Free Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Donna George Storey

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