Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  As it was still early, there weren’t many patrons at the Mansion when we arrived. Most people seemed to know him and they said hello. He chatted with a few, who either smiled at me or scrutinized me. Not once did he introduce me or mention me, but he kept his hand on the small of my back the whole time.

  Using his hand, as if we were dancing, he directed me through the entire club, showing me all the different rooms, explaining what each was for and drawing my attention to different pieces of equipment and furniture. I was sure juices were dripping down my legs by the time the tour was over. We moved to the bar and he ordered me a bottle of water. “Wait here for a minute. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be right back.”

  One guy in jeans and a black leather vest blatantly stared at me but didn’t come over. A woman in a tight black rubber dress smiled and made her way to the bar. “Hi lovey,” she said. “Is this your first time here? My name’s Hennie, short for Henrietta. You’re a sweet little thing. I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d seen you before.” As she reached over, Chris returned.

  “Hi Hennie, she’s with me.”

  “Sure Chris, no problem. Anyway honey, you get tired of this guy, you just remember Hennie.”

  Chris brought me to another room, with a raised platform and benches lining the walls. He led me to a bench directly across from a man and woman. “George has graciously given me permission to play with his girl. You sit here,” he said. “You’ll get the best view and I’ll be able to watch you as well. George’ll be watching, and other people may come in to watch, too, you never know.” He sat me down in the middle of the bench, which was only about ten feet from the stage. “I’ll play with Becca for about an hour, and then we’ll leave.”

  I straightened my skirt over my thighs and made sure my legs were together. The bench was low, so with my heels on, my knees were higher than my thighs. I took great pains to keep them glued to each other so I wouldn’t be exposed.

  “One last thing,” Chris said. “Stand up.” He lifted the back of my skirt and had me place my bare bottom on the bench. “I want you to keep your legs open the entire time you’re watching.” He put his hands on my knees and moved my legs about a foot apart, putting me on display for George or anyone else who happened to look.

  “But Chris, I…”

  He put a finger to my lips. “Remember our agreement? No one will bother you; they all know you’re with me. Would you rather I took you home instead?”

  I felt on the edge of tears. “No, Chris.”

  “Good girl. The room lights will be turned down and there will be spotlights on the stage. No one will see you, or even know to look, but me. Now remember, even if you get excited and want to squeeze your legs together, don’t. We’ll each be able to gauge your reaction better this way. Don’t move until I come for you. Clear?”

  “Yes, Chris.” I couldn’t believe I was acting like this, but I simply couldn’t react any other way. It was as if I had no choice and had lost the willpower to do anything other than what Chris wished. It was both scary and hot and I felt wetness seeping out of me. God, but I wanted to squeeze my legs closed.

  The room lights went down, the stage lights came up and Becca appeared. He had her take off her clothes and then he fastened her wrists to chains attached to the ceiling, suspending them above shoulder level. He put cuffs on her ankles and had her spread her legs. There were eyebolts in the floor to which he fastened her ankle cuffs.

  He started by stroking her body: long, gentle strokes with his hands. I couldn’t believe she could be there, so naked and open, in public like that, but as she began to react to his touch, that thought went out of my mind and I could only think of the sensations she must be feeling—and the sensations I was feeling.

  Chris began squeezing her breasts, gently at first, but then harder, until she cried out. He squeezed and pulled her nipples, elongating them, and then attached clamps to them. It looked painful and I saw her wince. He attached weights to the clamps. They were heavy enough to pull her nipples downward. He brushed his hands against the weights, setting them swinging. I could see her nipples being pulled from side to side by the clamps as the weights swung. Her breasts were large, larger than mine. I wondered what that would feel like. My nipples weren’t overly sensitive, but they were sensitive.

  As I mused about my nipples, Chris added the same type of clamp and weight arrangement to her pussy lips, but this time the weights looked heavier, stretching them far from her opening. By now, a constant trickle of moisture had begun to leak from my open pussy. It tickled and itched and fought for my attention.

  Chris attached a delicate clip, with a bell on the end, to Becca’s clit. It looked something like a bobby pin. He played with the bell on the end, making it ring. With each flick of his fingers, the girl moaned and I gushed. My God, I felt like I was sitting in a puddle.

  Next, he moved behind her and used a thin cane on her bottom. He seemed to strike her lightly, almost gently, but she winced or moaned with each strike. It made me wonder what that would feel like on my bum. After a while, the bell began to ring and he stopped. He gently stroked her ass, where the cane had just fallen, and whispered something to her. She sighed and closed her eyes and I imagined being in her place and must have closed my eyes, too.

  I heard a smack and my eyes flew open. He stood in front of her again, this time with a riding crop. She hung from her chains, leaning slightly forward. Chris used the crop to smack the sides of each breast, causing the weights to swing in ever-widening arcs, until she released tiny, high-pitched screams. At that point, he used his hands to steady the weights and whispered to her again.

  He used the flat of the crop against her shaved mound, just above where the clip hung. I hadn’t noticed until then that she was shaved. I think her smooth, hairless flesh made the smack from the crop sound louder than it would have otherwise. All I know is that shortly after he began hitting her there, the bell began to ring intermittently, until, after a while, its clear tone rang out continuously. He continued until her hips began to thrash back and forth.

  He put down the crop and cupped the weights and clamps in his hand, and gently removed them, first from one lip, then from the other. Leaving the clit clip on, he gently massaged the area while he spoke to her. When she nodded her head, he stopped the massage and slowly removed the weights from her nipple clamps. With the removal of each weight, her clit bell jingled. My clit felt like it was three times its normal size.

  He whispered something else and she shook her head no. He spoke to her again, and again she shook her head. Using his bare hand, he spanked her ass. Based on the sound his hand made, I’d guess it was pretty hard. Again, he spoke to her and this time she nodded in the affirmative. He gently removed the clamps from her nipples and she screamed. Quickly, he used his hands to massage them and then he used his mouth on them.

  When he took his hands away, I could see the deep impressions the clamps had left in her skin and how red her nipples were. More liquid gushed from my sopping cunt. He removed the clit bell and unfastened her ankles. He helped her bring her feet to a more normal stance and George came over to hold her while Chris undid her wrist cuffs.

  As the room lights came up, I looked around. Somehow, without my noticing, the room had filled with people. They slowly got up and began to file out as Chris came over to me. He put a box down on the bench, leaned down and put his hands on my knees.

  “I see you were not unaffected by the performance,” he said, looking at the puddle of wet I was sitting in. All I could do was moan.

  “Lean your head against my chest,” he whispered, “and grind that nasty fuckin’ cunt into the bench. Do it now. There’s no way you’ll be able to walk out of here otherwise.”

  God help me, I did it. I shoved my naked wet cunt against a hard bench in a room with strangers walking in and out. I rocked against that bench until I shook with release, and what was possibly the most intense sexual itch I’d ever had began to subside. Chris handed me the b
ox of wet wipes. I looked up at him.

  “Clean the bench, too. Then I’ll take you home. It’s still early, you know.”

  LUNCH

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  It’s five to twelve, and I am waiting for his email. Like every other day, it will come on the dot of midday, and like every other day, it will tell me what I can have for lunch and where I can eat it. If I have been good—and I always think I have, because I try so hard to live up to the standards Michael sets for me—I might be allowed to go and sit in the sandwich bar across the road with Jo and Carly and have a mochaccino and a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese icing. If I have been bad, then I will have to sit on my own in my office, picking at a boring green salad. It’s a ritual that has existed between us for almost a year now, and it has come to define the way our relationship has developed since the moment I first realized I like it when he takes control.

  I’ve never explained to anyone why my eating arrangements vary so much from day to day. Mention that my husband is telling me what to do, and people will be expecting me to walk in one morning with bruises on my face and the excuse that I walked into a door. Say that it’s a domination game and they’ll peg us as a couple of sickos into whips and chains and all manner of unspeakable acts. So I make some comment about work piling up and not having the time to leave my desk, or let everyone think I’m on the latest diet from the pages of a glossy magazine. After all, how many of the women here don’t have some strange, self-inflicted restrictions on what they eat, whether that’s cutting out meat and dairy, passing on the carbs, or existing on nothing but coffee, cigarettes and fresh air?

  Still, I shouldn’t have to worry about any of that today—or so I think. And then the mail icon is bouncing insistently at the bottom of my screen, and I know his instructions have arrived. I click on the message and scan his words. Sorry, no date with the girls today. If you’d wanted a treat, you should have remembered to pick up my gray suit from the dry cleaner’s. Guiltily, I slide open the top drawer of my desk. There, tucked into the pages of my diary, is the green receipt from the dry cleaning concession in the tube station precinct. The receipt for the suit I should have collected on the way home from work last night. I carry on reading. Lunch will be ham and salad on granary bread, mayonnaise but no butter, and a bottle of orange juice. You will also buy a banana, the greenest and most unripe in the sandwich bar. You will not eat the banana. Instead, you will use it to pleasure yourself at your desk, and you will think of me while you do so.

  I read the last couple of sentences again. This is something new. Something dangerous. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played with myself at work. In the early days of our relationship, before I had ever begun to explore the submissive side of my personality, Michael used to send me emails describing what he was going to do to me when I got home, emails so filthy and explicit I would rush off to the ladies’ and bring myself to a swift, sharp climax, muffling my moans by jamming the fleshy part of my thumb into my mouth. But in the relative open of my office, where someone could walk in and catch me at it? Of course, I could go home and just tell Michael I’d done as he instructed. But he would know. He always knows when I try to disobey him, however careful or sneaky I try to be. And besides, the thought excites me just as much as it alarms me. It must do: otherwise why would my pussy be pulsing quite so hard against the silky crotch of my underwear?

  Time drags for the next hour. It’s almost impossible to concentrate on my work; all I can think of are Michael’s instructions, but then I’m sure he intended it that way. Finally, it’s one o’clock, and I log off my workstation, grab my handbag and go out to get my lunch.

  It’s unseasonably warm, and people have left their coats and jackets indoors and are basking in the spring sunshine. As I wait to cross the road, I find myself, as always, watching the women who pass by, checking them out to see if they bear some subtle mark of ownership. I can spot the signs by now: the discreet tattoo on the ankle or shoulder blade; the black velvet choker or thick silver band around the neck that is rather more than just a fashionable piece of jewelry.

  There are scenes being played out all around us every day, as seemingly mundane yet undeniably kinky as the one between Michael and me. Sometimes, you can walk into one without even realizing it. We were shopping in town the other week, and he came in the changing rooms with me as I went to try on a dress. As we made our way down the row of cubicles to find one that was vacant, a curtain was suddenly whisked aside by the man who stood outside it. He made some casual enquiry to his wife about the bathing suit she was squeezing into, as though he hadn’t noticed we were there, and all the time he was giving us a perfect view of her body, tits and pussy blatantly on display and the sky blue fabric of the swimsuit bunched around her knees. Her face was blushing red, and yet I saw in her eyes the thrill she was getting from her exposure and humiliation. This was what got the two of them off, and I was sure that when Michael and I had gone, he would pin her up against the cubicle partition and fuck her to a standstill as they teased each other about what they had just done.

  It worked for them, just as my lunchtime ritual works for me, this setting of a so-simple rule that marks the level of trust between Michael and me.

  For once there’s no queue in the sandwich bar, and I give my order to the young man behind the counter, one of the extended family of Turks who own the place. He’s chatty as always, but I’m not listening to a word he’s saying, just nodding when he holds up the pepper mill, muttering a token word of thanks as he hands the sandwich, wrapped in a paper bag, to me. All I’m thinking about is the fruit bowl next to the till, and the slender, underripe banana I reach out and take from it. As I hand over my money to the girl behind the till, I think I see her glance at the banana and smile. Does she realize what I’m going to do with it? Is it really as obvious to everyone as I feel it must be? My cheeks flush scarlet, and then she says something in Turkish and I realize she’s responding to some conversation in the kitchen, nothing to do with me at all. Chastened, I pocket my change without checking it and make my way back to the office on autopilot, the last ordinary act of this extraordinary lunch hour.

  I don’t even unwrap the sandwich; I have no appetite for food, just a nervous fluttering in my stomach and an answering pulse between my legs. The door to my office doesn’t lock, so I jam the wastepaper basket up against it. Anyone tries to come in and I’ll hear the rattle and stop what I’m doing—assuming I’m not too far gone to stop, that is.

  Quickly, inelegantly, I reach up under my skirt and yank down my knickers. I haven’t even touched myself yet and they are already sticky with my juice. Michael’s orders and my own imagination have got me this excited, and I only wish he was here to watch me.

  Making myself as comfortable as I can in my chair, I push my skirt up and spread my legs. I can feel the fabric of the seat cover, rough and prickly against my bare arse. I’m trying to remember every sensation, every detail, because I suspect that when I get home, I will be asked to describe it to my husband, reliving every deliciously dirty moment of what I’m about to do.

  The banana is firm in my hand, and feels cool to the touch as I run the blunt head along the length of my sex. If Michael were here, he would want me to take my time, make sure I’m wet and open enough to take this unorthodox toy, just as he likes it when I spend long, lazy moments fingering my clit and gently teasing my hole, getting it ready for my favorite dildo or the hot length of his cock. But time is the one thing I don’t have, not when the boys in the advertising department could be back, loud and boisterous, from their liquid lunch at any moment. If this was a fantasy that I was spinning for Michael, of course, they would blunder in and catch me, force me to continue as I tried to cover myself up, make me bare my tits for them, maybe even queue up to fuck me in turn over the desk, ramming their cocks into my pussy as the flesh of the banana oozed out around their thrusts. But this is real life—however skewed—and all I have are my own busily working fingers to
stroke me and stretch me open.

  It doesn’t take long before I know I’m ready to be filled. Eyes closed, breathing hard, I press the banana home, feeling the strange, hard ridges sliding against my soft flesh. I know this is the most perverse, most risky, most potentially career-threatening thing I have ever done. And yet I do it gladly. I do it because Michael asks it of me, and when he asks, I answer with my obedience. I do it to show my submission to this man I love so very much.

  My feet are up on the desk now, the wheels of my chair squeaking rhythmically on the floor as I fuck myself with a piece of fruit. There could be a whole crowd watching me at play, and I wouldn’t know. And if I knew, I wouldn’t care. As he wanted, as he instructed, I am thinking of him—and only him—as the steady thrusting of the banana and the delicate pressure of my finger on my clit pushes me over the edge.

  When my head clears and my knees are steady enough that I can stand up without trembling, I wrap the ruined banana in one of the napkins that came with my sandwich. It will still be there at the end of the day, just as the receipt for Michael’s suit will still be in my drawer. I really should remember to collect that dry cleaning, but I’m prepared to suffer the consequences. After all, who knows what I might be having for lunch tomorrow?

  WHEN PENNY MET HARRY

  Stan Kent

  I spotted him the moment he stepped through the doors of the Whip and Rider.

  Eye contact! He’d spotted me even though a Friday night deluge crowded the pub with more than its usual quota of office workers and late-night shoppers; standing alone, forlorn, in the corner, I was an easy target for his well-honed female-in-distress radar. Just by the way he sauntered in, I could tell he was a player with a resilient ego. He no doubt believed all gorgeous females were his ordained bedmates who at one time or another he’d had passionate affairs with. They just needed to be reminded of it. He came straight to me and got close. He had no respect for personal space.