Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  ANTICIPATION

  BECAUSE HE CAN

  AVERY SAYS

  THE SUB FAIRY

  I BREATHE YOUR NAME

  LONG TIME GONE

  POWER OVER POWER

  KNOT HERE!

  VERONICA’S BODY

  THE NEGOTIATION

  A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

  MOMMY’S BOY

  NO GOOD DEED

  MASOCHIST ON VACATION

  How It Came to This

  Preparation

  Little Helper

  Evaluation

  Sir’s Ass

  Breath

  Fist

  Barter

  Epilogue

  LIL’ PET BRAT, AKA LILY GUANGLI

  PLEASURE KEEPER

  WELCOME TO THE WORLD

  STROKE

  SUNDAY IN THE STUDY

  WALKING THE SUB

  JUST WHAT SHE NEEDS

  YOUR HAND ON MY NECK

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: RISK AND REWARD

  If you ask me, submission is an art form. It requires dedication, focus, commitment and desire—and there’s no single way of doing it. It’s about unlocking something within yourself so you can reach beyond your normal limits, exposing your body and soul in order to go somewhere you cannot get to alone.

  I had a lover who always told me that the key to life is “High risk, high reward.” The same is true about kink, and this is evident throughout the stories in Please, Sir, which explores female submission and male dominance from the sub’s point of view. When these characters take risks, they are rewarded…even when those rewards look like “punishment.” They are rewarded in all kinds of ways, from being bound to being praised to being choked, spanked or put on display. They are rewarded by being tested again and again.

  The women in these stories approach submission in different ways. Some, like Tess Danesi’s protagonist in “I Breathe Your Name,” live on the edge of fear and get off on pushing the limits with their masters, though they don’t always know where their boldness will take them. Some of these women are drawn to the charisma of a born leader, one like Krav Maga instructor, Dominic, in Emerald’s “Power over Power.” Jackie, his student, has been watching and fantasizing about him, but when he finally acknowledges her sexually, she is caught off guard:I trembled, wanting to touch him but feeling frozen. Still looking at the ground, I nodded.

  With characteristic efficiency of motion, he reached with one finger and pulled my chin up. A shudder ran through me as I felt his power—the power I saw in every move he made, that he exuded at the front of the class, that he spoke when he told us what we were capable of, that coiled and expelled from him whenever he slammed any part of his body into the punching bag. This was the power that lived unquestioned within him, so seamlessly that it was as though it wouldn’t exist without him.

  Others don’t expect to be getting kinky at all, like the “Mommy’s Boy” in Doug Harrison’s story, where tables get turned in a most delightful way. In Lisabet Sarai’s “Stroke,” a woman risks getting kinky at work in order to realize her dream:I just stood there, petrified by mingled fear and excitement. If anyone discovered us, I’d lose my job. I’d never work as a nurse again. Five years of education down the drain. But this might be my only chance. The chance to make my fantasies real.

  The lesson there, and in all of these stories, is that there is risk involved in submission. I don’t mean the physical risks, but the emotional ones, the ones that require a leap of faith, a knowledge that what you are doing may unnerve you, confuse you and scare you, even while it makes you wet and eager and ready for more. As we see in Shanna Germain’s opening story, “Anticipation,” merely thinking about what he might do next, playing with power in one’s own mind, can yield profound results:I can no longer breathe, much less make a noise of want. This is what he does to me, every day: whips me into a frenzy of words that makes me miss him more than I have the power to say, that makes me so wet that if he were here, I’d fuck him right now, bent over this table, with all these people watching, groaning his name with every thrust. I’d be begging him to fuck me, beat me, make me come with the kind of orgasm that makes everything else disappear.

  I have to go, back to the work that calls, the work that keeps me here in this foreign and fuckless place, but I don’t want to.

  Some, like Kissa Starling’s heroine, are brats, and enjoy pushing their masters to the limit. Some don’t deliberately provoke anyone but wind up bent over anyway. However they come to their submission (and come from their submission), their journey is one charged with the spark of passing power between two people, of welcoming the risk of submission and all it entails.

  I like the women in this collection, and not just because they remind me of me when I’m reveling in being slapped across the face, forced to the ground, utterly at my chosen lover’s (or master’s, or partner’s or top’s) mercy. It’s not just the actions here that are familiar, but the reasoning, the way they crave and cringe in the face of the power they are claiming, and the power they are giving up. They are smart enough to know that kink is not about simply embracing one’s fears, but grappling with them, battling with them, taking risks and seeing if, in fact, they yield very sexy rewards.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  ANTICIPATION

  Shanna Germain

  I bought a bed, he says.

  Actually, he doesn’t say this. He types it. That’s what the Instant Messenger window says while I wait for the rest of his thought: Bard42 is typing. I am sitting in a café in a small town in Germany, the only place I can get Internet. The Net is ridiculously priced, even here, but I don’t care. It’s the only thing I’m spending money on while I’m working my way across Europe. I cross my legs and stare at the screen of my laptop, a giant cup of coffee burning my palm.

  I bought it mostly for the headboard, he types. It has big, wide slats. Perfect for sliding a rope through. Or a belt. Or the pieces of your dress that I’m going to rip from your body.

  He is somewhere in the middle of New Hampshire, a place I’ve never been, a place I never wanted to go. He is somewhere in that state, in a new house, buying pieces of furniture. Buying them with me in mind. I can’t even begin to tell him what this does to me.

  I stood in the store and imagined you tied up against every headboard in the showroom. Walking from bed to bed, so stiff from the mere thought of you. This bed, with its strong, dark wood, was the one I saw your body against. Your pale wrists tied with my brown belt, legs spread-eagled so I can bury my face between those creamy thighs.

  I close my eyes, savor this for as long as I can. I haven’t seen him in almost six months. Some days, I can barely remember what he looks like. I have photos, of course, but they only capture his skin and bones. Not the essence of him, not the wicked mind or the way he looks at me over his wire-rims when he wants something from me. Not the bend of his fingers when he buries them in my long hair, forces me to my knees.

  The men are delivering it tomorrow, he adds. If you were here, I wouldn’t even wait until they left before I bent you over the side of the mattress so that your ass was in the air, slid off my belt so they could hear the whistle, the sharp crack as it fell across your white curves. I’d let them hear every cry and moan you made.

  I have to bite back a quiet sound of want, swallow it down around my steaming coffee and hope that no one heard. It’s bad enough to be the sole American in this small town, to know that I’m probably exuding the scent of my arousal, that I’m practically rocking in my seat with desire and want…to groan
in public would be more than I can bear.

  I think, the first time, I will make you wait, he types. I will catch your wrists between the slats and rub the head of my cock between your legs until I’m coated in your heat, until you’re soaked and begging. And then I will go and make dinner. I will cook steak and mushrooms, my cock hard, knowing the whole time that you’re upstairs whimpering, aching, wanting.

  Now I do groan, the sound rising up accidentally before I can bite it back, and I have to shift and cross my legs, the pulse of my clit beating hard inside my jeans. I’m not one of those women who can come just by rubbing their legs together, sadly. I need a hand on me, ideally his hand, hard and fast, spanking my ass or my clit, bringing me to that heated burn of orgasm. But I’ll go back to my rented apartment and masturbate, thinking of him, his words, his brain. The myriad ways he comes up with to torture and please me.

  What do you think? he types. Sound like a decent plan for your arrival?

  I’m not as good with words as he is; he’s the poet after all. The wordsmith. I am all business and science. I mostly type things like, It sounds ideal. I miss the sound of your belt sliding through your belt loops. I wish you were folding your hands around my wrists, holding me down while I come. Stupid things like that. He doesn’t seem to mind. I think, for him, my reaction is enough. Knowing he makes me wet and aching while I’m sitting in a public place. The way my face turns pink when I’m horny or embarrassed.

  This time I answer his question with a simple, Yes, please. And the refrain sings in my head. Yes, please. How often I’ve said that for him, to him. Harder? Yes, please. Tighter? Yes, please. More? Yes, yes, please.

  Good girl, he types, and I can almost hear the growl in it. The guttural broken sound his voice takes on when he’s fucking me, and he’s right on the verge of coming, trying to keep in charge of himself. The one time I can take control if I want it, pushing him over the edge with a slide of my hips or the cry of his name.

  My only worry…he types. And then he stops. He does this when we’re fucking, too. He’ll tie me to a railing or a chair, loops and loops of rope holding me still and open for him, entirely exposed, and he’ll slide a blindfold across my eyes and say, “You know what I’m going to do to you now?” and then he doesn’t answer, doesn’t finish. Just lets me whip myself into a frenzy of fear and want, straining to hear every sound. Is that the jingle of a belt buckle or a dog collar? The click of a knife opening or a door shutting? He waits until I am shuddering with want and anticipation and then finally, finally, he’ll answer.

  What? I practically beg. What?

  If I was there right now, I know I’d be hearing his laughter. His real laugh, not the one he puts on for show. The one that’s just for me, that dark-edged sound of wicked mirth that I miss almost as much as his sadistic sense of fucking.

  Well, as long as it’s been since I’ve fucked you, he types, it’s going to be hard. Cruel. I’m going to tie you tight and drive you so hard against the headboard that you won’t be able to breathe, every stroke burying my cock in your body. Your throat, your cunt, your asshole. I bought a paddle today and a gorgeous glass dildo. I’m going to use them both, at once. Fill you and spank you and fuck you. Until your skin is red and marred, until you’re bent and breathless and broken…

  I just hope the headboard can take it.

  Oh, fuck. I can no longer breathe, much less make a noise of want. This is what he does to me, every day: whips me into a frenzy of words that makes me miss him more than I have the power to say, that makes me so wet that if he were here, I’d fuck him right now, bent over this table, with all these people watching, groaning his name with every thrust. I’d be begging him to fuck me, beat me, make me come with the kind of orgasm that makes everything else disappear.

  I have to go, back to the work that calls, the work that keeps me here in this foreign and fuckless place, but I don’t want to.

  Two more months, I type. Two more months and then I will be allowed to go home, to our new house, the one that he’s decorating with me—with fucking me—in mind.

  Two more months, he agrees. I’m planning on it.

  I have to go, I type. And there is so much ache and want buried in the cold, hard words. I hope he can hear it. Somehow, I think he can.

  The IM tells me, Bard42 is typing, and so I wait before I sign off, the heat of my arousal pulsing hard between my thighs, sending up the sweet scent of desire as I move in the chair. I know that if I buried my fingers into the center of me right now, I’d be slick and slippery, lubed by want.

  Next week, he types, I’m going to buy a coffee table. Something sturdy and strong, just the right size to lay you down on your stomach, and tie your wrists and ankles to the legs. And then I’m going to whip you, baby, until your ass is hot pink and marred, until your cunt opens for me like the palest flower, until you’re begging me to stop. Because we both know I never will.

  The IM tells me Bard42 has signed off, and I follow suit. Two months, I think as I close my laptop with a click and a sigh. Two months and then I can be whole again: Captured by more than words. Tied up by more than want. Beaten by things other than schedules and time.

  I’m planning on it.

  BECAUSE HE CAN

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  I suppose, deep down, I must want my husband to find out about Adam, because I’m usually so good at keeping secrets. Tell me something in confidence and that’s where it stays, even though at least one close friend of mine risks losing her marriage and another her job if ever I let slip what they carelessly asked me to keep secret after one too many glasses of chardonnay. So in neglecting to close the email I’ve been composing when I hear David’s voice calling up the stairs, letting me know he’s home, I must be sending him some kind of message. Or maybe a challenge. David loves it when I challenge his authority.

  We suit each other so well in that regard. He often refers to me as his little minx, deliberately provocative and thoroughly disrespectful. He understands my need to be disciplined, to be made to follow his instructions or give him pleasure when he demands it. He can get me wet simply with a look or by altering the tone of his voice. He is strict but loving, and I worship him above everything.

  Adam, of course, knows nothing of this. I may have been flirting shamelessly with him since the day he joined our department, but it’s all been completely vanilla. We swap dirty emails in quiet moments, but though I might tell him I want to be fucked from behind, I don’t mention that it’s while I’m wearing a blindfold and restraints. And he has absolutely no idea about those fantasies I have where he’s ordered me onto my knees to suck his cock, with our office door closed but not locked, and the boss’s secretary likely to burst in at any moment. I don’t intend to explain my need to submit, because this is strictly a virtual relationship, just a way of spicing up a boring day at work, and destined to remain so—until I forget about that email.

  I’m in the kitchen, washing the dishes after dinner—a chore David often likes to watch me perform while I’m dressed in nothing but a silly, frilly apron, though tonight I’m wearing a more practical combination of oversized T-shirt and yoga pants—when I hear him come up behind me. He wraps his arms around me, his big body enveloping mine. His lips gently nuzzle my neck and I’m relaxing into his embrace, when he murmurs, “So, tell me about Adam.”

  It may seem like a strange question to ask out of the blue, but we often discuss work and the friends we have made there with each other, so I don’t think too much of it. “I’m sure I’ve told you about him before,” I reply. “He’s been with the company about eighteen months, he joined the department just before Christmas from the Birmingham branch and I think he has a flat over in that new development on the riverside.”

  “Fascinating,” David says, “but none of that explains quite why you want to lick his cock like it’s the sweetest lollipop you’ve ever tasted.”

  That’s when I realize he’s read the email. From David’s lips, those words sound
so cloying and predictable, but that’s the kind of language I use with Adam. It’s the language he understands.

  My husband always knows when I’m lying, so I don’t even try to evade the question. I turn around and gaze up into his dark, wise eyes. “Because he’s cute,” I say. “And I like to have messages like that waiting for him when he gets to the office in the morning, because I know that when I arrive, he’ll already be hard just thinking about what I said.”

  “Really?” David quirks an eyebrow. “Sounds like my little minx fancies herself as some kind of expert in control games now. You’re not trying to top this cute friend of yours on the quiet, are you?”

  “Not at all,” I assure him. “I don’t think he’d even know what a top was if you asked him.”

  “Well, why don’t I? Ask him, I mean.” David must see the look of horror that crosses my face, because he says, “Let’s go to bed and talk about this.” That’s when I begin to suspect where this is heading, because all the big, important conversations we have about sex and our relationship take place in bed.

  I let David lead me up the stairs to the bedroom and lie back on the bed to watch as he quickly strips naked. His cock is already beginning to swell and harden, and I want to grab it and play with it, but he won’t allow me that privilege just yet. First, I must hear out whatever plan has been forming in his mind since he saw the message I was writing to Adam.