Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  But he doesn’t force it. He waits. He’s always waiting. That’s the problem.

  “Do you want me to blow you?” I blurt out. It seems like the right thing to say. No man can refuse a hot wet mouth on his cock.

  Only he just raises one thick eyebrow, and tickles one curl of my hair with a free finger.

  “You’re always in such a rush, Kitty-Cat,” he says. “One thing at a time.”

  But I don’t know what that means. Someone explain it to me. All the other guys were fucking me by now, jerking over me like broken marionettes, panting that I should come, I should come, I should come right now.

  But he just sits up to the side of my body and strokes me all over with his gaze.

  “Let’s see what else we can try first,” he says, and I praise God in my head.

  He does nothing more than stroke one big hand down the sides of my body: first down one side, then the other, long languid strokes like he’s buttering me, always getting close to tickling but never quite crossing that line.

  When he finally and suddenly closes one hand around the underside of my right breast—firm, but not squeezing—it’s a shock enough to make me squeal.

  “Your breasts are so gorgeous. Look how they fit my hand like that,” he says, and then he cups the other one, just to be sure.

  I’m already juddering on the bed before he even gets to where he’s apparently going next: steady circling massages that get closer and closer to my spiky nipples. They’re standing right up through the material of my shirt, almost making shadows through the thin white material. And they’re so sensitive that the massage alone is enough to spark little tingles of sensation from them to my clit, all that material chafing against the swollen tips.

  I try not to whimper or groan. He already knows how eager I am, so I don’t want to give him anything more. But when he finally, gently, pinches one nipple between his pulling thumb and forefinger, I want to cry. I want to cry harder when he asks me if I’d like him to put his hand inside.

  I don’t think I say coherent things. Him unbuttoning my shirt is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. My clit pulses and swells; I’m pretty sure I’m making a wet patch on the back of my skirt. I think I almost come when he slides his hand beneath the material of the shirt he doesn’t spread open.

  It’s worse when he strokes my bare nipple, just softly, so softly. And then worse again when he takes his hand away and I whimper, and through his knowing smile he licks the pad of his thumb before oiling the stiff tip with that wetness.

  I can’t help it. I do moan, then. I moan and buck on the bed, desperate to touch my clit but sure that if I do, this will end. Nothing’s been said, but I’m sure of it: if I break the slow crawl of all of this, he’ll stop it. It’ll be back to marionette jerking and You should come, you should come, I’m certain.

  When he stops there anyway and tells me, “Second base is enough,” I could kill him. I could scream. But that’s when I know that this is how he wants it. His mouth curls into a teasing smile. This is how it has to be.

  I don’t touch myself, not even when I get back home.

  The next time I see him it’s worse, because I already know what to expect. The foundations of this whole thing are set, and so even when he takes off all of my clothes, one slow piece at a time, I know he’s going to keep the pleasure from me.

  I guess I should think he’s just like those other guys, that he’s selfish, and I probably would if he was constantly coming in my mouth and in my pussy and all over me. But he never even takes his pants off, so what am I supposed to think?

  Not to mention the fact that when I’m lying on his bed completely naked, all he says are things designed to make me feel good. I’m gorgeous and sexy and he wants to run his hands all over me. And then he does just that, and I squirm beneath the slick slide of his oiled hands.

  I don’t know why this is the next stage up from second base. But I don’t think I’m going to complain. I lay my head on his pillow and smell his green soap smell, and let myself be hypnotized by the stroke, stroke, stroke of his hands.

  He doesn’t massage me, exactly. He explores, thoroughly, and just when I think I’m relaxed and boneless rather than turned on, all my nerves fire and tingle over into something that makes me tremble. I shake like I’m coming, and in truth it kind of feels that way. It’s like an orgasm, only not, and all the while he says: “Shh, shh.”

  But that’s okay, because my body is singing. I can hardly take it. Though I think he knows the truth: I can, I can.

  He tells me to get dressed again in his drawling caramel voice, so casual, teeth biting into his bottom lip. And I do, feeling sticky and oily inside my clothes, feeling stickier yet because he watches me do what is only normal if it’s reversed. He’s lying on the bed, watching me doing a backward striptease.

  I think I can feel his eyes, pressing against my clit. It flutters and protests, swimming in cream and as slippery as the rest of my body is.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kit,” he says, and gives me a tender kiss good-bye.

  I don’t touch myself when I get home.

  Is this third base night? Is it more? I’ve lost track amidst all the times when he’s seen me completely naked, when he’s showered with me and soaped my aching body, when he’s licked pieces of fruit from my belly button.

  He sucked my nipples last night. Tremors ran through me, like an orgasm, again, like, but not quite. He had his leg between my thighs, and I think I soaked through the thin material of his pajama bottoms.

  Not that he minded.

  And now we’re on his bed together, kissing hungrily. Swirls of sensation form pits and pools in my belly, just by my thinking of what he might have in store tonight. This might be it. This might be the one.

  In fact, I’m sure it’s going to be, until he actually does something. Then I’m simply stunned that he’s finally crossed that line. He has his hand up my skirt. His hand is high up, on my inner thigh.

  I’m still not prepared when he tells me to take my skirt off. Though as with everything he does, it isn’t exactly an order. It’s laid back, calm, soft.

  And as ever, I rush to do what he hasn’t ordered me to do.

  I kick the thing down my legs, briefly embarrassed that I’m not wearing any underwear, that I now never wear underwear when I’m around him, but too far gone to care. I was too far gone weeks ago, why should I care about anything now?

  He covers my entire mound with one huge hand. I moan like I’ve never moaned for anyone before. I moan and urge myself up, up against him. I’m so wet that one push in the right direction will part my pussy lips easily.

  But he’s wise to that game. He lets his hand hover, sometimes finely brushing the damp curls there before moving away. He gives me the illusion of having those swollen lips touched; he traces and stirs the air around me and waits for me to moan again.

  When I do, he murmurs something I wish I could record. I don’t even know why.

  “Oh, so responsive,” he says, and I sob into my hands.

  He uses just the tip of one finger to seek out my secret slit, to run along that seam without ever really plunging in. For the first time, I am desperate enough to come close to grabbing his hand. I need to force him on me. I need to beg him.

  But I take deep breaths through the spaces between my fingers and get myself under control.

  My reward is a deeper sort of stroke, his thick thumb spreading my folds open. He avoids my aching, tingling clit, but the stroke over all my heavily sensitized flesh sends pleasure messages directly to it. My cunt clenches and clenches around nothing.

  “Do you usually get so wet, Kitty-Cat?” he asks me, but he must know that I can’t speak. He’s looking directly at the heart of my sex, leaning down so that he can see me spread and soaking for him. I feel his hot breath ghost over my stiff bud and I gasp out his name.

  “Do you get this wet when you masturbate? Does your clit get so swollen? I bet you can hardly stand me to
touch it…”

  Of course, when he does, I jerk for him. I jerk, like a marionette.

  But I don’t come. Not quite. I’m so close that I can feel the wavering edges of it, low down in my belly. I can feel its collar around my neck, getting ready to tug. And when he moves away from my clit and eases through all of my slippery honey to my still-clenching hole, I almost choke on my own frustration.

  I don’t come even when he slides two fingers right into me to the hilt, and the sound I was going to make turns into a long drawn-out groan.

  “Do you like that?” he asks, and I’m sure his head is cocked to one side. It’s equally possible that he has an eyebrow raised. However, I can’t take my hands from my face to get a proper look.

  If I lift them from my eyes, if I move even an inch, he might stop. He might not give it to me.

  “It seems like you like that. I can feel you tightening around me. And you’re so wet, so wet and swollen, especially…especially right…here.”

  He twists his fingers inside me, curling them just so before rubbing and rubbing like I’ve got an itch. There’s this itch right down deep in my sex, and he’s going to soothe it nice and slow.

  Only I can’t go nice and slow. It’s far too late for that. Slow is everything that’s come before this and now he’s fucking my cunt with two thick fingers, urging them right against my G-spot like it’s just. That. Easy.

  And oh, Jesus H. Christ, when he bends his head and his hot breath pours deep and rich right over my clit, I could—I’m definitely—oh, yes, it’s there. Oh, go on, ah, yes. And then ah, no, when his wicked pointed tongue flicks out and just barely flicks over the bursting tip of my aching clit.

  It’s barely anything, really—enough, though, to make me come all over his hand.

  And I do, god, I do. I come in great wrenching spasms, my cunt creaming while my body goes rigid, the sounds out of my mouth like something animals refuse to do. I grunt and twist and try to get away from it, it’s so dense and all consuming. Something rips in my fist and I’m dimly aware that I’ve just ruined his bedsheets, but he only laughs as he works me on his fingers, rough and slow.

  He’s made me too hungry now, though, far too hungry, and I go up for another before the first is even finished. I’m still moaning and twisting on the bed when he replaces his fingers with his cock, jeans rudely shoved to his knees, the sudden thickness a slap to my senses that I can hardly take.

  I buck against him crazily, but he’s too heavy and suddenly, gloriously insistent for it to throw him off his stride. He fucks into me hard, urgently, one hand grasping at the headboard to give him that extra bit of leverage.

  I’m still so swollen and thick with pleasure that it seems as though I can feel every inch of his cock, the cock I’ve never actually seen. I try to flutter my pussy around its gorgeous length, but there’s no room to spare.

  He gasps for my troubles. He wavers out words, too. “Jeez, this isn’t going to last long.”

  That, I can’t do anything but laugh over. I feel it bubbling up inside me, mad hysterics that need out. What does he mean? This has lasted forever and ever and ever; isn’t it a hundred years since we started?

  When he reaches down between our bodies to touch my clit, I almost slap his hand away. No more, please, no more. Even if I want more—please, no more.

  He doesn’t listen. I guess he doesn’t have to, when he never needs me to say a word. He circles my clit messily as his cock pumps in and in and in, and when I finally stretch one last fantastic time, when I pant and fuck up against him and call out his name too loudly, he does the same right back at me.

  I feel him swell inside me. He groans out: So good, so good, right there.

  And then it’s over. It’s over.

  I want to ask him what his game was, as we lie side by side in his narrow bed, comfortably silent and cooling down in the autumn air that’s leaking in from the window. But I don’t think he’d give me a good explanation.

  It’s like he kept all of my pleasure in a little jeweled box, and when I was ready, when I was beyond ready and into delirious, only then did he show me what was inside. That’s what I keep on thinking, as he brushes careless fingers over the inside of my arm.

  I suppose I should be disappointed, now. All those treasures, all used up. All that buildup, laid to waste, pulverized by an orgasm so intense, I can still feel it running through me.

  Thankfully, he has a solution. I should have known he would. He’s too sly and teasing not to. Just as I’m drifting off to sleep, he turns his head on the pillow, eyes lit with evil intent.

  “Think you might want to try it the other way around?” he says, and I flash on the other boys, the other boys always trying to get what they want and never giving me what I need. But he’s not like that, Aaron isn’t. It’s a different sort of game altogether, with him. He can hide his desires so easily that I’ve got no idea how long I could draw it out with him, or how far I’d have to go.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  WELCOME TO THE WORLD

  Ariel Graham

  She woke in the cage, which disoriented her. The last time she’d slept in it had been over a year ago.

  Once, the cage had been a bolt hole. Somewhere Lisa went when the world closed in on her and she needed to feel she could give up everything and let someone else take care of her.

  But gradually it had changed, become only erotic, only against her will or at least against her will in appearances and maybe not at the times of her choosing.

  And then they’d backed off. Mark got a job that required commuting and Lisa got a job she loved and the cage became a kind of strange, oversized bedside table.

  She’d spent last night in it, though.

  Warm morning sunlight fell over her through the bars. Her body felt sore and languid, well used.

  She craned her neck. The alarm had gone off—that’s what woke her—and Mark’s side of the bed was empty.

  Why am I in here on a workday? she thought.

  Which was when she remembered: talking late into the night, agreements reached, past disappointments broached and forgiven, a new start intended.

  Yes, but.

  She looked at her watch, which she still wore, a digital with a cheap band, stark against her otherwise naked flesh.

  Late. She was going to be late. “Mark?”

  He stuck his head around the bathroom wall. “Good morning, sunshine.” He foamed at the mouth with toothpaste and good cheer. Mark looked like a little boy half the time, all tousled brown hair and innocent eyes. She was always amazed he could turn into her Master in a heartbeat.

  But he hadn’t, for so long.

  She swallowed, drily, and her voice was weak when she said, “I’m going to be late—?” and it became a question. They’d talked about her work. She loved her work. She worked at a bakery and floral shop, made beautiful cakes and flower-shaped cookies and sometimes candy and did some flower arranging, and her boss wasn’t great but wasn’t terrible. What had they decided? Mark, who worked from home, had said something about bringing her back home, having her less out of the house: less visible, more his.

  But she hadn’t agreed, had she?

  “Did we drink last night?” She was so fuzzy.

  Mark grinned down at her in the cage, sitting naked on the bed just out of reach. His cock sat up all by itself, all morning-happy and moist from the shower. Beads of water glistened in the darker hair on his balls. She wanted to bury her face there, quench the weird nervous thirst with his shower water and suck him into her throat.

  “Mark?”

  “I called you in sick today. Can’t have a sick chef.”

  “Baker.”

  “Sick chef. Say that six times fast.”

  “Mark—”

  “No,” he said. “Say it six times fast.”

  Lisa shut her mouth. They’d slid into Game and she’d missed the signal.

  Unless there wasn’t one.

  No
signal? Was that what they’d discussed?

  “Lisa.”

  She said it, six times fast, and yes, at the end it sounded more like “shish shush” and that was fine, she’d always sucked at tongue twisters. She had other things on her mind now.

  “Good girl,” he said, and sat down again. “So. No. We weren’t drinking last night. We had too much to talk about for that. Do you remember?”

  No. She remembered a long talk, about what they’d had, what they wanted, but… “We didn’t just talk?”

  He grinned then. “That’s why you’re so spacey. You were flying. Very high.”

  But she wasn’t sore. She was, actually, but only in a few spots, which meant he’d taken very good care of her and all that soaring, flying, wonderfulness had been caused by being restrained.

  Because when he caused it other ways, parts of her remembered promptly.

  Lisa stretched as best she could in the cage. Despite the strange distortions of the morning her body felt languid and relaxed. Her mind snarled like a rat in a trap, looking for what menaced it and left her speeding, sensing danger.

  “Mark? You didn’t quit my job, did you?” She held her breath. Life was a balance. Anything could topple it. She knew what he wanted, and she thought she could stand being more isolated, more his, but the job wasn’t social, the boss was a boss, the other baker a bitch, the customers only transactions.

  “I put that on hold. You can keep the job as long as you abide.”

  Panic and relief raced through her and left her dizzy. She still had her job.

  …abide by what?

  He let her out midmorning when she begged to use the bathroom. He put her on the treadmill for thirty minutes at a pace she could sustain and worked until she finished her run, then sent her to shower and when she stepped out of the shower, he’d drawn a low tub of hot water he motioned her into. Lisa lay back apprehensively and Mark said, “Bring your knees up and spread your legs.” He held up shaving cream and a safety razor.