Belle Submission Read online

Sucking the monstrous cock, Trina nodded. ‘Mmm.’

  I’ll get off with my fingers, then make him come, and swallow his sperm, then we can mellow out, and when he’s stiff again, I can get on top and fuck him all night long. Straddle him, show him my ass, make him want to spank me…

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Allan murmured. ‘You aren’t jealous?’

  Trina laughed, a gurgling laugh, with the back of her throat squeezing on his piss-hole. She had her lips on his tight ball-sac, and began to chew and nibble the orbs as her throat constricted around his throbbing glans. She could feel the cock trembling, about to spurt — the sperm would shoot straight into her gullet. Allan writhed; despite his dippy talk, she had him under control.

  ‘I want more than just sex, Trina,’ he gasped. ‘I want you, just like I want to be yours. Me alone. Us for us.’

  Trina withdrew to the peak of his glans, and spoke with her lips caressing the piss-hole.

  ‘Hey, get real, Allan. You’re no saint; me neither.’

  ‘You have other boyfriends.’

  It wasn’t a question. Trina stopped the fellatio and raised her head, flushed.

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘I didn’t mind, up till now, but…’

  ‘You didn’t mind? Who the fuck are you to mind?’

  Allan pulled her head up by her hair.

  ‘Ow! You’re hurting me,’ she cried.

  ‘Who are they? How many?’

  ‘Are you crazy?

  ‘How many other guys do you go down on, and say, it’s so big, lover? Three? A dozen? That’s whore talk.’

  ‘Fuck you, Allan. Sure, I have boyfriends, better fucks than you, and more than you’ll ever know.’

  Allan wound her hair round his fist and pulled her head down to the sofa, muffling her face in the cushion.

  ‘You’ll find you’re wrong about that,’ he said, calm once more. ‘And you’ll regret talking so forward.’

  ‘Mmm! Mmm!’

  Trina was helpless as Allan pulled her on to his lap, and kneed her belly until her bare ass stuck high in the air. Her legs flailed; he pinioned her thighs under his. She felt his stiff cockmeat squashed against her bare belly, which writhed in fear and anger.

  ‘This is just a taste,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste your breath struggling, because it’s going to be a long night.’

  Slap!

  ‘Mmm!’

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  ‘Oh… you’re hurting me.’

  I can’t believe this. He’s spanking me, bare-ass.

  At first, the shock, the invasion of her private person, overwhelmed the pain of the spanks; when the pain came, it seared her naked ass-skin, and knocked the breath from her. Slap! Slap! Slap!

  ‘Mmm… Mmm — wmm.’

  She meant to say, let me go, but her face was muffled in the cushion, her whole squirming body trapped helplessly by his grip. The spanks rained on her bare buttocks, a scalding rush of pure pain. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt her gorge rise, but she was unable to release the scream. Slap! Slap! Slap!

  Her buttocks clenched at each spank and her bare ass squirmed and wriggled, her cunt grinding his thigh as though to escape the slaps. Her pubic trim slithered in the pond of her own cunt-juice which, she realised in shock, dripped no less copiously after the onset of her spanking. Slap! Slap! Slap!

  ‘Ahh… ooh!’ she squealed. ‘My ass is burning. Allan, you’ve made your point.’

  ‘This may teach you a lesson,’ he said, ‘but you’ve had it coming. I gave you a chance — I spoke sincerely — but you revealed yourself. You are just a trull. A whore.’

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  ‘Oh… mmm… you’re really, really hurting me.’

  Trina’s naked buttocks did not stop wriggling as she was spanked, but her squeals ebbed to a long, drooling moan. Fire engulfed her bare ass-flesh; it seemed she had never known such pain, had never known anything on this world but pain. Pain filled her, from her throbbing clitty to her spine, to her tingling breast points, squashed against the sofa. Yet, it was not pain, like a scratch or a headache: it was intimate, buttock pain. Come oozed from her writhing gash even as she was spanked, bare-ass, to deepest humiliation. Her moans became sobs, begging for mercy.

  ‘That’s so brutal,’ she groaned. ‘My ass feels on fire. Oh, it smarts… I’m going to look so awful, bruised up.’

  ‘The worst is yet to come,’ Allan said mildly.

  After an age, in which her spanked bare moons were scalded to agony, the spanking stopped. Trina lay limp on the sofa, crying, with tears running down her face. When she felt Allan rip off her stockings and garter belt, her only reaction was to howl, with helpless floods of tears; neither did she protest when her own wet panties were wadded in her mouth as a gag, secured by one of her torn stockings knotted around her neck. Her hands were secured to a foot of the sofa with the second stocking, and her ankles with her own garter belt.

  ‘Just to make sure,’ Allan said easily. ‘Some girls don’t take well to stropping. Not like Kimmi.’

  He lifted his heavy leather belt, and folded it in two. Trina stared and screamed, but it was too late. The leather lashed her helplessly exposed bare buttocks with a dull thud.

  Vap!

  ‘Nnggh!’

  Her buttocks jerked and bucked, helpless to escape the strop. Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ah… ah…’ she whimpered.

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ohh!’

  ‘I’ve known Kimmi for a while. Met her in New Orleans, in fact. She’s always been a fine friend. We fuck, of course, but what she most likes is a stropping.’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Nngh… !’

  ‘Yeah, Trina, that’s fuck, as in get it on. Kimmi’s so sweet and submisssive, doesn’t play head games. She likes to give service. And stropping as in whip her ass till she’s in tears and swears she’ll never be disobedient. In return, she tells me stuff. About you and… all those guys. She just wants me to know how happy you are when I’m away — bully broad!’’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Mmm! Mmm…’ she sobbed.

  Trina’s flogged bare buttocks danced under the searing lash of the leather, the simple belt transformed in the man’s hand into the hardest, most terrifying slaver’s whip. She chewed at her panties, tasting her own salty come as her teeth shredded the dainty garment until, at last, her mouth full of threads, she managed to speak.

  ‘Allan… please stop… I didn’t mean to cause you pain…’

  ‘But I mean to cause you pain.’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ohh… please! I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  Trina’s naked ass-meat continued its frenzied squirming for an hour before Allan laid down his strop and ran his fingers over the welts and blossoming ridges of her bare croup, still quivering and clenching, in the lash’s silence.

  ‘Beautiful welts,’ he said. ‘They should last, and hurt, for days.’

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ she sobbed as she felt his fingers prise her bare moons apart. ‘Oh, that hurts.’

  ‘Strange thing to say, after your whipping,’ he replied.

  ‘Stay still, Trina.’

  ‘Ahh!’

  Trina bucked violently, as her anus bud was penetrated by the man’s cock. His glans poked inside her, until her anal elastic enclosed the glans neck; he waited, pushing gently, then thrust again, getting his tool halfway up her passage. Trina screamed and screamed again as his third thrust slipped fully to her rectum, filling her with the monstrous ten-inch cock.

  ‘Oh, stop, please stop,’ she gasped.

  He pulled his cock from her anus with a plopping sound, and let his pee-hole tickle her pucker for several seconds, while Trina sobbed. Her pucker wriggled, opening and closing, with shiny ass-grease smearing his cock.

  ‘I’m so confused,’ Trina whimpered.

  Allan sank his tool into her anal elastic, and began to butt-fuc
k her with hard, pounding strokes, hammering her anal root with his piss-hole while driving the cock right to the balls, with his ball-sac slapping her heaving buttocks at each stroke.

  ‘Oh, it hurts. You’re splitting me. Allan, please.’

  ‘I’ve taken enough shit from bully broads like you, Trina,’ he said. ‘Down in Louisiana, a girl still knows how to be a girl, a southern belle — sweet and submissive, there to serve men, not to torment them. Kimmi’s like that. She fucks to please, not to possess.’

  With smooth, ruthless thrusts, his cock penetrated her anus, ramming her root at each stroke and making her body stiffen and shudder; yet come poured from her cunt and Trina’s head spun. Her belly fluttered and there was a terrible sweetness in her spinal nubbin.

  No… no… it can’t be…I’m going to…

  Allan laughed.

  ‘You like it, don’t you? This is what you really want, bitch. A taste of reality.’

  ‘No! No… Ahh!’

  Trina shrieked as orgasm flooded her, and it was not until the last of her sobbing moans of climax had ebbed to a snuffling whine that Allan slammed her anus with a new urgency and let his sperm jet into her rectum, its hot flood accompanied by a savage, sneering grunt. He pulled his cock from her hole and wiped it on her hair.

  ‘You wanted it, didn’t you?’ he hissed. ‘All of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Trina sobbed. ‘All of it.’

  ‘Don’t call me, bitch,’ he said, to the wealed, naked body on the sofa as he let himself out. ‘I’ll call you.’

  Trina came into the office on Monday morning, dressed in her most awesome power outfit — grey stockings, grey suit, white silk blouse with a black necktie and black designer slingbacks. She wore a smile as bright as the sun, dimmed by the LA smog. Her anus still ached from her buggery, and the welts and ridges on her whipped butt were black and stiff as corrugated cardboard.

  ‘Hey, people,’ she said, with a radiant smile at Kimmi, who smiled back, ‘let’s get to work.’

  GG Baggs sauntered out of his office.

  ‘Hi, Trina,’ he said. ‘You have any thoughts about New Arras, Louisiana?’

  ‘Sure, GG,’ said Trina, her smile fixed. ‘I’ve spent the weekend thinking about it — I’ve done a lot of thinking about my life — and I accept. Any time you want.’

  I’ve been shamed and hurt beyond endurance, and it’s made me stronger in every way. A man thinks he can fuck around and it’s OK, but a girl has to be submissive and obedient? Piss on that! I’ll fuck whom I please. I know I’ve always been right and, in future, I’ll never regret hurting a man. No amount of pleasure from the Kimmis of this world can wash the wounds I’ll inflict. What’s one dumb butt-fuck, one clumsy whipping, to a bully broad? I know how to kick men where it hurts most, in their filthy macho male chauvinist pride. Now, just let me get to Louisiana and those sweet submissive belles. I’ll teach them how to really treat men. I’ll clean that submissive pus right out of them and teach them to be strong, like me.

  Kimmi brandished a document folder at Trina.

  ‘Your plane to New Orleans leaves in four hours,’ she said sweetly. ‘Change there for Stennis International Airport, Mississippi.’

  ‘How did you know…?’ Trina gasped.

  ‘Girl’s intuition,’ Kimmi said. ‘Lots of luck.’

  From the Journal of Mlle Augustine Flageolet, anno 1760 2 I had three maids disciplined today, two for surliness and one for unreason. Suzanne Yonne and Alice Foubier received pertinent chastisements in my stateroom and, afterwards, watched Marthe Gognaud take an exemplary correction in front of ship’s complement. Of the three truants, only Alice cried out, at eighteen, the youngest, so I awarded her extra discipline, after which she refrained from noise. Her fesses were quite pink, and she joined the others in thanking me for her humiliance. The good, reasonable girl! A maid’s bare bottom is so pretty as it blushes, clenching like flower petals opening to the sun. Admittance to my academy is determined, in part, by academic prowess, although my girls must be able to dress their book-learning with wit but, above all, by excellence of the visible feminine manifestations: that is, the fesses. After examinations in deportment, embroidery, grammar, poetry and other female accomplishments, I make my final selection by inspecting the fesses of the applicant without drawers, shift or petticoats — in a word, completely bare.

  It is in the form and carriage of her naked bottom and, eventually, in that bare bottom’s comportment under the rod, that a lady reveals her true and most intimate character. Reactionaries, ignorant of nature’s laws, dub my academy an institute of lower learning, or, with distressing vulgarity, the academy of the posterior. The fools! France’s loss shall be America’s gain. There is some debate in our shipboard States General — a decorous and compliant assembly of forty maids — whether I, as intendant, should administer the punishments the court imposes, the court being embodied in my own person. I argued to the contrary, on the grounds that I speak not for myself but for the authority reason vests in me. I admit it is tempting for me to take the wand to those bare croups, since the prescriber of chastisement must naturally think herself best fitted to carry it out.

  3

  Trull

  Trina breathed deeply of the sea air as she watched the Mississippi coastline fade through the heat haze: Biloxi Bay, Gulfport, the white sand beach. She stretched with a contented sigh as the breeze ruffled her hair. Biloxi seems a dainty place; plenty of time for a vacation later. The azure of the Gulf of Mexico was calm and flat, with a few oil rigs poking the sky in the distance amongst smudges of islands. She lay back in her lounger, sipping iced tea. Below, Deputy Postal Inspector Elvis Lesieur [which he pronounced ‘leisure’] piloted the little jetfoil, the USPS D’Iberville, behind locked doors, which also protected the twice-weekly mail sack for remote New Arras, in the Chandeleur Islands chain. Trina still hadn’t discovered why a part of Louisiana was served by a post office in Mississippi — a small concern, compared with her mysterious travel arrangements. The flight to New Orleans was OK, and also the connector to Stennis International Airport, Hancock County, Mississippi, although her buttocks still smarted after Allan’s thrashing, and she was happy to climb out of her taxi at the hotel in Biloxi; shower, eat and shower again before sleeping. The heat was stifling, and in the tepid shower she rubbed the hard, crusted welts on her ass, hoping, yet not hoping, they had gone away. They are part of me.

  She was to go to the Ocean Star Café, at the harbour, at 7 a.m. and ask for ‘Mr Elvis’, who would convey her to New Arras. The owner, Arlette Sobovica, who spoke with a French accent, explained that the only passage to New Arras for non-residents or the uninvited was the US Postal Service vessel, which was strictly not allowed to carry passengers. But I am invited! Arlette had never been to New Arras, but if she could sell the Ocean Star café she might just afford to send her eighteen-year-old daughter Yveline ‘for her education’, as if Biloxi’s high schools provided none.

  Trina asked about the Louisiana Academy of Perruques and Pomades, and Arlette said she figured wig-making might well be part of a mamselle’s education, though she didn’t rightly know. She did know that New Arras mamselles were the finest ladies in the whole south, and she wanted Yveline away from the Biloxi dockside, where too many innocent mamselles ended up common trulls. Arlette’s shining eyes announced the breakfast arrival of Elvis; a broad, tanned six-footer, Trina’s age, shaggy black hair, wearing blue denims and western boots, with a stetson and red bandanna — and a postal inspector’s badge. He grinned lopsidedly and blushed under his tan as he approached Trina and tipped his hat.

  ‘You’d be Mamselle Guelph?’ he purred, and Trina nodded. ‘Would it trouble you if I joined you, mamselle?’

  He grinned that lopsided grin again as he took the envelope of cash, and explained that he was only paid a part-time rate by the USPS, so had to ‘eke’. Trina watched as he devoured three servings of sausage, two of bacon, four fried eggs, a hillock of hash browns and a stack of pancakes lat
hered in maple syrup.

  ‘Real Canadian maple syrup,’ he said. ‘Arlette gets it from her folks up there.’

  Trina began releasing her pent-up frustrations: why hadn’t the people in New Arras responded to fax or email or telephone calls, didn’t they know she was coming? Kimmi’s note said that everything was taken care of, including the rent on her apartment. But she had no copies of any communication, just Kimmi’s scribbled assurance, and when she tried to call the New Arras number with the Louisiana area code, she got a busy signal, plus which her cell phone didn’t work at all — maybe some horrible southern insect life had got into it.

  ‘I guess they’d know about you,’ said Elvis. ‘Things get around.’

  He stood and placed himself behind her to take her chair.

  ‘After you, please, mamselle,’ he said, directing her into the dazzling morning sunshine.

  Then, the outrageous, extravagant — yet oddly just — part. To smuggle her aboard the d’Iberville, Elvis explained, she would have to be enclosed in a Goody Bagg, as a properly mailed package, with a stamp, franked and all. Trina had submitted to the indignity — which now, lolling in the sun, she thought wonderfully comic — of lying down, while a blob of industrial-strength Baggsite slowly encased her, its stabilising fronds looping down to hold her tight. Perched on Elvis’s shoulder, she had boarded the vessel as a US postal package. When she was unzipped, she asked where the packaging came from, and Elvis said he thought somewhere in ‘the Orleans territory’. Well, there was something for her first report back to GG and Kimmi. Inside a Goody Bagg was really quite comfortable. What if that damned Kimmi already knew?

  They were passing an island to starboard when Elvis did reappear, stripped to the waist, and touched the peak of his sailor’s cap. He brought a refill of tea, and said that landfall should be in ninety minutes. Trina was sweating in her far too heavy linen suit, and Elvis cleared his throat.

  ‘I shall not bother you, mamselle,’ he said. ‘If you want to make yourself at your ease, in this heat.’

  Trina looked at the crotch of his jeans over the top of her sunshades. There was a bulge that the tight fabric emphasised. She crossed her legs; was that her imagination, or did the bulge stir? Eleven inches? No — too conservative.