The Big Book of Submission (23 page)

She thinks about his hard cock, about his huge, swollen balls. Why is it so fulfilling to press a cruel heel into the most sensitive part of his body? Is it the rush she feels when she's certain her stiletto is about to puncture him? Or the thrill of knowing he would never ask anyone else to provide this sort of pain? He would never
trust
anyone else to do what she does.

Cupping his head with both hands, she thrusts her clit against his tongue. She's so close. He's going to make her come.

HOUSEBROKEN

Laila Blake

H
er kitten was lying in a patch of sun on the hardwood floors. Her eyes were closed against the bright light but she had her arms stretched out into the air above her, moving slightly this way and that. It looked just as if those beautiful, nimble fingers were trying to spin a dreamlike, golden fabric out of the millions of little dust and glimmer particles in the air. Or maybe like her arms and hands were bathing sensuously in the sunlight trying to wash away the stale, grimy winter pallor in the early spring sun.

The tiny bell on her kitten-collar chimed whenever she moved her head a little this way or that, sparkling like her pink lips with their ubiquitous honey-scented gloss. All of her seemed to glow as she lay there ivory-pink, her knees pulled up in a shallow angle, leaning
against each other, her toes wriggling a little. She never did lie completely still—for that she needed ropes and cuffs, commands and punishments. For the moment, though, Imani allowed it, smiling at her kitten's antics and the way, in her apartment, her kitten could let go completely, with no care in the world but Imani's pleasure and her own, attaining the purest sense of freedom humans could find.

Sitting in the old-fashioned rocking chair she had picked up at Camden Market from a grisly antiques dealer for ten quid her first week in the country, Imani swayed gently. It was a comfortable Saturday morning, the kind that passed almost without her noticing the perfection of its simple pleasures. Imani's breasts were full and warm outlines under the flowing white kaftan robe she had pulled on to make breakfast a few hours earlier. Her long, proud legs were open, one thigh resting on the side of the chair, a cup of coffee balanced on her knee. The bright color of the translucent fabric contrasted starkly with the deep, dark color of her skin.

Softly, like the kiss of a butterfly she ran the tip of a peacock's feather over her kitten's stomach, smiling at the little movements that showed her pleasure, the tingling of the bell and the tiny whimpers. She found the arch of her rib cage and traced along its path. Her kitten flexed her stomach and released again. Imani ticked her belly button, trying to drill the feather into the small, tight hole to make her do it again. She was rewarded with a tiny squeal and little kicks into the air.

Her kitten's nipples hardened at the soft contact as she arched up her chest for more. The silence in the room was only broken by her shallow breaths and the soft chimes of the bell on her collar. Her hands were on the side of her body now, palms pressed flat on the floor to support her billowing chest.

“Touch yourself,” Imani said in her characteristic quiet voice, her accent dripping like honey and cream. “Slowly. Not your clit yet. Touch inside, push as deep as you can.”

Her kitten smiled up at her; her little English rose. She was chubby and short where Imani was thin and tall. Where her kitten's face was round, with pink cheeks and bright blue eyes, Imani had the strong, noble features of ancient tribes, only accentuated by her proudly shaved head. Her kitten's hair was long and silky and always in tangles; she found it everywhere when she vacuumed or shook out her pillows. The way she was sitting with her legs apart gave her kitten just a peek at the dark, creamy wetness between her legs. Wiry curly hair grew on her mound but she kept her kitten's shaved, preferring an unmarred expanse of pink.

Curling in a little, the kitten reached down, obediently circumventing the top of her slit, and pushed two fingers deep into her cunt. She whimpered at the slippery warm wetness she found there, then pulled back and pushed down harder. Her body curled in on itself even more as she gasped.

“Stop,” Imani all but whispered; she didn't need to
raise her voice to establish her dominance. “Taste it, suckle your fingers.”

There was no hesitation, just an immediate movement of her arm and a moment later her fingers were in her mouth and she was sucking at them noisily, just the way Imani liked. She smiled to herself.

“Good kitten,” she cooed approvingly. She loved her yielding sweetness, her smiles and her eagerness, the way she sought touch and praise with every fiber of her being. Stretching out her long leg, she ran her toes over her kitten's stomach and nonchalantly, taking a sip of her coffee, she slipped them between her labia. The kitten moaned hard around her fingers and Imani rubbed her toe hard over her clit until her kitten couldn't keep still anymore, billowing and wriggling under the onslaught of pleasure.

Imani tutted; her foot stilled and she pulled it away. With the elegance of a dancer, she moved her leg again, gently brushed her toe over her kitten's pink nose and left a trace of her juices.

“Clean,” she commanded her; the arousal had slowly trickled into her voice as well, making it hoarse and more accented. There was a soft popping sound when her kitten pulled her fingers from her mouth and started to lap at her toes instead. Imani closed her eyes and exhaled a shallow breath, fingers gripping at the side of the chair.

“Fuck yourself again,” she exhaled as she pushed her toes harder into her kitten's mouth. Her swirling tongue
was hot and wet and felt deliciously dirty around her toes. The sensations doubled when her moans added a layer of vibration to the connection.

“No, not your clit. No coming yet.”

She wanted to ride that beautiful mouth raw but she had all day—all weekend—to enjoy her pet. She could make herself wait. Fucking her mouth with her toes gave her that tingling dirty feeling that her kitten knew so well how to arouse. She only pulled them out when her leg started to ache. Immediately, the noise level rose. There was no sight quite like this one: her kitten, rolling on the floor and fucking herself at her behest.

“Do you want to rub your clit, kitten?” she asked, a little breathless herself. Unsurprisingly, the kitten nodded hard, yowling softly in as much elaboration as she could manage in that state.

“I want you to recite that poem,” Imani whispered, “the one I like. And you make yourself come for me.”

Her kitten whimpered and scrunched up her forehead for a moment, lining up the beautiful words all in the right order before she let her fingers pull back the hood of her clit.

Imani leaned back again and smiled. She had always thought that the sound of abandon and orgasm fit the melody of Keats like nothing else.

STRONGER THAN STEEL

Alva Rose

E
ven when he's on the edge, even when he finally breaks and his hands grip me a little tighter, he's quiet, strong, restrained. Always the picture of control.

Tonight, when he comes home from his week on a remote construction site, I'm going to take that away.

He is always rewarded by the sound of his name coming breathless and distorted from my mouth, by the hard upward curve of my spine and the bucking of my hips, the slickness that spreads pale, wet butterfly wings on my thighs, and tonight I will get mine. I will see his strong, tanned brow wrinkle, his jaw with a week's hair growth falling open, pulsing veins stretching up his aching forearms. I will leave him no choice.

I've been studying his body, putting together the teeny-tiny pieces: the very point on his cock that, when
pressed with the tip of my tongue with exactly the right amount of pressure, causes the shaft to go a little more rigid; which sounds that bubble out of my mouth at the moment of climax cause his eyes to flutter closed; what happens the second before he stops letting me have my way and wrestles me onto my back or my knees; what might otherwise make him lose control.

I started a mental log of the times he would come up behind me and grab my ass while I got dressed in the morning. It reliably happened when I wore a particular pair of lace boy shorts, the lime-green ones with a single bubble-gum-pink bow that stopped just above the crease that forms between my thighs and my ass. If I happened to stand on my tiptoes and lean over my vanity to grab a bottle of perfume or an eyeliner pencil, he'd spring out of bed, lock his arms around me and growl into my ear, baring his teeth and pushing his hips against my lower back. He'd wet his finger with his tongue, slip it between the lace and my skin and with quick accuracy pinpoint my clit and circle it over and over. I'd feel the smooth head of his cock separated from my cunt by millimeters of bunched-up fabric, pushing back and forth between my thighs until he hooked his fingers around the crotch of my underwear, tugged them aside, and parted my lips with his swollen manhood. And when moisture began spreading over its surface, that's when he'd push into me, so slowly, making me feel every ridge and vein as it stretched my soaking hole.

And I would writhe and gasp and pound the vanity
with my fist, yelping his name and pushing back to take him deeper, trying to gain some tiny scrap of control, trying to find a hair-thin crack in his composure as he worked me into unhinged ecstasy. I never found either.

I know exactly how the night goes whenever he returns from a week away on a job. He's always aching to touch me, to smell the faint floral notes of my moisturizer and run his toughened hands over the smooth flat of my back. When he first gets his hands on me, he's as close to abandon as I have ever seen him, as vulnerable, as sensitive to my voice and my touch as he can be. But he regains himself quickly, because more than anything, he wants to make me come, and for that, he must focus.

He has tried a few times to let go and hand me the reins, but he just can't. He says he wants to, with great sympathy in his voice, but he's used to control. His will, his instincts and his arms are too strong to let that happen.

But he is not stronger than steel.

A pair of shiny double-lock handcuffs are dangling from the center of our curly forged-iron bed frame. As soon as he left on Monday, I went out and bought them, and every evening, I held them and clicked them shut and unlocked them over and over again, acquainting my hands with the curves of the smooth, cold steel. I'm quick with them now—hopefully quick enough.

When he gets inside, he'll wrap me up in his arms, kiss me, breathe against my neck, then run into the
bathroom and whip off his filthy, sweaty shirt. He'll scrub his hands with pumice, and return to the bedroom smelling of oranges. He'll lie down next to me and take a few minutes to bask in the comforts of home: clean, well-worn sheets, privacy, leisure, love, and a bed he shares with his adoring wife. Once he's done that, he'll pull me on top of him (and even in doing this, direct me just where he wants me at that moment) and rest his hands on my hips, give me those few moments to do to him what I please, but he won't be ready for what I do tonight; he'll never see it coming. And that's how I'll get the upper hand.

The lights are dim. The waistband of my lime-green boy shorts just barely peeks out under my black yoga pants, and the dryer is buzzing downstairs. As I begin making the bed, I hear the deep rumble of his car coming up the driveway, its headlights shooting beams of light across the pale bedroom wall. I feel myself tensing up, blood beginning to redirect itself between my legs as I put the pillows in their cases and tuck the fitted sheet around the corners of the bed.

I've planned everything so carefully. I'm so sure of what I'm going to do once he's immobilized beneath me. Tonight, I'll say his name once and only once. Tonight, I get mine.

Just as I arrange the pillows high at the head of the bed—the cuffs safely hidden behind a deep layer of soft, inviting fluff—I hear the front steps creaking. I hear his keys jangling as he selects one from the ring, the lock
turning and clicking into its open position, the whoosh of the door separating from its airtight seal, and him sighing as he finally returns home from a long, hard week.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, calming my nerves with one last, deep breath as he crosses the house. He steps into the bedroom, and I rise to my feet.

He wraps those big, powerful arms around me, kisses me again and again, then breaks away to wash his hands. When he rejoins me on the bed, he stretches out next to me, lying with his head inches from the nightstand. On it are two new silver keys on a small ring.

But in the dim light, he hasn't noticed them.

He has no idea.

STUDENT BECOMES MASTER

Rob Rosen

H
e'd looked almost the same—older, of course, but the face of the teenager I'd coached years earlier still rose to the surface.

“Let me out!” I hollered. The gym's closet door was shut tight, leaving me in utter darkness.

He banged on the wood from the other side. “Mister Jones,” he replied, voice muffled. “What do we say?”

I gritted my teeth and yanked at my tethered wrists. “
Please
.”

I waited, beads of sweat dripping from my brow before stinging my eyes. My bare knees ached as I maintained my crouched and bound position. He'd surprised me, showing up after school had finished for the day, the last student long gone. He'd surprised me even further with his wrestling skills, considering how weak they'd
been the last time I'd seen them.