Yes, Ma'am

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I don’t know, Ma’am,” Keith said. “No one has ever made me feel like you do. I want to serve you, but my body is aching for some kind of release.”

  “That’s better,” she said. “Now close your eyes and crawl onto the chair in front of you.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, thank you, Ma’am,” he said, relieved to be able to move his aching arms and legs. He got up onto the chair and faced her with his eyes closed. His ass thrilled with delight at the tiny traces of body heat left from where she had sat moments before. He wanted to see her so badly, but he’d tasted her displeasure and wanted no more of that.

  He would obey.

  He would wait.

  “Open your eyes, Mr. Trenton.”

  Keith did as he was told, and gasped.

  She was naked except for her shoes.

  And stunning.

  Breasts full and rounded, nipples dark red in the dim light. Stomach flat, legs long and shapely. The dark patch between her legs enthralling in its power and temptation.

  “You may wonder,” she said, “why I appear to you naked except for my feet. The answer is that all the garments I could wear—the corsets, bustiers, thongs, gloves, and so on—are mere props. The true power of a born dominant is something from the inside, not the outside. If I choose to train you, we will explore many forms of clothing, for both you and me. But tonight, when I test you, it will be between our wills and bodies alone, no accoutrements. That is why you are naked, and that is why I am naked except for my shoes. That, and the fact that my feet get cold.”

  Keith couldn’t help laughing. Mistress Joanna indulged him with a smile, but then her expression turned deadly serious again.

  “Now, Mr. Trenton,” she said, “listen very carefully. We’re going to learn just how much control you have over yourself. Do not move. No matter what happens, stay still. I’m not going to bind you to that chair; that would be too easy. You will prevent yourself from moving by force of will alone. Your performance on this test will determine whether or not I train you as a submissive. I have to know that your mind will obey me, despite the demands of your greedy body. Are your instructions clear?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Keith said, wondering what the test would entail. All he had to do was not move. That should be easy enough, he figured.

  Mistress Joanna stepped toward him, and his body reacted as she got closer. He didn’t move, but he felt his cock flush with blood at her nearness, his skin reddening with desire. He felt confident. I’m in control of myself, Keith thought. I can do this.

  Then she stepped closer, bringing her face close to his. Scents of fruit drifted into his nose as she exhaled gently. Her mouth was almost touching his, and she moistened her lips with her tongue. The urge to kiss her was palpable, but Keith knew he had to resist. He longed to reach up, to take her in his arms, to crush her to his chest and devour every inch of her body with his mouth.

  But he couldn’t.

  Wouldn’t.

  Mustn’t.

  He had to obey his orders!

  Her hands were on his head, running through his hair, gently tickling his ears. Her touch was electric, and his cock, already sore from days of being denied, started to ooze desperate precome.

  Mistress Joanna’s hands moved lower, down his neck, across his strong shoulders. He shivered. Still lower, exploring his chest, lingering on his pectorals, tweaking the nipples playfully. Keith did not move. Farther down, she moved on to his firm abdominal muscles, and below. He wished she would stop. His dick was already begging to be stimulated; how could he possibly stop himself from moving or climaxing if she touched his penis or even jerked him off?

  I can do this, he thought again. I will do this.

  An instant later he wasn’t so sure.

  She took his cock in her hand.

  Her grip was pure pleasure, enclosing his rigid flesh in warmth and pressure, her palm passing over his cap and gently spreading his excited natural lube up and down the shaft.

  And, somehow, he did not move.

  He just sat there, enjoying the sensations, yet ignoring the urge to thrust against her hand, to pull her onto the floor and ravish her with every ounce of his masculinity. How he was doing it he didn’t know. All he did know was that he had his instructions, and he was damned if he wouldn’t follow them.

  I can do this, he thought.

  But his resolve was shaken by the next step in the dance. Mistress Joanna released his cock, an action which he was grateful for, but then she made everything worse by crawling onto him.

  What was she doing?

  She placed her delectable bottom on top of his knees with one leg on either side of him, her sex only inches from his dick. One arm on each of his shoulders, her face right in front of his. Her chest pushed into his, her breasts achingly, maddeningly pressing against him, begging to be touched, fondled, caressed, suckled.

  Sweat broke out on Keith’s forehead.

  How could he possibly not move, not follow the demands of his body, which so wanted to consummate the tension and promise of what was happening? How could he not? Panic began in his mind, and was blooming into an ugly flower when she played her ultimate card.

  Mistress Joanna, using Keith’s shoulders for leverage, lifted her body up off of his lap, then shifted position slightly and in one smooth motion impaled herself on his cock, taking him deep inside her. Keith’s world turned inside out. Somehow freezing in place, determined not to move, he sucked in the deepest breath he’d ever taken, then released it. With a small, wicked smile, Mistress Joanna looked her applicant in the eye, and began to fuck herself on his dick.

  The pleasure was so amazing that for an instant he thought he was lost.

  But then, when he thought there was no possible way he could stay still, no possible way he could not come, Keith remembered something. From memory, he recited what he had read on the piece of the paper on the floor.

  In a calm, even voice, he said:

  “I am here to learn. I am here because I need to serve a superior female. I am here because I desire to be trained to perform to the best of my ability in this endeavor. I place myself in the hands of the woman who shares this room with me now. I pledge to trust her, serve her and obey her.”

  Mistress Joanna let out a noise that was half purr and half snarl. She bucked on his cock, fucking herself deeper. The words seemed to have sent her into a frenzy, and Keith knew she was climaxing as she used him ruthlessly. He felt centered for the first time in weeks. He was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to be doing. He was serving a superior female, exactly as she wished to be served. She had issued instructions, and he was following them to the letter. If she wanted to use him as a living dildo, that was fine with him. If she wanted to challenge his brain against his dick, his brain was winning.

  He remained still as Mistress Joanna’s climax faded and she slowly came down from the plateau her orgasm had taken her to. Keith sat absolutely still, breathing softly, letting her use him to support herself, and found himself feeling something he hadn’t quite expected: happy.

  After several long moments, Mistress Joanna pulled herself off Keith’s cock and unhooked her legs from around his waist. She got off the chair and stood in front of him. Keith kept his gaze straight ahead, silently enjoying the sight of her breasts.

  “Lie down on the floor, on your back,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said without hesitation and did as she said, smoothly kneeling down on the floor and lying faceup at her feet. Mistress Joanna placed one high-heeled foot on his chest and looked down at him.

  “Mr. Trenton?” she said.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  “Come for me, now!”

  Pleasure exploded inside Keith’s body at her words, and his cock started shooting spurt after spurt of hot come onto her shoe, and his chest, neck and face. He let out a roar of animal ecstasy that must’ve shaken the foundations of the house. Convulsing on the floor, under her foot, he crested on a
wave of sensation that lifted him high and took him further than he’d ever gone before. His shudders slowed and his moans quieted, and he lay at her feet, spent. She removed her foot, the shoe dripping with his cream, from his chest.

  “Mr. Trenton,” she said.

  “M…Ma’am…” he said.

  “Clean my shoe, then put your clothes back on. Bruno will show you out.”

  “Yes, Mist—Yes, Ma’am,” he said, in a daze. There seemed to be no towels around, so Keith licked Mistress Joanna’s shoe until all of his come was gone, leaving it shiny and black once again. Then, under her watchful eye, he got up and put his clothes on, not caring that he was covered with his own spunk. He felt like he was a marionette, under someone else’s power, as he numbly followed orders.

  Mistress Joanna sat back down in the chair and watched him. After Keith was dressed, Bruno opened the door to the room and walked in. He gently took Keith by the arm and led him out of the room, back down the stairs, through the entryway, and to the front door.

  “Are you all right to drive, sir?”

  “What?” Keith said, as if seeing Bruno for the first time.

  “Would you like me to drive you home?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he said, then grinned stupidly at the other man. “She’s really something, huh?”

  Bruno smiled.

  “That she is, sir. That she is.”

  “So I’m hers now, right?” Keith asked, slowly coming out of his fog.

  Bruno looked back up the stairs, then at Keith.

  “Time will tell, sir.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Good night, sir,” Bruno said, gently pushing Keith out the door.

  “But…”

  The door closed.

  Not knowing what else to do, Keith drove home and went to bed.

  The next day Keith found a familiar-looking envelope in his mailbox. It had no postmark so it must have been hand-delivered. His hand trembled slightly as he pulled the folded letter out of its envelope. He unfolded the piece of paper and scanned the message written upon it.

  Dear Keith,

  I have decided to grant your request to be trained as a submissive. You will report for your first training session tonight at 9:00 at my home.

  Sincerely,

  Mistress Joanna

  P.S. From now on you will address me as Mistress.

  STICKING WITH YOU

  L. E. Bland

  I speed dialed my fantasy, hoping to hear her voice as I pushed my cock to its limits. In my dreams it was her hand, not mine, that tormented me. Slowly I peeled the Scotch tape from my taut skin, causing the glue to tug at my most vulnerable areas. I remembered her low chuckles, the way she laughed at me as I writhed in pain and humiliation, and how amused she was with my predicament. She understood. She was the only one who had ever really known my secrets. She had been my first. I pressed the phone to my ear and my hand to my cock. With each rhythmic ring, I pulled one more strip of tape away, getting closer and closer to shooting my load. I begged for her to pick up, but prayed that she wouldn’t. Of course she would know I was jerking off over the phone without permission, and I really had nothing to say to her since my mouth was clamped shut with a thick band of surgical tape. Yet still I hoped. No answer. Maybe she was screening her calls, refusing to speak to me after our last encounter.

  “You have reached eight one six, four two four, five…” I hung up before her voice mail kicked in to record my indulgences.

  In my cell phone, she was simply listed as Kelly—a plain, rather girlish name, but one that sounded much more commanding when preceded by the title of “Mistress.” I had met Mistress Kelly at a leather party some months back. She was petite, blonde, and even wholesome looking, but wore the wickedest of curve-hugging black latex hot pants and the spikiest of shiny knee boots. Me, well, I was walking around naked except for a few layers of “invisible” tape wrapped around my semiflaccid cock. I was a total novice with an odd interest. In retrospect, it’s a wonder anyone gave me the time of day.

  I had only been to a few kinky events before and had never quite connected with the crowd, but the evening I met Mistress Kelly was different. I had decided to do away with my generic black T-shirt and jeans and face the partygoers in full fetish attire. After all, how else would I meet a play partner? With no mistress to answer to, I had to put myself in cock-and-ball bondage for the party, and of course it was my favorite kind of bondage—tape.

  All dressed up in my adhesive, I cruised the sidelines of the playspace. Most of the activities didn’t make sense to me, especially since the bulk of the players were male Dominants with female submissives, but every so often, I would catch a glimpse of a woman-in-charge scene that would turn the tape into tight bands all along my dick. I passed by fine ladies trampling, fierce gothic women flogging away, and evil nurses performing intense medical scenes, blood included. Somehow it all turned me on, but was beyond my scope. Finally I spotted the ultimate—a blonde goddess on stage with her latex buttocks perfectly poised atop the mouth of a sub. That I could handle.

  After she was finished “smothering” her playmate, I mustered up my nerve to approach her, but before I could even open my mouth, she blurted out: “Go home, naked boy. This is a fetish event, not a swingers’ party.”

  I bowed my head in deference and clasped my hands behind my back, as if already bound by her restraints. “Mistress, may I speak?” I asked. By that time, she had turned her back to me, scouting out her next prey.

  “Mistress,” I addressed her again politely, knowing my chance to serve such a popular Domme was next to nil. “May I please explain myself, Mistress?”

  She turned her head quickly, her blonde hair spinning around to cover her face. She seemed annoyed with me, but that turned me on even more. There is a fine line between pissing off the Domme just enough to earn a fun punishment and running her off completely. Once her fringe of bangs settled into place, I found myself shivering under a pair of sharp blue eyes that be-lied her innocent face.

  “Okay, speak,” she told me. “Dígame, naked boy.”

  “Not to disrespect or counter the Mistress,” I stammered, “but I am actually not naked and I am not a swinger. I am, in fact, wearing my servant’s outfit.” I ran one hand across the strips of clear tape that encircled my ever-hardening cock and motioned to the band of tape around my neck that served as a makeshift collar. “I like tape,” I announced. The words echoed through the playroom, drowning out the loudest of slaps and screams. Suddenly I felt like a big freak, and a naked freak to boot. Even surrounded by kinksters of all walks of life, how could I still not fit in? Me and my tape. Was I really any weirder than the balding middle-aged man go-go dancing in a cheerleader’s outfit in the cage? Yet suddenly I wished I had one of the more usual fetishes of spanking, bondage or cross-dressing. Why couldn’t I get off from simply licking a boot or drinking piss? Why did I have to be so different in this world of sexual outcasts? My cheeks turned hot and my taped-up cock curled back between my legs.

  “It’s invisible tape,” I rambled on as she glared at me. “It says so on the package. And it’s name brand, so it’s quality. It’s sticky, but it doesn’t leave a gummy residue like the cheap ones.”

  I’m really blowing my first impression, I thought. But instead of ignoring me, Mistress Kelly posed another question. “Do you really like tape, or are you just cheap?” she said accusingly. “What did this outfit cost you? Fifty cents?” She slinked toward me, her musculature enhanced by the shiny rubber skin that bore the distinct aroma of sweat and latex. A well-manicured hand reached down and ripped a strip off my cock. The glue was delicate and the skin, sensitive. The sting hummed in my ears and my cock jumped to attention, nearly bursting the remaining bondage.

  “You’re quite a number, aren’t you?” Mistress Kelly laughed, all the while rubbing the discarded piece of tape between her fingers, sticky side out, so that the clear covering glided against itself like a tiny musical instrumen
t. Little did she know what that motion alone did to me. Just watching the tape mesmerized me, sending me into a dream state of forbidden and unexplainable fantasies. But it’s just tape, I reasoned. A simple pleasure.

  As Mistress Kelly toyed with the tape, memories of my college girlfriend resurfaced. Those were the days of hormones so raw that the slightest quirk became exciting, even a four-inch strip of tape. My sorority sweetheart had a habit of toying with tape and sometimes even sticking it on her arm or thigh for no apparent reason. After some minutes, her skin began to pucker and lighten beneath the adhesive until finally she would yank it off—again, for no apparent reason.

  My girlfriend had no idea what her odd habit did to me, and I had no idea why it did. Every time we studied together in my dorm room, I watched her fiddle absentmindedly with the flat, transparent tongues that spouted from my tape dispenser. Her nimble fingers manipulated the plastic with ease, careful not to let it stick to itself and ruin the game. Every so often the tape slipped away to form a gooey wad between her thumb and forefinger. Frustrated, she tossed it aside, but alas, there was always more tape. Always. I made sure of it, even going so far as to carry a spare roll in my backpack in case she ran out. What if she suddenly needed to wrap a birthday present for someone? What if the envelope she had just licked came unglued? What if she wanted to tape my mouth shut while she fucked me up the ass with a strap-on? My cock strained against my jeans. Was it my girlfriend or the tape? Or both?

  I was too horny to sort it all out, but from then on, I knew I was heterosexual in spite of my occasional ass fantasies. But I also knew I liked tape.

  My mind drifted back to the party, and just as in the clichéd Freudian dreams, there I was standing naked in front of a bunch of strangers. Mistress Kelly stared me down. I felt she could read my mind, yet prayed that she couldn’t. At least she wasn’t making fun of me—yet. She gave my cock a firm swat.

  “My truck needs waxing and buffing,” she told me. “Be at my place tomorrow at six p.m.” On that note, she lifted the edge of my “collar” and taped her calling card to my neck.