Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair Sexsmith, Miriam Zoila Perez, Wendi Kali, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Dilo Keith, Vie La Guerre, Anna Watson
Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair Sexsmith, Miriam Zoila Perez, Wendi Kali, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Dilo Keith, Vie La Guerre, Anna Watson
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reflecting back the image of me standing next to you, the toys hanging on the walls so much more extreme than anything we would ever play with at home. You’ll spank me, and fuck me, and tell me what a good girl I am, but it’s not the same, not like this. I’m not like them.
“Do you understand?” Your voice is softer now, your thumb rubbing delicate circles on the inside of my elbow, your fingers gripping my arm gently enough to remind me that they are there, but also to remind me that if you chose to, you could dig deep enough to leave tiny finger-shaped bruises there. I take a deep breath, looking over at my reflection, seeing Her still standing there instead of me.
“Yes, Sir.”
You smile, and I know you are proud of me. Your strong hands twist around my wrists, lead me over to the battered leather bench I have used so many times, but never like this. I let you buckle the cuffs around me, feel your hands running over the smooth rubber coating my body, letting myself relax against it, each muscle slowly releasing the tension it has held.
“Don’t—don’t you want me to take my dress off?” I murmur, thinking momentarily of how much better I would feel naked, exposed and vulnerable before you, ready to feel whatever you wish to inflict upon me. I have my favorite work dress on, the black rubber one with the thick silver two-way zip all the way down the back, the one that’s so short I have to wear matching black rubber panties underneath, but at least this means I can still wear my strap-on without too much hassle. I like the way it feels on my skin, clinging and tight and powerful, like a shiny second skin that makes me into Her as soon as I inhale the scent of the latex polish. But you don’t seem to want me to stop being Her right now.
Wordlessly, you reach for the zipper, sliding it upwards to reveal the curve of my ass, hooking your fingers into the layer of latex still stretched across my cheeks, rolling down the shining black shorts underneath until I can feel the coldness of the air hitting my skin. The zip is stopped at the small of my back, my entire upper body still encased in the dress, a sheen of perspiration trapped beneath it; I feel safe, wrapped up in rubber, like it is hugging me tightly and not letting go.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me, sugar baby?” you purr in my ear, your fingers back in my hair, running little circles on my scalp. “Are you gonna show me how much you’re mine?”
I swallow hard, wondering again if I can do this. Of course I want to be good for you; I always do. It’s just that this is so… alien .
“What are you going to do to me?” I know answering a question with a question probably isn’t going to go down so well, but I try it anyway. You just laugh in response, walking tiny paths of fingertip steps across the exposed flesh of my buttocks, creeping to the line of wetness bisecting me and laughing all the more when you find it.
“I asked you a question , little lady. Are you gonna answer me, or am I just going to have to assume from this somewhat conclusive evidence right here”—your thumb slips inside me, just long enough to make me whimper, but not long enough to give me anything else at all—“that you want me to beat your ass red raw till you’re screaming for me to fuck you, just to make me stop?”
My stomach flip-flops just at those words, those images, that fleetingly teasing reminder of some part of you inside some part of me. I want you to take me, even if I’m not sure how much you’ll take.
“Yes, Sir.”
I close my eyes as I hear you walk towards the wall of whips, so attentively cleaned by my own hand. I don’t even want to know which one you’re going to use, but from the way you softly stroke my skin with it as you walk past, I know exactly which one you’ve chosen. It’s the one I would always pick first myself, the one with the handle made from stainless steel, smooth and curved to fit the grip of its
“Do you understand?” Your voice is softer now, your thumb rubbing delicate circles on the inside of my elbow, your fingers gripping my arm gently enough to remind me that they are there, but also to remind me that if you chose to, you could dig deep enough to leave tiny finger-shaped bruises there. I take a deep breath, looking over at my reflection, seeing Her still standing there instead of me.
“Yes, Sir.”
You smile, and I know you are proud of me. Your strong hands twist around my wrists, lead me over to the battered leather bench I have used so many times, but never like this. I let you buckle the cuffs around me, feel your hands running over the smooth rubber coating my body, letting myself relax against it, each muscle slowly releasing the tension it has held.
“Don’t—don’t you want me to take my dress off?” I murmur, thinking momentarily of how much better I would feel naked, exposed and vulnerable before you, ready to feel whatever you wish to inflict upon me. I have my favorite work dress on, the black rubber one with the thick silver two-way zip all the way down the back, the one that’s so short I have to wear matching black rubber panties underneath, but at least this means I can still wear my strap-on without too much hassle. I like the way it feels on my skin, clinging and tight and powerful, like a shiny second skin that makes me into Her as soon as I inhale the scent of the latex polish. But you don’t seem to want me to stop being Her right now.
Wordlessly, you reach for the zipper, sliding it upwards to reveal the curve of my ass, hooking your fingers into the layer of latex still stretched across my cheeks, rolling down the shining black shorts underneath until I can feel the coldness of the air hitting my skin. The zip is stopped at the small of my back, my entire upper body still encased in the dress, a sheen of perspiration trapped beneath it; I feel safe, wrapped up in rubber, like it is hugging me tightly and not letting go.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me, sugar baby?” you purr in my ear, your fingers back in my hair, running little circles on my scalp. “Are you gonna show me how much you’re mine?”
I swallow hard, wondering again if I can do this. Of course I want to be good for you; I always do. It’s just that this is so… alien .
“What are you going to do to me?” I know answering a question with a question probably isn’t going to go down so well, but I try it anyway. You just laugh in response, walking tiny paths of fingertip steps across the exposed flesh of my buttocks, creeping to the line of wetness bisecting me and laughing all the more when you find it.
“I asked you a question , little lady. Are you gonna answer me, or am I just going to have to assume from this somewhat conclusive evidence right here”—your thumb slips inside me, just long enough to make me whimper, but not long enough to give me anything else at all—“that you want me to beat your ass red raw till you’re screaming for me to fuck you, just to make me stop?”
My stomach flip-flops just at those words, those images, that fleetingly teasing reminder of some part of you inside some part of me. I want you to take me, even if I’m not sure how much you’ll take.
“Yes, Sir.”
I close my eyes as I hear you walk towards the wall of whips, so attentively cleaned by my own hand. I don’t even want to know which one you’re going to use, but from the way you softly stroke my skin with it as you walk past, I know exactly which one you’ve chosen. It’s the one I would always pick first myself, the one with the handle made from stainless steel, smooth and curved to fit the grip of its
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