Anything for You

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I walked over to one of his chairs and told him to lie on my lap. “Lucky for you, I like to top just as much as you like to bottom. Not that you ever would have thought to ask me about it. Not that you ever would have thought to ask me anything about what I wanted in this relationship. But that’s ancient history; now, on to the present. I want to let you know that while I enjoy topping a man, I don’t enjoy causing him permanent bodily harm, so you can tell me to stop this at any time and I will. Understood?”

  He nodded and I needed no further encouragement. I smacked his ass with the whip, hard. He shrieked and red welts formed almost instantly on his firm, pale buttocks. Soon, Mark’s tears began to moisten my skirt, his fingernails dug deep into my thighs and his breathing became labored, but he did not tell me to stop.

  I was impressed.

  His erection poked at my thigh. I whipped him extra hard when I discovered that, telling him he had no right getting excited before I allowed it.

  “Tell me something,” I asked. “When’s the last time you went to the doctor?”

  “What? I, uh, don’t remember.”

  “Well,” I said, “I think you’re due for a thorough rectal examination, don’t you?” I pulled down his panties and stuck a long finger into his tight little hole.

  He groaned. I pulled my finger out. “I can’t believe you! This is a professional doctor’s exam and here you are, getting excited by it. What kind of sick fuck are you? We’ll have to train you out of that disgusting habit,” I said, as I began whipping him again. “Although I know it’s hard. To tell you the truth, I’m getting a little excited right now myself, Mark. You can’t see me, but I’m fondling my tits and playing with my clit and ooooohhh, I’m getting so excited.”

  “Please,” he said.

  “Please what?” I asked.

  “Please blow me.”

  I smacked his head.

  “I mean, please, Mistress.”

  “Better.”

  I told him to sit on the couch. He winced as his ass touched the cushion. Slowly, I took his silk panties down and blew him, my warm mouth covering his manhood as his hands gently guided my head.

  His eyes rolled back and he moaned. And then, with a quick jerk of his hips, he exploded inside my mouth, unleashing an hour’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration and what felt like almost a gallon of come. His entire body relaxed; he reminded me of a deflated balloon. I played with my clit while he was recovering.

  “So, you want me to fuck you with the candlestick now?” he asked.

  “Maybe later. Right now you can eat me out.”

  He backed away from me like I was made of something radioactive. “Uh, I’m not too good with that.”

  “You mean you don’t like eating pussy.”

  “Well, it’s not that so much. More like I feel I wouldn’t be any good at it. Wouldn’t you rather get fucked by the candlestick, anyway? I mean, that seems like it would be a lot more fun. And then maybe you could, you know, punish me, again.”

  “Listen,” I said, grabbing him by the hair. “You will inhale my cunt or I’m leaving right now.”

  “Ow. Okay, okay.”

  He stared at my cunt for a few moments, as though he’d never seen one. I felt like he was mentally preparing himself for the task, the way David Blaine might before completing one of his death-defying stunts.

  “Here,” I said. “Let me help you.” And then I pushed his face in between my legs.

  He tried to get into the rhythm of going down on me, but he was too slow; for me it was like waiting for the train when I needed to get home yesterday. “You’re right. You’re terrible,” I said. “Look. Why don’t you just pretend it’s a blazing summer’s day and I’m a melting ice-cream cone. Wouldn’t want any of it to drip, now would you?”

  I lay back again and closed my eyes, as his tongue licked at a faster pace. He then got the bright idea of taking my clit between his lips and sucking it deep into his mouth.

  I thought I would pass out.

  He stopped to catch his breath, sighing for a minute, and I groaned as his soft breath tickled my pubic hair.

  It was time.

  “Go on, then,” I said. “Fuck me.”

  Carefully, he removed the long stick from my hole, and then, not so carefully, he plunged it all the way back in. I felt like I was being split in two.

  “Oh, god, Mark. It hurts.”

  “Does it?” he asked. “Well, I can stop. But if I do, I’ll just have to leave you like this—horny and with a huge stick up your cunt for hours.”

  I couldn’t believe him. He was trying to top me. I was so mad I felt like leaving, but my cunt wouldn’t let me.

  “All right,” I said, “but try to be care—uuggh,” I cried, as he pulled it out and shoved it in again. The pain was almost unbearable, but he pushed on my clit firmly with a finger, and that helped take my mind off things.

  “You like that?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, to get more, you’ll have to suffer,” he said, giving me another painful fuck with the candlestick. Now, I was the one who was crying.

  He licked my tears. “There, there, sweet Megan. This will all be over soon.”

  He climbed on top of me and took a breast into his mouth. He began sucking on the nipple, then biting down on it hard. I screamed. I looked down at my pussy and saw that I was gushing profusely.

  That was the moment I became a convert—a convert to the life of the bottom.

  Finally, he took the stick out for good and walked me over to the bathroom. Once we were there, he pushed me up against the sink and shoved his dick in my ass. I screamed as I was being impaled.

  “You fucking bitch,” he said, putting a hand over my mouth. “Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?”

  He reached around my waist to finger my clit. I struggled to stand as waves of pleasure turned my thighs into Jell-O. Another finger pushed into my hole and I felt the first wave of orgasm trying to burst out of me, but then he removed his hand.

  “Now lie down,” he ordered.

  I tried to reach down to touch myself, but he held my wrists behind my back.

  “Lie down,” he repeated.

  I stretched out on the pink shag carpet and he lay by my side. He stuck a finger in my hole, and then another, and then another, and soon I realized I was about to be fisted. My cunt swallowed his hand like it was starving.

  “Now you’ll come,” he said, as he pressed deeply into my hole and thumbed my clit. And he was right; I came—sobbing, screaming, my whole body quaking.

  “Meg?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Maybe you could—”

  “No, Mark. I can’t. I mean, this was fun and all but I can’t go out with you again. I can’t forgive you for cheating on me.”

  “I know. That’s not what I was going to say. What I was going to suggest is you come over next Monday and I’ll leave that candlestick out on the table for you.”

  “Well, I—I—I’d have to think about that.” Actually, I knew my answer. But Let him suffer, I thought. Let him suffer.

  INTERVIEW

  Talon Rihai and Salome Wilde

  No, don’t laugh. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s what Mistress wants that gives me what I want, you know? It’s not that asking my permission for this interview is silly—I could say no, I suppose, if I wanted to. I’d need to have a damn good reason and be ready for Mistress to punish me or worse. Mistress invited you into her home to conduct this interview and that’s all I need to know. Well, that and my being thrilled with this opportunity to share just how amazing it is to be hers.

  So, your first question is “Why Mei?” That’s easy. Or, anyway, I’m totally clear on the answer. Mei is my Mistress because she claimed that role in my life. She claimed it before I even knew I wanted a Mistress. Well, maybe that’s not quite right. I knew I wanted something, or someone, to help me find myself. Do you know what I mean? Not a shrink or anything like that. Not a p
arent or a wife. Okay, I guess it’s not as simple as I thought. Let me put it this way: I’m a big, strong guy, the independent type, a loner. Everyone assumes guys like me are strong in personality, too. Dominant, macho, like that. But I’m not. I can take care of myself, sure, and I do. Dropped out of school and left home and found a job with a roofing company and stayed with it until I had a real solid career going, could afford even to buy my own house and feel proud of myself. But with people? I’m shy, I guess. Don’t like to make the first move. Don’t really have friends other than the guys I work with. Never dated much.

  Mistress—Mei—is the one who approached me, but you could guess that. Saw me on the roof next door to her place and yelled something up to me I couldn’t quite hear. I thought it must be important, so I made the “one minute” sign, finished what I was doing and came down. Turns out she was just saying it was a nice day…and that I looked good in a tank top. I just stood there. That floored me. I’m not ugly, I don’t think, but I don’t get a lot of compliments. Or if I get them, I don’t recognize them as compliments. That’s what Mistress thinks. Anyhow, I was all sweaty and must’ve been blushing right up to my eyebrows. She told me to come into her house. The other guys were working and either didn’t notice or pretended not to, so I went in. There was something in how she said it. Not inviting: telling. And something in me responded. Hard. She was half my size, older than me, pretty. Not all made-up or being seductive like bad porn. She was dressed real casual. But she had this way about her. Like she knew what I needed, and if I only went into her house and did what she said, I’d find it. Find happiness. Sounds stupid when I say it like that. But it’s true. She knew—she knows. From that first day, she was my Mistress.

  Ah, my turn, is it? Such a sweet tribute from my boy. I don’t think I’ve heard Harry say so much since the first day we met. And I would love to tell you about that day. I was between play-toys at the time, my last one having been a particularly high-spirited, ginger-haired young lady. Firm body, firm breasts and ass and beautiful when she submitted. I do like a spirited sub. But there’s spirited and there’s insubordinate, and so we’d parted company. For days afterward, I’d been working from home, listening to the banging going on next door. And one roofer in particular kept catching my eye—especially when I kept peeking out the windows at him. He was easily bigger and broader than the others and focused entirely on what he was doing at the time. Even from a distance, I could see that. His musculature was solid and though he looked clumsy, he wasn’t. I watched him for two days before I called out to him. Testing him. I watched the way he moved to my voice, and the way his eyes followed me. When the door closed behind him, before I’d even touched him, I knew I’d never let him go. From that day on, Harry belonged to me.

  I love sleeping at the foot of Mistress’s bed. I think that answers the question, doesn’t it? It’s not about Mistress herself, I guess, but it says more than “I love how she dominates me,” right? It’s not that she wouldn’t let me sleep next to her, and it’s not like we never ever do that kind of traditional couple thing. But Mei keeps things separate: the mundane world, and then our world. And sleeping at the foot of her bed really does it for me. I’ve never fit right on beds, and now there’s a reason to it. I’m curled up and not fitting but determined to sleep at her feet, you know? I could talk about how I love when she spanks and paddles me until I cry or how she ties me up and rides my cock and forbids me from coming until after she comes or not at all. And maybe Mistress would think I would name that kind of thing as my favorite thing, but I doubt it. I think she knows how I tick better than anyone else, ever. Better than I know myself, you could say.

  Best of all, I love how Harry has devoted himself, his entire self, to me. To my pleasure. His single-minded focus is one of his best attributes and something my other subs have lacked in the past. Should we do some everyday task, such as shopping, for example, together, Harry fetches and carries and opens doors and serves me unobtrusively—sometimes, I think, without even being aware of what he’s doing. My other subs were devoted, yes, but often my pleasure or displeasure was not the focal point of their lives, not truly. Harry is different. He has found his place, his calling, if you will. He belongs to me in every way. Can you possibly understand the level of utter subservience it takes to give oneself to another completely? Of course, there is sex and play and spankings. But there are also hours spent rubbing my feet, and nights spent sleeping at the foot of my bed. All that and more. I confess I never thought my perfect sub would be such a person. But he is.

  Limits? No. No way. None. There’s nothing I won’t do. And I mean that. It goes deep, really deep. You could say, “Oh, but you wouldn’t let her stab you,” or something. But the truth is, yeah, I would. It’s because I know that no way would she ever really put me in real danger. There’s a big difference between dominance and just treating someone like crap, you know? It sounds stupid to say it like that, but I’ve seen stuff, mostly online, about how some guy tells his sub to shove a hairbrush up her ass or heat up a spoon on the stove and burn herself—and she does it. Like that proves devotion. Okay, so maybe, in a way, it does. But what does it prove about the Dom? Mistress told me to think about that, and I do. Funny how the more I give myself over to her, the more I think about things. I thought it would be the opposite: total submission, total passiveness. But it’s not like that, not at all. Not just in doing things for her—like washing dishes or the more fun stuff like bathing her—that stuff is active, obviously. But in how I see myself, our relationship, the dynamics of dominance and submission, Mistress would say. The dynamics are more complicated and more simple than I thought. And more fulfilling than I dreamed.

  Limits? Of course I have limits. Far too many Dominants out there don’t seem to know the difference between dominance and bullying. Could I make him do anything I said, anything I wished? Of course I could. And I expect him to obey me. But I have to set limits for myself, and by doing so, of course set limits for my boy. After all, it isn’t my job to just boss him around, don’t you see? He has given himself to me, entirely. And that makes it my responsibility to take care of him, in all ways. To make sure he’s safe and happy. How could he please me if he were not happy in my service? How could he bend over to take my hand up his ass if he did not feel entirely safe in my ability to look after his best interests? Knowing how to be a good Dom means understanding what it means to be a good sub. Of course I push his limits. That pleases us both. But I would never allow harm to come to him, by my hand, by his or by someone else’s.

  Ah yes, most memorable moment. Well, I knew that question was coming, so I’ve been thinking about it all along. Thinking about how other people might answer it. I don’t want to not answer it; I’m not avoiding it. It’s more like…can you pick one slap or one kiss or one word and say it was the best or most important between two people, between a Mistress and her boy? It feels disloyal, somehow. Or like it’s reducing everything down to one thing and what we are, what I am for Mistress and what she is for me—it just can’t be boiled down like that. It was hard enough to just say one thing I really love about her, about us. But anyhow, I knew this was coming, so I’ll try. And I have a feeling this time that Mistress will pick the same moment. It involves me crying, okay, so first let’s just get that right out there because it’s such a stereotype, such a cliché, isn’t it? The big burly dude crying at his Mistress’s feet. And yeah, from the outside, that’s what it was. That’s what my most memorable “moment” is. But that’s not what it really is, what it means to Mistress and me. The crying is part of what brought me there, but Mistress brought me to the crying. Can Mistress tell that part? Please, Mistress?

  With my boy asking so nicely, I’m inclined to indulge him. It is always fascinating what brings a person to any sort of insightful moment, and while I can often predict what will touch off a sub’s reactions, sometimes I am delightfully surprised.

  It began simply enough: Harry worshipping my body at my bidding. He use
d to keep his hair quite short, for his work, but I made him grow it out so that I would have something to grip when I needed to guide his head. Also, because I enjoy pulling his hair. I had just allowed him to move up my legs from my toes. Part of what I was doing was building his endurance, his staying power; the other part was entirely for my pleasure. He was hard, so very hard and unable to climax, due in part to the cock-and-ball straps, but also my order. I moved his head slowly up the insides of my thighs, occasionally bringing his face up to taste my wetness, but only a taste before putting his tongue back to work on my thighs. I love to have my boy kneeling between my legs. I recall letting him have another taste and he took more than he had been permitted. Instead of jerking his head back and making him look up at me, I watched, as though impassive, as he dove between my legs, his arms bound behind him, his ankles shackled to the spacer and his ass just barely dusted with a faint rose color. I warned him, once, that if he did not stop, I would be very displeased, but I could tell he was too far gone to properly hear and obey me. And that simply would not do. And so I stood up, toppling him over as his hands and legs were bound in such a way that he could not stop his own fall and pinched his bare balls with my bare toes. That got his attention. It took another few moments before realization dawned on his face, in his eyes, and I knew he understood just how severe his transgression was.

  Before he could begin to stammer for forgiveness, I knelt down to gag him, the broad leather gag with the thick but short rubber cock attachment buckled behind his head. I’d had it made just for him. I moved him so he knelt once again, then pushed him down until his chest rested on the floor. And I simply bid him to remain there until I returned, to think about what he had done and why he had done it and what I should do with such an undisciplined slave. Yes, I do call him a slave, when it suits me. But he is also my boy, my precious Harry. “Slave” reminds him, though, that his life, by his choice, is not his to command any longer. And now, my slave can tell you how it is that the incident affected him so as to end up at my feet, crying.