The Big Book of Submission (22 page)

“Please, Sir. Soon, it's going to happen soon. Please, Sir, please say I can. Please.”

“Yes,” he says, and I do. My body spasms beneath his. As the throbbing begins to subside I can feel him pulsing inside of me. He collapses, and we gently reach across our bodies to remove the clamps. They sit between us.

“Was it a hard day for you?” I ask, yawning.

“It was,” he says, stroking my hair. “Yours?”

“I managed,” I say, scooting forward to be closer to him, and moving the clamps out of my way. His arms wrap around me.

After some silence I whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”

“For what?”

“For letting me serve you…and for the orgasm.”

Warm arms and his scent surround me. His face is peaceful, and our legs intertwine for sleep.

HOW TO FAIL

Laurel Isaac

F
irst he was spanking me with a paddle. It got very intense very fast, and it hurt. A lot. Like being skinned, like getting kicked repeatedly. I was past being able to cry, just stuck in the pain, knowing I couldn't take it, but not knowing how to talk.

Aside from the thwacking, the bedroom was very quiet. The roommate was out of town. Daddy Owen was focused and moving about swiftly. My gasps into the bedspread had gotten quieter and quieter; it was as if someone had lowered the volume on my thoughts. A loose panic wove through my mind, spiking occasionally, but I almost couldn't hear it, distracted by the intensity of the spanking and muddled about what exactly I was supposed to be doing. Owen was like a machine, completely on task. He had his favorite hard
cock strapped beneath his jeans and was whaling on me, his bare-ass boi (to everyone else, a proper butch dyke). I could tell he was enjoying himself. Working up a sweat, on a mission.

All I could think was how I must be doing something wrong. I must have forgotten some technique I usually use, or there must be something wrong with my body that the feeling good wasn't kicking in. Maybe if I waited a little longer it would start to. Maybe this was how it always was in the beginning? If only he'd slow down I might be able to figure it out, but the paddle abruptly landed squarely in the middle of my right cheek. The throbbing felt like it had shocked me right in half. I let out a sob. And there it was again, and again. If only I had a minute, I might be able to…but the strokes kept landing, bludgeoning, deafening. The Tegan and Sara poster went fuzzy before my eyes. I began to feel like I was being swung around the room, seasick and powerless.

Ashamed, I asked, “Could you lighten up a bit?”

I didn't know if it was my tone or what, but Owen pulled his solid body back fast and then was staring right at me, interrogating me.

“Has it been too much for a while?”

Or at least it seemed like an interrogation. I felt stuck, afraid to say anything in case that meant he wouldn't come back. We were silent, both of our queer hair mussed, the bed askew.

“Kinda,” was obviously not the answer Owen was
looking for. He sighed dramatically and seemed pissed.

Owen sat down on the bed. I stood around feeling awkward, naked. He took another deep breath.

“Boi, come here.” He opened his tattooed arms so I could climb into his lap. I wrapped my legs around his torso, bare against his clothed frame.

“I'm so sorry,” he said.

He ran his warm hands over my back and kissed the top of my head.

Owen hugged me to his chest, smooshing my cunt against his belly. I worried about leaving a wet spot, but he didn't seem to care.

“I never want to hurt you,” he said. “I'm really sorry.”

I didn't understand. I felt like a failure—not like anything bad had happened on his end. But slowly it started to sink in. It had been scary. Heavy strokes coming out of nowhere so fast I couldn't assimilate them. Having to act tough when I was in so much pain. I sniffled and collapsed onto his shoulder, tearing up. Owen reached for a soft blanket and wrapped it around my back. I'd been really scared. I hadn't known what was going on or when it was going to stop. Tears moistened his neck as he stroked my short hair. I'd felt so alone. It was only in being so close to him now that I noticed my vulnerability, which had been there all along. I curled into him.

“Safewords,” Daddy Owen began in a gentle voice, “are not just for catastrophes.” Daddy spoke softly
about communicating in scene and how we were still getting to know each other. I closed my eyes and rested. He smelled really good, like wood fire. I felt like I could breathe him directly into my core. If I breathed enough of him in, maybe I'd have him inside of me, protecting me like this all the time.

By the time Daddy was finished talking, I was enjoying how warm my butt was and wanted more.

“Please, Sir, would you spank me again? I promise I'll tell you if it gets to be too much.”

Then I was back in the saddle, bent over, breathing in his clean bed.

The slaps came slowly. Daddy hit my bottom with his hand and rubbed away the pain. Ever so slowly, he increased the intensity, so I was rocking into his fingertips, wanting to feel every crawl of the sting across my flesh.

I was drifting into a very happy place when the strokes started coming in a long train close together. A tremendous sadness entered my body.

“Sir,” I murmured. “I think I need more time between strokes tonight; I think that's the problem.”

“Thank you for telling me, boi,” Daddy said.

And then, quick as magic, I was flying. Daddy pulled me tight against his hip, clasping my labrys tattoo. A paddle landed over and over in surprising and perfect rhythms and locations, bringing symphonies of sensation—like coming, like eating. I could taste the leather in a hundred different flavors. The pain wiped my palate clean.

I was right at home, drooling on the bed, whimpering.

Daddy interspersed some strokes with rubbing my clit, but not enough so I could come.

“Aw, you want to come? So sad for you,” he mocked, and returned to beating me. His hand cupped the heat of my ass.

Then his hand was gone, wrapped around something new and snappy and I was going to scream.

My butt was so hot, my whole body was sweltering. My cunt was dripping down my thigh. I was shaking, some part of me close to maxing out.

“Please, Daddy, not much more,” I got out.

Daddy took this into consideration. Four more, he decided. He said I could take four more. And then I did. Four big crashes that felt amazingly good. In one, two, three, four, I was beaten out of myself and then back in. I panted.

Daddy's hand reached for my clit. I needed to come, but was falling over. Daddy moved me onto the bed, then jerked me off.
Daddy stroking boi's cock, dirty dirty. Claiming ownership of boi's whole body.
Massaging the shaft, flicking the tip. Until I came, rapidly, curling into a ball with the force of it. The spasms pricked sharply like needles; I squirmed and groaned. My come leaked everywhere.

Daddy pulled me under the covers and spooned me, palming my tits. Suddenly I was buried under quilts of love. “I'm so proud of you. You're beautiful.” Daddy
held me tight.

“When you've recovered, I want you to suck me off.”

And I couldn't decide what I wanted more—to stay harnessed to his heart or to have my mouth between his legs immediately.

CRUSH

Giselle Renarde

S
he comes home to find him wearing her panties and snaps, “Get those off.”

“Why? I'm not stretching them.”

“I don't care. Get your own underwear.”

“I
have
my own underwear. I like yours better.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but she can't help smirking. He looks damn good wearing nothing but sheer red underpants. They cling nice and tight to his otherwise naked body. All she can focus on is the rising swell of his erection.

The panties are mesh and see-through from the right angle, like cling wrap cradling his big dick and his balls. He's hard already. God, is he hard! The bulbous head of his cock pulses like a heartbeat. She can actually see that through the fabric.

One step forward and she's wet. The gusset of her panties—the ones
she's
wearing—is already slick with juice. She walks closer to him in her vicious spike heels. They
click-clack
across the parquet, backing him into the bedroom. She doesn't usually wear shoes in the apartment. The people downstairs complain a lot. But just for this, just for him, she keeps them on.

“Get down.” She strips off her jacket, unbuttons her blouse. “Down, on the floor. Go.”

He sits on his ass, with his back against the bed.

“Spread your legs,” she says, dropping her skirt. “Wider. Attaboy.”

Red panties cradle his balls like ripe fruit. They looked good enough to eat.

She licks her lips. “I know what you want.”

“Do you?”

Pushing his head against the side of the mattress, she straddles his face. “You want to taste my pussy.”

“No,” he says, innocently.

“Brat.”

“I will if I have to,” he tells her. “But it's not what I
want
.”

“Do you want to torture yourself?” she asks, taunting him. “Is that what you want?”

“No.”

He doesn't hesitate long before biting her cunt, right through the tight layer of black lace. She hisses. It's better than good. His nibbles send shock waves down her legs and up to the nipples hardening inside her
black bra. She likes to coordinate.

“I wish I could fuck you with my clit.”

He glances up at her. “Fuck me where?”

“Your throat,” she says. “Your ass. If my clit grew big and hard, I'd slap it across your bratty little face. I'd smack your cheeks. I'd spank your ass.”

A whining noise emerges from his throat.

“You want a nice little taste?”

When he nods, she pushes down her panties and steps out of them. His nose disappears beyond her thick black bush. When his tongue finds her clit, it's so hot she gasps. Hot, thick, and soft as velvet. She breathes deeply, trying to hold herself together. His tongue is too much. Much too much. She'll come if he keeps at it.

She takes a step back, and he looks at her, pleadingly. “More?”

“Later.”

He grins, opening his legs wide. She stands between them, watching his cock throb. All she wants is to fall on the floor and let his dick impale her face, but she knows what he wants, and his wants are her most vital concern.

Setting her foot in position, she lifts the toe of her shoe. The stiletto heel slides closer to her panties—the ones
he's
wearing—until he hisses in anticipation. He drives his palms firmly into the floor, like he can feel the pressure already.

It's going to be good. She'll be firm with him. Unforgiving. She knows what he likes.

“Crush,” he says, drawing out the
shhh
sound.

She's doing his bidding. Might not look that way to an outsider, but she is. This is what he wants. He needs to feel the base of her shoe against his hot cock. She nudges his swollen tip with her patent-leather toe, and he hisses, knocking his head against the side of the mattress. She sets her weight on him, little by little, building pressure.

The expression on his face would look like pain to anybody else. But she knows what he likes. She strokes him with her shoe, up toward his cockhead. Pressing her toe against his tip, she lifts her heel off the ground.

“Does it hurt?” she asks. She's crushing his swollen head. Of course it hurts.

He says, “No.”

“Well, then.” She sets her stiletto in the center of his ball sac, lowering the heel slowly, torturing him. “I guess I'll have to do better.”

A sound emerges from his throat, somewhere between a screech and a howl. He's a prey animal, caught in her clutches. She sinks her heel into his balls. Her weight remains mostly on the other foot, the one on the parquet, but she's digging into him good and hard. Every time she shifts, even slightly, he whimpers, pressing his palms harder against the floor.

“You're never going to come,” she tells him.

“No?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Not for a while. Not for a good long while. She sinks her heel a little deeper into the fleshy mass of his balls,
and he squirms, whines. The pain is so blatant she can taste it on her tongue.

Tongue…

She'd almost forgotten…

“I'd like to come now, I think.” Dislodging her heel from his crotch, she straddles his body, pressing her pussy against his mouth. “You're going to make me come.”

He looks up at her in reverence. When he nods, his lips brush her clit. He opens his mouth and she rides his face. His tongue strokes her—liquid warmth—and she melts all over his cheeks, spreading juice down his chin.