Yes, Ma'am

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Something pinches and a small but intense sensation races through me. A second pinch and, upon its burn, I realize she’s using small clothespins. She adorns me, working until a thicket of pins decorate my sac. I discover that flinching makes the pins rattle and pain ripples through me. I’m frightened, but only until a deep, profound awe washes over me. Fear no longer dominates; submission does. I am vessel and vassal—tool and toy, the means to her pleasure. I am hers.

  Then, a miracle: she straddles me, hovers above me, over my face. Poised there, her scent is strong, commanding, and it fills my senses. When she lowers herself onto my face, I am transported.

  She, however, is more pragmatic. “Lick me,” she demands. “Make me wet.”

  I know this procedure. Madam does not want to come; she simply wants to be made slick, and dutifully, I cater to her demand, slathering her with my spit. It is a function I cherish. Compliance is duty and duty, worship.

  “Good,” she claims. “Well done.” I beam, a giddy idiot, as she pulls away.

  And when she mounts me, I turn stupid. I grin as her cunt swallows me, as I’m buried in the downward slide of her wet hollow, but when she rises, I feel it: the pull on my cock draws my sac with it—the clothespins rake my thighs. I feel like a perverted Rube Goldberg contraption, sadistically created, masochistically cranked into action.

  Masochistica, I foolishly name myself, a creation of my madam’s doing. But my train of thought vanishes as Madam’s sweet cunt envelopes me. Primed, its nectar pours down, coating my cock with its plenty, and its flesh ripples over me, pulling and pushing. Action and reaction converge in the luxuriant feel of the fuck and the scouring pull of clothespins, and I don’t want this Newtonian pull to end.

  Madam reaches for her vibrator and puts it to her clit. As it succors her in ways that I can’t, she commands, “Fuck me.” She holds herself still, closes her eyes and seeks that ultimate appeasement.

  I pump, my cock a tool, a piston, to her beckoning. I’m finally appreciative of its erect endurance, and I wish my hands were free so I could clasp her hips and thrust deeper, faster. But the bondage limits me and renders me clumsy. My shoulders ache from their long immobility, and where my erection does not fail, I fear my fatigue will. I close my eyes and shove the pain from my awareness. I think of my cock, her cunt, her command. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The word becomes a mantra, echoes within me, and I thrust with every silent utterance. I am a cock. I plunge, retreat, and ram anew. I know nothing but this repetition of fuck, fuck, fuck. I lose the fine awareness of Madam’s sweet cunt and know only that I coarsely plunder as commanded.

  I’m jerked from this headspace when I’m grabbed from within—Madam, coming. She has spilled into ecstasy and her cunt throttles me in spasms so strong that my own swell begins to form.

  “Don’t come,” she gasps as she indulges in her fading orgasm. “Don’t you dare come.”

  “I won’t,” I assure her, amazed by Madam’s intuitive prescience. I slow my pace to match the last of her throbs, then moan when she dismounts and my cock slides from her sweet depths. Cool air nips it and I shiver, making the now-forgotten clothespins rattle.

  Oddly, my sac feels nothing. Numbed, it has become complacent to its rugged adornment. That, I know, will soon end, and when Madam brushes a carefree hand over the clothespins, I steel myself.

  Pain rifles through me when she pulls off the first one. She is not kind about it, does not gently open it and slowly remove. No, she simply pulls it off. I expect more of this, brace for it, but I’m left confused when Madam does not follow through.

  Instead, she rolls me onto my side and frees my hands. Slowly I bring them to my belly. My shoulders ache as I flex the stiffness from my arms. I baby my hands, reluctant to rush them into the pins-and-needles pain that will reawaken them.

  Madam, however, has other plans.

  “Grab your cock. Stroke it.”

  My cock? With my numb hand? For a moment, I hesitate, but I cannot deny Madam. I bring my frozen hand to my cock, wrap the deadened fingers around its rigid erection, and, grimacing, struggle to stroke myself. My hand awakens, prickling in sharp explosions. Groans join my grimace—and Madam continues my slow torment clothespin by clothespin. I yelp as she pulls them off, as painful circulation returns to my hand and my sac, spreading and burning like wildfire.

  “Keep stroking that cock of yours,” she tells me. “You don’t want to lose out on the chance to come.”

  She’s right; I don’t. But pain wraps itself around my cock and in my sac. A second mantra emerges—Pain. Pain, pain, pain—and I stroke as hard as I had fucked, willing the pain to transform itself, to aid me as I reach for orgasm. I want one thing and one thing only: that which will fulfill my madam’s demands. Nothing else matters.

  Nothing else matters—nothing else, nothing else.

  Bliss nears. In the haze of desire and pain, it approaches. Nothing else matters. It surges toward climax, closer to achieving what Madam wants, and my soul smiles like an idiot.

  Then shock.

  Sudden and unbidden, an intrusion.

  Forced into me.

  And it presses hard against that sweet spot, the one that men only reluctantly acknowledge. It rubs, flickering fast, nearly as fast as I’m working my cock.

  It takes only seconds. Provoked, climax comes. I shout as orgasm surges through me, as flow erupts, as I shoot like a geyser. It’s as immense as the pain I’ve endured, as complete a draining as Madam is likely to ever get from me. I lie covered in my own slick mess, my hand, my cock, my belly. It’s reached far, too. Madam plays with the stuff that has pooled in the crevice of my sternum, her finger swirling indolently.

  “You see?” she tells me, her eyes glimmering, joyful in authority. “I’ll have your cock tamed in no time.”

  I believe her. I really do. I think of that intrusion, its force and consequence, and my idiot grin returns.

  Conquered, my cock will be. Tamed, I already am.

  THE BIG WHAT

  Michael Hemmingson

  1. Property

  Things changed between Sloan and me the night after we had a threesome, had a mock wedding, and proclaimed our love to each other forever. I was now her husband and she was now my wife and despite the fact that the wedding was nowhere near legal by any means, she took our vows quite seriously.

  “The first thing you are going to do,” she said, “is get a tattoo.”

  “A tattoo?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, “and that tattoo will read: PROPERTY OF SLOAN TYME.”

  “Where do you want this tattoo?” I asked.

  “Anywhere, as long as it’s on your skin and as long as it’s big enough for me to read and admire and show to all my friends.”

  “Show?”

  “That you are mine,” she said, “that you are my property.”

  2. History

  It didn’t start out with Sloan. First there was Lulu (a stage name). I had been living in Palm Springs after inheriting a house from my grandmother, and going into L.A. two or three times a week, playing the Hollywood game and trying to sell screenplays and TV pilot scripts. I had an agent, a manager, a lawyer, and a pile of scripts. Sometimes I optioned something and, in true Hollywood fashion, the project went nowhere and disappeared. During my trips into Tinseltown, I started to visit stripper bars; there were many to choose from on Sunset, on Santa Monica, in Burbank and in North Hollywood. The one I liked the most was this little place near Hollywood and Western called the Happy Room.

  I was surprised to find out that many of the dancers had MFAs, were painters or stand-up comedians or in law school. One, Lulu, a tall redheaded beauty with dreadlocks and many tattoos, told me (as she gave me a lap dance, her ass in my face) that she was writing a screenplay. “Isn’t everyone?” I said.

  When she found out I had optioned my screenplays to some production companies and low-level producers, she said, “You should take me out to
dinner so I can pick your brain.” We went to Vitello’s, the Italian joint in Studio City where, in 2001, Robert Blake had dinner with his wife and then shot her, though he was later acquitted. “Will you shoot me?” Lulu asked. “With your sperm maybe?”

  Yes, I did. And I kept seeing her each time I went into L.A. but I wasn’t sure if she was really interested. I stole a bottle of fine tequila at a lame event sponsored by Fox Networks, met up with Lulu for dinner, shared the tequila with her, and then we went to the Happy Room and shared the tequila with a fellow dancer, Sloan. Sloan drank a lot and got so drunk she couldn’t dance or stand; she was in tears, weeping about how hard her life was. The bouncer threatened to break my fingers for doing this but Lulu said it wasn’t my fault. The bouncer said, “She is your responsibility,” so Lulu and I took Sloan back to my motel room and put her in the bed. Lulu left. I was tired, and slept next to Sloan.

  Sloan woke up at eight in the morning and she had no idea where she was or who I was and how she wound up in this motel room. She thought I had taken advantage of her. She called me “a pig rapist.” She grabbed her purse and pulled out a switch-blade and said, “I will slice you open, you swine!” She chased me around the room and tried to stab me; I pleaded for her to remember: the tequila, Lulu. She stopped. She remembered. She said, “I’m sorry; I overreacted.”

  We went to breakfast at a diner across the street, had pancakes and eggs. We talked. She kept apologizing for trying to murder me and I said it was okay. We went back to the motel room and she started to cry. She said things were hard lately, her life was out of control and she was very lonely because she had no one, no partner, no one to share things with. I said I was lonely too and I held her. We held each other. We kissed. We held each other on the bed. We made love—yes, love, it wasn’t a fuck. I felt very close to her and it had been a long time since I’d felt close to anyone; this was real, she was real, and very few things in Los Angeles are ever real.

  3. Mystery

  “You will get that tattoo,” she said. “You will be branded.”

  4. Lap Dance

  I didn’t see Sloan again for two months; I was in Palm Springs and there was no reason to go into L.A. When I did, I walked into the Happy Room at midnight and Sloan was onstage, shaking her ass and tits. I tossed a few dollars onstage; she smiled at me like I was a new customer and she had no recognition. Later, I asked for a lap dance and while she was grinding her ass into my crotch, I said, “Do you remember me?” and she said, “Of course I do, you’re my soul mate,” and I said, “Oh?” and she said, “And soon you will be my bitch.” I told her I always wanted to be someone’s bitch and she said now was the time, the time was right; fate and destiny had brought me to her.

  5. Sexually

  Lulu stopped working at the Happy Room. I had no idea where she went and it didn’t matter, I only went there to see Sloan. She would email me what shifts she was working, and I’d go there and I’d buy her drinks. I’d only pay attention to her. When she got off her shift, we’d go back to my motel room. After a while, she said, “Why waste money on a room, you can stay at my place.” She had a small house just a few blocks away from the club, off of Hollywood Boulevard.

  6. Threesome

  Sloan was in the shower and I was checking my email when a tall blonde girl with a large nose ring walked in, acting like she owned the place, like she belonged there—and as far as I knew, she did.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Where’s Sloan?”

  “Shower.”

  “Yum.”

  “Wet.”

  “You’re the new boyfriend?”

  “I’m Dog Face Reilly.”

  “What?”

  “Ever see The Big Sleep?”

  “The Big What?”

  “Philip Marlowe.”

  “The cigarette company?”

  “That’s Morris, baby.”

  “Who you calling ‘baby,’ sweetheart?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of Humphrey Bogart,” I said.

  “Play it again, Sam,” she said.

  “Can I make you a drink, whoever you are? Or should I just call you what’s-her-name?”

  “My name is Jessica and I’ll have that drink later; first I need to talk to Sloan.”

  “She’s in the shower.”

  “So you said.”

  “She likes to take long showers.”

  “I know.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not inferring anything.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit,” Jessica said. She turned around and wiggled her ass; I admired its shape under those tight jeans. She went to the bathroom and opened the door. I heard Sloan yelp with surprise, and “YOU!” Wondered if Jessica was someone who wasn’t supposed to be here. Sloan squealed and she sounded delighted and Jessica made a similar sound and then there was… silence…five minutes of silence.

  I could hear the shower running.

  Then a faint giggle.

  Then Sloan: “HEY YOU!”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “COME IN HERE! NOW!”

  It was an order I obeyed.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but I admit my imagination was working, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was what I had hoped: Sloan and Jessica were in the shower together, touching and kissing.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Join,” Sloan said.

  7. Buttons

  We had the usual fun that happens when three people get together for sex: the entanglements and twisting and watching and kissing and licking and swapping of fluids. Jessica said she had some peyote buttons. Sloan said that was cool. I had tried peyote once, in high school, and I remembered throwing up and then having a lot of fun. Jessica had the buttons in her purse. We took them. We didn’t puke. We fucked. Everything slowly, gradually, became beautiful and perfect. We were gorgeous and wonderful and my hard cock looked and felt three feet long, penetrating both of them deeply. We laughed, we cried, we cheered, we cried, we held each other and said we loved each other.

  “I think you’re perfect for Sloan,” said Jessica, “better than the thugs she usually dates.”

  “Hey,” Sloan said, and giggled. “Thuggos!”

  “You should marry this gal,” Jessica said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Sloan: marry me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan hugged me and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll be your wife and you can be my husband and we’ll be in bliss forever.”

  “I can marry you two right now!” Jessica said. “I have one of those minister cards I got for ten dollars. I am a fully ordained reverend of the Church of the Universal Galactic Mind.”

  She pulled out her license from said Church and showed us. So we did it. Sloan and I said some kind of vows and Jessica proclaimed us man and wife.

  And then Sloan married Jessica and me.

  And then I married Jessica and Sloan.

  And then we had peyote sex all night.

  8. Morning

  Sloan had breakfast in bed ready for me when I woke up: eggs and bacon and pancakes and coffee on a dinner tray. “For my new husband,” she said.

  9. Branded

  She was serious about the tattoo. With her nails, Sloan cut into my skin and said she would give me a blood tattoo. I didn’t like to bleed.

  “You’re mine now,” she said, “and if you don’t—if you don’t show the world, then forget it: I want a divorce.”

  An hour later, we went to a tattoo parlor she knew and liked by Hollywood and La Brea. I wasn’t going to get it on my lower back like a bitch. I got it on my right ankle: PROPERTY OF SLOAN TYME.

  10. Ass

  But that wasn’t the end. She said she had a wonderful surprise for me at home. First we had dinner, pasta with wine. We dined in candlelight, soft and slow jazz on the CD player. It all seemed very romantic. I was happy. I could live this way
.

  We went to bed and got naked and kissed.

  “It’s time for you to do your spousal duties,” she said. She reached under the bed and brought out a bag. In the bag, still packaged, was a strap-on dildo. The rubber cock was very large and pink. Also in the bag was a hefty tube of Astroglide.

  “What?” I said.

  “Don’t you sass me!” Sloan said. “Your ass is mine, remember? You’re my property and you will do what I want.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I didn’t want to argue. I was, needless to say, intrigued. I watched, mesmerized, as she removed the strap-on dick from its packaging and fitted it onto her hips.

  She grabbed her new cock and stroked it and said, in a low voice: “I’m gonna fuck your brains out, baby.”

  What do you say to something like that?

  Next, she applied a large gob of the lubricant on her nine inches of pink rubber love.

  She said, “Turn around, get on your stomach.”

  I turned around, lying there on the bed.

  She said, “Now spread those asscheeks.”

  I reached around and spread them.

  “More,” she said, “let me see that sweet brown ass-pussy.”

  I did as she ordered.

  “Good, good little husband,” said my new wife, “good.”

  THE MEAN GIRL

  Teresa Noelle Roberts

  I’m wearing the outfit,” Heather told me, her voice a husky, amused—or was that aroused?—whisper. “Are you sure you’re up for this game?”

  Instead of Yes, yes, yes, I simply answered, “Let me see!”

  In response, she drew her long coat—a huge gray wool thing, surplus from some Eastern European army—more tightly around her. “Not until you ask me properly.”

  This time there was no mistaking: she was amused and aroused, both.

  I knew what I had to do. Knew and hated it, even though the idea was going straight to my cock.