Are you ready to give up control? Relinquish yourself to a new (or not!) readying experience? Award-winning author and editor D. L. King has bound together an exciting erotic experience sure to tie you up for hours and hours with Slave Girls: Erotic Stories of Submission (Cleis Press). A fantastic array of writers contribute stories of female submission to their male dominants and Masters. Check out the excerpt below from the incomparable Rachel Kramer Bussel.
From ‘Out of Sight’
It’s hard to say at first, which is more opulent—the gorgeously appointed luxury hotel room I’m standing in, or the silk blindfold waiting for me on the king-size bed. If there was a moment of doubt about my being in the right place, the five letters sewn into the black silk in elegant white italics confirm it completely: whore. That is what I am tonight and every night I spend with my lover, Peter. No, I’m not a whore in the traditional sense; I don’t take his money, nor does he offer. Money is, ironically, beside the point between us. I’m not a whore with a heart of gold either; neither of us is rescuing the other, except from the otherwise staid lives we lead outside the confines of hotel rooms like these—or at least, staid in comparison to what happens between these magical walls.
Inside this room, I am his whore, his slut, his slave—his whatever-he-wants, truth be told. By picking up the keys he leaves for me at our prearranged times, I am agreeing to those terms, though we’ve never written any of this down save for the most depraved emails, the ones I most fear would be put on display should my account ever be hacked. We don’t need to make my whoredom official with a collar or a contract, because it already is; anything I do from this point on will only confirm what we both already know.
Our affair didn’t start in a hotel room, though, nor has today’s whoring myself out begun upon stepping through the door held by a doorman who gives me the most momentary yet telling once-over. Preparing myself for today started two days ago, with a spa day booked by him and designed to leave me sleek, bare, hairless. It’s part of our ritual, and I always make sure to send him a photo of my newly unfettered lower half before I put my clothes back on. Once I forgot and he made quite sure I knew that was part of the deal.
I know I said being his whore isn’t about money, and it’s not, exactly—it’s about power. I’m more than capable of paying for my own spa appointments as well as our hotel rendezvous, and sometimes I do, but he is always the one who books them for me—for us. Because even at the spa, when I give my name, the discreet yet knowing woman checking me in already has a dossier on me; I don’t know for sure exactly what he tells them besides detailing what I’m to have done to me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to slip in something about me belonging to him. Of course, none of these people would ever dare risk their business’s success by letting me know they know outright, but so often, actions speak far louder than words ever could. I’ve been to plenty of other spas where the aestheticians chat away, asking me casual questions about my job, relation- ship, what have you. Here the murmurings are scarce, perhaps because they already know about our arrangement but don’t want to spill the beans about being in on my secret.