Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  A shiver rippled through her. The inner muscles of her sex clenched and convulsed with greedy approbation.

  “I could go easy on you,” Ted murmured. “I could let your earlier transgression slide. I could be lenient and tell you to stand up and get back to your duties.”

  She knew he could do all of those things. But the idea that he might made her want to scream for him not to show leniency.

  She was aroused.

  Exposed.

  And stretched across his desk.

  Her desire to suffer his punishment bordered on desperation. Trembling against the desk, she wondered if there was any way she dared to make him know how badly she wanted to suffer his discipline.

  “But I never show leniency,” Ted muttered.

  Kay released a soft sigh of gratitude.

  And then felt his first glorious strike.

  Her buttocks were held high. The weight of the desk supported her stomach. And she was pushed against it as his hand slapped hard against her rear. The sting of pain was sudden, sharp and blissfully sweet. She snatched a breath, savoring the bright warmth of where his hand had landed. And then he was slapping another blow against her backside. The sound was crisp. Deafening. The heat was enormous. And when she cried out in response, her reactions had nothing to do with pain or discomfort. Her moan came from the growing swell of euphoria that threatened to tear through her loins.

  “You understand this punishment is necessary, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  She spat the words between clenched teeth. If she opened her mouth fully Kay knew she was going to shriek. His hand repeatedly slapped hard against her backside. The sting of warmth quickly inspired a volcanic heat. Her buttocks reddened beneath the blows and her sex smoldered with growing need.

  In the guileless attempts she had made to spank herself, Kay had never known such an extreme reaction. When she had secretly imagined Ted administering this style of punishment, she had always known he would be masterful. But she had never thought he could be this commanding.

  “You understand I need to inflict discipline to ensure the smooth running of the theater, don’t you?”

  She paused before answering, knowing he was about slap another crisp blow against her sex. She could picture the lips of her pussy: wet and gaping for him. She could imagine the pale pink skin was flushed to a glistening fuchsia with the force of her arousal. The cheeks of her bottom would be blushing and swollen. And she knew that her body had never been so humiliatingly exposed to any man ever before. When the slap landed, she stiffened and again resisted the urge to release her orgasm.

  “Yes, Sir,” she gasped. “I understand.”

  She continued to clench her teeth together as Ted delivered two more blows. He paused from the punishment and drew a deep breath.

  “Do you also understand that this is exciting me?”

  She glanced behind herself and moaned.

  The front panel of his immaculate pants was distorted by a large bulge. The knowledge that she had fueled his arousal, and that she was in the perfect position to take advantage of his excitement, made the inner muscles of her sex convulse with a fresh and greedy need.

  She reached out awkwardly for him.

  His zipper came down in an instant.

  The clean, throbbing length of his erection pushed out from the gaping mouth of the fly. Not bothering to consider whether the action might meet with his approval or not, Kay encircled his shaft with one hand and drew him close to the heated slit of her pussy.

  Ted gripped her waist and pushed his shaft inside.

  They groaned together.

  Kay didn’t know how she had resisted her climax for so long. But when Ted’s length plunged into her, she released the howl of satisfaction that her body had needed. As he pushed himself in as deep as he could, the coarse weave of his pants scratched her sore buttocks.

  But that reminder of her discomfort only added to her thrill.

  Thrusting her backside to meet him, determined to devour as much of his length as her sex could accept, Kay rode herself up and down him as her body was buffeted by one orgasm after another.

  Ted finally pulled himself from her.

  His shaft had erupted with a forceful thrust that left her slick with his ejaculate. Delicately, almost tenderly, he helped her from the desk and told her that her punishment for the evening was now concluded.

  Kay tried to compose herself as she stood on trembling legs.

  She felt used, disheveled and deliciously satisfied. Studying him from beneath lowered lids, she glanced at the desk. “May I have my panties back?”

  Ted shook his head. “I’ll keep them here.”

  “But…”

  The slick fluid of his semen still filled her. She was breathless from satisfaction and already eager to suffer his discipline again. But she could see he would not tolerate insubordination. The tone of his voice suggested a repeated request would meet with a flat and uncompromising refusal. Nevertheless, she continued to try and think of a way to retrieve the panties.

  “But…”

  “But?” he repeated.

  His tone was half-mocking. His eyes glinted mischievously. Kay wanted to tell him that she needed the panties, and that they would protect her uniform skirt when his seed eventually began to leak from her.

  Ted grinned as though he had read her thoughts. Tucking his spent length back into his pants, instantaneously resuming an air of perfectly groomed authority, he said, “If anyone asks about the wet stain on your skirt, just tell them you accidentally sat on some ice cream.”

  22:45

  In the changing room, getting ready to step out of her uniform and get back into her regular clothes, Kay realized Jane was standing behind her. She turned and smiled at her fellow usherette. “I haven’t had a chance to say hi to you this evening.”

  “It’s been a hectic night, hasn’t it?” Jane said, rolling her eyes. “Ted wasn’t happy about me being late again,” she explained. She looked set to say more and then pointed at Kay’s backside. “You’ve got something on your skirt.”

  “Where?” Kay glanced back over her shoulder, trying to see where Jane was pointing. “On my bum?”

  “Yes. A big white splotch.”

  Kay turned her face away so Jane couldn’t see her knowing smile or the satisfied blush on her cheeks. “Of course. Now I remember. I think I was sitting on ice cream.”

  Jane laughed. “Isn’t that a coincidence?” She turned her back and showed the rear of her skirt to Kay. A spreading white stain flourished from the center of the back panel. “Can you see?” Jane giggled. “Exactly the same thing’s happened to me. I think I was sitting on some just before the intermission.”

  Kay could see.

  She grinned.

  It didn’t trouble her that Ted administered his punishment to every member of his staff. It only made her adamant that tomorrow evening, she would spend a very long time cleaning the auditorium’s seats. And she would do that every night from now on, regardless of how angry it might make Ted.

  UNDER HIS HAND, I BLOSSOM

  Nikki Magennis

  My room is as silent as a theater before the play starts. Sun slants through the tall windows, sliced into stripes by the blinds, and falls on the pale polished floors. Dust motes dance in the lit spots. I’ve furnished it in exactly the style I prefer—white walls, blue and white sheets on the bed, dark stained furniture, like a Moroccan hotel. It’s my sanctuary—everything arranged according to my wishes, nothing out of place. Which makes the man standing by the door all the more disturbing.

  He’s come straight from the office. Still in his shirt and belted trousers, with the thick watch on his wrist and the scent of work about him. Ink and telephones and signatures—he’s filled with the rushing importance of his day.

  I am curled on the counterpane in my bathrobe.

  I wait as he circles, unclipping cuff links, rolling up his sleeves to show me those startlingly tanned arms,
his burnished skin and the rough hair that is so animal-like where it crawls from underneath his cotton shirt.

  I have my ankles on display, and a triangle of very pale flesh at my throat. My eyes are wide open and my mouth is a rocking bowl of a smile. My breasts are covered and I am suitably modest. No cleavage, none of the obvious seduction equipment. Lace and frills and stockings show too much artifice, and I must be a blank canvas for him to write on. I know the game and how we play it. We worked out the script months before we ever actually did anything. Every scene reminds me of our long courtship, our dangerous conversations.

  “So you’re into games?”

  “Depends who’s playing.”

  “What kind of games?”

  “Just one.”

  “Will I like it?”

  “We’ll see.”

  In silence, I lie swaddled in white like a pasha. Under the bathrobe, I’m pink and damp from the shower. Smelling of rose geranium, shaved slick and smooth. Sodden with cream. This is the beginning. I must not rush. I play innocent, lying here, stretched out like a sacrifice on the flat, open altar of the bed.

  He throws a look my way; a narrow look. Those eyes that judge and consider settle on me. I squirm under the weight of his gaze, wanting to unfurl like a flower hit by the sun. His mouth is a carved arabesque. He doesn’t smile, his lips don’t even twitch. I am placid. I let him imagine.

  He approaches, and I look up to him standing over me with his hands in his pockets. He’s close enough to reach out and pluck what he wishes. If I let the robe fall open, he would see the tender parts of me—breast, throat, belly, inner thighs. The platter that is my sex arranged so perfectly for him, pink lipped and plump and ready for his touch. I stay wrapped. I’m aching to be touched, but I’ve learned patience since I first met him. He taught me my lessons well. I remember them word for word:

  “You can’t rush into something like this.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “But you don’t know me. You don’t know if you can trust me yet.”

  “So when will we start?”

  “When you stop asking questions.”

  With his movements so slow he must be thinking of something else, he unbuckles his belt. I watch and it stirs deep-seated memories.

  His belt is how I first knew, the clue that gave away the secret.

  The first afternoon we fucked it was full-blooded vanilla sex, merry and gasping. Afterward we lay in a mess of stripped and crumpled clothes, buttons and zips digging into my skin and leaving red indentations. He pulled the belt from under me and laid it across the back of my thighs, stretched it tight so that I was pinned. There was a long, voluptuous moment as he regarded my ass, trapped and exposed. And I knew. I realized that he would hold me how I needed to be held; so tight I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. That’s when the thought bloomed dark and beautiful—I’ve found the one. A man tender enough for pain.

  Today, as he pulls the belt smoothly through the loops in his trousers, it’s like our history is strung out along it, in every notch. The dark leather menace of it, the long tail that curls out and stretches in his hands. The forked tongue that promises to sting me.

  I waited for months for that promise to become a reality. Back in the early days, he would tell me that I wasn’t ready, even when I begged.

  “I’ve played with other men before you, you know.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They…didn’t work out.”

  “Too rough, I bet.”

  “Rough in the wrong places. They couldn’t stick to the rules.”

  “Well, sugar, I only have one rule.”

  “Which is?”

  “Trust me.”

  I know what he wants, but I wait for his signal. He never talks. The air is heavy with unspoken words. I used to wish for him to give me instructions, bitch, say yes, say no, spread your legs for me. Until I realized that his power lies in his body, not his words. In those strong-boned hands and those quick fingers. His touch is more eloquent than any dirty-mouthed playacting.

  His hands are working now. Untying the knot at my waist, pulling roughly at the straps, undoing me. I am in his hands, and love it. He surveys me, roving over the goods, choosing what he wishes to play with first. When he squeezes my breast, he does it hard, pinching my nipple so it flowers in a burst of pain. I allow myself a sharp intake of breath, but any more—a theatrical moan, a plea—and he will let go. So I bite my lip as he rolls the stinging tip of my breast in his fingers, teasing it to stiffness. He touches me with complete intent, knowing what he wants and taking it.

  Our silence is complicit. We don’t admit that we are playing the game. We never mention it. Since that one summer night, when he asked his final question and I gave my answer, there has been no need.

  As he digs his hand under my hip and rolls me onto my front, I become his pet. Like a lapdog, cowering under threat of punishment. I would curl, I would turn in on myself and have him kiss me open again, but that is not his plan.

  I know what he wants, and I comply. Jut the buttocks, arch the spine. Lock my limbs in position so I am frozen in the pose. Trapped under him, just as he’d promised I would be. Just as he warned me.

  “Remember, there’s no going back.”

  “But what if something goes wrong?”

  “Like I said. Trust me.”

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.”

  “Our game, Yvonne. Our rules.”

  “Your rules.”

  “Exactly.”

  I can’t see him draw back behind me, nor hear him lick his lips. This is trust, this moment of blind anticipation. Still, he doesn’t speak, but when he brings his hand down across my arse and smacks me hard, my skin cries out. Sharp cracks, a rain of blows, a battering of the soft fat curve of my bottom.

  A swarming. The rush of wonderful pain that burns over me, warms the open shell of my sex that faces him. The dark wound, the soft spot. The opening where he sinks his fingers, reaches inside me to reiterate—invades me, overtakes me, plunges into me farther than I can reach with his long, searching fingers and their thick knuckles.

  A knee shoved between my thighs forces me wider open, knocks my legs apart like a dance teacher manipulating his pupil. Plié. Facedown.

  Now the cock, the battering ram of hard flesh that shunts its way inside me, way deep. I am pinioned, impaled; his cock fills my ass, hips, cunt, belly and reaches for my heart. It flutters in me, sinks and swings. His hips are a wall slamming against me; his balls a weapon, a heavy sac that hits my humming lips a moment after he penetrates me.

  His hands? They are how he is working me, clawing at my hips and twisting, mauling the flesh. Working and rubbing at my ass, like he’s kneading dough. With every thrust he shoves my face into the sheets, chafing my hanging breasts against the fabric. I can barely breathe, I am being fucked so thoroughly.

  Like this, on all fours, I’m tossed around like a cork on stormy waters. He drives me into the mattress, holding on to my hips and drilling, pounding, rutting.

  The sharp, clear longing of the time we’re aiming for orgasm reminds me of how close we were, when he finally decided the time was right. After three months of exploration, I had to choose. Submit to him, completely, or say good-bye.

  “It’s nearly time to make up your mind.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes or no.”

  When his cock turns so rigid it almost hurts, I know he’s coming. He releases my hand, and I know what my orders are. My fingers fly to my electric clit, start strumming. This is the crescendo now, the stretch where neither of us is fully human, and the fury of our blood eclipses all thought. The body disappears and becomes only motion, only friction. He gasps, and his voice when I hear it at last is deeper and rawer than ever. A stranger’s sounds fly from his throat, animal sounds.

  He applies pressure to the base of my spine, angling my hips up so that he can bang as deep as his cock will reach. Under his hand, I twist
upward; I open myself to his furious throttle. And as my hand clangs against my clit, percussion, cymbals, and bass drum in my ass with the high sharp keening of the song that he is wringing from my throat. I sing, I cry, I weep.

  In that shattered moment, I ache with love. I finally give in, with the same word I used to seal our pact. It’s the opposite of a safeword, the only word I could ever say to him, the word that blossoms in my mouth:

  “Yes,

  yes,

  yes…”

  MAKE ME

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Something about Gabe brings out the brat in me. The little girl who wears pigtails, sticks out her tongue, and throws tantrums. The grown-up woman who’s been longing her whole life for someone to put her in her place, firmly, forcefully. What I love best about him is that he sees right through me, and has since we first met. He’s never tolerated my teasing or taunting, never wavered in his belief that what I really need is someone to lead so I can follow, even if I pout the whole while. Ultimately, as bratty as I may act, I know deep down that he knows what’s best for me, that’ll he’ll do everything he can to both protect me and push my buttons. I wouldn’t have it any other way, and believe me, I tried for a long while with men far more withholding than Gabe.

  I’ve been a kinky girl ever since I first started getting laid. Fortunately, my first lover was fifteen years older and knew just what to do with his belt—lash it against my tender, nineteen-year-old ass. He made me scream, Bob did, but oh how those screams have echoed in my head for the last decade, even as I’ve learned to scream harder, higher, happier, in my own way. I love screaming and crying when I bottom, but I’ve found that a lot of so-called tops can’t quite go there with me; their inner anxiety about whether I’m really enjoying myself takes over. I can sympathize, up to a point; I’ve spanked a few asses along the way but anything more just doesn’t feel right to me. So until I met Gabe I was looking for someone who’d be my equal, my complement in kink, and I just so happened to find him.