Place of Honor (#submission #commitment #devotion)

By Lisabet Sarai

Finally, I’m where I belong.

I’m on my knees, at your feet, waiting for you to decide what happens next. Will you wrap my already prominent nipples in rubber bands, to see how much plumper they could be? Will you unfasten your belt so you can paint new stripes on my ass? Will you fuck me? Will you kiss me?

Whatever you choose, I’m here, here where I know you want me. Where I want to be, more than anywhere else in the universe.

I kneel for you, spread for you, writhe for you—and only you. After all these years, I’m still full of wonder at the connection that binds us. You don’t need to tell me how grateful you are for my surrender, though sometimes you do. We both know the truth, and glory in it.

I honor you by bending to your will. You honor me by accepting the gift I offer.

Everyone else would be horrified to see me in this place of apparent abasement—horrified and astonished. I’m not the type to take orders. Friends call me assertive and proactive. Others less favorably inclined label me aggressive and bossy. A less likely slave would be hard to imagine. I’m competent, articulate, a natural leader, a feminist. I’m opinionated and stubborn, according to some people. But submissive? No one would believe it.

If they saw me here, in this place, they’d label it as abuse, or worse. The welts on my butt—the ropes cinching my wrists—the scar on my shoulder where you carved your initials—they’d call this insanity, pure and simple.

How little they understand. It is pure, this devotion, or tries to be. I dream of perfecting the alignment of my will with yours. You dream, I think, of possessing me ever more completely, of pushing me harder, of testing the depth of my commitment and discovering it is bottomless.

This place gives me the courage to step out onto that perilous wire, when you invite me. On my knees at your feet, I am brave enough to attempt anything your devious imagination may suggest. I’m frightened—you’d hardly enjoy it, if I were not—but in this place, trust overcomes fear.

On my knees, at your feet, I don’t worry about what anyone else might think. I worry only about pleasing you. This place strips away all the silly concerns of daily life, reminding me of what really matters. My mind quiets even as my body hums with the heat you kindle. I am calm, patient, at peace as I wait for your next command.

This place gives me joy.

Trust In Me

by Giselle Renarde

The other night, I had dinner with my mom, my sister, and a family friend. They all live in the same neighbourhood and they all go to the same mechanic. Apparently, he's the best. Okay, so his prices are a little on the high side and his hours of operation are ridiculous, but they're all willing to shuffle things around in their schedules to get their cars in after he opens and pick their cars up before he closes. Because he's the best.

I'm thinking... if he charges more than other garages and his hours are truly craptacular, what makes him the best?

He doesn't recommend work your car doesn't need, and if he fixes something that only takes two seconds, chances are he won't charge you for it.  He's the best because they trust him.  Not an easy quality to find in a mechanic. Not just that, but they've trusted him for years. My mom and her friend have been raving about this guy for as long as I can remember.

I don't know how they found him, initially.  Proximity, I imagine.  They could drop their cars off at the garage and simply walk home.  But they wouldn't have stuck by him for thirty-plus years if not for consistently superior service.

This fortnight's theme is hustling. What that brings to mind, for me, as far as the business of writing is concerned, involves working your butt off:

• telling everyone you know about your new release, 
• giving your book to all your friends as birthday gifts, 
• maintaining at least twelve active social media accounts, 
• calling up every bookstore in the country to sell them on the idea of stocking your book so they'll have plenty of copies when you stop by for a signing event, 
• flying to every conference on the planet to meet readers and network with other authors

...and that's just Monday.

I do none of those things.  I'm tired just thinking about a life like that.

The life I want is my mom's mechanic's.  Work when I want, close up shop if I'd rather be somewhere else, charge more than my competitors, and still hear my customers shouting, "Shut up and take my money!"

I am so not into the hustle. I'm just too lazy.  Or... is lazy the right word?  I'm always saying I'm lazy, but I spend pretty much every waking hour working.  I definitely work more hours now than I did doing the 9-5 thing.

Most writers want to write.  I want to write.  But all writers, whether we're traditionally published or self-published or anything in between, need to hustle our asses off.

What if we don't?  What if we just write and we don't hustle at all?

On the one hand, it's hard to answer that question because I've never done the hustle--not the big-time hustle, like attending conferences and buying expensive advertising and giving away Kindles. I know people who do these things and they seem successful to me, but I'm not them so I can't really say.

All I know is that in the 10 years I've been selling my work, some books have sold well and some books have sold 3 copies and I've never felt like I had the slightest bit of control over any of that.  If a book taps into the zeitgeist of a reader group, it takes off.  If it doesn't, no amount of hustle's going to make that baby a bestseller.

I didn't enter this business to get rich quick, or even get rich slowly.  I'm here to do the best work I can for as long as I'm able. 

Maybe in another 25 years I'll have readers beating down my door for the next new book. And it won't matter how long they have to wait. And it won't matter what I charge. If that's how my career plays out, they'll want it because they trust me.   

Angry Birds

By Lisabet Sarai

“Hey, Liz – isn’t that Bart?”

“Where?”

“Behind you, at the other end of the bar. Talking to the blonde with the big artificial tits.”

“Sounds like him. It’s not worth my energy to check, though.”

“Really? Last week all you could talk about was his six pack and his stamina. You told me you thought you were in love.”

“You’re dreaming. No way I could love that sleazebag.“

“But last week...”

“Last week is ancient history, Jill. Let’s bury it.”

“But...”

“Look, I was briefly deluded into thinking Bartholomew Jackson was a decent and reasonable person. I was wrong.”

“What did he do?”

“Can’t you just drop it? There are so many other, more interesting topics to discuss.”

“C’mon, Liz. I’m your best friend. Spill!”

“You really want to know? Okay, you asked for it. You’re gonna puke.”

“That sounds a bit dramatic.”

“Just wait. You know how he was the perfect gentleman when we met? So solicitous of my comfort and all?”

“Yeah – I have to admit I was a bit jealous that it was you he wanted. His buddy Jeff was a total dud. Couldn’t get it up to save his life.”

“That’s one problem Mr. I’m-a-Stockbroker-So-Bow-Down-to-Me Jackson didn’t have. He had a perpetual boner.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Well, no – I mean I like sex as much as the next girl...”

“More, I’d say.”

“Do you want to hear the story or not, Jill?”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“The first night was great, I admit. He rocked my world. I came three times, once all over his face. Very nice indeed.”

“So what happened?”

“It all started when he saw the shelf of my books.”

“Oh, Liz! You didn’t tell him your pseudonym?”

“In a moment of weakness and deep stupidity. What can I say? He seemed so nice, so appreciative. I’m hungry for recognition. As soon as he found out they were my books, though – that I write erotica - he changed. Completely.”

“How?”

“All of a sudden he was channeling Christian Gray or something. Using my stockings to tie me to the bed. Slapping me around. Forcing me to suck his cock. Bending me over and drilling into my ass without any lube. I guess he assumed that I must be a total slut, with no qualms about anything sexual.”

“Well, you are pretty wild, compared to me at least. I thought you liked a bit of kink.”

“Sure, with the right person, under the right circumstances. After the appropriate negotiations. Bart didn’t even ask. Like I said, he just assumed I’d eat it all up, that I’d swallow his cum and lick his butt hole and beg him to fuck me the way I did that first night.”

“So why didn’t you kick him out?”

“I tried! That’s when I found out he’d been secretly filming every damn thing he did to me. Even that first time, when I was all starry-eyed. He threatened to post the videos on the ‘Net, along with my pseudonym, if I didn’t go along with his filthy ideas.”

“Jeez, that would be a disaster for your job!”

“Tell me about it! So I strung him along for a couple of days, while I worked on the problem of how I could get the vids back, or at least destroy them. When he showed up at my door at 3 AM Sunday, with two other guys in tow, ready for a gang bang, I got desperate.”

“Oh my god! What did you do?”

“The first thing that came into my mind. I acted excited, like having my holes stuffed by a trio of slobs was my most cherished fantasy. In fact, I told Bart, I’d always dreamed of having guys piss on me.”

“Yech!”

“I warned you! They loved it! It just confirmed their opinion of me as the ultimate deviant slut. Anyway, I fixed them all drinks, told them I had to get ready but I’d wait for them in the bath tub. While they were chugging down their cocktails, I made some quick alterations to the electrical wiring in the bathroom.”

“You don’t mean...?”

“Hey, there’s got to be some use for all my engineering degrees! I made sure the floor was nice and wet, then I knelt in the tub – on the rubber mat. They stumbled in, barefoot – whipped out their junk – aimed and let fly... The liquid completed the circuit, just as I’d planned. The lights flashed – there was a smell of charred meat – the circuit breaker blew – then everything was quiet. When I turned on my flashlight, I found all three bastards unconscious on the floor, lying in puddles of their own pee.”

“Liz, you’re unbelievable! What if you’d killed them?”

“Unlikely. Anyway, I didn’t. After I’d made sure they were breathing, I slipped Bart’s iPhone and keys out of his pocket. Using his car, I drove to his apartment and let myself in. I flushed his phone down his toilet. Logged on to his computer, deleted all his files on Google Drive and Drop Box, trashed all his email. Then I used his baseball bat – you remember him bragging about being the top hitter in his Saturday league? – and smashed his MacBook into little tiny pieces.”

“God! He could have you arrested.”

“I suppose. Just in case, I made sure to take some shots of him and his cronies. I can always accuse him – with some justification – of rape. Those pictures was the last thing I sent Mr. Jackson before I wiped him from my contacts and unfriended him on Facebook. I sent copies of the pix, along with a somewhat less graphic account of the situation, to my lawyer, too. Just in case. But somehow I doubt Bart will bother me anymore.”

“’Hell hath no fury...’! Hey – do you still have those photos on your mobile?”

“Yeah, sure. I look at them every now and then to remind myself not to trust anyone with the secret of my identity.”

“Let me see... Jeez, that’s totally disgusting! Hey, I’ve got an idea. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. Ah – Joe – can I please get another G and T?”

“You pervert! Get your hands off me, you creep! Oh no, don’t come any closer or I’ll call the cops...”

“Here you go, Liz. One gin and tonic... What’s her problem? Quite a pair of lungs on her!”

“Thanks, Joe. I think she may have just had her fantasies shattered. Hey, Jill – that was brilliant!”

“I hope that asshole learned his lesson. Never mess with an angry woman.”

“Never mess with a woman – period. Can I buy you another drink, girlfriend?”

Blood Bond

By Lisabet Sarai

He has threatened to tattoo "Kinky Slut" across my breast - over my heart, he vows, where it will be visible to everyone unless I keep my top button fastened. His teasing keeps me off balance, aroused and unsure, caught between laughter and dread "You're mine!" he sometimes yells as he pounds me from behind. "I'm going to carve my name into your ass!"

This isn't like that at all.

He has not spoken for the past twenty minutes. As he wraps my wrists and ankles with soft nylon rope, successive loops artistically aligned, all I hear is his even breathing and the Tangerine Dream CD he's put in the player. Sandalwood-scented candles create dancing shadows in the corners. There's an answering flicker in his velvet-brown eyes as he finishes the final knots and scans my face to make sure the bonds are not too tight. Is it passion? Fear? A hint of danger, that perverse curiosity that makes him push me beyond what we both thought were my limits?

I nod, not wanting to shatter the expectant hush, scarcely believing what we are about to do. I'm immobilized in the straight backed dining room chair, legs lashed to legs, arms behind the back and roped to the rungs. My thighs are spread, of course; the cushion beneath me is already sodden.

"Shall I get a blindfold?" he asks, his rich voice startling after the long interval of quiet.

I shake my head. "I want to watch," I whisper. "Please."

His mocking grin breaks the mood of sombre concentration. "Pervert," he names me, with obvious affection, and plants a kiss on my damp forehead. "Wait, then. I'll be back soon."

He leaves me sitting there, cocooned in the glow. The music winds through my head, haunting and other-worldly. An unearthly calm settles on my spirit. Yet at the same time my heart is hammering against my ribs and my cunt feels sloppy and hungry. I think I am ready.

It seems to take him a long time to gather his equipment. I shiver, then inhale deeply, working to slow my pulse as he's taught me. The recording comes to a close and silence draws in around me. Relax, I tell myself. Breathe. Open.

When he returns, he's as naked as I, his hard cock arrowing toward the ceiling. I gush at the sight. He ignores his own arousal, all business now, setting a rolled up towel on the table beside me and unfolding it to reveal several scalpels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze and other first aid supplies. He draws a pair of gloves over his big hands. The snap of the latex around his wrists sends a queasy ripple through my stomach.

I can still back out. I don't say a word, though. I will myself to breathe as he rotates my chair so that the back is to the table, then seats himself beside me, at right angles. Drenching a square of gauze in alcohol, he uses it to thoroughly swab my left shoulder. The pure white fabric makes my fair skin look tanned. It leaves a chill, goose-bumped trail in its wake. My nipples peak as though he'd disinfected them as well.

Now he pours more alcohol into a saucer. He swishes a scalpel back and forth in the antiseptic. I can't look away. He brings his steady hand to my shoulder. There's a touch, a barely-there imprint of the needle-like point, indenting my skin. His gaze snags mine. Fire rages inside him, I can see, but on the outside he's like ice.

"Mine," he whispers.

He reads my answer in my eyes.

I take a deep breath. He increases the force on the scalpel. The blade slices into my flesh, sending a scarlet shock through my whole body. It's heat more than pain, at least at first. A ruby drop wells from the tiny wound. As I watch, it grows fat and round, surface trembling as the weight increases. Finally it breaks, sending a red rivulet trickling down my arm. Another bead swells from the cut to take it's place.

I almost come from the sight alone.

He presses deeper, stroking out his first initial. The sting turns to an ache as he continues to cut. Before long, my whole shoulder is on fire. I bite my lip, determined to be brave.

By this time my arm is a bloody mess. He pauses to wipe away the excess gore with more alcohol, turning the pain sharper and colder. He's finished with the second initial now. Grasshoppers are vaulting around in my guts, but I can't look away.

"Are you all right, Sarah?" he asks.

I nod, not daring to speak. He returns to his work.

His concentration awes me - not to mention his skill. The letters are perfectly regular, a work of art. It occurs to me that he must have practiced. I'm amazed. I knew he'd researched the process - what sort of implements to use, how to slow the healing and enhance the scarring, how to avoid infection. I should have known he'd leave nothing to chance. That's the sort of master he is.

All at once, tears crowd my eyes and spill over. I'm too full of feelings to hold them back. My tortured flesh throbs as he adds the final touches to his design. My clit pulses and my cunt clenches on emptiness. I want to sink to my knees, kiss his feet, thank him from the bottom of my soul.

He's the one who kneels, though. After he's bandaged the wound and mopped up the remaining blood, he snaps off the gloves and settles between my splayed thighs. I come the instant his tongue lashes across my clit.

While I'm still shuddering in my bonds, he grabs the other scalpel and slices through them. He gathers me to his chest, carries me to the bedroom and buries his cock in my depths. Then he fucks me hard, the way we both love. Even as I climb toward another climax, though, I notice he's careful not to brush against my torn shoulder.

Afterward, he confines me in his arms, as though he fears I'll float away. Indeed, I feel boneless and limp, lighter than thistledown. I can't sleep, though. I still hum with the thrill of our mutual audacity, the wonder of our mutual trust.

We were close before. But now my master and I are bound by blood.