Anything for You

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  We’d been married for just over a year before somehow, my buff, seemingly butch hubby, who loved to race his motorcycle when we ventured out of the city, who was proud of his home-cooked steaks, who grew a beard and disdained the “pretty boys” who got proper haircuts rather than having their wives trim their tresses, revealed to me one day that what he wanted most was to worship at my feet; to be my servant, my slave, my pet. Inside his macho exterior lurked the heart of a pure submissive. He’d never done it, but he’d apparently spent the last six months thinking about submitting, thinking about giving it up to me, his wife who usually could be found on all fours taking his gigantic cock in my pussy and once in a while in my ass. Instead of my bending over, he wanted me to tower over him. Okay, there was a little more that he wanted—like the chance to lick anonymous women’s pussies, to be used like a toy, but all that only worked if I was the one “making” him do it.

  It was a revelation, the first time he said it. My mind whirred with this new side of him, more surprised that he’d kept the fantasy from me than that he possessed it in the first place. It’s not like we were shy and retiring, or never talked about sex; we made sure to keep our sex life as lively as it had started out, after our whirlwind, very hot romance, which included joining the mile-high club, plenty of phone sex and all sorts of sharing of dirty talk. I’d thought that in the year and a half we’d been together we’d unearthed each other’s every secret; not that I was bored or anything, but I felt like we’d grown into ourselves, our marriage, and were at a point where we could finish each other’s sentences. But apparently, there were things I still had to learn. I was in the middle of spinning a tale of me punishing an imaginary wisp of a girl I’d bring home, telling her how she’d sucked his cock the wrong way, when something shifted.

  “You’re gonna punish her really hard, right? Spank her ass?” His voice betrayed his excitement. The truth is, we weren’t really entertaining the idea of a threesome, but it was the fantasy, the image, the idea that we were both responding to. I wasn’t opposed to adding another woman—or man—into the mix someday, but not just yet. First I wanted to see how far we could take our own filthy fantasies.

  “Yeah, you want to see that, right?” As I was talking, he turned over, and there was his ass, right before me. I cupped his cheeks and before I knew it I was giving Mason a demonstration of just what I would do to our mystery girl.

  “You want me to tie you up and have women come over and sit on your face, is that what you’re telling me?” I asked him one night as I myself straddled his pretty face, giving him his fill of his favorite meal. By then, I’d gotten used to our favorite fantasy scenario, had started to think of myself the way Mason thought of me, at home and when I was outside of it. I’d never been with anyone, man or woman, who was so eager for oral—even me, and I can’t get enough cock down my throat, when I’m with the right person. His enthusiasm in turn engendered my own, but what I loved most was feeling him tremble when I talked dirty to him, when I spun tales of all the wicked things I was discovering I’d like to do to him.

  I’m not naturally the dominant type; I haven’t always taken the pride I do now in seeing a man cowering before me, but Mason has turned me into the kind of woman who loves a cruel smile, a harsh look, who loves to fling her boot out and watch him scurry to pull it off. That attitude has carried over into my professional life, where I’ve risen up the ranks of the cosmetics company I started at as a secretary; now I’m a vice president.

  I thought for a moment about my climb up the corporate ladder as I watched Mason crawl on the ground, surrounded by beautiful women. This was his dream come true, and watching his ass—his middle-aged, hairy ass; the one I thought of as mine to enjoy—made me smile. In a way, I was doing this for him, but in so many other ways, I was doing it for me. I stood taller when he got on his knees. I got wet when he groveled, and I got a thrill out of seeing the other women coo over him. He truly was like a pet, or a toy, and thinking of him that way only made me love him more. I also knew he’d never be the type to cheat; why would he, when I allow him to lick all the pussies he wants? Well, that’s not entirely true.

  When he crawled over to me and I leaned down so he could kiss his way up from my cleavage to my neck, and then he whispered in my ear, “Mistress?” I had a feeling I knew what was coming.

  “Yes, pet?”

  “There is a woman who I’d like to play with. She’s over there and she has a beautiful flogger and…”

  “And what?” I prompted, knowing it would be a struggle for him to praise her without somehow denigrating me. Watching his mouth open and close amused me—and aroused me. I was pleased to find that I wasn’t just doing this for him, because that one-sided type of sacrifice can ruin any relationship, even a kinky one.

  “And…she’s looking for someone to torture.”

  “And you think you’d be just the right someone?” I asked him.

  “Because I…” he paused. “Because I want to try something new. You know I’m devoted to you, Mistress, one hundred percent. I want everyone to watch and see how much I can take, and be jealous of you that you get to take home such an obedient boy.” I smiled. It was a good answer, a way of spinning his own urgent desire into something that would give me some street cred, too. I wanted Mason to be happy, because without that, what was the point of our marriage? And by now I was curious to see what exactly would happen when I let him roam and play.

  “Okay, you have my permission, but you better be done in half an hour, or I’m going to drag you out of here by your hair and make you crawl around outside on the street wearing only what you’re wearing now.” Of course I’d never do such a thing, but it was plausible enough that he didn’t need to know my true intentions. I could tell that my “threats” were part of what got him excited, and doing that for him in turn made me feel like a good wife, not in a traditional way, but in my way. Yes, call me crazy, but I saw my act of issuing bold threats of bodily harm almost, well, romantic.

  Mason was overjoyed, and if he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging. Instead, his cock bobbed up and down. “But you know that your cock belongs to me, right? We don’t have to get you a cage for it, do we?” I reached down and stroked his balding head, my gentle hand playing good cop to my words’ bad cop.

  “Of course not. I’d never let another woman touch me there.” Mason sounded almost offended that I’d even mention it.

  “Okay then, you head on over, I’ll be by to watch soon. Be good for her; I don’t want to hear any complaints.” I unclipped the chain but kept the collar on him, smiling as I watched him go, then stood and surveyed my surroundings. I’d slowly turned into the kind of woman who belonged in such a setting, a woman who could walk proudly, even in five-inch heels, and not feel self-conscious about her breasts practically hanging out of a corset. It’s taken me a while to become comfortable with my voluptuous body, to not want to whittle it down to a size six or four, but to be proud of its ten or twelve. Even with Mason’s love and devotion, it wasn’t until we started coming to parties like these that I truly saw what the extra weight could do for me, how it helped me to tower over men like Mason, how it made the snap of a whip sound that much louder, how my heft made me more of a woman, not less.

  I owed that to him, though I’d never quite gotten around to telling my husband that. He didn’t need to know my every innermost thought; I’d learned that that was one of the keys to a happy marriage. I walked toward him and found him with a bright red butt plug sticking out of his ass, one that looked on the large side. I knew he’d never worn one before; we’d talked about it, but that was as far as it had gotten. His lips were wrapped around the heel of a shiny black boot, which was attached to a strikingly beautiful woman with long, glossy black hair, shiny pink lips and layers of mascara. She looked like she was in her early twenties, and for a moment, jealousy threatened to undo my inner goddess.

  But then I walked closer and saw the look of joy on Mason’s face as he suck
ed, his eyes closed. I stepped back when a loud cracking sound issued right near me; it was a whip, landing on Mason’s ass. He let out a yelp, but went right back to sucking the boot. The woman looked up at me and winked, the perfect action to pacify my nerves. She seemed to know that the man sucking on her boot was mine, all mine, and that she was only borrowing him. He was her pet not for the night, but for the moment.

  “Is this your owner, slave?” she called down to him, pointing toward me.

  Mason’s face flushed red before he said, “Yes, Ma’am, that’s Mistress Stephanie.” He’d called me “Ma’am” and even “Mistress,” but never “Mistress Stephanie,” like a proper title.

  “Is my property behaving?” I asked, just as the woman with sleek white hair sent another crack of the whip against his butt.

  “Oh yes, he is,” the first woman said, running the tip of her shoe along his cheek. He smiled up at her while I surveyed the scene. Just then I spied a young man who looked like he could use a spanking. I knew this because he was holding a somewhat forlorn sign saying SPANK ME. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. If Mason could indulge, so could I. “I’ll be back,” I said, and knew Mason would be curious about where I’d gone. I didn’t need to watch him at work to know how grateful he would be to me for granting him this excursion.

  “What’s your name and how old are you?” I kept my voice husky and severe.

  “George. I’m twenty-one.”

  “A baby, are you? Well, George, that’s my husband right over there,” I said, pointing toward Mason. George gasped, then looked back at me. “Maybe someday you’ll be lucky enough to be married to a woman like me, but right now, I have a little time on my hands and I wouldn’t want to see a birthday boy like you not get the spanking you deserve. I’m going to give you one smack for each year you’ve been alive, and you’re going to thank me for them, loudly. You’re going to say, ‘Thank you, Mistress Stephanie.’ Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mistress Stephanie,” he said, and proceeded to position himself across my lap. I pulled down his pants and gave him a nice, firm slap. The sound echoed in the air and I soon became enamored of the way this lithe young man reacted to each smack. I didn’t forget about Mason, exactly, but he wasn’t foremost in my mind. I knew he was in good hands—or feet, as it were.

  “Louder!” I roared as I reached the eighth blow, wanting to make sure Mason heard, wanting him to know that while I was here mostly at his behest, this wasn’t all about him. Pets don’t control their owners. By twelve, George’s ass was very red, and very warm. My palm was stinging, so I took more time between slaps, using that time to tease his asshole with my index finger, to pinch his enflamed cheeks, to dig my nails into his back. Spanking him was giving me all sorts of ideas of what I wanted to do with Mason.

  I pictured myself punishing Mason—it didn’t matter for what—and that added extra vigor to my smacks. The last few were extra loud and extra hard, and when I let George stand up and kiss my hand, he was breathing heavily. I walked back over to check on Mason. He had a hand mark across his cheek, and was sitting with his legs tucked beneath him, waiting for me.

  “Did he behave?” I asked the Mistress whose name I hadn’t caught.

  “Well enough,” she said.

  “And?” I prompted Mason.

  “Thank you very much,” he said to each of the women he’d had the pleasure of bottoming to.

  “Now it’s time to go home. And you’re going to wear just your rubber shorts.” At his look, I smiled. “Yes, of course I brought them for you; I wouldn’t let you walk around with your cock, the one that belongs to me, hanging out. You can also wear your shoes.” I could tell he wanted to protest, that he thought maybe I was taking our D/s arrangement a little too far, but I’d granted him his wish, and he was going to grant me mine. That was how things worked in this brave new kinky world.

  “Yes, Mistress Stephanie,” he said. I grabbed his cock and led him toward our bags, squeezing just a little harder than I needed to. And I liked the way it felt. Our night was far from done, but we’d each gotten something that we’d wanted. I may not be naturally dominant, but I’m a fast learner. And I have the best teacher a Mistress could ask for.

  NORMAL

  Charlotte Stein

  I guess we look like any normal couple. More normal than any normal couple, in fact. He wears plaid shirts and khakis, and I wear twinsets, and we go to town meetings. While at the town meetings, we eat the normal amount of free cookies and sandwiches and sometimes we have punch. Everybody shakes our hands and no one averts his gaze, so I know we at least seem ordinary.

  But I know they’d think something different if they were with me in the entryway to our little normal house with its painted shutters and the welcome mat at the door. Normal couples don’t do what we’re doing, with the autumn air still rushing in from outside and his hand just reaching to put the keys on their hook.

  That’s right. We have a key hook and winter jackets and a doorbell that chimes the theme from “The Simpsons.” We also have a game where I put two fingers to the back of his neck and say, “If you move a muscle, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle. We’ve played this game often enough for him to know not to. His hand hovers near the hook, as still as if some gunman had really come up behind him and pressed the barrel to his skin, but more impressive than that is his other arm, the one that’s slightly curled because he was also going to take off his jacket and now he’s caught. It must be uncomfortable, being frozen in that half-caught-in-a-sleeve position, but he manages it. He always manages it.

  One time I snuck up on him as he was bending over to run a bath, and he stayed like that, too. Hunched, barely balanced on anything stable, one hand reaching, just like now. And he’d remained that way for as long as I required him to—though when you think about it, what sort of person would refuse to with a gun pushed into the small of his back?

  It’s these little things that make me certain he believes the act, utterly. He believes it in a weird way, as though some part of his brain is always just waiting for this and inside that part, he’s sure: I would freeze in position until my muscles burned and my head swam, if this really happened.

  Though the word this has a little leeway in it, because I know what he does if he’s actually threatened. One time some guy tried to grab my purse and he yanked him back by his jacket and punched him in the face. Really quick, too, as though he didn’t have to think about it and the guy should just get punched. He’s a big man, so it’s not as though he has anything to be afraid of.

  But he’s afraid of this, because this isn’t some guy mugging us in a parking lot. This is something else altogether, something weird that started for reasons undisclosed. I want to say it started because we were messing around with water pistols and somehow I pinned him down, though that word somehow has a lot of leeway in it, too. It bends as far as he kind of let me and I kind of liked it, and then I said, “I’ll smack you with the butt of this thing if you don’t stop your fucking squirming,” and he looked…I don’t know. The way he sometimes looks when I go down on him.

  It’s very easy to tell, on him. It’s how we ended up going out in the first place. I was shy and he was too cute, and I didn’t realize he wanted me until I gave him a friendly hug and saw his flushed face afterward. I rarely know when a man is progressing toward turned on, but it had been pretty obvious, then. He gets all hot eyed and fidgety, and the things he says aren’t as smooth as the things he was saying before.

  He can be smooth when he wants to be. Charming, even. Lots of girls liked him, before I got him. But lots of girls probably wouldn’t understand him saying—smoothly, of course—“Would it be such a bad idea if we played that game again? You know. The one with the water pistols.”

  Though of course we don’t need water pistols, now. My fingers are enough, like little kids playing cops and robbers, only he’s the cop and I’m the robber and I always somehow get one up on him. Even when it�
��s just my fingers. Even though he’s a foot taller than me and built so big it sometimes makes me shiver just looking at him.

  I’m wet already, and I don’t know if it’s because of him and the way he smells tonight—like that good aftershave he bought—or because of the game. The game. The one that’s probably taking over our lives.

  I mean, we play it at least once a month, now. That’s bad, right? Or is it just bad that we play it at all? Normal couples play games, I know it. But they don’t sound like our games—or maybe they do.

  Just the other way around.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” he says, and I wonder who he imagines I am. Is that what this fantasy’s about? Him imagining me as someone else, someone rougher—maybe even a man? Just because he reacted differently when it really was a man—that doesn’t mean anything. That was reality. This is fantasy. It’s different, when you can control all the parameters. It’s different when you know someone might really hurt you or hurt your wife.

  It could be that he secretly wishes I was big and strong and masculine.

  Though when I really think about it…the things he’s actually asked for…the ones he’s dared to voice despite the fact that neither of us really discuss this…they were all very one way. You don’t ask someone to push her breasts into your back when you want to pretend it’s a man attacking you. And somehow I doubt you’d need someone’s pussy all over your face, if you were desperately craving dick.