Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  He joins me on the bed and peels the T-shirt off over my head, then pushes me back on the bedcovers and grasps both my wrists above my head with one of his big, strong hands—a simple, but powerful demonstration of his mastery over me. I lie there quietly, wondering what he’s about to say.

  “Nicky, you remember how we once talked about what we would do if we were ever really, seriously attracted to another person, and whether we should act on that attraction?”

  “Yes,” I reply, as I feel his free hand stroking softly over the curve of my bare breast. “We said that each of us would be allowed a little adventure, as long as we were completely honest about it.”

  “Well, I’m assuming you haven’t had an adventure as yet, because you haven’t exactly been honest about your naughty love notes to Adam, have you?”

  I want to protest. I haven’t said anything because there has been nothing to tell David about. But then I’ve just confessed to sending Adam messages which were expressly designed to get him hard, and so I have to concede that my husband might just have a point.

  Suddenly, David’s gentle caress becomes a tight pinch of my nipple. He uses just enough pressure to send sparks of sensation racing down to my pussy, and I gasp in a mixture of pain and arousal. His voice drops, becomes more of a growl, rich with authority. I know that tone so well, and I writhe against the covers. “I’m giving you permission to have that adventure, Nicky, but on the condition that you let Adam know what you’re really like. He obviously has no idea what a filthy-minded, kinky little minx you are, and so we’re going to show him. You invite Adam to the house, and I’ll give him a demonstration of the best way to treat you. If he can cope with that, he’s all yours. If he can’t—well, is it really worth your while bothering with him?”

  I can’t quite believe what my husband is suggesting. My submission to him has always been our private little secret; we have no friends who share our lifestyle and we never go out to play on the club scene. Now here he is telling me he’s going to dominate me in front of someone else—someone who he will allow to dominate me, too, if he proves himself up to the task. For a moment, I wonder why David is proposing this. And then I realize: it’s because he can.

  It proves surprisingly easy to persuade Adam to come over for dinner. From the hints I drop, he gains the impression that David and I are interested in a threesome, though naturally I don’t fill him in on the finer points. That will be David’s task, at the appropriate moment. It’s clearly a thrill for him to be offered the chance of sex with an older, more experienced couple, and I suspect that he won’t be able to resist sharing the details afterward. “This is nothing to brag about to your friends,” I warn him. “Not if you want to be invited back.”

  At seven the following Saturday night, there’s a knock on the door. I’m putting the final touches to the table settings, and David is relaxing in the lounge with a beer. Music is playing on the CD system, some Ibiza chill-out album that David is particularly fond of. Adam is on the doorstep, clutching a bottle of champagne. He smells of musky aftershave and nervous anticipation as I take the proffered bottle from him and usher him inside. If he’s surprised to see that I’m wearing a Chinese patterned silk robe rather than anything more formal, he tries not to let it show. He’ll be far more surprised in a moment.

  My husband rises from his chair to shake Adam’s hand. “Nice to meet you, mate.” As they share a manly embrace, I decide that no one could ever accuse me of going for a type. David is close to six foot, with a nose broken in a couple of places from his years as an amateur boxer and the first traces of gray appearing in his black hair. Adam, by contrast, is boyishly blond and only a little taller than I am. If I were simply going to be fucked by both of them, it would be a more than enticing prospect. But throw a little domination play into the mixture, and I’m already beginning to feel my pussy pulsing with excitement.

  “Before we go any further,” David says to Adam, “I need to tell you what’s going to happen tonight. Yeah, I know Nicky probably made you think this was just a simple three in a bed setup, but there’s a lot more to it than that. You see, I’m offering you the chance to spend lots of quality time with my wife, but only if you’re prepared to treat her the way she likes to be treated. Nicky, display yourself.”

  It’s a command he’s given me many times before, but never when someone else has been present. I don’t hesitate to do as he asks, though. I want my husband to be proud of me, and I want my potential lover to see how obedient and well trained I am. I unfasten the tie of the robe and let the garment drop from my shoulders. Naked, I sink to my knees, legs slightly parted, palms on my thighs. Gazing straight ahead, I wait for my next instruction.

  Adam is staring at me. He seems slightly stunned, which is understandable, given that he’s just watched me strip off and get into a position which is designed to draw attention to my most intimate places simply because my husband told me to, but the look he’s giving me suggests he likes what he sees.

  “Would you like a beer, mate?” David asks. When Adam nods, David snaps, “Nicky, get your friend a beer.”

  I hurry into the kitchen, and take out one of the bottles of beer which have been chilling in the fridge. When I return to the lounge, David and Adam are both sitting in armchairs, discussing the afternoon’s football results as though this is a perfectly ordinary social gathering.

  When I hand the beer to Adam, I’m aware that he can’t drag his attention from my breasts. “I know this looks weird,” David says, “but trust me, Nicky is enjoying this. We both are. She likes to be dominated, and I like to dominate her. I tell her what to do and she obeys, and we get off on it. I spank her bottom from time to time, and she absolutely loves that. But I think you need more of a demonstration to convince you, don’t you?”

  David invites Adam to join him at the table. It takes Adam a moment to realize that there are only two place settings. The reason for this quickly becomes apparent as I begin to serve the meal. It’s a simple collection of cold cuts, designed to be eaten mostly with the fingers. When the two men have helped themselves to generous amounts of rare roast beef, ham and salad, David chooses some tidbits for a third plate. Without even being told, I go to sit on the floor at the side of his chair. As he and Adam eat, they continue to discuss sport and television programs and music, finding out just how much they have in common. At no point am I included in the conversation. Every so often, David will feed me a piece of chicken or tomato, or give me a sip of wine from the glass he’s poured for me, treating me like a favored pet. Though he’s acting as though I’m not there, he is, in fact, completely aware of my needs, maintaining the subtle balance between the controller and the controlled.

  Adam, of course, is finding it much harder to be so nonchalant, and David is aware of this. He ruffles my hair affectionately and says, “Nicky, crawl under the table for me. I want you to find out how much Adam is enjoying this.”

  I push my way under the hem of the tablecloth and crawl on hands and knees to where Adam is sitting. Slowly, I run my fingers up his jeans-clad leg, coming to rest on the sizeable lump in his crotch. “Oh, he’s hard,” I murmur approvingly.

  “Take it out, then,” David orders. “Take it out and suck it.”

  I fumble with the buttons of his fly, reaching in to where his cock is beginning to uncoil and fetching it out into the open. My fingers close around him, fingertips barely touching. It’s been a long time since I’ve played with any man other than David, and I take a moment to savor the way Adam looks—long, smooth shaft and neat head sheathed in a sleeve of velvety skin—and breathe in his distinctly salty scent. Above me, slightly muffled by the thick linen tablecloth, I can hear the two men still carrying on their conversation, though Adam’s voice is beginning to crack in places, and when my lips close round his cockhead, he loses the power of speech entirely.

  “How is that?” David enquires casually as I start to suck.

  “Good,” Adam stammers.

  That’s
not answer enough for David, who presses him. “Enough suction? Too much in the way of teeth? You can tell her, you know. Whatever you want, she’ll do it.”

  I should be offended by the offhand way in which my husband is critiquing my oral technique, but I’m not. Everything he says is true. Whatever he—or Adam—wants, I will do. For me, that’s the turn-on: being made to take orders, and taking pride in completing them to the best of my ability. I am determined to give Adam a blow job he’ll never forget, to please him—and to please David.

  “Suck harder, Nicky,” Adam demands, a new, stronger edge to his voice. “And take me deeper down your throat.” There’s no talk of sweet lollipops now, nor any sign of all the light-hearted teasing that characterized our email flirtation, and I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve underestimated him. Even faced with such a willingly submissive woman as myself, some men wouldn’t have been able to cope with this situation, but not Adam. The way he’s ordering me around suggests he’s either a very fast learner or he has a dominant streak lurking just under the surface.

  As I continue to lavish the best of my attention on his cock, gripping the base in my fist and bobbing my head down onto his length, I feel the tablecloth being lifted off my body. David is baring my backside, which is thrust out toward him. His fingers probe my pussy gently, and I don’t need to hear his little chuckle of approval to know that he’s discovered just how wet I am.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you, minx?” David says, but my mouth is too full of Adam’s cock for me to speak. By way of answer, I thrust my bum back onto his hand. One of his fingers, thickly coated with my own juices, toys with the entrance to my arse for a moment before slipping inside with almost embarrassing ease. Another finger starts to rub my clit, and I know he wants me to lose control before Adam can come in my mouth. The willful part of me is determined not to let that happen, and I suck even harder, using all the little tricks I know to bring Adam to the point where he can’t hold back any longer.

  Adam reaches down under the table, letting his fingers tangle in my long curls and holding my head firmly in place as his seed shoots down my throat. Finally, he releases his grip and sighs, “That was amazing,” but I can barely hear him, because David presses just that little bit deeper inside me and I can’t fight him any longer. My muscles clench around his finger and I’m coming, almost sobbing with pleasure and gratitude to my husband for making this wonderful moment happen. I fall forward into Adam’s lap, his slowly subsiding erection pressing against my cheek.

  “You can come out now,” David tells me, and I crawl out on slightly shaky limbs. He scoops me up into his embrace. I’m acutely aware that he’s the only one of our little trio who’s yet to receive any satisfaction, but I’m sure it won’t be too long before I’m required to put that right.

  “So, Adam,” David says, “do you think you can treat my little minx here the way she needs to be treated?”

  Adam nods and smiles, and I know I’m about to learn what it really means to submit to two such very different men. I can’t believe how much I’m looking forward to it.

  So it seems as though David and I have both got what we really wanted, I think, as I go to the kitchen, still proudly naked, to make coffee for the three of us. He set me this challenge because he could, and I responded to it so enthusiastically because I could. Next week, I’ll start sending Adam emails where I share all those fantasies I’ve hidden from him till now, and perhaps the next time I go down on my knees to suck him, it will be under his desk, with the boss’s secretary just the other side of our unlocked office door.

  AVERY SAYS

  Sommer Marsden

  It’s at the party that I can’t quite still my tongue. I really can’t. I see my openings and I jump. I pounce. I push my boundaries and poke the bear, as my mother used to say.

  “They say the average person gains a pound a year,” Thomas says and I try to bite my tongue, I really do. I literally bite it, pinching the traitorous muscles between my strong white teeth.

  I say it anyway. “You’ve always been an overachiever, honey,” I say, and pat the very small protrusion of his belly. In ten years he may have gained five pounds. He is by no means heavy. He does not deserve my scathing remark. And yet, I say it. And to make matters worse, I stroke his belly as if he were the Buddha.

  My Aunt Ann starts. My Aunt Mary blushes, drops her gaze, backs away as if my cruelty is contagious. Thomas frowns, frowns and flushes with deserved anger, but he does not raise his voice. Does not remove my stroking hand from his dark blue shirt, or even embarrass me back. He does not imply that I am not the size eight I once was. Or that my breasts do not point due north as they did once upon a time. He does not mention the tiny streaks of silver in my blonde hair. He smiles at me.

  He smiles at me.

  And fear whips up my spine like a downed live wire. Thrashing and spreading sparks of panic worry along my skin. But my cunt jumps to life, going warm and tight and wet for that smile. Because that smile means I am in big trouble. Big trouble means pain. But big trouble also means pleasure. My nipples peak and I try to hide my shiver from the aunts.

  “I’ll get you more wine,” my husband says softly and walks into the Christmas crowd.

  I bite my lip and straighten my dress, tug at my earrings, fix my stockings. All to fend off the thumping excitement and sexual arousal that washes over me. I feel lightheaded and hot, scared and excited. I honestly feel like I might come right there in my mother’s dining room in the soft glow of white Christmas lights under the sharp and critical gaze of distant relatives. The thought alone nearly trips me into orgasm.

  “So how are the boys?” I ask my aunts and watch the clock while they give an answer I do not hear.

  Thomas makes me wait one hour and fifty-one minutes before he leans in and says into my ear, “Get your nasty little ass in the car in the next five minutes or it will be ten times worse than whatever you are imagining.” Under the guise of hugging me to him, he pulls me in and pinches my right asscheek so hard that tears spring to my eyes and I choke on the air in my lungs. I nod so he knows that I understand and I say my hurried good-byes with a mixture of dread and anticipation twisting in my belly.

  In the car, he says not a word. He lifts the skirt of my black dress, and checks. I am in the thigh-high hose and garters. I have on a small silken pair of black panties. He puts a finger inside the crotch and touches me just long enough to test me, to see how wet I am. He does not touch me to give me pleasure but to gauge my readiness, the way a mechanic would check the oil in a car: Detached. Professional. All business. I jump under his touch anyway, stealing as much pleasure from his fingertip as I possibly can.

  “You know we start off with fifteen. Don’t give me a reason to up it, Avery. My hand won’t be light tonight. What you did doesn’t even deserve comment. You know that.”

  I nod and now the tears are coming. What have I done? Why did I do it? What was I thinking? But under it all is the thumping in my cunt from where he has just touched me and the crawling anxiety that somehow makes it all feel so much better—more intense, sharper and brighter and more real.

  “I know.”

  We drive home in silence.

  I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs as the heater blows hot air across my knees. “Sit still,” he commands.

  So I do.

  In the driveway, he turns all the knobs, fiddles with the glove compartment. He is making me wait and my throat feels small and the air feels thick. “Get on the porch, Avery.” His voice is soft but full of menace. I exit the car and make my way up onto our porch. A small square of concrete framed with black wrought-iron fence. Two small chairs and a bistro table grace the porch. Above my head, our porch light glows, spotlighting me in the dark December night.

  Thomas is examining his keys as he comes up the walk. I clench my thighs together and that only makes the pressure in my pussy worse. My want is worse. My fear is worse. I feel like I’m spiraling and I try to b
reathe deeply. I can’t. His loafers whisper secretively on the steps and he looks up at me, big brown eyes soft with love. His voice is hard with discipline when he sits on a chair and says, “Over my knees, Avery.”

  I gulp air. Here? Outside? In the open? On the porch? It is late but not that late. This time of night at this time of year lots of people could be awake: young parents playing Santa, lonely people with insomnia, the older couple who stay up late to eat popcorn and watch Christmas movies. I inhale. He is joking. Surely he is joking.

  My husband looks up, smiles. His eyes are so kind. “Now. Right this moment. Or I’ll make it twenty and we’ll do it in the middle of the street under a streetlight.” He pats his lap and I drop to my knees without thinking. The concrete rips at my fragile stockings and I know they have torn, torn at the knees like a whore’s. I drape myself over his lap. The light and the word whore in my head and the circumstances have my cunt nearly dripping and a shameful blush heats my cheeks. My breath plumes out before me, a cold white ghost as he lifts my skirt and palms my ass with a gentle care that is staggering.

  My husband begins his spanking. He is humming “Deck the Halls” as he delivers the first seven blows. I squirm and I kick. The pain is frightening and lovely. My cunt is clutching around nothing and my hosiery is further shredding as my knees scrape and bleed.

  “You’d better stay still. Your knees will be in ribbons before I’m done.” And then he hisses, eight. “Eighth spank for the girl with the nasty tongue. Avery says things she shouldn’t. Avery says things to shock…” He pauses and the blows come harder, faster. Heat sears my skin and my pussy flickers, dances, begs. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, is the chant in my head.