Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Preparation

  In the weeks leading up to the assignment, I did a number of things to get ready. I consulted a friend who is in a 24/7 service relationship to his Daddy and got his advice on special touches I could do to go above and beyond, to please Sir. My friend suggested I research information on the supermarkets and drugstores closest to Sir’s house, in case Sir needed me to run out and get something. He also said that mistakes would be inevitable, so I should take them in stride and be prepared to apologize and move on.

  And my friend told me that, when he was first preparing to serve his Daddy, his preparation wasn’t so much about learning to do specific tasks, as it was about spending time meditating on his devotion to his Daddy. I didn’t know if I wanted to do something like that with Sir, because it sounded too crush-inducing. With Sir and I both having primary partners, getting a crush on Sir seemed less a good idea than a good way to get my feelings hurt. So I tried to let that suggestion go.

  Next, I attended a workshop on service, at a leather conference. The speaker told me the best thing I could do to get ready for service was to bring Sir a gift that reflected his likes. Later that day, I spotted a brass paddle in the conference’s silent auction. Gleaming and heavy, it called to me, and the moment I saw it, I thought of Sir. I didn’t have much money, but luckily it had an extremely low opening bid, and only one other person had bid on it. So I beat that person’s price by a dollar, and won.

  After that, I did an online search for cooking tips. Sir has special dietary needs, and I wanted to make him some treats, cookies or cake, that would be edible for him. I read up on his diet, and I found a few recipes that would work, but they required hard-to-find ingredients. I called around to his local grocery stores but didn’t find any within walking distance of his house that had the specific ingredients I needed. In the end, I bought those items in my own city and brought them with me in my luggage.

  And while I was doing all this, I embarked on altering my body clock, to get on Sir’s East Coast schedule. My goal was to be awake one hour before him, so that I would be ready whenever he needed me. I knew he was an early riser, while I’m a late one, so this was a particularly difficult task. I wanted to be able to wake up with ease at two a.m. my time, five a.m. his. My friend the service submissive warned me against this; he felt that it would be too exhausting for me, and that instead my aim should be to make the best of it that weekend, rather than tire myself out in the time leading to it. But I decided not to follow this advice, which, in the end, was probably a little bit of a mistake.

  I got to the point where I could wake up easily by three a.m./ six a.m. Beyond that, things were very hard. In the midst of this, I got a message from Sir saying that he would need me to be ready by seven a.m. his time on Saturday. That sounded doable. If I was up by six, I would have an hour to get ready for him. I continued to reach for two a.m./five a.m., though, so that I could get myself ready and have time left to bake him some cookies and brew his coffee—things he wasn’t expecting.

  Little Helper

  I got to Sir’s house with a cold. Between the body clock alteration and an illness that was going around my city, the traveling put me over the edge of being sick. On top of that, Sir has a cat and I’m allergic. It was hard to tell where the cold ended and the allergy began, because the symptoms were the same. It also didn’t matter, because I felt like a stuffed-up, tired mess.

  I was determined not to let that stop me from giving Sir a great weekend. Through stubborn will, I pulled myself together enough to be up by six on Saturday morning. I skipped the shower (I had showered the night before) and went straight to baking and brewing.

  Sir had told me to be ready at seven, but he didn’t come downstairs till eight. That was just as well, since the cookies took a little longer to make than I anticipated. While I waited in the kitchen, I ate breakfast and cleaned the dishes.

  He showed up, and I instantly felt shy in that way I sometimes do around him. He’s thin but looms large. He’s resolute. I imagined he was born without self-doubt, or else just did something right in working on himself. I decided I could learn a lot from Sir.

  Declining the coffee I’d made, he handed me an extensive list of chores and declared that today I would be called Little Helper. I had been secretly concerned about the issue of names, since neither houseboy nor housegirl really worked for me, gender-wise, and houseperson seemed too cumbersome. While I’m femme all the time, depending on the situation, I may be a femme boy or a femme girl. I was glad for a gender-neutral term like Little Helper, although it did instantly put in my mind that episode of “The Simpsons” where Homer brings home a pet dog named Santa’s Little Helper. (Coincidentally, I had been thinking of telling Sir, if he asked, to call me Pet.)

  I began to work. And in the mundanity of the chores—laundry, cooking, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, et cetera—I found a rhythm, a place for meditation. I let my mind wander, over songs, TV shows, Sir’s cock. Mostly his cock. And while I was thinking of his cock, twelve hours passed by, at the end of which, the house was spotless, more or less, and I was exhausted, much more than less.

  Evaluation

  At predetermined moments within that twelve hours, we met for check-ins, where Sir would ask me to evaluate my work thus far on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the top. I didn’t feel that I could give myself a top score, because I had faltered on a couple of minor fronts. I had been late in making his breakfast, and I’d looked him directly in the eye once or twice. But I didn’t want to give myself too low a score, at the risk of letting Sir think I wasn’t proud of my accomplishments. And yet I didn’t want to brag, in case I thought more of my work than he did. He’s a mystery sometimes; I couldn’t read him, couldn’t guess at all what he was thinking of what I had done.

  For our first meeting, I gave myself a six. By the next, a six point five. But at the third and final meeting of the day, I was distraught because I had forgotten one of his verbal instructions from earlier in the day, which was to give him a massage in between my vacuuming and mopping chores. The reason I forgot was because, while telling me massage instructions, he said that I was not allowed to give him a happy ending during the massage. I couldn’t touch his cock no matter how badly I wanted to. Hearing him talk about his own cock was so distracting to me that I was unable to retain anything else from that conversation. So, after I finished vacuuming, I moved right into mopping, thinking about his cock the whole time, and not at all about the massage or its timing. Oops!

  During our last check-in, however, he seemed less upset about the mishap than I was. He said that I had permission to make it up to him somehow. I had planned to give him the brass paddle the next day, at the end of service, which was scheduled to conclude after I made his breakfast. But considering the demands of the situation, I felt that now was the best time to give him the gift. Maybe he would use it on me to punish me for my mistake, and, in that case, we would both win.

  He had mentioned that someone in service to him in the past had made mistakes on purpose, in order to provoke him into doling out punishment. That was shocking to me. Why would anyone want to displease Sir? My mistakes were innocent ones, and, during the day, I had beaten myself up over them. Hearing about Sir’s other service experience was a big relief to me. It gave me permission to be imperfect.

  He seemed very pleased with the paddle, which made my day. He had cooked me dinner. He instructed me to eat, bathe, and then come to his room. When I got there, the paddle was sitting on his dresser. I longed to feel it on my bare ass. Sadly, we never got around to that. But the pleasure was complete in the giving of the gift, so a paddling would have just been icing on the cake and was something I could live without.

  Sir’s Ass

  In Sir’s room, the massage he had waited all day for quickly gave way to me inside his ass. It was my first time fucking him. And maybe unfortunately for Sir—but definitely not for me—I’m something of a greedy fucker. Once I get in, I just want to go as f
ast as possible for as long as possible. I want to take someone fully and deeply. My fingers become my cock, and my cock is hungry. It’s an unstoppable force. I’m not slow, I don’t tease, I don’t build up to a climax. I’m not a fingersmith. I don’t have that skillful grace, that finesse and restraint, that intentionality to take someone on a crafted journey to orgasm. All I have is my desire, and my desire says, go deep, go deep, go deep.

  I also never want to stop when a lover comes. Come once with me, and I’ll want you to come again. I’ll beg you to keep taking it for me, from me. And if I’m in your ass, I could stay there all night. I’ll want to push in finger after finger, see how much you can take, see how many times you can come, see how long you can last. And I’ll still outlast you. I’ll want to exhaust you. I’ll want to wear your ass out. I’ll want to wear my arm out. I’ll want to get you to the point where you say, “What am I, a hole?” and I’ll say, “Yes, you motherfucking are.”

  After he came, I started petting him, compulsively, even after he asked me to stop. I was petting him like I wished, I realized, he had pet me, stroked me. I wanted to be his Pet, not just be called Pet. I wanted to be petted.

  When we play, he’s mean, and I appreciate that about him. But today hadn’t been about play. It was work. I had worked for him. I needed niceness in these moments. I needed to be appreciated. He had given me praise for the work I’d done, and I clung to each word he’d uttered. He’d told me that I did an excellent job; that my only mistake was in the timing of the massage; that the cookies were a treat; that the egg I made him for breakfast was hard-boiled to perfection. I swam in the glory of his words. I wanted to hear them over and over again.

  I wanted to ask for what I wanted, but still shy, I held back. I made a mental note to be more communicative next time.

  Breath

  I stopped petting him, we rolled over, and he sprang onto me. He covered my mouth with one hand and pinched my nose closed with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. I was unable to breathe. Startled and scared and wild eyed, I struggled against him.

  “Take it,” he whispered, and in a flash, I was calm. I relaxed into a state of knowing he would release me, he would let me breathe again. He would control me, he would even own me in a way. He would dictate the terms and conditions of my very life, but just for that brief moment, just for that pause between breaths, that moment when I couldn’t breathe, that moment when he held my breath in his capable hands. I trusted those hands, and I trusted him.

  He held my life in his hands when he took my breath away. And knowing he would give it back to me, and that this was an opportunity for me to show him just how much I trusted him, made me sink even deeper into my own submission to him. As he ran his fingers around the edges of my limits, I knew he could even kill me. I could have died in his bed. This was the very edge of edge play.

  And so I was even just a little disappointed when he let go a moment later. I could breathe again. It was over so quickly I didn’t even have time to feel like I’d run out of air.

  And I say all this not because I have a death wish—not at all—but because I have a submissive wish. I wish to be his: naked, used, worked hard, and possessed, his.

  Fist

  Then he fisted me, getting me off twice. Sir inside me is an indescribable deliciousness. To feel his wrist stretching the entrance to my cunt, to experience the sting of being just-that-much too full, to be trapped by him even as I hold him in place inside me…that brings the orgasm that makes my whole body shake, that dances me across the bed, that moves me.

  At some point in our tumbling fuck, my boxer briefs, which had been dangling precariously on the headboard, fell onto the floor between the bed and the wall. Delirious from my orgasms, I could barely walk, let alone pick them up. So when the shaking subsided, I put on my jeans and left Sir to fall asleep in his bed while I went downstairs to sleep on the couch, as I had been doing during my whole visit. It had been a long day for both of us.

  Barter

  By the end of the weekend, I felt closer to Sir. I felt that we were more intimate than before, because he had made himself vulnerable to me in a way. Not (just) in letting me fuck his ass, but in letting me do things like wash his clothes. Touching and cleaning his dirty laundry gave me pleasure that went beyond a kinky thrill.

  I asked Sir if he would like me to serve him again sometime, and he said yes. He explained that it helps him to think of the service as a barter. I wondered what he felt he was bartering. Was it the sex? Was I cleaning his house in exchange for sex? That didn’t sit right with me. I wanted him to want me, to desire me beyond just fucking me as a reward for mopping his kitchen floor. I wanted him to lust for me, to think of me and get hard, to see me in all my delicate strength and ache to be inside me, and maybe on occasion to have me inside him.

  Was it the sadism? I wanted him to hurt me because he wanted to hurt me, because he got off on causing me pain, whether or not I had “earned” it with my labor. I wanted him to hear my breath catch, to see me wince, to listen to me beg him to stop, because it pleased him and got him off, and not for any other reason.

  But his process is not something I have a say in, so I reconciled myself to being okay with him thinking it was a barter. I would continue to think it wasn’t.

  I realized that my lessons for next time were to remember: this is the place where I pamper myself, this is the place where I’m on vacation. This is where I luxuriate and relax in the knowledge of service, the cocoon of service. This is where I know that, no matter what I do, I’m doing a good job because I’m helping Sir, I’m alleviating Sir of work, I’m freeing up Sir’s time to concentrate on other things, or nothing at all. And Sir is giving me time to be alone with my thoughts, to meditate on the beauty of a perfectly folded pillowcase, the expanse of a clean countertop, the shine of a polished wood floor—and my devotion to creating those things for him.

  And suddenly the barter made sense, if what Sir was giving me in exchange was the opportunity to do for him, to be present in his life even after my flight departed. In The Breakfast Club, Ally Sheedy asks Molly Ringwald, after receiving an impromptu makeover, “Why are you being so nice to me?” to which Molly replies, “Because you’re letting me,” and both smile. Because he was letting me. That was our barter.

  Epilogue

  I’ve always felt great chemistry with Sir, even in moments where my shyness around him overtakes me and silences me. I feel like I can be a filthy pervert with him, and I get off intensely on making myself vulnerable to him. Even in writing this, I imagine showing it to him someday, giving him access to my thoughts and feelings, letting him see what he’s inspired in me. Often with Sir, I feel at once too much and not enough. The intensity of my desire to submit to him embarrasses me, because I don’t know if he feels the same amount of correlating desire to dominate me. And I don’t know how to ask him, or how to change the way I feel, or how to express my feelings out loud. But I do know that he’s allowed to see these flaws and dreams and insecurities in me; he’s allowed to touch my rawness and read my words. In fact, I want him to.

  I left Sir’s house and headed to the airport. Having now officially lost my service cherry, I had a much clearer idea of what I wanted to do during service and in exchange for service. In retrospect, I realize that despite my teeth-gnashing over some very minor errors, I actually did an amazing job for Sir (especially, apparently, in comparison to his last houseboy). I came prepared, I went the extra mile, and I only made a couple of mistakes. But my cold and the day’s work did wear me out, which compromised our playtime—I was so tired when we fucked. So I decided that next time, I would really make sure I was extremely well rested beforehand.

  And as I landed in San Francisco, it suddenly dawned on me: my boy-panties remained unretrieved from behind his bed.

  LIL’ PET BRAT, AKA LILY GUANGLI

  Kissa Starling

  Some think bratting is out-and-out defiance. Others say bratting is the term to describe a woma
n who misbehaves in order to get a spanking. If you ask me, it’s just plain fun all the way around. Being a good little girl can only last so long. Something deep inside demanded that I act out today and who was I to refuse?

  I strolled through the city mall with no particular purchase in mind. Daddy insisted I get out of the house for a while. He always sensed when my mind had wandered and boredom had set in. Window-shopping seemed to be my best bet for a hot Sunday afternoon. My thigh-high boots, loose shirt and short jean skirt got me more than a few backward glances. If they’d looked closely enough, they would have noticed the absence of my bra and panties. Daddy never let me leave the house with them.

  I wandered into the novelty store that had so many humorous things. Shiny items enthrall me. A young, innocent version of the future Daddy persuasion trudged around straightening shelves. How cute. My own Daddy looked similar in his youth, before the lifestyle bug bit him in the ass. I ogled the clerk for a few minutes and then made a beeline to enter his vision. One had to wonder what occurrences in his life would or would not turn him toward becoming a Daddy in his own right. If I weren’t otherwise taken, I might accept the challenge of training him myself.

  “Can I help you with something, ma’am?” The twentysomething boy let his eyes travel up and down my chest, stopping on the birthmark that lay directly between my tits. I relished his attentions.

  “Do you sell those fake piercing rings?” I batted my eyelashes at him while holding my fingernail on my lip, then drew it down to rest on my birthmark.

  “Uh, yes, we have those. I recommend the sterling silver rings. They seem to last longer, and they don’t leave marks on your skin.”