Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (11 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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The head of his cock prods my tight bud. He stops and takes a moment to use his fingers, adding more lube, stretching me slowly to prepare me. I almost cry; for Dar this is a display of tenderness. His breath warms my neck as he whispers more encouraging words in my ear. “Shhh, Tess, shhh,” he says soothingly, even as the head of his cock pushes past my tense muscles, making me scream in an alien voice not mine, too feral to be coming from me. He takes a moment, kissing my neck, nuzzling my earlobes before pushing his entire length in. It’s insanely intense; there are no words, what words would do? Only three rapidly beating hearts, three sweat-glazed bodies together in a primal bond, moaning and panting their pleasure as they move in rhythm.
As the movements get harder, more intense, Dar reverts to his harsher self, pulling my hair so hard my neck hurts, biting painfully into my shoulder, making me scream so loud for a moment I worry about people in the next room or hallway hearing us. His words are harsher as well. “Is this what you wanted, bitch? You love it, don’t you, my little whore? Can’t get enough cock. Is this enough for you? Is it?”
“Yes. Oh, god, yes,” I shout. I’m surprised I can even speak with the intensity of this new sensation. I can feel their cocks touch through the thin wall separating my cunt from my ass. I know they must feel each other too and it makes me even crazier. I realize this must be someone Dar knows well and trusts implicitly. There is only one person I can think of who fits that bill, and who is so similar in body type that it would be difficult to tell them apart without my sight: Jack, his best friend, the bastard who has always disliked me. Dar claims it’s simply because Jack is protective. I find it nearly impossible to believe that anyone would think Dar needs protecting, but at the same time I am begrudgingly grateful that Dar has so loyal a friend.
My thoughts vanish as they both pump harder into me. I’m going to come, I can’t help myself, it’s too much, too intense, I want it to continue forever, and I want it to stop immediately. There is no more rhyme or reason to my thoughts. I’m crazed, lost in a mad eddy of sensation and emotion when spasms rock my body. My cunt tightens, strangling the heavy cock inside me, my ass pulsating hard around Dar’s cock. I hear a low groan, and the hand stiffens in my hair; Dar pulls out of my ass and roars as his come warms my back and flows, dripping in thick rivulets, to coat my ass. He continues holding me, helping to lift and lower me on the cock still enveloped inside me.
“Come again,” he says in that voice that broaches no argument. “Come for me, slut. Come with that cock inside and my hands on your throat.”
When he moves his large hands to my throat, I inhale deeply, tightening every muscle in my body in anticipation of losing my breath for seconds that I know from experience will feel like hours. But he doesn’t squeeze, he just presses firmly, allowing me my breath, though making me aware it’s in his power to take it away as he pleases. My orgasm builds rapidly with the combination of his words, his firm hands, and the stiff cock pounding me hard enough to bump my cervix. As I come again I feel the man underneath me slam into me one final time. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he exclaims. “Jesus Christ.” I’m sure the words were unintentional but impossible to be restrained. Just those five words confirm that it is Jack. And as soon as I think that, I begin to doubt myself. At least I think it’s him. I wonder if I’ll ever be sure.
Dar lifts my limp body up and places me gently on the bed. I feel the bed shift as they both get up and then hushed whispers, words I can’t make out. Water starts running in the bathroom. I want to get up and take off this damn blindfold, but I don’t dare. I’m elated that Dar has made this fantasy come true for me. I know with his protectiveness and possessiveness, it couldn’t have been easy for him. I wonder what, if any, price I’ll have to pay. Then I laugh to myself, remembering one of Dar’s rules—there is always a price to pay.
There are more whispers and finally the sound of the door opening and closing. The ghost has gone. I picture him vanishing, dissolving into mist before he even reaches the elevator, a phantom that will haunt the halls of this hotel forever. Dar tells me he’s going to dim the lights. Then he walks to the bed, pulls me up to my knees, and slides the blindfold off. Even though the room isn’t bright, I blink a few times as my eyes grow accustomed to sight. Then all I see are his deep brown eyes. I’m staring at him, trying to access his thoughts, his mood, when he smiles that devilish grin, halfway between a sneer and a smile. He’s standing in front of me, naked, still with the glow of sex evident in the sheen on his body, his cock semierect.
“My trousers are on the chair. Go and bring me the belt from them, pet,” he says. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine until I walk past him on my way to do his bidding. “You can reimburse me with tears, Tess. I think that will do for now.”
Ah
, I think, a smile he can’t see stretching across my face as I feel my own excitement start to build again,
that is a price I am more than willing to pay
.
THE SUN IS AN ORDINARY STAR
 
Shanna Germain
 
 
 
 
 
H
e was cleaning the bedroom for Stella’s return when he heard it. He’d been down on his haunches, swishing the broom beneath the bed’s dark corners, when something metallic clanked against the broom. He fished it out.
There, among the dust bunnies and dirt, was Stella’s favorite set of nipple clamps, two silver clips connected by a thin chain. The metal was dusty and a few of Stella’s long hairs were wound in the chain. Still on his haunches, he picked the clamps up. They were lighter than he remembered, more fragile, the weight of them in his palm almost nothing.
He opened one of the large clips, ran his finger across the row of teeth. Croc heads, Stella called them. Before everything, she’d call home from the office some days, leave a message on the machine. “You’re going to have to get out the crocs tonight,” she’d say.
Last time she’d called home was right before Christmas. She’d been working on the big holiday shoe campaign, Photoshopping sweat and muscles and boobs onto famous athletes. Even on the message her voice was shaky. “Baby, I’m not feeling up to par,” she said. “Let’s get those alligator maws out tonight. And whatever else you can think of. I know you’re gonna make me feel better.”
And he had. As soon as she’d walked in the door, still in her cream-colored work pants and the brown blouse that matched her eyes, her long dark hair pulled back, he’d ordered her to undress. She looked tired, light gray circles under her big brown eyes, but she’d asked and he always tried to give her what she asked for. He’d ordered her to undress him, too, and then he’d cuffed her arms to their slatted headboard. She was pale curves against the purple bedspread. Her long hair, loose from its clip, waved out around her head.
With her arms above her head, her small tits tilted upward. He loved her tits, pale and down-fuzzed as summer peaches, but it was her nipples that he loved the most, the way they stretched high and taut when she was aroused. He’d teased her first, rubbing the sharp edge of the clamp teeth along the inside of her thigh, around the edges of her neck, in smaller and smaller circles around her nipples. He loved to watch the points push into her skin.
Stella was as still as he’d told her to be, mouth closed, only her flared nostrils giving away her arousal. When he saw she was wet, he slid the opened clamp along the edge of her pussy lips, up to her clit. He’d never clamped her there, but he’d promised her it was coming. Now he closed the clamp, just a bit, on that pale pink flesh. She arched her back and gasped.
He took the clamps away, slapped the curvy bottom of her ass, hard enough to feel the sting on his palm. “Be still,” he said.
She closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring. When her eyes were closed, he opened both clamps and then closed them on the rosy skin of her nipples. Stella inhaled deeply through her nose.
He leaned back and watched her, the metal clips closed onto her taut flesh, leaving little pinpoints of bloodless skin. At the end of the bed, Stella’s feet, the only thing she couldn’t keep still, arched in their bonds. Her clit was aching, he knew. “You want to be fucked?” he asked.
Stella knew enough to keep quiet, even to shake her head a little from side to side.
He put one finger inside the hot wetness of her, curled it into an arch. “No?” he asked.
“No,” she said. But her pussy gave her away, the way she stretched against her bonds to take more of his finger inside her. He entered her with a second finger.
“You’re sure?” he asked. He loved to watch her at this moment. His Stella, stubborn as her Aries sign, truth-speaking, Type A. The internal struggle—to say what she wanted, to take what she wanted, or to give up to him, just for these few moments. This, he knew, was why she wanted to be topped, needed to be topped. This was why he loved it. His cock loved it too, of course, but his mind loved to get her here, to this final release.
He wriggled his fingers inside her, hard against her walls. “I’m sorry, what?” he said, even though she hadn’t said anything.
“No,” she breathed. Just once. But he knew it was enough. He took his fingers out. “Look at me,” he said. And she did, while he entered her, his cock going deep inside her and one hand pulling the nipple clamps, hard and harder, until she begged to be let loose.
He reached up and unbuckled the cuffs. “One hand on your clit.” She did as he said, she put one hand on her clit, two fingers rubbing furiously back and forth. The sight of her was almost enough to make him come.
He entered her again, keeping himself back far enough that she could still work her clit. Her other hand reached for something to hold on to. “The clamps,” he said. “Pull.”
And she did, pulling her nipples up and up with the chain, arching her back to press her clit into him and her hand. He came before she did, but was hard enough to keep inside until she came. Her orgasm was soft, quiet moans and one last tug on the clamps.
He eased himself out of her, and sat beside her on the bed. When he took the clamps from her nipples, she moaned again, turning her head away. He kissed her nipples gently. She turned back toward him, her brown eyes no longer squinted-up from stress. She still looked tired though, beneath her eyes and around the edges of her lips. He stroked her hair and she snuggled her face into the curve of his neck. “You always know exactly what I need,” she said. And then she’d fallen asleep, her breath soft and quiet against his skin.
 
That was six weeks, two surgeries, and some kind of newfangled chemo ago. Today, Stella was coming home. He didn’t know what to do with the clamps, and he couldn’t bear to touch the cold metal any longer, so he opened the nightstand drawer.
The books from friends and family—
Coping with Cancer, Outsmart Your Cancer, Cancer Husband
—stared up at him, spines uncracked. He’d tried to read the
Husband
one during one of Stella’s appointments, but he hadn’t understood what was about to happen, and the chapters on lumpectomy and chemo and sex with cancer had seemed impossible. Now, he wished he’d read it, at least the sex chapter, although he doubted there was anything about the kind of sex he and Stella had.
Used
to have. They’d had sex once or twice while she was sick, but it had been the kind of soft, gentle sex he’d always imagined belonged to virgins and old people. When Stella’s bones hurt after hot showers and she couldn’t sleep because the sheets tore at her skin, they’d fallen into this habit of moving quietly together, him raising himself above her, cock and pussy the only place they touched. And then even that had fallen away, forgotten under the bed in the midst of doctors and options and books and Stella’s determination.
Stella had tackled cancer the same way she tackled a big project at work, or, when he’d first met her, a research paper in grad school. Learn the facts, make a to-do list, and then checkmark your way down to the end. Get diagnosed, check. Find the best doctor they could afford, check. Explore all the treatments, check. Get rid of it, check. He didn’t want to admit it, but Stella had handled all this with her usual grace and determination, while he was the one who felt lost.
Now, they had cut it out of her body, and she was coming home to him. And he felt like the world’s biggest asshole for what he wanted. Or the world’s whiniest husband:
My wife went to Cancerville and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.
He wanted her down on her knees, the gorgeous globes of her ass pink-marked, begging him for mercy. He wanted to tie her up and enter her, one half-inch at a time, until she bucked her hips against him. He wanted to clamp the clips in his hand around the points of her nipples and force her to fuck herself until she came, until the tightness left her body and she could fall asleep again, at the point of his neck, without worry. He wanted to give her that release, but without topping her, without hurting a body that had already been beaten by its own cells, but he didn’t know how.
Simply the possibility of it made his cock harden. He reached down to rub himself through his pants, and then he realized he was still holding the nipple clamps. Shiny guilt-makers. He dropped them onto the pile of books and shut the drawer tight. It was almost time to pick Stella up anyway.
 
Stella came home from the hospital with a new pair of reading glasses and a new star, dark red against her pale skin. He saw the glasses as soon as she got in the car—she put the blue- and yellow-striped frames on so she could see the street signs, even though she wasn’t driving. He hadn’t seen the star yet, but he felt it radiating from her body, sending heat through her white T-shirt, through the blue fleece she wore over it, through the shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders. The heat made him feel like he’d landed on the surface of some unknown sun. Sweat started at the edges of his hairline.

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