The Big Book of Submission (14 page)

Our eyes locked. Her tongue slicked across her lips, making me wet. Her irises were wide with need, and I imagined mine mirrored her lust. The scatter of voices and peals of laughter died away. And as some expensive perfume prickled up inside my nostrils, her small manicured hand flitted through the air, as if she intended to touch me. But only the tight caress of air licked against my belly. My intent, voyeuristic friend took three short steps to the right—and pressed the button to the side of me with the heel of her palm.

With a slow blink the rest of the room came rushing back when the chatter reached a staccato pitch.

There was no escaping the woman's choice—no
pushing away the next several seconds in my vortex of helplessness. While what felt like the whole world watched, I remained suspended, at the mercy of my audience when the hidden trapdoor in the floor pulled back. The cranks shifted, gears crying out. Meanwhile the mammoth mounted dildo pressed up closer toward my exposed pussy. Still a few inches below my slick labia, another press of the button and the sex toy would flirt with my cunt.

“Interesting,” Glamour Girl remarked with a subtle purr. When she eyed the button again my gaze searched outside our circle to the waiting crowd. Would she do it again? Spoil all the fun?

I was in a room full of strangers intent on having my body, on hive behavior and doing whatever they pleased with me. Was there someone to hold her back and give me a chance to regroup? My brain buzzed on a frazzled, needy frequency.

But that was the test—wasn't it? Would they give me what they wanted and give in to their base desires? Or would they look and not touch?

The up close and personal master of my fate moved back in front of me with a coy smile that tipped my helplessness into an emotion ragged with desire. Goose bumps trickled all along my skin, even beneath the suspension cuffs. I couldn't catch a full breath even if my life depended on it. My pussy muscles clenched down, fingers molded into fists. While my body radiated defiance, I wanted to crack because of the hum
of machinery below me. One little push, and I was at their mercy, on the cusp of falling into submission while pinwheeling through a gauntlet starting with pride and shifting toward desperation.

The crowd gaped at me. Others milled around, enjoying my paintings that adorned the other three walls. But I was the artist on display, raw sexuality my burden. More people pulled in close and their stares devoured me from my painted purple toes to the rainbow dreads pulled up in a topknot on my head. No need to obscure their perfect view.

They needed to ogle the goods to make a complete decision, before pressing the button that shifted me that much closer to release, and them that much closer to depravity. Would anyone else step up and make me their bitch? Toy with my body for their own pleasure—or even admit they wanted to see me penetrated in front of so many random onlookers?

While my social experiment played out beneath me, the weight of other people's choices pressed on my body like a million mouths, tongues and teeth, teasing me to the point of breaking. Their gazes burned through me. Body language hinted at their indecision while I lay trussed up for their pleasure, to use or not use as they wished. I could still sense the mere inches that separated the toy from being pressed inside me. It was a blessed relief, and yet I was left with no release. Every inch of me on the knife's edge, while my juices were slick and sticky on my inner thighs.

The brunette vixen who held my undoing in her hands skimmed the lines of my body again, as if I were property. Her head tilted, mouth pursed in indecision. But when she winked and blew me a kiss, I knew my night was far from over.

Button, button, who's got the button?

WORKING IT OUT

Roger Markson

M
ost people say going to the gym is torturous, but they don't know the half of it—unless, like me, they take lessons from Lucille. See, Lucille isn't just a “fitness instructor,” she's also a professional dominatrix, and has found a way to combine her two loves. The idea of a session with a domme had never appealed to me. I'd had too many girlfriends who wanted to tell me what to do; why would I pay a woman for that, when I wasn't even going to get laid?

Well, one day last year, when I stumbled into the wrong room at the gym thinking I was going to take a yoga class that would make me sweat and stretch, I got my answer. Under Lucille's tutelage, I sweated, that's for sure, but there was nothing yoga-like about it. Instead, she was dressed in what I think of as catsuit-lite—a tight
pair of black latex shorts that shone under the gym's lights, along with a matching workout bra. She sported a ponytail, bright-red lipstick and a whistle around her neck.

I'd just stepped into the back of the room, but Lucille marched right over to me. “Oh no, sir,” she said, her tone mocking. “You'll come right to the front of the class. I need to watch you closely to see if you can perform up to my standards. Everyone here is put through his paces. Isn't that right, class?”

The five other men and two women echoed their agreement. Why was my cock getting hard? I soon learned that Lucille offered a bit extra in this class, above and beyond your typical workout routines. I was supposed to sign a consent form, but since I'd stumbled into the class, I hadn't realized. The moment I fell behind in my lunges, Lucille was upon me.

“What's your name?”

“Kyle,” I panted.

“Well, Kyle, I have some unusual teaching methods in this class, to keep everyone in line. Are you ready to follow my rules?”

I didn't completely know what she was talking about, but I was curious, and besides, I'd joined this gym because I'd heard they guaranteed results. “Yes,” I said. “I'm ready.”

“Then drop and give me fifty push-ups. You have two minutes. If you fail, you will be punished far worse than the push-ups. Oh, and count out loud.” I didn't
even think about it, just dropped to the floor and began. I figured she'd move on and listen from across the room while she surveyed the other students, but Lucille called out instructions to them while remaining very close to me. Unlike every other fitness instructor I'd ever seen, she was wearing shiny black boots. They were so beautiful it was impossible not to look at them. I found myself wondering what it would be like to lick them…

No sooner had my mind drifted than her boot was right under my nose. “Clearly, your mind is elsewhere. Helen, please go fetch the whip.” For a second, I was scared, but when I saw the smile on pretty Helen's face, I let myself go with the moment. “I'm turning you over to Helen for the moment—I can't waste the whole class on you, Kyle.” Hearing my name from Lucille's mouth, uttered as both a warning and a promise, it seemed, made me even more aroused. I was pulsing with energy. Was this the famed endorphin rush I'd been searching for? I wasn't sure, but I followed Helen to a far corner.

“Now you're going to do jumping jacks, and I'm going to help you. When I want you to go faster, I'm going to use this whip.” She let her eyes travel down to my bulging crotch; loose workout pants couldn't contain my erection. “Is that acceptable?” She knew I was going to agree.

My ass and muscles were sore after the class, but the orgasm I had in the locker room afterward, locked in a stall (I simply couldn't wait) was one of the best ever.
That's how I found myself getting inducted into kinky exercise.

The next day, I signed up for private lessons with Lucille. We meet once a week at her home gym, where I get very special tutoring, which she reserves for her favorite students. She's had custom equipment made. To work out my thighs, she'll have me use a leg press, while she straddles my face. If I pause at either pushing the heavy weights or eating her out, I get punished.

Sometimes she'll make me do hammer curls while she runs her riding crop up and down my inner thighs—if I'm lucky, it caresses my balls and travels over the head of my cock. I rarely get to come in her presence—that's reserved for special occasions, like when I beat a personal record. I don't mind, though, because my sessions with her are the highlight of my week—who can say that about their personal training?

Today she invited another student, Maya, to join us (I, of course, don't get a say). Maya was hot, so I wouldn't have objected even if I did get to voice my opinion. She took off her T-shirt and stood before us in just a black sports bra and tight shorts. Lucille wore another of her latex getups, this time in red. “Maya here is doing some special weight training. Why don't you show Kyle?” And just like that, with no warning, Maya pulled down those clinging pants, got on the ground and did a backbend. At first, I didn't see anything unusual, but then I noticed a string dangling from between her pussy lips.

Lucille reached between her legs and drew out a set of silver balls. “We're working up to bigger and bigger ones, training her inner muscles to be as firm as the rest of her. That's a worthy goal, wouldn't you agree, Kyle?” My dick throbbed as I nodded. “I'll let you help Maya get these back inside.” Whenever Lucille says she'll “let you” do something, it really means if you don't do it she'll punish you—although, since I love her beatings,
punishment
may not be the right word.

“She's had me wearing them all day,” Maya said when Lucille left the room. “I have to squeeze tightly all the time. It feels like everyone can tell.”

“Is it making a difference?”

“Definitely. Lucille can now get her second-biggest dildo inside me.” For a second, I was jealous, even as I eased the balls inside Maya. She must have sensed this. “You have to be able to squat with two times your body weight before she fucks you.” She moaned as I eased my fingers out of her. I smiled. Now I had something to work toward.

“Are you slacking off in here?” Lucille demanded when she returned.

“I told him about what he has to do to get fucked by you,” Maya said.

“Well?” Lucille demanded of me. “Get ready to squat. While wearing a butt plug.” Lucille is full of surprises—and I wouldn't have it any other way.

CONTROL

Cate Ellink

V
isitors at eight, pet.” His soft words, laced with command, make my body thrum.

Dashiell Traversham is forty, well-to-do and not unattractive, but the attributes I adore are his domination, quiet demands and disciplines. He makes my cunt weep and my eyes run. He fills my holes with his seed and I love him more with each drop expelled. When he enters a room, it shrinks, filled with his scents of sandalwood and the sea. I don't need to see to know him. I know every lithe muscle. Every dark hair. Every stretch of tanned flesh. How he tastes. How he likes to be touched.

Dashiell's words may sound like he's letting me know his plans, but this is what I hear. “By seven-thirty tonight you need to be completely denuded of hair, except
for your head—that hair will be washed and scented, brushed until it's burnished gold. Refreshments need to be prepared and left ready to be served. You're to present yourself to the study at seven-thirty, and without a word to or from me, bend over the padded metal frame until your cunt is exposed like artwork, to be admired by my visitors. You may or may not be touched; you have no say in that. You are to remain silent and immobile until I ask you, by name, to act in another manner.”

I spend the day preparing. Tiny petit fours, delicate sandwiches, decadent peppermint molded chocolates set out. My skin exfoliated until it shines. The bar fully stocked. Every hair removed. Coffee ground and percolated. Flexibility exercises complete. Study dusted and tidied until spotless. Hair brushed with three hundred strokes.

By seven-thirty my cunt is swollen, my clit tender with anticipation. I knock once on the heavy wood of the closed study door. At his command, I enter and walk to the padded bar. It will bend me exactly in half, taking my weight when my feet no longer can. The thick padded leather cushions ensure there's no discomfort.

Stiletto-clad feet spread apart, I drape myself across the bar and bend forward. I feel Dashiell watching. My flexibility has increased since the last visitors. I bend in half fluidly.

The leather against my hips and stomach is cool. The burn in the back of my legs increases as I lower my head. A cascade of hair smothers the wooden boards. Heavy
breasts strain as I swing forward, dropping toward my lowered head, stretching the flesh across my ribs. My nipples squeeze. Blood rushes to my brain in a pounding rush. When I first tried this, I orgasmed from the rush of blood, but I've learned control. I wonder if Dashiell remembers.

His cane was so quick back then. I earned it often. An orgasm followed by the cane equaled a double coming. Punishment and reward.

My cunt weeps as Dashiell glances at me. He's a man well pleased, which makes my juices seep.

The next thirty minutes are the hardest. I want his touch, yet he's working. I'm desperate for his soothing words, curious as to who's coming, and curiosity always makes me gush.

Finally, the doorbell sounds and Dashiell rises. He walks past me without a touch, and inside I whimper. I'd hoped for a brush of his fingers across my cunt, or a slip of his nail along my open lips, or perhaps the lap of his tongue against my clit.

Nothing.