Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I’m sorry,” is what comes out of my mouth.

  “Shut up. I don’t want to know what Avery has to say right now. Twelve should be wonderfully excruciating,” he says, and he hits me right at the seam of my ass, the sensitive bundle of nerves that divides left cheek from right. My head flies back and I let out a howl. I see a light wink off in the neighbor’s house. I know he is watching. My neighbor, Mr. Berger: he can see me. He is a widower. He is watching. The thirteenth blow washes that thought from my mind.

  When Thomas worms his fingers into my panties and pushes them into me brutally hard, the thought returns. He will see. He will see. They will see. Everyone will see me, punished, on my knees, bleeding, squirming, begging, coming. God, he will see me coming. And Thomas is with me, right there. The fourteenth and fifteenth blows land a bit harder but slower and his fingers push right in the perfect place, right against that swollen sweet spot deep inside of me. I throw my head back as I come, bare my face to the dark and blank window next door. I see him in my mind, Mr. Berger, see him watching me, touching his cock, jerking off as Thomas shows the world how bad I am but how well I take my punishment, how sweetly I can come.

  My ass is on fire, my hair trailing the cracked concrete porch. Thomas takes his fingers from me as I nuzzle his hard-on through his gray dress slacks. I push my pelvis at his leg, humping against him, showing him I don’t want to be done.

  “I’m taking you inside. You bad girl. You dirty whore. And then what? What will you do? What do whores do?” His voice is just loud enough to carry if someone should be listening.

  “I’ll get on my knees,” I say on a breath.

  “You’ll get on your knees. Your bloody busted knees and…”

  “I’ll suck your cock. Please, Thomas, let me.” My voice is just loud enough to float to eavesdropping ears.

  He is unlocking the door and I do not bother to smooth my dress over my blazing ass or fix my panties that are hiked to the side. My knees sting with a delicious pain. My body is in perfect chaos. We’re barely inside when I drop to my knees. They sing with agony but I smile. I open my mouth and then Thomas is fucking my face, sliding between my lips, pulling my hair.

  “Avery says the nastiest things,” he says as he comes. I use my tongue for something besides caustic remarks. I lick at him until he makes me stop.

  There will be more, I know. He will fuck me, clean me, tend my bruises. Love me. Until the next time I open my mouth and the wrong thing comes out. And then he will punish me.

  THE SUB FAIRY

  Mercy Loomis

  Guests meandered in and out of the room, the air filled with the babble of a dozen different conversations. She-Ra joked loudly with a guy in a white lab coat. A flapper who had relinquished her cigarette holder in favor of a cup of punch sat with crossed legs on the knee of Darth Maul. My husband Sean, dressed all in black as usual, but with a cape and tunic over his poet shirt, was talking computers with a man dressed as his own evil twin. Sean leaned forward in the chair, gesturing with one hand, and the other man nodded thoughtfully.

  I sat quietly on the floor at Sean’s feet, pretending to listen to what he was saying. It was a prosaic scene, Halloween costumes aside, a full house of thirtysomethings, eating, drinking, and talking politics.

  It was not a situation in which I normally found myself quivering with arousal.

  My costume was a gothic dream, a sort of wingless twilight fairy, clad in a shimmering uneven dark blue skirt over floor-length black, a silky off-the-shoulder black blouse, and a dark blue and silver corset to tie it all together. A silver half-mask hid my face, though it showed enough that I had to continuously school my expression.

  Sean’s other hand was hidden under the black lace veil that was attached to my mask and flowed down my back to my waist. His hand lay heavy and possessive against the back of my neck, his fingers occasionally tugging at the choker I wore, or sliding up to wind themselves in my hair, pulling my head back against his knee.

  Right there, in the middle of a crowded room, we were having foreplay. And no one knew.

  I loved it.

  I had never consciously wanted more, sexually, than I already had. After years of happy marriage, with never a complaint about our bedroom activities, I had felt more than blessed. Sure, bondage and domination in books or movies got me hot, but I’d never thought I wanted to actually experience them.

  And yet, as we made love I would so often have that imagery in my mind: restraints, ropes, blindfolds; the idea of being held down, taken, and enjoying every second of it.

  I don’t know what gave me the courage to say it (I’ve always been shy when it comes to pillow talk), but I do remember what put it in my head. A book, “housewife porn” as Sean would say, a romance full of all the wonderful BDSM things that had been making merry in my imagination.

  The idea of having to ask permission to come wasn’t new, and I don’t know why it stuck with me that time. But about a week after I finished the book, as Sean was teasing my clit and the tremors were beginning to run through me, I forced the words out.

  “Can I come?”

  There was a pause before he said, “Yes,” and I might’ve thought that I had freaked him out, if the energy level in the room hadn’t jumped like a frog on a griddle. Still, we didn’t really discuss it afterward.

  But I had liked it—quite a bit. And I thought he did, too.

  So I tried again.

  It wasn’t planned. We were lying in bed, and I had asked, as I often do, “So what would you like?” By that I meant, as long as I get an orgasm out of it, I’m up for pretty much anything. He had rolled onto his back, saying, “How about you suck me?” And I knelt next to him on the bed, my head and eyes lowered, and said quietly, “You could tell me to.”

  It was easier this time, which was strange to me, since “Can I come?” is sort of a heat of the moment kind of thing, and this was much more blatant, almost confrontational. But I felt that same excitement in the air, and when I glanced sidelong at his face, all I saw was lust and eagerness.

  In that same calm, confident way he talks to animals and clients, he said, “Suck me.”

  Did I ever.

  I’m gifted with a definite oral fixation and a husband who loves to be teased. That night I spent a full hour lavishing attention on his cock, working hard to maintain the mindset that I was there to fulfill his needs, to serve him, and not to just go until I got a little tired. I started slow, with light kisses that grew more intense, adding flicks of my tongue along the shaft. I breathed over the skin of his sac, caressing it with my fingers, my lips, my tongue. Then I moved back to his cock, running up the whole length in a wet line so I could nibble, gently, at the edge of his head, mouth burrowing into that border zone, sucking at the skin. I took the full length of him in one quick thrust of my head, just to feel his body clench, and went back to my slow torment.

  The orgasm took him hard, at the end, with my mouth all around him, rubbing him against my hard palate with every suck. I squeezed his balls and worked him with my tongue, listening with pleased satisfaction to the volume of his cries. And when the shudders stopped and he began to soften, I slipped off to the bathroom to spit and rinse, and came sauntering back with a feeling not only of pride, but also of unmistakable afterglow.

  I knew I had pleased him, and that knowledge left me sated and content.

  We talked quite a bit after that night.

  Now, three months later, I was parked at his feet in a sort of passive-aggressive display of submission. There was a dearth of seating, it was true, and my corset forced me to sit up straight, but I felt as though I were holding a sign that read, That’s my dom. Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

  Tonight, in my fairy-tale outfit, I knew I was beautiful. The mask that hid my features but displayed my tiny smile made me mysterious. The corset emphasized my curves, the low neckline of the blouse revealing my generous cleavage for all and sundry. My curled legs were hidden in the fabric of my skirts, my hands in
their black opera gloves relaxed, unmoving in my lap. I held my shoulders proudly, rolled back and down to emphasize the graceful arch of my neck; the demure tilt of my head and subtle twist in my posture announcing to anyone, or so I felt, that Sean and Sean alone held my undivided attention.

  I imagined how I must look, and was pleased with the effect. Maybe a little silver chain, I mused, something delicate, attached to my choker. I could be a captive fairy, after all.

  The idea of making myself little more than an ornament for his costume, a living accessory, got me frighteningly wet. I didn’t understand the appeal, I truly didn’t, but after months of muttering, “I don’t know why I like this, but I do,” I accepted it without question. I visualized that lovely silver leash and quivered, hot and aching, until it was time to go home.

  Following him out to the car, I settled myself carefully in the passenger seat. As Sean pulled out of the driveway, I reached up to take off my mask, but he stopped me.

  “Leave it,” he said. His voice had that husky, steely ring that said he wasn’t done topping me yet. “Put your seat back.”

  I did, arranging my veil on my right shoulder so it wouldn’t obstruct the view. He reached over, slid his hand down my shirt.

  “Open your legs.”

  I spread them as much as I could, my right foot up on the dash, left knee bent, my skirt pulled high. The long material draped my legs, even with the fabric drawn all the way up on one side, hiding his hand as he transferred his attention from my breast to my clit. I wasn’t wearing any panties. He’d told me not to.

  “That’s a wet little toy,” he purred to me as we drove down the highway. “Did you like sitting there all nice and submissive?”

  His dexterous fingers were stroking me, dipping inside me, then circling my clit, dipping and circling, over and over again. “Oh, yes,” I moaned. I was already beginning to shake.

  “You going to come nice and loud for me?”

  It was only a question because he liked to hear me answer him. “Yes!”

  “Good.” And he lightened his touch, that bastard, keeping me on the brink, bringing me so close and then backing off with a “Not yet,” all the way through town, lingering at stop signs, stopping for every yellow light, while I burned under his fingers and the imaginary eyes of every car we passed, until five blocks from home he finally said, “Come for me.”

  I was still shrieking when he pulled into the driveway.

  Tomorrow we would get up and mow the lawn, do laundry, clean the house, and all the other stuff that happens on a weekend. We might go grocery shopping, or out to a movie, or any of the other things we had always done before.

  But in the back of our minds was the knowledge that, at any time, he could grab me and throw me over the couch, or tell me to get down on my knees, and I would do it, happily.

  Marriage just doesn’t get any better than this.

  I BREATHE YOUR NAME

  Tess Danesi

  It’s the feeling of absence that wakes me. Normally, when I first stir, Dar’s hard chest is pressed to my back, his exhalations soft and warm on my shoulder, his arm draped weightily over my chest. His presence is a heavy one, ominous at times and comforting at others. Whether it’s because of his size—at six three he looks down on most of us mere mortals—or the gravitas that often defines his state of mind, I’m used to feeling surrounded, even encompassed by him. Regardless, it’s a feeling I treasure.

  As I slowly rouse, stretching my arms over my head, feeling the weight of my heavy breasts, dusky nipples erect in the air-conditioning, shifting upward, I recall him, what must have been hours ago, whispering in my ear, “Come run with me this morning, pet.” Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I see it is now just seven in the morning. I don’t clearly recall answering him. I love my sleep and tend to rise slowly. And it’s a weekend; I don’t have to be up. Dar, however, rarely varies his routines. So, given that it would have been about five, I’m sure I just turned over, groaned unintelligibly and was instantly slumbering peacefully again, leaving him to run by himself. This is as it should be. At five foot two, my pace is not very speedy at all, and Dar runs as if to punish himself. I much prefer the slow stretch of a yoga class to pounding the pavement. When I want to punish myself, I have only to goad Dar and I can be assured he’ll do so in ways that fulfill me on a much deeper level.

  Sitting up, I brush back several long mahogany strands of hair that have decided to adhere stubbornly to my bottom lip and then let my toes dig deep into the thick-piled antique Persian rug, a rug softened by strands of silks woven painstakingly into the complex design. Dar, while requiring little, is fond of excellence and craftsmanship in his creature comforts. His hard-earned money gives him the means to indulge most of those excesses. With me, he has the means to indulge his more sadistic excesses.

  Despite it being mid-July, the air-conditioning makes me shudder now that I have emerged from my cocoon of blankets. Stroking my palms along my arms to ward off the chill, I find myself closing my eyes, enjoying the eroticism of skin on soft, creamy skin. Before long, my mind has begun to transpose my light touch with Dar’s rough one. Evidence of his sadism, my own masochism really, is often written clearly on my body, necessitating carefully chosen clothing on most workdays. I love each of the bruises that linger for weeks on my skin. Pressing them, feeling the dull ache, brings the memory of his touch back to me, but I realize that others will more than likely see them in a very different light. Rising, I wrap myself in the light cotton robe that rests over the arm of the club chair.

  As I near the bathroom, I hear the sound of the shower and close my eyes for a moment, picturing Dar, soaked black hair just long enough to caress his collar clinging to his head and dripping down the back of his neck, water droplets beading on his smooth olive skin. I feel a familiar, pleasurable tension shift to my cunt at the thought.

  My clit throbs as I recall other scenes that have taken place in his sleekly modern bathroom. The time he came upon me showering, breaking his number-one rule—make sure to turn on the ventilation fan when you shower. As punishment, he turned the ecstasy of my shower into a trial of endurance by simply changing the temperature from blissfully warm to freezing cold. But, as usual with Dar, pleasure follows pain. That I have chosen to endure the pain, or even find pleasure in it, confuses my best friend, Maggie. Hell, just what motivates my quest for pleasure through suffering confounds me at times. But then, Dar had wrapped my shivering body in a large fluffy towel and carried me to bed. With his warm body pressed to mine, my teeth stopped chattering and my body stopped shaking. I stopped questioning and just surrendered to one sensation after another. Finally, he turned me onto my belly, raised my hips high and plunged into my depths, each increasingly brutal thrust of his hot, hard cock melting away my lingering icy anger until the harshness I had endured only minutes before seemed light-years away. That’s Dar’s magic. Like wind taking the billowy smoke rising from a chimney, Dar’s kiss, his touch, his words of endearment and declarations of love disperse the suffering I’ve endured.

  I realize how this sounds, I do. You’re probably thinking, Oh, poor deluded thing, she’s being abused and doesn’t even know it. But I assure you, this is not the case. I went into my relationship with Dar over two years ago with eyes wide open to the level of his sadism. He never lied about his dark desires; if anything, he made himself out to be far worse than the reality. And I craved it then as I still do now. While no one has ever been capable of causing me pain in the way that Dar does, neither has anyone ever been so tirelessly my champion. I am his to cherish and to protect and to hurt, but not harm, as he sees fit.

  There have been times he’s gone too far, times when he has left my faith in him shattered into so many jagged little shards that neither of us were sure we could repair the damage. Through him, I’ve found that my own heart isn’t always as light and loving as I like to think it is. In this very bathroom, the threshold of which I am about to cross, I sat with briny tears burnin
g undulating trails down my cheeks contemplating how, for once, I could make him suffer. I settled on holding the straight razor that has been his shaving preference for years to his throat while he slept. Not to cut him. No, not that. But to see his eyes open wide in fear, to see his cool, always-in-control demeanor crumble, in the misguided hope that he’d understand all that I have endured for him. Had I been thinking clearly, that it wouldn’t end well, or at least not with my desired outcome, would have been obvious from the start. But we managed to come through even that. I can’t say that he fears me now; we both know the truth is that the only danger he was in that night was of the razor accidentally falling from my trembling hand.

  Now, all I want to do is watch the man I love shower, an act that never fails to arouse me beyond all comprehension, and when he’s done, to make him forgo a towel altogether and to dry every inch of his perfect body, a body that is the essence of masculinity, with my tongue. I imagine my pointy pink tongue lingering in the crevice between his thigh and groin, slowly replacing crystal beads of moisture with thick swathes of saliva, before trailing up to his heavy balls, savoring the musky scent beneath the aroma of soap.

  Despite the exhaust fan’s best efforts, it never keeps pace with Dar’s preferred scalding showers, and steam swirls around me when I enter. I close the door behind me and lean against it, watching Dar behind the wall of glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom, being assaulted by the high pressure dual showerheads positioned at each end of the shower. He doesn’t notice me, as he faces the back wall of the enclosure, allowing my gaze to fall to his muscular bottom. He scrubs himself as I silently watch. I’m filled with a mixture of admiration, thankfulness and lust as the muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin with each movement of his arms.

  Despite my silence, something in the air must have changed, because he abruptly turns and sees me.