Slave girls, p.1
Slave Girls, page 1
Copyright © 2014 by D. L. King.
Foreword copyright © 2014 by Rose Caraway.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, Inc.,
2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: Air Rabbit/Getty Images
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-049-0
Contents
Foreword • ROSE CARAWAY
Introduction
Noise • EVAN MORA
Out of Sight • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Cubed • ALISON TYLER
Serving Mr. Baldwin • VERONICA WILDE
Press My Buttons • NINA FAIRWEATHER
Breathe • SOMMER MARSDEN
What’s Not to Like? • D. L. KING
Hell-Bent for Leather • VICTORIA BEHN
Passing the Final • DONNA GEORGE STOREY
Bridle Party • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS
The Red Envelope • ERZABET BISHOP
Green’s • LISETTE ASHTON
Breaking Fiona • CECILIA DUVALLE
Muse • LISABET SARAI
Postcards from Paris • GISELLE RENARDE
Flight • CELA WINTER
Savoring Little One • GRAYDANCER
Day Job • DEBORAH CASTELLANO
Stand Here • NYM NIX
Dirty Pictures • THOMAS S. ROCHE
My Master’s Mark • LYDIA HILL
About the Authors
About the Editor
FOREWORD
What would it be like to submit? I mean, really submit? To allow yourself a moment of powerlessness? I suppose it isn’t easy. You will have to find the right companion first. Or, perhaps he will find you.
A very special, powerful Master that can use just the right words accompanied by the most exacting touch that will make you want to surrender to him. To obey. You will take comfort in his instructions. They will always be very simple. Simple and direct. He must entice you, prove that you can trust him so that when he touches your skin, you will want nothing more than to be his cherished slave.
Every time you feel yourself submit, it is a sublime experience, and not just for you. Your Master will ask you what you like and what you don’t like, what you might also be a little curious about. Your Master listens intently and makes careful note of your deepest cravings, because he knows that you are entrusting your body and mind to him. He promises with a heated glow in his eye that he will take care of you, give you everything you want. And that is precisely what he wants: when you relinquish your control to your Master’s capable hands without hesitation and without fear that is your gift to him. He will lovingly guide you.
Your Master will worship you. He will worship your body by eliciting your desires and teasing your flesh. He will make you hunger for his touch, make you want to please him. You are a treasure in the Master’s eyes. That is your gift to him, in return for his attentive care. His commands center your mind. His hands are tangible focal points for which your body begs. Your eager response is the Master’s goal. His loving hands will tell you the truth about yourself, that you want him to command you, his beautiful slave.
This kind of submission, complete and confident, isn’t always about the physical orgasm. He knows this. The smallest of details can evoke the most powerful, fulfilling response; the Master directs each and every sensation until it evolves, becomes a concentrated lure of pain and pleasure, pulling you closer to exquisite perfection. The Master will guide you away from resistance until your submission becomes nothing short of a religious experience.
Submitting is as much about mutual desire as it is a partnered understanding. A marriage of give and get, want and take. The Master accepts this gift as a treasure above all else.
When his commanding words and caressing breath feather across your flesh, you will know if he is the one. Your body’s response will tell you.
He will teach you how the forbidden can become the bidden.
But only if you are a good girl...
Rose Caraway
INTRODUCTION
What is it about power exchange and sexual submission that just does it for me? When I ask myself that question I go a little weak in the knees, and I get that shiver through my body that makes my flesh feel a little like Jell-O. The world stops for a minute while my brain travels to the last good scene I remember. Maybe it was something I read yesterday afternoon, or maybe it was something that I did last night. I know you know the feeling; it’s a Pavlovian response. Maybe you start to salivate a little, like Pavlov’s dogs. Maybe it’s not your mouth that starts to salivate. But it’s that craving; that need. You know exactly what you need and the craving for it won’t stop until it’s been satisfied.
Sexual submission. My mind goes to that place. That ooh... and then what happens? place. You’ve just opened the cover to a world of handpicked stories specially written to awaken that need and/or satisfy it. Well, the stories won’t satisfy it, but you know what will. Here are twenty-one stories to get you ready, to put you in just the right frame of mind; you know what I mean.
Here’s a good illustration:
He pulled her wrists together so that they formed a cross and he wound his belt carefully around them, making sure to twist it both ways so that she couldn’t simply wriggle free. “Like I said, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
These last words were whispered close to her ear. Melissa felt the first hot pulse of liquid soaking into her underwear.
He’s standing right up against her back when he binds her and whispers those words to her. That’s from Victoria Behn’s story, “Hell-Bent for Leather.” Jell-O, right?
Actually, the words, “I don’t want you to get hurt,” or “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” or “I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” said in the right context, can turn you into a wet mess, can’t they?
How about words like these:
“I know you,” he said, “you smell like earth. You taste like heaven. You need to be greased up and have things inserted into your holes. You need to be bound down. You need things done to you...”
That’s from Alison Tyler’s story, “Cubed.” Need...things... done... Oh yeah, there’s that full-body shiver.
And that’s not all—not by a long shot! What else will you find in Slave Girls? There are stories by some of your favorite writers. Sommer Marsden’s story, “Breathe,” is about a woman with crippling social anxiety. Glenna finds it hard to breathe at gatherings of more than two people. There will be a reward waiting for her if she can just make it through thirty minutes of a party—a reward that will literally take her breath away.
How about a little pony play? Teresa Noelle Roberts knows just how to smooth you into that world, even if it’s a completely new concept for you, just like Myra. She’s normally shy and a little skittish around strangers, but Zan has the perfect way to put her at ease in “Bridle Party.”
“Out of Sight” will keep you on edge and panting for more. Let me just say five words: blindfold, hotel room, strange men. This is the kind of story Rachel Kramer Bussel’s known for. So hot you’ll be reaching for the ice—or maybe you’ll be reaching for something else.
Slave Girls is true to its name; it’s all about female submission, but it’s female submission served several different ways. Most of the stories have alpha-male doms good at bringing women to their knees, but there are other forms of submission. You’ll find a few women submitting to women and even a ménage story with two men, one of them transsexual, playing with their submissive pet.
From the first story, “Noise,” by Evan Mora, all the way to the closure you’ll get from the last story by newcomer Lydia Hill, “My Master’s Mark,” I hope you’ll find reading this book to be a very special experience; it certainly has been for me.
D. L. King
New York City
NOISE
Evan Mora
There’s so much noise I can’t escape it: traffic, street life, elevator music, banal conversation and false laughter. My own cynical inner monologue underscores it all; I can’t even quiet that. It reaches a crescendo mid-phone call, mid-meeting; someone’s rapping on the door, and I feel laughter or a scream (I can’t quite decide which) pushing against my clenched-shut teeth behind my perfect, plastic smile.
It recedes little by little as the hours go by. Meetings end, the phone stops ringing and the drive home in the chilly midwinter dusk is blessedly quiet. Except for my fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Except for the mental list I’m compiling of work still undone, emails still to answer and the seemingly endless number of tasks that still need attention at home.
I should go there, but instead I call you and ask if I can see you. You say yes, and I alter my course, heading uptown to your address. The lion’s-head knocker on your heavy wooden door stares knowingly as I wait. I brush my hands nervously down the sides of my skirt and straighten my jacket under his watchful eye. Then the door swings inward with an ominous groan, and my breath catches at the sight of you. Framed in the golden entryway light with your shirt unbuttoned above bespoke suit pants and a tumbler of
You ask me what I need, the rich tenor of your voice as smoky as the scotch that even now, I know, lingers on your tongue. That you know what I need matters not. It’s a part of the ritual—the naming of my desires. It has been from the beginning.
“I need...” I say, eyes fixed somewhere below your open collar, on the skin that I know will feel smooth and hot beneath my mouth. You grasp my chin in your hand, exerting enough pressure to force my gaze upward until I am caught by the impossible arctic blue of your eyes, eyes that appear at once cold and remote and yet burn like the hottest of flames. You arch an aristocratic brow at my silence and the words spill out, the words that never change, words of hunger and longing and desperate, desperate need.
In the silence that follows you weigh my words while your hand slides lower, spanning my neck. Little by little you tighten your hold, and while your gaze never leaves mine I know you miss nothing—not the flutter of my pulse against the pad of your thumb or the convulsive swallow I can’t control as the pressure and my need for air mount. I don’t close my eyes, even when stars threaten and your mouth covers mine with brutal intensity, stealing my reflexive gasp. I want you to see the surrender in my eyes. I want you to know that I am yours.
I sway a little when you release me, drinking in great gulps of air, oxygen flooding my body and on its heels, arousal. I feel it tingling through my extremities and then settling deep inside me, my clit pulsing to life and a flush of warmth spreading over my skin. There is nothing that drives out the world as fast as your hand around my neck, nothing that pulls me into the space I crave so quickly.
You tell me to wait for you in the study and I make my way there on unsteady legs. A fire crackles warmly in the hearth, framed by two well-worn leather wingbacks angled atop an antique Persian rug. Adjacent walls house floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing with rare books and first-edition classics; tomes on everything from renaissance architecture to modern art; and everywhere, medical journals and texts ranging from anatomy to cardiovascular physiology. A heavy mahogany desk features prominently in front of one such wall, illuminated by the green-gold glow of the banker’s lamp perched atop it. On the fireplace mantel, a black-and-white print entitled Orchid with Devil Shadow holds an unassuming place to one side, and yet I know it is one of your most prized possessions.
I remember standing transfixed at a gallery exhibition of some of the artist’s more controversial works, images of bondage and sadomasochism, when a stranger spoke beside me: “You like these, don’t you?” you said to me, and I replied politely that the artist had a brilliant eye. “Oh, come now,” you chided me softly, leaning closer so that I could feel the heat of your breath against my ear, “you’re so hungry I could feel you all the way across the room. Or will you tell me I’m wrong?” I looked at you then, saw the same hunger reflected in your eyes and found that I couldn’t look away. “No,” I said, shaking my head slightly, “you aren’t wrong.” Triumph flared briefly in your crystalline gaze, and then you turned back toward the exhibit, tucking my hand into your elbow as you did. “Good,” you said with evident pleasure. “Very good.”
I’m drawn from my reverie by your return, black medical bag in hand. Inside are all the tools of your trade: this is how you heal me. You place the bag on the desk and withdraw several different items, laying them neatly in a row. You tell me why you have selected each item, how each will feel in turn. My body tightens with awareness and anticipation, responding to the mere promise of your touch.
You tell me to undress and I hasten to comply, eagerly shedding my dull office attire and turning to place my clothes on one of your chairs. Before I can turn back, you’ve captured my arms, pinning them against my sides, the hard length of your body pressing tight against the softer contours of mine.
“I’m going to hurt you tonight,” you whisper softly in my ear, “and I’m going to enjoy it.”
I can feel your arousal hot and hard through your trousers, pressing against my ass, and it’s all I can do not to squirm and push myself back into you. You release my arms, reaching up with one hand to brush the hair away from the side of my neck, teasing the skin at the sensitive juncture of my neck and shoulder with your teeth, sending shivers racing through me. You cup my breasts, holding their weight in your palms, rolling each nipple between thumb and forefinger, gently at first and then harder, twisting each peak painfully until I do squirm, pushing my breasts into your hands, my ass into your cock, my restless hands reaching back to stroke your hard thighs. You bite down on my neck and I cry out in surprise, a sharp, high sound that I quickly contain. It’s a reprimand, I know—you release me and step away, tsking as you do.
“Hands, Marietta,” you say with disapproval. “Still and again: you cannot restrain yourself.”
I lower my head and clasp my hands behind my back, waiting for you to bind me. You circle my wrists methodically with heavy twine, ensuring it is tight, but not overly so. In truth and as you know, being bound is my preference, but your displeasure is so real that I can’t help but feel ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the ground at my feet.
You are in front of me in an instant, hand tight around my neck, your blue eyes glittering dangerously.
“I’m sorry, who?” you say softly.
“Sir!” I choke out. “I’m sorry, Sir!”
But still your grip tightens. It’s dizzying—the panic, the adrenaline, the inescapable animal responses that flood through me. But more, ever so much more than that is your control, your absolute and perfect control. Of me. Of this moment.
“Please, Sir...” A hoarse whisper is all I can manage. Your stare holds such intensity it’s all I can do not to lower my gaze but here, at least, I succeed, holding your eyes while you search mine for the answer to some unasked question. Whatever you find, it must meet with your approval, because the pressure on my neck eases, and for a second time, I’m drawing in great lungfuls of air, light-headed and tingling with pleasure.
You pick up the crop from the selection of toys arrayed on your desk and hold it up for me to see. You tell me that a reminder is in order: of discipline and of manners. You tap my breasts lightly, repeatedly, as you speak and, already tender from your earlier ministerings, they begin to take on a pink and rosy hue, my nipples hard and straining. When the first hard strike lands I gasp at the sharp, stinging sensation.
“Say ‘thank you,’ girl,” you say.
“Tha...thank you, Sir.” I stammer. Another strike lands, this time on the other breast, and I repeat my thanks a second and then third time, and soon I’ve lost track of the number, a fiery heat blossoming in my chest, and from my lips, a litany of than-kyouthankyouthankyouSir...
When you are satisfied that the lesson has been learned, you return the crop to your desk, and after a moment’s contemplation move your medical bag and chosen tools to one side. You move behind me, grasping me by my bound wrists and positioning me so that I am bent forward at the waist over your heavy mahogany desk. The wood is cool and soothing against my aching breasts, though I know that this hurt is very shortly to be eclipsed.
For a moment there is only the pleasurable sensation of your hand stroking the soft skin of my ass. A surgeon’s hand, strong, yet smooth and uncalloused. Precise. Then it falls with measured force, startling and yet familiar all at once. Your rhythm is steady and even, a gift to me, I know. At times you can be unpredictable, preferring to keep me on edge and guessing. But this rhythm, hard and unyielding though it is, calms me in some indefinable way. The world and all its noise fall away and my focus turns inward. Feeling. Sensation. This is all there is.
There is a pause, the movement of air behind me as you take a few steps back. Then it comes, the hard thud of a heavy leather flogger. My breath hisses out between my teeth, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry out. Again and again the flogger falls, each impact more painful than the last, and a sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin as I struggle to absorb each blow. At first, it seems a doable thing—staying quiet, holding still, maintaining some measure of grace—but all too soon I’m whimpering and squirming, pride forgotten as I plead with you to stop, my tears a wet smear on the desk beneath my cheek.
