The Big Book of Submission (17 page)

“The marks look delightfully painful,” she whispered.

Powers nodded as though he approved of her word choice.

“Could you open your package?”

She hesitated. Was that a euphemism for undressing? She remembered she was holding the stationery supplies and cursed herself for the arrogance that had made her think Ted Powers might have any interest in someone like her when he already had a willing sex slave on his desk.

Dani opened the pack. Her hands shook so badly that she scattered the contents from the box of bulldog clips across the desk.

Alison groaned when she saw what had been brought.

Dani had no idea why the woman might dread the small clips—springs of black steel fitted with nickel-plated handles—but she could hear the moan of dread in Alison's voice.

“Apply one,” Ted told Dani.

She took a moment to work out what he was suggesting. When she understood, a wave of raw desire rushed through her body. The surge was almost enough to make her swoon.

“Where?”

Confidently, he reached between Alison's legs and teased her pussy lips together. Pulling lightly, drawing the labia closed, he held the lips between his finger and thumb.

“Put one of the clips on here,” he said. “Do you have any other questions?”

She plucked one of the clips from the table and squeezed the handles so that it opened. Turning to face him, and studying her own reflection in the dark lenses of his shades, she said, “Yes. I do have one other question. Do you have any vacancies in this office?”

MISTRESS RAVEN

Olivia Archer

I
am hers. But she is not mine.

For the past year I have been allowed to serve Mistress Raven on the evenings that she entertains in her beautiful mansion. I am one of her manservants. The parties continue long into the night. I steal glances at her as I move around the room, passing appetizers and filling glasses, wearing only a collar. I wait for approval, for acknowledgment. From her.

She is always magnificent in her black thigh-high boots, sporting one of her array of leather dresses. Her simple makeup is set off by deep-red lipstick; her dark hair is secured in a single band. No further embellishments are needed. At times she carries a whip, but often her words are her only tools. They cut as sharply as any implement.

Finally she singles me out, and I advance beyond the role of a waiter, for just a moment. “That one, the boy with the long brown curls,” she commands, pointing at me.

For the entertainment of her guests, I am brought to stand before her on a low pedestal. Maybe she sees my freshly scarred back, but she says nothing. People surround me, talking, touching. As I bow my head, someone runs a nail along the edge of my wound. The pain excites me.

Mistress Raven clears the crowd back and makes a show of circling me slowly, electrifying my body with teasing touches from the braided leather cord of her whip. Then I feel the true sting of it across my ass. Once, twice, three times. The room falls silent.

When she stands before me again, she runs the handle along the underside of my rock-hard cock and, with an exaggerated frown, says, “Oh, no, we can't have this.”

The partygoers laugh and move in closer as I concentrate, trying to control my seemingly uncontrollable cock. But over the past few years, my mind has grown stronger as my desire to become a submissive has taken over. Proudly, I become flaccid.

My limp dick elicits a round of applause, then the attention turns away from me because another manservant is called forward and I am replaced. As I walk to get a new plate of canapés, her words stop me. “Pretty Boy, go home.”

Disappointed, I spend the next few hours riding my
bike through the dark streets, analyzing this surprising turn of events. Suddenly my phone vibrates against my body. It is a text from her.
Return now. Buzz at the gate.

I pedal there quickly and am led in by a man who just points through the foyer's dark silence to the staircase. In the absence of lights, in the absence of others, the house is hushed and welcomes me into its shadows. Climbing the sleek marble stairs, I become one of its secrets.

My Mistress is in the first room. When I enter, the sight of her bare skin halts my breath. Never is she seen naked. The heat and scent of her recent bath have followed her into the bedroom. Though the flickering light of the room hides as much as it illuminates, it cannot keep me from absorbing the luscious curves of her full breasts, the way her body narrows at the waist, and the graceful bow of her hips.

“Boy, come here,” she instructs as she sets down her empty glass on the table beside her bed.

“Yes, Ma'am.” I approach several steps, my eyes downcast as they should be in her presence, willing myself to take in no more of her beauty.

“I've been watching you. Your long lashes can't hide those hungry eyes. So I've decided that I want something different from you. Strip,” she instructs.

“Yes, Ma'am.” Her words stir me as I shed my usual attire: jeans, T-shirt, hoodie. Though my pulse races, I control my breathing, my actions, my erection.

“Why do you work for me?” she asks while watching
my every move. Her voice is a smooth blend of power and seduction.

“Because you allow it.” Is she dismissing me? Here and now? As I stand naked before her, wishing only to drink her in?

“One more time, Boy. I want to hear
why
you do this for me. I do not pay you. I do not pleasure you. Yet you continue, unflagging. Should I be concerned that you are
too
devoted?”

My automatic responses will not serve me here. I hesitate because she
does
give me pleasure. The moments draw out as I stand in her large bedchamber. I am comfortable in the role of silent submission and do not expect her questions.

“Answer,” she demands, “Or leave.”

I try to give voice to my inner desires, to explain to this woman—my very opposite—what it is like to be me. But I do not think of this often. Or ever. It just
is
. The only answer I can summon is, “I need it, Ma'am.”

I feel her eyes probing me as I continue to look downward. “Kneel,” she commands. Then her bare feet pad across the hardwood floor until she is inches from me. I can feel her heat and become light-headed with ecstasy. My cock jumps up; I cannot control it anymore.

“Is this what you want, Boy?” she asks pressing her cunt within an inch of my face.

I whisper, “Yes. Yes.”

Mistress Raven leans down, her heavy breasts
brushing my skin, and breathes these words in my ear, “Show me.”

Unsure, I look up at her for approval and she nods. Gingerly I touch her thighs—so smooth—then I begin to explore her sweet pussy glistening before me. Its musky smell now overpowers the flowers from her bathwater. My senses awaken to this nirvana.

With my thumbs, I gently part the wings of her beautiful butterfly, then I reach forward to taste its nectar. My cock bobs in the open air, wanting to rub against something, anything.

She sighs and grabs the locks of my hair, pulling me into her. Her pelvis tilts forward and I service her deftly with my tongue. My hands knead the womanly curves of her ass, urging her deeply into my mouth with each thrust. Faster and harder, until I feel her body tense. And then it releases into the waves of orgasm.

Mistress Raven leans against me, panting and stroking my long curls. My cock brushes the side of her leg and that brief bit of contact is enough to make me erupt onto the floor.

“Beautiful,” she says in a hushed voice, and steps back to look at me.

I wonder what she means, but I don't dare ask.

“Boy, you may go now,” she declares, back in control.

“Ma'am?” I inquire, my overstimulated mind needing her to repeat the directive.

“You may go,” she repeats. “For now.”

I turn, picking up my clothes, and walk away, not knowing what to expect next. My destiny is hers to control. Just as I desired.

I am hers. But she is not mine.

FOLLOWING ORDERS

Jade Melisande

C
ara stood on the threshold of the door that led into the hearth room, surveying the other partygoers within. They stood around sipping drinks, checking each other out and talking idly, just like guests at any other cocktail party.

Except that at this party there was a woman dressed in a latex catsuit, stroking the head of a naked man at her feet; two men stood by the fireplace discussing the merits of jute rope versus hemp while one of them tied a woman's wrists; and elsewhere a man traced a knife slowly down the arm of the woman standing next to him without breaking her skin.

Yep, just another kinky party at the Pleasure Dome, as their hosts liked to refer to the house where they held weekly play parties for the local BDSM crowd.

Van gave the leash attached to a collar at Cara's neck a tug, and Cara followed him obediently into the room. Frank followed after, a hand in the small of her back, before heading over to the bar to get them all drinks while she and Van settled themselves on the couch. He returned shortly, a whisky for Van in one hand and white wine for Cara in the other, then retrieved his own drink before perching on the arm of the couch next to Cara. She smiled and wriggled back into the couch pillows a bit: just where she liked to be, snug between her two men.

They took a moment to relax, drinking in the sights and sounds around them, Frank casually stroking Cara's arm, Van with a hand on her thigh.

Finally Frank broke the companionable silence. “Have you masturbated yet today, Cara?” he asked.

Van had recently decreed a new rule: she should masturbate once a day. Prior to doing so she was to text him for any special instructions, such as whether or not she was allowed to orgasm, but mostly it was so that he would know that she had obeyed. “No,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat up a bit—and not from the crackling fire in the fireplace. She hated to be caught out.

Frank's eyebrows raised and he looked pointedly at his watch. “It's eleven-thirty,” he said. “When were you planning to do it?”

Cara frowned up at Frank. Their relationship was an interesting thing, a fluid mixture of teasing and fun, in which he topped her at times without ever domming her, and frequently played the role of “troublemaker”—
deliberately getting her into hot water with Van, with whom she shared a more traditional Dom/sub dynamic. It was all in good fun, but even “funishments” could be painful or embarrassing.

“I…”

She didn't have a good answer. In all the excitement over the party, she'd plain forgotten. “I forgot,” she finally admitted, chagrined at herself, and at Frank for calling her out.

“That's too bad,” Van said.

“I'll do it when we get home,” Cara said quickly. “I'll even put on a show for you two,” she continued, trying to sound seductive. She'd rather not get Van's cane cold tonight, or perhaps have him decide on some other punishment later.

She felt Van meet Frank's eyes over her head.

“Yes,” Van said. “You will.”

Cara breathed a relieved sigh, and couldn't stop herself from shooting Frank a tiny, triumphant smile.
Ha! Try to get me in trouble, will you?

But instead of looking downcast, Frank just grinned back at her. Then, softly, he said, “Spread your legs, Cara.”

Cara shot a startled look at Van. Frank was seldom the “bossy” one, preferring to let Van instigate things. But she saw a gleam in both men's eyes that made her stomach clench and her breath come short. That the command also made her pussy throb was a point she couldn't deny either.

“Did you think I wouldn't notice that you hadn't texted me today?” Van asked, his voice low in her ear. “Or that I wouldn't care?”

She gulped. She hadn't thought about it at all. She shook her head mutely.

“Now do as Frank says,” Van ordered.

Cara's eyes swept the room. There were occasional glances their way, but no one paid overt attention to them. Still, she felt her cheeks burning as she spread her legs in her short skirt, revealing her naked pussy. Van seldom dictated her clothing, but tonight he'd told her not to wear underwear. It was becoming apparent why.

She'd been set up.

“Do it now,” Frank said.

Cara looked pleadingly over at Van. “Now?” she whispered. “Here?”

He nodded sharply, the glint in his eye brighter, an almost-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She looked over at Frank to see him grinning smugly. They were both enjoying her discomfort far too much.

Offering to masturbate in front of the two of them had been edgy for her, and they both knew it. Masturbating made her embarrassed, even when she was alone, and having to text Van every time was an agony, especially if he gave her special orders, like taking pictures, or once, even recording herself.

“Please—” she started, but bit her lip at the frown that came over Van's face. Yes, it was fun and games, but the reality was that she hated disappointing him.