Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  She shrugs. Although her gesture is abbreviated by bondage, Gordon comprehends this too.

  “After your scene.”

  The scene. Kiana remembers the succulent experience that Gordon had orchestrated at the party. He had strung her up, arms and legs spread wide between two pillars. He had clamped her nipples and strung the length of chain from a ceiling hook, making it supremely taut. It had stretched her pinched nipples obscenely and, peering down at her tits, Kiana had practically drooled at the sight of her nipples treated to this extremity. The pain was delicious, savory, and she had hoped it would last forever.

  And then Gordon had whipped her. He had flogged her ass until it reddened and blazed hot to his touch, her back until it was laced with stripes. From behind, he had plied the flogger between her legs, at first soft and slow, just enough to arouse her, to make her want to come. And once she was roused, he had driven her roughly, thrashed her into a frenzy. He had pushed her almost to the peak of orgasm, but not quite. Her nipples screamed, her cunt seeped, and her body anguished, craving release.

  Gordon had tossed aside the whip, grabbed her about the waist and jammed his hand between her wet thighs. His thumb sought out her ready nub, sending shudders through Kiana when he found it.

  It took only a few swift strokes to make her come—she had been that ready—but Gordon kept at it until a second wave overtook her and anguish turned to ecstasy, willing submission to wilting exhaustion.

  Kiana smiles, such as she can, at the memory.

  “That was nice,” she says, remembering how sweetly she had swayed, bound, in postorgasmic glow.

  “Not the scene,” Gordon corrected. “Afterward. Someone asked you about the clamps, the nipple play. Remember what you said?”

  Afterward…nipple play. Ah, yes!

  A couple had asked her what it felt like. Newbies, she remembers. She had had enough wits about her to describe how arousing and amazing the scene was. She had even counseled the couple to start with the gentlest of clamps and work their way up to more challenging ones. She had advised them to take their time experimenting and experiencing. She had said…

  She had said, she had said, she…she had babbled. She had monopolized the conversation—had not let the couple get a question in edgewise.

  Dismayed, Kiana sighs.

  “That couple. I blathered,” she confesses, discovering in the process that blathered is a word that does not lend itself to a tongue clamp. Worse, that Gordon understands her nonetheless.

  “Yes. Exactly. And what was the penalty the last time you made this error?”

  The cane. Ten solid strokes, no warm-up. Kiana’s wordless whine says it all.

  Gordon presses the cane flat against its starting point, her ass. Kiana quivers; she knows these strokes will be brutal, an absolute test of her endurance. And likely to steer her clear of mistakes in the future. When the cane leaves her skin, she braces for its strike.

  The cane sings as it sails toward her ass. Its impact is severe, its sting made worse by the rounded position of her ass. Kiana yelps and sobs follow but they’re crocodile tears, insincere and false.

  “Ten,” Gordon states.

  “Thank you, Master,” Kiana lisps.

  “I will not monopolize the conversation,” he adds.

  “I will not monopolize the conversation,” Kiana struggles to repeat.

  The cane strikes again and sends Kiana into a long wail.

  “Nine.”

  “Thank you, Master. I will not monopolize the conversation.”

  She keens at strikes eight through six, barely able to utter her assigned mantra, and discovers agony in strikes five through three. And she weeps her way through the last two strikes. Tears flow down her face, spill onto the bed, forming a different kind of wet spot.

  But the cane has done its job; its fury has ended, and Kiana begins to calm. This necessary correction has come to its conclusion. Gordon fusses at the rigging and frees her from the hog-tie. By default, she expects him to want her stretched out across the bed and ready for a spread-eagle finale, but Gordon surprises her.

  “On all fours.”

  Her limbs complain, but she stoically ignores them and stiffly moves into position. Challenge and chastisement have reduced her to unmeditated obedience; she complies without hesitation or resistance. She is at her deepest level of submission, a place of visceral actions and reactions, a place unthinking and, thanks to the tongue clamp, unspeaking.

  Gordon aims his cock at Kiana’s swollen slit and, poised to part her, he says, “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.” Then, he shoves himself deep.

  Kiana lurches, her breath catches in her throat, but she manages to muffle a whimper. Gordon’s thrusts skewer her, deep enough to bang against that inner limit, that spot not sweet but wholly sensitive. Kiana knows Gordon is using his cock to test her resolve. She holds her tongue.

  Gordon groans. Kiana knows he is staring at the welts on her ass, his handiwork. He gets off on seeing her skin marred by his directives and determinations, on seeing his lust expressed in flagellation’s frippery. This fuck, she knows, is all his, meant only for his pleasure, his climax, his satisfaction. His cock has been too hard for too long; the patience of punishment meted out gives way to the haste of lust.

  Kiana loves this voracious, selfish rutting. She loves being pummeled, used. Wantonly stupid, she drools. Spittle spills over the clamp, drips from her mouth, but, lost in the intensity of Gordon’s fucking, dazed and doped by pleasure’s opiates, Kiana is beyond all propriety.

  Until Gordon pushes her one last time. His thumb again, this time forcing its way into her ass. He reams her, probing and pulling, pushing her endurance to its limits, all to make her squeal. Finally, unable to withstand this final assault, this cruel penetration, she crumples. Finally, she utters a sound and it shocks her to hear a lowly bleat escape her lips.

  But Gordon bellows at the sound of her surrender. Victory throws him into orgasm. He slams his cock into her, balls slapping, and comes. Carnivorous in his climax, he is beastly, spilling into Kiana, pumping with a prowess that diminishes only when he has nothing left to spew.

  Drained, he rests against Kiana. His predatory edge fades as his breathing slows from panting, and when he finally pulls himself free of her, his spunk dribbles down her thigh. My cunt cares no more about propriety than I do, Kiana thinks.

  Gordon draws her to him then and together they collapse into a shared embrace. Briefly, he interrupts it, pulling the blindfold from Kiana’s eyes, loosening the clamp from her tongue. Gordon wiggles it free, but not before Kiana cries out again, her tongue tender and sore.

  His index finger flies to her lips. “Shhh,” he tells her. “Not a sound.”

  And when he takes her into his arms again, he presses his lips against hers and seeks her tongue. Kiana cannot suppress her reaction, but this time, in Gordon’s languid embrace, it is the small sounds of love and adoration that she utters. This time, dominance sated, Gordon does not correct her. Instead, his kiss deepens—and captures Kiana all over again.

  THE EDITOR

  Amanda Earl

  How many rewrites can he possibly demand?” Bettina wondered. “Maybe I should just send the story to a different editor.”

  She knew she shouldn’t keep trying, but she kept thinking that one last effort on her part would satisfy him. And she wanted to satisfy him.

  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about the way this editor worked with her. It made her feel…not special. No, that wasn’t the right word. Singled out. Yes, that was it.

  She wondered about the editor, but she had never even seen the man. Since he spent so much time on her story, she imagined he did so as a labor of love, or perhaps lust.

  Her throat went dry and her belly tightened as she let the word roll inside her mouth. Lust. A labor of lust. Maybe reading the story turned him on. The thought of this man, potentially aroused by her story, was enough to make Bettina fidget in her c
hair. She needed a break.

  This was the difficulty with writing erotic stories. The imagination created the itch and the itch had to be scratched. She went into the bedroom and closed the door. She slipped quickly out of her outer clothes, but left her bra and panties on. She opened the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her clit vibrator, then turned on the DVD player. Naturally, her favorite film was still in place.

  She watched as Mr. Wendell Roberts, the head librarian, pulled Chloe, the student with the late fees, over his knee. Bettina turned her vibe on. Roberts raised the woman’s short plaid skirt. Bettina spread her legs. Chloe wriggled on his lap and begged him to be gentle. Bettina slid one side of her own white panties down her hip and stroked the smooth white skin of her buttocks. The librarian caressed the round bottom cheeks of his victim, then smack! Bettina pushed a finger into her cunt. Smack! She used her other hand to move the vibe up to the hardening bud of her clit. Smack! The woman was pleading for more now.

  The librarian’s hand reached beneath her skirt. The camera angle changed and Bettina was given a detailed glimpse of one wet cunt, oozing come. Then the camera moved again as he slapped her hard on the ass. Bettina saw the red hand mark and it sent her over the edge. She humped and humped against the vibrator as the volley of smacks continued, her own moans matching the moans of the willing victim. The vibrator buzzed and throbbed against her clit and she thrust her hips a few last times for the aftershock, squeezing out every last drop of her orgasm. She sighed as the tremors ended. Her clit continued to tremble as the orgasm subsided. She closed her eyes, dropped the vibe and waited for her heart to resume its normal rhythm.

  She put on a loose gray robe, then returned to her desk. After a sip of cold water, she penned an email to the editor with an idea. Her throat felt parched as she typed. She gulped another big swallow of water. Her breath rose and fell sharply as she contemplated his possible response. Would it please him? Maybe it would even arouse him. She’d never tried it, but stories involving master and slave turned her on. She’d read a lot of them, so she thought it would make sense.

  Her thoughts returning to the porn video she’d just watched, Bettina imagined herself over the editor’s lap. His strong hands curled around her firm buttocks, tracing the two dimples resting on either side of the crack of her ass as he prepared her to receive the sharp, stinging pain from the flat of his hand. She was wet again.

  This time she didn’t turn on porn or return to the bedroom. She threw off her robe, as if he had ordered her to strip. Placing a cushion in the middle of the futon, she lowered herself down to her hands and knees, and pressed her ass out. What would his voice sound like as he commanded her? She spread her legs and pushed herself against the cushion, firmer than most because it was often used for this purpose, and she needed it hard, not too giving. She humped her wet cunt over the cushion and felt the hard nub of corduroy rub against her clit. Her tits stiffened as she imagined the editor’s ink-stained fingers squeezing her nipples, turning them red, red for him. Like her ass. Marking her. Using her. She cried out. Her cunt seeped thick come onto the cushion, which now had a wet spot.

  The day was flying by. She’d had two orgasms, one walk, no lunch and one great story idea. She checked her email again, but still no word.

  She fiddled around and sorted books for a bit, tidying up her desk, but she couldn’t figure out what to do with herself. If only he would email, let her know one way or the other.

  The ringing of the telephone jarred her out of her increasingly horny thoughts. She picked up the receiver.

  “Bettina Brixton?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Hamilton Cheevers.”

  This was him. Her editor. The one she’d never heard from before. And he was calling her. Now.

  “Are you there, Ms. Brixton?”

  His voice was older. Maybe late fifties or early sixties, it was hard to tell, but the tones were sophisticated, with the trace of an English accent. Nothing extreme. Very educated sounding.

  “S-s-sorry,” she said, stammering. “Yes. I’m Bettina. So nice of you to call. What made you call me after all this time? Are you calling long distance?”

  Suddenly she paused, realizing she was simpering nonstop. She took a deep breath and calmed herself.

  “So kind of you to call.”

  “That’s better Ms. Brixton. Your latest idea is spot on. I’m glad you finally understand what I want.”

  “Thank you. Uh…” She realized she didn’t know what to call him.

  “Sir. You may call me Sir, Ms. Brixton. And I shall call you Tina.”

  “Tina. Yes, thank you, Sir.”

  “Do you have much experience with dominance and submission?”

  “Actually, nothing real.” She started to squirm, feeling very uncomfortable after her last fantasy involving the editor.

  “Well, you’ll need to do some research. At least read and perhaps chat with a few people in the lifestyle. I’ll email you some sources. Do you think you can have the draft back to me in a week or so?”

  “Yes, Sir. Absolutely.”

  “Excellent. Good girl, Tina. Let’s talk again after I’ve read your latest draft. You’ve got quite a gift as a storyteller.”

  Bettina’s heart raced.

  “Thank you, Sir,” she said, stumbling once more in her speech.

  “Next time we talk, I do hope you’re more comfortable, Tina. Good-bye.”

  Bettina put the phone down. In her mind she replayed the conversation. Why couldn’t she be suave and sophisticated instead of awkward? There was nothing awkward about him. He sounded calm and self-assured, with a commanding voice. Yes, commanding. Her cunt quivered at the thought. She checked her email and found one from him with a list of books, Internet sites and a chatroom recommendation.

  She felt like a young girl being taught by an exacting school-master. Her breasts swelled at the thought of his hands on her, but she ignored the feeling, or rather she channeled it into her writing.

  She mused about the editor while she worked elements of dominance into her story. She could sense the characters taking shape. The phone interrupted her thoughts. She picked up the receiver and said “Hello,” in a rather breathless voice.

  “Am I disturbing you, Tina?” said the editor.

  “Oh, no. No, Sir. I was just deep into the story.” She paused and he said nothing. The air over the phone crackled between them. She cleared her dry throat. “A flogging scene actually.” Once more, a long pause on the other end. She held herself still, sat up straight in her chair, stopped playing with her hair.

  “Wonderful. Well, don’t let me take up your time. I just wanted you to know about the upcoming fetish show and sale in Toronto next weekend. Thought you might want to go. I’ll be there representing our publishing house. It would be an opportunity for us to meet.”

  Bettina’s hands grew damp as she grasped the receiver tightly to her ear and she took a deep, calming breath, lowering her voice.

  “Really? You want to meet? Oh, I’d like that.”

  “I’ll send you the information then. But I expect that rewrite before then. We can discuss it when you arrive.”

  “Yes, Sir. I look forward to it. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “You’re welcome. You sound calmer now. You have a beautiful voice, Tina.”

  He hung up and Bettina just stared at the telephone, until the recording came on telling her to hang up. She’d pleased him. She let the thought shiver over her body. Soon she would meet him. She tingled with anticipation from her head right to her sopping wet cunt. Now she’d have to redouble her efforts to finish the story. She really needed to talk to people in the lifestyle. She went to the chatroom the editor had mentioned.

  Soon she struck up a conversation with Renaissance Master. It wasn’t long before they moved into private chat. The conversation moved into a discussion of what he liked about dominance, and it turned her on completely.

  You’re an intriguing woman, RM typed
. I enjoy a woman who intrigues me. And reward her for doing so.

  Through her loose robe, Bettina’s hand glided down to her cunt, and she slipped her fingers inside to feel the sticky juices of her arousal.

  Just how would you reward her?

  First I’d bend her over my knee…

  Mmm, that sounds very rewarding to me. Bettina used one hand to type now as she traced her fingers along her parted sex lips.

  To me too. I can’t resist a sexy, vulnerable ass over my knee, just begging to be spanked. Do you like that idea?

  God, yes. I’d love to be spanked. She leaned close to the screen, pressing her cunt down onto the black leather chair, moving up and down as she read his words.

  And I would love to take you over my knee, but only after you’d served me. Would you like that? Would you like to serve me?

  Yes, I dream of serving you.

  Are you naked?

  No. I have a robe on.

  Remove it for me. Bettina threw off her robe and it landed in a gray puddle by her feet.

  Yes, Sir. It’s off now.

  Good girl. Now, while I speak, take your fingers and touch your cunt as if I am touching it. Tease your clit as if my tongue is on it. Imagine you feel the fire of my breath against your skin.

  Yes, Sir. Bettina trembled as she followed his commands. He couldn’t see her, but she knew that he must be getting aroused by her obedience.

  I want you to tell me between 1 and 5 how close you are to coming. Imagine I order you to your knees and tell you to crawl. Number please.

  2. Bettina’s two fingers moved inside her cunt as she raised it toward the screen and then back down.

  I tell you to lie down on your stomach and attach cuffs to your wrists and ankles, then chain you to the bed. You cannot move.

  3. Bettina’s juices coated her fingers as she pushed her body back down onto the chair.

  I walk to the head of the bed. You notice a long red flogger in my hand. I let you smell the leather of its suede lashes. So soft but capable of causing so much pain. You want that pain. One day I’ll make you beg for it.