Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  We met when I was looking for a personal trainer. I’d been going to big, fancy gyms for years, and I knew all the games I could play. I realized early on that most of the trainers had good intentions, but their financial motivation allowed them to let me get away with slacking off. They were fearful that if they pushed me too far, I’d stalk off, never to be heard from again, not quite realizing that what I really needed was to be ordered around, in a voice that meant business. With them, I could always flutter my naturally long brown lashes and give a sexy smile to get out of doing the really onerous exercises, the ones that made me grunt, the ones that I knew were good for me but, like wheat germ, I just couldn’t really stomach. I got by like that for a long time, never truly pushing myself. I looked good, but not as good as I could look, and after I’d escaped from the gym, the high from getting away with doing very little soon wore off. I wanted someone to really kick my ass. Just the thought had my blood racing, as I walked even faster across the Brooklyn Bridge, imagining a man literally cracking a whip behind me. I knew this would never really happen, but a kinky girl can dream, can’t she?

  But when my latest trainer moved out to California, I started searching for a new one. I found Gabe online and, I have to admit, I was attracted to his body first, before I even read his credentials and philosophy. Those were in keeping with my ideas about fitness, too; he didn’t seem interested in simply pumping out overly muscled men and women, but cared about nutrition and lifelong health as well. I debated what to wear that first day, and settled on a new matching light purple tank top and pants, ones I thought looked good against my skin. I knew that wasn’t really the point, but I wanted to look good. Something told me that Gabe was going to become more than my trainer—at least, if I could help it.

  He scoffed at me when he saw my attire, insisting that next time I find something else to wear. “Pastels are for pussies,” he said, and just hearing him say that second p-word had my own aching. “Remember that, doll,” he said, making the last word sound like an insult of the highest order. Then he put me to work, with barely any chitchat. I wanted to let my mind wander, meandering from his firm chest down to what he was hiding in his pants, but there was no time to do anything but focus. Right away, we were pumping iron, and he didn’t give me an inch. When I started to whine or complain, he got right up in my face. “You’re paying me good money to tell me how to run things? I don’t think so, princess.” Every time he got close to me, my heart beat faster, and I pictured him slamming me against the wall, rigging my hands above my head, showing me how he was going to keep me in line—with his cock. I kept picturing him naked, and lucky for me, that helped me lift even more weight.

  We continued like that in the following weeks, the tension between us mounting, but neither of us acting on it. I got firmer, stronger, tougher, but inside, I was still looking for the man who could break me, who could make me whimper and sob and submit to him completely. The man who’d make me go to my lowest point, grind me to a pulp, then put me back together again, better than I was before. The man who knew what a girl like me needed. I hoped Gabe was that man, but part of the thrill, as maddening as it could be, was waiting for him to make the first move.

  It happened two months later. We were alone late at night at the gym. Nobody ever came in after nine. The window was open but nobody was looking at us. We were alone, and even in the huge gym, that same tension swept over me with every move. I was doing pull-ups, and after eight weeks of practicing with a large red rubber strap around my leg as an aid, this time, it was all about me. Gabe wanted me to learn to do it without assistance. Ten reps. It doesn’t sound like that many, until you try pulling against a metal bar with all your might and barely being able to move. I was smaller than I’d been when I joined his gym, but more muscular, and pulling my own weight up over the bar was hard. I was about to conk out after three attempts. My arms just hung there stubbornly, and when I tried to lift myself, my body seemed to get heavier, gravity fiercer. “Grrr,” I said through gritted teeth, like he’d taught me, but still, I couldn’t pull myself up. I’d inch upward a tiny bit, then drop down, my arms almost useless.

  “You can do it,” he said, his voice low and encouraging, good cop for once. I pulled, feeling the strain all through my arms, gritting my teeth, but just couldn’t make it to the top. My eyes skimmed over the bar, but my chin couldn’t get past it. I dropped down to the wooden box below me and gave him my patented fluttering eyes/sexy pout combo. He responded by reaching out and pinching my lower lip, the one I’d thrust out just that little bit more. His fingers were firm and hard, and I gasped, but I couldn’t deny that my pussy responded just as firmly as if he’d been touching me there. I’d been pinched before, but never there, and I’d had no idea that my lips were that sensitive. He kept his hand there, finally dropping it, only to rake his fingernails down my chin and over my sweaty chest. They were clipped and neat and didn’t hurt, but I felt their scrape nonetheless.

  “You know what, Jen? You know what you need? I think you are just so used to being a spoiled, selfish, entitled brat who’s got every guy she meets wrapped around her little finger that you don’t know what to do when someone really pushes you.” He’d raised his voice, the vibrations as powerful as his tone. He stepped closer so we were only about three inches apart. His fingers tugged my sports bra and thin white T-shirt downward, causing pressure at the back of my neck. “What if I made you do this workout naked, huh? What if I made you come in here every day and strip in the bathroom and walk out totally bare?” His words hung in the air, totally surreal but nonetheless making me completely, utterly horny. As if by instinct, I glanced to my right, looking out the window and down on Third Avenue. Both of us knew that if I were naked, anyone looking up would see me. He dropped his hand.

  “Actually, it’s not a question. It’s an order. Take off those sweaty clothes. Maybe it’ll make it easier to lift yourself up.” His eyes surveyed every inch of my body, catching my hard nipples beneath the layers, the outline of my pussy under my tight black workout pants. I wondered if he could tell how completely wet I was.

  I wanted to plead for him to change his mind. And, of course, I could’ve stalked off and walked out, and I didn’t think he’d have stopped me. But even more than I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. I wanted to make him proud—and horny. But I didn’t want to give in too easily; I got the feeling he liked that I wasn’t a pushover. Instead of begging, I turned defiant. “Make me,” I said, the brat in me coming out full force.

  “Make you? Make you? You know, Jen, I’ve suspected just what kind of dirty girl you were since you first walked in here, but now I know for sure. You can damn well bet I’m gonna make you.” And with that, he lifted me down from the box, then stripped off my workout pants and my soaked panties in one move. I had to jump out of the way lest he make me trip. “That’s better already,” he said as he looked down at my bare legs and the dark fuzz covering my pussy. If I’d known I was about to be naked in front of him, I’d have gotten waxed. Then his hand went up my shirt and pinched one nipple through the fabric of the bra. I gasped, but it was clearly a gasp of pleasure. He kept going, his fingers working me just like they’d held my lip, strong and steady. We were so close his leg was touching mine. “You can stop me at any time,” he grunted into my ear as he twisted my nipple. “Say ‘fire’ and I’ll stop touching you. But until I hear that, I’m not gonna stop.”

  He looked deep into my eyes and that’s exactly what I saw there—fire. Heat. Lust. He wanted me, but he wanted to make me bend first. He just kept pinching me all over—my nipple, my lip, the inside of my arm. Then lower. My stomach, that thin layer of flesh I’d been trying to shed. Then my hip, and then my clit. It was slippery but he managed to grasp on to it. I gasped but didn’t say a word, the warmth spreading throughout my body. I wanted him to fuck me, but I wasn’t gonna beg.

  “Are you ready yet, Jen? Has this been motivation enough? Because I’m gonna make you do it before you leave here to
night, no matter what. And if you wait until after I fuck you, it’s just gonna be all the more difficult. You might want to conserve your strength.” While he was speaking, his fingers had moved from my clit down to my wetness, tracing it, navigating along my lips, testing me further. I wanted to give in, but I couldn’t just yet.

  Then he lifted me up and put me back on the box. “Put your hands on the bar and hang there. I’ll be right back,” he said, and, like a robot, I did it. Unlike a robot, I was soaking wet, my heart pounding, my mouth dry yet hungry. I was torn between my natural brattiness and the spell he’d cast on me. When he returned, he had an evil grin on his face, and a purple butt plug and bottle of lube in his hands. “I think I was too easy on you before. Now I want you to do it with this up your ass. That’ll make it more interesting, don’t you think?” I nodded, and let him wrap his arms around my waist and lead me to the ground.

  “Get on your hands and knees. Like a dog,” he said, adding the last bit because by then he could see how every time he slighted me, I got off on it. He didn’t tell me to spread my legs, he just pressed them apart until my ass was way up in the air, my legs spread wide, the breeze greeting my pussy. Then he poured the lube directly between my cheeks. I felt the cool liquid sink between them, working its way into my puckered hole. “That’s it, Jen,” he said in the voice he uses to encourage me when he knows I’m almost there with my exercises. “I have a feeling you’ll like this.” Then he was pushing the head of the plug inside me. I let my head drop and my ass rise to meet the toy, and while I wiggled, he pressed, until it was snugly between my cheeks. Then he gave them each one firm, strong slap.

  “Yeah,” I whispered into the air.

  “No more spanking until you do what I want you to,” he said. “You’re paying me, remember?” When I realized that it was true, I was indeed paying him—not to fuck me, exactly, but we were still technically on the clock—a fresh wave of humiliation, oh-so-arousing humiliation, swept over me. It was one thing to want a man to dominate me, but to pay him for the privilege? I was truly perverted, and the thought made me practically come on the spot.

  And that’s the thing. In the end, he made me, but really, I made myself. I hoisted my horny, sweaty, naked body up over that pole, again and again, energized not by rage or humiliation but pure lust. The butt plug only egged me on, not moving, just sitting there, reminding me that my ass was his in every way. My ass, my arms, my back, my legs, and most of all, my mind, my soul, were his for the taking. Because he’d earned it. Because he’d made me want to fight, want to snarl, want to be the bratty girl who gets what’s coming to her. And as I raised and lowered myself, I felt a different kind of fire burning through me, one that somehow connected my arms and back to my pussy, giving me strength I didn’t even know I had. By then, I almost wanted someone to be watching, wanted someone to see just what I could do, what Gabe could get me to do. What we were about to do together. By then I was in my own zone, and went far beyond the ten reps he’d initially demanded. When I finally stepped back down, my body shaking from exertion, I felt like I was in a trance.

  I was no longer his brat or his sub or his underling; I was an equal partner in this tug-of-war we were just about to start. I was naked and he was clothed, but suddenly, that didn’t matter. “You’re something else, you know that, Jen?” he said, chuck-ling as I stood there, waiting for him to direct me. “I think we’re going to make that butt plug a permanent part of our workouts. But I don’t want to train you here anymore. It’s just not right. We’re moving our sessions to the bedroom. At least, after tonight, we are. Right now I think you need to get back on your knees.” I did, immediately, jumping down off the box and returning to my kneeling position. He gave me his cock to taste, and I slowly licked around the tip, but only for a moment, before he joined me on the floor. He guided his fingers between my legs, finding me totally wet. I leaned my head against his shoulder, most of my energy gone but my arousal through the roof, the plug still in place, growing increasingly insistent that I respond to its touch. My pussy clenched, quickly followed by my back door, as Gabe sank his fingers deep inside me.

  “Come, Jen, come on my hand, give it to me,” he said.

  “Make me,” I said, stifling a giggle as his strokes increased in urgency. “Make me.” And just like the first time I’d uttered those two words, that’s exactly what he did.

  BODY ELECTRIC

  Lisabet Sarai

  For GCS, on his birthday

  He didn’t look like an engineer. He smiled and postured and gestured expansively, as if reciting poetry or making a speech. Half a dozen females surrounded him, hanging on his every word. Periodically, the little knot of women (which actually included crusty old Margaret Evans) would burst into self-conscious laughter. Dean Evans would look around nervously, then return her attentive gaze to the towering shaggy-haired orator in their midst, as if he were a combination of Tom Cruise and Mahatma Gandhi.

  A politician, or a TV celebrity, or even the leader of a cult: I could readily believe that he was any of these as I watched him fascinate his listeners. But an assistant professor from the department of electrical engineering? Highly implausible, but true nevertheless. Earlier in the evening, my colleague Loren had given me a full briefing. Dr. Ryan Moresby was apparently a brilliant teacher and talented inventor, and a rising star in his department. In addition, Loren emphasized, he was single, which was surprising considering his obvious talent in attracting the opposite sex. Of course, why would someone with that kind of charisma want to settle down?

  I wondered idly how many of the women in that little circle of his he had bedded, then gave myself a mental slap on the hand. I had to stop thinking like that! Ever since I completed my dissertation, I had found myself speculating on other people’s secret lives and desires. My research on women’s erotic literature was, of course, impeccably scholarly, serious and restrained, carefully purged of any salacious elements. My sources, though, were anything but. Their enduring influence on my thoughts was only too clear.

  Richard had been so embarrassed by my research he could hardly bear to mention it. I used to tease him when we were in bed together, threatening to tell him some of the stories I had been reading and writing about during the day. He’d stop my voice with a desperate kiss. For Richard, a scholar in the field of medieval history, sex was something you did, not something you talked about. It was a function of the body, enjoyable, fulfilling, necessary, but ultimately subordinate to the life of the mind.

  These days, though, my mind was continually being hauled back to the topic of sex. Being apart from Richard was a major factor, of course. It’s a long way from Gainesville to Manitoba. He phoned me at least once a week, but that was hardly satisfying. Richard would find the notion of phone sex appalling. I loved Richard, and had missed him terribly during these first months at my new job, but I had to admit he was annoyingly prudish.

  At this point, I sometimes wished I’d chosen another thesis topic. I was teaching Feminist Thought and Culture as well as the freshman composition course, but I knew the nickname the students had bestowed on me.

  “You! Come over here.” I started, my meditations interrupted by a rich, unfamiliar voice. The female crowd around Moresby had dispersed, and sure enough, he was beckoning to me.

  Rude, I thought, but I obeyed him anyway.

  “I don’t know you, do I?” He smiled down at me. My brief irritation at his lack of manners melted away in the heat of that smile.

  “I’m Colette D’Arpignay. I just joined the Department of Languages and Literature this semester.”

  “Oh, right! The Sex Professor!”

  I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. “Oh dear! I didn’t realize that had spread outside my own department.”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t hurt to have a bit of a racy reputation. Makes you more interesting.” He scanned my body, not even trying to disguise his lascivious interest. “The question is, do you deserve it?”

  My earlobes bu
rned. Despite the air conditioning, sweat trickled down between my breasts. I was acutely aware of my tightened nipples pressing against the purple jersey of my top. I couldn’t look at him.

  He leaned over like a conspirator and delicately flicked one terribly obvious bud with his forefinger. A bolt of lightning sizzled through me and ignited a sudden blaze between my thighs.

  “I’m willing to bet that you do deserve it,” he murmured, close to my ear.

  I pulled back, stumbling on my high heels, trying to regain control. “Please, Dr. Moresby. Remember where we are.” He did not look in the least repentant. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Oh?” He looked at me skeptically, eyebrows raised. “I’m not sure I believe that. Anyway, call me Ryan.” He dug in his pocket and produced a slightly crumpled business card. “Here’s my card.”

  I took it, reluctantly, somehow unable to refuse it.

  “And may I have yours, Colette?” His eyes seized mine and wouldn’t let me look away. Later I couldn’t remember their color—only their intensity.

  It seemed that I was moving in dreamlike slow motion as I extracted a card from my purse and handed it to him. He nodded. “Good. It’s got both your office and your cell. We’ll talk soon.”

  Dean Evans appeared, with a busty, fortysomething blonde in tow. “Excuse me for interrupting, Ryan, but I must introduce you to Larissa Carter, from Biology. She just came to us from UC San Francisco.”

  “Dr. Carter.” He took her hand and half-bowed. “I’m delighted to meet you.” She looked as charmed as everyone else by him. I wondered if he’d tweak her nipples, too.