The Big Book of Submission (6 page)

She used to love being on display, an object to be enjoyed by the eyes and roving hands of the other party guests. Loved the eyes on her. Loved Alexis's pride as people admired her sub. When Alexis reclaimed her, she'd been wet and eager to play hard.

But Jane had been beautiful then, her body lean and shapely and unscarred. A credit to her own commitment to fitness and healthy living—which had proved no match for genetics. A credit to Alexis, because at a
public party, a sub's good looks reflected on the dominant who was with her or him.

And now Jane wasn't perfect. Not even average, but damaged.

They'd kept playing at home, as much as her body would bear, throughout the long ordeal of treatment and recovery. As long as it was just the two of them, Jane could enjoy entwined pain and pleasure, freedom and restraint. She could trust the desire in Alexis's eyes, because Alexis loved her, as she loved Alexis, in a way that delved below the pretty surface. They'd known that long before cancer made everything in their lives uglier.

But other people were a different story. She'd seen the looks on the street as her hair fell out and her face became gaunt—pity, fear, even disgust, as if her illness should be hidden away so it didn't offend others.

Now she'd be exposing a far more graphic reminder of mortality than a bald head.

Alexis understood Jane's fears without Jane saying anything. “You're gorgeous,” Alexis whispered, clasping the cuff around her wrist. “You're strong.” Alexis ran her hand along Jane's outstretched arm, tracing the muscles Jane had worked so hard to keep in shape before her surgery, muscles that were no longer as defined as they once were. Jane winced, but the sincerity in her domme's voice cut through her panic. Alexis believed what she was saying. Jane might not, but she trusted Alexis, so she breathed the deep, cleansing breaths she'd mastered during treatment, and tried to accept.

“I want everyone to see you,” Alexis said, securing the other arm. “You're so beautiful. So tough.” She repeated the litany as she wove rope around Jane's torso and hips, supporting and ornamenting her. At first, Jane remained tense, her naked body cold and rigid as Alexis went through formerly familiar rituals. But as the rope and her beloved's hands moved over her skin, she began to warm. To open up. To her astonishment, arousal flickered deep in her belly—not the pulsing desire she once felt when she was on display, but a softer erotic feeling that was as much from pushing past her fears to please Alexis as it was from bondage, exhibitionism, anticipation of public play, or any of her old triggers.

Alexis bent and kissed the curve of Jane's belly, softer now than it once was. Flabby, even, after so long a time of not being able to work out, though she was thinner than ever. She nudged Jane's legs apart and secured her ankles with another set of cuffs, the wide leather acting as a firm embrace. In the past, Alexis could suspend her completely, letting the bonds and the web itself support her weight. But this time, she was letting Jane have the security of the floor beneath her feet.

It cut that she wasn't fit enough, at the moment, to be fully suspended, that it would put too much strain on her upper body. At the same time, she was grateful to Alexis for not waiting for her to be that fit again, because it might never happen. They'd had to remove muscle to save her life. Feet on the floor, ropes around her, Jane felt how Alexis accepted her changed body,
and that helped her to do so. Alexis rocked back on her heels. “Radiant,” she breathed. Jane didn't understand what she meant. But when Alexis pressed her face against Jane's pubic mound, Jane surged with desire and no longer cared if she understood.

Then Alexis began to lick and finger her, driving her hard and fast toward orgasm.

In the past, Alexis would leave Jane needy and craving when she was a party decoration, letting the gazes of others push her ever higher without driving her over the edge. She'd let Jane come only with her, and only after the display was over and they were flogging and spanking and fucking.

Never like this.

Never before the party even started. Never on her tongue, a tender intimacy reserved for the privacy of their bedroom. It marked this time as different, a new beginning.

When Jane begged, “Please, may I come?” Alexis intoned, “Yes!” and Jane shattered. No, she had been shattered and she came together on Alexis's tongue, all the shards resolving into someone brighter and braver than she had felt since she'd heard the words
breast cancer
and then
invasive
and
mastectomy
.

Alexis kissed her way up Jane's body, lingering at the scars where her left breast used to be. A protest fluttered on Jane's lips—she'd never let Alexis kiss her there before, not even at home. Here there were other people around, putting the last touches on the setup
before the doors opened. Jane knew them all. They were friends, had visited her in the hospital and helped keep Alexis sane during the worst times, but she still felt self-conscious about drawing attention to her scars.

But heat spread from Alexis's lips and tongue right into Jane's heart, and some long-held tension snapped inside of her. Tears streamed down Jane's face, but they were good tears, cathartic tears, and she didn't try to hold them back. “My lovely survivor. So proud of you,” Alexis whispered. “I want everyone to see you didn't let cancer win.”

“Welcome back, Jane,” someone called from across the room.

“Looking great!” someone added.

But as Alexis wrapped the final hemp rope around her, first above and then below her beautiful scars, the mark of a survivor, Jane had eyes and ears only for her domme.

LARIAT

Michelle Augello-Page

I
walked into his room wearing high, high heels and an alarming red dress, cinched at the waist with the rope he had left in my bed. The lasso was knotted tightly, loose threads dangling seductively on my thighs. His eyes narrowed. His rope was around my waist.

We'd known each other for a few months, having met through mutual friends, and over the last several weeks, we had been talking on the phone nearly every day. I knew he was interested in me because inevitably, he would turn our conversation toward sex.

“What do you like?”

“Everything.”

“Do you like being tied up?”

“Yes.”

I had told him that even though I'd explored some
facets of bondage and discipline with previous partners, I had never been with anyone truly into BDSM. I had never had a dominant–submissive relationship. Whips and chains and ropes and straps belonged in some sexual promised land that I never seemed to find.

Even though he had been into BDSM for years, he'd had bad luck in relationships. His girlfriends always thought that his sexual desires were strange, something they had to put up with, a problem that would change over time. He had a collection of toys he couldn't play with, gathering dust. Until he met me, he'd become convinced he would never meet anyone sexually compatible.

By the time we were hanging out regularly, I was still unsure about having sex with him. I didn't want a relationship, and I didn't want casual sex, either. I didn't know what I wanted. But he did—he wanted me.

He told me he wanted to show me his toys. “Check this out,” he had said the last time I was at his place, reaching into a nearby bag and handing me a leather cuff.

“What's this?” I asked, turning it over in my hands. The cuff was smooth black leather with a metal belt-like clasp. I was already turned on by the time I gingerly placed it on my wrist and looked at him.

He took my hand and belted the cuff tightly. Then he reached into the bag and took out the other one. Silently, solemnly, he affixed it to my wrist, then held both my hands in his. His eyes were blurry with desire. My heart was beating furiously. He pointed toward the
ceiling, where an O-ring gleamed.

“I want to tie you to that and torture the fuck out of you.”

I laughed. He helped me take off the cuffs. But later that night, we kissed for the first time. The next time he came over to my place, he brought rope and tied my ankles and wrists together while we had sex. It felt so good to be bound. I loved the feeling of the tight rope confining and securing me, pushing me farther into sensory wonderland. It felt so good to feel his long, rock-hard cock inside me, with his body pressed against mine. He caressed me with a whisper of touch. He tore into me with rough abandon. My body simply responded as tears fell from my eyes. “Oh my god,” he said, thrusting deeper, “you were made to be fucked by me.”

When we connected it was a thousand synapses firing, flashes of heat lightning, pulses of electromagnetism, sparks igniting motion, fireworks exploding, a brushfire in dry summer. We looked at each other, breathless, fear entwined with desire, knowing that the body never lies. We didn't talk about what it meant.

I walked into his room wearing high, high heels and an alarming red dress, cinched at the waist with the rope he had left in my bed. His eyes narrowed. His rope was around my waist.

He tugged at the lariat, pulling the knot loose.

“Strip,” he said.

I removed my clothing as he playfully hit me with the rope.

“Lie on the bed. Facedown.”

I did. I trembled with excitement, not knowing what would happen next. I was desperate to fuck him again. My body tingled with anticipation. He worked swiftly, pulling the rope around and through my ankles. Then another rope, around and through my wrists. I felt him pulling and twisting my legs and arms, contorting my body into a bow position, leaving me hog-tied.

I couldn't move. Pain flashed through my body. The stretch in my arms and legs was severe. He didn't touch me. He just looked at me. His face was sensuous and cruel as he circled me. I was helpless, at his mercy. He could do anything he wanted to me. He had me knotted tightly and bound, completely exposed to him.

“Do you really want this? This is how it is with me.”

He walked around the bed, holding a crop, never taking his eyes off me. The lashes from the crop stung my skin. He was hurting me. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to touch me. Tears sprang to my eyes. Waves of sensation rippled across my skin. Then the lashes felt like little bites, sharp kisses. I realized that he was already touching me. Intensely. I realized that he was already holding me, more securely than I had ever been held in my adult life.

“Yes,” I said through my tears. “This is what I've always wanted.”

He freed me, released the ropes binding me, then gathered me into his arms as I cried. “You are mine,” he
said softly, keeping me bound in his close embrace. Then he kissed my tears, pressed his body against my body, and encircled me with his ruthless and protective love.

TOASTED MARSHMALLOWS

Tilly Hunter

I
stare at my best friend's cock. I've never seen it before. But from this position—on my knees—I'm getting a close-up view. It's around the same erect length as my own, but a little thicker. Its head is darker.

“I said, suck it.” Karen repeats the order. She doesn't like having to repeat an order and I don't like letting her down. I stick my tongue out, shape it around Nathan's head and guide it into my mouth. I'd use my hands, but she's cuffed them behind me—and linked them to my ankle restraints for good measure.

It's such a strange sensation. Like a moleskin cover on a hardback book. Soft skin sliding over rigid, engorged flesh. Of course I've felt the same thing before in my hand. I'm a twenty-seven-year-old guy—I feel my own erections most mornings in the shower. But to have
someone else's in my mouth, stretching my lips and pushing my jaw down…well. I suck, running my tongue up the underside. It seems the thing to do. I realize I've never analyzed the precise movements Karen's mouth makes to cause my shaft to stiffen and pulse to climax. She only does it when I've been a good boy and obeyed her satisfactorily. I'm hoping for a reward today, more than the toasted marshmallows she's promised from our backwoods campfire. But if she punishes me instead? I'll still enjoy it.

“You're doing well, sweetie,” she says, placing a hand on the back of my head and pushing me on until I cough. Nathan, one of the few old college pals I've kept in touch with, has no choice but to stay in position. He's standing against a maple, arms pinned back around the trunk and more rope wrapping his torso against the rough bark. A thick stick between his teeth, tied in place around the back of his head, gags him. I watched his girlfriend, Rosie, put him in place while I knelt in the leaf mold waiting to be told what to do.

Who'd have thought it? Nathan and I don't discuss sex much. We're more on a beer-and-baseball footing. But it turns out our partners, who became friends through us, do discuss sex—often and in detail. I was a bit annoyed when I found out. Embarrassed. But then Karen persuaded me to come along on this little summer picnic expedition. “You know how much I like being outdoors,” she told me. “I love the warmth of the sun on my bare skin.”

And I love it when Karen bares her skin. I also love it when she orders me around, ordering me to pleasure her, or to kneel patiently while she pleasures herself with a vibrator. Nathan and I have more in common than we realized, apparently, though Karen tells me he's often deliberately naughty because he likes to get beaten with a riding crop. Me, I can do without pain. Bondage and submission, hell yes, but I'm no masochist. If I really misbehave, she bans me from coming for whatever period she deems right—a few days, a week. Once she made me hold out a whole month. I remember arguing over whether it should be a calendar month or just four weeks, never really expecting to win the argument.