The Big Book of Submission (4 page)

Pushing a finger into her glistening channel, you took us together, your eyes never leaving the line of contrast where our flesh met. Mine light and fit from regular sex, hers softer, pale, plentiful, and deliciously yielding. I could have become lost in her, but only because you were there, Sir, only because you wished it.

It was your eyes that took away my fear, Sir. When you told me to put my finger inside her while you played with her tits, and she filled my palm with juice, yelling out her joy, I knew that this truly was one of your fantasies. This was not about replacing me.

I hope this account pleases you, Sir.

Slut.

PUT YOUR HANDS UP

Sommer Marsden

I
t's all through the party that I wait. I love the company, our friends and family over to see our new home, but under it all runs a thread of distraction. A steady pounding beat of arousal that catches me in my throat, my chest, between my legs.

He's wearing his pocket watch. The round watch is in the small pocket of his vest, the shiny chain clearly visible. Everyone is commenting on how suave he looks. Garrett smiles and blows it off with a joke. But I can look at that chain and hear him in my head:
Put your hands up…

I flutter around like a coked-up butterfly, briefly forgetting what's going to happen to talk to someone I love or someone I haven't seen in ages. But then he walks in and I see that chain and my cunt flexes wetly and my mind goes
a little fuzzy. His hazel eyes find me, and he grins that grin that turns me to nothing but liquid and hope.

It's already eleven at night and I wonder if these people will ever, ever leave.

Finally, thankfully, they do. When the door snicks shut, Garrett turns to me. “You got yourself pretty wound up about that party.”

“I always do,” I admit. My voice is just little puffs of air.

“You know I don't like that. You should have more faith in yourself as a hostess.”

I look at my feet. I really had worked myself up into a froth. I'd snapped at him and I panicked and at one point even cried that we would not have enough food or booze or guests.

I'd been a mess.

He looks at the watch as if regarding the time. He's not. “Go upstairs, Izzy.”

I turn on my heels, my body thrumming with anticipation. Anticipation of pain. Of pleasure. Of peace. Garrett will take me all the way up so that I can come all the way down.

When I reach the top of the stairs he yells, “Get ready for me.”

I don't have to ask. I know exactly what to do.

I take my dress off delicately, then drape it over the back of the armchair by the bed. I roll my hose down, careful to remove my panties and my bra and fold them neatly. Then I sit on the end of the bed with
my knees pressed together to wait for him.

He takes his time coming up the steps. Every time his foot strikes the carpet I grow more restless inside, more desperate.

When he enters the room, I stand. My feet are planted dead center on the throw rug. It looks like a big black-and-gray bull's-eye. I curl my toes to the nap and try to remember to breathe. He smiles at me perfunctorily as he walks past me. I hear the whisk of his belt coming out of the loops. His clothing whispers conspiratorially as he takes it off. Then there is a sudden crack of sound and I jump.

The crop is black and blue. Garrett jokes that it's the same colors as the hues it imparts.

“How are you, Izzy?”

Vibrating…

“I'm better.”

“Better now that you're alone with me?”

“God, yes,” I say, forgetting myself. I blush like we're new lovers. He smiles, running the crop along the back of my thigh so a slow tremble begins at my knees and seems to roll through me like a wave.

“Good. I'm glad. Now let's say we work out all that angst.”

The pocket watch is gone, but I know what time it is. I nod and try not to brace myself. It's better if you don't.

“Put your hands up,” he says. I see that his cock is hard just saying it. This is a matter of will—my will and his.

I put my hands up like I'm under arrest.

He strives to make me break. I strive to persevere. In the end, everyone wins. I like my pleasure with a pain appetizer. Garrett likes to watch my face as I struggle and either surrender or succeed. I am rewarded when I win, and rewarded when I lose.

The crop slides up the back of my thigh, whisks pleasantly along my bottom, drags lazily along my lower back. I don't know—not at all—where he will strike. The urge to brace myself is nearly overwhelming.

The first strike—much like a snake—comes along my flank. I must not put my hands down. Not until he says that he is done. The natural urge is to cover yourself when hit. I must resist that urge.

The second and third blows crisscross each other and my arms begin to shake. My pussy clenches, hot and greedy. I chew my bottom lip to focus. He taps the crop against my pounding clit—gently, but enough to make me quiver. I cry out but keep my fucking hands up.

The crop bites at the top of my thighs, the swell of my ass, the crack between my cheeks. It snaps at my legs and my calves and I tremble, sweating just a bit on my upper lip. But I keep my arms up as my anxiety ratchets higher but then begins a swift descent. I am finding my peace, my Zen.

Four more sharp blows and I am sobbing but my hands are up like a good sub and I haven't covered myself against his blows. I've kept myself open to him.

“Good girl,” he growls and drops the crop. “I'm very pleased.”

So pleased that he grabs my aching upper arms and spins me to the wall. He plants my hands against the cool plaster and knocks my legs wide apart. A single finger is inserted into me and he flexes it. I shudder and sob and he laughs softly.

“Do you know how wet you are?”

“Yes,” I confess.

And then he's in me. Big hands gripping the bell of my hips, his cock nudging me apart before thrusting in again, deeper and deeper it seems with every stroke. I push my forehead to the wall and shut my eyes and let all the worry left in me spiral away. He's here and taking care of me and I won. I was successful. I was a good girl.

Garrett's mouth comes down hot and wet on the back of my neck. The skin prickles and my nipples spike. He's driving into me with quick, brutal thrusts. My womb clenches up, my pussy grows taut. He finds my moisture and spreads it to the plump knot of my clit. In just a few slick swirls, I'm coming. I succeeded, I am allowed.

I climax with a great sob, feeling utterly boneless. Empty of worry or stress or fear. I'm empty but for him. He yanks my hips back against him, presses his teeth to my neck and whispers, “Good girl,” once more before coming with a growl. The room grows silent. My hands are still up.

CRUNCHES

Annabeth Leong

L
ong before I noticed myself getting wet while doing sit-ups for Shira, she attracted me. Her thick librarian glasses seemed incongruous with her brightly colored workout clothes. Considering her abundance of lean muscle, she had a magically generous ass. I wanted her immediately, even more than I wanted to be like her.

The way I am, that meant I also wanted to do as she said, as much and as well as possible. I wanted to hear her call me a good girl.

Sexual fantasies blurred most of our initial consultation. I kept imagining sweat dripping off the ends of her long black hair as she tied me to the suspension training hookups dotting the gym walls and forced me to pull at my restraints until I passed out from the effort. When
she asked if I thought she would be a good personal trainer for me, I just stammered.

The first few months, even when I thought she didn't know, my desire got me unprecedented results. It warmed my heart to think about the complimentary notes she could write into my file, about how I was so hardworking, so dedicated and so devoted to our process. I couldn't have cheated on her dietary suggestions any more than I could have slept around behind a beloved girlfriend's back.

The pounds melted off. I did double takes at the elegant shape of my neck in my shadow. Every movement I made, I felt Shira watching, controlling and approving—even when I was alone.

One day, after she'd put me on the adductor machine and had me squeeze my thighs together against heavy resistance, I gave in to the urge that had been building. I rushed home, ripped off my sweats and jumped into the bathtub with my vibrator in hand. I held myself in a half crunch (careful to pretend I had an orange under my chin for proper neck position), and stayed that way until my pulse pounded like a jackhammer and it felt like every drop of blood in my body had gathered just below my tightened abs. I shoved the vibrator deep inside my cunt, switched it to maximum intensity, then clenched every muscle in my body until I came. As I gasped and shuddered, hot water splashing around my shaking thighs, I could have sworn I heard Shira's voice, counting off the spasms.

The next time she squatted near me while I did crunches, the smell of my arousal wafted from my cunt, sharp and undeniable. Her face didn't change, but a few moments later, I scented an answering tang. I moaned softly, but only the burning red of my cheeks acknowledged the sound.

When she emailed my weekly workout instructions later that evening, I couldn't believe my eyes. Crunches and adductors and the locust and the exercise bike—a routine guaranteed to arouse me beyond all reason. I had hidden nothing from her. And at the bottom of the email, an especially odd note:
Remember, you can always stop a session if you feel uncomfortable for any reason—just tell me you need to take a break. I must also formally request you refrain from other workouts of any kind. I don't want you to stimulate your muscles on your own, without my supervision.

I stared at my computer screen. I don't know how the message would have looked to someone who'd never tried BDSM, but I couldn't mistake Shira's hidden meaning. She'd given me a safeword and an order to refrain from masturbation, all without stepping out of her role as my personal trainer.

I needed to tell her I understood, that I was more than okay with this turn. Biting my lip, I typed, “Shira, you are my one and only exercise mistress.” A little cheesy, but clear enough, I hoped.

The week of stimulating exercises combined with no orgasms had me vibrating with need by the time our
next appointment came around. Now I could barely breathe whenever Shira's slim fingers adjusted my position. Toward the end of our workout, she ordered me onto the exercise bike, guiding me so far forward my clit mashed flat against the hard, thin seat between my legs.

I wanted to moan, but we scheduled our sessions for right after I got off work, when the gym was packed. People worked out less than two feet away from me in every direction. Shira's hand rested lightly on my shoulder blade, implicitly commanding me to remain in place. “Do you need to take a break?” she whispered.

“God, no.” It sounded like the orgasmic plea it was.

Her smile cleared away any remaining confusion. This was sexual. “Did you follow my instructions? You haven't been doing extra workouts, have you?”

“No.” I stayed in place, restrained by the pressure of her hand as surely as by a rope harness.

“Good. I can't have you overstimulating yourself.”

I wondered if someone overhearing would pick up her naughty meaning.

“I think it's time for crunches,” Shira said.

My legs shook as she led me off the exercise bike and over to a mat. I got into position.

“You've gotten strong,” she told me. “We need to increase the challenge.” She took the largest round, flat weight from a nearby rack and settled it over my chest and belly, flattening my torso.

“I can't—”

“Hug it tight.”

I crossed my arms over it.

“Now crunch.”

My muscles trembled from the strain of holding up the weight. My nipples rubbed against it. Shira settled near my feet, her hands trailing down the backs of my calves, then holding my ankles in place.

I gasped and panted. My cunt felt tighter than a clenched fist.

Shira looked straight into my eyes and adjusted the weight so the edge rested on my mons. It was so heavy, I felt its pressure squeezing the subterranean part of my clit, where ordinarily only the most powerful vibrations could reach. “Hold that up until you feel every muscle in your body release. Give me your best effort.”

I needed her approval even more than I needed an orgasm. I tightened my core and humped that weight for all I was worth, grunting as I did. Still holding one ankle, Shira leaned forward and pressed the weight harder against my body, increasing the tension inside me without touching my clit directly.

I came with a whimper, falling flat on the mat with sweat pouring into my eyes. Shira removed the weight immediately, replacing it on the rack and returning with water in a small paper cup. “Good girl,” she said, and my entire body thrilled to the words I had longed for. “How are you?”