Please, Sir

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I placed the bag on the nightstand beside him.

  “Open it and lay everything on the table.”

  My hand shook as I unzipped the bag and reached inside. The first items were my oldest friends: a bottle of lube and an accordion of condom packets.

  The next objects brought another sharp twinge of visceral memory. They were booty bumpers, or as Greg dubbed them, “The Three Bears.” Goldilocks’s buddies consisted of a set of silicone cocks with flared bases and helmeted heads. The smallest was pink and veered slightly to the left. The medium one was red and thicker; the last, six inches long and a troll-like green. I set them out in ascending order of size, glancing quickly at Greg for any sign of disapproval. He merely watched, a smile playing over his lips.

  Next came a few latex gloves, a vibrating silver egg and a strand of purple silicone beads. Tucked at the bottom was indeed a new mystery item, a curved, rigid shape wrapped in vulva pink tissue. I felt a stab of fear mixed with curiosity. It seemed too small to be anything overly demanding, but Greg had a way of surprising me.

  “Should I open the package?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Greg said. “Just put it on the table.”

  I did as he ordered, then waited, hands at my sides, eyes trained on the carpet.

  Greg exhaled audibly, with the patience of an exasperated schoolmaster. “You know your behavior down there was unacceptable.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “What do you need when you’ve been such a bad girl?”

  My lips felt impossibly swollen and achy—just like the ones between my legs. “I need…” I faltered.

  “Yes? Speak up.”

  “I…need to be fucked up the ass.” The voice came out strange—not mine, a strangled, desperate sound.

  “Really? Is that what you need?”

  My eyes still fixed on the floor, I nodded.

  “Is that what you want?”

  I nodded.

  “Then say it again nice and loud.”

  “I need…and I want…to be fucked up the ass.” My shamefully obscene confession echoed through the bedroom, and I felt my whole body blush.

  “Good girl. You may open your present.”

  My hands still trembled as I picked up the pink package. The paper tore easily to reveal a new butt plug for my growing collection. It was thicker than the others and curved in a way I recognized was meant to stimulate the G-spot. The silvery glitter embedded in the silicone reminded me of a festive occasion, like New Year’s Eve.

  “It’s pretty.” The words slipped out before I could stop myself.

  “Is it?” Greg was studying my face with that same cool expression. “Do you think you’ll like it as much when I shove it up your asshole?”

  I swallowed.

  “Well?”

  “No, I…I think I’ll like it more.”

  He laughed softly, a villain’s chuckle. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Spread out the towel and lie down.”

  I complied, dutifully lying back against the pillows, the towel under my buttocks.

  Greg wrenched open my thighs and bent to study me. His tongue made a clicking sound.

  “I should just fuck your ass right away, but I’m hungry. A smart-mouthed little bitch interrupted my dinner with her need to be punished. So I’m going to eat your pussy first. And you’d better do your best to get turned on because this is the only time I’m even gonna get within a mile of your clit. Understood?”

  “Understood,” I breathed.

  “Oh, I forgot your new friend.” Greg reached for the butt plug and paused to gaze at it with a fond smile. “Lucky little devil, going on in ahead of me.”

  Still smiling he inserted it up to the base in my vagina, then pulled it out again.

  “This should do for lube. You’re awfully wet. Tilt up a bit.”

  I lifted my buttocks a few inches off the bed. With a look of concentration, Greg teased my anus with the knob of the toy, circling, stroking, poking gently at the opening. The first few times he “punished” me, I tensed up, but now my asshole only needed just the slightest flirtation to open itself like a flower.

  He pushed the toy inside me to the hilt.

  I whimpered.

  “Well?”

  “It’s different. There’s a new pressure inside…it’s good.”

  Greg nodded and positioned himself between my legs. “While I lick your clit, I want you to bear down on your new butt buddy. I want you to feel it deep inside and think of my cock. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I murmured.

  He bent forward and touched my clit with the tip of his tongue. I sighed and quivered. On our first date, Greg told me his hobby was eating, and I wondered if the sly twinkle in his eye was a promise of other pleasures.

  I soon discovered the guy was a champion pussy-licker. A year later he had a whole catalog of tricks to get me squirming. In no time my cunt was drooling, the juices dribbling down to coat the base of the plug, pooling on the towel beneath my ass.

  I milked the toy with my ass muscles, imagining his thick cock inside me, just as he’d commanded. That long, thick tool was ready to fill my dirtiest hole with sweet, white cream. I moaned and squeezed harder. Each contraction brought me closer to orgasm, a road I’d embarked on the moment he’d murmured those magic words: I know just what she needs.

  “I need it now,” I blurted out.

  Greg looked up at me, his lips shimmering with gloss. “What do you need, Karen?”

  “I need your big, fat cock in my ass.”

  “Yes, I think you do,” he murmured, rising up on his knees and reaching for the condoms.

  I lay there watching, my juices still trickling down my slit in anticipation. Sometimes when he was lubed up, Greg merely pushed my knees up and took me on my back. Other times he made me straddle him and skewered my anus that way. But today he just narrowed his eyes and said, “Get on all fours like the little bitch you are.”

  Heart pounding, I scrambled into doggie position, careful to keep clutching the toy so it wouldn’t pop out. Greg knelt behind me and rested his hand on my hip, a proprietary gesture, yet oddly comforting.

  I waited, shivering.

  When he pulled the toy out, my flesh made a soft kissing sound.

  My breath was coming so fast, I thought I might faint. I felt so empty now, open and hungry. But finally I was going to get just what I needed.

  Greg nudged the head of his cock against my opening, a gentle knock, knock. My muscles were so stretched and relaxed from the toy, I opened like an automatic door. He eased himself in, inch by inch.

  We both sighed.

  I started to move, the sensation radiating out from the ring of muscle to my skull, my toes. Each stroke sent fingers of pleasure tingling down my spine, like a virtuoso pianist at his keyboard. I could hardly believe it had only been six months since Greg took my virginity back there. Yet each time the feeling was more exquisite.

  Again he reached toward the nightstand. Through the fog of my arousal, I heard the sound of low buzzing. Greg held the vibrating egg to my clit and I jumped. Flames licked my flesh, from clit to ass. Greg controlled the thrusting now, achingly slow and steady, mimicking my rhythm. I fumbled for the egg and moved it off center. The last thing I needed was to go over the edge too soon.

  Because I wanted to float here forever, my whole being, my whole existence distilled into a burning ring of pleasure.

  Suddenly Greg pulled out, leaving me empty again.

  I cried out, almost sobbing with disappointment.

  Before I could protest, he jammed the toy back inside my aching asshole. I heard the snap of a condom. He probed me again, lower, and slid deep into my cunt, bareback, the combination of dick and toy teasing my G-spot deliciously.

  This was definitely new. Greg had always come in my ass before, but I liked this, too, being fucked in stereo. Greg began to pump harder. He was close. I embraced the butt plug like a long-lost lover and moved the egg directly to my
clit.

  Now all my secret places were stretched, burning, battered.

  There was no feeling like it in the whole world.

  When I came, my orgasm rolled up my torso, a twisted ball of fire and pain shattering my head open, pouring from my throat in a shriek of pleasure.

  Greg slammed into me. I gripped him tightly as he came, too, with low, barking grunts. I fell forward and he collapsed on top, panting.

  As always, our cool-down ritual was quicker: wrap the plug in Kleenex, mop up with the towel, fall into each other’s arms, slick and sweaty, laughing like kids stumbling off the fastest, wildest roller coaster in the park.

  “Jesus,” I breathed, “that just gets better every time. The two-for-one fuck was great.”

  “Only the best for you, sweetie. Did you like your present?” he asked, stroking my hair.

  “I loved it, the little sparkly fucker. How long was he waiting for me in there?”

  “A couple of weeks. You’ve been too well behaved lately. Good thing you slipped up with your assignment today.”

  “That reminds me, I’m starving. Let me wash up and I’ll go get you some fancy-ass pasta like a good girl.”

  I hadn’t told him yet, but it always gave me a secret thrill to saunter through the aisles of our local gourmet market after a good butt-fucking.

  “I’ll come with you,” Greg replied, giving me a squeeze. “I want to be sure you get just what we need.”

  I had to smile. That was one thing I could always count on.

  YOUR HAND ON MY NECK

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  for A.

  Your hand on my neck is all it takes to make tears race to my eyes, to put my body on red alert, to let me know that I’m about to go insane. It’s that simple…yet of course, your fingers going for the jugular will always be more complex than I can ever truly describe. It’s the fastest way to get my attention, to snap me out of whatever place my mind has wandered, back to where it should be: on you. Forget about when you raise your hand to spank me or reach for my nipples to pinch them or even when you grab my arm to shackle my wrist to your bedposts, all of which you know I adore; your hand on my neck is what makes me unbearably, almost impossibly, wet.

  Is it because you were my first? Is it because I trust you more? Or is it because those tears that rush forth, the gasps that claw their way to the surface, the panic that bubbles just below the surface, speak to me in a language deeper than words ever could?

  Sometimes, because you know me so well, because you know what it does to me, you do it while we’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant. To an outsider, it probably looks like a light caress, like your hand could just as easily be stroking my arm, your thumb caressing my inner wrist, or smoothing my hair, or tracing my lips. And you could be doing any of those things, but you’re not: You’re wrapping yourself from thumb to forefinger around the expanse of my neck, pressing just enough to make my lips go slack, my breath get short. You’re telling me so much without saying a word, and my first instinct is to do what I do in bed: bend my head back, elongate my neck, shut my eyes, give more of myself to you.

  But we’re in public, so I wait, and soon the moment passes. A couple can hold hands, under or even above the table, or play footsie, with no problem, but the intimacy of choking is probably pushing the envelope, even in Manhattan. Still, I think about it, even while waiting for my burger and fries, about how it feels when you press harder, when my throat constricts and the gasps become sobs and I want to thrash and struggle so I can feel you clamp down harder.

  That’s what happens when we’re at home, alone. We’ll be making out, giggling, me lying next to you, rubbing the wiry, warm fur on your chest. One minute I’m kissing whatever part of your skin is closest, and the next you’ve flipped me over. Any clothes I might’ve been wearing disappear real fast. Your fingers are hard, strong, insistent, all ten finding my most vulnerable places and staking their claim. Actually, that may not be totally true. Five slam down against my neck, and I arch it and my back up to meet you, while other fingers slam hard inside me. Usually, I like to talk, but I have nothing to say now, even if I could make more than strangled noises.

  I want many things at once, but I know you have only so many hands, so many ways to torture me, so I have to wait and see which of your methods you’ll choose today. I’ve never told you this, but no one else has ever made me want them to squeeze me right there so powerfully. I won’t lie: I’ve been choked before. I’ve had a hand over my mouth, had my head shoved into a pillow, been muffled and gagged by other men. But no one has ever made me want it like this. I wonder sometimes if there’s some secret button inside me, invisible to everyone but you, that you know to press, to lean on, that makes me so wild, because I swear that when you put your hand there, when your eyes go from easy to a little angry, when your voice goes gruff and deep and a little mean, when your hand becomes, for these sweet moments, the sexiest of weapons, I would do anything for you.

  Maybe I don’t have to tell you, maybe you can see it in my eyes, because without my having to ask, you climb on top of me, keeping your hand firm so all I can really move is the rest of me, from my neck down, yet those parts don’t matter as much. It’s all in my head, literally, all the blood and passion and lust and masochism and need. That, plus my oral fixation, means that when you wrap your legs on either side of my face and present your cock to me, I open as wide as I possibly can. Your balls hit my chin and your half-hard cock slides against my tongue, and I shift what little I can to make my mouth as wet and tight as possible for you. Your hand tightens on my neck while your other one grabs the back of my head and lifts it up to meet you, positions me where you need me to be.

  There’s really no other way to say what we’re doing: you’re fucking my face, my mouth, slamming into me over and over. You tilt my head so the tip presses against my cheek and I drool and struggle to keep up. You briefly let up on my neck and I breathe in deep, wish for a smack across the cheek, a hard, stinging one, but I don’t get it. That’s the kind of request I find hard to make, because to ask for it is to admit to a level of perversity from which there’s no return, though perhaps that’s a silly distinction because here you are choking me with such precision, then molding my mouth to your cock. My pussy almost hurts, I’m so turned on, but I don’t want you to fuck me, not with your dick, not now, because that would take away from what you’re going to give me very soon: your come all over my face.

  You know I want that, know I love when you beat your dick against me, shove your balls in my mouth, but you make me wait, perhaps because you know how bad I need it. You tease me, the insides of my mouth your personal sex toy as you rub the head there, denying me all of you all the way down. Your hand cups my neck while you rub your cock up and down my face, in my mouth, wherever you want. “Do you want my come, you little whore?” you ask as you jerk yourself off above me, your hand doing the job I should, rightfully, be doing. If my arms weren’t bound above my head, I’d be reaching down and touching my clit, maybe slapping myself lightly there, pushing my fingers inside, anything for relief from the intensity that’s overtaken me down there. Instead, I just press my legs tightly together, squeeze my inner muscles, try to inch closer before I feel that first hot drop hit me. I open wide and you slide inside, practically melting into me, your fingers seeking out my hard nipple and twisting it around as you explode. You manage to pull out before it’s all gone, to moisturize me with a cream so rich Lancôme could never hope to compete.

  I only think about it later, after we’re done, when your come is drying on my skin, how much I loved you choking me, not being able to breathe in the usual way, only moving the parts of me you wanted me to.

  Last week, you gave me a special gift: two hands there, each taking half, the pressure greater than one alone could handle. Your dick got even harder as you slammed into me, your weight shifting into your arms, making it hard for me to swallow. The shallow sound of my breath was loud in my ears
as I willed you to twist a little. I longed for clothespins, imagined them standing upright on my nipples. You pulled one hand away to slap my clit, and I turned my head to the side, beckoning to the sheet, asking it for something I couldn’t ask of you. You knew, though, and tightening your grip on my neck, you slapped my cheek, the sting ringing in my ear. Slapping my face requires much more precision than spanking my ass. A stray slap down there can be corrected easily; a misplaced stroke can stop everything up above. Maybe because you’ve hit my sweet spot countless times, you know where on my face I crave it most, that fleshy apple bulge of my cheekbone, the part that makes me flinch, my teeth clamped. I look up at you through filmy eyes; I can’t look too directly because that would be too much, for both of us. There has to be a veil for me to let you do this. It’s why you’d stroke my neck across the table at a restaurant, or even lightly pinch my cheek, but would never in a million years slap me like this. Even a tap on the ass can be tolerated in public, but not this. This is more depraved somehow, and we both know it. My lips start to tremble, and you lift your hand from my neck to cover them. You wind up covering part of my nose, too, and I force the panic to wind its way back down my throat before you slap my cheek again. Your dick is still inside me, but I wouldn’t say you’re fucking me with it, more like holding me in place, making sure I know you could fuck me at any time.

  You switch hands and smack my right cheek, and I make sure my eyes are adamantly shut so I don’t see the blows coming, don’t know what’s going to happen, because that would ruin it a little bit for me. I feel you pull out and fear it’s over, fear you’ve tired of me, are bored by what’s increasingly becoming less of a game and more of a need. But instead your hand lingers on my face, seeing how much of it you can cover. I arch up against you, my back curving, straining to be covered by you. You give me what I want, pinching my nose, just for a minute, but long enough to make my insides seize up. You let go but then your face is right next to mine, the stubble I adore so much brushing against my cheek. I think you’re going to whisper something to me, but instead you bite me there, the fleshy part of my lower jaw. Not hard, but I’m sure it’ll leave an imprint. My clit is aching, but I can’t think about that too much because you grab my hands in yours and then tickle me under my arms. You’re not supposed to do that; tickling is off limits, but you do it anyway, followed by a sharp slap across my face, first one, then the other cheek. I want to ask you to do it harder, but I just think it, wondering if you’d be insulted were I to make such a request.