The Big Book of Submission Read online

  “Harder,” I beg, too aroused for the torture of these featherlight sensations.

  “First defying me, now ordering me around,” she says with fire in her voice. “I don’t think so.” The crop falls swiftly. “You’ve been a bad girl,” she says, increasing the intensity of her blows. I can hear how much she’s enjoying this in her voice, and the throbbing arousal of my clit gets worse.

  “Aw, this spot is sore, isn’t it?” Nicole asks teasingly as she pauses and runs her hand over what must be a nice welt developing. “What a shame,” she says, not sounding sorry at all as she brings the crop down with perfect aim on just that spot.

  “Oh fuck,” I pant, the leather on my sore flesh toeing the brink of too painful, a delicious pain that I want to endure for her.

  “I love watching you take this from me,” she says appreciatively. “You’re nice and pink for me now,” she continues. She reaches between my legs to find me soaking.

  “Just like I thought,” she admonishes. “Bad girl, you enjoyed that too much.”

  All I can do is whimper. Her hand barely brushes my clit and I grind into it, needing her fingers inside me. But I know I can’t ask. I’ve been bad.

  “Bad girl,” she says again, followed by a quick and purposeful strike with her crop. After a pause in the blows and with her hand between my legs, the sting of the leather feels exquisitely painful.

  “Are you sorry yet?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I pant. “I am.”

  Nicole’s breath hovers in my ear for a moment and I turn my face to kiss her, wondering if my punishment is over, but then the breath disappears and the leather lashes across my skin.

  “That didn’t sound sorry enough,” she explains.

  “I’m sorry. I was a bad girl for disobeying you and enjoying your punishment,” I say sincerely, taut with preparation for another blow, but I hear the crop drop softly on the bed. My legs are pushed roughly apart.

  “I think you’ve learned your lesson.” Her hand slides to my cunt.

  “So wet for me,” she says softly as she reaches around me, leaning down to bite the top of my shoulder, hard.

  “Oh fuck, yes,” I moan as her fingers dance over my still-throbbing clit. She gives a few teasing flicks before settling into a rhythm. I whimper, starting to come apart in her arms as she strokes me.

  “Are you going to be a good girl and come for me?” she asks, sliding two, and then three fingers into me from behind and working them inside in all the right ways that she knows I like.

  “Yes, fuck.” I lose my words into an unintelligible moan as I throw my head back, hips starting to move against her hand as I feel myself about to come. She stills my hips, holding me firmly in place.

  “No,” she says firmly as she fucks me relentlessly with her hand. “Be still. No wiggling.” Her commanding voice and restraint send me over the edge. I come hard around her fingers, the orgasm pulsing through me as I’m held immobile by her hands and the cuffs.

  “Good girl,” she says, removing my cuffs and blindfold. I struggle to turn myself around, but she holds me down, gently now, to kiss over the welts teased up by the crop.

  “Mm, you’re going to have some nice marks tomorrow, babe,” she says, pleased. I smile, looking forward to the little reminders. I turn around and pull Nicole to my level, raising myself up to look down at her appreciatively.

  “Fuck, you look sexy in a garter belt,” I tell her, eyes roaming up her long legs to her naked exposed pussy, topped by the belt’s black lace. My hand roams up one thigh, skimming the straps.

  “And being tied up looks wonderful on you,” she says, pulling me into her and locking her arms firmly around me.

  THE TEST

  Kristina Wright

  Do you trust me?”

  It is a question that causes my throat to go dry as you click the lock on the collar around my neck. I’m trembling, overwhelmed with emotions. Excited. Nervous. Terrified.

  I do not like anything around my neck, not even a necklace. It was the one thing I would not allow you. Anything else, you could have. Anything else, I would do. But not my neck. Not until now. And you have worked very hard to get to this point. You have earned my devotion. My love.

  “Yes.”

  You nod. You knew it already, but you needed to hear it. So did I.

  “Now,” you say, “repeat the rules so I know you understand them.”

  I swallow hard, conscious of the wide leather band that is almost too tight. Almost.

  “You will give me a key, but I am not allowed to use it.”

  “Yes.”

  I stare into your eyes, remembering everything you said. “I am not allowed to conceal it under my clothes.”

  “Go on.”

  “If someone asks about it, I’m to tell them the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m a submissive. I am yours.”

  “Are you?”

  I do something I never thought I would ever do in my life. I nod.

  “Good,” you say. “Will it be difficult?”

  I feel like you are studying my every reaction. You are, of course. You’re a psychology professor; it’s second nature for you to study human behavior. Especially mine.

  “No. I think it’ll be okay.” I swallow again. It’s easier this time. “No, I know it’ll be okay. I trust you.”

  The three hardest words for me to say and I say them to you.

  “Thank you.” You slap my ass hard. “Time to go.”

  I risk a pout. “I have an hour.”

  You’re silent. Just when I think you’re going to say no, you say, “On your knees.”

  I’m moving before you finish speaking. Eager, hungry, ready to please. It’s the collar, in part. The rest is all you. What you do to me. How you make me feel. I should be concentrating on what I’m doing in an hour. Instead, I’m concentrating on the task at hand—getting your pants open, getting your cock in my mouth. Tasting you, sucking you, licking around the head and down the shaft. Milking you with my hands, first one, then the other. Then both, when I can’t take it anymore and I’m desperate for your release. You oblige me, three long spurts down the back of my throat, a tug on the collar for good measure. Suddenly, the constriction around my neck is no longer a hindrance; it’s a promise.

  “Good girl. I’ll give you your release when you return.”

  I knew you would say that. That’s what all of this is about. Delayed gratification, the reward after the work. I run my tongue around my lips, reminding myself to reapply my lipstick.

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Another tug. “Much as I like your long hair, I’m rather enjoying the collar as a means of moving you about.”

  I can hear the amusement in your voice, and I smile in return as you help me rise.

  “As you please, Sir.”

  You nod. “You please me always. Now get going.”

  For the first time all day I’m nervous. “Yes, Sir.”

  You catch me by the chin, tilt my head up to meet your gaze. “You’ll do brilliantly. Won’t you?”

  I smile. “Yes, I will.”

  “Yes, you will. Good luck.”

  You kiss me then and the kiss is sweet until the end. You nip me hard and I whimper.

  “Think of me,” you whisper. “Whenever you get nervous, remember what is waiting for you.”

  I’m trembling as I slip out the door, another stinging slap on my ass to remind me I’m not wearing underwear beneath my demure gray dress.

  I return six hours later, jubilant. You are waiting for me in the bedroom. Naked.

  “Undress,” you say when you see me in the doorway. “Now.”

  I don’t hesitate. There are a row of buttons down the front of my dress. I start at the top, releasing buttons until I reach my waist, then letting the dress fall. My shoes were kicked off by the door, so now I wear only a plain bra.

  “No. Come here,” you say when I reach for the hook.

  I kneel o
n the side of the bed and stare at your erection. I’m wet—I can feel it, the heaviness of my desire. You release the clasp of my bra, massaging my breasts as the fabric falls away.

  Once, twice, you wrap the bra around my wrists and I don’t protest. I want this. I’ve needed it since I left this morning and now…reward for the work.

  You tie me to the headboard; I’m still on my knees, but now also resting on my elbows, ass in the air.

  “How did you do?”

  “It went well, I think.”

  You slap my ass. “Want to rephrase that?”

  I squirm. Do I? I would really like a few more slaps like that; the heat ratchets up the level of my arousal. But I’m already hot, already wanting.

  “I did well. I was poised, organized, prepared for every question. I never hesitated. You would’ve been proud.”

  You give me what I want—each cheek receives a stinging slap. “I am proud. I never doubted you.”

  I tug at the bra restraining me. I prefer more restraint. But I know this is only a prelude to more. The hint of the reward to come.

  I’m lost in that thought when you suddenly thrust into me. I cry out in surprised joy.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for hours,” you all but growl. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I’m in full agreement.

  “And the collar?” You thrust into me as if to emphasize your point. “Did anyone ask?”

  I moan, filled—and fulfilled—by you. “No, but they stared. They were wondering.”

  “Let them wonder.”

  “How did you know it would work?” I’m curious, though I’m having a hard time concentrating. “How did you know it would help me?”

  You tug the collar again. I arch my neck obligingly. Anything for you.

  “I knew you’d be so focused on the collar, and what they were thinking, that you wouldn’t be nervous about your oral boards. You’d be too distracted by me to second-guess your answers.”

  “I was nervous,” I gasp, as you fuck me hard. “I was blushing down to my toes.”

  “But you weren’t nervous about the boards.” You slap my thigh, hard. “Were you?”

  “No!”

  “And soon, there will be two doctors in the house.”

  History nerd girl that I am, the thought arouses me even more. “Yes!”

  “What do you say?”

  “Thank you, Sir,” I gasp, my orgasm rolling over me in a wave as you put your hand in the small of my back and push me down to the bed. “Thank you.”

  Your thighs tremble against me as your climax takes hold. Then we’re there, together, where we belong, your finger tucked inside the collar, giving it a gentle tug as a reminder. As if I need reminding at all.

  PATIENTLY WAITING

  Alyssa Morris

  Her nostrils fill with the scents of leather and the vanilla candle that she knows is lit on the table. On her knees, leaning over the ottoman next to the couch, her breasts rub on the cold leather as her nipples harden and try to push deeper into the material. The added stimulation is welcome, especially since she has been tightly blindfolded and had earplugs put in. She can’t hear anything, and even if she got the blindfold to come off she wouldn’t be able to look behind her due to being bound in her current position. Her hands are tied tightly behind her back, forcing her to use her chest to keep herself balanced. She can only imagine how she looks, chocolate skin draped over the smooth cream-colored leather. She waits, the fan blowing above her creating a gentle breeze that caresses her body from the back of her shoulders down to the crack of her plump ass. Her brown dreaded hair is down, just how he likes it, and she can feel some of it tickling the nape of her neck.

  For her, being told to wait is one of the hardest commands to follow. She can suck cock on command, get in position for a spanking when asked and be open and ready for a good fuck whenever her Master gets hard. However, waiting is the most painful act. To her it feels like a waste. Why make her wait when she could be being used in some way? She already knows the answer to this question as it floats through her mind. Because it is about submitting to her Master; he knows how to push her limits in just the right way. Some have their limits pushed by pain or extreme behaviors. Not her; when she is waiting her mind races, wondering when he will appear.

  As what seem like hours pass before her, she thinks about what might be coming. Will it be a spanking or will her Master be so horny from watching her squirm in anticipation that he won’t be able to keep from fucking her? Her mind continues to race. At least when he’s behind her with a riding crop or a paddle she knows there is another blow coming, another jolt to her nervous system, but waiting is completely different; she doesn’t know where to expect a sensation of pleasure or pain. He’s told her that he would test her both physically and mentally. She should have known that when he asked her what her biggest personality defect was and she responded, “I can be so impatient sometimes, I’ll work on it though,” he would be the one to help her get there. Even though she feels like this is some kind of punishment, she knows it isn’t, and trusts him to know when she’s reached her limit.

  She is starting to fidget and even tries to strain her hearing through the earplugs to see if maybe there’s some noise loud enough to let her know what is going to happen next. The effort is futile; he wouldn’t do anything to make this easier for her. This is about her learning something about herself and pleasing her Master. As more time goes on, she also knows that she is getting closer to finding out just what he has in store for her today. This thought alone excites her. Her clit is starting to swell, the early stages of wetness forming between her thick lips. She sighs a little, hoping that maybe he will hear and make a move soon. She moves her knees just enough to give her body a small break from the current position.

  Moments later, she feels the breeze pick up and knows that he must be there, coming up behind her. Something makes a trail down her spine. She arches her back up to meet it, savoring the touch that she has been waiting so long for. Her earplugs are taken out.

  “I watched you the whole time. I saw you squirming and I know how hard it was for you to just wait for me.” He slides his finger through her drenched pussy. She loves every second of the sensation and tries to push back, but she feels his finger moving away. He holds his finger up and sees that it is glistening.

  “It seems that you like waiting more than I thought,” he says, and she knows not to respond for fear of what he might, or might not, do next.

  Right after she hears these words leave his mouth, she feels his fingers back between her legs as he rubs on her clit, making it swell even more.

  “Hmmm. I see you really like that, Sierra. I like how your body is just calling out for me. I think you’re almost ready,” he says with a smile in his voice.

  She knows exactly what this means; she feels the change in temperature as he pulls his body away from her and goes off somewhere. Whining or speaking will only make it last longer. He left the earplugs out so now she can hear noises, what sounds like metal. All she can do is continue to wait.

  BRUNCH

  L. C. Spoering

  They were sitting at the table when the phone buzzed, and, out of habit, Nina checked the time. It was one hour, almost to the second, since they’d left the apartment, and the bet she’d had with herself had proved right about when the text message would arrive: five minutes to walk to the café, twenty-five minutes to order their coffees and consume them, half an hour to chat between themselves. It was a generous allotment of time in any circumstance, and she wasn’t bitter about it, only self-congratulatory that she’d predicted it so accurately.

  Lizzie looked up from her book, her expression seemingly indifferent, but Nina could read the fight between anxiousness and excitement in the lines between her eyebrows and the single twitch at the corners of her mouth—to say nothing of the movement under the table, her knees coming together and pressing, hard.

  “You finished?” Nina ask
ed sweetly, sliding her papers together between her hands, lifting the stack to push them, in a rather undignified fashion, into her shoulder bag, snapping it closed with one movement of her fingers.

  Lizzie was slower to move, her toes turning in toward each other under the table. She shut her book and picked up her pens. The table was scattered with them—ballpoints and highlighters, the trappings of a grad student—in conjunction with her thick and heavy textbook, corners gouged and pages dog-eared. Nina possessed only the papers and her red pen, glasses on her nose and hair in a messy bun giving her the air of a naughty librarian—none of these perceptions, about either of them, was off. Lizzie’s hair was short, her face makeup free, her sweater black. They could be bookends on either side of their educational divide, a before and after.

  They rose in unison, bussed their cups and saucers, Nina’s fork stained red from her lipstick. The café was bustling, and Nina took the lead toward the back; there was an exit there, but she redirected them to the bathroom, with its flimsy door with only a knob lock, which she pushed in before she even flipped on the light.

  The fluorescent bulb was slow to warm, and so the room was greenish, the walls covered in a garish sort of graffiti, left with pen and marker and dug in the walls with fingernails. Nina focused, for just a moment, on a lopsided heart drawn in green next to the paper-towel dispenser before she carefully set her cell phone on the edge of the sink.

  “Panties off,” she breathed out, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor. They were both wearing skirts, Lizzie’s shorter, a stretch of pale skin visible between the hem and the cuffs of her kneesocks.

  Lizzie’s bag was already on the floor, and she rose up on the toes of her sneakers as her fingers went under her skirt to tug her underwear off—a black lace thong, the same as she always wore, damp in the middle. She blushed as she untangled the garment from her shoes and held it out to Nina, who draped it by the cell phone.