Yes, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Harry punctuated his question with a loud slap. During my answer, he smoothed the rapidly reddening flush of my asscheeks, his wandering fingers brushing the pout of my inflamed mons, dipping deeply to coat his fingers with the wetness of my pussy. I was dripping for him.

  “After losing my teaching job I came to London. I stopped in a telephone box outside of the train station to call for a place to stay. Inside the box were all these small cards from women—whores—advertising their services.”

  For the next spank, Harry smeared my cunt juice over my rosy arsecheeks, making them tingle even more.

  “Hooker cards.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s what they are called. Many advertise spanking and similar perversions. I’d lost my job because I’d acted like a slutty whore, so I felt as if I was fated to become one. I rented this flat and advertised—a plain card, no picture, offering Naughty Schoolteacher Gives Punishment to Rude School-boys. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. There are so many men who want to be spanked.”

  “And not enough naughty whores who do their job well.”

  “Then I have found my true calling and as a reward you must spank me harder.”

  “I shall spank you harder, and your reward will be to know that it is allowable to spank these useless men for buckets of cash as long as you then submit to me. The scales will be balanced. For you to be a happy Penny you need to give and receive a spanking; your ass tells me so.”

  He had read me so well, and he was completely right. I could continue my spanking career as long as I too was punished. I suddenly felt so liberated. With each blow, I squirmed across his lap, pressing his throbbing erection tight against my stomach, inciting him to do more nasty things to me. Instead of pulling his fingers out of my pussy, Harry lingered inside of me, so that when he smacked my arse he no doubt felt the blow travel through my cheeks, to my pussy and onto his fingers. I had never felt anything like this; the added vibrations inside me made me shake and writhe, my bottom and thighs tensing on his fingers. I howled.

  “Harry, spank me harder, I’m coming. Make me come. Make your Penny whore come. Call me a whore, please, please.”

  “Whore, whore, whore, whore—”

  “Yes, yes, yes I am. I am a naughty little whore. Oh, yes, yes, yes I am. I am coming. You’re making your Penny whore come on you fingers.”

  Harry’s hand rained down on my bottom as his clenched fingers slid in and out of my cunt. I arched my back with each blow to heighten the stinging impact, flopping wildly as I orgasmed over his coaxing digits. Harry continued to spank me as pounding climaxes consumed my being. Weeks of frustrated sexual tension were released from me in a single moment.

  After several minutes’ respite, Harry stroked my head, knotting his fingers in my hair. He pulled my head backward and kissed it.

  “Your punishment isn’t complete, Miss Penny whore. You must drink my come. I enjoy a good cocksucking, and something tells me you are primed to satisfy.”

  “Nothing will give me a greater pleasure. I am an excellent cocksucker.”

  “I’ll be the judge of your oral abilities, wench.”

  I slid off of Harry’s lap and onto my knees. Hands tied behind my back, I stumbled to stand on wobbly legs, eventually diving headlong onto the bed between Harry’s feet.

  He watched my progress with a detached air, to my relief never once offering any gentlemanly assistance. I was overcome with extreme pleasure to be left to my own silly devices, to not hear a pathetic, “Oh, let me help you.” Without the aid of my hands, I used my chin and breasts as props, crawling between his legs, pausing at his crotch, licking the sagging flesh of his balls.

  “May I suck you, Harry?”

  “Only if you suck well.”

  “I shall try, but if I do not meet your standards, please correct me. Punish me into becoming a better cocksucker.”

  Harry grabbed my golden locks and tipped my head back. My mouth bobbed open. A stream of spittle hung down from my lower lip to his balls.

  “Have no doubt that I’ll improve your sucking, woman. Now stop filling your mouth with useless words and eat my cock. Eat my cock, and afterward you must tell me all. Your punishment is not complete until you confess every one of your sins. I want to hear all the dirty things you’ve done. If you’re to work for me and be rewarded with regular punishments, there can be no secrets.”

  Using a handful of my golden hair, Harry pushed my head into his lap and guided his cock into my mouth. Knotting my hair around his fist, Harry manipulated my head up and down his shaft, my lips working magic along his trembling length. I could tell it would not be long until he erupted.

  “Suck, whore, suck, whore, suck, whore….”

  Harry’s chanting matched every cycle of my pumping mouth. With my hands bound behind me, I couldn’t support myself. My mouth gravitated to the base of Harry’s cock, my face buried in his musky pubic nest. As I writhed and arched to perform a most excellent sucking, I thought not only of his erection and its impending release, but also of being fucked in the arse as I sucked him off. Just like I had in my last job. Perhaps Harry had a client who would oblige me the favor? Thinking of such divine degradation, I climaxed. I ground my pussy into the bedcovers. As Harry came, he reached for my head and pulled me from his orgasming cock by my hair, his stream of milky jism splattering in my face. I lapped at the liquid as if his coming on my pretty facial features was a special honor.

  It was.

  Harry had no idea that in coming on my face he’d fulfilled my special fantasy of being degraded. At that moment I realized my true sluttish nature. Harry had vindicated my decision to follow my slutty self. My life in London was just a reflection of my whorish past, like that first glimpse I’d received at Cousin Geoffrey’s estate all those years ago in my childhood. Just as he had punished me for being such a wanton slut; so had Harry. My life had gone full circle; I was home, where I belonged.

  With his come dripping from my mouth and nose, I looked straight at Harry as he held my head aloft by my luxurious golden mop. I spoke softly.

  “Spank me again, Harry. Fuck me in the arse and spank my bottom, and I’ll tell you my sordid tale.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I didn’t bother to correct Harry that the pleasure was mine too. I was too happy. Stretching into the pale, gray dawn of another London morning, and beyond, he filled the missing parts of my libido. We were Yin and Yang, Spanker and Spankee, Fucker and Fuckee; Harry possessed me like no man ever had the power to do. In return I was glad to give him the perfect woman to use in his high-class escort service for upper-class gentlemen and ladies, because finally I had a gentleman who knew how to treat me wrong.

  THE POWER OF NO

  Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Don’t come,” Enrique ordered. “Whatever I do to you tonight, you are not to come without permission.”

  And then he showed me the rawhide flogger.

  I laughed and said, “As if!”

  I’d come lying across his lap as he spanked me, my bare mound grinding against his muscled thigh, my ass rising to meet his hand, then falling back so I could press against him. That was glorious pain, warm and rose-pink and not much like pain in the usual sense at all. More like the familiar rough edges of a vigorous fuck, of having my nipples twisted to a delicious ache, of being bent into odd positions until my muscles screamed for mercy and I ignored them because the cock pounding hard and fierce into me was just too intoxicating.

  That kind of pain.

  Flogging, though, stung, like paper cuts and lemon juice on a much larger scale. Depending on how hard he was inspired to strike, it stung a lot. At least it did with that rawhide flogger. And since I was a new bottom—brash and impatient and inclined to push myself and find out how much I could really take—I’d ended up, on my first encounter with it, with an ass that felt like I’d sat on a red ants’ nest.

  It had been fun in a weird way. I’d struggled and shrieked and yelped and begged for mercy that I didn’t
really want, at least not enough to use my safeword. When he’d stopped, though, I realized I was dripping wet and as soon as he thrust into me, I’d come, screaming and sobbing and more than a little confused.

  But while the flogging was going on, I was in no danger of coming.

  Which is why I responded as sarcastically as I did.

  I realized almost immediately I’d made a mistake.

  Enrique has a great sense of humor. But it’s one thing to laugh with one’s dom and another to laugh at him—and inexperienced though I was, I knew I’d crossed a line, a knowledge confirmed when he chuckled in a melodrama-villain way and said, “Oh, you’re in trouble now!” He pretended to twirl his black moustache, which fortunately wasn’t long enough to twirl. His dark eyes looked amused rather than annoyed—thank goodness for that—but there was something distinctly sadistic in the amusement, like he loved his work with the Spanish Inquisition and was relishing this new, mouthy heretic.

  I leaned against the bed and braced myself for pain, rolling my safeword silently on my tongue so it would be ready when I needed it. I hadn’t yet, in our first month of playing, but there was a first time for everything and this seemed likely to be it. I’d goaded him, after all.

  “When you’re about to come, say ‘edge,’” he commanded. “I’ll let you know if you may. Now don’t move. I want to see how well you hold position. And don’t come without permission.”

  Too nervous to laugh this time—and, I was convinced, too anxious to need to worry about coming—I took a deep breath and waited for my ass to catch fire.

  Instead, I felt the flogger glide across the skin of my back, a sensual caress. It didn’t feel like the stiff strands I’d been anticipating, either, but something softer, suede perhaps.

  That bastard had switched floggers on me! I itched to turn around and see which he’d chosen. I hadn’t seen even a fraction of Enrique’s toy collection, and curiosity was trying to get the better of me. Those falls felt so velvety as they brushed across my back, making my skin twitch like a cat’s in their wake, sending shivers deep into my core. Maybe they were velvet, or perhaps fur? I wanted to know….

  But I couldn’t make myself turn around.

  I told myself it was because I didn’t want to spoil whatever game he was playing. I wanted to know, but I certainly didn’t want him to stop, and I risked that if I turned around, since he’d told me to hold still.

  That was what I told myself, anyway.

  The flogger trailed lower, teasing my ass briefly, then moving to my thighs. It almost tickled, and I fought the urge to squirm and shiver.

  But I had to do or say something. Erotic tension was pooling between my legs, swelling my nipples, and I wouldn’t be able to hold still much longer under the gentle tickling. “Please,” I begged. “Please flog me.”

  “You want me to flog you? I thought you didn’t like it. You laughed when I suggested you might come from it.”

  “Please…” I took a deep breath and in that second managed to organize my thoughts a bit. “I’m not sure I could come from it, but I do like it. And what you’re doing…tickles.” The last word came out on a shriek, because, as if he read my mind, Enrique quivered the flogger on the sensitive skin of my side, making me want to flinch and jump and dance.

  But I didn’t.

  Enrique noticed. “Good girl,” he said quietly.

  I flushed with pride, and then flushed even deeper when I realized I was doing it. “Good girl”—like I was a kid, or a dog, and still it went to my head.

  And my pussy. I was wet, I realized, far more wet than I could explain from the bit of playing we’d done so far, and the quiet “Good girl” had a lot more to do with that than I was sure I liked.

  And as I was contemplating that, the flogger danced across my ass.

  A far softer sensation than the rawhide thongs, it stung and thumped, but almost simultaneously soothed its own sting with a whispering caress.

  Oh God, I could get used to this!

  I thrust my ass back in invitation.

  Then said, “Oh, shit! I’m sorry.”

  Enrique ran his hand down the curve of my hip, the line of my flank. “You caught yourself, though. And if you must move, I’d rather see you wriggling in pleasure than trying to squirm away.” Unexpectedly, he smacked my ass with his hand, hard, making me yelp in surprise, but at the same time sending a bolt of fire directly to my clit. “But from now on, hold still.”

  Somehow, I managed not to jump.

  I was rewarded with another pussy-clenching, “Good girl.”

  And then he turned again to the flogger.

  Stinging and thuddy and silken, it teased sensation out of me, making my ass throb deliciously and my pussy throb to its rhythm.

  After only a few minutes, I felt swollen, larger than life, and the longer he went on, the more I ached with lust. “Edge,” I hissed through my teeth, knowing all I’d have to do was contract my cunt muscles once, or shift so my slick lips slid over my clit, and I’d be off like a rocket.

  “No,” Enrique said, and changed the soft flogger for the more stinging one I’d experienced before. I hadn’t cared for the sensation that first time, but now, aroused almost beyond sanity by the long dance with soft suede, it felt like the erotic equivalent of a hot Thai curry, fierce but delicious.

  For the first few strokes, the sharp bites were a welcome respite, arousing, but different enough from the earlier sensation that it was almost as if Enrique had hit an arousal-reset button.

  That didn’t last long, though. Soon, I was soaring again, feeling as if my brain and my self-respect had fallen into my wet, greedy pussy and were lost forever.

  I needed. Needed Enrique’s cock in me. Needed a sharper jolt of pain. Needed, more than ever, to come. I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping to distract myself, but that bit of pain just fueled the fire.

  “Edge. Please.”

  “Not yet,” Enrique said, and stepped up the pace of the flogging, striking a bit harder, a bit faster, catching the sensitive flesh of my thighs, the area Enrique called “the sweet spot,” instead of my ass.

  “Edge. Please. Edge. Please, please let me come…” From a plea, I made it into a prayer—but once again, I was denied.

  And perversely, the denial went straight to my clit, putting me in even worse straits.

  My body throbbed, aching to come, or failing that, to dance and squirm under the blows and release a little of the tension coiling inside me. Instead, I counted to twenty in French, and then in Spanish. Then to ten in German, which was all I could remember.

  The effort distracted me just enough. I still felt like I might become a victim of spontaneous human combustion if I didn’t get off soon, but I’d gotten past the critical seconds where I thought I might lose control.

  Using the handle of the flogger, Enrique nudged my legs farther apart.

  I held my breath in anticipation. Maybe now, at last, he’d fuck me, and I’d be allowed to come on his cock.

  “Edge,” I begged on a sighing breath.

  “No.” Enrique’s voice was so stern that I flinched. I didn’t shift my position, but I could feel my muscles twitch and shift under my skin.

  More gently, he added, “You’re doing really well. Such a good, obedient girl.”

  I thought I’d been hot already, but those words made me molten. My few remaining brain cells made a note to try to work through why, because while it’s always nice to be praised, I was astonished by my intense, intensely sexual reaction. Oh, I knew in theory that some people took joy in obedience, becoming putty in someone’s hands…but I’d never pegged myself for one of them, just a straightforward sensation slut.

  I’d figure that out later. Much, much later. Right now, I just wanted to bask in the feeling.

  “Don’t move and ruin it,” he said, putting one big hand on the back of my head, emphasizing I was to stay put, stay leaning against the bed with my head bowed. The feel of that hand, that weight, that authority keepin
g me in place, was almost too much, almost pushed me over the edge. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense at the time, but neither could I deny the sudden contraction of my pussy, or the lava flow between my legs, or the strange tug on my heart that just added to the sensations.

  But I fought back against it. He’d praised me for being good and obedient, and good and obedient I would stay if it killed me.

  Then he struck at the sensitive inside of my thigh, clasping the back of my neck harder as he did as if reminding me to obey. It hurt, but in my current state it was a glorious pain.

  Once, twice, three times, and with each, I shrieked, with increasing desperation, “Edge!” By the third, there were tears of pure frustration running down my face, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let go without permission. Couldn’t disappoint him.

  Couldn’t disappoint myself.

  On the fourth strike, I just broke down and blubbered, “Pleasepleaseplease.”

  “Do you want to come?” Enrique asked calmly, as if I hadn’t been begging for it for what seemed like hours.

  I nodded, whimpered a few more pleases and thank yous.

  He set the whip down on the bed, put both his hands on my shoulders. “Then come for me,” he demanded. “Now.”

  And without any direct touch, with nothing but his word, I came so hard my knees buckled, came so hard I sobbed, came so hard that for a few seconds I couldn’t see or breathe and the pleasure was almost painful in its intensity.

  “I’ve got you,” Enrique said, easing me down onto the bed. He curled up around me and cuddled me close as I came down.

  And just when I was finally sure I wasn’t going to become the first documented case of death by orgasm, his hard cock slipped between my legs, teasing and nudging at my engorged, sensitive pussy lips. Instantly I was aroused again, wanting him in me, wanting to come again. I pushed back against him, begging for more. Begging to be fucked.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Not yet.”

  He had me whimpering “Edge” again as his cock teased at me without entering. This time, though, I knew I could take it, knew I could hold out.