The Big Book of Submission (11 page)

They rose in unison, bussed their cups and saucers, Nina's fork stained red from her lipstick. The café was bustling, and Nina took the lead toward the back; there was an exit there, but she redirected them to the bathroom, with its flimsy door with only a knob lock, which she pushed in before she even flipped on the light.

The fluorescent bulb was slow to warm, and so the room was greenish, the walls covered in a garish sort of graffiti, left with pen and marker and dug in the walls
with fingernails. Nina focused, for just a moment, on a lopsided heart drawn in green next to the paper-towel dispenser before she carefully set her cell phone on the edge of the sink.

“Panties off,” she breathed out, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor. They were both wearing skirts, Lizzie's shorter, a stretch of pale skin visible between the hem and the cuffs of her kneesocks.

Lizzie's bag was already on the floor, and she rose up on the toes of her sneakers as her fingers went under her skirt to tug her underwear off—a black lace thong, the same as she always wore, damp in the middle. She blushed as she untangled the garment from her shoes and held it out to Nina, who draped it by the cell phone.

The room was slowly being filled in as the bulb warmed, and Nina could hear the scrape of chairs and feet, the chatter of voices down the narrow hall lending a sort of musicality to the scene, disjointed and distant as it was.

“Skirt up.” Her voice didn't waver with the commands, and she kept her eyes on Lizzie's; the student, in turn, seemed unable to tear her own away, even as she flipped up the hem of her skirt and inched it up her thighs, holding it at the waistband.

She was clean shaven, but her cunt was already swollen and purple, an almost startling contrast to the white of her thighs. Her head tipped back against the wall, next to a narcissist's epitaph scrawled in uneven
black letters, her eyes following Nina's descent to the floor, like water cascading, one fluid movement, her skirt billowing and pillowing around her knees when she landed.

There was a time allowance—there always was, either by design or by the sheer fact that they were in a busy restaurant during the Saturday brunch rush, and Nina wasted no time pushing Lizzie's thighs apart and forcing the girl to rise up on her toes again to keep level, her ass pushing away from the wall almost automatically. Nina had to giggle, and Lizzie whined at it, her big dark eyes still on the woman on the floor, but already unfocused, fingers kneading at the fabric clutched in her hands.

Nina used only the tip of her tongue first, pressed to that crest at the top of Lizzie's sex, slipping down that little hill to meet the exposed tip of her clit. Lizzie's response was quite instantaneous: a sudden high-pitched whine, quickly choked as she ducked her chin, an effort to keep herself quiet. Her hands were occupied, so she couldn't bite at her palm. Nina flashed her a smile, conspiratorial, and repeated the motion, and again, a teasing, testing flick, back and forth, too much and too little at once.

Lizzie sputtered out something that could have been English, or Swahili, or some long-dead language, pulling her skirt up over her belly as she tipped her pelvis closer to Nina's mouth. Nina let her advance for just a moment, flat of her tongue caressing the girl's clit, slit and smooth
inner lips all at once, before she drew back.

“You know what you're supposed to do,” she said, eyebrows raised, all teacher with her glasses and patronizing expression.

“Please please
please
,” came that pant, without hesitation, the lips on Lizzie's face gone purple, too, with that same rush of blood. She was nodding her head with each syllable, eyes blinking desperately already against the tears pooling along the rims.

Nina's mouth curled in a smile. “There you go.” And there was a reward for that, of course, tongue pushing her folds apart, firm this time, lapping along her clit, over her wet pussy, with full intention and attention now.

Lizzie squirmed over Nina, desperation making her pull her skirt higher and higher until it was locked under her breasts, hands pressed to her ribs. She whined and wiggled and pleaded, and, when she came, it was with a squeal, like she'd been pricked with a needle, her body spasming up from the wall before smacking back against it, shaking.

Nina wiped her mouth and got unsteadily to her feet, her own cunt pulsing, neglected. She was dizzy as she reached for the phone and touched the screen so it illuminated, the speakers turned all the way up.

“Good girls.” His voice was warm over the line, and the light above the sink finally synced into place, as though waiting for his commentary, just as they were.

Nina rubbed her cheek to her shoulder and Lizzie
fixed her skirt, face flushed. “Thank you.” They spoke in unison, like dolls with their cords pulled.

“Come on home, then,” he said, and there was the distinct clink of his belt over the line, clear as day. “I miss you.”

LOVE AND SALT

Erzabet Bishop

G
ood, you're here.” Mrs. Coulter smiled and held out her hands for me to hand over my clothes.

I put down my bag and slid my shirt over my head. Not wearing a bra was preferable on Tuesdays. Besides, it saved time. Slipping off my sandals, shorts and panties, I knelt on the ground at her feet and allowed her to add whatever accessories my Mistress had in mind for today's activities.

Mrs. Coulter brushed my hair and gathered it into a ponytail. She slid a blue nylon dog collar around my neck and snapped on the leash.

“Get up.”

I lowered my eyes to the floor and did as she bade me. It had been a week since I'd seen my Mistress and my pussy yearned for her touch. Still, I wondered why a
nylon collar and not my leather one. Had I done something to upset my Mistress? The thought had me biting my lip in frustration and I almost missed an instruction.

Mrs. Coulter led me into the kitchen and ordered me to sit on the floor. She then tethered me to a new ring that had been placed on the island. Interesting.

“Wait here.”

I knelt in Mistress's favorite position, with my knees bent and separated, my shoulders back, thrusting out my breasts for her inspection. I knew from experience that I had better be ready or face a punishment.

“Victoria. How lovely to see you.” Mistress entered the kitchen, still in her work clothes. The silver-gray suit and frosted lavender blouse highlighted her waves of dark curls. I longed to feel them against my flesh.

“Yes, Mistress.” I lowered my eyes, a smile brightening my face.

“Get up so I can see those beautiful breasts.”

I wobbled a little as I stood, keeping my hands behind my back and my breasts thrust out toward her.

“Lovely. Now, remove my clothes.” She unhooked my leash, and I hurried to do as she commanded.

I draped her jacket on the top of one of the kitchen chairs. Fingers shaking, I unbuttoned her blouse and let the silken fabric pool under my fingertips as I unfastened the buttons. She slid out her arms and, clad in her bra, bent down and kissed my left breast.

“I have missed you, my girl.” Her slate-gray eyes
twinkled with mischief. “Now, hurry.”

I moved behind her and slid the zipper down on her skirt. Her bra was easy to unhook, but as I knelt down to remove her shoes and underwear, I paused to kiss her shoe.

“Impertinent girl. Did I tell you to kiss anything? Five paddles for you. Now finish the job.”

“Yes, Mistress.” I carefully pulled off her shoes and placed them by her clothes. She was not wearing any panties.

“Good. Now go and stand at the counter with your ass pointed to me.”

As I heard her bustling around the kitchen, moisture began to pool between my legs. My Mistress was most inventive.

“Now, you will hold still and count to five.”

I braced myself on the counter and as the first slap came, I winced.

Crack!

“One.”

“That was for your willfulness.”

Crack! Crack!

“These are for your daydreaming. Pay attention or you'll find yourself unhappy for the rest of the evening.”

“Two and three. Thank you, Mistress.” I hiccuped a sob as the heat crackled in waves across my bottom.

“This one is for my pleasure.”

Crack!

“Four,” I sobbed, tears running down my face as she hit me particularly hard.

Crack!

“This one is for yours.” She rubbed her heavy breasts against my back and brushed her thatch of hair against my flaming ass.

“Five.” Thank you, Mistress, for correcting me.” Liquid boiled between my thighs as the scent of my arousal flooded the air.

“Good. Now up on the counter and lie flat. I have a special treat for both of us tonight.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” I climbed up as she'd ordered and lay down.

“Now, what is my favorite drink, my lovely slave?” She was gathering things from around the kitchen and placing them above my head, where I could not see.

“I would think, Ma'am, that your absolute favorite is the salted caramel mocha, if I am not mistaken.”

“Good girl. Since I have not seen my favorite slave for a week and I also long to taste my favorite drink, what do you think we should do?”

“Whatever my Mistress pleases.”

“I quite agree.”

Mistress tethered me down to the counter with soft nylon rope attached to built-in rings. My pulse pounded as she took out the first two squeeze bottles and drizzled something cold across my breasts, belly and just above my mons. The smell of chocolate and caramel tickled my nose and I moaned, delighting in the sensation as her
mouth began to move across my flesh.

“Hmmm. Very sweet. Caramel suits you, my dear.” She squeezed out some more over my breasts and reached for the salt, shaking it over me. Starting at my breasts, she roamed her way just upward of the apex of my thighs and licked at the sticky caramel and chocolate she had poured across my needful flesh. “Now, I wonder. Are you ready for more?”

I moaned, hungry for her lips to devour me in my most tender of places. She had touched me every place but where I wanted it the most.

“Lovely.” She moved between my legs and began to nibble along the side of my moist folds.

I writhed under her ministrations and shrieked as she sucked my erect clit into her mouth, my hips bucking against her face.

“Oh my god. Oh my goooodddd!” I screamed as she gave a long and languorous ice-cream lick down my folds and entered me with three of her fingers, stretching me wide open.

She hammered my pussy with her fingers and sucked my clit into her mouth, sending sparks of electricity through my body. I came, shuddering, against her hand as she mouthed her way back up to my breasts, pleasure meeting pain as she nipped at my erect nubs with her teeth.

Mistress stood and wiped her face with a moist towel, then kissed me long and hard. I could taste myself on her tongue. I moaned against her mouth as she reached
above my head for another temptation. Holding up a small cup of ice and a butterfly vibrator, she plucked a piece of ice from the cup and inserted it into my heaving cunt.

“Ohhhh!” I breathed as she secured the vibrator around my hips and positioned it for its fullest potential against my clit. The ice made me writhe against my bonds. She smacked me on the thigh. I began to pant and struggle to get myself under control. The ice burned as my pussy clenched around it greedily.

“Stop.” Mistress gave me a stern look and flicked on the vibrator.

Pleasure and pain ricocheted through me as the pulse of the vibrator took over. I could barely breathe.

Mistress smiled wolfishly and turned the dial higher.

“I think it's time we tried a blended iced latte. What do you think?”

I couldn't have agreed more.

BRAZEN

Kathleen Delaney-Adams

I
want you to hurt me.

I am kneeling in the parking lot of the bar, already in agony after mere minutes on the asphalt. Although we have been loving and fucking for years, I still dress to impress you (read: make you hard) and tonight I went all out, femme guns blazing, before you swung me up on the back of your bike and drove me to the dyke bar for a poetry reading. Now my slinky dress is hiked up high somewhere around my thighs, surely my pussy is showing and my new heels are no doubt scratched to bits. I hear the chatter and curious mutterings of passersby on their way to the reading. I feel anxious, for I am supposed to be performing at the open mic, and you grabbed my upper arm in your hand and dragged me out here before the andro-mistress-of-ceremonies called my name.

I feel anxious, for I have no idea what you want.

Every time you touch me, my need expands beyond me, outside of restraint. Incapable of controlling it, I dissolve into liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless you hurt me, use your hands on me with a violence I recognize as your love. I am left waiting for your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.