Belle Submission

  BELLE SUBMISSION

  Yolanda Celbridge

  Rover Books

  New York

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2002 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Yolanda Celbridge 2002

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 0-7952-0080-3

  DOI 1335/0795200803

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely 78coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1 Bag Lady

  2 Hardspank

  3 Trull

  4 The Public Weal

  5 Melons Up

  6 Skin Abacus

  7 Hot, Clean and Raw

  8 Butt Stud

  9 Flapjacks

  10 Come Detail

  11 Full Bare Skin

  12 Peine Forte et Dure

  13 Strap-on

  14 Whipped to the Bone

  15 Submissive Belle

  Other eBook Erotica Titles

  1

  Bag Lady

  What to wear? Trina Guelph’s bare breasts quivered, without jiggling, as she looked at her nude body in the mirror of her closet and riffled her racks of clothing. Everything was draped neatly, panties, G-strings, skirts, designer jeans, basques and teddies, blousons, garter belts and stockings, all of it, like the generals of a drop-dead clothing army, with the ranks of infantry, footwear from fuck-me stilettos to runners, lined obediently beneath. What to wear? That was always the problem, even in Santa Monica, or especially in Santa Monica. In the power towers of downtown LA, dress was simple, but in sweet old Santa Monica, with how did you act the power, amongst the drifters and movie people and bikinied sand babes, and hot rich women eyeing the beach hunks from their cocktail lounges? Trina paused to look at her sweating nude body, as always, with approval. She’d run five miles on her machine, done a hundred push-ups and a hundred lift-ups, and used her device for ten minutes, for her exercise down there, which always made her antsy for work.

  It was 7.30 a.m., already broiling, on this casual Friday. The smooth satin mounds of her jutting thirty-nine-inch breasts trembled only a little when her twenty-two-inch waist moved, with a little roll of her hips, over long, coltish legs that were perfectly smooth, perfectly tanned and shiny as wax. Her long blonde hair swayed over the strawberry peaks of her nipples, its texture a glossy sheen. Her spine tingled, fresh from her session with Gwendoline, her aromatherapist, down in Venice, and who was also an osteopathic chiropractor: a funky, muscular girl, who liked being called a babe and who was the best masseuse in southern California. Her latest therapeutic device was a rack, like a mediaeval instrument of torture, only, of course, it wasn’t for torture, really. Having her spine and legs stretched, while her nude body was basted in herbal oils and unguents, was thrilling, especially as Trina’s hands and feet were bound by silky cords to the rollers, whose every creak pulled her straining sinews tighter.

  Trina got a little frisson when Gwendoline in her fresh tunic, with nothing underneath and two buttons undone to reveal her own titties, almost as full and firm as Trina’s own — Trina emphasised the almost — bent close to her nude body, and whispered, joking, that the rack would do proper torture, if required. Whether she meant if Trina required, or if Gwendoline required, was tantalisingly unclear. That added a palpable, weird sexuality to their physical relationship, especially with Gwen so carefree about exposure of her bare skin.

  Anything to stay in shape, Trina joked back: in LA, the righteous bod is everything, no matter how much it hurts. She’d seen Gwen changing — clearly, because Gwen wanted to show off her own bod — and her ass had marks, as though she’d been beaten. That had made Trina’s pulse race for a moment. She turned, and looked at the full, deep-cleft peach of her butt: ripe, a firm forty inches, the twin, massive silken globes hard as iron. Her bikini lines were vivid: sunbathing, she kept her top on, for she knew bikini marks turned on a certain type of American male, who figured he alone — such power! — was getting to see her juicy tush and boobies. You could be topless at most beaches but, Trina figured, nobody’s going to see my merchandise for free.

  She stroked the bulging mound of her cropped pubis, and decided the hairs needed just one more trim, so she padded to the bathroom and got her electric trimmer working, until her pubic bush was a neat quarter-inch lawn of designer stubble, a precise triangle framing the heavily extruded crimson lips of her vulva. She pressed her bare pubis to the washbasin, lifted her thigh, and worked on the thick growth of down in her perineum, finally giving her anal pucker one more shave, and rubbing her finger several times through her crack to make sure she was smooth. Running water washed away the few sprouts of trimmed blonde fleece. She resisted the temptation to play with herself — her device brought her to that required heat, where she could be a successful bully broad, her own preferred term. As bully broad executive with sharp claws, at Goody Baggs & Stuff — laid back, west coast, jeans-and-sneakers casual, and one of America’s wealthiest companies — she’d long got over grimacing when called a bag lady, for that was how GG Baggs himself called his all-female staff; or, if he felt playful, a goody girl.

  Trina’s device was a pliable vibrator, revoltingly brand-named ‘Smutty Putty’— it was an exercise machine! — which adapted itself to the shape and size of the female vulva. Trina’s exercise was to use the muscles of her vaginal walls, and the neck of her womb, to change the shape of her vibrator every morning as she masturbated, skirting her clitoris, hence without fully masturbating. She lubricated the device with extra-virgin olive oil and had to cling tight for it not to escape. To prevent herself cheating, she locked her fingers behind her neck. Then she worked on the huge, cock-shaped thing, squeezing and nipping and pinching, until after ten minutes it plopped out of her in the shape of a corkscrew or hammer or a monkey wrench. Whatever shape it was, it attested cunt power, as she liked to tell Kimmi Lardeau, her office gofer, who lived in a neighbouring apartment block, north of Santa Monica, overlooking the ocean. Kimmi was a kind of wild child, except she was maximum docile. She was big titted, big assed and long legged, and had an all-over tan, but you only noticed those extravagances once her wide feline eyes had alerted you to them, almost apologetically. She seemed to live on olives and cucumber. She was luminous. Trina cabbed to work, but Kimmi swam. Really! She just waded into the ocean in her bra and panties, holding her office wear in her teeth, and swam all the way down the coast, breast stroke, past the snarled traffic. She came into the office in dry clothes and with dry hair, but often her bra and panties were dry too. She admitted she preferred to swim nude and, when far enough into the ocean, stripped off her ‘tinies’ and held them in her teeth.

  ‘Oh, Trina
,’ she said, hearing the crude word, with her massive boobies trembling under whatever fabric she’d bothered to cover them with that day — often some man’s shirt that she claimed to have just picked up somewhere, and wearing nothing else at all! ‘Trina, that’s so gross.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s gross, Kimmi,’ Trina replied. ‘I guess you believe men only want us for our bodies.’

  ‘I see nothing wrong in that,’ Kimmi said. ‘I mean, I like my body, and I’m pleased if someone else does.’

  ‘Kimmi, men don’t want us for our bodies. Our bodies are just signposts. Men are livestock. They want us for our cunts.’

  ‘That’s kind of nice,’ said Kimmi angelically, without a fluttered eyelash, flicker of her long, sunbleached mane or tremor of her breasts.

  Kimmi liked to wear corsets, really old-fashioned satin things called ‘waspies’, which squeezed her waist painfully tight, or so it looked, in a variety of colours. She would have on a corset and bra and a man’s shirt and leave the shirt open so you could see the corset, how it pinched her waist. She would wear garters and old-fashioned nylon stockings, too, but never sweated; on casual Fridays, she might wear only a corset, not a waspie, but a huge armoured thing, that covered her titties and her pubis, like a one-piece swimsuit. She wore those, too. In pastel colours, padding barefoot around the office. The corsets constricted her waist to eighteen inches or even seventeen inches, she told Trina. It made her feel like a proper girl.

  ‘We can only beat men with raw sex power,’ Trina insisted, ‘not trussing our bodies like dolls.’

  ‘Oh, I’d have a problem with that,’ said Kimmi. ‘I wouldn’t like to beat anybody. I might earn a spanking. If a guy likes me for my body, it’s a compliment. Maybe that’s why you’re a director, Trina, and I’m just a file maid.’

  They had much the same joshing conversation whenever they visited for jacuzzi sessions at each other’s apartment buildings. The jacuzzi meant you could be friendly without totally being friends; on her trips to cold northern states, Trina wondered why people stayed there, instead of coming to warm, fizzy California. At Kimmi’s, most people were nude in the jacuzzi after dark, although the foam hid most of you, so it didn’t matter; but Trina always wore her bikini, a little eat-your-heart-out affair, scarcely more than wisps of string that hid little, but she wasn’t giving anything away. Kimmi refused to be nude at Trina’s apartment, in respect, but she wore a demure and clinging one-piece swimsuit that managed to be so demure, she looked nude. Once, at Kimmi’s building, Kimmi had doffed her robe and slid into the tub rather faster than usual, but Trina saw her big tan bottom glowing unusually pink. Kimmi blushed when Trina said she’d been overtanning, and said no, a boyfriend had spanked her.

  ‘You’re serious?’ Trina gasped.

  ‘Just a few taps,’ she said. ‘And I really deserved it, for being a forward girl. He ordered some more ice for his drink, and I told him it was in the fridge. I wasn’t thinking, see. Well, of course, he put me straight over his knee and lifted my skirt up and spanked me on the bare.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Trina cried. ‘Just a few taps?’

  ‘A hundred or so,’ Kimmi said. ‘His palm got sore, and I suggested my sandal, but he said a hundred was enough. It did me good. I like boyfriends to spank me when I’m forward. We had lovely sex almost straight away. I wonder if that has to do with spanking? A girl’s butt being hot, and all…’

  ‘Kimmi! We’re women, not girls,’ Trina blurted.

  ‘I know that, Trina,’ Kimmi replied, in her soft southern lilt, ‘but I prefer to think of myself as a girl. It makes things simpler, and stops me being forward.’

  On another occasion, they were alone in Kimmi’s tub, relaxing, with the ocean and stars twinkling, and Kimmi said it was so righteous. Two of her neighbours, guys Trina knew by sight, asked to join them, and Trina was quite happy about that because their eyes weren’t fixed on Kimmi’s glowing casual nudity but on Trina’s bod, tightly packaged as a sex machine in her peekaboo bikini top that pressed her titties together and thrust them up like big quivering jellies. Both guys had bulges in their swimshorts as they slid into the jacuzzi, flanking Kimmi but ogling Trina opposite. Kimmi invited them to get easy, and both pairs of shorts came out of the frothy water. They made small talk and Trina played up those bulging boobies of hers, knowing, just knowing, that the tongue-tied suckers had raging hard-ons only looking at her, and that was all they were going to get, a peek. Kimmi slouched in the water, saying how mellow it was, and her shoulders were writhing, and gradually the conversation stopped, and the guys had their arms beneath the foam. Trina was miffed at being ignored and peered through the steam. Under the water, Kimmi had both her hands around the guys’ cocks, and was rhythmically, slowly, jerking them off. Her fingers moved like automata, stroking the coronas of their helmets, and occasionally stooping to stroke their tight ball-sacs, or give sudden firm tugs on the shafts that pulled down their prepuces all the way, before she cupped the whole revealed glans in her palm, grinding the pisshole. The guys were… were groping her. Their hands squashed her big golden breasts, hard, with the teats squelching and squirming like potter’s clay, and stroked her belly, and each had fingers inside the wet crimson purse of her open cunt, for Kimmi had her thighs spread as wide as they would go. The spectacle caused Trina’s pussy to juice all over her tight bikini gusset, as sperm spurted from each cock at once, the globules of creamy fluid dissolving in the jacuzzi’s froth. The guys were quick to say ‘take care now’, ‘nice talking’, and make a speedy exit.

  ‘Kimmi…’ Trina gasped, ‘how could you?’

  Kimmi smiled.

  ‘Brad and Greg are going pussy-hunting tonight,’ she said, ‘and guys so often spoil their act if they come on too horny. So I feel good about mellowing them out. Don’t you find diddling really mellows you, Trina? I do myself almost every time I go to the bathroom. Masturbation keeps a girl in touch with her own self.’

  Trina admitted she masturbated sometimes, and asked how Kimmi could enjoy the two guys mauling her titties and pussy.

  ‘I guess they enjoy it,’ said Kimmi.

  ‘But did you?’

  ‘Obviously, if they did.’

  Trina left soon after, vaguely troubled, and, fragrant from the jacuzzi, treated herself to a session with her Smutty Putty — a real session, this time, with the vibrations on max, and the mammoth rubbery cylinder crammed right into her wombneck. She mauled her own bare teats the same as the guys had mauled Kimmi’s and found it hurt, but she did not stop, even pinching her stiff nipple plums with her fingernails until she shut her eyes at the pain. She brought herself off, her orgasm making her cry out loud, then towelled the juice from her wet cunt and went straight to sleep.

  Kimmi wasn’t officially Trina’s gofer — she called herself ‘maid of the file cabinets’ whenever anyone asked, although nobody was ever sure if those big blue eyes and rosebud lips might be joking — but Trina had annexed her without resistance, so that Trina wasn’t sure her power had worked exactly right. Trina’s bod, and strength down there, gave her power over men and, at twenty-one years old, she was the western personnel director, or ‘people relations catalyst’, as GG said, of America’s largest packaging corporation, in Santa, holy shit, Monica. GG wasn’t big on titles; if pressed, he insisted his role as CEO meant ‘chief earthling organiser’. GG Baggs smiled whenever a woman suggested moving from the rambling oceanfront property that had run the art deco gamut of hotel, night club, gas station and warehouse into being the unposted HQ of Goody Baggs & Stuff. He would frown and agree a move would be fine. How about El Segundo? El Segundo was where Jive Sacks, the nearest thing GG had to a rival, hung out, and GG called them LYA — light years away. Then he laughed some more, and said he was off to grab some rays on the beach, and why didn’t the female come along? He never asked Trina to go to the beach with him, because he said he was scared of her. Trina prided herself on eventually fucking almost every male who spent time at the office, but she d
idn’t hit on GG.

  Personnel meant salesmen. Not salespeople, salesmen: big, unreconstructed macho hunks, with a smile and a twinkle and an ecosphere of phoney charm. GG didn’t mind being called ‘the last hippy’, or a relic of the 1960s — it was his granddad who was that, in fact. He said small is beautiful, believed in real, not corporate America and figured that down home real Americans felt comfortable with salesmen who looked like salesmen. GG said 99% of doing a job was looking the part. The salesmen drove outrageous cars gussied up with fins and chrome and, though they ran on solar energy, had a sound system of gurgles and roars, just like a gas guzzler in the old days. Most buyers of anything at all, GG figured, were women, so salesmen had to be men: potential studs descended from dreamland to sell Goody Baggs to the excited women of Pocatello, Idaho, or wherever. Trina’s job was to check they had what it took, and that they continued to have it, and use it in the total service of Goody Baggs & Stuff — or, as Trina preferred to think, in service of her own luscious Californian body. The merchandise, once in place, sold itself: getting it in place took an ounce of common sense and a big dick, as Trina encouraged others to say behind her back. Salesmen had to be studs and, to get and keep good studs, you needed a ripe mare. Like Trina.

  She travelled a lot, all over the west, to make lightning inspection tours of those remotenesses where Goody Baggs cheered people’s lives up, just as GG claimed, and when there she could stun. The full power rig, black suit and stockings, fuck-me shoes, hair sprayed and coiffed, and sometimes wearing a hat and veil, like in those 1940s movies… and the local sales guy, if he behaved, got the fuck of the century, until the next time Trina chose to visit.

  That was how she recruited salesmen, and how she kept them at peak efficiency: the gift, then the promise, of her body, on her terms. Always her on top, always in control, giving great head but without undressing, as if the male was just another business appointment; or straddling the hunk, making him beg to be brought off, her wet cunt playing with his tool for hours, until she let him spurt — without coming herself. That she attended to with a few deft fingerflicks of her hugely extruded clitoris afterwards. She kept her cell phone turned on, and loved it when some boyfriend called just as she was writhing on another man’s cock. ‘I’m busy right now,’ she’d say. ‘I’m bare-ass naked, with a cock in my cunt. It’s really so big; it’s splitting me…listen.’ And she’d put the phone right by her pussy, and writhe some more, so the boyfriend could listen to the squelching of the other guy’s cock in her wet cunt: ‘Uhh…talk to you later.’ Control. A bully broad. Thinking that made her wet. She called her erotic technique subduction, as when two crustal plates collide, one forcing down the other and producing earthquakes.