Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (25 page)

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Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel,Donna George Storey

BOOK: Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission
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But he won’t let go of his line of questioning. “That’s right,” he says, his eyes invading me with their frankness. “So you haven’t done it, but have you ever
thought
about it?”
This is too much. I’m going to die of embarrassment if he keeps this up. “Have
you
?” I retort.
Now he glances at his computer, and I suddenly wonder what he’s working on. Is he even working at all? Or just surfing dirty websites? I lean back in my chair and crane my neck around to see, but he quickly turns the screen away.
“Uh-huh,” I say triumphantly. “Just as I thought. You know they keep a record of every website we visit, don’t you?”
Charles dismisses my warning with a wave of his hand, but I happen to know for a fact that one of the guys in Human Resources was sacked last year for exactly that. He’d been downloading split-crotch shots from some busty bimbo site, saving them to his hard drive here at work so his wife wouldn’t find them. I can’t imagine Charles looking at anything that unimaginative, but still…
My words have had an effect, though, and he appears to be closing down whatever page he was on. He glances over at me with a cryptic smile. “Doesn’t hurt to be cautious,” he says.
I turn back to my own screen and furtively finish reading the story he had interrupted. One of the author’s best, a little tale about a Victorian gentleman and his naughty maid. Squirming, I type a quick, appreciative response and then shut down the newsgroup. Websites aren’t safe, but I can download the newsgroup posts with my email. They don’t read our private correspondence.
I sense Charles watching me out of the corner of his eye. His interrogation has got my dirty mind working overtime, and I can almost imagine I’m broadcasting my thoughts to him. Can he smell my arousal?
Shifting in my seat, I force myself to get back to work.
 
“You still here, then?”
I glance up at the voice. Grant, always the last one to leave, is putting on his coat. Charles is still at work beside me in the cubicle. I must have lost track of the time.
“Afraid so,” I sigh. “Got to finish this report.”
Charles waits a beat before nodding. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Well, I’m calling it a day,” Grant says. “One of you will have to lock up.” He hands the keys to Charles, even though I’m closer.
Charles bids him a pleasant evening and an odd look passes between the men as Charles pockets the keys. I listen to the sound of Grant’s footsteps moving down the corridor and out the front door.
Now my coworker turns to me, the cryptic smile on his face. “We’re alone,” he states. An insinuation. A threat. A promise.
“So we are,” I say, forcing a cool smile of my own. “Well, back to work.”
“Oh, no.” He rises slowly from his chair and comes to me, reaching across me for my mouse.
“What are you—?”
Before I can protest, he’s navigated his way to a master directory revealing the source and destination of posts from a newsgroup with a very conspicuous name. I gasp.
“My, my,” he says. “What a naughty girl.”
I blush furiously and look away. This is surreal. It’s like a story straight from the newsgroup. There’s no doubt in my mind what’s coming next. And there’s no question that I’ll submit.
Charles takes me by the hand, and I go meekly where I am led. I don’t lift my head until we reach the break room, which smells of tepid brown water and stale pastries. He guides me directly to the single wooden straight-backed chair in the room. The very same chair I’ve talked about with my imaginary friends on the newsgroup. It’s the one I always use, squirming on the hard seat as I fantasize about the pain of a spanking. At last the penny drops.
“
Victorian Schoolmaster,
” I say in an awed whisper.
Charles gives me the evil grin he signs all his posts with. It’s far more effective in person. “
Pink Cheeks,
” he replies.
I giggle, hearing my moniker aloud for the first time.
“This is no laughing matter, young lady,” he says sternly.
My reply is automatic. “No, sir.” It’s how I’ve addressed him in writing numerous times. But actually saying it to him…I’m trembling with fear, anticipation, ecstasy, and a thousand other things there are no emoticons to express.
“You know what you need.”
I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement, but I know how I’m meant to respond in any case. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
“Good girl.”
A palpable silence follows. Enough time for all to become clear. “Victorian Schoolmaster” began posting to the group a few weeks after I did. So he must have known all along. That was months ago. I quiver at the thought. How many hundreds of posts have I made in that time? How many fantasies have I described in explicit detail? Worst of all—how many of his stories have I gushed over, declaring them my favorite masturbation aids?
I look up to see Charles peering intently at me, reading my thoughts.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” he says with deep satisfaction. “I know all about your kinky little mind. I know all your hot buttons and trigger words. And I intend to make full use of that knowledge.” He pauses before adding, “You’ve earned yourself a sound spanking, young lady, and you’re about to learn what a well-smacked bottom feels like. You naughty, naughty little girl.”
The words nail me one by one. He’s a fantasy come to life before my eyes. I’d even been tempted to write about him on the newsgroup—a fantasy about my handsome coworker with the vivid blue eyes—but something held me back. Now I’m immensely relieved about that.
With slow deliberation he indicates the chair and I chew my lip. I know what he wants and I know better than to pretend I don’t. Obediently, I place the chair in the center of the room and return to stand in front of Charles, my head down.
“Now then, little miss,” he says, eyeing me sternly, just like the Victorian schoolmaster he plays so well online. “I think you know what comes next.”
I do. As if in a dream, he seats himself in the austere chair, his trousers taut over firm muscular thighs. I stare at his lap, dizzy.
I sink into position and place my clammy hands on the floor. I never thought I’d be seeing the ugly yellow lino this close.
Charles’s hand rests on my bottom and I am still, as though frozen by a spell. He pats me gently over my tailored skirt and then slowly begins to raise it. I lift my hips to help him tug it up over my rear.
“Naughty little girls,” Charles says, “who read naughty little stories deserve to have their naughty little bottoms smacked.”
I shudder at the words, blood rushing loudly in my ears as my heart hammers in my chest.
He caresses my bottom and I writhe over his knees, imagining his approval as he sees the panties I’ve described on the newsgroup. The ones that make me feel like a schoolgirl again. Without a word, he slips his fingers into the waistband of my white cotton knickers, pulling them down to expose me. I flush with embarrassment, my face burning.
Now his palm rests on my bare skin. The stifling room drops twenty degrees as the erotic dread consumes me. Helpless, I shiver and lie trembling across his thighs. For a moment—just a moment—I want to leap up and run. Call it off, scurry away, and hide forever. But I know I won’t. I
can’t.
“Discipline, Emma,” my stern schoolmaster says, “is something you clearly need. And I intend to teach you a firm lesson. You’ve had this punishment coming for a long time.”
“Yes, sir,” I moan. It’s all I’m capable of saying.
Then I feel his palm lift from me. I hold my breath. The hand seems to hang suspended in the air forever before coming down to meet my skin with a loud smack. Startled by the reality of the situation more than by the pain, I yelp. Another smack, another yelp. Another and another and another. I’m feverish with embarrassment and desire as he spanks me briskly, thoroughly, not neglecting a single inch of vulnerable flesh.
“Blatant disregard of the rules,” he chides. “And what has it earned you, young lady? A good sound spanking.” A particularly hard volley of smacks punctuates these words and I cry out even louder.
When he finally stops, I moan softly, writhing over his lap.
Don’t stop,
I try to tell him with my body. But he does. The warm glow in my backside is comforting. It matches the one on my face. He urges me up and I struggle gracelessly to my feet, unable to look at him.
“I’m not finished with you, my girl,” Charles says. He waits for me to look up at him before adding, “Your hairbrush. Go and collect it.”
I blush even more fiercely, now truly mortified. Of course. He knows all about that, too. The antique ebony one I found on eBay and described to the group in loving detail. I carry it in my bag and every time I brush my hair with it, I imagine a no-nonsense authority figure using it on my backside.
My hands are shaky and sweaty as I hurry to obey, fumbling the hairbrush out of my handbag and nearly dropping it as I present it to him.
Charles smacks it against his hand, making me wince. “Back over my knees,” he orders.
My legs have forsaken me. I collapse into position.
He lays the cool wood against my burning flesh, and I utter a little mouselike squeak. He smoothes it over every inch of reddened skin, making me squirm even more. I close my eyes and brace myself. I’ve never even had the courage to spank myself with it; I have no idea how it will feel.
Charles taps it against my bottom. “Prepare yourself, young lady. This will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”
The first stroke connects and I arch wildly on his lap, crying out at the pain. He doesn’t give me time to recover before delivering the next one, and the next.
I’m astonished at the pain. I never imagined it would hurt this much. I’d read and written about countless hairbrush spankings, but never truly understood the sensation. It’s terrible and wonderful at once, especially when I’m at the mercy of a skilled and uncompromising disciplinarian.
I breathe into each stroke, hissing through my teeth, yelping as the wood strikes my tender flesh. When I struggle, he holds me firmly in place. I’m helpless. Delirious. Flying.
After a dozen strokes, he finally stops. I lie gasping and panting over his lap. I see him set my hairbrush down on the table in front of me, and I melt with relief.
“Have you learned the value of discipline?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I whimper.
“Good girl.” He trails his fingertips over my punished bottom. Then he squeezes my burning cheeks, making me squeal.
He gives a soft laugh. Then he helps me up again. And sits there, silent. Waiting.
I can’t play dumb and wouldn’t dare try. He knows me inside out. He knows every single element in my fantasy life, and he relishes exploiting them. “Thank you for punishing me, sir,” I say.
Charles smiles and rises to gather me in his arms, stroking me like a cherished pet. His hands stray to my tender bottom and he squeezes, making me yip.
“Pink Cheeks,” he says fondly. “I think you’ll be staying behind tomorrow night as well. And the night after that.”
I bury my face in his chest, tingling all over with sensations I don’t quite know how to process yet. My first spanking. I can hardly wait to write about it. I know my favorite imaginary friend will respond.
HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT?
 
Gwen Masters
 
 
 
 
 
I
sat in the middle of the rumpled bed. The sounds of silence were all around me—the ticking of the clock, the call of a distant bird, the lack of footsteps in the hallway. Wayne had ordered me to stay naked, said he would be right back, and left me there. That was an hour ago.
My bare breasts felt heavy in my hands. The red marks on them were beginning to fade. Wayne had used the new whip, the one that bit like fire. I had closed my eyes and counted the strokes out loud, waiting for the moment when he would decide I had had enough. My wedding ring was cool against my overheated skin.
Wayne liked suspense. He loved to hold the whip above my skin, moving it just enough to stir up the tiniest breeze, then bringing it down when I least expected it. He loved to lull me into a feeling of security, then test me by pushing the boundaries. No one would know what I enjoyed just from looking at me. None of my friends knew the way things were. Only I understood that when I disappeared behind closed doors, being submissive wasn’t just a desire, it was a need—it was what kept me ready to face the world.
Tired of waiting for him, I lay down and closed my eyes. I dozed on the bed until I awoke to the familiar crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.
Wayne whistled his way into the bedroom. He smiled when he saw I was still naked, just as he had left me. He sat on the bed behind me and snuggled close, pulling me back against his broad chest.
“I went to Blake’s house,” he said as he kissed my ear.

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