The Big Book of Submission (26 page)

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I stand, alone, in the center of the room. There is only an inch of leg showing between the hem of my long skirt and the ankle straps of my shoes. You walk around me, appraising. I duck my head and look up into your eyes, then away again. Then you are behind me.

I grip the sides of the skirt in each hand and lift it, ever so slightly. I am going to give myself to you, expose my flesh for you, one inch at a time. I practiced in the mirror this afternoon, trying to learn by muscle memory what an inch feels like so I could do this accurately, the same way I use a mirror in rehearsal to learn what height to raise my leg, where to place my hands.

I take a deep breath and try to ground myself, connecting with the floor as best I can in my heels. You start with something thin and stinging on my ankles and calves. I'm not used to being hit so low on my legs but I find it relatively easy to stay in control, to keep breathing and lifting my skirt exactly one inch higher after every blow.

Then you reach the backs of my knees, which you strike with a leather strap. It stings and stays with me and suddenly I am much more turned on than I was before. I start to feel greedy. I want you to strike me again and again. I want your hands, your strap, all over my thighs and ass. I want to lift my skirt all the way up to my waist, or better yet, take it off entirely.

Instead, I lift it another inch. It's hard to stand here, trying to keep my balance, trying not to move, with
nothing to lean against. Soon I'm going to have to ask permission to bend over and hold my ankles, at the very least.

Inch by inch we travel together. It's awkward, all this material bunched up in my hands, but I can't seem to get my brain and my hands to work together enough to roll it up neatly and get a good grip. I've reached the point where I need to keep reminding myself that I want this, that I want to go slow, that this is an offering I've chosen to make for you, that taking our time is always better than instant gratification.

You reach the tops of my thighs and I stumble. I can't remain standing anymore. My cunt has been speaking up very loudly for a while now. I'm shaking and moaning and breathing heavily. Still, I push myself through one more inch, one more blow, before I find my voice, coming up so quietly from the depths of my submissive state. “Please, Sir, may I change positions now?” I would love to simply bend over and stay on my own two feet, with nothing to brace against. But I'm also hoping that you'll soon be doing things to me that will make it impossible for me to continue unsupported. So when you ask me what I want, I pause in dreadful silence, unable to decide.

I gamble on the old standby: “Whatever pleases you, Sir.”

But you're not letting me get away with that easy out. “I want you to tell me, girl.”

Another interminable wait while I collect myself.
Finally I come to a conclusion. “Please let me bend over a chair, Sir.” You indicate that I should bring one over. I try to hold my skirt level with one hand as I drag the chair with the other.

I bend over, with no support from my arms, which are still holding the skirt at my hips. You run your hands over the backs of my thighs. I shiver and raise the skirt another inch, exposing the tender crease between my ass and thighs. You tell me you want me to stay still and take five blows on that spot, and I acquiesce gratefully.

I love being told to hold still. I love how it takes every bit of my concentration to obey. Being still makes me more vocal. I cry out and thank you again and again for taking me this way, for pushing me to take more, for hurting me.

After five blows I take a deep breath and reveal the next inch. You take my uncovered ass in your hands and tell me to grip the seat of the chair. You lift my skirt to my waist and I am ready for anything and everything that might come next.

BREATHLESS OBEDIENCE

Cèsar Sanchez Zapata

S
he arrived shortly after three in the morning.

My Mistress, perhaps you might call her. I'd not had occasion to call her much of anything yet. Our relationship (whatever it was) had developed more organically. It was far more visceral, like a chain reaction—stray dominoes falling one upon the other.

She strolled in, as she was wont to do, having picked the lock with the pin she kept tucked in her hair. I was nearly asleep by then, but the click of razor-sharp stiletto heels on the tiled floor woke me. Through parted eyes, I watched her cast off her wool coat and set the taser she carried—not for protection but reserved for extreme punishment—next to my badge on the foyer table.

She donned the black corset—marvelous choice—and thigh-high stockings held by threadlike garter belts
sprouting from her crotch. The silk lace skivvies did their best to rein in the sweeping curves of her superbly bulbous backside, as her breasts swelled against the décolletage, overflowing the bodice with warm, supple flesh.

She was sporting the brunette look tonight, which meant she'd made a pretty little bugger of one of her regulars from the Upper East Side. She tossed the wig, and her long, golden tresses cascaded over her shoulders as she approached.

“You're ready for me, precious?”

Without waiting for an answer, she tested the latches securing my hands to the headboard, then the cuffs on my ankles. She tugged on the intricate riggings lobbed through the ceiling rafters, thus towing my legs up until I was spread obscenely for her pleasure.

She read my mind, purring, “Oh, I
am
quite pleased, precious.”

Now I was strung up just as I'd found her, months ago, during the raid. Strapped to a bed, wonderfully and completely opened wide, her mouth gagged, chest pulsating with excitement.

Two men had stood over her then, in that room off the west corridor of the club, one wielding a riding crop, the other an enormous black dildo that was grazing her pussy. They froze even before I spoke, jaws dropped, yet the sight of me, the pistol in my hand leveled on their pricks, didn't quite register. She, on the other hand, took it in with mild amusement.

Poor saps—once they sorted it—wet themselves.

I hadn't been able to stop gawking, not for one second, even then—on the job. I'd circled the bed, breathless, soaking her in as her eyes followed my every move, never blinking, never shifting.

At first, I didn't realize Ramirez had stopped in the doorway behind me. “Sir, building is secure, we've seized business records, the manager's in custody…” He trailed off, processing the vision in front of him. “My, my—Lieutenant, what've we here?”

I holstered my weapon. “Take the trash out, Sergeant. Leave her.”

Once handcuffed, the johns were led from the room, and I shut the door. Then I moved back to the bed, lowering myself beside her. There wasn't a trace of fear anywhere in her expression. Even as I reached over her naked body to release the gag, she gave only a tiny scoff and chuckle.

“Am I to be the spoils of war?”

I don't remember how long I sat there, wordlessly staring, as she did the same, gazing unwaveringly back at me. She was as exposed as any human being could possibly be, yet she retained the power at all times, sure as anything.

“It'll be your pleasure, Lieutenant.”

She caught me off guard, I'll admit, when she broke the silence. “How's that?”

“This type of work—is unsavory. Oh, I don't much mind the illusion, but it's just not my role to play, you understand. Still, a girl's got to make a living.” She
trained her eyes on me, all at once mocking and penetrating my soul. “It
is
rare in this town to find an honest-to-god pet worth a damn.”

“I couldn't afford you.”

“Serve me in other ways.” She'd knitted her brows together, smiling, tongue slithering like a serpent. “Release me this instant. My precious.”

I obeyed. Against all judgment, I'd felt that immediate, consuming urge to collapse on my knees in prayer, to worship and relinquish control before that blessed altar betwixt her thighs. I'd unlatched the binds posthaste, and watched, transfixed, as she dressed her luscious body in front of me, never bashful. Pure, unbridled confidence.

Then I watched, helpless, as she flounced out of the room.

To this day, I don't know how she managed to exit the building undetected.

I met with the local police shrink recommended by a friend on the force. The hack spent nearly the whole afternoon going over my service record, family history, childhood, my brief marriage. All a waste—if he'd had a kernel of merit he would've seen my “condition” right away for what it was.

Not two weeks after the raid, she woke me in my flat for the first time. I'd never given her my address, but I suspect in her work, it pays to be resourceful.

That night changed everything for me.

The long and short of it: I'd never met a woman who
could dominate me. That desire had never materialized, but the moment I laid eyes on her, a trigger was pulled. Hers was a raw, unmistakable energy. I was paralyzed by the knowledge that she could strip me of everything…and that I
wanted
that.

Before her, my life had been a series of menial snapshots strung together like a cat-o'-nine-tails: wake, drink coffee, drive to work; evidence boxes, scene photographs, fingerprint analysis and blood reports; drive home, eat dinner and sleep. When she had me, really had me, she took that away—yet, inexplicably, gave my life purpose
.

After a decade of “protect and serve,” I was finally serving. Unconditionally.

I didn't notice the leather collar in her hand until she clasped it around my throat then took a step back, admiring her handiwork with a wicked grin. She pulled a two-tailed tawse—how perfectly old school—from beneath the mattress, and crawled on, drawing her exquisite legs on either side of my waist, nestling my cock between her thighs.

Leaning forward, crushing her breasts against me, she hooked the belt behind my head to lift up my face. I parted my lips for a kiss, but she merely licked and bit, teasing my tongue until I was positively frantic. As if from a far distance, I heard my own pleas. Whimpering! The anticipation always got to me. She knew that, and relished it, I'm certain, more than anything else.

With a mere roll of her hips, she had me, now fully
engorged, flush against her cunt, slavering on our fusing honey. As soon as my cock brushed the slippery nub peeping through the curtains of her sex, she let out a gasp—that particular sort of gasp, stretching out like a dozen whispers, that turns a man's brain to shit.

“Are you ready to serve?” she said, already scaling my body.

Moments before she covered my mouth with her pussy, I managed, fighting for each wisp of air, to promise her what she demanded—full obedience.

MINE

Roxanna Cross

Y
ou have been a very naughty slut today. Don't deny it. I saw you after the board meeting. With Jason. Did you like it when he hugged you? Squeezed that sweet little ass of yours? Dragged you over the bulge in his suit trousers? Tell me slut, did your pussy get wet?”

I couldn't respond. I couldn't breathe. With each of his savage accusations his cock pounded inside of me with almost violent force. I moaned deep in my throat.

Colt's fingers tightened around my ponytail, sending shards of wicked pain straight to my skull and dancing along my nape and spine.

“Answer me, slut,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I liked it. Yes, my pussy dripped,” I breathed between heavy moans.

He pushed my torso hard against the glass separating
his plush office from the boardroom we had exited moments before. My already hard nipples extended and beaded even more at the cool touch.

“You like being on display like this, don't you? Your perky nipples begging to be sucked. Your swollen clit rubbing against the glass. It thrills you beyond words, doesn't it?”

Colt's words heated a fire deep inside of me. He knew me so well—how I needed to be possessed, how I craved being watched while I come, how I liked to be called a naughty dirty slut, how I loved the feel of his nine-inch cock filling me until I thought he would rip me in two.

He never disappointed me.

Ours may not be the usual Dominant/submissive relationship, but he understands my need to be taken, claimed and branded, and I understand his need to control me with his cock, his touch—at times soft and tender, or, like now, hard and cruel.

He never ceases to amaze me. He responds to my needs thoroughly, seeing to them one hundred percent. Even if I'm the one submitting to his control, I know I hold all the power. He's proven it to me time after time by fulfilling any number of my crazy fantasies, this one being the latest.

I felt the orgasm build in my lower abdomen as he kept up the cruel rhythm of his punishing plunges.

“Speak!” he commanded.

“Yes, I love everything you said. My nipples are so hard they hurt. My clit is pulsing. You can tell better
than me how hot and wet and tight my pussy is.”

“And if Jason were to walk into the boardroom?”

“I…I…” I closed my mouth, unwilling to express this part of my fantasy to him. What if I pushed too far? Revealed too much? Would he still want to possess me?