Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Do I have to chase you around the room, cunt?”

  He pulled the bench away from the wall and turned it, despite the deep pile of the black carpet. He was strong, confirmed by his next whacks.

  “Good,” he soon observed. “You’re finally bleeding for your boy.” Marc’s ferocity spiraled when my blood surfaced. Pain flowed from my butt into my entire body and consumed me. I was on fire, a heretic chained to a stake, praying for blessed oblivion. He finally backed off, and I floated with the rhythmic thudding of the canes. He ditched one cane and his blows subsided into nothingness while he stroked my back. At last he stopped. He paused, gave me a drink of water through a straw, and cleaned my butt with antiseptic wipes. “Nice pattern of cross-hatched welts back here,” he announced.

  Marc waited until my breathing settled into a slow rhythm and then knelt in front of my tear-streaked face and donned rubber gloves, finger by finger. He returned to his position at the rear of the horse. He paused until my anticipation and fear rose to mix in an unseen cloud between us. Then he reached under my hips and massaged my clit with the thumb and index finger of one hand, while rubbing my tender butt with his other hand. My breathing and squirming guided his ministrations as my excitement and arousal swelled.

  “Oh, my god,” I soon cried out. “Oh, I’m…I’m coming.”

  “Go for it,” Marc yelled.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I screamed. I raised my head and reared back the few inches my bondage would permit, let out one final yell, and collapsed into the leather.

  Marc stepped back, all smiles. He knelt in front of me and cradled my head.

  “How are you doing? Need anything?”

  I hesitated as I tried to sort convoluted thoughts. “I’m…I’m doing fine. Sure not thirsty,” I mumbled. “What next?” I asked tentatively.

  Marc rolled on a condom and lubed his dick. He leaned onto my butt and rubbed his cock between my asscheeks. “Your little boy is going to fuck his mommy,” he said softly.

  “Oh,” I muttered.

  “In the butt,” Marc continued.

  I didn’t move and remained silent. Marc lowered his torso and slithered along my back. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Mommy, to be ass-fucked like a boy?” he teased in a soft whisper.

  No answer.

  “Tell me you want it,” Marc cajoled in a louder voice.

  Again no answer.

  Marc stood and stuck his slippery finger up my asshole, none too gently.

  “I want it. I want it!”

  Marc pushed his dick into my hole, slowly, but didn’t ease the pressure until he was all the way in. Then he plunged back and forth in a teasing corkscrew motion. “It’s a turn-on looking at the red stripes on your butt while I’m ass-fucking you,” he said. He pummeled my shoulders with both palms. I wheezed while the wind was knocked out of me. Marc whacked my ass.

  “Fag hag, that’s what Mommy is,” Marc sneered. “Likes to get fucked in the ass by a fag. Straight boys aren’t good enough for you.” He grabbed my hips and pumped furiously. “Bet you can feel this hard dick on the back of your cunt.”

  I clenched my sphincter, but a few yellow drops trickled down the edge of the horse.

  “So I’m fucking the piss out of you, huh,” Marc said. “Go for it, Mommy, pee on your goddamn precious rug!”

  “No, no, no,” I protested, but I couldn’t stop. Marc kept fucking me while piss gushed off the horse. Some of it ran down his chaps and onto his boots.

  “Christ, on my chaps and boots!” Marc bellowed. He tugged his dick out, stomped to the other end of the horse and stood in front of me. “Lick these chaps clean, piss slob,” he ordered. My tongue darted back and forth across his chaps while he positioned himself to make sure I captured every possible drop.

  “Now these boots again,” he directed. He held each foot to my mouth, and I rapidly cleaned off the leather.

  “An okay job,” Marc conceded, strolling back to his original position. He slid his dick into my asshole and resumed his fucking.

  “I’m going to pound that pussy of yours into the horse.” Marc swung his hips back and forth in increasing arcs, forcing my pelvis to slide along the wet leather. I grabbed the front legs of the horse and began humping it in sync with Marc’s lunges.

  “Christ, I’m going to come,” I howled.

  “That’s it, Mommy, come again for your boy. Don’t need your vibrator now, do you?” Marc grabbed my shoulders, digging in his nails. “Think I’ll join you—yeah, let’s come together.”

  I shrieked in a quivering crescendo.

  “I’m coming in you, I’m coming,” Marc joined in. His final lunge sent the horse hopping, and he growled deeply while his dick spasmed. Then he flopped onto my back, his arms around me. Our gasps subsided and our breathing slowed and synchronized.

  We rested a few more minutes, and Marc untied me. He led me to the wall, guided me to a reclining position and positioned my head in his lap. He stroked my hair.

  I looked up at him. “Thanks, baby. You’re the only one I can surrender to so completely.” I rubbed my bottom. “I’ll think of you every time I sit down for the next few days.”

  “Good.” Marc smiled. “And your clients won’t see the marks.”

  “I really needed that.”

  Mark kissed me on the forehead. “I could tell.”

  NO GOOD DEED

  Alison Tyler

  The click of the handcuffs resonated inside Jamie. No other sound in the world had the same effect. The lock shut with a cold, crisp finality, and she knew that the only way she’d be loose again was when Killian decided to set her free. From the stern expression on his face, Jamie knew that moment was a long way off.

  “What’s the name of the game?” Killian asked as he bound her slim ankles to the footboard. There was no expression in his voice: not anger, not disappointment. She wished that he would yell at her, call her names, do something to show that he wasn’t simply moving on autopilot.

  She turned her head to watch him over her shoulder, dark bangs fluttering in front of her eyes, so that she saw him through the wisps of her hair. Although she had an excuse to offer, she didn’t say a word—didn’t dare.

  “Come on, baby.”

  But there it was. The “baby” that let her feel the emotion swell up inside of her, the way it had the very first time he’d called her that. She could remember the night clearly, as if she had black-and-white photographs of each separate moment in time. They’d met at a party. She’d shaken his hand at the start of the evening, thought he was attractive—tall and slim, an air of the rogue about his edges in spite of his expensive shirt, leather jacket—but she hadn’t felt any reciprocation. Only later in the night, when she’d been talking to another man by the bar, had Killian come up behind her.

  “Ready to go, baby?”

  Like they were a couple. Intrigued, she’d followed his lead, slid on her coat, let him take her by the wrist. She’d been his ever since.

  He’d led her to the car, pressed her up against the hood, got his mouth right close to her ear and whispered, “You flirting?”

  The hot sensation of guilt flooded through her. Had she been? Well, yeah. But she’d come to the party a single. Single people could flirt. She tried to explain this to Killian, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Finally, stammering, she’d said, “Yes, I was.”

  “Honesty’s always the best policy with me, kid,” he said, nodding. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you a spanking.”

  It was as if he’d gotten inside her head, seen all of her fantasies. No man had ever talked to her like that before.

  “Do you understand?”

  She nodded. She didn’t really, though. What was he offering?

  “If you get into that car with me, I am going to spank your ass until you cry. And then I’m going to take you home, cuff your wrists over your head, and lick your sweet pussy until you come like you’ve never come before. And the whole time I’m lickin
g you, you’re going to be imagining the spanking I’m going to give you after.”

  Jesus fucking Christ. Her knees felt weak. Even if this was only a one-night stand, even if she never saw him again, she knew she’d go with him. Thank god she’d worn pretty panties. That was the final rational, or at least semirational, thought she had as she let him position her over his lap in the backseat of the Chevy, felt his warm hand push her skirt to her waist, felt the stinging slap of the first blow through her hot-pink knickers.

  Now, his voice remained flat. “What’s the name?”

  This was like some twisted version of Rumpelstiltskin. She felt a laugh welling up, and she bit the insides of her cheeks to keep the sound contained. Chuckling now would be a bad idea. Doing anything that Killian did not specifically request would be a bad idea. A shudder ran through her as he tightened the leather on her ankles. She was stretched taut, totally naked on the pale pink satin sheets, her thighs spread, her pussy pressed firmly to the mattress. She could feel the wetness under her, and her cheeks burned. Being turned on wasn’t something she could control. If Killian tested her, if he slid his fingers between her nether lips, she was done for.

  “The game is called Punish the Slut,” Killian said as he walked around her. There was a dangerous tone in his voice now. “God, kid, you’re such a good player, you should have known that. I mean, you’re a fucking champion.”

  Was she? She felt like she was in the weeds.

  He’d met her this evening at the bar at eight, just like they’d planned. She’d been perched up on the corner stool, talking to a handsome man, and when Killian walked in, the man placed a hand on her thigh, right below the hem of her skirt, on her bare skin.

  Timing is everything.

  Killian hadn’t said a word. He’d slapped a twenty on the bar, gripped her wrist, and pulled her out of the place. There was no conversation in the car. Not a single threat or recrimination. He took her home, told her to strip, and bound her down to the bed.

  That’s where they were now.

  She could have refused if she’d wanted to. She could have explained herself, gotten out of this mess with only a few easy sentences.

  The thing was, she didn’t want to.

  Punish the Slut.

  She knew the rules well enough, after all.

  The blindfold slipped into place—black velvet, soft like feathers. The ball gag was next. She thrashed as he buckled the hated gag; she couldn’t help herself. The taste of the rubber was far too unpleasant to take willingly. Bitter, but reminiscent of some faraway memory—like black tar and licorice. Killian seemed to like her struggles, easily exerting the force to keep her steady as he fastened the gag tight.

  What was coming next made her heart race and her clit throb. He was going to cane her. If she had wanted him to go easy on her, if she’d wanted him to let her off with a warning, she’d lost the chance to say—to beg, to explain.

  The gag was fastened. There wasn’t even a chance for a safeword. With Killian, she’d never needed one before; no reason to think she would now.

  On most days, the cane stood in the corner of their closet, leaning against the wall. He hardly ever used it. They hardly ever reached this point. But she’d been craving the pain, jonesing for it, like any addict—like any hungry little needling.

  But that didn’t make this any easier.

  Pain is pain, whether you want it or not; whether it soothes your soul, calms your needs, smoothes out the roughness of your edges. Pain is still fucking pain.

  He let her feel the cane before the first stroke. He set the length of the weapon against her naked ass, rested the weight on her. She was lost in sensory deprivation. There was no way to speak, no chance to see the look in his eyes when he cut into her. She had no idea how many strokes he was going to land—no clue when he would start or when he would end. That made the fear rise up strong inside the pit of her belly.

  She could hear him walking around the bed. She could hear the sound of his heavy steps in those boots. And then she felt his breath, warm on the side of her neck, his lips at her ear.

  “Punish the Slut,” he whispered. “It’s my favorite game to play.”

  And then he lifted the cane and struck the first blow.

  Light exploded behind her shut lids. She clenched down so hard, she thought she’d come right then. A second blow landed before she had a chance to absorb the first. Cold sweat ran down her spine. She bit so hard into the gag that the taste of rubber flooded through her. There was no way to scream, and yet the sound of her pain echoed in her head. A third blow crossed the first two, and she tested the bounds unintentionally, her whole body tensing, the handcuff chain rattling.

  Four and five came in quick succession; a pause, then six, seven, and eight. She would have smiled if the gag hadn’t been stretching her lips. He’d given her eight strokes for the time they’d planned on meeting. She heard the cane hit the floor and then she felt him on her, pounding into her, without a word, no kiss, just his cock inside of her, obliterating the pain with pleasure—almost, not quite, of course, but enough. There had to be a remnant of the pain—that’s how Jamie was wired.

  Killian had understood that about her from the start.

  Some people just know.

  He slammed against her, fucking her so hard she thought she could feel his cock all the way to the back of her throat. She came when he did, spurred on by his climax, and then she felt the weight of him lift. But it was more than that. The weight of wanting lifted, the weight of needing, which had dogged her for weeks, urging her on, putting dark thoughts in her mind.

  She was relaxed now—undone.

  Tomorrow, she’d thank Roger for meeting her at the bar, buy him a dinner, maybe. He was a nice boy, a kid from the mailroom at work. She knew Roger and his boyfriend Daniel were hard up for cash, living from paycheck to paycheck. And maybe, if he asked really nice, she’d show him her marks in the ladies’ room.

  Punish the Slut.

  Of course, she’d known the name of the game all along. But she hadn’t wanted to win.

  Not when losing was so much more her style.

  MASOCHIST ON VACATION

  Aimee Pearl

  First things first. The night ended the way it did because Sir was practically begging for it, thrusting his hips into the bed and begging me to fuck him in the ass. Out loud, he hinted his desire in a somewhat benign way, as I massaged him. “You can massage my butt, too, ya know. There are a lot of muscles in there.”

  Sir and I are in complete agreement on this: I’m not a Top. But, on the rare occasions when I find myself in bed with another bottom, or a switch, or a Top who really can top from below, I know enough to know how to fuck someone in the ass. In fact, it’s one of my favorite things to do.

  So I took his hint and began kneading his ass. Although I had groped it once before, when he had jeans on, this was the first time in the six years since I met him that I was touching it bare. He had deliciously soft skin, and as I edged closer and closer to the middle, we both got more aroused.

  But now let’s back up. How did I get here? How did I find myself in Sir’s bed, leaning over him, fingers teasingly making their way to that ultimate reward, that tight reservoir of joy? How did I get, in Sir’s words, “so fucking lucky?”

  It wasn’t easy. This happened at the end of a long day of arduous physical labor and an unexpected amount of emotional labor, too. I was beyond tired—I was worn out. But I’d figured out a long time ago the value of taking pleasure in pain. And I’d delighted for years in Sir’s particularly taxing forms of affection. Although definitions vary, I’m probably a masochist in some sense of word. And I was on vacation.

  How It Came to This

  It all started the previous month, when Sir came from the East Coast and stayed with me in San Francisco. In preparing for his visit, I asked him over email what kinds of foods he would like to have while at my house. I was earnest in my desire to be the consummate host, and I was ready to
provide him with any amount of esoterica in the interest of catering to his whims. Flattered, he replied, “Are you sure you can’t move to my city to be my housegirl?”

  The thought intrigued me. Not the part about moving to his city; that wasn’t going to happen, but being in his service, doing things for him, having no control or say in my movements, letting go. It would be like a vacation.

  Sir was someone I felt I could trust. Submission is a delicate dance, especially when it comes to race. Although I’m not into race play, race inevitably enters the playspace—because we have race. I become especially conscious of racial differences when I’m with play partners who are white. The degree of trust that has to be present in submitting to a white person is significant. Sir had never let me down. I knew that his race politics were good, and I felt comfortable with the concept of doing domestic labor for him.

  I feel the same about the idea of playing with Sir as a boy. In the email, he called me “housegirl,” but my gender is maybe a little more fluid than “girl.” At the same time, playing erotically with masculinity (even my own feminized version of it) is something that, being black, I have mostly only done with other people of color, specifically transgender men of color, with whom I feel safe exploring and expressing black masculinity. To be black and play as a boy is intensely charged for me. Sir, with his own nuanced relationship to his gender, both assigned and claimed, is one of the few white people I would play with in that type of headspace, because I have the feeling he gets it.

  So I thought about Sir’s offhand invitation, and considering the above, it really appealed to me. I had already made plans to come to Sir’s city on a business trip the following month, and I would be staying at Sir’s house during that time, a Thursday through Sunday visit. With that in mind, I asked Sir if he would like me to be in his service for the weekend portion of my trip (my business would be over by Friday afternoon). Happily, he said yes.