The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page B

call me “beloved whore” when I please you, and I live for those words, to see the look on your face when I have been a good girl for you, when I take your cock, when I make you come down my throat, when I spread my legs for you without being told. Other times, you call me a filthy whore because I beg for your cock. I cry because I want you to tell me I am good. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, debased, hurt. And I cry because I worship you and do not know how to make you see what you are to me.
    You are moaning now, leaning back against the brick wall, your hands cradling my face, your eyes closed. I am clutching your legs to hold myself up and crying openly, watching you as you begin to shake, violently, a muffled cry, before you come in my mouth and down my throat. Your possession washes over me and inside me. I am yours, and I know in that moment, you are mine.
    Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy, tear-streaked, makeup stained, puffy and bruised face, and I know, from your eyes I know, I am beautiful. And you are whispering. “My princess,” you whisper. And I am precious.
    â€œMmmmmm. Nice, girl.” You open your eyes and wink at me. You pull the ever-present handkerchief from your pocket and hand it to me to clean myself up while you re-tuck your cock into your jeans and zip yourself up. You lift me to my feet, holding me to your chest for a moment until my trembling abates and I stand on my own. Your arm around me, we walk toward the door of the bar. The muffled applause and guffaws from a handful of onlookers grow louder when you pull me into your arms again to kiss me.
    â€œI love you, darling,” you whisper in my ear. “Such a good girl.”
    I am still grinning when we reenter the din and noise. I only hope I have a moment to collect myself before it’s my turn at the mic.

STORY TIME
    Inara Serene
    N o. That is just not happening.”
    â€œOh? Are you telling me what to do, cupcake?”
    He could have picked a thousand other names that, to anyone else, would have been more degrading. Slut, bitch, whore—even cunt, though I detest the word—any of those would have been preferable. But he had hit on a nickname that genuinely made me squirm. I hated the sickeningly saccharine sound of it, and all that its frosted syllables implied.
    The first time he had used it, he sprinkled it casually into our conversation. I don’t think he had guessed just how much I would hate that term of supposed endearment, but my vehement response told him everything he needed to know. And once he had hit on something he could use to tease me, to make me uncomfortableand indignant, he sank his teeth into it and refused to let go.
    â€œNo. Fuck. I wouldn’t say that…I just…please? Please don’t make me.”
    He lifted the corner of his mouth in a sardonic smile.
    â€œYou know the more you tell me how much you hate the idea, the more I want to make you do it.”
    My gaze dropped to my folded hands, and I examined the ring on my left index finger with undue attention. Even the barest hint of suggestion of the threat rendered me pliant and demure. His words traced over the outline of the tattoo he had imprinted on my psyche, making me visibly shake with the knowledge that I was his, and he could do as he wished with me.
    â€œI know, Sir. How about I’ll just be good, and then you will have no reason to punish me?” I asked, my eyes lighting up hopefully.
    â€œOh, Lizbeth. You have so much to learn, my dear. I don’t need a reason. And in any case, you want to please me, don’t you?”
    I nodded vigorously, eager to demonstrate my determination to behave.
    â€œThen you’ll do exactly as I say, with none of the usual sass.”
    I nodded again, this time with a tad less enthusiasm.
    â€œSo we’ll get started then, shall we?”
    I looked into his toffee eyes, and reached for the book beside me. I