Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Haven’t we fucked before?”

  What an opening line. Out of the mouth of a less skilled operator, such a blunt phrase would have been doomed to ridicule, but rolling off his golden tongue the introduction worked like a charm. It didn’t hurt that he looked like a young Michael Caine in Alfie. He was the whole bad boy, alpha-male package. He was perfect, especially for someone like me with my submissive peccadilloes. I don’t think rejection was in his vocabulary; he probably regarded a slap as a come-on. I liked that in a man. So I gave him one.

  He didn’t flinch; he laughed.

  “I’m sorry darlin’. I was only trying to be helpful. You looked like you wanted a good, hard fucking and didn’t know how to go about getting it.”

  He was right, but I decided to be coy. He might have been the one to fulfill my needs, but I wanted more of his cockiness before I got his cock.

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “You look like you don’t hang about in pubs very much. You’re standing all uncomfortable-like in a corner, near the toilets, being pushed around by the near-constant stream of drinkers whose bladders need a long-delayed piss. You look posh, dressed smartly in that snappy double-breasted blue trouser suit that suggests you’ve been on a job interview, or out for some special occasion. The wide-collared white shirt and man’s floral tie is a bit too flash to be usual office garb.”

  He fingered the cloth of my blazer. I imagined his fingers on me.

  “These are not mall clothes. You’ve got lots of cash to flash. At first glance I might have mistaken you for an out-on-the-town dapper young gent, but your feminine attributes stick out through your fancy-boy gloss. Look atchya.”

  He fingered my hair. I imagined his fingers between my legs.

  “Your flouncy golden hair peeks out from underneath that narrow-brimmed floppy hat in a carefully designed attempt to look distressed and vulnerable. Your pink-rouged lips highlight that peaches-and-cream, perfectly innocent complexion. Those dainty high heels jut out from underneath the blue cuffs of your pinstripe trousers, making your arse stick out oh so invitingly. If you were a man, you’d be a bloody attractive one. I’d be tempted to give you one.”

  He slapped my ass playfully, but with an intent that spoke volumes reminiscent of the Marquis’s classics. Oh yes, he was the one.

  He put his clenched hand under my chin, lifting my head up to face him.

  “Something’s upset you. Look at those smudged mascara circles bringing all that attention to the redness of your eyes. That can’t be due to the Whip and Rider’s smoky atmosphere. You’ve been crying. No doubt about it.”

  He ordered a double whiskey, matching the drink I’d been nursing.

  “You’ve probably been stood up for a date or turned down for a job. You don’t need cash, or maybe you do; the sharp clothes could be gifts from Mommy and Daddy or better yet, a sugar daddy. You’re definitely new to London. You don’t have that hardened look that us city dwellers develop after a few months in the smoke and grime of being ready for anything that the Smoke throws atchya. Then there’s your drink. You ordered a double whiskey and haven’t touched a drop. So here, drink up. Cheers. I do believe this is the start of a beautiful fucking friendship.”

  “Cheers,” I said, not bothering to dispute his conclusion. I took a large gulp of whiskey and winced. He laughed.

  “That’s better. The name’s Harry—Harry Gathers.”

  “Penelope Crumleigh, and you are very perceptive. I am a little upset.”

  “This town can do that to you, darlin’. A tip from a London native: roll with the punches, love; don’t let the Smoke get the better of you. A little homesick are you?”

  “Not really. I lost my job.”

  “Oh dear, now I see why the double whiskey.”

  I laughed, a sniffle escaping my nose.

  “Yes, it is a little ridiculous isn’t it? I thought I owed it to myself to get drunk.”

  “Happen today did it?”

  “No, almost a month ago.”

  Harry looked incredulous at my extended period of workplace mourning.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of biz you in?”

  “I’m—I was—a teacher.”

  “Really? A friend of mine’s a teacher. She just got a job.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  I smiled.

  “Yeah, took her six months, but—”

  My smile slipped into lip quivering as I sniffled back the tears.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, I’ll never find a—”

  Harry put a friendly arm around my quaking shoulders.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Penny. You don’t mind me calling you Penny, do you? Can’t go on calling you Penelope. It’d be like you calling me Harold. Not even me dear old mum, the devil rest her soul, called me Harold, except when she was angry with me, which happened every now and then on account of me being a likely lad, and nobody’s business was that. So you won’t mind me calling you Penny because you’re a pretty Penny indeed. Penny it is, right you are.”

  He didn’t bother to wait for my response.

  “Where were we? Six months—oh yeah, it’s just me and my big mouth. Don’t you worry. You’ll find something soon. There’s plenty of temp jobs around that’ll keep you going until the right position comes around. I have loads of contacts in all the right places for a pretty young thing like you. Look, why don’t we get out of here and talk about it. You look like you need a shoulder to cry on, and mine are guaranteed sympathetic and waterproof. There’s a nice bistro around the corner, Le Petite Mort. It’s quiet and we can have a good old chin-wag. You’ll feel much better after a nice meal and a good cry.”

  “Okay, thanks. Thanks, Harry. Lead the way. I could use a good talk.”

  And a good dominating fuck, I said to myself. Finally it looked like I’d found the antidote to the hordes of caring, sensitive males that roamed the dating plains leaving me bored and orgasmless. Harry knocked back his whiskey in one gulp. I did the same, impressing Harry to no end with my wince.

  It was two hours and three bottles of generic French Chablis later when the conversation drifted back into job matters. I picked at my crème brûlée. Harry had already devoured his and was lighting up another cigarette. The pre-, during and postprandial conversation had skirted getting-to-know-you pleasantries designed to put me at ease. After all that wine I was feeling no pain.

  “Mind if I ask why you lost your job, Penny?”

  My words were slurred, but despite Le Petite Mort’s ambient din of numerous huddled conversations, I could tell from the smile on Harry’s face that he’d deciphered my drunk-speak.

  “You might say, sexual harassment.”

  “You don’t say. Were you the harasser or the harassee?”

  “Definitely the harassee. And I still have the bruises to prove it. Would you like to see them?”

  I stood on shaky feet and fumbled with the snap of my trousers. Despite his alpha-male enthusiasm for an up close and personal view of my pert ass, Harry showed surprising reserve; Le Petite Mort was just not the place for a Soho striptease, he said. Harry helped me back into my chair and signaled for the bill. I figured it was time to start testing his boundaries with some good old-fashioned cantankerousness.

  “What’s the matter, Harry, you don’t believe me? I thought you were my friend.”

  “Penny, I am. I am, but we don’t want everyone in the restaurant to see, do we?”

  I giggled, putting my fingertips to my mouth.

  “Oh dear, I forgot—we’re in pubic—I mean public. I’m so used to making a spectacle of myself. Do you know twenty businessmen saw my bottom?”

  “Really? Why don’t we get out of here and make that twenty-one. Where is that waiter? Waiter!”

  Harry lay naked on my bed. I was in engaged in the obligatory pre-sex visit to the bathroom, but could eye him through the cracked-open door. Making himself right at home, he sipped a brandy that he’d helped himself to. I flushed the toil
et, washed my hands, checked my face and emerged, propping myself up seductively against the wall. Harry looked over the rim of his glass at my shadowy figure. I’d let down my hair. I’d taken off my jacket. The high heels were gone too. I rubbed my stockinged feet nervously together.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes, Penny.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  By the diffuse light of the bedside lamp, I fumbled with my necktie. Harry was pussy-wettingly direct.

  “I’m going to tie your hands behind your back and spank you hard before I make you suck my cock. If you’re a good little cocksucker then I’ll spank you even harder, and then when you’re nice and red and tender, I’ll fuck you harder, very much harder—in the arse.”

  A wicked smile spread across Harry’s face. I had died and gone to hell, where I belonged, rather than that boring alternative.

  “Thank you, Harry. You see, I’ve been such a naughty girl. I’ve been very bad and need to be punished. Severely. You must show no mercy.”

  “I don’t know the meaning of the word. Now come over here and take your punishment like a woman.”

  I slinked to the side of the bed. Harry pulled the tie from my neck, draping the garment over his cock, looping it around and into his hands. He held the tie as if it were the reins of a horse; his cock strained like a stallion ready to burst from the gate. He rubbed himself. I wanted to help him play with his cock, but I was afraid to show any initiative in case he fell into the lazy man’s trap of expecting me to do all the work without direction. I need firm direction. I was desperate for a man to take charge of my bedroom, and my patience was rewarded by Harry’s uncompromising tones.

  “Don’t just stand there admiring my cock. Take off your trousers, bad Penny. Stand at the foot of the bed and take them off. You’ve been a naughty girl. I’m going to thrash you. I’m going to spank your pretty little bottom until it is shiny and pink and then watch as it turns black and blue, but first I want to ogle you as you undress. I want you to give me the sluttiest striptease show I’ve ever seen. Make me want to come just from looking atchya.”

  “Certainly, Harry. I’ll do anything you ask.”

  I backed away from Harry, my fingers on the zipper and buttons of my pinstriped trousers as I retreated. Harry pulled my tie tighter around his cock, sliding the silk backward and forward to massage his erection. I inched my zipper down and peeled the flaps of the trousers apart. Harry looked closely, but the white shirt covered my flesh. Pushing the waistband down my hips, I wiggled, sticking my bottom backward as the trousers dropped down my thighs to pool around my ankles in a crinkled heap. I stepped out of the trousers, kicking them aside with my stocking-covered toe. The white shirt draped low to my thighs, almost reaching the tops of the stay-up black stockings that came above my knee. Harry whistled.

  “You are a naughty girl, Penny, dressing like a whore for a job interview. Take off your shirt, naughty Miss Penny whore.”

  “Yes, Harry, but I have a confession to make. I wasn’t on a job interview. I was on the job. You’re right to call me a whore because I’ve become one since losing my teaching position.”

  A smile crept across Harry’s face. He looked truly pleased to know that I was a professional woman.

  “That’s lovely. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. You’re going to save me lots of trouble. I have just the job for you, and to get you ready for it I’m going to teach you a few new positions tonight, Miss Penny whore. I knew it when I saw you. I said, ‘Harry, there’s a girl who wouldn’t mind being paid to fuck and beat old geezers.’ We’re a marriage made in heaven and hell, Miss Penny whore, because I’m a gentleman pimp looking for a high-class lady like you, but before I accept you into my exclusive stable you’ve got to prove yourself. Now what are you stalling for? Strip for me. Make my cock harder than it’s ever been, all the harder to fuck you with.”

  How wonderful. I did not have to be ashamed of what I’d become. I undid the buttons of my shirt one by excruciating one, beginning with the cuffs, then moving to the neck, and descending down to the very last one that hovered in the vicinity of my cunt. Arching my arms backward, I let the garment fall from my body. Harry gasped his approval. My skin was as white as the shirt, contrasting sharply with the jet black of the bra, my camisole panties and opaque stockings.

  Harry was breathing harder.

  “Show me your tits, whore.”

  “Yes, Harry, I’ll show you my whore’s breasts.”

  “Tits.”

  “Yes, I’ll show you my whore’s tits.”

  “That’s better, now you’re learning.”

  I reached behind and unsnapped the push-up bra. Shrugging my shoulders, I let the lacy object fall forward and join the shirt and trousers.

  “Pinch your tits, whore. Make your whore’s nipples hard for me so that when I spank you, you’ll be able to feel them rub against my cock—that you’ve made so hard, you little slut.”

  Harry’s brusque manner and crude language reminded me of my younger days at the country estate where Cousin Geoffrey had been forced to discipline me for leading the gardener astray. I spoke in a little girl voice.

  “Yes, Harry. I’ll make them very hard for your cock.”

  I gripped my nipples between my thumb and forefingers and pulled my small, firm breasts forward into fleshy cones. I twisted my nipples in circular motions, my golden areolae and pale breast flesh following in enticing spirals behind the dark brown nubs. I could tell my slutty display pleased and amazed Harry. We were meant for each other.

  “Come over here, you bad girl, Penny. You’re a natural tease. You belong in a dive bar stripping for rowdy men. You must be punished for being a whore who plays with her tits to get men so excited. Get yourself over here and fast.”

  “Yes, Harry. Punish me. Teach me to be a good girl who comes when bad men fuck her.”

  Harry looked puzzled over my last comment, not knowing that I can’t come unless I’m dominated, and most men are too afraid to take control, especially on the first date and/or the first fuck. I need a bad man, and Harry was a skilled, smooth operator who righteously fell into that category. He would soon enough figure out my peccadilloes. As I hoped, realization dawned on his face as I bounded over to him, pulling at my breasts as I ran. I dived across his lap as he propped himself up in the bed with a few pillows, and my breasts collided with his erection. My nipples were rock hard as they glided across his cock.

  “Put your hands behind your back. I’m going to tie your hands so tight that you can’t struggle, and no matter how much you beg me, I won’t go easy on you.”

  Harry took the silk tie and knotted it around my wrists, securing the bond tight. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my black camisole panties, but before he slid them down my slender hips, he paused.

  “Before you can be punished, you must confess.”

  My little girl voice returned with just a hint of Victorian melodrama thrown in for good measure.

  “Oh shame, shame. Must I tell you all?”

  “Yes, you must tell me everything.”

  Harry’s cock pulsed against my breasts; I rubbed them across his glans, making my nipples harder with every brush of his cockhead.

  “Oh Harry, men pay me to spank them. I am horrible. I enjoy it tremendously. I love watching their come shoot across the room as I spank their bottoms. I’m such a filthy whore, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, yes, Penny whore, you are, and I shall punish you for taking advantage of these poor helpless men, and after that you will agree to do anything I ask.”

  “Oh yes, but punish me hard. Don’t go easy. Do your best of your worst. I’ll do whatever you ask, Harry. Just spank me very hard. I must pay for all the men I’ve punished. That’s why I was crying in the pub. I’d just finished beating a man and had been paid very well for it too. I left his flat feeling so aroused and filthy. They never make me come. I beat them, but I want to be beaten. They come and then it’s over. I leave
and have to play with myself to get rid of the nasty feelings in my pussy. I sometimes can’t wait until I get home. I go to the nearest filthy bathroom and masturbate myself to orgasm. I need punishing too. I need punishing until I come. Oh punish me hard, Harry, spank me into submission.”

  Harry’s fingers peeled down my knickers. The luxurious material stuck between my damp thighs. I was wetter than the London weather. Showing the ideal temperament that I crave, he tired of my panties sticking between my thighs. With a sudden strength that took my breath away, he tore the sodden silky garment from its sticky trap. He stroked the pert globes of my bottom. He traced the faint bruises on my otherwise perfect skin, whistling his appreciation for the last punishment I received. The bruises had faded and needed to be refreshed, and Harry was just the man to bring back the black, blue and purple badge of honor I wear with pride.

  “Punish you hard, Miss Penny whore? Hard? Is that what you want? Like this?”

  Harry gave me no chance to answer. His hand came down on my arse more dramatically than forcefully. I felt my bottom ripple, sending a slight shock wave through my body and onto Harry’s cock. It felt glorious to me, and by the way his cock twitched its appreciation, Harry too must have enjoyed the thrill.

  “I am going to spank you harder, Miss Penny whore, because you spank those poor pathetic men who pay you large amounts of cash to spank them harder than they deserve. I shall hit you harder because you are such a naughty girl. You’re a spanking whore, and I shall reward you for it in the manner to which you shall become accustomed.”

  Harry’s palm came down with a reverberating crack on my punishable posterior. My head shot back. My bottom tensed in resistance. The pain was immediate and exquisite. Harry’s cock throbbed.

  “Yes, yes, like that. More, Harry, spank me more. Punish wicked Penelope.”

  “How did you become such a spanking whore, naughty Penny?”