Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “No, Mark, please, I hate that,” she started and he knelt beside the tub and put a hand over her mouth.

  “You really don’t remember last night.”

  She could feel how wide her eyes were. She shook her head.

  “We’re going into World for a while. You agreed to try. You couldn’t quite say the word slave but you agreed to be a complete sub, in and out of the house. Do you want to see the notes and the agreement we drew up, or—”

  She shook her head. Memory flooded back, and along with it the fact that they’d had their discussion—most of it—and made their agreement—all of it—after he’d sent her flying.

  He watched the changes she could feel crossing her features. When she met his eyes again, he said, “Spread your legs.”

  Lisa spread her legs. She watched in the mirror he’d set up on the edges of the tub as he lathered her pussy and shaved away the soft red-blonde hair, then went over it and over it, fingers and razor, feeling every hair, until at last he ordered her out of the tub onto her hands and knees and then over the edge of the tub. “Hold your asscheeks apart,” he said, and he lathered her there and went to work until her ass and cunt were revealed, clean and naked and glistening.

  She stood and he knelt on the bath mat in front of her and touched her, spreading her lips, using his thumb to push her clit up and back. “That’s mine,” he said, his voice husky rather than demanding. “All of that is mine. Turn around and bend over.”

  She whimpered but complied and he spread her wide, just looking. Breathing. Owning.

  “Go lie on the bed. On your stomach. Hands behind your back.”

  And she remembered everything from the night before.

  He knelt behind her on the bed and she felt him slip handcuffs around her wrists before she could protest. She hated handcuffs, preferred almost anything else, which was why he used them.

  That, and they were secure.

  “Lie still,” he told her. “And no talking. No sounds.”

  She lay, head turned on the pillow, her hands cuffed on the small of her back, and wondered how it could still be humiliating to have him do this to her.

  “Spread your legs,” he said. His voice sounded husky.

  Lisa moved them apart, widely, as would be required, and felt him shift on the bed. The sound of a jar opening reached her and then she felt something cold and slick against her asshole and she froze, then thrashed wildly. Somewhere deep in her mind an observer whispered she wasn’t making a sound and how strange to comply in part but only in part.

  “Lisa.” His voice harsh, strident. This was her Master.

  She bucked against him. This was the exact minute they’d stopped all those months ago, when she’d walked out of the Game and back into reality without a safeword or a discussion or a compromise.

  Because there were aspects she loved about the idea of being owned: Sex at odd hours. Calling him Sir. Spankings and discipline. She loved being restrained, for reasons she had no interest in understanding. Hold her down and fuck her from behind and she went wild. Cuff her hands behind her, throw her onto her back and screw her till they both came and she was multiorgasmic. Tie her to the bedpost and play with her, blindfold her—and she flew.

  But it was Game. Because she could and did say No. No safeword, just No. She hated him examining her, looking close. She hated being shaved. She wasn’t crazy about toys and all of that she could control.

  She’d heard it called topping from below and she was good with that, damn it. Mark loved their sessions, spanking her, restraining her, her wildness, his control.

  But it was a game. And when it went too far, she stopped it.

  But this: they’d discussed this ever so long ago, and again, last night, when she was out of her mind with pleasure.

  This wasn’t Game. This was World. And she’d stopped it before.

  She thrashed. She kicked and bucked and wriggled and tried to force her way out from under him.

  Mark moved. His weight came down over her hips. She could feel how hard he was as he leaned forward and pressed her shoulders into the bed. He lay his body against hers, riding out her storm, keeping his weight off her cuffed hands by holding her shoulders down.

  When she torqued again he forced her down and now he knelt, hands on her shoulders, one knee in the small of her back.

  He whispered directly into her ear, two words.

  “Lisa. Submit.”

  She went still and then limp. Reverse safeword. Game slide. They’d put it together when they first started. At any time, in any place he said, he could whisper it to her and she’d comply.

  But he never had.

  It had been a game.

  She took a long shuddering breath and then another. Her body relaxed by degrees. She spread her legs again and lay still.

  Mark moved off of her, gradually, waiting to see if she’d fight again.

  But this was when she’d made him stop before.

  Mark knelt between her legs again. Something cold and slick touched her asshole. Mark’s hand came down, deftly separating her asscheeks. He pressed the cold gel against her and inside, and then more, and then more. Lisa bit back a groan and Mark paused, then slid his finger deep inside her and pressed into her, fucking her gently with one finger, slow. Lisa bit her lip and tried not to protest, squeezed her eyes shut—tried to go away.

  “Stay with me,” Mark ordered into her retreat, and the finger went away and was replaced. It was a long, slim, straight dildo—she could almost picture it, thought she’d seen it recently, out of the corner of her consciousness—and he slid it inside her, slow, so she’d feel it moving into her, inside her, an inexorable claiming of her most private place.

  “I’m going to fuck you there,” he whispered. “It’s going to get bigger and bigger until you can take all of my cock in your ass. We’re going to train you, the way we talked about last night. Do you remember?”

  No, not clearly, she didn’t. But it didn’t matter. Something was building: a heat, deep inside her, an ache to be filled even while he kept the thing pressing deep inside her. And then he pressed the whole of his palm over her clit and cunt and moved it very fast while he slid the dildo deep into her ass.

  “Come. Hard,” he whispered.

  And Lisa obeyed.

  She went back to work two days later, on the condition she understood and would abide. And now she knew what there was to understand and what she needed to abide by.

  She was his. In the late hours of that one night, after flying and coming partway down, she’d signed an agreement with him to go into the World for a year and a day. She’d given herself to him. Her concessions were enormous. She’d given up the right to wear clothes at home unless given that permission and that included should Mark find like-minded couples to hang out with. She could wear underwear to work, where she thought she was required by law to, but nowhere else. At home, he could cancel any of her appointments or call her in sick as long as she didn’t lose her job. She would be naked, his to command, often plugged, always well fucked, whether by him or not. He could share her and claimed he would. He could photograph her body without her face and post the photos online. And the discipline—

  Lisa marveled.

  On the other side of the agreement were Mark’s concessions, both of them: I will not harm you. I will not allow you to come to harm.

  And that was that.

  Her ass was his, to train, to fuck. Her body was his. Her discipline was up to him. Her sense of responsibility, the way she was always wherever anyone expected her to be—was his.

  She went to work two days later, in a bra lined with Velcro, the scratchy receiving parts of Velcro. She wore a thong two sizes too small snugged deep into her crack. And when she got home, he promised her a spanking that would stop her from sitting.

  She’d promised to go to the house on her lunch break and to not talk much at work and Mark in return had promised not to make her quit her job. Yet.

  “Are you oka
y, Lisa?” her boss asked when Lisa spilled the third vase of flowers for the day.

  “Just clumsy,” Lisa said, and could barely stop herself from grinning. Because everything was absolutely perfect in her world.

  STROKE

  Lisabet Sarai

  No.”

  I nearly jumped out of my sensible shoes at the unexpected command. I whirled to check the motionless figure stretched out on the bed behind me. “What?”

  “Don’t close the curtains. I want to watch the moon’s progress.” I glanced back at the window. Sure enough, the silvery orb was just climbing above the silhouettes of the trees surrounding Lindenwood.

  “Very well, Mr.…” I squinted at his chart in the dimness. “Carver.” Jonathan Carver, age sixty-four, acute right hemispheric CVA. Hemiplegia, nystagmus, transient apraxia, reduced peripheral vision in left eye.

  “It’s Dr. Carver. Don’t they brief you damned nurses? Teach you some respect?” Even as I bristled at his rudeness, my cheeks grew warm with inexplicable shame. His cultured voice held an authority that brought me back to my school days. Mr. DeFazio and his infamous blackboard pointer. Tears in the eyes of the students naughty enough to merit his punishment. I was always good, obedient and hard working, but I remembered the heat of watching.

  “Sorry, Dr. Carver.” The man fumbled with the bed control, trying to raise himself to a sitting position. “Let me help you.”

  “I can do it myself.” A frown furrowed his high forehead, under a shock of steel gray hair. It took him three tries to get hold of the button, even with his right hand. Clearly there was some bilateral damage. His lips pressed together. His chiseled features twisted in concentration. At last, the motor whirred and the back of the bed rose six inches. He sank back into the pillows with a disgusted sigh, scrutinizing his recalcitrant fingers. He had big hands, hands that looked as though they’d once been strong.

  I smoothed and straightened the coverlet, trying to hide my pity and embarrassment. “Are you more comfortable now?”

  He brushed me away. “I’ll tell you when I need help,” he growled. “Hopefully, you can follow basic instructions.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Something about his manner made me blush and stumble. I felt an acute desire to please him, to show him that I was competent and eager to tend to his requirements. Clearly he was accustomed to giving orders.

  I tucked the sheet in around his feet, untwisted the cord leading to the bed control and gathered the used paper cups from his bedside table. I needed to be doing something. His silence made me increasingly nervous.

  “Enough, enough! Stop fussing and turn on the light. Let’s see what you look like.” His voice held all the power that his body had lost. I rushed to the switch, a flock of crazed sparrows fluttering in my stomach. “Come here, girl.”

  I stood by the chrome railing, staring at my scuffed nurse’s shoes, sweat gathering in my armpits and under my breasts.

  “Look at me.” His tone was softer but no less firm. I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra.

  “Yes, Sir.” Just his voice was enough to make me ache.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cassie, Sir. Cassie Leonard.”

  “Don’t look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

  “No, Sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital.”

  “My slaves call me Master Jonathan.”

  My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn’t want him to see how his words excited me.

  But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

  “You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do.” An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

  “He doesn’t satisfy you.” It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. “Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?”

  I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

  “No, Sir. His cock is fine.” Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

  “What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?”

  Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him, whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn’t stop myself from wanting.

  “Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn’t provide? What do you want?”

  My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn’t speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

  “Cassie, I’m waiting.” His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn’t look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

  “I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn’t want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

  “Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

  “Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I’d never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I’d only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn’t, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

  “I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—Sir.” I felt relief, now that I’d admitted my secret. At least he didn’t seem to condemn me.

  “You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bathe in your master’s come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

  It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

  “I will do those things for you, if you’d like.”

  “You?” The suggestion startled me enough that I forgot the honorific, but he seemed to forgive my lapse. I searched his handsome, ravaged face. “How…?”

  “Don’t underestimate me, girl. I may not be the Dom I once was, but I can still make you burn for my touch. I can still make you beg.” He snagged the button on the end of its cord and raised himself to full sitting position. He moved more smoothly and easily than before. “Remove your clothing.”

  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.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I told you to strip.”

  “Uh—yes, yes, Sir.” I tore two buttons off my blouse, struggling to remove it. I tripped and nearly toppled onto the bed while wrestling with my trousers. When I unfastene
d my bra and released the weight of my breasts, Dr. Carver let out his breath in a long, appreciative sigh. A little thrill of triumph sang through me. He wanted me. My Master wanted me.

  I slid my soaked bikini over my hips and down to my ankles. The sea-soaked scent of my pussy rose around us. I would have been embarrassed if I had not been so aroused.

  “Give them to me.” I put the damp slip of cloth in his open palm. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Lovely. You’re already wet, from simple anticipation. Wait until you experience real pain.” He reached for one of my aching nipples and pinched it until I yelped.

  “Go get a pair of forceps from that drawer under the sink.” I scurried off and returned with the article he’d requested. I wondered how he knew where the medical instruments were stored. Could it be that he had seduced my predecessor the same way as he overwhelmed me? I didn’t have time to be jealous, though. He caught my left nipple in the jaws of the forceps and clamped down hard.

  Pain raced from my tortured breast to my pussy, transmuting to pleasure on the way. The harder he squeezed, the more tightly my cunt clenched. Fresh pussy-juice gushed from my cleft. I moaned, struggling to stand as he gradually increased the force of his grip.

  “Do you like that, girl?” He released the inflamed left nipple and captured the right, sending new pangs arcing through me. I trembled, panting, unable to answer even if I dared. “You don’t need to tell me. I know you do. You’ll like it even more when I clamp your fat red clit.” I came close to exploding at the obscene image. My cunt spasmed. My whole body shuddered. “I can’t wait to hear your screams.”

  The pressure on my nipple disappeared. Echoes continued to ripple through me. “Turn around. Spread your legs. Let me see your ass.”

  My only desire was to please him. I turned and bent at the waist, gripping the back of a chair near the bed. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Your sweet white skin will mark nicely.” His fingers trailed lightly across my backside. I arched back, thrusting my bottom toward the bed and silently begging for more.