This is an excerpt from "Submission: Erotica for Women" editing by Alex Algren. It has been reprinted with permission from Cleis Press. This excerpt is sponsored by LELO.

As soon as we could manage it, I was as naked as Deirdre was, and Deirdre was on her back, spread-eagled on our bed, cuffs holding her in place, their burgundy leather looking striking against her fair skin. Her eyes were wide, her pussy was glistening, and she was giggling in that way she does sometimes, half excited and half nervous. I’m sure she was expecting something more along the lines of the original plan, riding crop and knotted cat-o’-nine-tails and perhaps the singletail, toys and clamps, pleasure and pain building to an orchestrated crescendo that would bring her to orgasm and tears simultaneously.

Later. Tomorrow, or maybe later this evening, after a nap and dinner. We had time.

Now, though, I stood at the end of the bed and took one of her feet in my hand. I’m not a foot freak, but she does have pretty feet—movie-vixen-red toenails, soft skin, high arches. Gently, at least at first, I massaged the foot, even working my fingers under the cuffs a little to get at the Achilles tendon. As I expected, I was rewarded with sighs. When Deirdre’s in the business world, she wears heels a lot.

When she seemed sufficiently melted, I went to work on the other foot. When I was pretty sure her brain was as far away as it had been when she was half a world away, I casually asked, "Whose foot is this?"

She giggled, either because it seemed like a ridiculous question or because what I was doing at that second tickled. So I repeated the question, a little more forcefully, running my nails down her instep.

So lovely, seeing her muscles tense and shift under her smooth, gleaming skin at the stronger sensation.

This time she got it. "It’s my foot," she said slowly, "but it belongs to you."

If you don’t live the way we do, that may sound like crazy talk—but the words were what I wanted to hear.

It took longer than I would have liked. But it was the correct answer, so I rewarded her by sucking and nibbling on her pretty toes, kissing her arches, occasionally digging in with my knuckles against the fleshy parts to give a jolt of stronger sensation.

Seems she wasn’t the only one who needed a refresher. I’d forgotten, if I’d ever known, how much she liked having her feet played with. She squirmed and giggled and moaned and made little pleading noises. I knew they were pleas for stepping up the action, for moving my kisses up her leg, but I chose to take them as pleas to continue what I was doing.

I liked looking up and seeing her spread open, her pussy lips slick and swollen and oozing honey, her clit so stiff that the shiny titanium ring stood at attention, her cunt occasionally pulsing from need.

My dick was pulsing too, eager to enter her, to sense my slave’s more-than-willing body moving under me, to feel her cunt convulse around me until I exploded.

We doms are always reminding our slaves that they need to be patient. But that’s a lesson that goes both ways. In the state I was in, I wouldn’t last long once I was inside Deirdre, and I had a point to make before I could do that.

So I made myself be patient and worked on her feet for a while longer, until I think both of us were ready to lose our minds.

"Whose feet are these?" I asked her again.

And this time Deirdre answered without hesitation, "Yours, Master."

With that, I kissed and bit my way up her right leg.

Slowly.

Lavishing attention on all of it, not just the obvious places like the back of her knee and the exquisitely sensitive skin of her inner thigh, but the bits I usually ignore: her shinbone; the lovely, rounded swell of her calf muscle; her knobby knees.

"Whose leg is this?" I asked, just before I pressed my lips into the hollow at the top of her thigh.

"Yours, Master." Her voice was shaky with need and hope, hope that I would move from there to her aching clit.

I didn’t. I licked away some of the glistening juices that had dripped onto her thigh, spent a little while glorying in the rich, musky smell of her arousal. Then I moved to her other leg and reclaimed that one in the same slow, painstaking way.

This time, I left bite marks on her thighs. And this time when I asked my question, her "Yours, Master," was a growl. Her body arched as she said it, opening her legs even more, pressing her hips against the air as she had against me, and I could tell that even a slight touch between her legs would bring her off.

I couldn’t promise it wouldn’t bring me off too. Just feeling her sweet clit and pussy under my lips and fingers, seeing and hearing her convulse in orgasm, was about to push me over the edge.

My whole body felt hard and sensitive as my cock— and that included places like my elbows. Even my hair felt as if it was on fire, sensitized as the air moved over it.

And if I felt like that, I could only imagine how my poor, lucky slave felt, teased like this after a few weeks without even the solace of her own fingers.

Just what I wanted. So I continued working my way up her sweet body. I took possession of her hipbones. Her belly, that soft little curve between her belly button and her mound, the one she hated and I adored. Belly button, upper abs, ribs. All mine.

The valley between her breasts. Definitely mine, and I played with fire to brush my cock there until we were both trembling and I had to resort to thinking about something, anything, else. (Monty Python routines. Dinner options. Whether I’d paid the cable bill yet.)
Neck. First my hand, gentle but firm, across her throat. "Mine," I growled. "Even your breath is mine." The other hand over her mouth and nose for just a second. No more than that, but she convulsed as if she was about to come. Light nibbles and nips where the skin showed in business clothes, and a hard, claiming bite where it wouldn’t. Mine. Definitely mine.

Shoulders. Biceps and triceps. The sensitive inside of her elbows. The more delicate muscles of her forearms.

Fingers. Here I slowed down even more, sucking, nibbling, reducing her to incoherent pleas.

God, how I wanted to take those spit-slicked fingers and wrap them around my cock, order her to jerk me off—not that I thought she’d need an order to get the idea, but we’d both get even hotter from my saying it.

I took a deep breath, counted to ten.

Then worked back up her arm and down, down to her breast.

Hovered there. Sunk my teeth in. Teeth and tongue and lips all working on her pink, swollen nipple, and this time, "Yours, Master" bubbled from her lips unprompted. "Yoursyoursyours" as her hips thrust up and her eyes glazed over, and she came.

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