Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Swack! She jumped involuntarily when the ruler hit the back of her thigh. A purple stripe of pain illuminated her head for a moment and faded, though her right thigh still rang with the hurt.

  “What do you say?” the voice intoned.

  “Yes, Sir,” she intoned, and felt her face flush a bit pink. She had forgotten the complex linguistic rules. When she heard “ass,” she had to respond “Sir.” When she heard “pussy,” she had to respond “Master.” When she heard “you,” she had to respond “Boss.” When she heard “whore” or “slut,” she had to respond “Daddy.” And when she heard none of these words, she had to keep quiet.

  It was hard to remember sometimes. It was meant to be hard. It was made to trick her, and trick her it did. It had been created to make her err, and err she did. She often needed correction.

  The secretary lifted her ass, tilted it up and back just a little bit, for that was all she could move. Her panty hose had been cut from stem to stern; they now hung in tatters around her thighs. Her ankles had been bound to the legs of the desk with packing tape and her long legs spread in a wide V on the acrylic desk mat; her hands leaned far forward on the desk’s laminate surface.

  She felt the desk’s center drawer open against her thighs, a cool sliver of metal. She wished she could turn and press her burning thigh against its smooth, chilly surface. She knew she couldn’t, and froze her body, uncomfortably spread and tilted, and felt warm breath on her thigh and heard the metallic rustle of hands rifling through the drawer’s contents.

  “You know,” the voice said, “your pussy is very wet.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, gulping a bit on “Master” as she felt now cold air blowing on her slit. The breath continued, a sibilant stream up and down the length of her pussy, its coldness illuminating exactly how excited she was. The blood in her nipples beat a slow tattoo of pain that seemed to pool, collect, and transform to pleasure in her clit.

  “Such a dirty little whore.” The drawer clanged shut underneath her.

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said, her voice faltering just a tiny bit. She felt something hard pressed against her pudendum, just at the crux of her slit. Something hard and cool pressing there, waiting. She didn’t recognize it, exactly.

  It could be the letter opener, she thought, but then she remembered that she hadn’t put it back in the desk after opening the day’s mail—she remembered seeing it on the desk’s surface as she was getting ready to leave, packing her magazine and her empty lunch containers in her tote bag, preparing to switch into her drive-home sneakers, looking forward to an evening of television and takeout with the boyfriend, a date for which, if her internal clock was at all correct, she was now horribly late.

  She felt the metal implement slowly inch its way down her pussy, pressing with an excruciating, pleasurable precision. Slowly down her slit it moved, down, down, down the center of her cunt, pausing deliciously over her clit, passing it, descending to her cunt’s opening, slipping in for a moment, drifting out, sliding with her wetness across her perineum to her asshole, and back up again. Over and over. The gliding smoothness of the unknown instrument told her how wet she was. The secretary could feel her pleasure burgeon and swell, she could almost smell her orgasm.

  Which she knew, from experience, would be delayed, possibly denied, depending on the capricious malice of her dominator. Almost without her awareness, the secretary arched yet a bit more to meet the touch of the metal, now grown warm with her body heat; she willed it to linger on her clit just a moment more, just a moment, just there, just now.

  “You’re not going to come,” the voice said, low and casual.

  “No, Boss,” she responded with just a hint of sadness. She knew that she wouldn’t be allowed to come, she knew it with every memory of these little experiences, and yet she had hoped, perhaps, that this time it would be different. They had been meeting like this for several months now. It had started when, as a punishment for the secretary’s habitual lateness, she had been summoned into her boss’s office and told that she would be kept late, two minutes for every minute that she had been tardy, and that perhaps this lesson would teach her the meaning and the value of time.

  It had begun with her sitting at her desk, not working, just sitting, under the boss’s watchful eye. A week later, she was late again, and again the punishment and again the sitting, this time with the boss behind her, standing, and this time the boss made her sit especially upright. When the secretary’s head dipped, a ruler struck—thwack!—loudly on the laminate beside her hand.

  The next time, she had to stand, bent over on the desk. After serving her twenty-four minutes exactly, she went to the ladies’ room to relieve herself; to her surprise, her panties were delicately glossed with her own egg white wetness, the soft sea pungency of her desire wafting up to her from between her parted thighs.

  And so it had progressed, slowly. From sitting to standing, from standing bent over to this same bent position, ever more exposed, ever more open, supplicant and willing, a slow and slippery slope of submission that inexorably led her to this moment, the close of a day when she had been not-quite-but-almost willfully late, and her present position: kowtowing on the desk, nipples exposed and tortured, panties down, hose rent, her pussy drippy wet from the touch of an unknown office tool, and riding the knife’s edge between fear and desire for what would happen next.

  “Put your face on the desk, and turn your eyes to the window.” She did as she was told, feeling the cool laminate under her flushed cheek and seeing that outside the large plate glass windows it was dark, the city lit up like a starlet’s mirror.

  “Stay there, slut,” said the voice, behind her and farther away, moving perhaps into the office, perhaps down the corridor of the reception area for her boss and into the open area of the lesser, general office assistants.

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said.

  She heard footsteps approaching her, coming around her side to the front of the desk; she felt a hand slide through her hair. Soft breath on her ear and the whispered words, “So lovely,” and the feel of lips on her ear. A hand snaked under her chest, pulling gently on the painful clip and then removing it, first one and then the other.

  “Your nipples are sore, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “You’d like me to kiss them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, Boss.” She gulped. Fingers tenderly rubbed her nipples, and an exquisite mix of pain and relief coursed through them, down her solar plexus and directly into her clit.

  “I’m not going to.” Her nipples were dropped. Footsteps again, stopping with the boss behind her. She heard it before she felt it: a swooping cut through the air that ended in a flash of pain on her ass. Then a relentlessly gentle tapping of blows covering her behind with dull, brutal kisses. The punctuation of a thwacking blow, a pause and a delicious scrape of the letter opener’s blade. The ruler rained down on her ass, her thighs, and she could feel them glow and heat, the blows causing her to inhale sharply. And then they stopped.

  “Take your hands and spread your asscheeks,” she heard.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, slightly unsure how to respond, and fearing retribution. She did as she was told, taking her round ass in her manicured fingers and spreading it wide, aware that she was exposing the dusky rose of her anus and both shamed and excited that she was doing so.

  “Very nice,” she could hear her boss say, and then heard footsteps that came closer and stopped, obscuring her view of the window. Before her was her boss’s waist, a belt, an expensive shirt tucked into even more expensive slacks. Broad hands holding a golf club. A driver.

  “You can imagine what this is for.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  One hand balanced the club against the desk, directly in front of the secretary’s eyes. Another dipped into a pocket and withdrew a condom. The boss unwrapped the condom and slid it down over the handle of the club, retrieved a rubber band from the caddy on the desk and rubber-banded the con
dom in place, then picked up the club and walked back to the rear of the secretary.

  The secretary felt frozen. She did not want the club in her. It looked long and menacing. Her mind raced with what the boss could do to her insides with it. She might be a tall woman, the secretary thought, but she had a rather small pussy. And her ass…she willed herself to keep her asscheeks spread apart with her hands, but she felt herself tense up, nearly to the point of shaking on the table.

  A hand smoothed her lower back, rubbing gently over the cleft where her lower back swelled into her butt, tenderly cupping her asscheeks, soothing her flesh as a trainer would a trembling mare. The hand dipped between her thighs, slipped between the wet-slick folds of her labia, and knowingly rubbed her clit for a few moments.

  The secretary felt her body start to relax a bit and surrender to the pleasure. The voice behind her was whispering sweet nothings, and while the secretary listened for words that she had to respond to, she heard none, and let them wash over her, causing her to relax.

  “I’m going to fuck your pussy with this club.”

  “Yes, Master,” she responded.

  “You want me to, don’t you, whore?”

  The secretary paused. “Yes, Daddy,” she admitted, as much to her boss as to herself.

  The club entered her pussy, shocking and cold and hard, the boss’s fingers still on her pussy. Her face on the desk, her hands spreading her asscheeks, her weight on her chest, she had a hard time pressing into the hand, but she pressed nonetheless. Despite the ungainliness of her position—or perhaps because of it—despite the fact that anyone from any office tower could see her illuminated in this position—or perhaps because of it—she felt intense pleasure rush through her. The club felt so hard that she clenched her pussy muscles around it. Once more, she could nearly smell her come, her orgasm shimmering before her, a pulsating pleasure cloud, fulsome and ready to release.

  The hand stopped, the club withdrew.

  “I’m going to fuck your ass now.”

  “No, Sir,” she said, starting up, almost before she realized it. “Please. Don’t.”

  She felt a hand on her head, she felt her hair yanked and her neck snapping back. She felt the warm breath of her boss on her cheek; she heard the voice menacing, no longer dispassionate, in her ear.

  “You will get fucked in your ass,” the voice said. “You want it. Tell me you want it, slut.”

  A pause. The secretary’s breath was ragged. “No,” she gasped.

  The hand pulled farther back on her hair, craning her head uncomfortably. Another hand grasped a nipple between a cruel forefinger and thumb and pinched.

  “You will get fucked,” the voice repeated. “You want it. Tell me you want it, you dirty whore.”

  Another pause. A lifetime of pauses and the infinite eternal moment that stretches through the barest flicker of time. The sound of two humans breathing, ragged and taut. A palpable susurration of wills.

  Her body slumped slightly. “Yes, Daddy,” the secretary’s voice was small and acquiescent, “I want you to fuck my ass.”

  She heard herself being called a good girl, she felt herself being pushed into her previous position, she felt her hands being placed onto her ass, her own fingers pressing into her buttcheeks and spreading them.

  She felt something cold splatter on her ass. She felt the slow pressure of the golf club handle entering her ass, pushing slowly, inexorably, blindly past her sphincter. She felt it glide in, in, in her ass. She felt the pain.

  And then she felt the glimmer of pleasure.

  “So beautiful,” her boss said from well behind her, standing, the secretary guessed, far enough away to watch the club penetrate her ass, watch her asshole slowly and, almost against her will, open up for it.

  A hand crept between her thighs, slipping onto her clit and beginning to rub. It went on rubbing as the club entered her ass, paused at its apex and then again as it was almost all the way out of her. The secretary felt the vibrations of the club’s flanged tip pass her G-spot in each movement, the pleasure-laden pain of fullness and the pleasurable near-absence.

  She felt herself very close to coming, and she had to hold on not to do so. The hand on her cunt was rubbing so well and so effectively she felt her body wanting to drop, down, down into orgasm, to collapse upon itself shuddering and inexplicable there on the desk, but she dare not.

  “Would you like to come?” the boss asked. The boss knew—the boss always knew when she wanted to come.

  “Yes, Master,” she moaned, nearly inarticulate, pleasure-pushed.

  “Push down,” said the boss, “push against my finger, push against the club, push down as hard as you can, whore.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she moaned, pushing, willing her pussy to reject the orgasm, to expel it out of her, and as she did, she felt it swell, and grow, like a tsunami, and she gushed, a slick of girl come spurting out of her, drenching the hand of her boss, and pooling on the acrylic carpet protector beneath her.

  She collapsed on the desk and felt the club being gently removed from her ass. She felt the cool blade of a pair of scissors slicing off her stockings and the packing tape binding her legs to the desk. She felt hands grasping her and pulling her up off the desk, holding her, and she felt her boss’s lips on her own.

  “That was a good orgasm, wasn’t it?” her boss asked. The secretary nodded weakly, more vulnerable now than she had been before, splayed and impaled on the desk.

  “Very good,” the boss said and kissed her tenderly. “Now get on your knees and thank me properly.” The secretary dropped to her knees, pushed the thought of her undoubtedly pissed-off waiting boyfriend out of her mind, unzipped her boss’s pants, pulled them down—her panties too—and happily buried her tongue in the other woman’s wet, aching, and swollen pussy.

  “Very good,” the boss said, “very good work….”

  RUNNING WILD

  Shanna Germain

  It had been a bitch of a summer. My girlfriend Tammy dumped me for the town vet, rumor had it that my husband Ken was off shoving his big haying hands up the crotch of Della Jean, the new waitress down at Marcy’s Deli, and my favorite mare was about to foal, so I couldn’t even take a ride to get my rocks off.

  Thank God for the new horse trainer, Bobby Deline. I knew his name, but I didn’t know where he came from—Ken hired him while I was still in bed over Tammy pitching me. (I told Ken it was the flu, and who was he to argue, when Della Jean’s bed seemed open to him?) By the time I finally got my ass back together, Bobby’d been here working the foals for nearly a week.

  I’d dragged my sorry butt out on the porch earlier, taken one look at Bobby, naked but for his blue jeans and boots, lunging the colts in big circles, and gone right back in the house. I’m not much for a whole lot of makeup—strictly natural, down-home country girl that I am—but a little shampoo in my hair and a nice pair of jeans seemed like a necessity about then.

  Now, I leaned on the cut-fence rail and watched him work. He lunged the filly without a lead, making her move in circles around him with just his voice and the leather lunge whip. He handled that whip like he was born to, and I wondered if he was. Seemed to have a real knack for getting that filly to behave without even touching her with the leather. I recognized the filly right off as Mysterious Doll’s newest; she’s got the same high step as her mama, the same blaze of white down the center of her bay face. Not to mention her mama’s stubborn temper, so I was surprised she was obeying him so well, without a single toss of her head. Some men had that power; I’d seen it a few times in my years on the barrel-racing and bronco circuits. I’d had a few even, men who knew how to tame me with nothing more than the threat of a whip. My husband wasn’t one of them. But I figured it wasn’t his fault; we married young, barely old enough to drink, and how are you to know anything about what you need at that age?

  Bobby must have known I was there, leaning on the fence to watch him work. Protocol would say that he should take a moment to welcome t
he woman of the farm, the wife of the man who paid his check, but I didn’t stand much by protocol and I guessed he didn’t either. He sure didn’t take his eyes off the filly, even though I must have willed him to about a hundred times. He concentrated on her like she was the only thing he had to worry about in his life, like all of his being was wrapped up in training her properly.

  Finally, when her hindquarters were lathered up and she was breathing heavy, Bobby flicked the long black whip in front of her nose, and she came to a dead stop. I could see why Ken had hired him—my husband didn’t have a clue what to do with the women in his life, but he sure knew just what his horses needed.

  “Stay,” Bobby said. She let her head drop to the ground and snorted into the dirt. But she stayed.

  Bobby turned his attention away from the filly and started toward me. He looked as good from the front as he did from the back, strong chest muscles and a row of stomach muscles just under the skin. I gave my best smile—I’ve got a good smile, or so I’ve been told—and tilted my head. In my chest, my heart did a lopsided lope.

  But as he got closer, I realized he’d fooled me. He might have turned his body away from the filly, but his attention was still on her. Don’t ask me how I could tell; something in his eyes, in the way he seemed to be listening behind him. He wasn’t the least bit interested in me; he was testing the filly. Would she bolt, now that he didn’t have his eyes on her? Or would she behave for him?

  He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the dark hairs spiraling up his flat belly, the drops of sweat caught there. He still didn’t acknowledge me, but I knew that he was aware of my movements, just as he was aware of the filly’s behind him. I felt like it was me being tested; my palms were sweaty against the fence and I wanted to adjust my jeans, which suddenly felt too tight at the crotch. Instead, I watched his hand, the easy way he held the whip’s length coiled.