Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (16 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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“I’m not so sure,” said Schoolgirl. “Maybe it just takes two.”
“Maybe,” said Angel suspiciously, and, without asking, leaned in to kiss Schoolgirl, who not only didn’t argue but moaned softly as their tongues met.
We got Schoolgirl down from the cross and took her home with us so fast we forgot her panties.
As it turned out, though, she didn’t need them.
FIRST DATE WITH THE DOM
 
Noelle Keely
 
 
 
 
A
hot summer day in Boston had morphed into a sultry night by the time Serena and Jack dragged themselves out of the Barking Crab. Still talking, they made their way across Fort Point Channel to South Station, where Serena would need to catch the T if she was heading home to Dorchester.
Then came the inevitable moment where they stood on the street and stared at each other, trying to figure out what to do next.
What they both wanted was obvious.
Serena could smell it over the combination of salt and exhaust fumes that scented the air this close to the harbor. She could taste it, as she could still taste Jack’s fingers. She could feel it in her blood and bones as much as in her tight, sensitive nipples and wet, pulsing pussy.
Desire. Need. Want.
Hunger.
All the dark creatures that lived inside her brain clamored for their chance to come out to play: the broken virgin, the whore, the temple dancer, the pirate’s captive, the French maid, the prisoner of the Inquisition.
And the slave, always the slave.
But she didn’t dare to speak.
Odd, that. In the past, when she’d wanted a man anywhere as badly as she wanted Jack, she hadn’t waited around for him to make a move. Oh, no, she’d made her dishonorable intentions clear.
But Jack froze that bold part of her, even while he melted the rest. Jack’s pale, steady gaze and cool voice and the knowledge of what he was and the feeling that he wouldn’t react well to being pushed, held her back.
So Serena bit her lip and waited.
For what must have only been about thirty seconds, but felt more like thirty minutes.
The hell with being decorous, she decided. If she was stepping out of line, he’d let her know. And with any luck, the way he let her know might be fun.
She stretched up, put her arms around Jack’s neck and kissed him.
He didn’t seem to mind, judging from the way he pulled her closer, the way he met her tongue with his and orchestrated their dance.
But he pulled away after a distressingly short time and looked down at her rather sternly. “Patience, pretty lady,” he said, shaking his head. “I prefer to set the pace.”
For a second, she thought she might have actually angered him. He seemed remote and somehow bigger: taller, broader, more menacing, almost frightening.
It was a type of frightening, though, that went straight to her groin, stabbing at her clit.
Then one of his hands buried itself in the thick curls at the back of her neck and pulled her head back. “Fortunately,” he whispered, “you were only about two seconds ahead of me.”
He kissed her.
Such simple words: she could tell her mother the next time they talked, “And then Jack kissed me,” and her mother would say something along the lines of “How sweet!”
Sweet, though, had nothing to do with this devouring, possessive mouth, this fierce grip on her hair, this other hand firmly cupping her ass and pressing her pelvis against his body. Sweet had nothing to do with the conflagration roaring through her body, burning up her will to do anything for the moment but touch Jack, please Jack, be pleased by Jack. And “sweet” certainly had nothing to do with the hard cock pushing against her as if it could penetrate her through their clothes, there on the corner of Atlantic Avenue by South Station.
If it could, she’d let him.
As it was, she was going to take what she could get, here on the street. As long as he didn’t mind, that is.
She moved experimentally against him, shifting so her clit, through the thin fabric of her dress and panties, was in contact with him. Then, thinking fast, she broke from the kiss just long enough to ask, “Is this all right?”
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s a good girl. See if you can make yourself come by rubbing yourself against me. I’ll reward you if you can.”
Oh, my god. If she’d been turned on before, she was about a hundred times more so now just by hearing him say these words.
It was early enough that the streets were still full, pedestrians stepping around the island they made in the sea of foot traffic, sometimes with an indulgent laugh, sometimes not. Some little piece of brain still grounded in the everyday world said she should be self-conscious, ashamed of such slutty behavior in public.
Serena told that little piece of brain to shut the hell up.
Serena ground against Jack, thrusting her pelvis wantonly against the bulge in his pants as they kissed.
Each movement sent little fingers of pleasure through her, reaching up to meet the pleasure flowing down from the lips Jack was still devouring. It was enough to feel amazing, but not enough to push her over the edge. She shifted, meaning to straddle his thigh—it was subtle as a ton of bricks falling on your head, but maybe any gawking passersby would be having extrahot evenings themselves—but Jack put both hands on her hips and moved her back where she had been.
“Oh, no, I’m not making it that easy,” he chuckled. “Besides, I like you rubbing your pussy against my cock right here on the street.” He nibbled her neck then returned his lips to her ear. “A bus just went past, and everyone on it saw you getting yourself off. All the pedestrians, all the drivers…they’re all looking at you, thinking you’re a hot little slut.”
“And that we’re both drunk, because adults just don’t act like this when they’re sober.”
His voice was pushing her. He still had her hips in his grasp and was moving her, getting her to push and grind in particular ways that must have been good for him, but were also doing crazy things to her. “They’ll never know,” he said, his voice gravelly with desire, “that you’re doing this because I told you to. But you’ll know, won’t you?”
Each word felt like a lick on her clit. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably, and she pressed her face against his chest, trying not to scream.
“You’re going to come for me right now.” It wasn’t a question.
The trembling turned to violent shakes. Her pussy spasmed, and she wished Jack was inside her. The street around her vanished, lost in a flood of sensation.
And despite herself, Serena did scream, muffled against Jack’s broad chest.
He shifted so his arms were around her, possessively but far more gently than they had been, and he cuddled her close, nuzzling at her hair. “Good girl,” he said. “That’s my good girl.” The pride and desire in his voice danced across Serena’s skin and caused little aftershocks in her dripping pussy.
And he just held her that way until she stopped trembling, as seemingly oblivious to other people during this tender moment as he had been during the lewd one.
After that, the only real question was whose place they would go to, and that one was simple. Serena had a roommate, Jack didn’t. And so they headed to where Jack had left his car.
On a quiet side street in the financial district, Jack stopped her. “Take off your panties,” he ordered abruptly.
“Wha…?” Serena hoped she didn’t look as foolish as she sounded.
“I bet they’re soaked through. Aren’t they?”
She nodded mutely. They had been at least since he’d fed her the squid, but articulating that was too much for her brain at the moment.
“Already sticky enough out tonight without sticky panties, too. So lose them.”
She looked around. The street was deserted except for a couple of men having a smoke outside the restaurant on the corner. They were apparently having a heated conversation, unlikely to pay attention to something happening up the block. Still, it seemed a little public. Being pantyless wasn’t the problem; no one would ever know for sure under her full-skirted sundress unless she tripped or had some other accident so spectacular that lack of underwear would be the least of her worries. It was getting them off gracefully.
She hesitated, half of her screaming to obey Jack and see what further adventures it led to, the other half too embarrassed to move.
“Problem?” he asked, in a tone she couldn’t read.
Serena nodded, then shook her head. Why was this so hard? She’d slithered out of wet bikini bottoms under a skirt before; it was the same principle.
“We haven’t talked about limits yet, or set any ground rules. You can say no. I’d just want to know why if you do, if it’s a hard limit or just something you’re not ready for tonight.”
And knowing that she could say no somehow made it easier to say yes, and to work the panties down while leaning on him for balance.
By the time she bent down to retrieve them from around her ankle, she could feel her juices on the top of her thighs.
Before she could shove them into her bag, Jack embraced her, gently enough, but effectively pinioning her arms to her sides.
The panties hung limp in her hand—the hand that was facing the street, for anyone to see.
Despite an overwhelming urge to crunch the tiny thong into her fist, she didn’t move. Part of her brain that she wouldn’t have thought could function under these conditions recognized the test and saw the right, desired—desirable—answer in the same blinding flash.
Jack liked teasing. Jack liked testing. Jack wanted to know what she wanted, what she didn’t want, what her limits were; but they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it yet. And by letting her know she could say no, he’d forced her to think about whether her urge to curl up and die was merely a knee-jerk reaction.
It was.
All this flashed through her brain in a millisecond. Then he kissed her and all efforts at thinking pretty much stopped.
There was laughter and the sound of footsteps.
She opened her eyes, peered around Jack as best she could.
A small group of older women was approaching, all wearing logo caps from a popular tourist pub and giggling as if they’d spent the early evening sampling the pub’s wares. Gray-haired and solid looking, dressed in clothes that owed more to comfort than fashion, they reminded her of her mom.
Panic flared.
And then faded. Funny, but with Jack’s arms around her, she felt safe to do things she’d only fantasized about before. Not that she’d especially fantasized about showing a bunch of motherly strangers what a tart she was, but “forced” exhibitionism had definitely been in her top ten masturbatory hits.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Jack murmured, and resumed the kiss.
As the tipsy tourists passed them, she overheard a shocked—or maybe amused—exclamation of “Now that’s not something you see every day!” and a lot more laughter.
Serena trembled and clenched, so excited by the situation and the fact of being caught that she was almost ready to come again without being touched.
“Time to get you home, my girl,” Jack whispered in her ear.
And those words, that possessive tone was all it took to bring her off again, coming on the streets of the financial district for the second time that night.
IN CONTROL
 
M. Christian
 
 
 
 
 
 
W
e met in the dark corner of an Internet chatroom. SLUTSLAVE, a nubile profile full of in-the-know vernacular with damned good typing skills, and MASTER017, my digital persona. We didn’t really meet there, of course, but that’s where we first started to talk. The dance was slow, at first. I’ve heard other doms say that they don’t like it slow, sedate, careful—they’d rather snap their fingers and have them drop to their knees. Me? I like the dance, the approach, the “chat” in chatroom. Besides, I’ve had a few of my own snaps, the eager young slaves with sparkles in their eyes and not a clue between the ears. Give me someone who knows what they’re getting into. It’s better, after all, to be wanted by someone who wants the best, as opposed to someone who just wants.
So we danced, we chatted, SLUTSLAVE and I—or at least that cyberspace mask I wore. Finally, after many a midnight typing, she complained with a sideways smile [;-)] that she was looking for something where more than her wrists got a workout.
Like I said: step one, two, three, turn, step one, two, three. Careful moves in this courtship dance. No snap from me. I made her sing for her supper, pushing her along, not making it easy for her. “Do you know what you’re asking for, slave?” I asked, clicking and clacking on my keyboard.
She did the same, and the dance changed its tempo: “Yes, Master. I do.”

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