The Big Book of Submission (13 page)

“Want to get off them?”

“Please, Lady.”

I nod toward the bed.

I'd never tell him that I'm as hungry for him as he is for me, but I promised him a birthday spanking first. I'm nothing if not an evil queen of my word.

The bed creaks under his weight as he settles into
the familiar position. He starts on his hands and knees but by the time I'm done with him he'll be flat on his stomach, clutching a pillow to his face to contain the shouting.

“How old are you again?” I try to make my voice husky but it really isn't. Even when I'm my most wicked, I'm still me—a short, chubby girl with a few self-doubts.

“Thirty-four,” he tells me, his voice a whisper. He's nervous, and I can't help but grin. He's cute when he's nervous.

“Thirty-four,” I repeat.

I don't know if he knows I need the encouragement or if he simply wants this as much as I do. Whichever it is, he says, “What about one to grow on?”

“Thirty-five. I can do that.” I set the spoon aside. Now that he's seen it, he's anticipating it, so I start with my open hand. I kick off my heels and let my toes sink into the carpet. I take a deep breath, then swing. Three loud
thwacks
without much heat in them. Just enough to get the ball rolling.

He gasps, tilts his pelvis up for more. I oblige, settling into a rhythm of spanks and pauses to give my hand a break. I dip my hands between his thighs to fondle him. I blow cool air over the handprints. A blush blooms on his naked ass the more I hit. He's already disappearing into that space where letting go lets him
be
. He's even prettier now as he lets me ravage him and pull every ounce of devotion I can from him. I'm astonished, as
always, that he lets me. I think it astonishes him that I will.

“Lady,” he says, just when I think he's left planet Earth for dreamier realms.

My arm is already in midswing but I clench my fist and let it fall. “Yes?”

“That's thirty.”

Thirty? Already? “Right. Five more then.”

“Yes please.” A pause; his voice is shaky and he's breathing heavy. “Lady?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to use that spoon, or what?” The bed squeaks as he repositions, climbs back up onto his aging knees. He has the temerity to swing his ass from side to side, daring me.

I don't need further encouraging. I pluck the spoon from the bed and give him a hard smack. He yelps and dives forward, his face buried in pillows as he lets out a moan. A spoon-shaped welt appears nearly at once on his already-sore ass, standing out in sharp and glorious relief. I was enjoying the spanking, but this makes me shudder with need. His need for pain and my need to give it work together; I'm so turned on my hand shakes as I deliver another and another blow. He's shouting into the pillow, muffled gasps and moans. I don't have to count these because each impact leaves a perfect spoon-welt.

When all thirty-five spanks have been delivered, I seal them with a brush of my lips over each red bump. I
trace my fingernails over the spoon-heads that decorate him. He turns over because I nudge him in the shoulder. His cock stands rigid against his belly, straining despite the sharp pain of the last five blows. I hike my long skirt up and dive onto his cock.

He grips my hips but lets me ride him the way I like. I take him as hard as I hit him and in my mind's eye I can see his welts rubbing on the sheets. When he winces, a jolt of sexual need rushes through me. His thumb finds its way to my clit and rubs the way he knows I like. I drive my hips down over and over, taking my pleasure. My orgasm doesn't build, it comes hard and fast, slamming through me and leaving me weak. I clench around him, and though I'm certain his ass must be throbbing he comes not five seconds after I do.

“Happy birthday.” My voice is legitimately husky now, from effort and arousal. He puts his arms around me and pulls me into a sweet kiss. I tuck my head into the hollow of his neck. My arm hurts, which only makes me worry. If my arm hurts, I must have hurt him. I slip out of my postorgasmic joy and into the dark place.

Time passes. I worry. “Lady?”

I lift my head to look him in the eye. “Yes?”

A faint redness creeps into his cheeks, and he flutters his eyelashes at me with all the charm he can muster. “Can we do this again on your birthday?”

“We'll see.” He knows how to take care of me. He's my princess.

CONTACT

Shenoa Carroll-Bradd

C
lare strode into the hotel bar without glancing to either side, as instructed.

No eye contact,
he'd said.

She ordered a sidecar, tugging down the hem of the skirt he'd picked out. It wasn't her favorite, but of the six potential outfits she'd sent, this was the one he wanted. While she waited for her drink, Clare slid a compact mirror from her purse and used it to scope out the other patrons. She wasn't sure what to look for; he hadn't sent a picture of his face, just his hands, crossed over one knee.

The drink arrived. She paid, and took a preliminary sip. She'd been disappointed by that photo at first, but the longer she studied it, the more Clare appreciated that glimpse of him.

The slacks beneath his palms were charcoal gray, high quality, and his nails were clean and clipped, not workman's nails. The length of those elegant fingers stole her attention: pale and strong, long enough to wrap her neck like an African collar. Beautiful. Clare prayed the rest of him measured up.

She took a sip as the mirror oscillated, pausing when it caught a tall man in profile, the dim bar light sketching the contours of his jaw and cheekbone in shadow. She closed the compact before their eyes could meet, but not before catching a glimpse of his long, pale fingers. Her hand trembled around the sidecar.

Footsteps approached, then an elegant hand closed over her wrist. “Finish your drink,” he said in a rich whiskey baritone, “and we'll go.”

Clare emptied it in two swallows.

He guided her from the bar, one hand on the small of her back, and stopped her at the elevators. “Press
UP
.”

“Are we doing names?”

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stroking his knuckles down her neck. “If you like.”

The elevator opened and she saw him, just for a moment, in the mirrored back wall. Clare dropped her gaze and stepped inside, letting him select the floor. Her stomach fluttered as the doors closed.

His hands circled her waist.

She leaned back against his chest, reaching up to sink her fingers into his dark curls.

One arm wrapped her stomach, holding her tight
against him, while the other slid up over her breasts to cradle the curve of her throat.

She responded, arching her back and grinding her hips against his groin.

The elevator opened and they separated, his hand guiding her once more. “Remember,” he said when they arrived at his room, “eyes down.”

“I remember.” Clare slipped into the dark room, where moonlight painted the bed silver. The door closed behind her, and she waited for the lights to flick on, but they didn't.

Strong fingers twined into her hair, pulling her head to the side. Her scalp tingled as he kissed her neck, nuzzling her ear and flushing her skin with the heat of his breath.

Clare moaned and reached back for him, tangling her fingers in his hair as his kisses sharpened into bites that left her shuddering and wet, aching at their fierceness.

“Strip,” he commanded, releasing his grip on her hair.

Clare obediently peeled away her top and bra, while behind her, she heard the answering whisper of falling fabric. She peeked just enough to catch a glimpse of him bending to remove his shoes, his unbuttoned shirt falling away from a smooth, pale chest.

He glanced up and she turned around too late. He lifted her skirt and spanked her, just once, hard enough to sting. “What did I say?”

“Sorry.”

“Off with the rest of it.”

She complied.

He turned her around, laying a hand over her eyes as he lifted her face to a fiery kiss.

When he pushed her backward onto the bed, Clare gasped in momentary panic but kept her eyes closed, feeling like she'd slipped into a falling dream.

“Good,” he whispered, before capturing her lips again. One hand artfully teased a nipple while the other worked between her legs.

Clare ground against the rhythm of his fingers.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” When he slipped into her, she cried out at the sudden joy of acceptance.

“Tell me when you're close,” he ordered.

She nodded, pressing her palms against his chest, feeling each thrust ripple through him.

His hands came down and circled her wrists, holding them above her head to either side of the pillow. He lowered his mouth to her neck again, sucking, biting, drawing shuddering moans from her until, at last, she gasped, “I'm close.”

“Open your eyes.”

They fluttered open, and Clare stared, transfixed, at the stranger above her.

“Don't look away,” he whispered. “Not until you come. Don't you dare look away.”

She never wanted to look away again. He looked like a Roman sculpture come to life, and his eyes, his
beautiful eyes… As the cresting wave of her orgasm rose, Clare's spine arched and her head started to tilt back.

“No!” He released her left wrist and grabbed her chin, holding her face in line with his. “Look at me.”

Clare stared into the depths of his blue-green eyes, eyes like portals to an undiscovered nebula on the edge of space, until her vision blurred from tears. The intensity of the orgasm wracked her body, but he held her in place, their eyes fixed together.

He came moments later, then collapsed beside her, drawing her close against his heaving chest.

Clare pressed a hand over his hammering heart, feeling an addictive blend of protection and possession in the wrap of his arms. She never wanted to be out of their reach again.

After a while his breathing slowed, and Clare had to face facts. She couldn't stay. She had an early meeting tomorrow, and, much as she yearned to fall asleep beside him, could not show up to work in the outfit he'd chosen. Plus, she would need a considerable amount of time and concealer to hide all the lovely work he'd done on her neck.

Reluctantly, Clare extricated herself, then crept over to her clothes and began redressing.

“Leaving?” he asked, voice like warm, distant thunder.

“Yes. Sorry. I have to.” She heard him shifting on the bed, but didn't risk a glance. She had everything but her shoes on when he said, “How sorry are you?”

She glanced sideways to see him sitting on the edge of the bed. Clare went to her knees before him, smelling the mingled musk of their sex. She caught his beautiful hands, and reverently brought them to her lips. “Very sorry.”

He pulled away, stretching out across the bed.

Clare retrieved her shoes and purse.

“I'll be in touch,” he said drowsily.

“Good,” Clare replied. “I'd love to see you again…”

He chuckled softly. “Nicholas.”

She felt a flutter in her stomach. “Clare.”

“Yes. It was nice seeing you, Clare.”

The sound of her name on his tongue made her shiver. Clare ducked out of the room quickly, before she lost her nerve, alight at the memory of how those breathtaking eyes had laid her bare.

FOR HER ART

Elise Hepner

T
he houselights flashed against the backs of my eyelids and a zing of belly-tightening fear clenched way down deep. No amount of breath in my lungs would provide an anchor to reality. This was my glitch in time—a way to prove myself while taking pride in my body. Soon the doors would open and my installation would be open to the public. I would be on the best kind of pedestal—one in the works for three long months.

My sharp, jagged inhales made my muscles quake, which twitched the metal harnesses attached to my suspension cuffs—until the tinkle of noise shuddered down my taut muscles, curling my toes. While I focused on my legs spread in a wide
V,
icy air from the grate far below my feet pressed against my flushed inner thighs. The rush and low babble of people being let into the art
gallery sharply snapped awareness into every inch of my burning flesh.

I forced my eyes open with a quick scan of the pool of strangers streaming through the double doors, filling the industrial gallery space amongst the twinkling sconces. Against the tight cinch of my full-body cuffs my pulse tripped and my reality scattered, making my mouth dry. The first set of wide eyes alighted on my nakedness—a woman with full lips and gorgeous brunette hair cascading down her insanely low-cut dress, barely a scrap of leather covering her cooch. Her cheeks lit up with the sweetest pale-pink flush. Her gaze ate me up. Every second turned into an hour as her lingering attention forced my nipples tight. Awareness tweaked along my naked flesh as if an invisible hand were skimming all over the supersensitive bits.