Three Tales of Female Submission by Joy Zelig
Grace had known of Angela in college. She was a woman who destroyed men who deserved to be destroyed: aggressive frat boys, roofie artists, date rapists. And now, under Angela’s, literally and figuratively, firm hands, Grace’s husband Finn is put in his place. Now with Grace attracted Angela, one wonders how far will that go? The Reverend’s Wife Debauched. I didn’t know about The Underground Church—a basement room in which the altar was an X rather than a cross. Penance is exacted and redemption granted, pain and pleasure a powerful amalgam, to which I was addicted. But when I’m disciplined, ravaged, and re-christened Jezebel, about to encounter a giant of a man it is my destiny to ‘receive’, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to survive. Consent & Desire & Submission. I’m an educated and successful woman. I’ve never thought of myself as a submissive. I study the human mind, spent years researching Consent. Klaus told me that the issue was really Desire. Ans in truth, I didn’t “give in.” I wasn’t “subdued.” I BEGGED. Repeatedly. PLEADING for the privilege of being PERMITTED to surrender. Three hot, hard-hitting BDSM stories.
For nearly the first three years of our marriage, The Reverend had, for the most part treated me decently: his courtesy at times a little brittle; his respect and tolerance sometimes appearing to fray; his emotions tethered—if, clearly, at times, roiling.
I had not become pregnant, which clearly disappointed him, though this was not something he ever openly criticized.
We had what he referred to as “physical communion” more or less every Friday—three of four weeks of the month.
He wet himself with saliva before he thrust into me; his motions were firm but not violent; after the initial weeks, when the pain faded, there wasn’t much in the way of sensation—neither bothersome nor, in truth, pleasurable.
He would finish fairly quickly, peck me on the cheek, and excuse himself to the bathroom, where he would spend upwards of half an hour bathing and scrubbing himself.
Often, I would fall asleep before he returned to our bed.
This, of course, was before I became, or before he turned me into, a Harlot.
I now know sensation: hot waves of pain, sickening storms of pleasure, every channel and crevice of my body penetrated, punished, and pleased by a multitude of men, a handful of women, and a variety of objects and . . . devices, the possibilities seemingly similar to the infinite reflections created when two mirrors are placed opposite one another.
Now and then The Reverend murmurs and muses darkly of animals, of how I would look on my hands and knees, beneath a dog, or strapped into a wooden frame, to be assaulted by a donkey—he speaks of these possibilities in terms so specific as to suggest long thought, if not actual planning.
My stomach churns and I break into a hot sweat when he says this, my body going shaky and feverish with the disease of desire, as I too picture these things—hoping fervently that he will not grow in me that need too.
Or hoping that he will?
I have no doubt that he wouldn’t force me; he never has.
But—steadily, inexorably, pitilessly—he has made me . . . want. He has made me . . . need. Should I find myself—and perhaps soon—beneath a beast of the non-human variety . . . it will be because I have begged him to permit this.
That has been the pattern: he makes me beg.
I do it now with an odd kind of joy.