Yes, Ma'am

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Each time I changed the movie, they’d restrain my hands again. Eventually, I came across a movie I liked, as evidenced by my returning hard-on. Surprise, surprise, it was about some ball-busting women tying some guy up and fucking him in front of an audience. See, he didn’t know there was going to be an audience until he was already tied up, then they opened some curtains and he could see a room full of people watching. I really liked that part. I told you I was an exhibitionist!

  Then three different women fucked him with strap-ons. I didn’t think I’d like that part, but I did. Or at least my cock did. That kind of disturbed me a little bit—that my cock seemed to like that so much—but I wasn’t too scared because I knew I was alone and no one was going to come in and do that to me.

  The voices made all sorts of comments about what I liked and what they should do to me and about all the precome dripping from my cock. They put a close-up of my cock on the TV screen for me to watch in an inset box alongside the movie. That was kind of cool. You never see yourself like that. I mean, even if you watch yourself masturbate, the angle’s different, you know?

  At one point in the movie, this one woman was scratching the guy’s balls with these long metal clawlike things on the ends of her fingers. I guess my legs started to come together and the woman who seemed to be in charge barked, “Keep those legs apart!” The next thing I knew, my feet were rooted to the floor, with my legs really wide apart.

  “There are magnetic points in strategic places that we can activate, Pretty. Why, what sort of fun would it be if we couldn’t tether you to something when we wanted to? Yes, there are points like this all over, not just in the floor, but you’ll see. It seems we have a live one, girls!”

  The movie I was watching ended but another came on right after it. This one showed a guy attached to a wall, again with an audience. There was only one woman in it. She was beautiful but really mean. You could tell she liked hurting the guy. Like when you watch a horror movie, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

  “Mmm, Pretty, Pretty. You like that, don’t you?”

  I almost hadn’t heard her. No, I didn’t like that. I wasn’t into that sort of thing. I stole a glance at my cock on the screen and saw it bobbing and dancing. They unfastened my wrists and the woman told me I could touch myself. My hands raced to my shaft and started pumping.

  “Stop!”

  It took me a second, but I managed to stop.

  “I’m going to let you come, but I’ll tell you when. There’s a part coming up here that I think you’ll really like. It’d be a shame if you came too soon and missed it, don’t you think?”

  They freed my hands. “Press PAUSE on the remote.” They freed my legs and told me to open the drawer in the coffee table. Toys. There were lots of different kinds of toys. There were things in there I had no idea how to use or what they might be meant for.

  “Now Pretty, you see that sweet little red butt plug?”

  I suppose I hadn’t really been thinking when I looked in the drawer that these were for me to use—on myself! Whoa, butt plug? And it wasn’t “little” either. Somehow, I gave myself away.

  “What’s the matter, Pretty, never used one of those? Ooh, I think you’ll like it. Don’t you think he’ll like it, girls?”

  Once again, there were choruses of, “Oh yes,” and, “You know it.”

  “And besides, it’s always so much fun watching a sweet little anal virgin trying to insert his first plug! Here’s what you’re gonna do, Pretty; you’re going to pick up that bottle of lube and the red plug, close the drawer, and walk around the table so you’re standing between the TV and the table. That’s right. Now, you’re going to bend over and put your hands on the tabletop. Yes, that’s nice. Now, take your hands off the table—no, no, don’t stand up—grab your buttcheeks and spread ’em. We want to see that lovely virgin hole of yours. That’s right.

  “Okay, you can let go. Now, squeeze some lube on your right index finger and rub it over your anus. Yes, now get some more lube and do it again. Push your finger in a little bit. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

  And you know what? It did feel good. I wasn’t going to tell her that, but it did kind of turn me on. I’d never done anything like that before. I never thought I’d want to. I mean, I’ve fucked a girl in the ass before and I really liked it, but I never wanted to put anything in my ass. It kind of sent a chill down my spine, into my balls.

  “Answer me, boy, doesn’t it feel nice?”

  “Uh, no.” It wasn’t a total lie, but it wasn’t the total truth either.

  “Well, that’s a shame. I guess you’ll be pretty uncomfortable for a while then. Squeeze some lube on the tip of the plug and coat the whole thing. You need more than that.” I followed her instructions, slicking the plug with the liquid. “That’s better. Now, reach back and pull your cheeks apart with your left hand and find your asshole with the plug.”

  There was some giggling while I tried to locate the right place. I started sweating. My hard-on was gone and I was getting more and more embarrassed, but also more and more aroused. Finally I found my asshole. Listen, it’s not that easy when you’re doing it for the first time and people are watching.

  “That’s it. Now slowly push it in. Keep going.”

  It hurt. I thought it might feel good, and it did, slightly, but it also hurt, straining my unused anal muscles to the max. I told them it hurt and they said it wouldn’t hurt for long and to keep going. I finally got it in; I felt my ass close over the bump and the plug sort of got sucked up and held tight. She was right, it didn’t hurt anymore. It felt all right—nice, actually. The longer it was in there, the less I felt it.

  “Stand up, Pretty.”

  I felt it then, like an electric shock straight to my cock, which wasn’t so soft anymore, by the way. She told me to walk around to the couch again and take a seat. Walking was an interesting experience. Sitting down was an even more interesting experience.

  “Press PLAY and put your hands behind your back again. That’s right, squirm all you like, but open those legs.”

  I felt the magnets lock as the movie started again. It was hard to concentrate on the movie with the butt plug in. I couldn’t keep still, and every time I moved, another foreign sensation would take hold of my cock or my balls.

  It wasn’t until the bitch in the movie shoved a big plug into the guy she’d been tormenting earlier that I was drawn back to watching. I realized my hands were free and they were wrapped around my cock. I have no idea how they got there, but there they were. She started smacking his balls with a riding crop and his cock got harder and harder. So had mine. I was riveted to the screen and whacking off for all I was worth. I think I’d forgotten where I was.

  When she told me to come, I almost didn’t hear her. I probably would have come anyway and I bet she knew it. The woman in the movie gave the guy a really hard smack on the side of his cock and he just exploded. So did I. Holy shit, I’d never felt anything like that, and you’ve got to remember, this was just the first day, the first few hours!

  Oh fuck! I wasn’t going to tell you what it was that turned me on that much….

  I’ve only been home a few days and I still can’t believe all the stuff that happened.

  You know what she said before I left—the woman who made me do most of those crazy things? She said she was also the woman in that video I was watching. That same woman was in a lot of the videos, at least a lot of the videos they made me watch. I think she lives here. Yeah, well, probably not in Staten Island, but I bet she lives in the City.

  Listen, actually, that’s why I’m telling you all this stuff. See I got this idea. I really have to find her. I guess maybe I’m a little obsessed, you know? So I was wondering if I could borrow your gallery space. I mean, I know you only get to show there once a year and all, but it would be perfect, and besides, I’ll make it up to you, man. But, a lady like her—I bet she goes to lots of art openings. Anyway, she’d want to see this one. There’s no way she would p
ass it up.

  It would be just like at the loft, only this time it would be open to the public. Don’t they still do that performance art stuff? It’d be like that. People could come in and watch me and tell me what to do, but only the ladies. And then when she showed up to see what all the noise was about, well then I could talk to her. I could tell her I wanted to do…I could tell her I wanted to be her slave, or… Okay, that sounds lame, but you know what I mean.

  So could I borrow your space? Please? I can’t stand it; I just have to find her. I think this would really impress her. I know she liked me and if I could only see her in person, just once, I know everything would work out right.

  SECRETARY’S DAY

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  The day of my interview with one of the top law firms in New York City, I’m sweating through my brand-new designer suit, desperately mopping at my brow as I try to look composed. I’m fresh out of Rutgers, making my way through round after round of Manhattan office buildings, steep high-rises filled with bankers, lawyers, editors, and businessmen. Being a male applying for a job as an administrative assistant in the year 2007 is no easy task, let me tell you. Sure, we’ve said that we’re all about equal opportunity, but to the minds of most bosses, the job is still that of a secretary, and she should be wearing a suit, heels and pearls. I’ve done plenty of temp work, can type one hundred words per minute, and am prompt and efficient, not to mention having edited the school paper, but so-so grades and a major in American studies have landed me here today.

  Well, that and the fact that women in suits make my cock hard. Unbearably hard. So hard it’s almost painful. Women with power, the power to tower over me, to snap their fingers and make me obey; women who need their phones answered, need coffee brought to them, need a man “ready for anything,” as the classic David Allen business book advises. The kind of woman who’s got so much going on, who’s turbo-charged and needs someone to keep her action-packed, meeting-filled day running smoothly, that’s the kind I dream about.

  I’ve never told anyone about these fantasies, but I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. While my buddies went for the hot cheerleader types or the sweet girls-next-door, I was after the valedictorian, Audrey Hayden (and occasionally fantasized about our very prim and proper English teacher, who was actually British). With Audrey, I loved the way she raised her hand so knowingly in class, the smug look on her face when she finished a test, and, most especially, seeing her in her interview suits. She looked so efficient, so strong, like she could take over the world, become president or an ambassador. Power wasn’t something she questioned, but something she owned, and rather than wanting power of my own, I wanted her power unleashed on me. With Audrey, I never got up the courage to tell her how I felt, just looked longingly at her from afar.

  Aside from my fetish, the fact is, if I want to move out of my parents’ house in Hackensack, I need to get a job fast. I’ve been grilled about my background, ambitions, and educational history, usually by creaky older guys who look like they could barely get it up in the sack, let alone submit to a woman if they were smart enough to know how exciting it would be. Or could be, I guess I should say, since I’ve never actually realized these fantasies. I’m just starting to drift off into my go-to jerk-off material, where I’m down on all fours getting my ass inspected by a woman with sharp, spiky heels, bright red lipstick, and a voice that could cut glass, when I hear my name called…by a woman who looks like she’s walked straight out of my naughty daydreams.

  “Matthew Brick!” she calls, my name ringing out amongst the other, all female, applicants. I stand up uncertainly; I definitely arrived after a few of the women here, and we all signed in on a clipboard. Some of them sigh, chomp their gum, blow their bangs huffily off of their foreheads. They’ve noticed this preferential treatment, too. But I look up at the woman with gleaming black hair done up in a bun, wire-rim glasses, an off-white blouse, navy skirt, bare legs and four-inch heels, and follow her, doing my best to look professional. “I’m Ms. Davis,” she says, and something about the way she introduces herself—the inscrutable Ms., the lack of a first name, the clipped tone—further sets me off. “I’m the senior partner here and in charge of overseeing the office, so this position will require a lot from whoever gets it. I expect my assistant to be at my beck and call pretty much twenty-four hours a day. You’ll have a BlackBerry and cell phone and I expect you to keep them on at all times.” She’s talking like I already have the job, while I try to keep my eyes straight ahead instead of on her ass as we walk down a long hallway, but it’s hard not to stare. It’s even harder not to picture myself on my knees, wrists bound behind my back, while my tongue plays between those pert cheeks.

  Actually, I’d do anything she wants: massage her feet, get her coffee, spend hours under her desk tonguing her to orgasm. I’d even sit meekly, as I am now, while she flicks through papers on her desk. “I see here that you were the editor of your campus newspaper. Interesting. I’m curious how such a promising young man as yourself is now up for a position like this.” She puts my resume down and leans across the desk, her ferocious gaze gobbling me up. Something in her brown eyes sears into me, and I think of a cat opening its jaw, teeth flashing. “It seems to me that you’d want to be the one giving orders, not taking them, and I’m not sure how you’d feel about working for me. We’re a big company but I run things with an iron fist. Employees are expected to go above and beyond, and this position calls for it more than any other.”

  “Well, I got into some trouble in school, slacking off a bit, if you must know,” I say, my heart pounding. “I was spending so much time running the newspaper that I let my studies get away from me. But I’ve changed my ways and am now ready to take on real, adult responsibilities.” I don’t tell her that my male professors had failed to inspire the kind of diligence, not to mention lust, that she already had in me. There was no way I’d let someone like Ms. Davis down. “I’d be fully committed to making your day run smoothly.” I don’t add that I’d be fully committed to making her nights hum steadily along as well. I’m trying to quell my aching cock in my lap as I listen to her go through the duties that would be expected of me. It’s much more than filing and answering phones. I’d be entrusted with an enormous amount of responsibility, would have to do errands for her at off hours, make phone calls, book trips, attend meetings, and make crucial decisions in her absence.

  As she wraps up, I picture her sitting at her desk, while I stand behind her, massaging those majestic shoulders, helping to take away some of her cares. I tune back in to hear her saying, “I’ll need some references from your old bosses, and I will confirm with you next week, but as long as you can prove yourself useful around here, you’ve got the job.” She stands up and brusquely dismisses me, and I’m partly grateful because my arousal is too great to ignore. I’m tempted to use the bathroom in the building to jerk off, but I leave, walking by all those seemingly perfect girls. I feel their glares on my back as I wait for the elevator, then go to a nearby bookstore and relieve myself there, all the while thinking about being caught jerking off under my desk by Ms. Davis. I’m grateful that even though my grades weren’t top notch, my senior advisor and journalism professor, who’d overseen the campus paper, had adored me.

  When I get the congratulatory call from Ms. Davis a few days later, I’m ecstatic. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, thank you so much, I truly appreciate this opportunity—”

  She cuts me off. “Enough with the gushing, Brick. Just show up tomorrow and be ready to work.” I do my best to get to sleep early, knowing I’ll have to take the bus in for a few more weeks until I can find a nearby place of my own. I awake with the sun, my cock hard, fresh from a dream in which Ms. Davis takes her hair out of her bun and then lashes it across my face, then tickles my cock with her long tresses before instructing me on how to wash, condition and style it. I know none of the things I’m fantasizing about are in my job description, but there’s something about this
powerful woman that makes me feel like she might want to take things even further.

  I arrive and do my best to put on a completely professional appearance. I’m thrown right into the thick of things from the first moment. Ms. Davis (whose first name is Vanessa, but I’m never to call her that) barely has time to introduce me to anyone, and I get lots of pitying looks from my new coworkers. “Hang in there,” is their common refrain, and I surmise that my predecessor had only lasted a short while. Hints of her demise are everywhere, but I’m too frantic answering Ms. Davis’s incessantly ringing phone, organizing the incoming mail, and trying to remember where things go and who’s who that I don’t have time to ponder the desk’s previous occupant too much.

  Finally, a day of sweating and nerves and nonstop running around (I ate a roast beef sandwich someone thrust on my desk at one point in about three bites) comes to an end. I’m afraid I’ll get fired already for some imagined misdeed, but the office quiets and everyone else goes home, so I eventually do too. I’m hoping for a special message from Ms. Davis, but she seems intent on whatever she’s doing in her office and I don’t want to interrupt her. The rest of my first week follows pretty much the same routine, except that on Friday, just after six, I’m called into Ms. Davis’s office. She summons me over the intercom, with the utmost formality, even though she could pretty much just yell from her office. I rise, and walk slowly into her office, not wanting to let go of what promises to be a fabulous job.

  “Sit down,” she says, her voice severe. She looks me over, surveying every inch of my body until I want to shrink into the floor. Does she know about the lusty thoughts I’ve harbored? “I wanted to congratulate you on a successful first week. I know I threw a lot at you, and you handled it like a pro.” My breath whooshes out of me with her praise. I’m not getting fired. Then her long nails tap sharply on her desk. “However, there are some additional duties of the job that I’m not quite sure you’re capable of, so I called you in here to test them. These are duties of a more…personal nature,” Ms. Davis says, her eyes drilling into me. I’m hard, and I wonder if she can tell. “Do you think you can handle these extracurricular tasks? Not every man is up for the job,” she says, emphasizing my gender in a way that makes me squirm.