The Big Book of Submission (12 page)

Your face looks more than slightly dangerous with need, and relief washes over me when I see the smile lurking behind your eyes. That mix of dark and sweet in you had me, claws in deep, from the moment we met. Bad boy with brutal hands or irresistibly charming butch—no matter, I was a goner. Still am. You cup my head tenderly in one hand and unzip your jeans slowly with the other, savoring the sudden gleam in my eye. How I love the sound of your zipper. I tremble as much from anticipation of what is coming next as from the sharp pain in my knees and legs.

The first time you marked my face we had been fucking for days, your cock claiming me as if you had waited a lifetime for my cunt. I pushed you, pleading—it was so big it hurt me, and fear and desire warred inside me. You called me your whore and made me take it, and in that moment, I would have done anything for you.

The first time you marked my face you were slapping it in the front seat of my car, your other hand gripping my hair, calling me
filthy
while I sobbed. The next
morning your handprint was visible on my cheek, purple and blue. I felt terrified and elated.

“Do you like to make me feel good, baby?” you croon, and I melt. I nod eagerly, bite my lower lip, want to scream, “Yes!” and throw myself at you. But you don't want that; you have asked me to kneel in front of you and wait for your instructions like a good girl. So I wait, wetter by the minute, my pussy creaming and slick, just the way you like it to be when you touch me.

“Show me how good.”

You are stroking your cock languidly. I cannot tear my eyes from you, your hand, your girth. Your cock drives me crazy—watching you handle it even more so—and I gasp, “Yes, yes,” as you move it closer to my mouth.

When you say, “Let me come down your throat,” I swallow you whole.

I have craved. For an eternity, I have craved. I thought tenderness happened at the moment I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now I realize that I was wrong. Tenderness is the moment I break and you push me beyond—beyond fear, beyond limits. Tenderness is the way you carry me into my craving and stay with me while I struggle. A moment snaps inside me and I am flying toward you and you knew all along I could take it.

I have never been so safe in all of my life.

I forget everything but this feeling. I forget the
parking lot, the queers around us entering and leaving the bar, the noise, the nervous rush I feel when you fuck me in public. I forget all of it, and work my mouth on you like it's all I live for. I take you inside me, every inch, gagging and choking, and use my spit to lube you up some more so I can take you in even farther down my throat. I breathe through my nose, and when you are in so deep I can no longer do that, I let the tears and snot run down my face.

“You look so beautiful, baby, so beautiful.” Your voice is ragged and so damn sexy I feel weak and grip your legs for support.

You call me “beloved whore” when I please you, and I live for those words, to see the look on your face when I have been a good girl for you, when I take your cock, when I make you come down my throat, when I spread my legs for you without being told. Other times, you call me a filthy whore because I beg for your cock. I cry because I want you to tell me I am good. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, debased, hurt. And I cry because I worship you and do not know how to make you see what you are to me.

You are moaning now, leaning back against the brick wall, your hands cradling my face, your eyes closed. I am clutching your legs to hold myself up and crying openly, watching you as you begin to shake, violently, a muffled cry, before you come in my mouth and down my throat. Your possession washes over me and inside me. I am yours, and I know in that moment, you are mine.

Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy, tear-streaked, makeup stained, puffy and bruised face, and I know, from your eyes I know, I am beautiful. And you are whispering. “My princess,” you whisper. And I am precious.

“Mmmmmm. Nice, girl.” You open your eyes and wink at me. You pull the ever-present handkerchief from your pocket and hand it to me to clean myself up while you re-tuck your cock into your jeans and zip yourself up. You lift me to my feet, holding me to your chest for a moment until my trembling abates and I stand on my own. Your arm around me, we walk toward the door of the bar. The muffled applause and guffaws from a handful of onlookers grow louder when you pull me into your arms again to kiss me.

“I love you, darling,” you whisper in my ear. “Such a good girl.”

I am still grinning when we reenter the din and noise. I only hope I have a moment to collect myself before it's my turn at the mic.

STORY TIME

Inara Serene

N
o. That is just not happening.”

“Oh? Are you telling me what to do, cupcake?”

He could have picked a thousand other names that, to anyone else, would have been more degrading. Slut, bitch, whore—even cunt, though I detest the word—any of those would have been preferable. But he had hit on a nickname that genuinely made me squirm. I hated the sickeningly saccharine sound of it, and all that its frosted syllables implied.

The first time he had used it, he sprinkled it casually into our conversation. I don't think he had guessed just how much I would hate that term of supposed endearment, but my vehement response told him everything he needed to know. And once he had hit on something he could use to tease me, to make me uncomfortable
and indignant, he sank his teeth into it and refused to let go.

“No. Fuck. I wouldn't say that…I just…please? Please don't make me.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth in a sardonic smile.

“You know the more you tell me how much you hate the idea, the more I want to make you do it.”

My gaze dropped to my folded hands, and I examined the ring on my left index finger with undue attention. Even the barest hint of suggestion of the threat rendered me pliant and demure. His words traced over the outline of the tattoo he had imprinted on my psyche, making me visibly shake with the knowledge that I was his, and he could do as he wished with me.

“I know, Sir. How about I'll just be good, and then you will have no reason to punish me?” I asked, my eyes lighting up hopefully.

“Oh, Lizbeth. You have so much to learn, my dear. I don't need a reason. And in any case, you
want
to please me, don't you?”

I nodded vigorously, eager to demonstrate my determination to behave.

“Then you'll do exactly as I say, with none of the usual sass.”

I nodded again, this time with a tad less enthusiasm.

“So we'll get started then, shall we?”

I looked into his toffee eyes, and reached for the book beside me. I had borrowed the novel from a colleague a
few months back. It seemed like an intriguing story: a kinky romance between a blushing virgin and a billionaire. In theory, it sounds hot, right? Yeah, not so much. Two paragraphs in, and it became quite clear that the writing was less than stellar, and after flicking through the pages and sampling some scenes, I wasn't terribly impressed with the actual BDSM dynamic, either. What kind of idiotic dom tells a newbie sub lovers don't need safewords, anyway?

Needless to say, this book was not my favorite, but I suppose that's why Liam chose it.

This was a punishment, after all…

I opened the page and began reading, my voice quavering with nerves. And he just sat there, smiling at me as I knelt beside him and narrated possibly one of the worst erotic novels ever written.

Halfway into the second page, he grabbed my collar—well,
his
collar, really—and forced me to look at him.

“And what are you forgetting, my little slut?”

My eyes flashed at the degradation, and I opened my mouth to protest, but one glance at his face closed it promptly. And anyway, truth be told, I
was
his little slut. I would be anything he wanted me to be.

And I knew just what he wanted.

I traced a hand down my chest, past the ridiculously padded purple push-up bra, and pushed aside my matching purple panties. Taking care to start out slowly, I lightly brushed my already-hardened clit with fingers
cold from crisp autumn air. I knew how much Liam liked to tease, and I wanted to show him how good I could be. Even when I gave myself pleasure, I did it to please him, only him.

I painted tight, invisible circles onto my nub, and soon I couldn't stop myself from slipping a finger into my pussy. God, I was soaked.

“Ahem.”

My eyes jerked open, and I nervously looked up at him. He did not look particularly pleased.

“Did someone tell you to stop reading, or are you just so dumb that you forgot?”

Well, fuck.

“No, Sir. I mean, I didn't…I'm sorry.”

“I suppose I can help you, if you really can't handle the multitasking. And they say women are better at that…but I digress. Would you like that, cupcake? My fingers in your soaked little pussy, and my thumb rubbing your clit?”

“Oh god yes,” I practically whimper. I love it when he talks like that, shaping words into vivid stories of what he's about to do to me. “Please, please. Please help me while I read for you.”

“Mmm.” He was visibly pleased. I think reducing me to begging is one of his favorite activities. “Since you've been relatively good…”

He reached out a perfect, slender hand, so pale in contrast to my darker hues, and easily slipped his fingers inside of me. I could have screamed with relief.

“You're a loud little slut, aren't you?” he taunted.

So maybe I actually
did
scream, just a little.

I began to read again, though it was a Herculean effort. I formed those terribly constructed sentences with parched lips and, between desperate gasps for breath, I read aloud to Liam. Every time I closed my eyes, or forgot to focus on my reading, he abruptly stopped curling his fingers in my wet cunt, and I hastily resumed my performance.

Yes, performance was the right word. Liam played me every bit as beautifully as he played his grand piano, eliciting sounds and sighs and sensations utterly beyond description.

I didn't want to come. I couldn't—
wouldn't
—climax while reading such a crappy excuse for literature. But that wasn't my choice to make, as it turned out. The sheer knowledge that I was actually doing this ridiculous task simply because Liam had asked me to, coupled with his skilled hands, was enough to drive me to the edge of madness.

Every muscle was positively singing with tension, and it was all I could do to pant, “Please, can I come, Sir?”

“Oh, I don't know…
can
you?”

That bastard.

“Please,
may
I come, Sir?”

“I suppose so. Come for me, my love.”

That final word of sweetness sent me careening over the edge, crashing hard into an infinite sky of exploding stars.

But when I opened my eyes, I was still in my bed, my solid, soft bed with the man taken straight from both my dreams and my nightmares.

“I'm so proud of you, Lizbeth,” he murmured as he held me in his freckled arms.

And as I snuggled into his chest, the stupid book still beside us, I felt proud to be his.

PRINCESS

Amelia June

T
oday is my princess's birthday.

He's thirty-four today and still rocking the youthful looks. Five o'clock shadow gives him a sexy ruggedness that women like. He's tall and broad and carries himself with the swagger that comes from knowing he's mine. I'm already wet as I watch him sit in the pedicurist's chair.

As I'd hoped, the ladies at the spa fuss over him. They don't see many men, they say. They tell him, “Happy birthday,” in that strange falsetto of women who are uncomfortable and more than a little jealous of me and mine. When they paint his nails, I see the shine reflected in his gaze. I can't focus on anything but him. He belongs to me, but his devotion makes me weak in the knees. I'd do anything for him.

The drive home is quick and maddening. He basks in the glow of the pampered, and I send him straight to the bedroom. I have birthday plans.

“It's just that you can be scary,” he tells me, even as he strips his clothes off and waits for me. Mostly, my depth of love for him scares
me
. In my dark times I worry he'll leave me and tell the world how awful I am. I fear my own twisted desires will chase him away. I refuse to let this be a dark time.

Plucking a wooden spoon out of a kitchen drawer, I go back to the bedroom. I give an extra swing to my hips so my high heels click on the tile.

When I get into the room, he's eager. His breath comes quickly, his body shaking with the stress of being on his knees. I hold the spoon in both hands, tapping the bowl of it against my palm. For a moment I'm the evil queen to his princess. “Knees hurt?” I ask, arching one eyebrow.

Okay, look, I can't arch one eyebrow. I've tried. But if I could, I'd be doing it now. He knows this, and he gives me a little grin before settling back on his haunches. “Yes, Lady.”