Yes, Ma'am

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Yes, Ms. Davis. I’m still available to you anytime you need me. For anything,” I finish, hoping I don’t sound too impertinent. But apparently I don’t, because then things take a turn for the surreal—and utterly arousing.

  It’s like she can see inside me with those penetrating gazes, because my new boss says, “Give me your tie, Matthew. I need it.” This is the first time she’s called me that, and I hope it means a shift in our relationship. Her voice is almost robotic, so stiff and formal, yet all the more seductive because of it. Part of me wants to be special to her, her boy toy, her trusted right-hand man, even her plaything, but an even greater part of me wants to be a speck of dust, replaceable, inconsequential, someone for her to truly use, abuse, and discard. I detect glimmers that I am the former, but keep doubting them and assuming I’m the latter, and the mental seesaw has me permanently hard, wanting to please her and anger her all at once. When I don’t move fast enough, she gets up, stands before me, towering over me really, and tugs on the tie, enough for it to choke me for a brief, beautiful moment. Then she turns, grabs a pair of scissors from her desk, and brusquely cuts it off me. “‘For anything.’ Those were your words, so I hope you’ll remember them,” she spits at me as she removes the tie from my neck. For some reason I still feel tight there, almost choked, yet I’m perfectly free.

  Ms. Davis is still standing over me, perusing me, as if deciding whether to kick me out or continue her delicious torment. She drills that gaze into me for a moment, then moves to her office door, shuts it, and locks it. She returns, then runs the dull edge of the scissors against my neck, making me flinch. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” she says. “Well, I guess you do,” she murmurs almost to herself when my dick pops right up at her comment. She raises one leg enough to show me a glimpse of her pale thigh, then gently trails the sharp heel of her shoe along my cock. Not enough to hurt, barely enough to make contact, but more than enough to let me know that she’s the boss of me in every way that counts.

  “On the floor,” she says, pointing, as if there’s no need for using any extra words with an underling like me. I do her bidding, settling on the gray carpet. I’m lying faceup, practically inhaling tufts of carpet, dressed in a stiff, white shirt and perfect black pants, shoes shiny, while her dark green alligator heel holds me down in the middle of my chest. She’s simply resting her foot there at the moment, not pressing hard, but my heart is pounding as if she were bearing all her weight on me. I can just about see up her skirt if I move my head to the side, but when I make an attempt, she’s having none of that. She has taken my mutilated tie and is swinging it in the air like a victory lasso.

  “You’ve been waiting for this since that first day, haven’t you? I don’t need to be a genius to see what it’s doing to you,” she says, referring to the monster erection I’m sporting. Her foot moves down, slowly but menacingly, to my cock, then she runs the edge of her shoe along my dick. I wonder if she’ll kick me there, or on my balls; if she’ll stand on top of me with all her weight; if she’ll take off her shoe and shove her stocking-covered smelly toes into my mouth. She does none of these things, though I’d have acquiesced to any.

  “Take it out,” she says, kicking the air near my zipper, depriving me of that most desired contact. Still, the chance to show her what I’m packing, to maybe make her day with my dick is too precious to waste any more time. Under her watch, I reach over the shoe she’s placed back on my chest and unzip my pants, fumbling to unearth my hardness. Then I lie back while my hard-on rises straight up into the air. As turned on as I am by being almost naked beside her, I can’t help but want her to touch it.

  “Very good. Now, we’re going to go over some rules of the office to make sure you’ve been paying attention. Good help is hard to find and I’d rather have a virile man like you than one of those pesky, peroxide blondes who keep applying. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll make sure you’re sorry,” she says.

  I swallow hard, worried now only about coming spontaneously. “Now, what’s the password to my computer?” As she fires off this question, Ms. Davis removes her sleek black jacket. I can see her breasts through her blouse; she hasn’t worn a bra today, but you’d only know that without the jacket.

  “Bitchgoddess-oh-seven,” I immediately reply.

  “How do I like my coffee?”

  These questions are easy, but the look on her face tells me my job depends on getting them right. “Black.”

  “What kind of thread count sheets must you request when I’m traveling for work?”

  “Six hundred.” My voice is getting more and more wobbly as she gets more and more naked. It’s like I’m on a game show, and each question I get right grants me another body part unveiled. Soon her breasts are only separated from me by the air, and the sight of her pert, pink nipples is enough to make me ache.

  “How often do I need you to water my plants?” Hmm…this is a trick question, because she told me to water them a minimum of twice a day, but preferably three. Two, or three? Will I look like I’m showing off if I say three? The last two days I’ve been so busy I’ve only done it twice, so I go with that.

  “Wrong answer,” she says, a cruel grin lighting up her face. “But you know what happens to boys who can’t obey their bosses? They learn new ways to please them,” she says. She steps over me so I can see her pussy. It’s bare and pink and wet. I’ve only been with two other girls, and neither of them shaved, and both wanted to fuck with the lights out. Ms. Davis seems to want to view every inch of my aroused, terror-stricken body. Only the terror is quickly giving way to pleasure when I realize she is about to shut me up in the hottest way possible.

  “Now, Matthew. This is really the only skill you need at this job. The girl who was here before you could barely find her own clit, let alone mine. She didn’t know how to eat pussy, or to make my ass happy. She didn’t know much of anything, but she did let me spank her sweet bottom, so I let her stay for a while. Before her was a football player type who got a bit too aggressive, thinking that we’d take turns being in charge. I want you to remember that I’m always in charge of you. I don’t just need a secretary, I need a servant. A willing, devoted servant. You seem to fit the bill, but I want you to prove it,” she continues, her voice commanding but not, surprisingly, cruel. Beneath her brusque words, I sense a tenderness, a capacity for giving that can only be revealed through this form of speaking. Not that I’m complaining; the way she’s talking is only making me more aroused.

  She surveys me one more time, and I must meet her approval because she gives me that same wicked, wonderful smile, then hikes up her skirt and lowers herself down so I’m enveloped by her pussy. It happens as if in slow motion, and soon we are no longer just secretary and boss, but owned and owner, man and mistress, servant and master. I relish not only the taste of her cunt as it meets my tongue, but also that she sees me as someone capable of absorbing her power and using my submission to strengthen her. Even though I’m young and perhaps idealistic, I know that she cannot seize power, cannot truly attain the levels of greatness she’s capable of, in and out of the office, without an underling to support her. That is my job, and now, with my tongue, I do my best to excel at it. She makes it easy by pretty much shoving her sex into my mouth, by maneuvering all around, by using my face as her own personal Slip ’n Slide.

  I moan against her cunt, feeling the vibrations reverberate from my lips to hers and back. I know I could get fired—hell, she could get fired—for doing this on company property, but I also have a feeling that anyone who tries to fire Ms. Davis would soon find himself in a similar position. Anyone would melt in front of her, and as she overtakes my mouth, I do feel as if I’m melting, into the ground, and into her. She’s melting too, softening bit by bit as her grip on my ears loosens and her moans get softer. Instead of yelling directions, she’s moaning, not words, just sounds. Ms. Davis is turning into Vanessa, turning from corporate to climactic, and all because of me!

  I try to me
morize the taste and feel of her pussy lips, so different from the tentative lapping I’ve done before. With her positive feedback spurring me on, I chance raising my hands and sliding them around her legs so I can play with those lips, stroke that clit. She lets me play with her, so that I’m feeling the wondrous sensual softness inside her. I was right—she does have a gentler side, and I’m touching it right now. Her face looks almost relaxed, younger, yet just as beautiful as before. She still controls me, which she proves by suddenly pressing my head to the floor with her palm and grinding away again. “Suck it!” she says, and I suck her clit, suck her lips, suck everything I can, wishing I had two or even three mouths to suck other parts of her as well.

  Finally, after what feels like an hour but I later learn has only been fifteen minutes, she comes, her orgasm a rumbling, powerful wave crashing against my mouth, her body bouncing against me as she crests. She rises and looks remarkably composed for someone who’s just had her pussy licked so intensely. I feel like we’ve just had sex on a fast-moving vehicle, or a comet. My heart is pounding and I’m glad I’m lying down. I’m so dizzy with desire for her, I almost ignore my cock. This craving, this need, goes deeper than my dick. But Ms. Davis hasn’t forgotten it. She smiles down at me, then goes to her desk and returns with a small bottle. I don’t know what’s in it until she opens it and starts pouring the clear liquid directly onto my cock. It’s cool and slippery and I moan. “Jerk yourself off. Give me a show. But don’t come on my carpet,” Ms. Davis instructs me. “Use this,” she says, handing me a bunch of tissues.

  I’d have thought it would be hard to masturbate in front of anyone else, let alone the woman of my dreams, who also happens to be my new boss, but it turns out to be surprisingly easy. I look up at her as she sits at her desk as if overseeing me. I don’t worry about whether the style I use is what she wants, knowing she’ll correct me if I’m doing anything wrong. Instead I just focus on the extreme pleasure of being watched by her. In practically no time, I’m scrambling for the tissues as my orgasm bursts into them. She nods approvingly, though I’m suddenly shy. We’ve shared something so intimate, yet there is still a great distance between us. I remind myself we are not lovers, or even friends, but rather, still secretary and boss. For a moment, I’m wistful, and wish our positions were different so I could get even closer to her.

  She walks over as I’m zipping my fly. “Very good, Matthew. I had a feeling about you when I saw you in the waiting room. Now, I have an early brunch tomorrow, but I’m going to need your assistance in the late afternoon. I have some…home office affairs to take care of. Filing, typing, foot massage, that type of thing. I’ll expect you there at four.” She doesn’t ask if I’m free; she knows I’m the very opposite of free. I’m hers, pure and simple; even if she were to fire me, I’d do that kind of work for “free.”

  “Oh, and dress casual. Very casual, as in, no underwear. You won’t be needing it.” She dismisses me with another nod and I go to the bathroom to reluctantly wash my face of her juices before walking back to my desk to shut off my computer and grab my coat. As I sign out, the security guard peers at me closely, as if he can see, or smell, or simply sense, who I am now. A secretary, but also a slave. A bottom through and through. A devotee. I give him a big, dazzling smile. I don’t really care what anyone else calls me, as long as Ms. Davis calls me hers. And while I know that the formal holiday of Secretary’s Day (now renamed Administrative Professionals Day) takes place in April, I’m going to celebrate mine as of now, in June, because really, how lucky can a guy get? I’ve got a paying job and a boss who knows exactly how to whip me into shape, one who keeps me almost permanently hard, and wants me to “work” weekends. My Wall Street friends can eat their hearts out. I’ll be too busy eating Ms. Davis to notice.

  WEDDING NIGHT

  Dominic Santi

  I was so screwed. The last thing I remembered was my best man challenging me to match him, shot for shot, in a drinking contest featuring the rotgut gin we’d drunk back in college. He’d brought a special bottle, just for the occasion, and quickly poured shots all around for my groomsmen and me.

  I’d already had more than my share of champagne. Valerie was giving me “the look.” So I drained my glass and, grinning like a fool, dutifully set it on the tablecloth next to my half-eaten dinner. Valerie nodded, that tight-lipped “You damn well better leave that glass alone!” expression on her face.

  Damn, she was gorgeous. Her light brown hair was done up in a beautiful braid. Her long satin dress was cut low enough to really show off her boobs. I knew if I slipped my hands inside, her warm, heavy breasts would completely fill them. Her long, stiff nipples would poke out into my palms. Man, I loved sucking Valerie’s boobs. I couldn’t wait to get up to the honeymoon suite and peel her out of that fucking dress!

  Al grabbed another glass and poured me a second shot. When Valerie turned away, I quickly tossed it back. I figured what the hell—with Valerie’s dress tempting me like that, I needed some serious fortitude. Besides, it was my wedding, too. I had the right to drink a few toasts with my friends!

  The liquor had loosened my inhibitions just enough for my crazy-assed rationale to make sense. Al and I snuck back into the coat check, where he poured us another round of gin—then another. We drank to the wedding. We drank to my wife. We drank to her glorious tits and then I drank to her glorious pussy—which Al didn’t get to drink to, since he was never going to see it. By then, we were drinking straight from the bottle. I vaguely remembered Al shushing me—saying I shouldn’t be so loud about how Valerie had totally shaved her pussy in honor of our wedding.

  I woke up facedown on the bathroom floor of the honeymoon suite. My stomach was still woozy, my head was killing me, and my teeth felt like they were wearing old gym socks. Wherever I’d been sick, and my clothes and stomach told me I had been—many times—thank God it hadn’t been here. When I finally dragged myself to my feet, I found a bottle of water and a pack of hotel aspirin on the back of the toilet. I was pretty sure Valerie hadn’t been the one to leave it there. Hell, she’d have left arsenic! She and I had discussed my tendency to get shit-faced drunk at parties before. I washed the aspirin down with the entire bottle of water. Then I took a shower and tiptoed into the bedroom.

  I couldn’t tell how late—or early—it was. The blackout curtains were drawn, but there was a painful line of daylight visible at the very bottom. Valerie was sleeping in the center of the bed. She was wearing her sheer, white silk “trousseau” peignoir. The comforter had fallen down to her waist, revealing the shadows of her large, dark nipples. One long, sleek leg, encased in a lace-topped white stocking, peeked out from the covers. Her hair was down, the thick dark curls spilling onto the sea of pillows surrounding her.

  On the other side of the room, the couch was neatly made up. The sheet and blanket were turned down, exposing a single pillow at one end. My watch and wallet were on the end table beside the couch. So were a hand towel and the complimentary bottle of hand lotion from the bathroom. I sighed and climbed naked under the covers. I was so fucking screwed! And my pillow felt so good.

  I woke to sunlight streaming in the window. I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes. My head throbbed and my stomach lurched. I caught myself just as I was going to yell to close the fucking curtains. Shit. Valerie would have shot me dead on the spot for being that rude, whereas how bad her reaction to last night was going to be was still to be determined.

  She was out on the veranda, talking to someone. As my eyesight cleared, I realized she was outside in her wedding peignoir! The low, appreciative voice on the other side of the patio railing was definitely male. Valerie asked him a question. He hesitated just a moment, then answered with an enthusiastic “Sure!” Valerie opened the gate. He stepped through and laid a long pole against the patio wall.

  Valerie stepped into the doorway and for a moment she just stood there, the outline of her naked breasts and hips totally visible through the sheer silk nightie. Even though I w
as still half drunk, my cock made a valiant effort to stand up. The man stepped close to her. When her hand reached out to cup his crotch, I could see he was having no problems in the woody department. With a loud, “Oh, wow!” he lowered his head and sucked her breast, right through the sheer white fabric.

  “Hey!”

  The word came out as a groan. So much for what Valerie called my “macho posturing.” My head fell back on the pillow, the impact making me almost see stars. When my eyes cleared, the look Valerie was giving me had me sweating all on its own.

  “My pussy wants a wedding night,” she purred. “And as you can see, my idiot groom is passed out.”

  My eyes were narrowed to slits against the light, but I doubt the guy noticed. He barely spared me a glance. Holding his hands an inch from her body, he reverently traced the outline of her curves.

  “Every bride should have her pussy licked on her wedding night.” His voice cracked on “night.” He stopped and swallowed hard. “You are so beautiful, ma’am.” He leaned forward and kissed her awkwardly. “I’ve never licked a pussy. Well, except in my dreams.” He was blushing, but he tenderly lifted his hands to her hair. “I’ve watched a lot of movies, though, so I think I’ll get it right. I replay the pussy-eating parts over and over.”