Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  THE ART OF DARKNESS

  DEAR PROFESSOR PERVERT

  A NECESSARY CORRECTION

  THE EDITOR

  RIBBONS

  THE DAY I CAME IN PUBLIC

  LUNCH

  WHEN PENNY MET HARRY

  THE POWER OF NO

  IN THE CORNER

  STUCK AT WORK AND LATE FOR A DATE

  RUNNING WILD

  PINK IS THE ENEMY

  SITTING ON ICE CREAM

  UNDER HIS HAND, I BLOSSOM

  MAKE ME

  BODY ELECTRIC

  RECLAIMING THE SOFA

  HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: READY TO SAY YES (SIR)

  When I started working on Yes, Sir, I didn’t expect the title phrase to be taken as a literal motto, but more as a call to arms (or rather, to surrender one’s arms) for submissive women who seek out dominant men. I intended Yes, Sir and its companion volume Yes, Ma’am to be the bottoms’ answers to my previous collections He’s on Top and She’s on Top, to showcase our fantasies, desires, and deepest wishes. I wanted those of us who love to be tied up, spanked, blindfolded, bound, or “used” for another’s pleasure, to tell it like it is, to explore why and how we get off in these ways, and the authors presented here gave me what I was looking for—and more.

  Here you’ll find all sorts of women for whom their own personal Sirs (or Masters or Daddies) hold the reins to their erotic pleasure. For them, saying yes (or a bratty, defiant no for which they’ll be duly punished) is as powerful as a good, hard smack on the ass. They give up control in all kinds of ways, from letting their doms decide who they’ll fuck to when they’ll come, to which color panties are acceptable—and which aren’t. In one of these stories (you’ll have to keep reading to figure out which one), playing at Sir, having your lover become the Sir of your dreams when real life may dictate otherwise, lets the two players take their kink to a whole new level.

  Some are old pros at BDSM, and have had many masters, while for others, the language of domination and submission is a novelty. They may not know exactly why they thrill to being told what to do, but they know for sure that they like it, as in the case of the newbie in “Sitting on Ice Cream.” D. L. King’s Libby overcomes her natural shyness in “The Day I Came in Public,” proving that the very acts she first scoffs at are ones that give her no end of delight. It’s almost as if the doms who enter their lives see the potential for submission in these women, and want to bring it forth for their own naughty motives, along with making the women come harder than they ever have before.

  The inherent power dynamics of the classroom are brought to light in Donna George Storey’s “Dear Professor Pervert,” a story in which, once official class time ends, the real learning (about everything from masturbation to butt plugs) begins, as well as in Lisabet Sarai’s “Body Electric,” wherein a prominent professor shows a colleague his very intriguing “apparatus.” In Sommer Marsden’s “In the Corner,” the man who first introduced Amelia to kink lures her away from her current “nice guy” date.

  These women aren’t pushovers by any means. They make rules and negotiate with their masters, though sometimes they also get off on being pushed just a little too far by men they know they can trust. In “The Art of Darkness,” Alison Tyler writes, “Once Killian understood my fear, his mission became not to save me from my phobia, but to exploit it, every chance he could.” She objects, but when she finally surrenders, she experiences a whole new world, where a blindfold is the path to ecstasy. And the woman who lets her man dictate her meals in Elizabeth Coldwell’s delicious “Lunch”? Well, she knows exactly what she’s doing. “I could go home and just tell Michael I’d done as he instructed. But he would know. He always knows when I try to disobey him, however careful or sneaky I try to be.” In other words, she’s not doing what he says simply because he says it, but because something inside her gets off on obeying. So too in Shanna Germain’s story, the protagonist makes an active choice to go where her inner ache to submit compels her: “‘Follow,’ he said. Something in me resisted, but the power of his voice, the way he walked away from me as though he knew I would trail after him, made it so I couldn’t say no.” And the woman getting fucked on the sofa in Maddy Stuart’s short, sexy tale flinches at the words slut and whore, even as her body responds to them. This duality, with the brain protesting but the blood rushing to the surface, is also part of the thrill of submission, especially for strong, powerful women.

  These writers make clear just how much their characters get off when they say “Yes, Sir,” whether literally or figuratively. Sure, they may be doing their masters’ bidding, but the masters are often doing the subs’ bidding, in their own way, as well, making them ache, moan, quiver, and, yes, come. They know just how to draw out their subs’ pleasure (and pain), how to make the most of a woman whether she’s on her knees, or bent over, or at her computer waiting for the next command. They know that denial, temptation, and frustration can be the most arousing acts of all. They know that, as Teresa Noelle Roberts puts it, “The Power of No” can often be just as hot as the power of yes.

  Gwen Masters asks in her title, “How Bad Do You Want It?” I turn that question over to you, dear reader. How bad do you want to be bound, gagged, spanked, or slapped? How bad do you want to have your hair pulled, your nipples clamped, your body strung up? How bad do you want to pant, gasp, scream, and squirm? How bad do you want to turn over some part of yourself to a man just dying to strip you bare and take you somewhere you’ve never been? I don’t know about you, but I want all of those things, very much, and, I’m thankful to say, I (and you) have them all right here. Just turn the pages, and be prepared not to get up for a good long while.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  THE ART OF DARKNESS

  Alison Tyler

  Killian said, “Put your hands over your head.”

  I obeyed immediately, the “Yes, Sir,” coming quickly to my lips.

  He clicked on the cuffs, looped the silver chain over the hook above our mattress, then looked down at me. His pale green eyes seemed to glow, like jade lit from within, and I could tell he wasn’t finished, even though sometimes all he needs is to see me cuffed. Sometimes that’s all it takes. But tonight, he had more serious plans.

  “Spread your legs,” he said next, and I followed the command, just as quickly. “Yes, Sir,” punctuated the movement of my slim thighs parting on the cobalt-blue satin comforter. He bound my ankles securely with leather thongs attached to hooks on the bed frame, and I reveled in the pull on my muscles, the ache that had started already.

  “Mouth open,” Killian instructed, dangling the bright red rubber ball gag in front of me, and I parted my lips and lifted my neck to make it easier for him to fasten the buckle beneath my heavy, silver-streaked hair. The rubber tasted bitter, an obscene flavor I found oddly pleasing.

  “Close your eyes,” Killian said finally, and that’s when I started getting scared.

  Killian, I would have said, if the gag hadn’t been in the way. Killian, please.

  The words sounded clear in my head, but as I could no longer speak, I hoped my eyes spoke loud enough for me. Hoped he understood what I was saying. Of course he did. He knew me well enough by now. In fact, I had no doubt that he’d put in the gag before giving this instruction for the sole purpose of seeing if I’d obey.

  “Close your eyes,” he repeated, his voice sterner now, and I drew in a deep breath through my nose, but kept my eyes open.

  I felt as if I’d never blink again.

  When Kil
lian had first suggested a blindfold, I’d balked. Worse than that, I’d safeworded, to his total shock. “Jasmine,” I’d said quickly.

  “What did you say?”

  “Jasminejasminejasmine.” The words were strung together in my haste.

  “You do everything else, Greer,” he murmured, surprised at my instantaneous and—in his view—negative response. “You willingly wear the cuffs, the collar, the chastity belt. You bend over for my cock anytime. Anywhere. Why won’t you wear a blindfold?”

  I shrugged, unwilling to say, while he continued.

  “That’s practically vanilla sex. Women who read Ladies’ Home Journal use blindfolds.”

  I wondered where he got that last bit of information. He didn’t know any women who read Ladies’ Home Journal. But I understood his point. Blindfolds were almost comically acceptable now. I could have walked into any one of my friends’ apartments and found one tucked in a dresser drawer. Who wouldn’t wear a blindfold?

  That was simple: me.

  “You’ve let me drip wax on you, let me use anal beads the size of walnuts. We own a crop, a flogger, a studded paddle, and a cane. What’s up with a blindfold?”

  I hadn’t wanted to admit the truth right away. What if he thought I was some sort of freak? But Killian simply wouldn’t let go of the concept.

  He held the offending item before me, let the soft velvet fabric slide against my skin, and I squirmed away as if he were using electroshock therapy. (But the truth is that I would have let him use electroshock therapy. I’d have let him use one of the violet wands over me before I would allow him to fasten the dreaded fabric over my eyes.)

  Still, all I could think to say was, “You won’t make fun of me?”

  He gave me a look.

  “Sir,” I added quickly. “You won’t make fun of me, Sir, will you?”

  “Greer,” he crooned. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Yes, Sir.” If I didn’t trust him, then none of our dirty little games would have worked. But I needed reassurance. Because I’d been dreading this day from the start.

  I’m a smart girl. I’d understood that eventually Killian would want to try some sort of sensory deprivation, something different than cuffs or bindings. So, yes, I’d known this conversation was coming, but that hadn’t made the arrival any easier.

  “Then what’s the fucking problem?”

  Ah, Jesus. I had to say, had to spill my secret. My darkest secret. Or, rather, my secret about the dark. “I’m afraid,” I said finally.

  “That I’ll do something to you?” he asked, incredulous. “That I’ll hurt you in some way? In some way you wouldn’t like, I mean.” A dark chuckle there, because we both knew exactly how much I liked it when he hurt me. His hand, or his belt, or the braided leather of his crop landing cleanly where he wanted each blow. He knew precisely how wet I got simply from the threat of having any one of his favorite devices used on my bare skin. He also knew that I had complete faith in him to take care of me, to know my boundaries, to never take me past where I was willing to go.

  “I’m not afraid that you’ll hurt me,” I insisted. “I’m just scared.”

  “Scared of what?” Killian had pressed, unwilling to let me get away with a simple “scared.” Which meant I’d have to either confess, or get over my fear. And I saw no way of doing so. Not after living with the phobia my whole life.

  “I’m scared of the dark.”

  It was a child’s fear, yes, but that didn’t make the fear any less real.

  I don’t believe I’d ever been in absolute blackness. Throughout my childhood, I slept with a light on, and not just some little princess-pink twinkling nightlight, but a sturdy desk lamp outfitted with a vibrant one-hundred-watt bulb. In college, I’d stay awake each evening reading until my roommate fell asleep, and then I’d pretend to fall asleep myself with the light still on. When living on my own, there was never a problem. I could light the whole place as brightly as the Las Vegas strip if I chose, and nobody would say a word.

  Dating wasn’t an issue, either. Men seemed charmed, seriously delighted, when I said I liked to keep the lights on during sex. So many women prefer to hide their bodies in blackness. And I rarely had my lovers over to spend the whole night. If one wanted to, I’d leave the hall light on, “for my cat,” so that I was never in total darkness. This is what I’d done with Killian. Up until now, anyway. But now I had to fess up.

  Because Killian wanted more than simply to stay the night.

  He wanted to move in with me.

  Once I confessed, Killian’s response wasn’t at all what I expected. He smiled. A genuine smile, lifting his lips, touching the corners of his eyes. And then he started to laugh. As if he understood. As if it all made sense now.

  I felt relief wash over me. But it was a misplaced sensation. I’d thought that he would drop the concept of blindfolding me, that he would be satisfied with the games that I could easily play. All of those other kinky interactions that we shared. What was so exciting about a blindfold, anyway? There were a million other ways that Killian and I could entertain ourselves. He had a toy chest filled with deviant devices. Plenty to keep Killian’s hands, mind, and cock well stimulated.

  That’s what I thought, anyway.

  But I thought wrong.

  Once Killian understood my fear, his mission became not to save me from my phobia, but to exploit it, every chance he could.

  “Close your eyes,” he’d say when I least expected to hear the words. We’d be driving somewhere, about to enter a tunnel, perhaps, and he’d taunt me with the command.

  “No, Killian. Come on…”

  “You’ll earn a spanking if you don’t behave.”

  I could happily agree to that. I like being spanked. I hate the dark.

  Late at night, I would occasionally hear a telltale click, and I’d wake up in a shuddering panic, realizing he’d shut off my safety light. I’d scramble spiderlike across the mattress, all sprawling limbs and trembling fingers, fumbling in my haste to turn the light back on, and Killian would watch me the whole time. Head tilted, as if storing up the information to use sometime in the future.

  Sometime in the very near future.

  Sometime like tonight.

  “Close your eyes,” Killian said again.

  I tried to beg now, even with the ball gag in place. “Please, Killian,” words which I heard in my head, but which were incomprehensible around the gag. Mere slurring sounds, rather than an actual sentence, but words that I knew my man understood plainly.

  “Do it,” Killian insisted.

  And I shook my head, wondering what that would mean to Killian, wondering what my disobedience would do to him.

  In the past, we’d arrived at this precipice, and stopped. It was almost as if Killian thought that someday, I’d simply obey. At some point, if he asked often enough, if he told me often enough, I would get over my fear, or swallow my fear, for him.

  But phobias don’t work like that.

  I once worked for a woman who was afraid of balloons. Beyond afraid. They sent her into serious chest-tightening panic attacks. And you might think this is an easy fear to simply avoid. Stay away from children’s birthday parties, right? But now that you know about this fear, pay attention to the world. There are balloons everywhere—helium balloons tied to the dry cleaner’s sign, outside of the car dealership, heralding one grand opening or another. She’d cross the street to the other side, or drive blocks out of her way, to avoid the ones she knew. But when balloons arrived in her world unexpectedly, she would take an emergency Xanax and call her doctor.

  Why was she afraid of balloons? She never said. In the office, we had our guesses. Something to do with pregnancy, with being all puffed up. Or possibly a fear of the unexpected. Of loud noises. Of pops.

  Fears don’t have to make sense, to play by anyone’s rules.

  Not even Killian’s.

  “Tonight’s the night,” he said, staring at me. “We’ll go slowly. We’ll take
our time. But I want you to know that by the end of the evening, you’ll understand.”

  Why had he gagged me? How could I safeword?

  “I’m not going to blindfold you,” he continued. “You’ll do it yourself. See? If it’s too frightening, too difficult, you can just open your eyes again. You won’t need to give a safeword.”

  It was as if he’d read my mind.

  “Try,” he said again. “For me, Greer. Do it for me.”

  He had attempted to understand before. I shut my eyes every night, after all, right? To go to sleep. How was that any different?

  Because, I’d tried to explain. Because it is. Just shutting my eyes for the hell of it, for the sole point of plunging myself into darkness—that was a completely different sensation than closing my eyes to sleep.

  “Come on, baby,” he said. “It’s like the first time we had anal sex. Remember? I let you back up onto me. I let you take it inch by inch. That’s what I’m asking you to do now. Get used to the feeling of me touching you, kissing you, playing with you while your eyes are closed. Then we can move forward. Then we can try all sorts of things. You do trust me, baby, don’t you?”

  I did. That was the truth.

  But the first time I shut my eyes for him, I opened them up immediately.

  “That was half a second,” he said, laughing.

  I tried again, shutting my eyes, my whole body taut. Killian set a hand on my leg and I opened my eyes once more.

  “A bit longer this time,” he said, “but I think you can do better than that. Try harder, doll. Try for me.”

  That’s what the whole game was about, wasn’t it?

  Obeying him. Pleasing him. And by pleasing him, pleasing myself. I closed my eyes, and I tried to focus on the sensations that immediately flooded over me. It was as if Killian could tell when I started to give in, when the magic of being a sub began to work through me. He touched me so softly, so gently, and I shuddered and almost opened my eyes—almost, but didn’t.