Belle Submission Page 2

  Goody Baggs & Stuff did everything the wrong way round. It drove Trina wild, sometimes, but she couldn’t argue with her humongous paycheque, which wasn’t really a paycheque, but a consultant’s fee, because GG Baggs didn’t believe in capitalism and had no employees as such. There were computers in the office, but not online. Instead of an IT system, they had real, old-fashioned file cabinets, stuffed with paper! GG explained, smiling, that the best computer was the human brain. Any government agency was welcome to sift through his file cabinets, because a whole generation of screenheads didn’t know what a piece of paper was and, anyway, only Kimmi really understood it all.

  Instead of ‘don’t put anything in writing’, GG believed in putting everything in writing, as much of it as possible. Paper weighed; gravity, he said, was money. People with bad karma, like tax people, simply didn’t have time to go through mountains of paper. GG on purpose overpaid the IRS. If they demanded, say, $1 million, he wrote a cheque for $1.1 million, which they always kept, so that he was then the aggrieved party. That is, he wrote several dozen cheques, on small town banks all over the US, which drove the greysuits nuts. He knew every bank account and company he owned — there was no ‘Inc’ in Goody Baggs. If there was some financial fact GG felt too bashful to share, he’d advise Trina or Kimmi to ‘Bismarck’ it. That meant, create an obstacle course of paperwork and excuses, the doomsday weapon being, ‘I’m so sorry, GG’s gone to Bismarck’— everyone knowing the name, but not exactly where it was.

  ‘Why hide money in Switzerland,’ he said, ‘when you can hide it in North Dakota?’

  GG’s name really was Goody Baggs, and that was his legal trademark. He was a genius — his dad had been a genius, even though a screenhead, as GG bemoaned — and his granddad had hung around Haight-Ashbury in the golden age of the 1960s. The name Goody was what screenheads called an easter egg, that is, a joke, but his dad was gracious enough to call him George as well. After becoming even more of a computer whiz than his dad, GG had invented the Baggs nanochip, then stopped. His nanochip, a few molecules wide, created Baggsite, the recycled packaging material that made GG Baggs the world’s richest moccasin-wearing man. GG figured that giving was more fun than receiving, and everyone [meaning women] loved bags and boxes and gift wrap, and would buy them without knowing their purpose.

  ‘Packaging makes the world go round,’ he said.

  A Goody Bagg was a pellet of dark substance which, rubbed a few times to body heat, became a pliable, greaseless dough. There were always new kinds of Goody Baggs. The most basic, placed on top of an object, used nanosensors to expand to a sheet like cardboard, the exact size for the object, form itself into a box meeting US Postal Service specifications, wrap and seal itself, while at the same time extruding a web of gossamer strands, a few molecules wide, to protect the object inside. Touching it made the substance mood-change its colour, like, a happy colour or a wistful one… you traced the address with a fingertip, and the box translated your scrawl into neat printing. You could mail a Ming vase from Anchorage to Key West, and it would emerge intact from its Goody Bagg. Other Goody Baggs were tote bags, or purses, or anything, and you could change the colour or design every day; each one was unique —‘a singularity’ in GG-speak. From a range called ‘Cling Things’, a girl could build her own shirt dress, or wet T-shirt — an expanding market, GG gravely observed.

  Most important, Goody Baggs were cheap. They came packaged in their own Goody Baggs, imitation felt, silk or leather, which served as earrings or neckwear until a use was found. The display was always the same, in every convenience store throughout America: a totem pole, with twenty-four branches, standing at the angle of an erect cock, and on each branch half a dozen pairs of Goody Baggs, exactly the same as two male balls, chained together. GG, in one of his rare interviews, was asked if that was sexploitation.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Baggsite, the miracle substance, was produced from organic waste: paper, leaves, potato skins. Filling a Baggs nanochip compressor the size of a trash can, they changed in an hour to the dough, which was manually rolled into pellets, hardening once bagged. The compressors could be anywhere, like a basement, so all merchandise was locally produced.

  GG acquired ancient mom-and-pop companies, the Laramie Shoelace Corp or something, and gave them just a tad more work. Everything local, low overheads, cut out big business, employ the good karma folks of real America. When big corporations hurt, GG called them tree-killers and suggested they find another, more American employment, although they were welcome to compete, if they wanted to ruin the righteous folks at the Laramie Shoelace Corp. Why, the Baggs nanochip, GG’s idiosyncratic arrangement of molecules, wasn’t even patented. GG knew the US was the only country with unapplied patent law, so you could patent something, then bury it, and still keep the patent. So, of course the Baggs nanochip was unpatented, and in the public domain if anyone could find it… but every arrangement of molecules that might lead remotely near the Baggs nanochip was patented harder than cast steel.

  ‘American nanochips for Americans,’ GG said publicly; or, over a beer, to one of the Santa Monica cops with whom he was friendly, as it was wise to be in Santa Monica, ‘Some anti-planet corporation with shitty karma goes up against me, I’ll waste the motherfucker — I mean, I’m an American,’ and the cop would nod sagely.

  What to wear? Trina ate breakfast, showered and was back at the closet mirror. A Cling Thing was kind of tacky for a power broad… Kimmi instinctively knew what to wear, which was hardly anything, most of the time. But then, Kimmi wasn’t after power. At nineteen, she had all the time in the world! She looked after the sales figures, and Trina looked after the salesmen, was their understanding.

  Trina stroked her pubic stubble a last time, frowned and slung an array of clothing on her bed. It was so hot, and a chick exec never ever went stockingless, but she could go braless, as it was Friday. She chose a white cotton shirt, sheen flesh stockings in real nylon, and a powder-blue garter belt and straps, with a blue tartan linen skirt fastened by a safety pin at the waist, and showing thigh. Shoes were simple loafers, gold tassel. No panties, for reasons more than aesthetic, although she did like the absence of a panty line on her always clinging skirts or pants, and smooth ass was a potent weapon, facing a male. That, and the swish of her nylon stockings as she crossed her legs, making guys sweat and drool as they pretended they weren’t peeking for a glimpse of her haven. She never let her pussy show, but leg-crossing meant that she knew what it was for.

  She was doing up her last garter strap when the phone rang. Her answering machine was on and, when she heard a male voice, she grimaced, but lightened up when it was Allan the airline pilot, who rolled into town occasionally and whose light-hearted manner gave her both a smile and a challenge. He’d humour her dominance, even act submissive sometimes, groaning and pleading to come, as she fucked him. Trina Guelph never let a male fuck her — she fucked him. But Allan was always grinning, even when he wasn’t grinning. The challenge…

  ‘Hey, pick up the phone, Trina,’ said Allan. ‘No sweat, I’m only in town for the weekend.’

  Allan had a good ten inches — Trina sniffed at lesser endowments — and that thought, with moisture already seeping in her quim, made Trina pick up the phone. They kidded awhile, then agreed a date for that evening.

  When she got to work, Kimmi had just arrived and was wearing a pink full corset in clinging satin, which squeezed her waist way tight, seventeen inches for sure, clinging to her big firm nipples and showing the crack of her ass, as if she were nude. The corset was wet, so she must have swum to work. She said GG wanted a word with Trina, asap. Kimmi dripped all over the floor, her blonde mane, slightly darker than Trina’s, damp at the tips over her bare brown shoulders. Trina reported to GG and came out, thirty minutes later, a cup of latte heavier, and pensive. Kimmi had changed into another pink corset, of filmy, clinging lycra, and her skin was still beaded with moisture — not water but sweat. The corset had a scalloped
bra that pushed her almost-bare boobies up to quivering jellies, and the crotch was the wispiest thong imaginable, with the rear cut high to show most of her firm brown ass-melons. The lycra seemed like a mere film of gossamer that clung to her skin, narrowing her waist to pencil thinness, and at the big bulge of her pubis individual clusters of her pubic fleece showed beneath the fabric, as well as the tufts of golden curls that sprouted past the high-cut panty — Kimmi neither shaved nor trimmed her armpits, legs nor vulval area. Trina too was wet, and the thin cotton shirt clung stickily to her own titties, making her feel more of a spectacle than Kimmi.

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to be this hot,’ she blurted at Kimmi’s placid stare. ‘Hey, can we talk in my office?’

  ‘Sure, Trina. I’ll fetch coffee.’

  Kimmi brought coffee and sat on one of Trina’s cushioned cane chairs. The desk was there as emblem rather than tool, and Trina sat in a cane chair beside the teenager. The fan brushed the air without cooling it; GG was an enemy of air-conditioning, which he thought the slippery slope to wearing grey suits.

  ‘You’re always fetching things,’ said Trina as Kimmi, unbidden, extracted bottles of Vittel from the office frigidaire.

  ‘A girl should think of others,’ said Kimmi. ‘Shouldn’t she? You won’t mind if I give your ferns a little water?’

  She sat, curled in her seat, with her thighs pressed together, as if excited by watering the ferns. Trina told her yes, and watched Kimmi’s ass swaying as she swooped to splash French mineral water over the plants. She rejoined Trina, breasts quivering in the strapless one-piece.

  ‘That felt good,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m feeling life-oriented today. I had this wonderful date last night; I think I really made him happy.’

  ‘Anyone special?’ said Trina.

  ‘Oh… just a guy. All humans are special, like ferns.’

  Trina told her what GG had offered, or ordered, and Kimmi’s breasts trembled in agitation. GG, who was fond of surprises, had first asked her if she liked crawfish and gumbo and stuff, then said he ‘seemed to have bought’ the Louisiana Academy of Perruques and Pomades, on a gulf island called New Arras, and he wanted Trina to go down and ‘massage it’ for Goody Baggs’ production. It was a factory and teaching facility at the same time, and had been there ‘for thousands of years’, and all the staff were girls. GG said it sounded really herbal and righteous, and perfect for Goody Baggs dominance of the deep south. Every exec had to spend time in the field, to get away from the humongous pressures of Santa Monica, so Trina could take the weekend to make her decision.

  ‘I’d be so sad if you were, like, some place that wasn’t here,’ Kimmi murmured.

  Her breasts shook in sympathy, and Trina smiled. ‘Thanks, Kim. How do you keep that thing on?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s quite easy,’ Kimmi said earnestly, ‘with proper breathing control,’ and as she spoke, a drop of sweat fell from her chin into the cleft of her breasts, between the two pressed bulbs of gently quivering teat-skin.

  Trina wiped her brow and, as she did so, her own breasts rolled in their soaking cotton prison.

  ‘You’re very nervous, Trina,’ Kimmi said.

  ‘It kind of threw me,’ she replied. ‘He said I was best for the task — offered more money, profit share and everything, and that I’d be the numera una, you know? But I wonder, in my career curve, if it’s a sideways promotion. Sapping my power base by cutting me out of the loop.’

  ‘Oh, Trina, this isn’t a big, vicious grey suit corporation,’ said Kimmi. ‘We don’t have loops. GG is sincere.’

  She placed her fingers on Trina’s nape and squeezed the neck muscles.

  ‘You really are tense. Why don’t I give you a herbal massage? I have all the oils back at my place. You — we — could make ourselves comfortable. There’s nobody there right now. I mean, we could get naked. It’s not the same in a jacuzzi, with other people.’

  She blushed.

  Trina swallowed, then replied, ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  ‘We can take a cab — shall I go ask GG?’

  Trina nodded limply. Suddenly she did want a massage and knew, as she watched Kimmi’s buttocks swaying from her office, that she wanted it from Kimmi. Kimmi was a listener; she would understand. The girl was absent for a full half hour before returning to say that GG had okayed it, and they could take the rest of the day off if they wished. She called for a cab, resting her bottom on Trina’s desk and keying the numbers with her big toe, whose nail was painted green; all Kimmi’s nails were painted different colours.

  ‘You’ll love Louisiana,’ Kimmi said when the cab was ordered. ‘Wish I was going. It’s like home to me.’

  From the Journal of Mlle Augustine Flageolet, anno 1760 1 A sea voyage induces languor of the senses. Sultriness of the body is tempered by the brisk sea breeze — are these not the two principles of the human spirit? So soon after embarkation at Le Havre, we are on the broad Atlantic, pathway to America, and dreams of liberty enthrall me. Louisiana! What glorious sunrises await us! The despotism of France seems far away. We sail to an island of bounty, where our society of thinking females shall sustain itself by physiocratic principles, feeding and clothing ourselves from the fruits of earth and sea, while instructing the mind and body in the precepts of rational discipline — discipline which the forces of oppression dare to describe as immodest! Maidens shall grow in this sun-kissed Louisiana, their bodies in harmony with the discipline of earth and sea and sky, submissive to nature’s reglements and nature’s beauty. The metropolitan fools, ignorant that a girl’s duty is to submit! To nature, to reason, to just chastisement of her errant flesh.

  2

  Hardspank

  The air was languorous with the scent of tropical flowers and ferns, and Trina breathed deeply of their mingled perfumes.

  ‘First, take all those clothes off,’ said Kimmi sternly, as if clothes were some unpleasant modern fad. ‘Then, a hot shower before your massage.’

  She herself was already stripping off her corset, with a sucking sound as it peeled from her breasts, which sprang aquiver from her ribcage.

  ‘Don’t I get time to admire the view?’ said Trina.

  Kimmi’s spacious apartment was on the top floor.

  ‘Later,’ Kimmi decreed.

  Trina gazed at Kimmi’s artless nudity, her corset already folded neatly and stashed, while Trina was still fumbling at her garter straps. Her shirt was off, letting her own breasts sway freely, dripping with sweat over Kimmi’s bleached pine floorboards. The garter belt unsnapped; she rolled down her stockings. Kimmi took the underthings, pressed them to her nose and made a face.

  ‘You don’t wear panties,’ she said, ‘so why these? You think it’s humid right now, wait till you get to Louisiana.’

  ‘I haven’t decided I’m going,’ said Trina.

  ‘You’re going in the shower,’ said Kimmi.

  ‘Are you joining me?’ said Trina, shocked at the tremor in her voice and the ripple of electricity in her clitoris at the thought of such closeness to the naked girl.

  ‘Of course,’ said Kimmi. ‘I’ll give you a proper soaping.’

  The spray was scalding as Trina felt Kimmi’s hands rub scent-free shower gel and soap all over her body. Kimmi’s own natural scent pervaded the shower cubicle; the girls were almost, but not quite, pressed together, and as Kimmi’s hands touched every inch of her with somehow clinical impersonality Trina’s nipples stiffened. Kimmi flicked them playfully, without a word, then washed Trina’s cunt-basin and her vulval aperture with shower gel, squirting the liquid into Trina’s slit and rubbing the cunt-lips gently as it trickled out. It excited Trina. She was wet, and her come seeped to mingle with the shower gel, yet she felt embarrassed; Kimmi’s nipples weren’t stiff, and there was no sign of ooze at her gash. Trina’s soaping was nurse-like and, when the time came for her to lie face down on Kimmi’s futon, so was her very thorough and quite painful massage. After oiling her to gleaming wetness, Kimmi k
neaded, thumped, twisted and pounded on Trina’s back, thighs and ass, pulling her arms and hands at the sockets, and at times climbing up and walking with precise and dainty toes up and down Trina’s spine. Kimmi’s big toe pressed the kundalini of her spinal nubbin, dipping into the spread, clean-shaven crack of Trina’s ass. Trina’s feet were massaged, then her legs bent back until her toes touched her buttocks, and she thought her thighs would burst with Kimmi’s full weight on her legs.

  ‘Uh!’ she gasped. ‘That’s very painful.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why you’ll feel better. Oriental massage takes you into yourself, absorbs you in your body, your own somatic environment, so that outward things, like where you are on the planet, are an illusion.’

  ‘Is that why you like being spanked?’ Trina gasped.

  ‘That’s not pain, that’s cleansing — like eating a raw tabasco pepper, you know? Folks do that in Louisiana.’

  Both Trina’s legs were bent fully back, exposing her naked vulva.

  ‘Am I turning you on?’ asked Kimmi. ‘Your pussy’s all shiny. Are you thinking of spanking? Bare ass spanking?’