Anything for You

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  In the big picture of life, or even in our relationship overall, I’m thinking the actual act of disobedience might seem small. I wanted Mistress to describe it because she gets the context across. Even now, having heard her explain it, I could cry, but I can’t imagine anyone else who isn’t into this really getting why this is the moment I picked for us. For one, I’m not someone who rebels for the sake of rebellion. But there was definitely what Mistress calls a “transgression.” I wanted more, and I just took it. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about that, especially with that word, “transgression.” That formal way with language Mistress has that just wraps me up and carries me away, like everything she does. I deserved punishment, and I knew it, and it just killed me that I’d disappointed her. I work really hard never to disappoint, let alone disobey. I felt utterly destroyed when she walked away. Can you understand that?

  But it was also about how Mistress punished me then. I think people who aren’t in this kind of relationship think punishment is all about spanking or beating—but that’s reward, or it’s play, not punishment. Refusal, denial: that’s how Mistress punishes me. So, even though I was bound and gagged and that might totally turn me on like crazy another time, this time it was about isolating me, leaving me there in bondage but not serving like I wanted to, with my mouth full but not full of Mistress. It forced me to really feel what it meant to do wrong, to transgress, to fail someone I want to please with every fiber of my being. And I was uncomfortable as hell and crying my eyes out and this sense of shame just washed over me, through me, like a huge wave that took me under. Something inside just broke, and I felt like there was nothing left, no ego to protect, no performance to give. I was at absolute zero, but the weird thing was that it wasn’t like hopeless depression. It was overwhelming shame that made me even more resolved to devote myself fully to Mistress, even more fully than I had. She had given me the gift of hitting bottom, if that makes sense, and I felt completely emptied and ready to be filled by serving Mei, my one true, perfect Mistress. I stopped my sobbing, quieted my mind and just waited for Mistress to return, hoping she would give me another chance, and determined to be everything and anything she expected of me, from that moment on.

  Advice for the curious, eh? I suppose I could give you a rundown of safety and the general rules of the lifestyle, but you can find that anywhere. My advice to those who would be Doms is short and sweet: be a sub first. Even if, like me, you don’t have a submissive cell in your body, be a sub first. I didn’t fall into this lifestyle by accident or gradually; it was something I craved. And so I joined in the local and online BDSM community and took part as a top in my share of floggings and public humiliations. I enjoyed it, I was good at it, but something was missing. And it came to me only after I noticed differences within couples, in pairs or groups. The difference was in the sub, but the sub follows the Dom. So I had to ask what was different about the Dom. I thought maybe it wasn’t something that could be taught. But I wasn’t satisfied with that dead-end answer. After some soul searching, driven by a big dose of hunger for what I was missing, I decided to sub. Not casually and not publicly and not with just anyone. I went to a man who is still one of my best friends. Harry knows him well: Master Liam. But he didn’t know that I served as Liam’s submissive…until now.

  I thought it would take a week tops for me to understand what I needed. What actually happened was that it took me a week just to realize I was focusing on the wrong things. I trusted Liam and felt he respected me, otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did, which was to ask him for one hour per day to not be his sub so I could ask questions about what he was doing and why; so I could be a better Dom. He refused me. And it took that rejection and a lot longer than a week for me to understand the significance of my request and his response. Long story short, I was his sub not for a week but for six months. It wasn’t easy. But from the moment I agreed to his terms, from the moment I stopped thinking about how to get what I wanted and instead took what he gave—and demanded—I began to learn, really learn. I felt him question and test me, build me up and tear me down, over and over, and I realized how fully and deeply he owned his power. And that was what I had been missing and have been building within myself and in my relationships ever since. Harry is my perfect submissive because he is an achievement, the product of all my learning and growing. And I don’t think I would be who I am or he would be who he is to me if I hadn’t ever learned to sub.

  I know you want an answer about our future to wrap up the interview, but I’ve got to be honest: I’m reeling from Mistress’s admission that she submitted to Master Liam. To anyone, really. It’s mind-blowing. And if I didn’t already feel entirely beholden to her for what she’s given me, the way she lets me know myself, know submission and how much it moves me, I would feel it now. Mistress already gives so much of herself, and now I find out she’s given even more. I know people think the Dom is just giving orders, giving punishment, getting service. But it’s so much more than that. I hope Mistress doesn’t find me too bold in saying this, but no matter what I’m doing for her—oiling and massaging her beautiful body or scrubbing her bathtub in nothing but an apron—Mistress chooses my tasks perfectly. She knows what I need and she gives it to me. Pleasure or pain, sex or housework: I feel every moment we’re together how truly she cares. And I can’t hope for anything more or better, now and for as long as Mistress will keep me.

  Prettily said, my Harry, and I’m honored by your devotion. That’s what it’s all about, in the end, like even the most vanilla of relationships—but a hell of a lot more fun. Harry and I complement each other, fill each other’s deepest needs. Where I see us in the future is right here. Whatever else life may bring us, I can’t think of any greater pleasure than keeping my boy at the foot of my bed for the rest of our lives.

  I TEND TO HER

  Justine Elyot

  I hate it when she’s ill.

  Of course, I try not to show it. She’s all too ready to assume that I view her malaise as an encumbrance or inconvenience; hard as I have worked on erasing it, she still clings to some of the old self-doubt and insecurity. What she doesn’t realize is that my reasons for hating her illness have nothing to do with the concerts or dinner engagements I’ll have to cancel on her behalf, nor the endless invalid fare I have to prepare. It’s not even about the disorder in my perfectly listed and filed existence. It’s the sheer effrontery of those fucking germs, doing to her what I should be doing. If her cheeks are flushed and her eyes moist, it should be me doing the flushing and moistening. I might like inflicting pain on her, but pain that is not of my making is fundamentally wrong.

  So when Loveday arrived home one rainy night looking as if she had just returned from a rendezvous with a lover and sounding as if she’d swallowed chalk, my heart sank. That feverish hue and brilliance of eye should come after a good session with my strap, not a dull commute in the rain.

  I set aside the slow movement of the horn concerto I was writing and felt her forehead: ridiculously hot.

  “You’re feverish,” I diagnosed. “Get to bed. Now.”

  Words I had often uttered under happier circumstances, but this time they could lead to nothing interesting. Doctor and patient is a game we sometimes play—I actually have a real stethoscope, but I only know how to misuse it. There would be no invasive examination scene that night, and the thermometer I selected to take her temperature was not the one we usually used in the bedroom. I made her some honey and lemon with a tot of brandy and prepared an appropriately sympathetic manner.

  “What have you been doing to yourself?” I asked her, handing over the glass.

  “Nothing!” she croaked. “Germs don’t care what you do. If they’re out to get you, they will.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t flirting with them?”

  I gestured for her to open her mouth and slid the thermometer under that pink little tongue, the tongue that tickled and suckled and dug into my mouth, now neutralized by bastard bacteria. />
  “Because if I thought you were giving those streptococci the come-hither, Loveday, I would be most displeased,” I continued. “And you know what happens when I’m displeased, don’t you?”

  Tough love is a concept I have a lot of time for.

  My poor patient nodded, rendered mute by the thermometer. I suppose she knew it was an empty threat, intended to convey my sadness at her feeling ill, rather than actual wrath, but even at the height of her fever, the deployment of the D/s dynamic seemed to perk her up a little.

  The news from the mercury was not good.

  “I think you’re officially ill,” I said. “We’ll have to add my current displeasure to your account. I’m going to give you three days, Loveday. For every day beyond that that you are coughing or sniffing or spending for the most part asleep, there will be a penalty.”

  “That’s not fair,” she moaned in a touchingly wobbly voice.

  I tutted and stroked her burning hands.

  “When have I ever been fair?”

  She knew better than to answer.

  “So you’ll need to make sure you get well as soon as possible, won’t you?” I whispered. “No getting out of bed without permission. No trying to talk when your voice isn’t ready. No disobeying Dr. Rossington’s orders.”

  “No fun,” she mouthed, pouting, and I tapped her hands in light reproof.

  “Not until you’re better. Now get some sleep.”

  I didn’t want her to think that I was worried, and I wasn’t really—it was a simple enough case of strep throat, to be treated with antibiotics, rest and care. But even though her confinement to bed meant I wrote three times as much of the concerto as I would have done otherwise, I couldn’t completely ignore the tiny fear that she might never recover. That this might be it, and I might lose my Loveday. I rarely indulge myself in unbearable thoughts, but three o’clock in the morning brought them out with their pitchforks and snarling teeth while Loveday tossed and turned beside me.

  I control fear with control.

  I caught her visiting the bathroom without permission and it gave me a chance to connect with her as her master rather than her nurse, so I seized it, steering her back to the bed once she emerged.

  “Since you can’t be trusted to do as you’re told,” I said, “perhaps I need to tie you to the bed. Hmm? Should I?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I’ll ask next time.”

  “You’ve got your phone. If I’m in another room, just send me a message.”

  “I will.”

  She looked so pitifully small and unfocused, lost in the blankets, that the image of her bound wrists that had drifted pleasantly to mind dissolved quickly.

  I went back to the concerto.

  On the third day, she rose again—well, not quite, but almost.

  My phone trilled and I opened the text message from Loveday.

  I need a doctor.

  It felt like a blow to the stomach. She was taking a turn for the worse. Now what would I do?

  I rushed to the bedroom, finding her bundled in the blankets but looking no worse than she had done earlier.

  “Are you all right, Love? Why do you need a doctor? Are you feeling worse?”

  She shook her head.

  “I meant you,” she warbled. “I need Doctor Rossington.”

  Did she mean…? I narrowed my eyes.

  “You mean you just worried me on a whim?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just felt the urgent need for some medical attention.”

  Her voice was still harsh and miles out of its normal register, but the seductive tone was hard to miss. Minx. Lying there in that grannyish nightgown with her blonde hair all over the place and those lush lips cracked and dry, she looked more gorgeous than I had ever seen her.

  I moved to the foot of the bed and folded my arms.

  “Medical attention? Well, I think I can provide that. Take off your nightgown.”

  She began pulling the capacious cotton thing over her head while I headed to the kitchen to prepare a basin of soapy water and a sponge.

  When I brought it back in, she was naked on the bed with the blankets tossed aside, her breasts rising and falling fast, her eyes bright and her thighs clamped together. Ready for her treatment.

  I didn’t bother with the white coat, but I thought the rubber sheeting would probably come in handy, so I dragged it out from under the bed and unrolled it, making her lie on her back on top of it.

  “Let’s start with a bed bath, shall we?”

  I rolled up my sleeves and took the sponge, lifting it high above her, looking forward to the first shocking splash on her breasts.

  The drop fell and she veered to the side, her mouth opening to emit a squeal that couldn’t come out. She needed more training. I had time to give it to her.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered. “Or I’ll tie you down. Keep perfectly still.”

  The sight of her fighting her natural impulses to squirm or shield her defenseless breasts as the drops fell, flowing from her stiffening nipples down the slopes they perched upon, was entertainment itself. I drank my fill of her clenched fists, her popping eyes, her expression of fierce concentration, and then I took pity on her, loaded the sponge with warmer soapy water and began to wash her skin.

  I loaded her breasts and belly with wetness and warmth, bubbles and scent, brushing the sponge into every crease and dimple until I reached her pubic triangle.

  “Let’s get you nice and clean,” I said under my breath. “And ready. Ready for your treatment.”

  I made sure the sponge was extra soapy before dabbing it between her thighs, covering every pore in a slow upward sweep until I reached her poor neglected pussy lips. Three days was the longest time they had gone without the introduction of fingers, tongue or cock since we’d found each other and the resulting shadow of stubble was dark around that deep red split. I let the foam-charged sponge part the lips and enjoyed her small spasm once the stinging soap met delicate flesh.

  “Oh, dear. You moved. Legs wider, please; I think we’ll need a little more attention to this area.”

  She was brave, so brave and so obedient, and she didn’t resist or protest but opened up to let her tormentor farther in, bearing my increased chafing of her clit with a squirming, gasping version of fortitude.

  I picked up a razor. “I hope I don’t need to tell you that you are forbidden to strain your voice.” I traced straight lines of bare skin across her mons. “Any crying out or making a sound will be met with punishment.”

  I hoped she would bear this in mind. I really didn’t want any damage to her voice, and I would have to take care not to go too far with this scene, welcome as it was.

  Putting the razor aside, I ordered her onto her stomach.

  Washing her from shoulder blades to the curve of her back, I gathered myself for the main event, drawing closer and closer to the part of her body I had missed the most. Up the hill, down the valley, I let water gush into the crack, wetting her bottom until it gleamed and shone like a pair of pale pearls.

  I discarded the sponge and slipped a finger and thumb down between her cheeks, drawing them apart to spread them and expose her anus.

  “Now about that fever. We need to make sure your temperature’s down before we go any farther.” I dipped the forefinger of my free hand into an open jar of lubricant and then inserted it slowly and patiently into Loveday’s tensing little rosebud, opening it up, preparing it. Once she had stopped gasping, I reached for my instrument.

  “Most patients would have their temperatures taken with a digital ear thermometer,” I told her, watching the slender glass wand slide inside her asshole, deeper and deeper. “But not you. You’re different, Loveday. You need special treatment. It says so in your notes.”

  “Does it?” she whispered.

  “Yes, it does.” The thermometer was all the way in now. I rotated it slowly, making her feel it, still holding her cheeks spread with that thumb and finger. “It says Patient needs firm hand
ling at all times. Facilitate her swift recovery with frequent rectal examinations and strict discipline. The consultant seems very sure that this is what you need.”

  “Stupid consultant.”

  I was sure she intended me to hear the words and I raised my eyebrows, not that she could see, and pulled the thermometer out quickly and cleanly, watching her sphincter contract in confusion.

  “What was that?” I inspected the reading. Normal! Hallelujah. “I see from my thermometer that you are not too ill for a spanking, young lady. Disrespecting the consultant certainly merits one. In fact, I think he should be here to witness it…but I think he’s on another call. Never mind. You can imagine him here, and I’ll write up a report on your punishment, just so he knows.”

  Her ankles and wrists twisted and I watched her make all her familiar preparations for what was to come, tensing her buttocks and shoulders, lifting her neck, all the better to grit her teeth. But I had an extra challenge for her today.

  I retrieved the sponge, lifted it high over her bottom and let the water pour, splish splash splosh, all over the target area.

  Once she was soaked and covered with droplets, I let my hand fall, hard, onto the crest of her bum. The sound it made was different, a splat rather than a smack, and her reaction was interesting, too. She almost reared up. It had been a long time since she’d done that, a long time since I had been able to surprise her with pain. Visions of pleasant future experiments floated before my eyes—wet paddlings, strappings, canings, all the flagellant variations my fertile imagination could devise.