Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Donna George Storey Page B
Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel, Donna George Storey
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hand reached for something to hold on to. “The clamps,” he said. “Pull.”
And she did, pulling her nipples up and up with the chain, arching her back to press her clit into him and her hand. He came before she did, but was hard enough to keep inside until she came. Her orgasm was soft, quiet moans and one last tug on the clamps.
He eased himself out of her, and sat beside her on the bed. When he took the clamps from her nipples, she moaned again, turning her head away. He kissed her nipples gently. She turned back toward him, her brown eyes no longer squinted-up from stress. She still looked tired though, beneath her eyes and around the edges of her lips. He stroked her hair and she snuggled her face into the curve of his neck. “You always know exactly what I need,” she said. And then she’d fallen asleep, her breath soft and quiet against his skin.
That was six weeks, two surgeries, and some kind of newfangled chemo ago. Today, Stella was coming home. He didn’t know what to do with the clamps, and he couldn’t bear to touch the cold metal any longer, so he opened the nightstand drawer.
The books from friends and family— Coping with Cancer, Outsmart Your Cancer, Cancer Husband —stared up at him, spines uncracked. He’d tried to read the Husband one during one of Stella’s appointments, but he hadn’t understood what was about to happen, and the chapters on lumpectomy and chemo and sex with cancer had seemed impossible. Now, he wished he’d read it, at least the sex chapter, although he doubted there was anything about the kind of sex he and Stella had. Used to have. They’d had sex once or twice while she was sick, but it had been the kind of soft, gentle sex he’d always imagined belonged to virgins and old people. When Stella’s bones hurt after hot showers and she couldn’t sleep because the sheets tore at her skin, they’d fallen into this habit of moving quietly together, him raising himself above her, cock and pussy the only place they touched. And then even that had fallen away, forgotten under the bed in the midst of doctors and options and books and Stella’s determination.
Stella had tackled cancer the same way she tackled a big project at work, or, when he’d first met her, a research paper in grad school. Learn the facts, make a to-do list, and then checkmark your way down to the end. Get diagnosed, check. Find the best doctor they could afford, check. Explore all the treatments, check. Get rid of it, check. He didn’t want to admit it, but Stella had handled all this with her usual grace and determination, while he was the one who felt lost.
Now, they had cut it out of her body, and she was coming home to him. And he felt like the world’s biggest asshole for what he wanted. Or the world’s whiniest husband: My wife went to Cancerville and all I got was this stupid T-shirt. He wanted her down on her knees, the gorgeous globes of her ass pink-marked, begging him for mercy. He wanted to tie her up and enter her, one half-inch at a time, until she bucked her hips against him. He wanted to clamp the clips in his hand around the points of her nipples and force her to fuck herself until she came, until the tightness left her body and she could fall asleep again, at the point of his neck, without worry. He wanted to give her that release, but without topping her, without hurting a body that had already been beaten by its own cells, but he didn’t know how.
Simply the possibility of it made his cock harden. He reached down to rub himself through his pants, and then he realized he was still holding the nipple clamps. Shiny guilt-makers. He dropped them onto the pile of books and shut the drawer tight. It was almost time to pick Stella up anyway.
Stella came home from the hospital with a new pair of reading glasses and a new star, dark red against her pale skin. He saw the glasses as soon as she got in the car—she put the blue- and yellow-striped frames on so she could see
And she did, pulling her nipples up and up with the chain, arching her back to press her clit into him and her hand. He came before she did, but was hard enough to keep inside until she came. Her orgasm was soft, quiet moans and one last tug on the clamps.
He eased himself out of her, and sat beside her on the bed. When he took the clamps from her nipples, she moaned again, turning her head away. He kissed her nipples gently. She turned back toward him, her brown eyes no longer squinted-up from stress. She still looked tired though, beneath her eyes and around the edges of her lips. He stroked her hair and she snuggled her face into the curve of his neck. “You always know exactly what I need,” she said. And then she’d fallen asleep, her breath soft and quiet against his skin.
That was six weeks, two surgeries, and some kind of newfangled chemo ago. Today, Stella was coming home. He didn’t know what to do with the clamps, and he couldn’t bear to touch the cold metal any longer, so he opened the nightstand drawer.
The books from friends and family— Coping with Cancer, Outsmart Your Cancer, Cancer Husband —stared up at him, spines uncracked. He’d tried to read the Husband one during one of Stella’s appointments, but he hadn’t understood what was about to happen, and the chapters on lumpectomy and chemo and sex with cancer had seemed impossible. Now, he wished he’d read it, at least the sex chapter, although he doubted there was anything about the kind of sex he and Stella had. Used to have. They’d had sex once or twice while she was sick, but it had been the kind of soft, gentle sex he’d always imagined belonged to virgins and old people. When Stella’s bones hurt after hot showers and she couldn’t sleep because the sheets tore at her skin, they’d fallen into this habit of moving quietly together, him raising himself above her, cock and pussy the only place they touched. And then even that had fallen away, forgotten under the bed in the midst of doctors and options and books and Stella’s determination.
Stella had tackled cancer the same way she tackled a big project at work, or, when he’d first met her, a research paper in grad school. Learn the facts, make a to-do list, and then checkmark your way down to the end. Get diagnosed, check. Find the best doctor they could afford, check. Explore all the treatments, check. Get rid of it, check. He didn’t want to admit it, but Stella had handled all this with her usual grace and determination, while he was the one who felt lost.
Now, they had cut it out of her body, and she was coming home to him. And he felt like the world’s biggest asshole for what he wanted. Or the world’s whiniest husband: My wife went to Cancerville and all I got was this stupid T-shirt. He wanted her down on her knees, the gorgeous globes of her ass pink-marked, begging him for mercy. He wanted to tie her up and enter her, one half-inch at a time, until she bucked her hips against him. He wanted to clamp the clips in his hand around the points of her nipples and force her to fuck herself until she came, until the tightness left her body and she could fall asleep again, at the point of his neck, without worry. He wanted to give her that release, but without topping her, without hurting a body that had already been beaten by its own cells, but he didn’t know how.
Simply the possibility of it made his cock harden. He reached down to rub himself through his pants, and then he realized he was still holding the nipple clamps. Shiny guilt-makers. He dropped them onto the pile of books and shut the drawer tight. It was almost time to pick Stella up anyway.
Stella came home from the hospital with a new pair of reading glasses and a new star, dark red against her pale skin. He saw the glasses as soon as she got in the car—she put the blue- and yellow-striped frames on so she could see
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