I had the audacity to glance up at her and received a flogging on my buttocks. It was fascinating how the pain created little tingles of pleasure. I put my head over the bowl and drank, slurping up as much water as I possibly could. Her fingers ran through my hair, the tips of her painted nails lightly scratching my scalp.
She continued down my neck and back, and when she reached my buttocks, gave me a good, hard slap.
“Time to go outside, My Pet.”
What?
She opened the kitchen door and placed the heel of one boot on my backside, giving me a little push. We had a fenced-in yard, so I didn’t think anyone could see… but on the other hand, the thought of a voyeur gave me a little thrill, just as the cool night air did, brushing against my naked body.
I let Adrienne lead me around the yard, in the direction of the trees.
“Now, be a good boy for Mistress, My Pet.”
I remained still, uncertain what she was asking of me.
Her flogger with the pink handle whipped against my ass, and then she slowly ran it down my crack until it tickled my balls.
“Go pee-pee, like a good boy, or I will have to punish you.”
I didn’t want to urinate in the yard. I wanted to fuck the shit out of her in so many ways that she wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.
“I don’t have to take a piss, Adrienne.”
Suddenly, I felt her boot on my neck, pushing my face into the grass. The outdoor scents of tree bark and greenery enhanced my senses and my desire.
“Don’t call me that!”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.” I added a bit of a whimper to emphasize the point.
“I believe I’ll have to find an inventive way to punish you.” She actually chuckled as she stood in front of me. “You may look at me from my knees down,” she commanded. I raised my head and watched her jacket fall to the ground. Then her skirt dropped around her ankles. She stood like that for a minute, making me highly aware of the fact that she was standing above me in nothing but a corset and those shiny black boots, snatch exposed. She kicked off the skirt. “Lick,” she instructed, sticking the toe of her boot under my chin.
I traced my tongue from her toe, traveling up the curve of her leg to the bare skin of her thigh. I was rewarded with the type of wanton moan I hadn’t heard in quite some time. I was bursting with need for her. I moved my tongue to her other thigh, but instead of allowing it to travel down her other leg, she lowered herself onto her back and spread her legs wide for me. Her boots dug into my back as I brushed my lips against her throbbing clit, suckling it before sticking two long fingers inside her wet hole.
“Take me, My Pet,” she commanded, flipping around onto all fours. I pushed my aching cock deep inside her snatch.
As we both climaxed violently, I thought, I could get used to this, my pet…
But let’s keep that our little secret.
VISCERA
Emily Bingham
Knives have never turned me on before, so I think it surprises us both when I ask my lover, “Would you cut me?”
“Of course!” he says, smiling slyly, always game to explore new things. His eagerness almost makes me regret asking. Almost. But I trust him, knowing it’s because he cares that he’s able to dole out the pain I regularly solicit.
I watch nervously as he reaches to his back pocket where the knife sits, the clip of it always peeking out of his jeans. Until this moment, I’ve never considered it as anything other than a practical tool.
With a flick of his wrist, the blade clicks open. He draws out the moment, letting the light glint off the razor-thin blade with its intimidating point. My entire body thrums.
He keeps his distance, looking me over, savoring the tension and the tease. I take in the knife and his face, unsure when he’ll make a move. My fear has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my own hunger. I’m wet simply from watching him.
Soon the fingers of his free hand tug at my dress. I pull it over my head as he takes a step back to watch, the open blade held casually at his side.
When I’m seated again he places the knife in my bare lap and says, “Hold this.”
Paralyzed, I focus on the tip poking my thigh where it dimples the soft skin. He steps out of his clothes while I’m too distracted to enjoy the show, focusing instead on the dangerous promise of the knife. So it’s a relief when he removes it from my lap, yanks off my underthings, and pushes me down on the bed.
My nudity feels especially vulnerable tonight, and he toys with that feeling by wordlessly walking away; I watch his delicious body round the corner into the bathroom. I hear water run and the medicinal scent of alcohol wafts through the room as I realize he’s preparing himself for the minor surgery about to be performed.
When he returns his touch is a balm against anxiety. I smile and lean into him, my gaze pinned to the knife. He kisses along my neck, playing innocent, but I stiffen to watch him pull the blade between us.
Our eyes meet and I don’t dare look elsewhere. He slides slowly down my body to kneel between my legs, denying me the contact with his skin I’m longing for, parting us to assure his concentration. The intensity of his gaze is intimidating.
He’s silent as he raises the blade so I can watch the course he draws in the air between himself and the target he’s decided upon—the crook of my thigh where leg meets hip, so close to crotch as to be nearly indistinguishable.
I gasp as the impersonal metal presses into my flesh. He grins wickedly. Again the blade only dimples my skin; no blood yet as he continues to tease me.
His grasp on the knife handle changes suddenly as the blade makes purchase with my flesh; the surprise is greater than the pain. The only sensation is cold metal and my heart racing in response. The cut is finished in an instant.
My brow furrows as I suck in a breath and look down, but the cut is so superficial that it barely bleeds. It’s more of a scratch, which part of me is disappointed by.
“Ready?” he asks, bracing the dull side of the blade with his index finger, preparing for the next cut. This is so visceral, so intimate, that tears well in my eyes. I nod. Immediately he’s in action, creating a second and third cut identical and parallel to the first. Endorphins and dopamine flood my body as I struggle to catch my breath.
Soon he adds a fourth cut, this one deeper, and now there’s blood and a blaze of heat. Rivulets so red they’re almost black dance down the curve of my thigh. My vision blurs and my body swims; I feel made entirely of liquid until his fingers replace the knife, bringing me back to earth.
Setting the blade aside, he cleans the wound with a stab of isopropyl alcohol. Though his blade felt like barely anything, this stings and causes me to cry out. I hiccup around a breath and he stops, allowing the blood to creep to the surface again. We observe this small red river traversing the whiteness of my leg.
His body language changes suddenly as he stands, his cock popping free and rising to full mast, a display of the pleasure he’s taken in his work. I reach to touch him but he pins my arms above my head with a single hand. I was so sure the game of power given and taken was over that I gasp.
I kiss along his neck, and his stiffness resting on my belly jumps. He’s so near and yet so far away from where I long for him. I nuzzle my face and crotch against his and he sighs. Rather than giving in to temptation, he lifts away, using his legs to force mine wide and bring his hips close. I could have him if I angle my body just so, but his stern expression suggests I not try.
The Rorschach blot of blood that’s seeped from my body decorates his where our legs met. He glances at this messy design, then at me, predatorily. With his free hand he grasps his cock, stroking it; I lick my lips. On a downstroke he uses his hardness to slap the marks on my leg, reopening the wound. He slaps me again and again with his cock until the ache he’s awakening in those cuts is enough that I try to wiggle away, but splayed open and pinned down, there isn’t anywhere for me to go.
He’s motionless, cock r
esting in the tiny puddle of blood on my leg. Chuckling, he uses his hips to trace circles in it, reddening the head. Blood is so easily spread that this looks more frightening than it really is and I’m surprised to find this titillating.
Suddenly he’s inside me to the hilt, blood and all. When he releases my hands I pull him closer, with no concern for keeping away the stab of discomfort when my leg rubs against him. After the long anticipation, the pain doled out expertly, it isn’t long before we’re both on edge. I can’t bear to wait, allowing myself to cross over into orgasm.
When his turn comes, he draws out, stroking himself at my thigh. I grin to watch him climax, his whole body goosefleshed and quivering in aftershocks.
He collapses onto me for a kiss and when he pulls away our fronts are smeared in stains of color, a mixture of blood and come, the vitality of our bodies intermingling. I twirl my finger through the vastly different textures, painting the creamy opal in with the slippery claret red to fashion a testament to what our dark desires have created.
APPRENDIMENTO
Kathleen Tudor
Gia shifted behind me, breaking my concentration, and I bit my lip as I struggled to tune out my awareness of her. A pointless task. Every nerve ending in my body seemed to twist toward her like a weather vane, all atingle with anticipation. “Avete,” I finally said.
“No, bella, it’s avere.” She tsked as she stepped forward and lifted a clothespin from the bowl on the table. My breasts were already adorned with several pins, but she had no trouble finding a bare spot to pinch. I winced as the clothespin clamped down, but that little pinch was just the appetizer. Taking them off again was the tricky part.
“To run,” Gia said.
“Correre.” I tensed, nervous until I saw her little nod, almost subconscious. This had seemed like such a good idea last weekend, when I’d been listening to the buoyant words flow from Gia’s lips. As soon as she’d hung up the phone, I’d blurted it out: “Would you teach me Italian?” Oooh, she would, all right, if it’s the last thing I do.
“How do you say ‘I want?’”
I swallowed. “Viene?”
The pinch was a bright spark of pain, but I was focused on Gia’s lips as they formed the words before my face. “Voglio.” I should have remembered. Wanting… now that was something I understood.
Language, not so much. The words seemed so obvious when she said them, as if the answers had always been there, lurking in the back of my mind. I’d studied the pages she gave me—why wouldn’t any of it stick?
By the time I was done with our little lesson, my breasts bristled with clothespins and my eyes were clouded with unshed tears. I couldn’t do this. It was too hard! I took a shuddering breath and held it, trying to will the emotion down. Out.
I was still working on getting myself together when Gia yanked the first pin free. I screeched in surprise, and then moaned as blood rushed back into the half-numb bit of flesh. Amazing how much such a tiny spot could ache.
“Mela,” Gia whispered.
“A-apple.” It had been one of the first words I’d forgotten today, but fuck if it didn’t spring nicely to mind right then.
Gia pulled me to my feet and guided my hands up to the pull-up bar we kept over the door of the study. We… didn’t use it for pull-ups.
I gripped hard and closed my eyes, waiting, and just when I had begun to think that the pain was never coming, she pulled another pin free. “Zucchero,” she whispered, so close I could feel her breath on my throat.
“That’s sugar.”
Another word, another pin, again and again until my breasts tingled and ached and throbbed and tears flowed freely from beneath my closed lids. I held tight to the pull-up bar and sobbed. I was no good at this! I was never going to learn, and she was never going to let me quit!
By the time only two pins remained—one on each nipple—my sobs had quieted to the occasional sniffle and I felt empty of the frustration and despair. It had all poured out of me, and now I was an empty vessel, a bundle of nerves, and every single one pointed, as usual, to my True North.
Gia kissed my damp cheek and pressed so close that her breasts brushed against the last two clothespins, making me whimper at the short bursts of pain. It was nothing to what was coming.
But before she pulled either of them free, her hand slid down my belly and beneath the elastic of my pajama bottoms. My whole body jolted as her fingers slid into the engorged heat of my pussy lips, and gave a little purr of pleasure as she slid her fingers inside me. “My good ness you’re wet. I didn’t know you were so excited by learning!”
“Please…”
“No, no my sweet. In Italian.”
“I…I…Per favore!” Dear sweet baby Jesus, why hadn’t she told me how to say “more” yet? She pulled her hand away and I sagged, limp with thwarted desire. Her hand closed on a clothespin and she toyed with it, sending shocks of pain straight to my clit. “V-voglio…”
“Oh, molto bene,” she said, and without mercy she ripped the clothespin off my nipple.
Pain surged through me, crashing and melding with the pleasure that wound ever tighter in my belly, and they both throbbed through me until my mind was afloat on a sea of sensations that I couldn’t begin to name in any language.
“One more pin, mia bella. One more word. Are you ready? This word means ‘come,’ and that’s just what I want you to do.” She flicked the pin and I moaned. “I want you to come when I say. Can you do that for me?”
I reached for the words to beg, but they were lost to me. I whimpered instead and tried to press my chest forward, inviting her without words to shred that final piece of my self-control. To tip me over the edge and watch me fall and shatter. Now. Please. More.
Gia ripped the pin away, and she spoke with a clear, strong voice. “Venga.” Come.
The pain and the pleasure arrowed through me, and where they met there was an explosion that drove the breath from my lungs. My clit and my nipples seemed to pulse in rhythm with each other, and I was helpless, riding the sensation until stars sparkled in my vision.
“Breathe, bella. That’s my good girl.”
I obeyed, and soon enough felt strong enough to open my eyes. I was on the ground, but Gia had been ready for me, and rather than letting me topple, she’d guided me down and into her lap. A tremor twitched through my legs in an aftershock of pleasure, and the smile she gave me said she’d be riding my face until sunrise.
“That was perfetto,” she said, gathering me even closer. “Tell me when you feel strong enough to stand and we’ll move to the bed.”
“Sì, Gia.” I snuggled close, every nerve attuned to her, my muscles lax with satisfaction. Somehow, I was already looking forward to our next lesson.
FIRST SLAP
T.C. Mill
As always, he walked her up to her door, and they kissed good night on the front step. Her arms squeezed tight around him. Lips parted, tongues brushed each other in question. Stroked more certainly in answer. When the kiss finally broke, she invited him inside.
They stretched out on the couch, where the kissing continued, along with his hands moving over her back and then around. Just as he cupped her breasts, her fingers started to slide over the crotch of his jeans.
Behind his closed lids, his eyes seemed to roll back at the rightness of the feeling. She understood exactly how and when to touch. His hips stuttered toward her, letting her know it. Her nipples hardened through her bra. The kiss slowed, broke apart for breath.
“Can I…” she started.
“What?” He almost told her, Anything, just go ahead.
“Can I slap you?”
He was struck by how she asked the question. Clearly, but softly, revealing not shyness but a sort of respect for the request’s significance. It was the same way she had suggested their first kiss, resolving his private uncertainty over the nature of a conversation that had grown steadily warmer and more intimate. Then, in what seemed like a continuation of their exchange, the k
isses had gone on, deepening until her lips turned red and his felt swollen and helpless but not numb, not exactly.
He wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with the present discussion. “Have I, um, done anything to deserve it?”
“No…” She leaned back enough that he could see her smile, a small quirk pulling the side of her mouth. “Or yes…”
“Oh. Kinky.”
“Obviously.” Her smile bared teeth.
He was half-hard from making out with her and that didn’t flag, but he couldn’t help thinking of corporal punishment. His parents were believers in it, not harsh or anything but routine and inescapable if they caught him climbing the rain gutter or teasing the neighbor’s dog. It was the indignity of spanking that he’d hated most, that had kept him in line as a kid. For some reason the idea of her slapping him didn’t feel undignified. He wasn’t ready to think about her spanking him.
She pulled back a little and smoothed her hand down her skirt, over her thigh. He thought of her hands as small, but mostly in comparison to his own. Still, he remembered her tight squeeze when they held hands, the way she almost gleefully ripped a baguette into pieces at dinner, the way she cupped his chin as they kissed. Blood rushed at the idea. First under his face, and then lower, and then back to his head in an afterflow of embarrassment. He was getting dizzy. And his cock was pressing uncomfortably against his fly zipper. He knew she knew it and that just made his arousal stronger. Maybe indignity wasn’t the problem, not exactly.
“Okay.” The words sounded almost liquid in his mouth. “Go ahead.”
Her smile became close-lipped, shyer. “Thank you.”
She got up and flipped, straddling his leg. Her knee sank into the cushions right in front of his erection. He found himself shifting his hips closer. She caught him doing it, laughed, and wiggled enough to make him regret it. He bit his lip.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 23