Big Book of Submission Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He settled his arm over the back of the couch and let his hand hang limp. Part of him wanted to grip the pillows like the armrests of a dentist’s chair, like he had to brace himself. Not that he thought she was going to hurt him all that much. Maybe subconsciously he wanted her to, wanted to be tough enough to take her worst.

  One of her hands settled just above his elbow. The other touched his cheek. She started by stroking, fingers sliding down to his jawline and back up, against the grain of his stubble. His hair began to stand on end. Her lips parted, her breathing growing deeper and brushing across the bridge of his nose.

  After a few more strokes, she lifted her hand and swung gently. Her palm was soft, and she didn’t land hard, but neither did she hesitate or pull back at the last instant. She delivered a quiet tap against his sensitized skin. It was a dull blow; it didn’t sting at first. The impact ran to his ear, which he realized was ringing. Not from her strike, but because he wasn’t breathing right. He pulled air in, let it out in a short moan.

  “Yeah?” Her fingers rubbed again, making circles in the heat on his skin. Her knee pushed his cock and made him moan more. She grinned.

  “Yeah,” he said. Dumb with it. “You can try again.”

  This time she rocked into the strike, and he thrust back against her because the friction at his groin was too much to resist. That brought him in to meet her. Their collision traveled through him in a burst not of pain but of warmth. His head turned, not with the blow but toward it. He nuzzled her fingers. When she laughed, he smiled, too.

  Her next slap made the smile drop. But the dizzy, happy feeling remained: the urge to throw himself against her, into her, to let her surround him and do what she pleased. The whole-body yes.

  It felt like falling in love all over again.

  “I like it,” he gasped. “I didn’t know—but I like it.”

  She’d bared her teeth again. Her bright eyes danced over him, his quivering shoulders, his face, his chest that wasn’t lifting and falling fast enough, his hips that jerked against her. “Look at you.” Her grip on his arm vanished; instead her fingers started unzipping his fly. “You’ve gone red—scarlet—and you’re trembling.” The word spoken with a reverent hush. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh yeah.” She started to stroke his cock, and just as he sank into it her other hand slapped him. Still gentle. A hint of sting beneath the growing heat. A clap like distant thunder, a lightning strike, a line of fire racing toward his core.

  Both her hands went to the waist of his jeans and started pulling them down. It was all he could do to lift his hips to help her. Then his briefs—she just tucked them back under his balls. It felt awkward with them wadded up, still partially imprisoning his hips and thighs. A little undignified. But he didn’t care, and she wasn’t making fun of him. She’d started to slide against his leg, her silky panties gliding over his skin.

  “Kiss me?” he asked.

  A gush of heat and wetness from her cunt as she pulled on his tongue, pushed her own into him, as they stroked each other. He fucked into her fist. She held the nape of his neck tightly, and then her fingers came around to grip his chin, cup his cheek—the heat from her slap still rising there, her touch like velvet—and he loved it; he loved it so much and he never would have known if she hadn’t asked.

  CONTINUING EDUCATION

  Rachel Woe

  Izumi found the lingerie on the bed beside a squat black box and a letter of instruction written in Miles’s meticulous hand. She was to eat the soup he’d prepared, wash her dishes, then change into the lace bra and panties.

  She crumpled the letter into a ball.

  Food could not have been further from Izumi’s mind. Miles—her Master—whom she hadn’t seen in weeks, had promised to spend his first night back with her. Thanks to a snowstorm along the coast, his plane hadn’t touched down until six that morning. His text arrived shortly thereafter: an invitation to have lunch at his house. After letting herself in and seeing the table set for one, Izumi had almost walked out.

  She plucked the box from the duvet, and was about to open it when her phone pealed with Miles’s designated ringtone. She swiped to accept. “Oh, good. You’re alive.”

  “Just barely.” He sounded tired. “Have you eaten?”

  By then, the scent of tomato and basil had wafted into the bedroom. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet…what?”

  She sighed. “Not yet, Sir.”

  “That’s better.” Miles chuckled, his mirth a thinly veiled portent. No doubt Izumi would pay for her insolence eventually—an extra-hard flogging, a denied orgasm, no Netflix for a month. She shuddered at the thought.

  “I would’ve preferred to eat with you. Sir.”

  “Yes, well. Unfortunately, I had an eleven o’clock meeting I couldn’t cancel. Believe me, I would rather have spent the afternoon inside you.”

  Her pelvic muscles clenched, like an empty fist, want assuaging her ire. Miles was busy; they both were. His brand of busy just happened to include extensive travel, while Izumi’s kept her tethered to a nurse’s station.

  “Have you opened the box?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Open it.”

  She removed the lid. Inside, she found a silver bullet-shaped vibrator, surprisingly heavy for its size. “It’s so small.”

  “It’s meant to fit discreetly into the pocket inside the underwear. After you eat, I want you switch it on and make sure it’s snug against your clit, then text me.”

  “Yes, Sir. Will I see you tonight?”

  “Perhaps. Depending on how today goes.”

  Izumi frowned. Miles’s flair for topping from afar had served them well in his absence, but as his submissive, she longed to anticipate and fulfill his desires. How could she reach him if she couldn’t touch him? Or serve him in ways that made her feel of use? As long as her confidence was tied to service, she’d never measure up.

  Izumi drank her soup from an oversized mug. Back in the bedroom, she stripped down, shimmied into the panties, and nestled the bullet against her clit. Unfortunately, the device didn’t so much as hum when she switched it on. She dressed in the time it took Miles to respond to her message. He told her to keep the bullet where it was, then texted a university address and a time less than an hour from now.

  Curiosity piqued, Izumi copied the info into Google Maps and set off on foot.

  The app directed her to a lecture hall bustling with students, where a front-row seat had been taped off: RESERVED FOR LA. Her initials? She pocketed the sign and sat down, avoiding eye contact with students, most of whom were young enough to be her children.

  A moment later, the crowd hushed. She scanned the room until her gaze centered on the source of everyone’s attention: Professor Miles Pinchot.

  This had to be his two o’clock introductory physics class. He shed his bag, but not his suit coat, then logged on to the computer.

  “Today,” said Miles, “we’re going to set aside Newton’s celestial mechanics to touch on Einstein’s Spooky Action at a Distance, better known as Quantum Entanglement.”

  The bullet inside Izumi’s panties fluttered to life. She grabbed the armrest, startling the student beside her.

  “Who can give us a basic definition?” He gestured to Izumi’s neighbor.

  “It’s the idea that an object can exist in two places at once,” said the girl.

  Miles nodded, pacing the platform, spine straight and hands tucked into pockets. That was why the bullet seemed broken, Izumi realized; it was remote controlled. “Right now,” he said, “at the University of Maryland, there’s a group of scientists working to employ this concept in order to build a fully secure, quantum computer network.”

  The vibrations sped up. Not enough to get Izumi off, but enough to hold her attention hostage. She folded her legs.

  “They have a table,” he continued, “upon which sit two metal boxes, o
ne on each end. Both containing a distinct, separate atom, pulsing and spinning at its own rate. Between them sits a contraption that can shoot a laser beam into both boxes at once.”

  Izumi held stock-still, torn between arching forward to increase her pleasure, and back to try and abate it.

  “When the laser hits the atoms, they spin faster, until each emits a photon. These photons then crash into each other, entangling the atoms left behind. Now, if you were to do something to affect one, the other would be simultaneously and identically affected.”

  The throbbing deepened. Her legs twitched. Miles was about to make her come in front of all these people. She could leave. Safe out. He wouldn’t hold it against her. But he wouldn’t have brought her here if he didn’t want her to stay.

  “So far, scientists have managed to observe entanglement at a distance of about eighty-eight miles. Theoretically, you could fly these atoms to opposite ends of the universe, and they would still be connected.”

  Tension ratcheted up Izumi’s spine, and the harder she fought to stay composed, the more her legs trembled. He was going to make her come without touching her.

  “It’s believed that this kind of linking occurs randomly in the natural world, all the time.”

  The vibrations dulled to a whisper.

  Her muscles cramped. Panic set in. She could feel her clit pulsing in anticipation of the orgasm that now dangled out of reach. Perhaps if she were able to rock her hips, but not with all these people here, their knees and shoulders and stale coffee breath pressing in on her.

  Miles flashed Izumi a knowing grin. “I hope you were taking notes.”

  She wanted to scream. This had to be her punishment for acting petulant over the phone.

  He kept the bullet at a bare strum for the remainder of class.

  By the time the door slammed shut behind the last student, Izumi could hardly think straight. Miles hopped down from the platform in front of her.

  “I’ll be home in an hour. And I want the bullet inside you when I get there.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Izumi could feel him inside her right now. It didn’t matter that they weren’t touching. He could’ve been across the room, the country, the universe; it made no difference. Miles didn’t have to push in order to move her, or pin her down in order to keep her in place. She was his. Here, there, everywhere. On her back or on her knees or standing in a crowded room. They were two and one in the exact same moment. Together and apart. Entangled.

  BECOMING

  Violet R. Jones

  She wore nothing but the blindfold, tape, and ropes. The muscles in her arms and legs ached. The ropes that bound her arms over her head were just a little too short to let her feet rest fully on the floor, so Elizabeth had to stand on her tiptoes like a ballet dancer on point. She tried to stay calm and make her breath come slowly, but it wasn’t easy. The heavy tape over her mouth was slightly damp near her lips, but still fully in place.

  Mistress had blindfolded Elizabeth before they left home, but Elizabeth still knew where she was. She recognized the scent of dust, floor polish, and canvas. She thought she could even smell the oils. Before she met Mistress, Elizabeth had practically lived here for two months. The museum was the whole reason Elizabeth had left behind her university, her friends, and her family, and moved to Paris. She had stayed in a student hostel, spent her money on cheap food and expensive charcoals, and spent her days copying the works of the great masters into her sketchpad. Back then, she thought that if she was dedicated enough some great mystery of art would reveal itself to her. Then Elizabeth met Mistress, and found something else to be devoted to.

  The memory came back to her all at once. The sketchbook was snatched out of her hands. Elizabeth stood up and started to protest. She found herself staring into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. The woman who Elizabeth would come to call Mistress had an amused smile on her red-painted lips as she said, “How are you going to make art if all you do is copy the work of others?”

  Elizabeth had never been in the museum and not been able to see the art. She could feel the largeness, the emptiness of the room. The total darkness behind the blindfold made her feel cut off, trapped in her own head. At the same time, her other senses felt awake in ways they seldom were. She heard the click of air-conditioning as it came on. The fine hairs on her naked body raised as the room chilled. Her nipples hardened.

  Elizabeth thought about the picture she would make with her long hair spilling down her back and stopping just above the curve of her ass. Posed as she was, her butt and breasts were thrust out to their best advantage. Restrained, she would look inviting. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be touched. Elizabeth had had enough of being alone.

  Something in the air changed. Elizabeth heard footsteps—more than one set of footsteps—on the tile floor outside the room where she was being held. Elizabeth lifted her head, alert to the change. She twisted in the ropes, feeling sudden apprehension and at the same time trying to figure out the best way she could show herself to her impending audience. It only made the binds bite into her wrists. The pain was familiar. It reminded Elizabeth what Mistress had taught her, and Elizabeth relaxed. The pain ebbed. Elizabeth heard a crack as the heavy wooden doors were pushed open. Elizabeth heard a pleased sigh and a murmur of voices. She felt herself begin to blush. They spoke French. In spite of living in Paris for almost a year now, she still only had a basic understanding of the language, but she could decipher just enough.

  The room was warmer with the people in it. She could feel their eyes on her. She could hear their voices coming from all around her. Elizabeth was wet. She ached. She wanted to see them. She wanted them to do more than look. She pressed her thighs together. The ropes were almost a blessing. Elizabeth wasn’t sure that she could keep from touching herself, and Mistress would be unhappy if she did that without permission.

  The first touch was to the small of her back. The fingers were like bone—a thin old woman’s fingers. They glided down Elizabeth’s back to the curve of her butt. The still strong hand grabbed a fistful of Elizabeth’s flesh and kneaded it. She was so grateful for the touch, she moaned loudly into the gag. Elizabeth rocked her hips. There was nothing for her to rock against but air.

  A quivering voice sighed, “Belle.”

  Elizabeth felt an arm wrap tightly around her hips. A strong arm—a man’s arm, she could tell by the scent of him. Then she felt a large hot mouth fasten on to her breast. It was almost too hot after the coolness of the room. The man began to suck. It was perfect and not nearly enough at the same time.

  A quick argument erupted at her side. Elizabeth’s thoughts were so scattered that she would not have been able to follow the conversation even if she understood the words. The argument was brief and after the silence that followed, more hands were on her. There were fingers caressing her, spreading her, rubbing over her clit, sliding into her cunt and her ass. There were thin fingers, fat fingers, and bony fingers. Elizabeth could not be sure how many people were touching her. She couldn’t stop herself from rocking into the fingers playing with her. She forgot there was a reason to try.

  Elizabeth’s feet were pulled out from underneath her. Voices erupted like a cacophony of irritated birds. The world spun and strong hands were pulling her legs apart and something much thicker than fingers was filling her. Fucking her. Everything was…more. The scent of his sweat. The murmurs of the crowd. The cock pounding inside her. Elizabeth moaned into the gag.

  He finished before Elizabeth could. She slipped from his hold. Elizabeth didn’t notice the way he had been holding her up until the pain in her arms returned. Someone knelt between her legs and someone’s tongue traced along her thigh.

  With all the people touching her, the one she didn’t feel was her Mistress. She knew it. She knew her Mistress’s touch. Elizabeth wanted… …

  ...but it didn’t matter what she wanted. She was there for her Mistress’s pleasure. As the stranger’s tongue ran up her thigh and into
the folds of her inner lips, Elizabeth had to believe that this was what her Mistress wanted. Everything seemed easier after that. It was not so much that her arms stopped aching. The pain just stopped mattering.

  Elizabeth felt her Mistress’s body press against her. She felt her Mistress’s breath tickle the small hairs on the back of Elizabeth’s neck. “Finally, you’re ready.”

  The blindfold was removed. Elizabeth found herself looking into an antique mirror. Hazy as her vision was, she could still see that what was reflected back at her was beautiful and wild and more of a masterpiece than anything hanging on the walls. Elizabeth had become the work of art she had always wanted to create.

  SUBMISSIVE-IN-CHIEF

  Kristi Hancock

  I raise the zipper on the inside of my black thigh-high patent-leather boots. The pair I keep in my locker at the club. A trophy for pleasing myself. I don the matching bustier that pushes my nipples to peek from the top. They pucker in anticipation. My Master awaits. The memory of his blond spiked hair and indigo eyes scorches my mind. I know what I want tonight, but I don’t know what he wants for me.

  I step through the doors, strut forward on my stiletto heels, and drop before him. My eyes go to the polished cement floor between my knees. It grinds against my bones. His fingers on my head tell me that my endurance of the pain pleases him. Hopefully tonight he will see to my pleasure in return.

  His rough hand beneath my chin lifts me with the merest touch. Since I’ve chosen him as my Dom, he has trained my body to want him—and it always does.

  “You’re hot tonight. I love your tits in that thing.”

  He’s crass, but I don’t care. He embraces his role, and he meets my needs. For now, I am his—mind, body, and soul. I am accountable to him alone.

  He takes my hand and leads me through the crowd to the voyeurs’ room where he sits with legs splayed in an overstuffed chair. My eyes can’t help but absorb the portrait of him as my gaze returns to the floor. His crisp white long-sleeve shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. His freshly pressed black wool suit will soon be rumpled if I have my way.