Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “A good choice,” he says, picking it up and flexing it to its utmost capacity. “This one marks so exquisitely.” He holds it out in front of him, its slender length curtailed at each end by his knuckles. I know what is coming next. He raises it so that it is a whisper away from my lips. “Kiss the rod, Beth.”

  I graze my lips against the rattan. The air is heavy with expectation. Now I must say the words. The most difficult words in the language.

  “Please punish me as I deserve, Sir.” I almost always stumble over the word punish, which usually comes out sounding like punch—though he would never take me up on such a request, thankfully. Sometimes he asks me to speak up, or enunciate more clearly. Today is such a day.

  “Please…what?” he asks, tilting his head down toward me.

  I bite my lip and regain my breath. “Punish me,” I mutter.

  “Punish you? Is that what you want?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Because I intend to punish you, Beth. Now let’s have you back over the desk, please.”

  Questioning my sanity as ever, I drape myself back into position. I am still aglow from the effects of hand and strap, and I half wish I could see my bottom in a mirror. One thing I constantly regret is not being able to watch my flesh coloring and jiggling and acquiring those cruel but lovely patterns Sinclair delights in creating. Perhaps I can prevail on him to film us one day. Until then…

  I must content myself with the sounds, with the shivers, with the buildup. He swooshes the cane through the air at my hind, then he taps it gently across my bottom in a series, then he lays it flat where my buttocks swell broadest. I am never prepared for this. I know that it will be painful and hateful, but I know that the pain and hate will be worthwhile, and that, give or take a day for the marks to stop pulsing, I will want to do it all over again.

  The fearful swish comes faster than I expected; I am caught off guard by the slice of white heat and I scream, jumping up and letting go of the desk. My hands almost forget the rule and flit back to cover my vulnerable bum—a crime that would earn me at least two more strokes—but I recover my position just in time.

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that,” says Sinclair, sadistically amused. “Are you struck dumb?”

  “No, Sir. One, Sir.” The count is an essential part of the business, cruelly forcing my mind to stay in its present instead of drifting off to safer places. If form is anything to go by, the next stroke will land just half an inch or so below the first. I shut my eyes and visualize its impact, the whiteness then the redness as a line of roused blood rushes to the surface. Somehow this helps.

  With each stroke I contemplate the use of my safeword, yet I am certain I will not say it. Although we do this every Sunday without fail, Sinclair is always so mindful of my prevailing emotional weather that if he knows I am not up to the full force of the law, he will do something else, such as put me over his knee, and his voice will be softer, his lectures gentler, his hand still sharp but only in the knowledge that we both want that glow at the end of the process. If I were not in the right frame of mind for the cane, I would not be bent over this desk, here, now, bottom aflame, lip chewed to raggedness, waiting and hoping for more.

  The sixth, as ever, almost breaks me, and my knees buckle while the varnished wood muffles my scream. It burns at the base of my buttocks, radiating heat downward to my thighs, sitting in exactly the right spot to ensure discomfort for a day or two at least.

  “Six, Sir.” Ah, I want so much to rub, to touch, to feel the heat, but I am forbidden and, after all, I will be disappointed if it fades too quickly, so I am obedient, maintaining my bent stance until I am permitted to rise.

  “Good,” says Sinclair. “I will accept your thanks now, Beth.”

  I rise, wiping chaotic stray hair from my face, which feels crumpled and hot. It takes me a little while to recover my breath and properly compose myself, but when I have, I turn to face him. His expression afterward is one of the sweetest thrills of the experience, though I still long to be able to see his face as he lays his strokes; it often appears in my fantasies. He still looks stern, but there is a gleam and a flush of pleasurable exertion; his impeccable hair might be slightly disheveled and his long fingers fidget with the cane.

  I look him straight in the eye and say, “Thank you, Sir, for giving me what I need and deserve.” I have said it so often now that the words come easily, but they are never glib—my attention can never skid sideways and pretend I am saying something less mortifying. He would not allow that.

  “You are most welcome.” He takes my elbow and leads me to the large mirror on the back wall, showing me the view he plans to enjoy for the next half hour—red stripes on pink, palpable soreness. Then he tucks my skirt firmly into its waistband and makes me walk, awkwardly given that my knickers are still around my knees, to the designated corner.

  I stand there for half an hour, holding the cane behind my back as a reminder, feeling the warmth march on and on, far beyond the borders of my punishment area, down to my weak knees, up to my stony nipples, across to my seeping slit. I want him now, want him wildly, yet he sits at his desk, rustling his newspaper, answering phone calls, watching me burn for him. Here is the real cruelty.

  When the clock releases me, the mood will change. There will be kisses, there will be touching, there may be nuzzling and suckling, there may be fingering and licking, and eventually there will certainly be more bending over, accompanied by the spreading of legs and lips or even bottom cheeks. There will be a reestablishment of connection, a return to affectionate terms, and all will be well again.

  But at the family dinner afterward, I will perch precariously on my seat, wishing I could ask for a cushion without occasioning unwanted interest. I will feel the swollen stripes when I bathe or shower, when I pull up my knickers, when I lie in bed, when I drive to work, when I walk wearing jeans or a tight skirt. And when I stop feeling them, then my mind will turn to next Sunday, and what it might hold in store for me.

  WALKING THE SUB

  Salome Wilde

  What could be nicer on a warm sunny day than having your dear Master take you for a walk in the park? He’d been solicitous and generous one bright May morning, after having put me through a particularly grueling session (with the manacles and black leather belt I’ve come to know and love) the night before. I had the day off and he was playing hooky from work. He put me in the shower and soaped and lathered me, tasted my sweet clean pussy, then toweled me dry, brushed my silky black hair and put it up into a ponytail the way he likes it. All the while, he kept a serious, purposeful face, doing a job and doing it well. Those blue eyes just melted me, as always, as he worked.

  He had me dress him in boxers, nice-fitting jeans, white T-shirt that shows off his pecs, socks, athletic shoes. I waited for him to choose clothes for me, but he just scooted me out of my room with a smile on his face and a collar in his hand. He collared and leashed me with the soft, pale blue leather accouterments we both adore, strapped on my comfy walking sandals, then tossed his oversized button-down shirt around my shoulders. Helping me slip my arms through, rolling the cuffs, and doing up a couple of buttons, he held my gaze and spoke, a tell-tale hint of excitement in his voice: “You’ve been such a good girl lately, I have a little treat planned for us.”

  I wanted to glance down at his jeans to see how good this “treat” was going to be. The hardness of his cock as he thought about what we’d do was a very reliable meter. But that wasn’t part of the game. I had to keep my eyes on his, and it wasn’t hard: his even white teeth gleamed at me through a grin that said he knew I wanted to see that bulge in his jeans but was winning the battle to be perfectly obedient. He reached both hands down to pull gently on my nipples and watched my eyes. They clouded with desire. He pulled harder. I moaned. He stopped.

  “Good girl. Now come along.” And he tugged on the leash and drew me along behind. “Come along” indeed: with my sweet, sexy Master holding the chain, how c
ould I do anything else? And why would I, even if I could? But he must have noticed some hesitation in me, given that he was heading out the door and I was wearing only a thin shirt that exposed most of me. He turned to face me again. “Trust me, pet.”

  I smiled up at him.

  “And obey me.” He swatted me hard on the ass and turned again to go. I swallowed hard and followed, determined to live up to this D/s dare. We went out through the back door and walked to the garage. He paused and pointed to the newspaper at his feet in the driveway. A car whizzed by. Being in a particularly obedient and playful mood, I bent completely over, knees straight, letting the soft shirt slide up to display my sweet little ass. He swore softly. He loves my ass. He moved behind me, grabbed my hips, and ground the rough denim of his jeans into my backside, letting me feel how hard he was for me. I wondered if my juices would coat his fly. I moaned softly, hugging my ankles. He moved back a bit, then slipped a finger into me. He pumped it slowly, rubbing it all around inside me. I knew what that meant, and held my breath. He withdrew it, then slipped it fast and hard into my ass. I gasped. I knew he must be smiling behind me. Each time he did that, I tried my best not to gasp. It was part of my training, but I hadn’t gotten that sudden intake of breath controlled yet. I heard him laugh gently. “It’s okay, pet. I like that my touch excites you.” He shoved his finger in deeper, began to drive it into me, his other hand on my hip. “More?”

  I nodded and he pressed another finger in beside the first. I was tight, especially so in this position. And I was nervous, knowing other cars could drive by any moment. Even though it was a quiet street, and even though what he was doing wasn’t entirely obvious, my ass was still naked and hiked up in the air. So his fingers inside me were an especially strong combination of pain and pleasure, and I basked in my own nervousness, mild discomfort, and delight.

  “You’d like me to take my cock out right now and fuck you with it, wouldn’t you, my sweet little slut?” he asked as he drove his fingers in and out. “I can see how wet you are, pet. So hungry for your Master’s thick, hard cock.” I whimpered, moved my hands from ankles to asphalt, arched harder into his fingers. “Yes, that’s right, slut. Take it deeper.” He shoved them more roughly into me. “I love your tight asshole, slut,” he groaned. “I could fuck you like this all day.”

  I murmured, “Yes…yes…fuck me,” until he stopped suddenly. And I knew, without a doubt, that he’d stopped when he knew I was enjoying myself. He kept control of me with constant teasing, arousing, mild punishment, and other uses. I breathed hard, remaining bent over, with his hand on the small of my back.

  “My paper, pet,” he said, calmly.

  I opened my eyes and looked down at the newspaper in its little plastic sleeve. To offer him extra pleasure, I bent my elbows and stretched farther down and forward, exposing what I hoped was an even better shot of my ass and soaked pussy, and grabbed the paper with my teeth. Walking my hands back, I bent my knees and sat down on my haunches, tugging a bit at the leash, then turning and looking up at my Master with hands at my sides and his paper in my mouth. He ruffled my hair and took the paper, smiling brightly. “Good girl,” he laughed. “Obedient and talented.” A car zoomed by, and I was glad I was reasonably well covered by the shirt as I sat.

  He tugged me up and walked me back to the door of the garage, then inside. “Taking your good dog for a drive, Sir?” I asked, smiling.

  He yanked hard on the leash. He pulled my face close to his. The smile was gone from his eyes. “I’m doing with you what I desire. Whatever I desire. And you will not question this. Do you understand, girl?”

  “I understand, Sir,” I said in the steady voice expected of me at such times, meeting his eyes dutifully. So much for play.

  But his gaze softened at my obedience, and he let the leash slacken. He quickly surprised me again, however, when he opened the back rather than the front passenger door for me and motioned me inside. I did not question, but hopped in, sitting comfortably in the plush backseat, looking up at him. “Fold your legs under and sit like a nice pet,” he said firmly, and watched as I did so. Next, he fastened my leash to the hook for hanging clothes above the window. As I followed his actions with my eyes, I knew it would be simple to unhook the leash, so this was clearly about psychological submission, not physical.

  “Lick me, girl,” he said with a smile, offering the back of his palm. I bent my head and licked. “Good girl. You love your Master, don’t you?” He tousled my hair. “Now give me a kiss, honey,” he oozed in that voice reserved for the family pet, bringing his face close to mine. I pressed a slightly opened mouth to his to kiss him. He pulled away sharply and brought his hand down to slap my thigh, hard. “Bad girl!” he snapped. “Don’t put that muzzle on my mouth!” I understood. I nodded, my thigh stinging and the trace of a handprint beginning to show. I put my hands between my knees and locked my elbows, then held my head up and stuck out my tongue. “Yes, pet,” he drawled, and offered his cheek. I lapped at it twice. He smiled and stroked my back. “That’s my good, good girl.” He backed out and closed the door.

  And I was taken, entirely like the family dog, for a ride.

  We headed quickly out of town and into the country. He opened my window halfway, and I fed his desire for my petlike obedience by putting my head out and letting the breeze whip my ponytail behind me. He glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned. “Who’s my good girl?” he cooed. I answered with a little yelp, which widened his smile further. This puppy knew how to please her Master. But I gave him an even bigger thrill when a red pickup with a burly, bearded redneck drove up beside us. I smiled brightly at him and flashed a bit of tit, then, as he slowed to see more, I saw the dog in the back and barked at it. The dog seemed more puzzled than the man (who was distracted by my 36Ds), but joined the barking game, and soon we were a wild duo. My delighted Master turned his head halfway around and, between laughs, yelled, “Down, girl! Stop that! Bad! Bad girl!” I kept it up, the big black lab pacing, wagging his tail, and yapping back at me. I tried to do the same, pulling against the leash to crawl agitatedly around the backseat, then returned to the window to yelp some more. As my enchanted Owner shook his head and chuckled, the pickup put on speed and breezed past us—to get away from the “crazy woman,” no doubt.

  Giddy with my own performance, I put my “paws” up and licked the hand that lay across the back of the passenger seat. Without turning, he stroked my hair. I could see his still-enormous grin through the rearview mirror. “Such a devoted pet,” he murmured. “Let’s see if we can’t reward such a good little thing.” He flicked on the turn signal and we exited the main road and headed to Mona Park, a small recreational area and boat dock we’d driven past dozens of times but never visited before. When we parked, he turned around and put my face in his hands. My lips parted of their own accord. “You’re gonna love this, baby,” he breathed hotly, an inch from my mouth. I wanted the kiss that hovered between us, badly, but he didn’t offer it. Before he could pull away, I licked his cheek. “Moist little beast, aren’t you?” he said, smirking. I could feel wetness trickle down between my legs.

  The park was nearly deserted, and I was grateful for it as my sweet Master opened the car door and escorted me out, still leashed and standing tall. I felt my cheeks redden and warm as my shirttails fluttered in a breeze that exposed and tingled my pussy. He watched my face, devouring my blush with pleasure, then glanced down. He brushed his fingers across the little shaved triangle above my labia, then swatted it playfully. He loved that little trimmed tuft, loved to tease and tug on it. He slipped a finger quickly inside my clean-shaven folds, making me gasp, then he pulled it out and sucked on it. I watched his lips take in his finger, saw his cheeks draw in around it. He hummed in his throat, tasting my sweet spiciness. I moaned softly, my eyes drifting shut, waiting for more. He tugged lightly on my leash, making me open and bring my eyes level with his; then he reached down again and plumbed my depths, grinding his fingers deep into me, stroking up a
cross my clit with each of five deft plunges. I was deeply aroused and more than a little nervous, wondering if anyone was close enough to see us. But I held his gaze. I groaned as he stopped then brought his fingers to my lips, painting my pout with sticky wetness.

  He watched himself work my mouth gently open. I adored the intensity of his gaze as he parted his lips along with mine. He was in control, but he was so hungry for me. The subtlety of the way power works in such a situation is more than magical; it is utterly intoxicating. “That’s right, baby,” he sighed, pressing warm juicy fingers onto my tongue. I knew not to suck. First of all, when he played this way I was to remain passive, let him tell me what to do and when. Second, I was his pet today. I didn’t want to break the spell. He slid his fingers back and forth over my tongue, enjoying my stillness.

  The look in his eyes suddenly shifted, and I knew he needed to take more active control. What a delight to watch him swing that way. “Lick them clean, girl,” he said, without emotion. “Take care of your Master.” I lapped softly, tasting myself warm and sharp on his fingers. “That’s right.” He spread them so I could lick between, then pulled up on my leash and began to walk with me. I was a single pace behind, my pussy leaking more moisture as I anticipated pleasure and knew it would be risky and challenging. I was glad I was far from town and would likely know no one here if caught.

  He, of course, knew I’d be nervous, and I was thrilled when he aimed us into the shelter of the forest. He led me awhile along a trail, quietly. When we stopped and he looked around, I leaned forward to lick his neck. “Excited, girl?” he said, turning to face me. I smiled and licked again. “Well, come on then, let’s get comfy.” He walked us to a bench beside the trail. I went to sit down beside him. “Bad girl!” he snapped, yanking my leash. I brought my hands to my collar. “Put your hands down,” he said. “Don’t tug at that collar or I’ll have to tie your wrists.” I wanted my hands free, so I obeyed. He sat down on the bench as I stood, leaving a little slack in my leash. I was grateful, and waited for him to speak or act. He rubbed the soft leather loop at the end of the leash with his thumb. While he stroked back and forth, I watched his small gesture, patiently, until he spoke again.