Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (13 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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She walked in, naked now, her star shining from its place on her chest. He moved toward her, following its light.
BELTED
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Y
ou’d never know the belt is there by looking at him. It’s lost between his shirt and his pants, tucked away, hidden, pulled close, serving a dual purpose. You’d never know it’s there, unless he made a point of showing you. And he does, often, a hand resting there as a reminder in public, an intimation of what will happen in private. You have no idea how many other girls he makes a point of showing it to, but the reason you keep returning is that when you’re with him, you don’t care about the other girls. There could be hundreds, thousands even; as long as he looks at you the way he does when he unbuckles and unfurls the soft, worn, brown leather, then coils the belt purposefully around his hand, you can let yourself believe he wears it just for you.
ou’d never know the belt is there by looking at him. It’s lost between his shirt and his pants, tucked away, hidden, pulled close, serving a dual purpose. You’d never know it’s there, unless he made a point of showing you. And he does, often, a hand resting there as a reminder in public, an intimation of what will happen in private. You have no idea how many other girls he makes a point of showing it to, but the reason you keep returning is that when you’re with him, you don’t care about the other girls. There could be hundreds, thousands even; as long as he looks at you the way he does when he unbuckles and unfurls the soft, worn, brown leather, then coils the belt purposefully around his hand, you can let yourself believe he wears it just for you.
This isn’t the first belt that’s been used to strike you. There was the boyfriend in college who had you bend over, skirt around your ankles, camera flashing and belt lashing against your skin before plunging his oversized cock into your unprepared ass. He was all flash and no finesse.
Your lover is the opposite, or rather, flash and finesse mixed together in a dizzying way, with plenty of substance to back them up. He holds the belt like it belongs in his hand, like it’s an extension of him. He tells you that he thinks about you every day when he loops it through his pants, when he touches the cool metal buckle. Alone in some room or another—never either of your bedrooms—your body reacts before you have time to consider its wisdom when you see him reaching for the buckle. After all, you know from experience that could mean anything—he’s giving you his cock to suck, he’s going to shackle your arms behind your back, he’s going to pull your hair hard and slap your face until you cry, he’s going to beat you until your skin is heated from the outside in. All of these are possibilities, and all of these bring you pleasure, but you hope it’s the latter.
The belt is able to speak in ways that even the both of you, wordsmiths by trade, cannot always do. The belt is not a “toy” for “foreplay” but a separate part of your sex life, one that may appear at any moment. Its presence lurks while you casually sip your drinks at the bar, hidden but powerful; your fingers are itching to stroke it, if only so they can be slapped away. You never know if he will bring it out, how he will use it, how much of the belt and himself he will give you.
You try not to be greedy, but you hope it’ll be a moment like this: You’re sore from having his cock inside you, from him holding you down, from his hand crushing your neck. Sore in a good way, so you almost don’t even miss the belt—almost. You never have much time, can never stay overnight, have to steal hours out of other people’s schedules to accommodate this affair, so you learn to take what you can get. You’re wondering when he will have to leave, when this spell of lust will fade back into real life, when he reaches for the belt from the floor. “Turn over,” he tells you, and you roll onto your stomach, your pale backside before him.
Your face is turned away from him, sunken into the softness of the pillow, freshly washed hair now tousled and messy. The tip of the belt rests against your newly shaved lips as you hear the words, “Spread your legs.” You do, because you always do, because this is what your relationship is about: he orders, you obey, and you both like it like that. Your hands instinctively curl around the pillow, long nails digging into the cotton and feathers as you wait. The belt strikes the air and you shiver, feeling a breeze that may be a phantom one or may be very, very real. The next sound you hear coincides with a strike of the belt on your cheeks, both of them, a slice that takes a moment to process before you say the words almost automatically: “Thank you.”
There’s never a “You’re welcome,” or rather, not a verbal one. It’s implied by the next stinging strike, by the fact that you’re deemed worthy at all. He doesn’t talk then, is almost solemn as you wait for it to be over with equal parts dread and glee.
But those kinds of smacks aren’t what make you come. No, that’s saved for when he makes you cry. You turn over and open your eyes for a moment to look at him, hovering over you. You marvel that you can feel so close when he’s not touching you with his body at all. The belt is capable of magic. You start to shiver once you realize what’s going to happen, that the belt is not just teasing your lips with a kiss, though you pucker up when it approaches.
Then the belt moves on to its real work, kissing your other set of lips harder, the equivalent of a shove-you-against-thewall, bruising kiss. This kiss is merely an introduction, a warm-up. You know what’s coming and even though you want it, you press your legs together involuntarily until he barks at you to put them back. You shut your eyes because you know you can’t watch this. Your hands are twisted above your head, clinging to each other for some kinky version of safety. You focus on keeping your legs open, all of you exposed. When the belt strikes there, right there, you don’t quite scream; it’s more of a strangled, garbled cry. Your hand automatically goes to cover the sting, to cradle yourself. You finally get a “Good girl.”
You try to turn over, to curl into a ball, but you’re not allowed, or rather, your desire to prove yourself wins out over your desire to stop what’s coming. You didn’t travel for hours just to shy away from the pain. But you almost forget that when the next blow strikes. You wonder how the tender skin between your legs can stand that force, and then you stop wondering when the belt moves upward, to your breasts, your pebbled nipples no match for the blows. You arch your back and thrust upward, even though inside, you want to cower. You reluctantly remember telling him you wanted bruises there, marks you could proudly reveal with a hint of cleavage, a well-timed reveal as you lean over on the train. You still want the marks but breathe deep through your nose, twist your fingers more tightly around each other, to get through them. You bite your lip as the sweet pain of the belt heats your chest and wanders downward. You almost get used to the rhythm, your nipples stubbornly rising after each blow.
Then it’s back down, back to the place that no longer feels like your cunt, not the way it’s being set afire again and again. These lashes aren’t as swift as the ones against your breasts, but they are sure, steady. He’s not twice your size for no reason, and each slap strikes precisely where he wants it to. The tears finally appear in the form of sobs, traveling fast through your body, a current of energy you use to sustain yourself through the last few lashes. You’d think the pain would be a little more subdued, the pussy’s diminishing law of returns, but no. You feel every ounce of force he uses for each stroke, every bite of the leather into your inner thighs, against your wetness. You have a vision of the belt wrapped around your throat, the buckle cold against your skin as you stare deep into his eyes, but that was another time, another place. The next blow has you thrashing so much he has to hold you down.
Is it the belt that makes you come? The leather, the thrash, the pain, the jolt? Is it the force behind it? Is it the noises he makes as he does it, the hitches of breath that are nothing like your shuddering sobs but are music to your ears nonetheless—is that what makes you finally go over the edge? Is it him holding you down, him promising you pain that may or may not come?
Maybe it’s all of it, all the forces combining to make the orgasm nothing like what you were expecting, the kind where your body bonds with the belt, giving back some of its life force, only to have it beaten back into you. Though you know that logically, rationally, it’s impossible, you hope the belt has absorbed some of your tears, has taken them and held on to them for next time, has put the pain that you mostly wanted, but kind of didn’t, somewhere for safekeeping, somewhere he can hold next to his skin any time he desires.
Oh, it’s not like you really have time to think all that or think anything, not then. The belt is reminding you, lash by lash, that you must stay open, stay ready, stay through the moments when you don’t know how you will get through it, stay through the times you don’t have a chance to take a bracing breath or perform any other magic tricks to turn the pain into something else. By now even the light touches, the strokes of the belt’s rough edge against your fleshy inner thigh, the dance of the musky leather against your cheek, are enough to make you shudder, like when he raises his hand to smack you but stops right before his fingers reach the finish line. The effect is the same.
You breathe through your nose, a more refined type of breath, one granted you by the momentary lapse before the belt is between your legs again, crashing hard, calling forth wetness you didn’t know you still had. Pain, pleasure, obedience, pride, love, hate, fear ride each other along the waves of your body until you hardly know who you are anymore. You’ve moved beyond some simple goal of taking it into somewhere else, somewhere you’re afraid to look at too closely lest it prove to be just a mirage.
And then, almost too fast, it’s over. The belt lies limp on the bed and you’re allowed to press your legs together again, to admire the bruises on your chest that you will wind up keeping close like a secret. You wipe the tears from your cheeks, embarrassed but secretly pleased. What happens after that hardly even matters, because that is what will remain, not the belt or the pain or the marks, but the beauty of being transformed by each of them into someone new, blossoming like the bruises on and under your skin; traveling with him somewhere far away, somewhere magical no one else will ever visit, where each strike of the belt serves to bind you together in this sensual cocoon, sealing you in with its heat long after the physical marks drift away.
You hope it’ll be something like that, but with him, you never know what you’re going to get, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
LUNCH
Elizabeth Coldwell
I
t’s five to twelve, and I am waiting for his email. Like every other day, it will come on the dot of midday, and like every other day, it will tell me what I can have for lunch and where I can eat it. If I have been good—and I always think I have, because I try so hard to live up to the standards Michael sets for me—I might be allowed to go and sit in the sandwich bar across the road with Jo and Carly and have a mochaccino and a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese icing. If I have been bad, then I will have to sit on my own in my office, picking at a boring green salad. It’s a ritual that has existed between us for almost a year now, and it has come to define the way our relationship has developed since the moment I first realized I like it when he takes control.
t’s five to twelve, and I am waiting for his email. Like every other day, it will come on the dot of midday, and like every other day, it will tell me what I can have for lunch and where I can eat it. If I have been good—and I always think I have, because I try so hard to live up to the standards Michael sets for me—I might be allowed to go and sit in the sandwich bar across the road with Jo and Carly and have a mochaccino and a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese icing. If I have been bad, then I will have to sit on my own in my office, picking at a boring green salad. It’s a ritual that has existed between us for almost a year now, and it has come to define the way our relationship has developed since the moment I first realized I like it when he takes control.
I’ve never explained to anyone why my eating arrangements vary so much from day to day. Mention that my husband is telling me what to do, and people will be expecting me to walk in one morning with bruises on my face and the excuse that I walked into a door. Say that it’s a domination game and they’ll peg us as a couple of sickos into whips and chains and all manner of unspeakable acts. So I make some comment about work piling up and not having the time to leave my desk, or let everyone think I’m on the latest diet from the pages of a glossy magazine. After all, how many of the women here don’t have some strange, self-inflicted restrictions on what they eat, whether that’s cutting out meat and dairy, passing on the carbs, or existing on nothing but coffee, cigarettes and fresh air?
Still, I shouldn’t have to worry about any of that today—or so I think. And then the mail icon is bouncing insistently at the bottom of my screen, and I know his instructions have arrived. I click on the message and scan his words.
Sorry, no date with the girls today. If you’d wanted a treat, you should have remembered to pick up my gray suit from the dry cleaner’s.
Guiltily, I slide open the top drawer of my desk. There, tucked into the pages of my diary, is the green receipt from the dry cleaning concession in the tube station precinct. The receipt for the suit I should have collected on the way home from work last night. I carry on reading.
Lunch will be ham and salad on granary bread, mayonnaise but no butter, and a bottle of orange juice. You will also buy a banana, the greenest and most unripe in the sandwich bar. You will not eat the banana. Instead, you will use it to pleasure yourself at your desk, and you will think of me while you do so.
Sorry, no date with the girls today. If you’d wanted a treat, you should have remembered to pick up my gray suit from the dry cleaner’s.
Guiltily, I slide open the top drawer of my desk. There, tucked into the pages of my diary, is the green receipt from the dry cleaning concession in the tube station precinct. The receipt for the suit I should have collected on the way home from work last night. I carry on reading.
Lunch will be ham and salad on granary bread, mayonnaise but no butter, and a bottle of orange juice. You will also buy a banana, the greenest and most unripe in the sandwich bar. You will not eat the banana. Instead, you will use it to pleasure yourself at your desk, and you will think of me while you do so.
I read the last couple of sentences again. This is something new. Something dangerous. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played with myself at work. In the early days of our relationship, before I had ever begun to explore the submissive side of my personality, Michael used to send me emails describing what he was going to do to me when I got home, emails so filthy and explicit I would rush off to the ladies’ and bring myself to a swift, sharp climax, muffling my moans by jamming the fleshy part of my thumb into my mouth. But in the relative open of my office, where someone could walk in and catch me at it? Of course, I could go home and just tell Michael I’d done as he instructed. But he would know. He always knows when I try to disobey him, however careful or sneaky I try to be. And besides, the thought excites me just as much as it alarms me. It must do: otherwise why would my pussy be pulsing quite so hard against the silky crotch of my underwear?
Time drags for the next hour. It’s almost impossible to concentrate on my work; all I can think of are Michael’s instructions, but then I’m sure he intended it that way. Finally, it’s one o’clock, and I log off my workstation, grab my handbag and go out to get my lunch.
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