Yes, Sir Read online

  “Yes, Professor,” I gasp, my buttocks slipping on the leather of the sofa, already slick with my sweat and juices.

  “All right then. Squeeze.”

  I clutch the butt plug, panting softly. I’m starting to ache back there, but the professor only watches me squirm, silently, for what seems like an eternity. Finally he deigns to utter the words I’m desperate to hear.

  “You may release.”

  I breathe out. An intense tingling sensation radiates from my asshole, up through my torso, and down through my shivering thighs. My jaw drops open and I utter an involuntary moan of pleasure.

  “Spread your legs a little wider,” he orders coolly. “It makes your pussy lips push out so I can see your hole. You’re so slick and swollen today, Tina. I think anal play agrees with you. Once more now, squeeze…”

  I grip the toy again, gritting my teeth.

  “…and release.”

  The professor is definitely onto something. My asshole’s on fire, the flames shooting higher, licking at my throbbing clit. My finger dances over my stiff little girl-cock sticking out shamelessly, all hard and hungry for the professor to see. I’m going to make it. I’m going to come in front of him with this obscene rubber toy jammed up my ass.

  “May I…have…an orgasm, Professor?” I’m too distracted by the sensations to remember if this was part of the assignment.

  “Of course, Tina, I always like to see my students bring their work to a satisfying conclusion. I would indeed like you to come—but only at the precise moment I give the order. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Professor.” I obediently slow my clit finger to coasting speed. But will my cunt submit as easily to his command?

  “Come for me, Tina,” he tells me. “Now.”

  With a grunt, I attack my clit with frantic jabs and squeeze the toy with all my might and—oh, God, it’s happening—a wave of burning heat fans through my belly, erupting from my throat in a series of barking cries, as my back bangs against the headboard and my anus milks the butt plug in helpless, rhythmic spasms.

  When it’s over, I slide down onto the bed and pop the toy out, wrapping it in a waiting tissue. Total time for the session: thirty-five minutes. In my journal entry, I’ll tell the professor about his “help” of course, but I’m not sure words will do justice to the quality of my orgasm—a detailed description of which is a strict requirement for each assignment. It was definitely different. It seemed to start deeper inside me, a secret explosion tucked back against my spine. Yet there was something else I couldn’t quite name, a hint of exotic spice in a familiar sweet. The only way I can really be sure I’ll get a good grade is to try it again and take more careful notes.

  I laugh to myself. Strange how my lover is thousands of miles away, but I’m having more and better sex than I’ve ever had in my life.

  After our first “date” for drinks, things moved fast with Professor Perkins. After all, I’d already met his parents. Within the week, I saw his cock, too. It was average in length, but thick, and it turned a lovely rosy color when it got hard that made me think of a strawberry Popsicle, my favorite flavor.

  Professor Perkins—I was calling him Jonathan by then—was pretty good in bed, too. At first he was slow and careful, as if he were studying my body to get an A in Tina’s Sexual Response 101. But soon enough we were rutting like wild animals. After the sex, we had some pretty intense talks, too. Jonathan told me about his romance with a colleague that didn’t survive when she left him for a job on the East Coast. I told him why I dropped out of college the first time: to follow my boyfriend, Devon, on his pilgrimage around the world. Our first year together was the most magical year of my life. The next five were the worst. It was all about Devon’s drinking until one day I realized I was giving my life to a man who didn’t know me, who didn’t even see me at all.

  “I love to look at you,” Jonathan said, stroking my hair. “And I want to know everything about you.”

  He was certainly saying and doing all the right things. In fact, it all seemed too good to be true. It was. A minute later, Jonathan told me he was leaving for London the following Monday to do research at the British Library and would be gone for six weeks.

  Okay, a few dates and a few fucks didn’t really give me any claim on him, but I felt deserted by the bastard all the same.

  Still the first week apart wasn’t so bad. We emailed every day and Jonathan hinted during a Skype call that he’d love to take me hiking around Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage in the Lake Country—next summer perhaps. Could a guy get more sweet and Romantic than that?

  In fact, it was my dirty mind that led us down a darker, more twisted trail. It all started innocently enough with a naughty dream.

  I was lying on the floor of Professor Perkins’ office wearing an old-fashioned schoolgirl’s kilt and white blouse. The professor himself was stretched out on top of me, but he didn’t really have a body. He was just a hot weight pressing me down, making my flesh feel all tingly and melted. I couldn’t see his face either, but I felt his hand stroking my cheek and his voice slipping into my ear. Your final paper was so good it made my cock hard for two weeks straight.

  Which, of course, didn’t make any sense. I mean, how could a ten-page paper on “Ode on a Grecian Urn” give anyone a boner for one minute, not to mention two weeks? However, the dream got me so turned on, I lay in bed playing with myself and thinking about Jonathan until I had a very wet, loud orgasm. Even after that I was still horny and missing him terribly. That’s how I got the idea to send him a provocative email.

  In retrospect it was mild stuff. I told him about the dream and how I “pleasured myself” when I woke up. Then I said, tongue-in-cheek, that I was looking forward to August when I could feel his “pulsing manhood” in my “turgid sex.”

  After I sent it, I was a little worried he’d laugh or be offended, but instead he called and said in that low, syrupy voice guys get when they’re shy but turned on at the same time, that he enjoyed my email and was going to send a reply soon.

  I couldn’t restrain a giggle of triumph. Last spring I never would have imagined I’d inspire Professor Perkins to send me an X-rated email.

  But that wasn’t quite what I got. The subject line was simply Comments on Your Essay. In a formal, professor-ish tone, he told me my paper would be stronger if I gave more context for the self-pleasuring—what I was wearing, how long it took, and which specific techniques I used to reach satisfaction. He suggested I draw my reader into the scene through the use of vivid detail and avoid clichés such as “pulsing manhood.” He concluded that my work showed promise, but there was much room for improvement.

  My face burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I fired back a reply.

  Dear Professor Pervert, I didn’t realize I was going to be graded on my effort. Maybe you should write out the assignment with a list of guidelines so I can do better next time?

  A few hours later, I found this in my in-box:Assignment #1: Spend at least an hour pleasuring yourself without bringing yourself to orgasm. After one hour, you may enjoy a climax. You’ll be keeping a Masturbation Journal that will be graded on style and content. At the top of each entry record the time of day, length and location of session, and what you are (or are not) wearing as the session unfolds. I’m looking for an accurate and thoughtful essay that explores not only physical sensations, but your thoughts, feelings and fantasies while you are masturbating. Fresh images and honesty are key elements of the exercise. The assignment is due within four hours. Late papers will be penalized. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

  “The nerve!” I sputtered at the computer, shaking with anger. For a minute, I was too worked up over his audacity to notice he’d gotten me worked up in other ways: my panties were soaking wet.

  After I got an A for the butt plug scene, I was really looking forward to Assignment #6, but instead I received an email as terse as an old-fashioned telegram: Coming home early, have to run to catch the flight. Can I see you Satu
rday afternoon? J.

  In spite of my excitement, I spent most of the morning worrying about what I’d say when I greeted him on my doorstep. “Hey, Professor Perkins, thanks again for reading my kinky fantasies about doing sex shows for convicts and sodomizing myself in your office”? Fortunately, conversation was low on our list of welcome home activities. The instant he arrived we were kissing and ripping off each other’s clothes and, within about a minute, fucking like crazy.

  Now we’re twined together in the afterglow, and Jonathan is telling me how much he missed me and how I’m even more gorgeous than he remembered. Not that I don’t like the adoration, but it’s a bit cliché. Secretly I find myself missing another man, with more exacting standards, who has apparently decided to stay back in London.

  As if he’s read my thoughts, Jonathan clears his throat. “By the way, I, um, enjoyed your essays very much. I know it would be different in person, but I came up with some new ideas. It’s totally cool with me if you’d rather not, but maybe some day we could…?”

  My pulse jumps.

  “Try Assignment Six?” I whisper.

  He nods, blushing.

  “I’d like that very much, Professor. In fact, I’d be up for a lesson right now.”

  His cock stirs against my thigh, and I feel a change in other parts of his body, too—a squaring of the shoulders, a confident lift to the chin. My heart is pounding now, with the power of it. Because I’m the one who’s made this happen, with my words and my desire.

  “Very well, Tina, I want you to get up and stand by the bed.” His voice is slow and smooth, just as I imagined. “No, don’t put on your robe, I want to look at you just as you are.”

  I crawl out of bed and stand before him. I can’t meet his eyes, but I feel them, warm and glowing on my bare flesh. I’ve never felt so beautiful, so seen.

  “You like to be watched doing naughty things, don’t you, Tina? You like to do things no good girl would ever dream of.”

  “Yes, Professor,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

  “In fact, you want to masturbate for me right now, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, Professor.” I slip an unsteady hand between my legs and start to rub my clit for him. Except this time he really is watching.

  “Your reports were excellent, but I must say I’m enjoying the live performance. Now, for our next assignment I’ll be asking you to do some new things that circumstances didn’t allow before. I will push you, and stretch you, but I know you have it in you to get top grades.”

  I let out a soft moan. Images swirl through my head: my body bent over his desk in his office on campus, the professor behind me, probing my ass with the lubed-up knob of his dick. Me on my knees, hands bound behind my back as I suck and suck his strawberry Popsicle prick. I know there will be challenges, even humiliations, but any fear is lost in a sweet, soaring hunger to learn more about all the things our bodies and minds can do together.

  “I’ll try my best, Professor. If I may say so, sir, I’m glad you’re back.”

  “All thanks to you, Tina. You are without question my most inspiring student. Now listen carefully to my instructions. As you know, I will take points off for sloppiness.”

  The only proper answer is to nod, obediently, but I can’t help smiling, too. He is home, my dear Professor Pervert. I can’t wait for class to begin.

  A NECESSARY CORRECTION

  Debra Hyde

  Somewhere, somehow, she had said too much. Kiana knows this the instant the wooden clamp touches her tongue. Blindfolded, she had expected the rubber bit or the tube gag, perhaps even her panties, but when the clamp grabs her, she knows she has committed a verbal transgression. As it tightens, she wonders what it was.

  First, Gordon had ordered her mouth open. Now, he binds her, hands to feet, like a calf waiting for the brand. He cinches her to the hoist over their bed, pulls it until it draws her limbs into the air and she rests on her back. He leaves her there, appendages pointing to the ceiling, like a naked piece of meat.

  And yet, she isn’t. The clamp keeps her from falling into the objectified state that comes when she feels like meat. Although she longs for that nirvana, her bizarre grin, made wide by dowels and nuts and bolts, will not allow it. Its intensity does not allow so simple an ecstasy.

  But what did Kiana do to deserve this? She had been pleasing to Gordon all evening, demurely moving about the party crowd naked, following Gordon’s lead, always at his beck and call. She had kept to his right, a step behind him, her eyes down, her hands clasped behind her back. She had been obvious in her submission, yet understated and graceful. Never once had she attempted to draw attention to herself.

  Her tongue throbs now, its circulation compromised by the clamp’s fixed grip, a constriction that, while not exactly painful, is not particularly blissful either. If anything, it is sublimely defined. The clamp hugs so strangely that her body floods with endorphins and she floats in ethereal delight, borne on the wings of pleasure perverted.

  Gordon had originally designed the clamp as part of a set meant for her breasts, but after a rare instance of impertinence on her part, he had discovered another, highly effective use for it. It had startled her that first time he had applied it, but it had thrilled her as well. Peculiar and overwhelming, it had quickly suspended her in an endorphin haze. Effectively, it had rendered her mute and mentally murky.

  She gulps, swallowing spit. It is an exaggerated, gross movement, not the subtle clearing of accumulation that, like eyes blinking, one does without notice. And in the process, a slice of discomfort snaps at her. The small stretch of flesh that connects the tongue to the mouth snags between her lower front teeth. It is a split second sensation, over as soon as Kiana recognizes it. But it always scares her. It always feels as if that slender sliver of flesh will lodge between her teeth, stuck there until ripped free by sheer panic.

  The frenulum, Kiana thinks. It’s called the frenulum linguae.

  She thinks it odd that its Latin nomenclature is so closely cousined to that of male genitalia. She wonders if Gordon’s anatomical equivalent is stretched tight by an aching erection. Does he take devious delight when he watches her swallow? Does the sight of her dry, cracked lips surrounding her obvious, inflamed tongue ignite him?

  Lips. Labia oris. The mouth is, to Kiana’s amazement, the only place where labia and frenulum meet in noncoital unity. Blow jobs aside, she adds.

  Why she remembers these things under the sway of Gordon’s implements, she cannot say. In the fog of endorphins, her mind often wanders into weird places where strange word associations abound. Sometimes, she wonders if extreme bondage is, in its own way, as near a psychedelic trip as one can get without drugs.

  She must swallow. Perched on the precipice of disaster yet again, her panic seated in a single, seized breath, Kiana finds resolution in the space of exhaling. Her frenulum remains free.

  A shuffle of movement. Gordon, approaching. The bed sinks under his weight, tilting Kiana toward him. Like the flesh catching against her teeth, it is a diminutive sensation, likely imperceptible to Gordon, but she feels the pitch profoundly and gasps. She senses his stare, but his inspection, she knows, will not end with his gaze. It will become tactile, and she braces for it.

  His hand closes over the globe of her left breast and squeezes, compressing it so fiercely, she pants guttural gasps. Retreating, fingers go to her nipple and toy with it. Pulling and pinching, they test its give, a luscious attention, and Kiana ignores the uncompromising clamp at her mouth, the mounting ache in her shoulders from prolonged bondage, the strain of the hog-tie on her body. Yearning, she hopes Gordon will continue to grope her; she prays he will linger there. She wishes she could come from this decidedly delectable torment.

  But Gordon quits her nipple, dismaying her. His hand travels down the bony terrain of her torso, across the swell of her belly, and settles between her legs. He brushes the lips of her cunt, teases its slit. Kiana trembles. She feels delicate and yielding, like c
lover in a stiff, summer breeze, its flowers risking the tear of the wind to find the sun’s rays.

  Intrusion, abrupt and merciless. It shreds her pastorale—penetration robbing her of whatever dignity her brief fantasy has lent her.

  It’s Gordon’s big, thick thumb that pokes about, twisting, turning, and stretching her. Her muzzle does not stop Kiana from begging him to stop this humiliation. She squirms against it, tries to escape it, but the hog-tie holds her fast and when her limbs flare in sudden, stiff pain, she surrenders the struggle.

  Gordon’s brutishness wins. It always does. And Kiana would not have it any other way. Long ago, she had ceded such power to him, never to contemplate recalling or reclaiming it, always glad to be its thrall, to be its sexual subject. Kiana wants it no other way. Kiana craves it no other way.

  His thumb still in her, Gordon leans forward. Kiana feels his breath upon her face and, in the rhythm of his breathing, she hears his arousal. She knows he’s rock hard and ready to fuck her. But she also knows this lesson must play out in its entirety.

  His tongue brushes against hers, its touch so strong, Kiana flinches. Gordon flicks it about, mimicking a French kiss, but Kiana’s tongue is so thick and tender that the kiss feels volatile and shocking. Capriciously, Gordon pulls away from her and rises from the bed. Voided, Kiana pants, her anticipation rising. She knows the lesson nears its apex.

  “Do you know what you did?” he asks.

  She balks. She doesn’t know the answer, only the obvious. She stammers to admit, “I talked too much.”

  Her words sound, naturally, like she’s speaking with an impediment, but somehow Gordon understands her. “To whom? When?”