Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (17 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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We made a date to get together the next weekend.
 
A knock on the door. Normally, even when it’s expected, it can be jarring. Fist on wood. Bang, bang, bang! But not that night. I opened it. “Welcome.”
I had a picture, of course, and the flesh was just like it, though filled out in three-dimensional reality. Unlike the door, seeing her jarred me, but not unpleasantly.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile, walking in. I closed the door behind her. Full bodied, curved, somewhere between too young and too old, tight and firm from exercise. Eyes gleaming with sharpness, mouth parted just so with anticipation. Curly dark hair, her skin a Mediterranean patina.
We didn’t have to say much, most of our negotiations having been done in emails back and forth. I knew she couldn’t stay on her feet for too long (plantar fascitis), and didn’t like metal restraints or canes—all of it. But her list of yeses was longer than her list of nos.
“Stand there,” I said, pointing to the center of my wool rug. My room looked odd, with all the furniture pushed back, piled up: spare chairs on my big oak table, ottoman tucked underneath. The room was only the rug, a coarse wool bull’s-eye, and my favorite plush wingback.
“Yes, sir,” she said, the grin never leaving her lips, as she walked to the center.
“Stop.” She did, turning slowly to face me. Her breasts were big, wide. Not a girl’s, a woman’s. Twin peaks on cotton fabric. No bra, as ordered. I reached out to one of the points, circled it slowly with a stiff finger. The smile stayed, but her breathing deepened, sped up. “Did I tell you what to call me?”
“No—” she hissed, trying to swallow a scream, as I pinched her nipple, hard. One of my nos concerned sound. My apartment had thin walls.
“Call me ‘Master,’” I said, low and mean, grumbling and growling, as I pinched even more.
“Yes … M-Master,” she said, with a delightful stammer against the pain.
I released the pressure. “Pain is your punishment. It will be frequent. Pleasure is your reward. It will be rare. I’m not going to ask you if you understand. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be here. Undress.”
She did, sensually but efficiently. The white cotton dress went first. Under was a pair of everyday panties, just white. No hose, only socks and shoes, as I had requested. Lingerie doesn’t interest me. Bodies don’t even interest me. She didn’t interest me. But what I could do to her—that was what interested me.
She was naked. Her body was good. Not ideal, but with a warmth and reality to her. Big, full tits with just enough sag to mean reality and not silicone or somesuch. A plump little tummy. A plump mons with a gentle tuft of dark hair. It wasn’t a body that you’d hang on your wall, but it was a body you’d want to fuck. But that was on her no list, which was fine by me. I definitely wanted to fuck with her, not just with her body.
Her hands kept drifting up, a force of will keeping them from hiding her breasts, covering her nipples. I smiled. SLUTSLAVE had a modest streak. Priceless.
I got out my toolbag, my own kind of wry smile on my face. Other tops went on and on about their toys, pissing on each other about the quality of the leather, the weight, the evilness of certain objects. I sat back and watched them: wry grin then, wry grin now. If I had a headboard, I’d have it carved:
A workman is as good as his tools,
it would say.
A great one doesn’t need them at all.
I added it up once. Fifty dollars was as high as I got. Show me any other hobby that could give as much pleasure as my little bag of toys—or as much wonderful discomfort to SLUTSLAVE.
I laid them out on the rug in front of her. I felt like a surgeon—or a priest. “We’re going to play a game,” I said. “The rules are very simple. I ask a question. If you tell me the truth, you get a reward. If you don’t, you get punished. Again, I won’t ask if you understand.”
I picked up a favorite—though, to tell my own truth, I like them all. This one was the favorite of the moment. I squeezed, and the clothespin yawned open. I held it out to her nipple, which, I noticed, was nicely wrinkled, and erect. “Are you wet?”
“Yes,” she said in a breathy whisper. I could tell before she answered; her musk was thick in the room. I was hard. Hell, I was hard when I opened the front door, but hearing that, knowing that, my jeans grew that much tighter.
“First lesson. It’s an important one. Sometimes even the truth can mean pain,” I said, in my best of voices, as I released the spring on the clothespin, letting it bite down sharp and quick on her thickening nipple.
Her sigh was a lovely musical tone, a bass rumble of pain that peaked toward pleasure. Oh, yes, that was it. The first note of a long musical composition. Her knees buckled because of it, and I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.
I kept it on for a mental beat of ten. Not long, but long enough. I released it, keeping my hand on her shoulder. It always hurts so much worse coming off than it does coming on. Sure enough, her knees buckled even more and she slipped, dropped down to my rug.
Still on her knees, breathing much more regularly, she looked up at me, chin level with my crotch. I knew if I said to, she’d unzip my fly, undo my belt, reach in with eager, strong fingers to fish out my dick, stick it into her hot mouth. She’d do it, I knew, but like the clothespin, it’s so much better if you wait. So I did.
I stepped back, grinning at the flicker of disappointment on her face. You’ll have to wait too, I thought. I retrieved my bag, and sat down in my chair, facing her. The clothespin was still in my hand and I found myself absently opening and closing it. A dom’s worry bead, I guess. “Stand up. Right now.”
She did. Her knees seemed a bit weak. “Come closer.” She did, her gait slow and controlled. I reached down to my bag at my feet and picked up something new. “You’re mine. You belong to me,” I said, looking into her face. Her eyes shone. “I won’t ask if you understand.”
When I was a kid, I used to play with dolls. Well, maybe not “dolls,” not exactly. No Raggedy Anns, no Barbies—not like that. I liked that they were mine, they belonged to me. I could make them do anything, at any time, and they didn’t say a word. They just did it, forever smiling.
It was a new toy, another deceivingly simple thing. I saw it in some import/export place down in the city. Elegant and simple, black and glossy. Seeing it, I knew I had to have it. Having it, I couldn’t wait to use it.
“Lean back,” I said. I was tapping it against my palm, a lacquered metronome. Tilted back, her breasts swayed gently apart, only beginning to make that armpit migration—she was younger than I thought.
I ran the tip of the chopstick around her right nipple, feeling it skip and slide over her areola, the contours traveling down the length of it into my fingertips. She signed, softly.
Way back when, right after I outgrew those plastic dolls, I wondered if I had a dead thing—you know, preferring girls stiff and cold rather than warm and breathing. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t their being immobile, plastic, it was my being in control, making them do what I wanted. Right then, she was my doll, my plaything, and I was completely in control.
I started tapping, steadily, almost softly at first. A smooth double-time. But after a dozen or so beats I moved it up to a harder, more insistent tempo. Her breathing quickened, started to grow close, to almost, maybe, match my beats with the lacquered stick. I watched her stomach rise and fall, a background accompaniment, echo to her hisses and signs.
I moved, circled her breast and nipple with my stick, painting her with the beats.
Tap, tap, tap, sigh, sigh, moan, sigh.
Then the other breast, but a little harder this time. She started to glow, shining with gentle sweat. I could smell her, a thick rutting musk. Now she really was wet.
Now only her nipples. Each impact steady, sure, quick, and hard. She started to unconsciously twist her body, a little this way, then the opposite, to get away from the beats. For a moment, I thought about stopping. Make her stand up, make her get dressed, kick her out for such a show of life and independence, but that would mean I’d have to stop using this lovely new toy. The stick as well as SLUTSLAVE.
Then I did stop. Time for the next movement. She lifted her head, looking long at me, breathing heavy and hard. Her eyes flicked with a bit of fear but more than anything, a kind of plea:
More.
Back into the bag. Simple. When you have control, you don’t need gadgets, gizmos, fine leathers. Fifty dollars in the right hands, with the right toy, and you have all you need. I came up with a pair matching the first clip. Her eyes grew even wider, her breathing deeper and quicker. She knew what was coming next. I didn’t have to say anything.
The right one first. I leaned down and held it there, open, threatening around her so-hard nipple. She looked at it, then looked at me. Again, fear, but more than anything a desire for me to let go.
So I did. Her guttural bellow peaked threateningly toward a scream but didn’t as she swallowed and swallowed, hissed and hissed it back down into herself. I was impressed.
I kept the clip on. It was wonderful to watch it bob up and down with her steady, deep breaths. I could have watched it all day, thinking:
This is mine. This is mine. This is mine.
I could have, but I had another tit to play with.
Somewhere during all this, my cock had been confined, trapped in my pants. Turning to the other tit, I felt how very, very hard I’d gotten. But that would wait. I was in control here. Not my dick.
The other one. Again, I held it there, looming over a tight little point of nipple. Again, I let go.
This time a short, quick, honest scream blew past her lips. Sound was a concern, but frankly, I didn’t care. This was good—damned good. She was a good toy, a good plaything. She was mine to do with as I wanted.
I watched her, making sure the pain of the clips wasn’t too much for her. She whistled her breaths, in and out, belly rising and falling as she tried to accept, flow with, use, and enjoy what was happening to her nipples, breasts, and body. I liked to watch her, knowing that I was the cause of all this. Yes, my cock was hard—steel, stone, rigid—in my pants, but this was almost better. The bliss painting her body in shimmering sweat, making her pant and moan, making her clit twitch, wasn’t something of mine that could ever go soft, ever come too quick. I could make her come and come and come again and never take off my pants.
Time for the next step. Both pins were in place, both nodded, dipped, and rose from their grips on her nipples as she squirmed against the pain. I picked up the chopstick again. “See this?” I said. She pulled herself up from her blurry rapture. Her eyes took a long time to focus. She looked, she nodded.
I tapped one clothespin, hard, sending serious shocks down through it into her already aching nipple. She squealed in shock, in endorphin delight. I did the same to the other, then back again. Back and forth. She was a wonderful plaything, a fun little toy. I enjoyed playing with her very much. Oh, the things we could do.
I glanced up at the clock. A qualifier of our time together rang in my mind. Just a few hours, she had said, to start. Time had flown.
“Listen to me,” I said. Her vision was almost lost against the waves of sensation, but she managed to finally see me. “We’re almost finished—for tonight, that is. But before we do, I’m going to fuck you.”
She frowned past what was happening to her nipples, her tits, her body, her cunt. My words reached through it all and created a worry.
Not good to have my plaything in such a state. Time to demonstrate that I am in control, that for her, I’m the boss, I’m the Master—and she is merely a toy, and toys have nothing, not even a worry.
I reached into my bag at my feet, pulled it out, tossed it at her feet. “I said, I’m going to fuck you. My dick—right there in front of you—is going in your cunt. Do you have a problem with that?”
She didn’t. The smell of her, the grin that flashed on her gleaming face, told me that. Her legs were already gently parted, the kind of reckless, unselfconscious display that only a plaything in the middle of a high-flying pleasure/pain/endorphin rush could have. She may have had a worry, but she was more a hungry cunt. A wet and ready cunt. A wet and very ready cunt with a rubber dick on the floor in front of her.
“Pick it up,” I said, though I didn’t have to, not really, “and fuck yourself with it.”
She bent forward, picked it up. Parting her thighs a bit more, she showed me her pink wetness. The bare thatch of hair that descended from her mons was matted and gleaming with juice. Her lips were already gently apart, swollen and ready for my store-bought dick.
I knew I could probably have fucked her with my own cock, or simply unzipped my fly and stuck myself into her hot, wet mouth. But that would mean I was flesh and blood, a man, and not the Master I really was. A Master is cold, a Master knows what to do with a plaything, a toy, a doll. I knew what to do. That’s what I lived for: that dominance, that authority, that control.
She slipped the dildo into herself, just an inch to start. Then out, then in deeper, with a slow twist. She bit her lip in concentration, she closed her eyes in bliss—lost to the pain in her tits, the cock in her cunt.

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