Give Yourself Over to Submission: Erotica for Women

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The hot topic in sex these days is submission. People are learning to understand and embrace their submissive sides in ways that are both sexy and revolutionary. Alex Algren has collected an tremendous grouping of stories that explore our newfound acceptance of giving ourselves in Submission: Erotica for Women. This excerpt, from Debra Hyde is a tantalizing peek into this brave new world.

“A Necessary Correction”
By Debra Hyde

A shuffle of movement. Gordon, approaching. The bed sinks under his weight, tilting Kiana toward him. Like the flesh catching against her teeth, it is a diminutive sensation, likely imperceptible to Gordon, but she feels the pitch profoundly and gasps. She senses his stare, but his inspection, she knows, will not end with his gaze. It will become tactile, and she braces for it.

His hand closes over the globe of her left breast and squeezes, compressing it so fiercely, she pants guttural gasps. Retreating, fingers go to her nipple and toy with it. Pulling and pinching, they test its give, a luscious attention, and Kiana ignores the uncompromising clamp at her mouth, the mounting ache in her shoulders from prolonged bondage, the strain of the hog-tie on her body. Yearning, she hopes Gordon will continue to grope her; she prays he will linger there. She wishes she could come from this decidedly delectable torment.

But Gordon quits her nipple, dismaying her. His hand travels down the bony terrain of her torso, across the swell of her belly, and settles between her legs. He brushes the lips of her cunt, teases its slit. Kiana trembles. She feels delicate and yielding, like clover in a stiff, summer breeze, its flowers risking the tear of the wind to find the sun’s rays.

Intrusion, abrupt and merciless. It shreds her pastorale—penetration robbing her of whatever dignity her brief fantasy has lent her.

It’s Gordon’s big, thick thumb that pokes about, twisting, turning, and stretching her. Her muzzle does not stop Kiana from begging him to stop this humiliation. She squirms against it, tries to escape it, but the hog-tie holds her fast and when her limbs flare in sudden, stiff pain, she surrenders the struggle.

Gordon’s brutishness wins. It always does. And Kiana would not have it any other way. Long ago, she had ceded such power to him, never to contemplate recalling or reclaiming it, always glad to be its thrall, to be its sexual subject. Kiana wants it no other way. Kiana craves it no other way.

His thumb still in her, Gordon leans forward. Kiana feels his breath upon her face and, in the rhythm of his breathing, she hears his arousal. She knows he’s rock hard and ready to fuck her. But she also knows this lesson must play out in its entirety.

His tongue brushes against hers, its touch so strong, Kiana flinches. Gordon flicks it about, mimicking a French kiss, but Kiana’s tongue is so thick and tender that the kiss feels volatile and shocking. Capriciously, Gordon pulls away from her and rises from the bed. Voided, Kiana pants, her anticipation rising. She knows the lesson nears its apex.

“Do you know what you did?” he asks.

She balks. She doesn’t know the answer, only the obvious. She stammers to admit, “I talked too much.”

Her words sound, naturally, like she’s speaking with an impediment, but somehow Gordon understands her. “To whom? When?”

She shrugs. Although her gesture is abbreviated by bondage, Gordon comprehends this too.

“After your scene.”

The scene. Kiana remembers the succulent experience that Gordon had orchestrated at the party. He had strung her up, arms and legs spread wide between two pillars. He had clamped her nipples and strung the length of chain from a ceiling hook, making it supreme- ly taut. It had stretched her pinched nipples obscenely and, peering down at her tits, Kiana had practically drooled at the sight of her nipples treated to this extremity. The pain was delicious, savory, and she had hoped it would last forever.

And then Gordon had whipped her. He had flogged her ass until it reddened and blazed hot to his touch, her back until it was laced with stripes. From behind, he had plied the flogger between her legs, at first soft and slow, just enough to arouse her, to make her want to come. And once she was roused, he had driven her roughly, thrashed her into a frenzy. He had pushed her almost to the peak of orgasm, but not quite. Her nipples screamed, her cunt seeped, and her body anguished, craving release.

Gordon had tossed aside the whip, grabbed her about the waist and jammed his hand between her wet thighs. His thumb sought out her ready nub, sending shudders through Kiana when he found it.

It took only a few swift strokes to make her come— she had been that ready—but Gordon kept at it until a second wave overtook her and anguish turned to ecstasy, willing submission to wilting exhaustion.

Kiana smiles, such as she can, at the memory. “That was nice,” she says, remembering how sweetly she had swayed, bound, in postorgasmic glow.

“Not the scene,” Gordon corrected. “Afterward. Someone asked you about the clamps, the nipple play. Remember what you said?”

Afterward…nipple play. Ah, yes!

A couple had asked her what it felt like. Newbies, she remembers. She had had enough wits about her to describe how arousing and amazing the scene was. She had even counseled the couple to start with the gentlest of clamps and work their way up to more challenging ones. She had advised them to take their time experimenting and experiencing. She had said…

She had said, she had said, she…she had babbled. She had monopolized the conversation—had not let the couple get a question in edgewise.

Dismayed, Kiana sighs.

“That couple. I blathered,” she confesses, discovering in the process that blathered is a word that does not lend itself to a tongue clamp. Worse, that Gordon understands her nonetheless.

“Yes. Exactly. And what was the penalty the last time you made this error?”

The cane. Ten solid strokes, no warm-up. Kiana’s wordless whine says it all.

Gordon presses the cane flat against its starting point, her ass. Kiana quivers; she knows these strokes will be brutal, an absolute test of her endurance. And likely to steer her clear of mistakes in the future. When the cane leaves her skin, she braces for its strike.

The cane sings as it sails toward her ass. Its impact is severe, its sting made worse by the rounded position of her ass. Kiana yelps and sobs follow but they’re crocodile tears, insincere and false.

“Ten,” Gordon states.

“Thank you, Master,” Kiana lisps.

“I will not monopolize the conversation,” he adds.

“I will not monopolize the conversation,” Kiana struggles to repeat.

The cane strikes again and sends Kiana into a long wail.


“Thank you, Master. I will not monopolize the conversation.”

She keens at strikes eight through six, barely able to utter her assigned mantra, and discovers agony in strikes five through three. And she weeps her way through the last two strikes. Tears flow down her face, spill onto the bed, forming a different kind of wet spot.

But the cane has done its job; its fury has ended, and Kiana begins to calm. This necessary correction has come to its conclusion. Gordon fusses at the rigging and frees her from the hog-tie. By default, she expects him to want her stretched out across the bed and ready for a spread-eagle finale, but Gordon surprises her.

“On all fours.”

Her limbs complain, but she stoically ignores them and stiffly moves into position. Challenge and chastisement have reduced her to unmeditated obedience; she complies without hesitation or resistance. She is at her deepest level of submission, a place of visceral actions and reactions, a place unthinking and, thanks to the tongue clamp, unspeaking.

Gordon aims his cock at Kiana’s swollen slit and, poised to part her, he says, “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.” Then, he shoves himself deep.


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