The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page A

back of your bike and drove me to the dyke bar for a poetry reading. Now my slinky dress is hiked up high somewhere around my thighs, surely my pussy is showing and my new heels are no doubt scratched to bits. I hear the chatter and curious mutterings of passersby on their way to the reading. I feel anxious, for I am supposed to be performing at the open mic, and you grabbed my upper arm in your hand and dragged me out here before the andro-mistress-of-ceremonies called my name.
    I feel anxious, for I have no idea what you want.
    Every time you touch me, my need expands beyond me, outside of restraint. Incapable of controlling it, I dissolve into liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless you hurt me, use your hands on me with a violence I recognize as your love. I am left waiting for your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.
    Your face looks more than slightly dangerous with need, and relief washes over me when I see the smile lurking behind your eyes. That mix of dark and sweet in you had me, claws in deep, from the moment we met. Bad boy with brutal hands or irresistibly charming butch—no matter, I was a goner. Still am. You cup my head tenderly in one hand and unzip your jeans slowly with the other, savoring the sudden gleam in my eye. How I love the sound of your zipper. I tremble as much from anticipation of what is coming next as from the sharp pain in my knees and legs.
    The first time you marked my face we had been fucking for days, your cock claiming me as if you had waited a lifetime for my cunt. I pushed you, pleading—it was so big it hurt me, and fear and desire warred inside me. You called me your whore and made me take it, and in that moment, I would have done anything for you.
    The first time you marked my face you were slapping it in the front seat of my car, your other hand gripping my hair, calling me filthy while I sobbed. The nextmorning your handprint was visible on my cheek, purple and blue. I felt terrified and elated.
    â€œDo you like to make me feel good, baby?” you croon, and I melt. I nod eagerly, bite my lower lip, want to scream, “Yes!” and throw myself at you. But you don’t want that; you have asked me to kneel in front of you and wait for your instructions like a good girl. So I wait, wetter by the minute, my pussy creaming and slick, just the way you like it to be when you touch me.
    â€œShow me how good.”
    You are stroking your cock languidly. I cannot tear my eyes from you, your hand, your girth. Your cock drives me crazy—watching you handle it even more so—and I gasp, “Yes, yes,” as you move it closer to my mouth.
    When you say, “Let me come down your throat,” I swallow you whole.
    I have craved. For an eternity, I have craved. I thought tenderness happened at the moment I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now I realize that I was wrong. Tenderness is the moment I break and you push me beyond—beyond fear, beyond limits. Tenderness is the way you carry me into my craving and stay with me while I struggle. A moment snaps inside me and I am flying toward you and you knew all along I could take it.
    I have never been so safe in all of my life.
    I forget everything but this feeling. I forget theparking lot, the queers around us entering and leaving the bar, the noise, the nervous rush I feel when you fuck me in public. I forget all of it, and work my mouth on you like it’s all I live for. I take you inside me, every inch, gagging and choking, and use my spit to lube you up some more so I can take you in even farther down my throat. I breathe through my nose, and when you are in so deep I can no longer do that, I let the tears and snot run down my face.
    â€œYou look so beautiful, baby, so beautiful.” Your voice is ragged and so damn sexy I feel weak and grip your legs for support.
    You