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Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel,Donna George Storey

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BOOK: Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission
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Veronica nodded, then turned away from Vince, asking him to unzip her wedding dress. As she stepped out of the layers of silk and lace, she said, “I agree.” Then she stood against the cross, lowering her head. Her entire body relaxed as Vince fastened leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles, kissing the backs of her thighs as he worked his way upward. For a long while, Vince stood behind his new wife, inhaling her scent, letting his hands memorize the contours of her body. He cupped a breast in each hand and squeezed roughly, watching her flesh splay between his fingers. After twisting her nipples until she winced, her body arching into the pain, he pinched her nipples between a pair of clamps, connected by a thin gold chain.
Veronica felt drowsy. Her head lolled to one side and she smiled. Vince stepped away, and she felt a rush of cold air in the separation between their bodies. She shivered. Vince smacked her ass, smiling as her skin rippled beneath his hand. A blush of red quickly appeared. He smacked Veronica’s ass again, harder this time, his hand stinging as it rebounded. “Discipline,” he said, “is a reminder.” Veronica’s entire body tensed. The room was silent save for the sound of Vince’s shoes as he crossed the room and eyed his wall of toys, selecting a few. He set his implements on the floor next to Veronica’s body and picked up a long stainless steel paddle, with three rows of holes. He dragged the paddle across her shoulders and Veronica shivered. Then he raised the paddle in the air and brought it down twice in rapid succession. A darker shade of red blushed across Veronica’s ass. She flexed her feet. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck and along her spine.
Vince began to smack Veronica’s ass with the paddle in a firm and steady rhythm. Veronica barely had time to breathe between each blow. She closed her eyes, forced herself to relax, to fall into the pain. The harder Vince paddled her ass, the freer she felt. Then he stopped and dropped the paddle to the ground. She gasped at the clatter it made. Vince picked up another toy. He perched his chin on her shoulder and said, “Close your eyes. Open your mouth.” She obliged willingly and felt something wide and rubbery in her mouth. “Get it wet,” Vince said. Veronica lathed the foreign object with her tongue until Vince was satisfied. Then he spread her asscheeks apart and slowly worked what she now realized was an anal plug into the tight fissure of her ass. She could feel her body resisting, but Vince’s will was more resolute than that of her body. Her body stretched around the plug, and after a short while, the sharp throbbing dulled into a pleasant discomfort. She felt swollen, full.
Veronica felt her head being pulled back, the muscles of her neck stretched to their limit. Vince slid his other hand from between her breasts up her throat, and he squeezed as he pressed his lips against hers, shoving his tongue between her lips. They kissed almost violently and, overwhelmed by the very burn of her skin, Veronica moaned into Vince’s mouth. She thought,
I would say
I do
all over again.
She opened her mouth wider, nipped Vince’s lower lip between her teeth. He pulled away for a moment and said, “Yes. I like that. Don’t ever back down from me.” Veronica leaned in, wanting more of Vince’s lips against hers. He tightened the grip of his fingers in her hair, holding her lips a breath away from his. He followed the sensuous arcs of each lip with the tip of his tongue. He whispered that she was his whore and she whispered back, “Yes. Yes I am.” They kissed again, harder this time, so hard that they could feel the bone beneath the flesh of their lips. Vince flicked his tongue against hers a final time, then brought his lips to her shoulder, first licking the salt from her skin, then sinking his teeth into her body. Veronica hissed, again arching into the sharp pain.
Vince reached down for a new toy, draped it over her shoulder. Veronica moaned, louder this time, as she felt several long strands of leather draping down over her breasts. Vince kissed the small indentations left by his teeth and took a few steps back. With a flick of the wrist, he let the cat-o’-nine-tails dance across her back lightly, just enough to tease. Another flick of his wrist, and a second dance of the whip came, a slow one. Vince draped the whip over her shoulder again, this time pulling it toward him, letting the tails drag down Veronica’s back. He pulled his arm back, and without warning, released a vicious blow. Her entire body strained upward. Veronica clenched and unclenched her fingers. Another blow landed. Then came a steady rain of leather against her skin, the expanse of her back turning pink, then red, then a darker shade of red.
Veronica felt each blow down through her bones. After what seemed like hours, a thin sheen of sweat covered her entire body. Vince could see the streaks of the whip’s tails in the perspiration. He threw the whip against Veronica’s body until he could raise his arm no more.
“Do you understand discipline?”
Veronica nodded limply. “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely.
Vince dropped the whip, gently released his new wife from her bondage and carried her across the threshold of their bedroom. He laid her in the middle of their bed and knelt between her legs. As he removed the nipple clamps, setting them on the night table, she cried out and shuddered, the blood rushing back to the puckered, sensitive nubs.
Veronica looked up at Vince and saw unexpected kindness in his eyes. “Have I pleased you?” she asked.
Vince finished undressing, then crawled back into bed, lying on his side next to Veronica. He slid one hand down her flat stomach and between her thighs and started stroking Veronica’s clit with his thumb as he slid two fingers inside her cunt where she was wet and waiting for him. He pressed her clit hard and Veronica raised her hips, wanting more. Tears welled in her eyes. “Have I pleased you?” she asked again, her voice stronger this time. Vince slid his wet fingers into his mouth and savored the taste of her. Then he covered her body with his, buried his cock deep in her cunt. Veronica spread her legs wide. She clenched around him and Vince took a deep breath, tried to control himself. Veronica’s entire body expanded, opening to her husband in every way he needed. Her ass continued to throb and pucker around the plug. She felt consumed. She arched her back, pressing her breasts against Vince’s chest, enjoying the firmness of his body against hers.
Vince clasped her throat again, squeezing harder this time. “Look at me,” he said.
Veronica opened her eyes and held her husband’s gaze. She met each thrust, urging him deeper. Beads of sweat from his face fell into her mouth and she swallowed, trying to memorize the taste of his body. As she crested a new wave of pleasure and her body began its familiar descent into bliss, she asked one final time, “Have I pleased you?”
Vince reared back, holding the tip of his cock at the sensitive, quivering inner lips of her cunt. He squeezed Veronica’s throat harder, and she wrapped one hand around his wrist. Vince thrust forward. Veronica cried out again, feeling a blade of pleasure so deeply, she thought her body might split at the heart. Vince kissed her chin, then her lips. The kiss was so soft it sent a frisson of pleasure curling around her spine. He stared at her for a moment longer. Finally, he said, “Yes.”
THE LONDON
 
Justine Elyot
 
 
 
 
 
 
I
t had swiftly become a matter of pride to Lloyd that he should provide more, bigger, better orgasms than any of my previous lovers and, in the early days of our relationship, I confess that I might have played on this tiny insecurity.
“Orlando was so well named,” I teased over moules marinières in some Café Rouge or another. “An
O
at either end.” I ran the point of my tongue over the tender morsel in its creamy broth-filled shell. “He had the gift.”
“Either end?” Lloyd’s light tone did nothing to fool me. He knew a challenge when he heard one. “You mean he gave you an orgasm in your toes? And the top of your head?”
“The location isn’t important,” I grinned, swirling the lascivious mollusk around the insides of my mouth before swallowing.
“Au contraire, Miss Martin, the location is a critical factor. Don’t you agree?”
Lloyd sipped sagely at his red wine, his eyes narrowed, keen to pursue the conversational line.
“Well, without wanting to get too graphic at the dinner table…”
“Oh, no, I’m not talking body geography. I know the map of Sophie well enough, and I don’t care how well-thumbed it is. I know where to plant my flag when I want her earth to move. I’m talking about places.”
“Places? Orgasmic places?”
“Yeah. Where’s the strangest place you ever climaxed?”
“Oh…well. A swimming pool. An underground parking lot. A hotel balcony.” I frowned in an effort of memory.
“Tame stuff. Vanilla in the extreme. I’m surprised at you.”
“Lloyd! Where am I supposed to do it? Onstage?”
“That would add spice.” His louche grin was as wide as a wolf’s, and his knee nudged mine beneath the checkered cloth. “I’m sure you’d find an appreciative audience.”
“So where’s your most outrageous spot for hitting the spot, then? Since you see yourself as the voice of experience here.”
“There was a croquet lawn. A rowing boat. An aircraft hangar. And that was all before I left college.”
“So what is the point you are making? Were those orgasms better?”
“No, they weren’t better,” he conceded. “But they had a quality all of their own. Didn’t you find that with your experiences outside the bedroom?”
“I suppose I did. Yes.”
“But nobody has ever pursued that with you?”
“No. I must admit, my past lovers have mainly wanted privacy. Don’t you?”
“There’s a time and a place.”
I snorted.
“That appears to be the
opposite
of what you’re proposing. You seem to be saying that any time and any place are fine for sex.”
“Not sex necessarily. Just having an orgasm. Coming. Oh, I love that. Coming. Such an innocent word; such a coy little euphemism.”
“Okay, now I’m struggling.”
“You will be. Finish that up. I’m getting the bill. I need to show you what I mean and in this case, I think actions will speak louder than words.”
I mopped up the last of the delicious sauce with a hunk of baguette and pushed the plate aside.
“Just coming,” I said.
Outside it had begun to rain; Lloyd grasped my hand and held on to me, weaving me through the shining streets, between phalanxes of umbrellas, down to Soho, where the pavement narrowed and we had to maintain strict single file until we reached the forlorn last bastion of that district’s seedy past. On Brewer Street, the red and blue neon flickered from the doorways; the rain conferred a strange and poignant glamour to the scene. Lloyd and I were frequent visitors to this historic fleshpot; I’m sure some of the patrons of the row of sex boutiques must have wondered if we had furnished our entire flat from their stock. I used to order that kind of thing online, but Lloyd converted me to the “experience” and the “ambience” and, most importantly, the exquisite, needling shame of handing my purchases over the counter. I both hated and loved it, but now I had the taste for it.
Through a rainbow-colored door curtain we passed, its plastic strips sliding coldly across our wet faces, into a brightly lit outpost of Sodom and Gomorrah.
“Evenin’,” we were greeted laconically by the vast biker who presided over this empire of extravagant sin. Lloyd tipped his head and the man returned to his
Standard
without further interrogation.
“What are we looking for?” I asked Lloyd in a whisper as he led me beyond the lurid DVD covers and gnarly latex phalluses, even past the spanking and bondage section where we had spent many happy browsing hours.
“Knickers,” he murmured, heading through an archway to a small square room populated by headless mannequins in PVC basques. Then he looked at me with a salacious smirk. “Whore’s drawers.”
“What’s underwear got to do with it?” I wondered, having well and truly lost the connection between al fresco climax and these scanty scraps of hideous nylon.
“Hmm,” was the only reply I got, Lloyd being now completely absorbed in the racks and shelves of cheap tartwear.
“Crotchless?” I hazarded, fingering a plastic peephole bra and slit panty set.
“Quite the opposite. No, not that…where the hell are they? I
saw
them here, I’m sure I did…aha!”
He wheeled around in triumph, brandishing a clear plastic bag containing what looked like an ordinary pair of black lacy briefs. But that was not all it contained. A remote control unit sat alongside the garment…remote-controlled knickers?
Oh!
“I think I’ve heard of these,” I said guardedly, stretching out a hand for further inspection. He handed over the bag, confirming my suspicions. Attached to the gusset at strategic intervals were a clitoral stimulator and a vibrator. “Are you serious?”
“Are you scared?” he taunted, taking the bag back and rustling it in my face, making ghostly
woo woo
noises. “Attack of the knickers!”
“They’re expensive,” I noted.
BOOK: Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission
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