Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (8 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 was angry with you, when you snapped at me, but I know that it was partially my fault. I do normally call and you were worried because I don’t, normally, change my habits. However, the fact that you snapped does show that you need a reminder of just who is in charge in this house.” His voice was calm as he spoke, standing naked in their room. The play box stood open at the side of the bed.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I should have found a way to control my temper.”
“Stand.”
Susan moved to her feet quickly.
“Hands behind your back.”
She swallowed hard and crossed her wrists in the small of her back.
“Don’t move until I tell you otherwise.” He bent over, picking up two items from the play box before he walked behind her. Soft cuffs were locked on her wrists, holding them in place. She trembled even as he checked the cuffs, knowing that she would be forbidden the use of her hands for whatever he had in mind.
Then he bound the blindfold about her eyes, stealing her sight.
“You will serve me, like this, and perhaps remember some of our early days together when you strove to find a way to please me. You’ve forgotten how it felt then, how you needed to do your best—this will remind you.” He pulled her back a step from the bed and moved in front of her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Your mouth, lips, tongue, cheeks; all of these you will use to please me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Her stomach knotted.
“Then do it.”
Susan lowered slowly to her knees, edging closer to him as she felt him part his thighs so she could ease between them. Her breasts brushed against his inner thighs as she settled herself into position. Her nipples crinkled into hardened points, her breath catching in the back of her throat. His presence filled her senses, his aroma tempting her closer. Without her sight, everything else became sharper.
“That’s it, find your way. You know how to please me. Use that knowledge now.”
Normally she used her hands. This time she couldn’t; she couldn’t stroke his inner thighs like she was used to.
But she could kiss them.
She twisted, lowering her head a little more, suddenly aware of how her hair brushed his thighs and the way he quivered at the touch. Susan pressed her lips against his inner thigh, kissing softly, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as she began to lick and nibble her way inward.
He groaned, the low sound urging her onward.
She took her time: Tasting him. Licking. Tracing the tip of her tongue over his skin in long, slow, swirls.
“Yes, that’s it, my girl.”
His. She’d been his for many years now and would always be his.
His cock thickened, brushing against her cheek as she worked her way slowly in. His erection throbbed, the scent of his arousal filled her nose, his heavy sac hung close, touching her chin as she turned her head to lick, softly, across the length of his cock. It took her a moment before she could find and capture the head of his cock in her lips, but she managed it, and groaned at the taste, his arousal coating the smooth skin, seeping into her mouth as she drew it in a little at a time, licking, suckling his cock.
“Yes.” The word was little more than a hiss from the man she loved and had submitted to years ago.
A wicked smile claimed her lips. Slow. She’d take this slow. Tease him. Torment him. Show him everything she’d learned about him. Just because she was submissive didn’t mean that, even now with her hands bound and her sight stolen, she didn’t have the power. Especially now.
She flicked her tongue rapidly across the head of his cock, sucking hard until she felt a deep rocking work through his hips, then she pulled back, opening her mouth and letting his cock slide out between her lips, over her tongue.
“Hey—what are you up to?” His words were a groan, his cock pressing against her cheek as she turned her head to seek out his other thigh with her lips.
Susan didn’t speak; instead she scraped her teeth carefully over the tender skin of his inner thigh. His thigh shook, his breath catching, his body tense as she nipped and licked her way back to his knee, moving away from his cock and the center of his desire.
“Wicked wench.”
Yes, I am.
“You know what I want.”
Yes, I do.
“Teasing me. You’ll pay for it, of course.”
Counting on it.
She licked around his knee and knelt up, arching her back. With her hands bound behind her back, she knew the position would lift her breasts up for him, displaying her body for his view. Not enough; she could do more, she knew that. Slowly, carefully, she lifted up from her heels, tipping her hips, swaying them softly from side to side, circling them deeply as she danced on her knees for him.
His thighs tightened on either side of her body. “Susan…”
“Don’t you like what you see, sir?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then let me please you. It’s what you told me to do.”
He couldn’t argue with that one and fell silent.
Slowly, she turned her body, never moving from her knees, stretching, arching, her hips dancing, never ceasing the sensual patterns. Her skin heated, her core rippling as she moved, knowing what her dance was doing to him. The sight of her nude, bound, and blindfolded form writhing for him, only for him, aroused him. She didn’t need to see him to know that.
His breathing became ragged; his thighs tensed on either side of her body. Any moment now she expected him to reach for her and drag her down until her mouth was forced back onto his cock. But she was in control here. She would show him just how well his wife knew him.
Just when she thought she had pushed too far, she stopped and lowered down once more, edging back in, nuzzling her way to his groin. Her hair brushed over his cock and balls, teasing them; she blew against his balls, taking care not to catch the head of his cock, then tickled over his heavy sac with the tip of her tongue. He groaned above her, his hips rolling, hunger clear in his body.
Now.
Susan licked softly around his sac, feeling his balls tighten within the soft skin. Then she moved slowly upward, tracing the tip of her tongue over his sac until she found the base of his cock. It throbbed beneath her gentle touch. Heat coated her inner walls. She knew, by the time she had brought him to his release, she would be aching for his touch in return.
She had to focus on him, not on her own desires right now.
Her lips closed around the tip of his cock, his taste heady as she swept her tongue over the smooth surface, dipping into his slit, tasting him deeply. His thick cock throbbed in her mouth; his hips rolled, sliding farther into her mouth as she wrapped her tongue around his needful erection.
Susan purred into his cock, feeling the vibrations play from her mouth directly onto him; the reaction was instantaneous. Tom’s fingers slid into her hair, fisting, holding her tight. His hips rolled, thrusting deep into her mouth, taking her, his balls slapping against her chin.
She relaxed, her throat welcoming his cock as he claimed her mouth.
Soon, so soon.
Only now did she realize the tables had turned. She was helpless. In his grasp. She couldn’t stop him: Bound. Blindfolded. Gagged with his cock, but she welcomed this, knowing she’d driven him to this point. Her touches, her knowledge, had forced him to the brink of self-control.
“God!” he cried out above her, his thrusts harder than before, his grip in her hair almost painful, but she didn’t care. “Going to…”
His taste, then—thick, hot, ropey threads of his salty orgasm flooded her mouth, forcing her to swallow. Only when he shuddered and finally eased back from her lips could she take a clear breath. Silent, trembling, she knelt at the foot of the bed, his grip no longer in her hair. Her body was coated in small beads of sweat; her inner walls rippling, coated with her own need, but she knew if that was to be sated, it would be at his desire, his whim, not hers.
This was the life she had chosen. The life she had welcomed.
He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, his voice husky. “Well done, mine.”
Susan leaned into his touch, his words wrapping around her heart in a loving cocoon. This was the life she still desired with him.
THE HARDEST PART
 
Alison Tyler
 
 
 
 
I
’m over his lap. I’ve been needing a spanking for too long, and he’s been making me wait. In spite of everything I’ve done, he’s ignored the signals. I’ve been bratty. I’ve been bad. I may as well have worn a T-shirt with the words SPANK ME in bold scarlet letters across the front.
I’ve been that desperate.
But now that I’m here, I’d rather be anywhere else. Name the place, and I’d rather be there: in line at the DMV; waiting in the doctor’s office; sitting at the back of coach on a packed flight.
I’m scared, more scared than usual, because he’s taking his time. I stare at the floor, at the swirls of crimson and emerald and cornflower blue in the Oriental carpet. I stare at the ornate carved wood of the antique chair legs. I stare at his engineer boots, the scuffed black leather; boots we bought together ten years ago on Melrose, boots I’ve seen quite often from this position.
The air seems to shimmer in front of me.
The blood pounds in my ears.
Why was I in such a rush to find myself over his lap? What was so urgent about him paddling my ass?
I know exactly what he’s doing as he strokes me through my short pleated skirt. He’s taking his time to let me think of all of my transgressions. He’s letting the moment sink in.
With infinite slowness, he slips my panties down my legs. My knickers are pink with hearts printed in a row, and now, they dangle from my ankles: not on, not off. I’m primed, ass up, totally exposed, waiting. He has to start now, doesn’t he? He
has
to spank me now.
But he won’t be rushed. Instead, he strokes my bare skin with his palm. There is no pain yet. There is only that rush of fear, starting in the base of my stomach and radiating outward.
Just spank me
, I want to scream.
Please…just…spank… me…
But he doesn’t. He makes me wait.
And fuck Tom Petty for being right. The waiting
is
the hardest part. I force myself to be mute, eyes clenched shut, heart pounding so fast, so loud. If he had started right away, it’d be halfway over by now. My feet would be kicking. I’d be trying to stay still, but failing. I’d be crying, almost begging, instead of being lost here in this horrible zone, this no man’s land of misery.
I arch upward, trying to tell him with my body what I need him to do. Trying to insist from a submissive position what must happen.
To my horror, he simply pets me some more, soft gentle strokes on my naked ass, until I can’t help myself: I laugh. And that’s when he says—oh, fuck him.
Fuck
him—“You think this is funny?”
My “No” is a whisper.
“Then why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You better come up with a reason pretty damn fast.”
I’m facedown, over his lap, with my idiotic heart-patterned knickers dangling from my ankles. My face is flushed. My eyes sting already with tears. And still the silent laughter shakes me. I bite my lip, hard enough to leave marks, and pray that he’ll start.
“Why are you laughing?” His tone is beyond menacing. If his tone could cut, I’d be bleeding.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly—because I don’t. I don’t have any idea why I’m laughing. “I’m sorry,” I try next.
Then he says those words, those magic words. “No, you’re not. But you will be.”
Finally, his hand comes down, hard. Then again, just as hard. He doesn’t hesitate now. He spanks steadily, with force, driving out the worries. Driving out the fear.
With the pain comes the relief.
I won’t laugh any more now.
We both know that.
I won’t laugh for a long time.
RAPUNZEL
 
Jacqueline Applebee
 
 
 
 
 
 
M
y ex-girlfriend, Lola, used to tell me that a woman’s hair was her beauty. Lola had warm brown skin and dreads that sprouted this way and that over her head. She told me it wasn’t always this way. Lola had a grandmother in Jamaica who would straighten her hair with a vicious hot comb every Saturday night, so she’d be ready for church in the morning. Lola would recount tales of having her Afro hair painfully pressed and combed without mercy as a child, which had eliminated any trace of frizz or kinkiness. When she had rebelled against her family’s control, her hair was the first thing to go wild.

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