Yes, Ma'am

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Andrea Dale

  When I came into the room with our suitcases, Melina said, “You may put my valise over there.”

  It wasn’t so much what she said as how she said it: imperious and dismissive in equal measures. She didn’t even turn from the dressing table to look at me, as if I was beneath her notice except to do her bidding.

  I opened my mouth to point out that we didn’t need to stay in character right now, then realized what she was playing at.

  My cock stirred.

  Oh, you devious woman.

  Melina had laughed and laughed when we’d gotten these roles. When you’re an out-of-work actor, which we both are, you’ll take pretty much anything that’ll pay the bills. Playing key roles in a murder mystery weekend scenario at a swanky Victorian B&B would be a nice chunk of change for not a lot of effort.

  Except when Melina read the script and discovered that my role was that of a persnickety, detail-oriented butler.

  Her role of lady of the manor fit her just fine. Right now she looked stunning, almost otherworldly, in her cream and gold bustle gown. Her hair piled on her head made her look regal and untouchable, yet incredibly alluring. The only time she ever looked disheveled and out of control was after a particularly rousing bout of sex, which usually involved her wrists being bound to the bedposts or, on occasion, to her thighs.

  On the other hand, at home she despaired of my ability to ever pick my dirty socks off the floor or load the dishwasher rather than forgetting bowls and glasses all over the apartment. This part, she’d said, would be quite a stretch for me.

  As prideful as I am of my acting abilities, I had to admit she was right.

  So far the staging had gone well. In our roles as Lady Clare Morris-Jones and her manservant Mr. J. Burnett, we’d welcomed our “guests” to our “home” and set the stage for the mayhem to follow. Everyone knew the rule that nothing would happen between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. That gave us, and the cook (the only other actor) enough rest, and meant the guests could relax as well.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burnett,” she said. “That will be all. You may go.”

  Go? What did she—? Oh. Because our roles could have been played by people who didn’t know each other, I actually did have a bed in the servants’ quarters below stairs.

  “You don’t mean…”

  She finally got up then, and with a rustle of skirts pressed up against me. She lay a cool hand against my cheek. “If you play along, I’ll make it worth your while tomorrow night,” she said.

  Her smile was wicked. I hadn’t known she had it in her. She was always the one wanting to be tied up and teased.

  Then again, I’d always been the one wanting to do it. But the way my cock was responding…

  I grabbed my shaving kit and headed for the door. Before I walked out, I sketched a submissive bow toward her.

  Her laughter followed me down the hallway, and later curled around my cock along with my fingers as I jacked off in anticipation of the next night.

  It wasn’t easy for me, but I finally slipped into the role: running a gloved pinkie over the plate rail to check for dust, picking up empty sherry glasses as soon as they were set down.

  But I wasn’t perfect, and Melina was always there with a raised eyebrow or a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, if I forgot to hold out a chair for one of the female guests or failed to ask if anyone would like more tea.

  Her haughty demeanor was affecting me on several levels. I found myself wanting to please her, to be rewarded by the barest hint of a smile and single nod that said I’d done well.

  I also had to find creative ways to keep my cock from tenting my trousers and frightening the guests.

  It was a long day.

  Finally, it ended. Everyone who was supposed to die had kicked the bucket, all the clues were in place, and the final reveal would happen just after breakfast, giving the guests time to get home before nightfall, satisfied with their fun weekend. It was a rare scenario in which the butler didn’t do it, so my role tomorrow would be minor, just doing butler-ish things. I was thankful for that, because I suspected—hoped—I wouldn’t get a lot of sleep tonight.

  As long as I’d done my job well today, I was happy. I always sought to further my craft, but now I had an added incentive: the fear that Melina judged my performance and if she found it wanting, would reject me.

  I came to her room with a china cup of warm, honeydolloped milk on a silver tray.

  Her “Come” when I knocked made me smile. In my dreams, lady.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burnett,” she said. I set the tray down and crossed my hands behind my back, waiting for further instruction.

  She sipped the milk. “Mr. Burnett,” she said again. “I was distressed by your behavior of last night. And, if I’m correct, of this afternoon as well.”

  Holy crap, how had she known? Did she have a spy somewhere? I felt my face redden at the thought.

  “Ah, so I was right,” she said.

  She was just toying with me. She knew me too well. It probably had been obvious when I disappeared before dinner. (It was either that, or bring a whole new meaning to the concept of serving the guests.) Or maybe the simple fact that I was growing hard again, right now, in my wool trousers, gave me away.

  “You are here to serve me, are you not?” she asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I said. Melina was taking to this dominance thing far more easily than I’d have expected. Then again, she was an excellent actress.

  I liked it.

  “Then come here and help me prepare for bed.”

  First she instructed me to unpin her hair. While I loosened the fragrant tresses, she went to work on the elbow-length cream-colored gloves, unfastening one button at a time. We’re definitely missing out on something major in our less-clothing-is-more modern society; by the time she was peeling the first glove down her arm, I was rock hard.

  With the second glove gone, she undid her dress. She stepped out of it with a rustle, and handed it to me to hang up. As much as I wanted to toss it in the corner and get on with things, I did what she wanted, guessing my reward would be worth it.

  It was when I was unlacing her corset that it struck me: as I essentially freed her, my actions were binding me to her whims. Not forced bondage by any means—it was entirely by my choice.

  She lounged back on the bed, wearing only lace-trimmed bloomers and a matching sleeveless silk camisole and sheer stockings (probably not Victorian period, but oh, so sexy), and told me to undress.

  I shucked my clothes, again wanting to leave them where they fell but instead folding them neatly. Melina’s eyes never left me, even as she idly circled one nipple with her finger until the nub blushed dark and hard against the silk.

  She was stunning. I wanted to worship her. When she beckoned me to her, I was thrilled that she hadn’t found me wanting.

  At her command, I suckled her breasts through the silk. The fabric grew damp and see-through, and when I blew on it, she arched her back and mewled with pleasure.

  I tugged her drawers down—they were damp, too, with her musk—and couldn’t resist running the silk across my turgid cock, the fabric excruciatingly soft between my fist and my sensitized flesh.

  “We’ll have none of that.” Melina plucked the bloomers out of my reach. “You’re here for my pleasure.”

  She took my wrists and drew my hands to her breasts, even as she urged my head down between her thighs. With her knees, she nudged my legs apart so I was kneeling, not even able to rub my cock against the spread.

  Fine. This was her night, her pleasure. I could only hope that if I performed to her satisfaction, I’d get mine as well.

  With lips and tongue and fingers, I coaxed her higher and higher, until she came in a series of breathy gasps and moans.

  Melina tended to be a screamer, and her muffled orgasm solidified our roles: she as the lady of the manor and I as her manservant, the besotted lover kept secret because of class boundaries.
<
br />   When she rode me (of course she’d take the dominant position), my thoughts truly were focused on her pleasure. My hands at her breasts, my hips bucking to her rhythm, it wasn’t until she was falling over the edge again and gasping, “Yes, come for me,” that I was finally allowed—that I finally allowed myself—the relief I’d craved.

  She didn’t banish me to the servants’ quarters that night, although for the remainder of the weekend she stayed in character.

  As I loaded our suitcases into the car, I could only think ahead to when we’d reprise our parts…in private.

  TAMING THE UNRULY

  Debra Hyde

  I try to worship her. I wait at her feet, open to her command, awaiting her lead. I long to please her, but never presume to know how she will want her pleasure. She is exquisite, resplendent, and I am forever blessed that Madam considers me worthy enough to be her toy. It should be perfect, this union of goddess and mere mortal, but it is not. There’s trouble in paradise and I am at a loss to stop it.

  And it’s all my cock’s fault.

  Rough and urgent, it’s like the street urchin of bygone days, shouldering its way around, looking for trouble. It barges about, barreling over the polite, flouting decorum, always demanding a piece of the action. It’s a bully. It’s constant trouble.

  Madam tells me that a nice cock like mine shouldn’t be so onerous. It should be patient, able to wait quietly, respectfully, without interruption. Like a well-behaved child, it should be seen and not heard.

  But no matter how sincere my submission and no matter how sweet this paradise, my cock mars everything. Even now, as I kneel, head bowed, a silent acolyte awaiting his duties, my cock rises up, challenging the very precept of my lady’s power. Erect, it taunts her dominance and refuses to bow in obedience. It knows neither deference nor duty.

  In fact, it mocks my lady. A long, rope of sticky precome swings from my cock. Disrespectfully, it drools.

  I am mortified.

  I ache to hide my cock, but I can’t. I am helpless, kneeling, with my arms cuffed behind my back. An unwilling and ashamed accomplice, I want to cry unto heaven, but I can do little more than bear witness to its sins.

  Before me sits Madam, regal in her carriage, imperious and strong. She shows no slouch in her posture, no laziness; her presence is precise and powerful. Her long, black hair falls below her shoulders to perch upon the swell of her magnificent breasts. A black bustier accentuates her shapeliness and draws the eye—should the eye brave a glimpse—to her seat. There, peeking from beneath a black garter belt and between fine hosiery, sits Shangri-La. Like a warm, moist oasis, her cunt is a splendor, and I cannot help but steal a glance at its forbidden beauty. Dishonorably, my cock throbs yet again, the heedless explorer wanting to trample that which it has yet to conquer. And, by looking, I have become complicit in its crimes.

  Madam raises her foot and aims it between my legs. I stiffen as the toe of her shoe lifts my balls, a tortoiseshelled tip against pale, vulnerable flesh. My balls flop flaccidly, one to each side of her shoe. Stoically, I accept this teasing, but I fail when my cock lewdly lurches at her attention. Beset by shame, I want to bury my face in Madam’s breasts like a child, scared and shy. I want to hide myself away from the world. Of course I can’t, and I whimper, mealy-mouthed thing that I am.

  “Your cock,” Madam acknowledges, “is a problem for me.”

  I lower my head and stare at the floor. Within my field of vision, her foot continues to play with my sac.

  “I’m so sorry, Madam,” I proffer. I start to explain myself, but Madam, my goddess, interrupts me and states the obvious.

  “It has a mind of its own.”

  She stares at it, silent for a spell, toying with my balls as if it helps her think.

  “Brace yourself,” she commands.

  She digs into my cock then, flat of her shoe to the flat of my erection, sole to the soulless. My cock throbs, greedy for this touch, and acquiesces to her push, to the pinch of the heel against flesh, to the threat of its unlikely puncturing of skin. It yields, backing up against my belly, where it props firm and hardy before her.

  Its proud bearing humiliates me and I am helpless against it and Madam’s shoe, yet when Madam moves her foot against it, twisting and turning as if she’s snuffing out a cigarette, I cannot stay silent for long. My balls tighten, ecstasy rising within.

  “No! Please, stop!” I stammer. Begging, I reiterate, “Please!” Pitifully, the words spill from me.

  “Stop? Why?”

  “Because…because it…it will come.”

  “It?” she muses, pulling her foot from me. “It? So you agree? It has a mind of its own?”

  “Yes,” I desperately admit. “Yes, it does. I try to control it, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.” My whine is abject, but Madam ignores it.

  “Stand,” she instructs.

  I comply, striking the pose I know she expects: hands still behind my back, legs spread, posture straight, eyes forward. But to my chagrin, my cock bobs in her face, adding insult to injury. This new ignominy crushes me.

  Madam laughs. Can she see my horror? Does she mock it? Before I can apologize, she reaches out and wraps her hand around my cock. Her touch jolts me. My breath catches in my throat, halting my amends. Her hand slips up and down my shaft, a gesture so unforeseen that I gasp in wonder.

  “Yes,” she observes, “it has a mind of its own. And I’ve come to believe that no matter how humble your every effort might be, your cock will always keep you from perfection.”

  I slouch, disappointed and discouraged.

  “Stand straight! The truth is no reason to abandon your posture!”

  Hastily, I resume my stance, telling myself to take it like a man.

  “Since your cock is dishonest,” she resumed, “I feel I have no alternative but to train it in ways far harder than I’ve trained the rest of you. In fact, it’s possible that by ignoring it, I have actually bred this brat of yours.”

  She grips my cock hard at the base and, without warning, slaps it. I grunt at the impact, a sting sudden and delicious.

  “But no more. It’s time to break a bad habit.”

  Madam slaps it three times but instead of withering under her cruelty, my cock bulges harder. My breath catches in my throat again, this time so hard a lump forms. Fear and delight choke me. Raking my shaft with her long, fake nails, Madam tests me. What she does is not really painful. The sensations are strong, forceful, and startling, but a cat scratch hurts worse.

  “Your cock likes this. You like it.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “You’ve long held fantasies of cock-and-ball torture, haven’t you?”

  Her statement astonishes me, so much so that my admission sticks in my throat. Her hand grips my balls and squeezes until pressure forces the words from me.

  “Yes! For years!”

  She eases up. “And finally you’ve come far enough in your training to convince me to undertake your cock’s training. You’re a lucky man.”

  I want to jest and tell her that my future is in her hands, but she renews her squeeze and again my ability to speak sinks away. Visions of ball stretching, cock bondage and whippings rush my mind. I imagine rope wrapped around my sac and running the length of my cock, my genitals raging purple in this longed-for captivity. I envision a slender whip, tailored for a single purpose, imparting its sting between my legs. This, too, my cock will consume, wild beast that it is. I imagine piercings, tattoos, a leash forcing me to follow her—all marks of ownership that I’ve long ached for.

  Yes, I want it. I want it all.

  “First lesson: your cock will endure whatever I set upon it. Understood?”

  I nod. “Yes, Madam.”

  Madam tightens her grip and sweet sensation turns to crushing pain. Stars flood my vision; I’m almost faint. Yet my mind manages to flash an image of her heel, gargantuan in proportion, crushing and grinding a minuscule me into the ground. I buckle. Dazed, conquered, I slip from
her grip, landing hard on my knees. As I gasp for relief, she reiterates, “Whatever I set upon it.”

  “Yes,” I heave.

  “Good.”

  Madam sounds exceptionally pleased. Curiosity piqued, I open my eyes and gaze up at her. Her smile is luminous and she takes my breath away all over again. Meekly, I blush, but she ignores it, gazing elsewhere. She points across the room and tells me to get on my back. I creep to the spot on my knees, lower myself to my side and roll onto my back. Staring at the ceiling, I feel like a lamb lying down before the lion. I decide that I am sacrificially hers.

  Metal rings out, singing like a sword drawn from its sheath. It is not a stalwart weapon that my Amazon mistress brings forth, but a sturdy spreader bar. She splays me with that implement, spreads wide my legs. My cock lurches and I moan. Madam does not acknowledge my moan, does not care whether it expresses sheer lust or abject degradation. Is it a show of mercy or a complete lack of regard? The latter pokes at my insecurities, prods cruelly—until Madam’s hand close around my ball sac again. Worry fades before wonder.

  Her fingers ring the space where my sac meets the base of my cock. She tugs, stretches me, pulling my balls to the bottom of my sac. More fingers choke my sac, and a delicious pressure bears down on my balls. I think of metal collars, three of them, thick and heavy, their weight stretching me long and low. I dream of my cock and balls poking through the glory hole of a butterfly board, needles at hand and ready to pierce. These things, I fantasize, will tame my unrepentant penis.

  But liquid bubbling at my cock’s slit tells me I’m wrong, that my wish will not be easily realized. Madam laughs and rubs the wet pearl into the head of my cock. She loosens her grip on my sac but startles me anew by pushing my balls up out of my sac, into an inner cavity. There, they rest alongside the base of my shaft, oddities misplaced for my madam’s delight. She laughs again, puckishly, and finally I feel the grip of rope around my sac. But it’s empty flesh, void of its key properties.

  Madam teases me. “It looks like an empty burlap bag.” She strokes it. “I’ll have to do something about that.”