Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Read online

  Beneath her dirndl wool skirt, his palm traces her calf. She shivers as he skims the crook of her knee. On and up, until his fingers are hooking the top of her nylons.

  She knows his wife wears silks. Not as practical; they catch so easily.

  He unclips the suspenders, just on one side, and rolls down Evie’s stocking, until it’s bunched at her ankle.

  With one side up and one side down, she feels faintly ridiculous. She supposes that’s the point.

  Evie rests the lower edge of the slim leather-bound edition on the shelf in front of her.

  Cool against her warmth, his hand waits on the bare flesh of her inner thigh.

  “Begin, Miss Evesham. It’s a translation. You’ll have no trouble.”

  She lets it fall open. Evie knows what’s coming. She aches for it, has been waiting. Yet her fear and excitement are like the first time.

  He’d asked for Milton’s Paradise Lost. Out of sight of others’ eyes, his fingers had snaked about her wrist, his lips placing a careful kiss there, claiming her pulse. Like Lucifer, he’d tempted her: with knowledge, with experience, with the unthinkable.

  He’d read her.

  She forms the words, her tongue dry and thick.

  The lamps flared up, and all the rooms were bright

  With flashing crimson fires…

  He seeks out the soft fringe of her fur.

  …and phantom forms

  Of savage beasts of prey howled all around.

  Evie’s voice flounders on the final word, as his thumb pushes to enter her. His fingers are never explicitly invited. Nevertheless, her legs part and she swells at his touch. Her slipperiness comes quickly. The hungry mouth of her sex draws him upward.

  There is no going back. She pauses to swallow, gripping the shelf in front of her as she reads.

  Among the smoke-filled rooms, one here, one there,

  The sisters cowered in hiding to escape

  The flames and glare…

  He withdraws his fingers to remove her knickers, guides her feet as she steps out. He drapes them, peach with a lace frill, over Cicero’s Collected Speeches. His cap, the mortarboard denoting his status, he places on top.

  The lights flicker again. It’s dark outside, rain heavy on the windowpane opposite the fourth stack. If someone pressed their nose to the glass, they’d see them, surely—if they wanted to, if they came close enough.

  Five buttons on the back of her skirt, and it drops. He folds the garment carefully, beside her underwear.

  Her buttocks are exposed to the chill of the room. She shivers, but it’s only partly from the cold. She’s glad for her cashmere sweater. Darned at the elbow, but who notices such things? She continues, a slight tremor in her voice.

  …and, as they sought the dark,

  A skinny membrane spread down their dwarfed limbs,

  And wrapped thin wings about their tiny arms,

  “What beautiful diction you have, Miss Evesham. We should have you join us in assembly. You might read to the boys, just as you are doing now.”

  His hand on the small of her back indicates his desire that she bend at the waist. She squeezes her shoulders through the open rungs of the ladder, only just keeping hold of the book. It’s undignified, the metal pressing cold against her lower belly.

  He taps at both her ankles, reminding Evie to part her legs. She feels his breath, from his mouth, his nose. She’s never looked as he’s looking, at her sex laid bare, exhibited.

  In some ways, he knows her better than she knows herself. In their Eden, he doesn’t see her as a single floral note. Her scent is complex: lily, jasmine, and hellebore, bitter orange and tuberose.

  The electric lights dwindle, flare brighter, then settle, but dimmer than before. She has to concentrate to see the print.

  And in what fashion they had lost their shape

  The dark hid from them.

  The flat of his tongue runs through her wetness, stroking, probing, drinking her, and she’s helpless in her shame, choking out the words through a sob of humiliation and desire.

  Not with feathered plumes

  They ride the air, but keep themselves aloft

  On parchment wings…

  Tires crunch the gravel outside: Evie’s father, driving from the bank, collecting her on his way home. Twin beams arc through the window, illuminating shelves of European history and politics.

  Taking her toward the edge of where she wants to be, the tongue inside her flicks. He never smiles, but she imagines him doing so now.

  Barely a whisper, her voice is ragged, catching.

  And when they try to speak

  They send a tiny sound that suits their size,

  And pour their plaints in thin high squeaking cries.

  Ribboning, her wail lifts and rises, winging bat-like over the stacks, leaving her mute and breathless, transformed behind the red veil of her ferocious blood-beat.

  He has no need of the book, as he takes over.

  They loathe the light; from dusk they take their name, and flit by night.

  The car horn summons her.

  Rolling up her rumpled stocking, Evie clips it into place, reassembles herself, until her appearance is as it was.

  It’s inside that she shimmers: knowing and known, transformed.

  WAY OF LIFE

  Selena Kitt

  You’ve been a bad girl.”

  My heart sank when he shut the bedroom door and locked it behind him.

  I couldn’t remember anything I’d done but he always said I was too impulsive. And it was true—I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, even if I couldn’t remember what I’d done. It was always the best way to start. “I won’t do it again.”

  “Down.”

  That was all he had to say. I sank to my knees, hands resting on my bare thighs, shoulders back, gaze fixed on the carpet.

  He had taught me this.

  He had taught me everything.

  The leash snapped onto my collar—my only adornment—with a resounding click. My body reacted instantly. My nipples formed tan, ridged peaks while anticipation forced a leak, like a hairline crack in a dam. The trickle between my legs would eventually threaten to flood. It was only a matter of time.

  I was going to be punished, and although I knew I wasn’t supposed to like it—I did.

  “You enjoy my new toy, don’t you?”

  A surge of shame seared my cheeks.

  Now I remembered.

  He’d purchased a large sex toy, one with a saddle. It had attachments. They buzzed like a thousand bees making sweet honey deep inside me. We’d used it once, and it had felt so good, I couldn’t help trying it out myself when he was gone.

  I thought I’d been careful.

  How did he know?

  “I can smell your cunt.” He yanked the leash, lifting my face. “Even when you wash it off, pet, I can smell you.”

  He pulled me along and I crawled after him. The machine was on the floor. I noticed he’d put a different attachment on it—for double penetration. I winced, but didn’t object when he lubed up the dildos and ordered me to climb on.

  They were cold and it was hard to maneuver to get them both to slide in, but I managed. He used a foot pedal controller, starting the motor purring, and I began to purr right along with it. The dildo in my pussy whirred softly, vibrating and turning at the same time. The one in my ass just hummed deeply, making me moan.

  “Suck.”

  I knew what to do. I released his cock from his trousers and worked him into my mouth. The machine shuddered between my legs as I whimpered, rocking, rubbing my clit along the ribbed, silicone surface.

  “Dirty whore.” He thrust deeper into my mouth, making me choke on it. “You love having all those holes filled, don’t you?”

  I flushed scarlet, nodding, admitting my humiliation. The heat of my shame only fueled the flames that licked fiercely between my legs.

  “Let’s try these o
n for size.”

  I didn’t stop sucking as he reached into his shirt pocket but I did cry out when he attached a clamp to my throbbing nipples, first one, then the other. They bit into my flesh, a sharp sting that built to a slow, steady burn. He watched me writhe on the machine.

  “Keep sucking.”

  The new sensation had distracted me and I went back to work, using just my mouth, the way he’d taught me, following his lead when he wanted to fuck my throat more deeply. His foot worked the pedal, kicking the machine up a notch, making me twist and thrash, caught somewhere in a torturous quagmire of both pleasure and pain.

  I avoided his gaze, trying to keep my feelings hidden, not quite understanding them yet myself. But they tasted delicious. Sweet, with just a hint of smugness.

  Did he really believe this was punishment?

  “You’re not allowed to come, pet. Not until I say.” He slipped one hand under my long, dark hair, making a fist. I nodded, gulping down his length. I knew that. “No matter what I do.”

  I groaned as he tilted my head back, shoving his cock in to the root. Forcing me to take it, to taste the bitterness of this punishment deep in my throat. There was a diabolical method to his madness after all. I had defied him on this machine and now he was going to torture me with it.

  My pussy dripped wildfire as he pressed the foot pedal, taking me higher still. My nipples had gone blessedly numb, but my breasts felt heavy, too full, ripe and ready to burst with feeling. I didn’t know how long I could stand it.

  He was the epitome of control, even though my saliva coated his length and I guzzled his cock as fast as I could. Watching my face, he somehow caught every minute change in my expression and adjusted the settings accordingly, pushing me—forward, back, forward, back—until I thought I’d go mad with desire.

  “Master!” I gave up, pressing my cheek to his belly.

  I only called him that when we were here, like this, after he’d ordered me down.

  “Please…” I begged, needing the release he kept just out of my reach.

  “Not yet.” He toyed with the chain between the nipple clamps, tugging gently, making my hips buck. I gave in, submitting to his will, continuing to fight the rising tide. My limbs trembled with the effort.

  “Stroke it.”

  My hand moved, the tip of him wet with precome, making it an easier slide. He grunted and moved closer, aiming at my breasts.

  “Are you ready, pet?”

  “Oh yes, please!” I arched, pleading with my eyes.

  He tugged on the chain, a slow, steady tension, pulling. I gasped, feeling it in my clit somehow as the nipple clamps slid off with a hot, stinging pop, my breasts coming alive, a sudden inferno of sensation.

  “Now,” he commanded.

  I surrendered, my body wracked with my climax, convulsing uncontrollably with one final, blissful release. He thrust into my hand with a deep, determined roar, splashing my tender breasts with liquid fire, burning my throbbing nipples with his heat. I cried out in pleasure and pain, completely his.

  He turned off the machine. I whimpered, leaning forward on it, still shivering.

  Then he unhooked the leash from my collar. “Up.”

  I went to him, whispering his name—not “Master” now, but always Master, even if I wasn’t saying it—as he cuddled me in the crook of his arm. He led me to the bed and cleaned me up. We rested, quiet, the room filled with the musky scent of our sex. I loved the smell of us together.

  “You like my new toy?”

  I smiled. “I’ll say.”

  “Perhaps you’d like permission to use it when I’m gone?”

  Eagerly, I nodded. “Yes! Please. May I?”

  He kissed the top of my head, breathing me in. “All you had to do was ask.”

  I bent my repentant head, resting it against his heart, a silent apology.

  In that moment, I knew this was what I needed. What I was born for.

  I loved it—and I loved him. Beyond sex. Or words. Or even life.

  He was my life.

  This was our way of life.

  And neither of us would have it any other way.

  SYMPHONY OF SUBMISSION

  Jordan Monroe

  You’re too quiet. We must break that.”

  You don’t look up at Sir. Your back is sore, yet you dare not relax. Years of kneeling in pretend prayer have you disciplined to remain composed and rigid. Your eyes are downcast in supplication. The air is cool, raising goose bumps down each limb, hardening your nipples. You fidget with your fingers behind your back.

  “Nothing to say to that, pet?”

  When Sir asks a question of you, Sir expects an answer.

  Your voice trembles. “I am yours to command, Sir.”

  Cloth rustles. Sir’s footsteps, even and deliberate, are sharp against the hardwood floor. His fine Oxford shoes stop at your knees, black and shiny, recently polished. You desperately want to look up, but you suppress your desire.

  “Look at me.”

  Sir’s sonorous voice reverberates. You could listen for hours. Blinking, you raise your mascaraed eyes and meet Sir’s piercing blue gaze.

  “Without auditory confirmation, I don’t know whether I give you any joy. I don’t merely take pleasure; I expect to give it as well.”

  You listen to Sir, inhaling his rich cologne mixed with the light layer of sweat that has accumulated throughout the day. Your face is at Sir’s crotch, the zipper of his suit trousers peeking tantalizingly from the fly; you could lean forward and grasp it between your teeth with ease. You hold your ground and continue listening.

  “No more of that, pet. No more silence. No more wondering if I am wasting your time, for your continued silence wastes mine. If I don’t know you are enraptured, then there is no purpose. Do you understand?”

  Of course you understand. Sir’s ego requires diligent stroking. You know Sir is an excellent lover and feeds off of your energy. You also know your own stubbornness and are defiantly silent. Above all things, you challenge Sir to break your composure; toying with him this way is your idea of a game night.

  Sir asked a question. You answer, “Yes. I understand, Sir.”

  Sir reaches down to caress your cheek with a large, gloved hand. The black leather is soft. You lean into it, taking the thumb into your mouth and sucking, letting the bitter flavor of leather and saliva trickle down your throat. You hear Sir sigh, and you cast your eyes back up to stare at his bearded face. It’s a face that is striking: composed, but with crystalline eyes that betray a latent wildness. It’s a face that demands undivided attention.

  Sir’s grip tightens slightly on your cheek. “Good. Lie on the bed facedown. Keep your pretty ass in the air.”

  Without using your hands for balance, you stand and walk toward the elegant black four-poster bed. Sir swats your ass sharply, but you don’t cry aloud; you release a soft gasp. You swing your legs over the footboard. The covers and pillows have been removed, leaving only the cream-colored Egyptian-cotton sheet. As Sir instructed, you lower onto the bed, your breasts and belly pressed flat against the cool fabric, your wide buttocks on display, your thick thighs spread so that your entrances are available.

  You wait patiently.

  You hear the whistle before you feel the sting. The leather tip of the flogger against your skin is so sudden, you are more surprised than pained. Digging your fingers into the expensive sheets, you remain silent. You feel the sliver of flesh on your ass redden, yet you do not shy away.

  “I want to hear your resolve break. I want to hear your ecstasy. I want you to vocalize your surrender not to me, but to your pleasure. Do not hold back your personal symphony. Cry out!”

  With that last syllable, there is another strike of leather against your flesh. You grip the fabric, tighter this time, but still remain quiet. You hear Sir grunt in frustration, then his heavy steps against the hardwood floor. Your hands are pulled to the corners of the bed, palms forced open and flat. You turn your head to the side to
watch Sir snake a leather cuff around your wrist. Before you can inquire, Sir has gone to the other side of the bed to imprison your other hand. When you have been shackled, Sir leaves your field of vision again.

  “You rely on your hands too much. You are not to grab the fabric. As I have stated before, I require you to make noise!”

  Once again, Sir has raised his voice. While you want to please Sir, you also want to push him. There is a part of you that gets off on goading him like this. You’re not a brat in the typical sense: you don’t whine, tease, or openly defy Sir. You are more interested in being a challenge, because you so desperately want Sir to rise to the occasion. With another sharp smack, you release a loud gasp as your composure wavers.

  The sound has pleased Sir: you feel the warmth of leather caress your sore flesh. Sir is stroking you pleasantly, and you exhale languidly.

  “That’s a good start, but it’s not enough. I shall do this until I hear you scream. Generally I use gags and bits, but not so with you. The opposite, it seems.”

  You yearn for more of the brutal strikes. Something deep within you wants Sir to use those wide hands across your ass, turning the expanse of flesh red and sore. The riding crop Sir has been using is not enough.

  You feel the leather tip of the crop trail down your spine. You arch your back into it, letting your attempt at feline grace indicate your desire. When the cool leather reaches your private places, you inhale through your teeth. In an instant, the leather is withdrawn, but it does not strike you. As though Sir has read your mind, something larger and warmer sends a shock against your skin.

  Sir’s leathered hand comes down with such force that you rock forward on the bed. You quickly resume your position, wanting more. Sir strikes your ass again. You are now panting, anticipating more of this. In rapid succession, Sir rains hot, leathered slaps across your quivering flesh. You gasp with each, until Sir lands a blow between your legs, slapping your cunt. That elicits a sound you have never uttered before: something foreign and far too base for your liking.

  There is a pause in the play. Sir gently rubs your softness. “That, my dear, was a lovely sound. Let me hear it again.”

  As Sir rewards you with a similar swat against your inner seam, you reward Sir with an ecstatic cry. You find the sounds increasing in volume and intimacy. With a final blow, you realize that Sir is the only person who is able to unlock this release.