Submission by Lizbeth Dusseau

My dear Emily,

       You asked me to write about my relationship with Edward.  You detected when we were together that ours is a very unique coupling.  I know that it intrigues you, for you share with me that quality that I have learned to express.  You guessed it yourself, submission.

       To tell you of this I must be quite frank, and perhaps surprise you; though as I describe my curious marriage, I have the odd feeling that it will be something you will one day share with your David.  I have sensed for sometime that the two of you are also marked for this kind of life together.

***      

       As I write now, I’m sitting in the upstairs bedroom, waiting. My mind is churning, my heart pounds, my thighs and stomach quiver.  Most of all, my bottom feels as if it is burning, though Edward has not laid a hand on me.

       I’ve waited like this a half dozen times before, but I never get used to the sensations of waiting.  I probably never will.

       Waiting is a punishment almost as rich as the act itself.

       Sometimes Edward spanks me with hard but sensuous blows.  His hand descends on my rear with ardent zeal, with furious but still playful sexual intent.  His lips are just one instant away from a delicious smile, his eye glimmering craftily.  I love the spanks and slaps and fierce stinging pain.  I’m the kind of woman who needs my lover’s hand, or brush or little leather whip, or wooden paddle to inflame me.   This is not punishment, but making love.  That in itself takes a special kind of lover like Edward.

       The pain opens a secret place inside me that’s been with me for as long as I can remember.  For a long time it was all in my imagination, little fantasies would stream through my head in the wee hours of the night and morning, before and after dreaming.  My loins called for something though I didn’t understand what it was I needed.

       The little fantasies in my head never went away.  If anything, they became more bold, with woodsheds, rough tree trunks, more leather and sophisticated plots and twists that only aggravated my unmet need.  The phantom men in my head were always strong and steady, exacting and thorough.  They spanked me by their rules, not mine, though even in my dreams I might fight and kick and bitch at them.  My phantom lovers always knew what I needed.

       All this was just a secret world, where I played my devilish spanking games, and no one knew about it, but me and those men that dominated my daydreams.

       Even after I married Edward, the secret world remained a guarded place where I’d steal away and dream, my mischievous mind doing what life would never give me the courage to do.

       But somehow in a most curious way, my shrouded inner life took form; lifted from fantasy, those dreams took shape.   I found myself living secrets my imaginings never dreamed would be made real.

       It began with the riding crop, an innocent leather instrument that suddenly appeared some months after Edward discovered my fascination for spanking stories.  He’d bring home books and magazines to titillate us when the mere thought of sex didn’t.  It was always the spanking, the dominance and submission that aroused me beyond belief. 

       Yet, when I saw the riding crop that first time, it startled me.  I rebelled instantly as I saw it lying side by side with a black lace corset, stockings and four inch high heels.  I cried and shrank away.  I ordered him to “remove it now, what are you thinking, how could you imagine I’d want such a thing in my house?”  But the next time he brought the crop out, I was already deep into sexual heat, playing with myself almost orgasmic.  Then his little taps on my thighs and rear were like putting gasoline on a bonfire.  My body accepted what my mind wanted to push away, and I asked for more.  I begged for it as the jolts inside me became so rich with fury I was peaking far higher than I ever had before.  His little taps became more distinct, and even then I wanted more.  The sensual rush that ensued from that crop was dearer to me than tender touch and sweet kisses.

       I wondered after it was over, the crop was hidden away again, if I weren’t some depraved, misbegotten soul who’d exchanged savageness for sex, and brutality for love.  Even so I could not deny the power in my loins, and the reality of this sexual lust inside my head.

       Edward and I talked about it endlessly.  He saw it clearly as hot, lewd and nasty.       

       “If you love it,” I heard him say a thousand times, “who does it hurt?”

       “But it isn’t pretty,” I protested a thousand times.  He shook his head baffled, because pretty and sex in Edward’s mind didn’t go side by side.

       We fought about it.  Edward in heat, with the crop in his hand, would want to spank me.  He said he could feel my sexual energy charge with each blow or tap of the leather on my flesh.  It made his cock stiff.  It made him want to fly on me passionately as he tried to draw from me more and more of that flashing bright energy of arousal.  My earnest denials did not faze him. 

       If he found me at just the right moment, I might abandon my fears and discover the distinct pleasure of having that dark place in me satisfied, and then, the peace thereafter.       

       But more often our lovemaking soured with the appearance of the crop.  I’d cringe in fear, “Oh no, not now,” I’d plead.  With a whine and a moan I’d make him put it away.  There in his bureau it would lay dormant for weeks and months at a time while my head struggled to accept what had been born in my loins.

       What got us past the impasse, was no less than miraculous.  You could say I asked for it, and finally Edward complied.

       Pressure cookers explode with enough heat . . .

       . . . and mine did.

       Oh, not some bright explosive rage.  In womanly fashion I exploded a little at a time.  Baiting Edward.  Taunting him.  Being a bitch when it wasn’t called for, egging him on with a finger pointing in the direction of my worst fear.

       He was just enough pissed off to respond that strange day. . . . 

       . . . there was a horrible distance between us, like a veil had been drawn clouding what we’d known as a typically soft and tender marriage—save the one bleak spot of our sexual woes.  I could sense the churning in him.  The “I’ve had enough Lizabeth,” blues that went far beyond his usual irritation. 

       We’d been walking in the most peaceful place: a park, with bright blue sky above us and tall green shimmering trees around us.  And yet, we were as edgy as if we worked nine days straight with no rest, and nothing but coffee and donuts to drink and eat.

       “Let’s go home,” he said.

       “Okay,” I answered meekly.  I knew something was amiss.  Something very strange was troubling us both.          

       At home he announced, “I’m horny.”

       “Oh Edward, I don’t want to, not now,” I whined.

       “I don’t care,” he rejoined, and he had me.  His hand had my arm, pushing me toward the bedroom.

       He flew on me.  

       The crop appeared, and blazed a trail of red across my right thigh, then another across my left. 

       “Turn over,” he said.  I did, lifting my ass into the torrid air.

       His taps were not light, not even at the beginning.

       “Play with yourself,” he demanded, and my hand reached between my legs to find my sex swollen and wet.  To my surprise, I was aroused.  Was this cruel treatment an aphrodisiac?

       The raps came down on my naked rear, one atop the other, crisscrossing back and forth in whatever frenetic gestures he had designed in his mind.  As I played with myself his hand joined mine, taking over, making the raw surges, rage all the more.

       “Aaaaahhh god,” I gasped over and over, “ouch,” I cried when the blows began again.

       His intent was relentless, his purpose clear.

       After a while he pushed my hand away and his alone found the center of my pleasure in the soft hills and valleys of my puss.  He thrust a finger, then two into my anus.

       “Oh please,” I moaned, allowing him into a place I’d never let him go before.  Even this was arousing me.

       He was completely in control.  I wouldn’t even have dared to venture into his claimed territory.

       I heard him groan himself as he manipulated me on my way toward what would be a crashing end—though he would satisfy his own need first.  He pushed my chest into the bed, my ass still raised, and thrust his pulsing cock into me.  He banged away at my backside, one hand continuing its pinching roving way over my puss, one hand slapping the flesh that was already burning from the crop.

       He came.

       A load roar came from way down inside him, unlike anything I’d heard before.  He took my submissive body with a baser animal lust and animal pleasure than either of us had ever experienced.

       Withdrawing from me, his cum dotted my ass, though there was no sweet thereafter, not yet.

       He pushed me down, rolled me over, and planted his face on my cunt, manipulating the swollen hard bud of my clitoris with his infernal tongue.  He demanded my orgasm from me, a matter of power and control.  I was his, his submissive and I’d climax by his order.

       I struggled, not so much with him, but with myself.

       Was this not the man I’d raised from the depths by my spitfire taunting?  Was this not the man I wanted, powerful and determined, who would not listen to my whining protests?

       I knew it was.

       Succumbing was deciding not to be a bitch, not to resist, not to let my own will have its unfettered way.

       Succumbing was deciding to surrender to myself.

       The surges moved in me, through my thighs and my loins, the pulsing, the blessed pulsing at my open door became more dear, even as he pinched and squeezed, and the little pains continued.  The pain was like sparks firing off in me, blending with the softer more familiar rhythms.  I climaxed against Edward’s hand, my sweet juices flowing, my sex grinding on him.

       We collapsed.

       I sighed and thanked him.

***

       Thereafter, we talked about submission, surrender and pain, and my ever-increasing desire to express the inner darker me.

       He told me of his desires to control.

       I named it love, for it takes uncommon love to love a woman as he’d loved me.

***

       Our world brightened.

       Spanking became a lusty companion to our desires, submission a word dear to my heart.  We play out our opposing desires to our common delight.  When he begins his play, he’s usually laughing.  Quickly his eyes darken and he scowls—not angrily, but from that dark place where he loves so much to venture, where he’s in control, an omnipotent lord.  And as a perfect complement to his desires, I submit.  My need to be selfless, to be directed, molded and used is a need as great in me as his for control is in him.

       Sometimes he orders me to dress like a whore and dance for him.  I tease my hair, spray it stiff, and darken my make-up like a woman of the night.  I find the shortest skirt in my closet, the most revealing top, and to the strains of erotic music I wave my body before him, my hips gyrating lustily, my mouth pursing in a lewd pout.

       He sits back and watches me, stroking his rising cock.

       My hips weave back and forth, my hand reaches under my skirt and finds my sex.  I rub myself until my juices flow.

       Then he pulls me over his knee, and raises my skirt to my waist; a dozen furious slaps rain on my ass, turning it pink.

       I cry out, “Ouch, ow, oooh, ouch.”  My body jolts with heat charging through every pore.

       Again, another dozen blows repeat the wild excursion across my flesh.

       “Ouch, stop, please, oh, ow, please,” I plead uselessly.

       He stops only to finger my wet cunt folds.  He finds my clit and pinches it rudely.  His hand again comes down on my burning bottom and raises an ungodly sting of pain from which I struggle to be free.

       Then he sets me on my feet again.

       “Dance! Play with yourself!” he commands me.

       The music hits my loins, just as the spanking does and I gyrate again in front of his animated lust, as he strokes his cock.  The devilish grin reflects his approval of my movements.

       He likes the slut in me that teases the brute in him.

       He pulls me to him again, and over his knee I’m draped, his hand continuing the slaps to my bouncing posterior, turning it now from pink to red.  He loses no enthusiasm, working us both into a fired frenzy.    

       I cry and protest. But he doesn’t listen, that’s part of the pact.  I’m not allowed to control anything in this little game of ours; though indeed this slut I become for him, this wanton submissive, controls his pleasure, bringing out the raging sexual animal he loves so much.

       He pushes me off his lap so I’m standing once again.

       “Dance,” he orders.

       It is more masturbation, than dance; though by now that is where my attentions belong.  He looks on with cunning thoughts still brewing in his head.  His hard cock jabs into the air, as he strokes it furiously; I can see the conclusion building in his body, just as mine is beginning to come in mine.

       But one more time the blows rain.

       “Bend over and grab your ankles,” he demands.

       I do.  He proceeds with the riding crop, several dozen cuts crack across my tight red “pushed out” ass.

       “Keep it out!” he demands when I try to clench and pull in.

       “Push it out, or I’ll keep going.”

       “Ow, gawd, please stop!”

       Crack after crack jolts me so I can hardly retain my balance in my four-inch heels.  I rise instinctively, trying to retreat from the pain, but that is not enough.  He pushes me down again, and with another half dozen stinging snaps of the crop on my ass, it turns crimson.

       “Stand up,” he orders, “dance!”

       His eyes flame a devilish light back to me; mine are locked on his, as I resume my masturbation dance.  My hands rove my body.  A tit pulled out, I pinch the nipple.  He reaches out and pulls the second from its captured place beneath my lace bra, and pinches that nipple even harder.  He lets go, and the sting is like a firecracker igniting.

       Leaning back in his chair, “Pinch them harder,” he demands.  He says he can feel my sexual heat rise as my body shoots with erotic pain.

       “Play with yourself,” he orders.

       He is furiously jacking off his cock.  I watch the purple head ready to explode.

       My fingers between my legs rub furiously.  In the deep fold at the side of my clit, I massage myself as I dance.  I fondle my cunt until it’s ready to burst.

       “I need to cum,” I gasp.  My cunt pushes against my hand.

       “Then cum bitch!” he orders.  I never finish until he says so.  That too is his to control.

       I rear back and buck against my hands.  Sharp shooting bolts of orgasm pierce me deep inside.  “Aw, god.”  My eyes are closed, my head drops back, and the only thing in the world is the glorious me and the sensation barreling across my loins and limbs in blessed abandon.

       I open my eyes to see his prick still waiting, and with unspoken orders I drop between his legs and take him as he desires, between my lips.  My hands play with his full balls until he jerks and growls.  Throwing back his head he cums into my mouth.  There is the sweet sour taste of him on my lips.  I lick him, teasingly, while my fingers play with his spent prick.

       He’s not so dark and demon-like, and there’s little smile appearing on his face.

       He is exhausted.  I’m weak.

       “Go look at your ass,” he orders calmly, not letting me miss the visual delight of my well-spanked bottom.

       In the mirror, I see the crimson quickly change to a softer red—that, in minutes, will be no more than a faint pink. I feel an afterburn.  A rush that happens only when my bottom has been well worked. I feel it with my hand. The skin’s still hot. There’s no sensation to match this one and no other way to have it but in submitting to the pain.

       I’m ready to collapse and recoup, to climb on Edward’s lap like a child and plant little kisses across his face, as he strokes my rear gently and covers my face in tender touches with his lips.

       ***

       We play a varied game for there is no end to his manipulations.  This dark lust titillates our senses.  The fantasies are endless, but with only one theme, his dominance and my submission; the ingredients pluck the richest sex from our deepest need.

       My dear Emily, this is how it works between us.  It has been a hard won pleasure.  I hope this long chronicle will help you identify your own submissive desires.  Perhaps you and David can circumvent the agony we experienced, discovering more easily the pleasures of this curious sexual reality.  I assure you that your discovery of this rare creative relationship will give you both great satisfaction.

       Edward calls and I must hurry.

                   Always with great affection,

                Lizabeth