; I wondered how long she would have me stay like this. Could get uncomfortable, I mused. But thoughts of what I might get in return…
I’d tried on numerous occasions to reassure her that I found her just as desirable as I always had, but nothing worked. The closeness that had developed from our special playtime together was dissolving, causing a rift that I didn’t want to keep widening.
I would do whatever it took. Over the long weeks of watching her suffer and our bond deteriorate, I decided I needed to do something to empower her. The cancer robbed her of control of her own sacred temple, so I was offering her mine.
Thinking about all the pain and agony she’d endured over those many months saddened me, but also made me admire her strength. Now, she was entitled to use that strength for her pleasure.
Adrienne fastened the black studded collar around my neck and hooked it to a chain leash. Then she turned around and walked back to the bags. Of course I had to look as she bent over, her skirt rising up enough for me to get a peek at her naked snatch. My whole body tightened with desire as she pulled something out of the bag.
“Come.” She tugged the chain, and I followed on my hands and knees to the kitchen. She went to the kitchen sink and quickly washed whatever she was holding. Then, she filled it with water. She placed a pet bowl near the kitchen door. I noticed the words MY PET were painted on it. “Drink,” she instructed.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 22