Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  4. Bettina rubbed her clit with her thumb as she humped hard and fast against the chair.

  Are you close? Tell me, do you want to come?

  Pllleaasse, she typed slowly with one hand while the other was lost inside her frenzied cunt. Her tits were hard and swollen and she needed him to release her.

  Come then. Come for me.

  Her body shoved itself hard against the chair as the orgasm pounded through her.

  5, she typed as the juices flowed down her legs.

  Good girl. I hope one day to see you do that for me. Now good night little one. Time for you to dream.

  Thank you so much. G’night to you, Sir.

  After that encounter, Bettina grew very excited about meeting the editor. Her story glistened with layers of meaning, sensual descriptions, well-honed characters and a sizzling plot. She was very proud of it when she sent it to him. She hoped he would like it.

  A few days before the trip, she received a package in the mail. Through the brown paper, it felt yielding. She turned it over and saw the name of the editor on the return address. Her stomach churned and the pulse at her throat beat strongly. With trembling fingers she opened the package. There was a note, but she took no notice at first. Instead her fingers flowed through the dress, made of some light gossamer material, in ash gray. Beneath the dress was a charcoal velvet choker. She wrapped it around her neck immediately and felt a surge of desire course through her so strongly she had to kneel. It was then that she spied the note, written in precise and neat black ink on crisp, white stationery.

  Your story is perfect, Tina. Please meet me at the Royal York Hotel. There will be a message for you at the desk. Wear the dress, and the collar. No underwear or bra.

  Her fingers slid down to her cunt, so wet, so needy. She couldn’t stand it. She dropped to the floor and spread her legs, pressing her fingers against her hard clit and rubbing and rubbing until she came, the collar surrounding her neck. Possessing her. She wanted to serve this man. She had never felt such an urge before, but she knew it was right and he knew it was right. He trusted her to obey him and she would.

  She took the train in to Toronto a day early and got her hair done. She also indulged in a Brazilian wax to remove all the hairs on her cunt. She wanted to look perfect for him. As the hair was ripped from her body with the aid of the hot wax, she cried out in pleasure and pain. She imagined his whip on her bare mound, rubbing along her sex lips, covered with her juices of surrender.

  The clock marched slowly along as she waited to see him. They’d agreed to meet at seven. She’d gone out for a bit, but couldn’t concentrate, so she’d ended up in her room at the Royal York, and she’d done the only thing she could to calm herself. She started to write.

  Lost in thought, she was almost late. She changed quickly into her dress and called downstairs for her message. She was to go to Room 332.

  She composed herself, ran a comb through her hair, applied her lipstick with trembling fingers and left her room, finding her way to his. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” she heard through the door. The voice was strong and she felt any nervousness evaporate as she walked into the suite.

  “Good evening, Tina. You look ravishing.”

  There he was. Hamilton Cheevers. The editor. He stood there, looking down at her. She let her eyes meet his. His black hair was cut short and neat, with touches of silver at the temples. His blue eyes stared calmly into hers. He smiled briefly, causing a flash of warmth to travel to her stomach and below. Despite the worldly and sophisticated tones of his voice on the telephone, which made him sound like a man in his fifties or early sixties, the editor appeared to be closer to his midforties.

  He reached down and took her hand. His hand was not smooth, but calloused. Obviously he was someone who used his hands for manual labor. His fingers had no trace of ink stains, as she’d imagined. She felt his gaze rove down her body.

  “You wore it,” he said, touching her collar.

  “Yes, Sir. Don’t I always obey you?”

  “So you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He motioned to a small table.

  “Now let’s eat. I want to get to know you further, Tina.”

  “And I you, Sir.” While she was excited, she also felt very calm.

  The editor cut a dashing figure in a slate gray suit. Not many men carried off suits well anymore, but Hamilton Cheevers looked like he was born to wear one. The tailored cut of the jacket emphasized his wide shoulders. He removed the jacket to reveal firm, muscular arms and a crisply creased white button-down Oxford shirt. Bettina admired the way his body tapered down to a trim waist and hips. She imagined he must work out. Many men his age had let themselves go, but not the editor. It was clear he took rigorous care of himself. Her eyes strayed to the thick black leather belt around his waist. She closed her eyes briefly as the thought of that belt striping her bottom with red passed through her lust-filled mind. She gulped and felt her cheeks turn pink.

  “Shall we sit down, Tina?” the editor said with a slight smirk on his face, as if he could read her mind. Tina nodded, her legs trembling.

  He held the chair for her and she sat, impressed by his impeccable manners. It had been years since any man had shown her such respect.

  They chatted about everything while they ate, and then they discussed her story.

  “I was impressed with how well you described your character’s desire to submit. Have you always known you were submissive?”

  “No. I didn’t know at all. But I do now. She is me. I didn’t really understand that until I wrote this story.”

  “A most astute realization.” He smiled and reached again for her hand. His touch turned her skin to fire.

  “You made me realize it, didn’t you? You guided me toward this right from the start. But you didn’t tell me. Why?”

  “You needed to come to your own realization. My role is to guide, not to force.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I would like to show you my gratitude.”

  “Yes, Tina, and you will. Let’s walk off this food.”

  He rose and moved to her, raising her up and letting his hand linger on the small of her back.

  “Oh,” she sighed.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No, Sir, not at all. The opposite, in fact. This feels so right. Your hands on me.”

  “Yes. I know. It feels right to have you under my hand, Tina.”

  They walked out into the late spring air and watched a fire-works display. The streets were empty all around them. He took her hand and pulled her into a dark alley.

  “Kneel, Tina. I need your mouth around my cock.” He spread his coat on the sidewalk.

  Bettina paused. What if someone sees? she thought. She looked into his eyes, dark with desire. She wanted to please him, but she was torn. Her body ached to obey, yet she worried about being caught.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He stroked her hair, running his fingers along her back. Then he touched her collar again. “You’re mine.” His voice was commanding and certain. The feel of his hands at her neck drove away her uncertainty. Yes, she was his, his slave. At that moment she knew she’d do anything for him, anything to please him.

  “Show me, Tina. Prove you’re mine.” His fingers traced her collar, then glided underneath her dress, finding her nipples, stroking them stiff.

  Her body hummed. Her nipples felt singed by his touch, his ownership of her.

  “Yes, Sir,” Tina said, her voice taking on a raspy, parched tone as she moved to the ground. Her master held her head firmly as she unzipped him, and he placed his fingers on the back of her neck, caressing her collar.

  She took out his cock, which was hard and uncut. Wrapping her hands around his shaft, she uncovered the glans. Tina breathed hotly against him and took the head in her mouth, opening wide to accommodate its thick girth. She’d done this before, but never really enjoyed it. Now she needed it. Needed to swallow him. He stayed
still while she licked around his cock and encircled his shaft with firm fingers.

  “Yes, girl. Take it,” he said as he grabbed the back of her head and forced her forward so that his cock pressed deeply down her throat.

  “Now look up at me.”

  She looked up then, lapping at his cock with her tongue. She felt the head of his cock pulsing as it moved in and out of her mouth.

  “Lick the rim,” he said.

  She circled the edge of the head with her tongue, feeling his balls tighten against her chin.

  “Now take my come. Drink it.”

  Short bursts of salty come spurted out of the slit of his cockhead and down Bettina’s throat. She drank it all down. Her master’s come filled her, quenched her. Her cunt tingled and her breasts heaved as he kept coming.

  Afterward he lifted her up from her knees and held her tightly to him, raising her dress.

  “You’re soaking, Tina. You want this. You want me to use you, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir. Yes, please.”

  Her legs trembled as he pressed his fingers inside her cunt.

  “Lean against me then. I want to feel your juices flow for me.”

  She humped her cunt onto his hot, cupped hand. He braced her against him, wrapping his arms around her back, and pulled her toward him. His fingers were warm inside her.

  “Open for me now. Take me in.”

  She took a sharp breath and allowed herself to let go. She wanted his cock, needed it so badly, she found herself begging to be taken.

  “Please, your cock. I want it.”

  She felt the sting of his other hand against her buttocks.

  “I’ll give you my cock when you’ve come for me. Move.”

  Her breath ragged, she stopped thinking and let herself be mastered. She’d never done this outside before. Never trusted anyone else to do this to her. She spread herself wider and clenched, letting his hand move deeper into her soaking cunt. She moved her hips back and forth against his fingers—her master’s fingers—so deep, so strong. She felt the pulsing of her orgasm start to churn against her clit and inside her cunt as he curled his fingers upward, beckoning her to come.

  She was a flame shivering in the darkness against him, burning them both with need as she clutched at his fingers with her cunt.

  He brought her chin up with his other hand and forced his tongue deeply into her mouth, licking at her tongue, sucking it, biting her lips as she trembled and humped quicker against his hand.

  “Ask my permission,” he whispered. “Ask me to let you come.”

  Those words put her over the edge.

  “Please, I need…may…may I come?”

  “Yes! Come for me, my Tina. Come. Now.”

  She let go then. Came for him. Juices flowed all over his hand. The musky scent of their sex combined with the odor of smoke in the air.

  He brought his fingers up to her lips.

  “Open your mouth.”

  She had never tasted herself before. She had always been disgusted by the idea, but for him, she opened. She trusted him.

  The sharp, sweet taste filled her mouth. She cried out as she licked every drop of the evidence of her surrender from his hand. Her tongue tasted each fingertip, slid down in between each finger, traced the lines in his palm. He rubbed his hand over her face, down inside her dress, reaching in to twist her nipples. They were hard and ready for his touch.

  “I always want these nipples hard and your cunt wet. Do you understand, Tina?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “When you come to me or I come to you, you will always be ready to serve me.”

  Bettina looked into his eyes. She had no doubts, no uncertainty. This was what she wanted, this was who she was.

  “Open for me, Tina. Belong to me. I promise you fire.” He kissed her again then, a long kiss that burned against her lips. She opened her mouth and accepted his tongue and his promise as he mastered her. Completely.

  RIBBONS

  Kathryn O’Halloran

  Lilly receives the box in the mail. She opens it carefully. She hasn’t heard from him for two weeks and she wonders if she’s ruined things. As she runs her nail under a line of sticky tape, she smiles. Surely this is a peace offering wrapped in a command. She removes the lid and her smile curdles. She doesn’t understand. Coiled amongst the black, crumpled tissue paper are three ribbons, jewel toned and velvet. One purple, one green, one red.

  She reads the note beneath and drops the box onto the floor.

  They met when she wandered, brain-addled, into a nearby bar. Returning from a holiday that delivered little, she muddled in that halfway state—not home, yet not somewhere else. She never went to bars alone. Not ever. But her apartment had lost her smell and her head buzzed, soft and low, like the bass line from a song she’d heard once a long time ago.

  The bar was nothing special, a jumble of mismatched furniture and florid paintings, eclectic style, the shiniest of people in low-cut jeans waving their arms in the air to music a couple of notches louder than comfortable. Lilly sat on a bar stool with a ripped vinyl seat. No matter how she moved, the edge dug into her thigh. She tried to cross her legs but her muscles were unyielding.

  The music dulled the buzzing in her head; the whiskey stopped her caring about it. She tore at a napkin, wondering if she’d drunk enough to sleep.

  She caught him looking—not at her directly but at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A fractured her, broken up by glasses and bottles. She didn’t know what he saw; she didn’t even think she’d be able to pick herself out of a crowd. Her face looked faded, like a rag doll left in the sun.

  He looked unshaven and unkempt. Dirty, lean and sly. His fingers circled his glass like spiders. He repulsed her, causing a lurch in her guts.

  As she turned away, the jagged vinyl scratched her legs. She felt her thigh redden. But she wouldn’t look. She tucked her skirt in around her thighs, hoping to protect them, and stared into the distance, but her movements were self-conscious at the possibility that he could be watching. She wouldn’t turn and give him the satisfaction. She’d been walled inside herself for years. She hadn’t come out looking for this. She hadn’t come out looking for anything.

  Yet, despite herself, she turned briefly to glimpse his hands, the knuckles too large for the fingers, the nails ragged and dirty.

  The buzzing inside her grew louder, louder than the music, louder than the traffic outside, louder than the whole world. She’d never sleep now. She’d walk. Walk and walk and walk until she dropped from exhaustion. Maybe then her mind would be still. She stood up and wrapped herself tightly into her coat but even that didn’t stop the shivers.

  As he followed her out, she felt in her pocket for her keys. If he came too close, she’d jam them in his eye socket. But he come close and she didn’t resist. His fingers brushed lightly on her sleeve, nothing more than that. It felt right, like he’d drawn her in from a ledge on a tall, tall building where she’d swayed in the wind. He warmed her and numbed her and gave her peace.

  She stares at the ribbons, snaking across the floor. The colors glow against the dark floorboards—amethyst and emerald and ruby. He’s asked her to pick one and wear it tonight. This wasn’t part of the bargain. Lilly is the girl who can’t make up her mind. Lilly is the girl who acquiesces. Lilly wants oblivion. But he wants her to be present.

  She nudges at the ribbons with her toe as though they are living creatures liable to rear up and attack if she isn’t vigilant.

  She might freeze before she works them out. She might freeze here like a statue. Before that can happen, she puts on her coat and thrusts the ribbons in her pocket. She’ll destroy them. She’ll walk to the river and throw them in. They’ll sink deep down where no one will ever see them.

  “Fuck you,” she says, quietly and under her breath. She’ll throw the ribbons and keep moving, until she finds someone who demands nothing from her.

  She walks with her arms folded, hands deep into her armp
its. The woollen edges of her coat prickle her throat and her breath rises in steamy clouds around her. She walks with a singular stride, bowling through anyone who gets in her way. If she keeps walking, she won’t feel cold; she won’t freeze like a statue. She won’t hear this buzzing. At the lights, she hammers her thumb against the button over and over, anxious to keep moving. Block after block of squealing schoolkids and mothers with prams and beggars wanting change. She leaves them all behind.

  He never fucks her. The first few times, he barely touches her. He takes her to a near-empty room, like an abandoned garage with a sink and a hot plate and the lingering smell of petroleum, a concrete floor and barely lined walls, but still she doesn’t feel cold.

  An old wooden chair sits in the middle of the room—a throne, and she is going to be a queen.

  He orders her to remove her clothes but turns from her while she undresses. As he ties her to the chair, the precision of the knots surprises her. The exactness belies his crumbled appearance. She pulls against the ropes, trying to free herself, pulls until they burn red into her skin, but is glad they hold firm. The buzzing in her mind stills.

  He wraps a cloth around her eyes with expertise, blocking out the light. No red flashes or pinpoints of color, just total true black. Her breathing slows, coming from the depths of her belly.

  His hands hover near her, radiating warmth, but they don’t make contact with her skin. She can smell him, earthy and sour; she can hear the faint shuffle of his steps, but these things are outside her. And even though he doesn’t touch her, even though she doesn’t come, her body slumps in a postorgasmic surrender.

  When he finally releases her, she lies inert, as though her skeleton has softened. The ropes still dangle from her wrists but she can’t move. She’s a marionette with no one to work her strings. The outside world seems harsh and bright and abrasive.

  The next time she sees him, she’s all sinew and tendons. She begs him to take it away, to give her peace. He tethers her and strokes her clean.