Yes, Ma'am Read online

  “Tongue me, you little worm,” Jennifer spat.

  Her tone was guttural with urgent passion.

  “Tongue my quim.”

  He steeled himself from erupting. Her harsh words were bitterly exciting. As she spoke, Jennifer clenched her grip tighter on his hair. The follicles screamed in protest and the shock of pain was almost enough to push him beyond the brink of restraint. The threat of a climax throbbed in his loins and he briefly marveled at his good fortune in finding himself with such a worthy partner.

  “Tongue me like a woman’s going to tongue me,” Jennifer insisted. “That should be easy for you. You’ve never been able to use your tongue like a man.”

  Her insults spiked his arousal to the brink of being unbearable. Straining his neck, struggling to slide his tongue over her labia, against her clitoris and then into her sex, he was dizzied by the need to do so many things in his efforts to please her. Her sex was a glossy cavern of warm and welcoming wetness. Her flavor was a blend of salted sweat and sweet sensuous sexuality. Her pussy lips reciprocated his kiss as he urged his tongue between them.

  “Deeper,” she hissed.

  Without warning, Jennifer tightened her grip further and then threw her right leg over his left shoulder. Her labia pressed more firmly against his face, tilting his neck back, engulfing his mouth. The position made her more open. More accessible. And although he was struggling for air, struggling against the fresh pain in his scalp, and struggling to please her, Jonathan savored the chance to urge his tongue deeper inside.

  “That’s it, you assertive little worm,” she mocked. Her voice was deepened by the threat of an encroaching orgasm. “That’s it. That’s just what I need.”

  The flavor of her musk grew stronger.

  The wetness of her sex became a fluid rush.

  His arousal was beyond unbearable and Jonathan struggled to stave off his own climax as he fought to bring Jennifer her pleasure. His length ached untouched inside his pants. His balls throbbed with the need for release. The pain she inflicted as she pulled his hair tighter was an aphrodisiac. The humiliation of being suffocated by her quim as he tried to give her satisfaction was another barb that was too insidious to refuse.

  “Yes!” she hissed.

  With the word, he felt the spatter of her climax flood against his nose. He closed his eyes and felt his cheeks daubed with tears of her pleasure. Fresh pain erupted in his scalp as Jennifer released her hold on his hair and pushed him away. He opened his eyes and watched as she staggered away from him and collapsed back in her seat. Aside from the fact that she was no longer wearing trousers or panties, her composure seemed so unruffled it was difficult to believe what they had done.

  Glancing down at his groin, he could see the front of his trousers was no longer distended by the bulge of his excitement. Instead there was a growing wet stain that proved he hadn’t been able to resist the climax her domination always inspired.

  “I’ll call admin now and see if that graduate is still there,” Jennifer said. She nodded toward the tea tray, a silent instruction that Jonathan should prepare another cup of tea. Her voice was calm, cool and collected. The frenzied passion of her climax was already gone, as though it had never been there. “Maybe we can organize something for tonight or this weekend?” As she spoke, she retrieved her mobile from the purse by the side of her chair and flipped it open.

  “You’re going to organize it?” He tried not to sound incredulous.

  “Of course.”

  She beckoned him to come closer and kissed him with genuine affection. Gratitude. The stirring of another erection began in his groin. The flesh in his pants felt sticky and sore from the frustration of his unnoticed climax. He silently hoped his next climax would be equally embarrassing.

  “This doesn’t just tie in with your fantasies,” she explained, dialing. “I’ve always fantasized about getting it on with another woman. If this graduate is available I could be realizing that fantasy by tonight.”

  “And…” Jonathan returned to his seat before continuing. He swallowed. He cleared his throat. He battled the excitement as he tried to find the words. “And what will you have me doing in this fantasy scenario of yours?”

  Jennifer smiled and dropped him a wink. “You’re expected to bring both of us the ultimate pleasure,” she said softly. “You’re going to satisfy two women like no other man on this earth could possibly satisfy them.”

  He wanted to imagine himself intertwined with Jennifer and the graduate she had mentioned. He wanted to picture his own body sandwiched between two nubile and wanton women, his erection larger than life and twice as capable. He wanted to envision a full and frantic night of tongues—teasing, tasting and touching. But seeing the sparkle of mischief in Jennifer’s eyes, he knew she had something else in mind. Understanding came to him as his erection returned to full strength.

  “You’ll want me to serve tea, won’t you?”

  Again, still smiling, Jennifer nodded. And even if that was all she permitted him to do with her and another woman, Jonathan knew all three of them would find the experience truly satisfying.

  EXHIBIT A

  Chris Cooper

  I’m standing with my arms above my head, naked, while a group of elegant, sexy older women laugh, point, and stare at me. I’ve volunteered to be their guinea pig, Exhibit A in their fun, kinky social experiment. Really, I’m the only exhibit, but I like to think that if there were others, I’d be the most prominent, the sexiest, the best and the brightest. I’ve never met most of them before tonight, but my mistress proposed they invite me as the token cock to liven things up a bit. I’ve really no idea what they normally do; it’s a women’s group, and my mistress has alluded to it but kept details strictly under wraps.

  Of course, that only made me more curious, seeing as how I’m always looking for clues as to what my mistress likes and doesn’t like, what she does when I’m not around. In part, I’m trying to find new ways to please her, but I’m also simply curious about her. Our relationship is very much a one-way street; I give, she takes, so any scraps of insight are much appreciated. She dictates when I see her, and how often; no money is exchanged, but she charges in power, taking over until I can think of little apart from her. I’ve given up girlfriends since we met, grateful for the few hours a week she deigns to be with me, and knowing most other women couldn’t hold a candle to her, especially ones my age. I’m twenty-five, and most of the girls I’ve gone out with are more interested in abusing my paycheck than my penis, and the other dommes I’ve tried have left me disappointed.

  I wanted an older woman, a wiser one who’d been around the block, and Karen, my mistress’s name (though never one I’d call her to her face without adding her title before it), seemed to appear out of nowhere to fit the bill. We met in the most prosaic of locales, a coffee shop, where she immediately made it clear that my scattered papers were taking up way too much space. “Someone needs to teach you some manners,” she said. Like a teacher with a ruler, who knew how to use it, she shoved my long-labored-over novel aside to make room for her coffee and blueberry muffin. Her dining choices were quite average, but everything else about her was not.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed her, or immediately clamored for her attention. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the two men seated to my right straighten and sneak longing glances at her. She had her hair up in a bun, and was wearing an off-white blouse with pearl buttons, a black skirt, and plain heels, all of which contrived to make her look like she could give me much more than a stern talking to. She looked into my eyes, and while I could’ve easily dismissed her, I didn’t. I saw something in her gaze that made me want to go deeper, made me want to see what would happen if she took me under her wing, made me think that just maybe, I could trust her with my submerged submissive fantasies. I wanted to let them bubble to the surface, to see where they could lead me. She stared at me until I blushed, as commanding seated as she’d been standing. “I’d like to slap the smirk
right off your face,” she said. Totally inappropriate coffee shop conversation…unless you’re a secretly kinky guy like me. I got hard right away.

  “What if I liked it?” I said impertinently, the retort coming immediately to my lips.

  She leaned forward, her brown eyes snapping, suddenly looking younger, and more capable, like she could shackle me right there, in public, with no qualms whatsoever. “You know what? If I were to try to teach you some very valuable lessons, I wouldn’t really care what you liked or didn’t like. You’d be the one caring what I’d like. Too bad you won’t get to experience that.”

  Already, before I even knew what I was giving up, I was disappointed. I sat up straighter, suddenly desperate for her attention. I was torn between being silent and letting her know just how worthy of being trained I was. She proceeded to stay at the table but pretty much ignore me, reading her newspaper, and I tried to be as quiet as possible, while completely aware of her presence. She was older, maybe forty or just over to my twenty-five, but not matronly, hot without trying too hard. She seemed to assume that everyone around her would simply accept her imperiousness and, somehow, they did. Or, at least, I did. Eventually, she put down her paper and turned back around. I tried to look innocent, but I’m sure I failed.

  “Young man, I am in need of someone of your age and stature. Someone who’s young enough to be pliable, but old enough to know what he wants. Someone who can follow orders and doesn’t have to get his way all the time. Someone who knows when the time is right to submit to the will of a powerful woman. If you think you might be interested, show up at my apartment tomorrow afternoon. Don’t wear underwear.” With that, she swept off, leaving the faint scent of her flowery perfume and a small business card blazing in my palm.

  From there, it was only a matter of time before she had me arriving at her home not just sans underwear, but sans clothing altogether. I didn’t need it—just an overcoat that always left me feeling like someone might detect my secret. Once she made me wear a kilt and white T-shirt, and I had to endure the taunts of schoolkids as I rode across town on the bus. I could’ve cheated and taken a cab, but she would have known. Mistress Karen always seems to know when I’ve been a bad boy, when I’m hungover even though I promised her I’d limit myself to one drink a night. I feel like she’s watching me even when she’s not, and I’ve endeavored to follow her rules, even hoped she’d make new ones just to test me. I live to please her, and have gotten to know the depths of my kinky, subby soul through service to her. So that in part explains why I’d agreed to accompany her to this otherwise ladies-only event. I couldn’t bear the thought that another slave, for I knew she kept others, might take my place if I declined.

  Besides, the chance to be the lone male, the one who could take abuse from not just one woman but many, was one I’m way too submissive, not to mention proud, to pass up.

  So here I am, having gone from novice to number one slave in a mere two months. By now I’m used to being naked, used to having my body scrutinized closely and judged for its virility, but having my beloved Mistress Karen watch me is one thing; having strange women observe me hungrily is another. Both are welcome, but one is unfamiliar, uncertain—and even more arousing than being at Mistress Karen’s, dare I say. The women are staring at me like I’m in a cage, and I guess in a way, I am. Their eyes, their room, their secret society is my cage, albeit one I’ve chosen to enter. I feel them examining me, trying me on for size. I hope some of them are thinking about just what my cock could do for them. I’m checking out one woman who’s gotta be at least fifty, twice my age but totally slamming, when I hear Mistress Karen’s familiar tongue-clucking. She’s glaring at me, and I remember how she told me that I’m an object to be looked at, not the one doing the looking. It’s challenging, but I manage to look down at my bare toes, the ones I got soaked and scrubbed and filed at the salon this morning just so they’d look perfect. I wouldn’t want my mistress to be embarrassed by me.

  Even though I’m looking down now, I can feel the women as they ogle my nude body, and know the instant I start to blush. I hear whispers, though I can’t make out the words, and somehow I just know they’re about me, and what I can do for them. I’d thought I was just here for display purposes, but I shiver as I realize that, quite possibly, these women are going to put me to the test. I shut my eyes and my hearing sharpens but all I can make out are words like “slave,” “Karen,” and “cock.” Nobody seems to ask Mistress Karen my name, my age, or anything much about me. What they want to know—how big my cock is—they can find out for themselves. I take as deep a breath as I can manage and try to exude a look of calm submission. It’s really not that hard; as unusual as this situation may be, there’s something enticingly comfortable about it as well.

  The truth is, this is something I’ve dreamed about since I first realized my masochistic inclinations. The thought of being used and abused by not just one but multiple gorgeous women has given me countless hard-ons over the years. I’ve wanted to be their bukkake boy, their shared slave, their piece of meat, literally. I’ve wanted them to claw me, paw me, flog me, beat me. I’ve wanted them to make my tongue sore and tired from overwork, and the same for my cock. I’ve wanted so much from the few dominant women I’ve encountered, and for the most part before Mistress Karen, except for the ones I’ve paid—I’ve been disappointed. Their needs always seemed to trump mine, and while on one level that’s how it should be, that only works if our needs mesh. Until Mistress Karen, I’d never met a woman who really needed a slave in the way I needed to be needed; the others thought it was a fun pastime, a kinky giggle, a naughty notch on their bedpost. When they looked deep into my eyes and saw the fear, the worship, the awe, things they couldn’t erase with a smack across the cheek, they got scared of the depths of my desire.

  No one but Karen has ever truly understood. When she saw me at the coffee shop, she must have just known. I’ve never asked her how, but maybe after tonight, I will.

  I snap back to the present as a waiter clad in only a pair of Speedo-tight pants comes by with flutes of champagne. I, of course, don’t even think of taking one, but the hostess does, her long, red nails clinking against the skinny glass. She’s the belle of the kinky ball, dressed in a stunning silver latex gown that hugs every gorgeous curve of her tall, generous body. Once again, I see my mistress across the room, also elegant in a black silk dress loosely draped against her, blood-red shoes raising her several inches off the ground. Save for that brief ocular warning, she seems to be studiously ignoring me while I stand shackled here, unable even to lightly stroke my dick. The torment is both agony and fantasy fulfillment at once. The hostess peers around the room, surveying her shining sea of dommes, smiling slightly to herself as she takes a small sip of champagne. My cock is going wild as I slyly steal glances at her. Her home is everything mine isn’t, not only separated by a borough—hers on Central Park West, mine deep in the bowels of Brooklyn—but by class, taste, comfort. Hers is elegance personified and I wonder what her husband (because there’s got to be one behind this whole setup) knows or thinks about her little soiree.

  My staring must have subtly alerted her attention because she turns around and beams her all-seeing eyes into me. She penetrates me with her gaze until I look down, properly reverential. Mistress Karen has told me to do what any woman here asks of me; my orders from her are to treat these women, every last one, as my dommes for the day. My cock is theirs, no questions asked. She told me this earlier while fucking my face with a huge black dildo, her melodic voice drifting down to my ears as I dutifully swallowed the massive toy, feeling my dick jerk each time its head scraped the back of my tongue, so I may have missed some of the subtleties of what she was imparting.

  I swallow hard, vowing to be everything she wants me to be, to live up to her standards and impress her friends. I’m not sure if they are all serious players like us, or professionals, or women who just want to capture a little of the power their husbands wield with the snap of
their fingers. These are women who trade in fur coats, fancy lunches, and fast fucks in high-end hotels, who travel in a world of luxury I can only vaguely imagine. The thought of being Mistress Karen’s full-time slave has passed through my mind before, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that, or if she is. I spend most of my free time with her when she’ll have me, but sometimes I need to retreat to my crash pad, my old futon and comforter slapped against the corner of a stark room, my meager belongings putting me back into the world I’ve always known.

  The next thing I know, the hostess is standing before me, her gaze landing at my chin. She’s in shiny black heels and sheer black stockings in addition to the dazzling dress, the first things I see from my view with my head down. I’m grateful Mistress Karen has secured my arms over my head, because they’re already getting tired. Hostess steps closer so the latex of her dress is almost touching the extended hairs on my legs. “You make a nice piece of artwork on my wall, kind of a living sculpture,” she muses, trailing a long red nail from my hip up my flat stomach toward one erect nipple. She rakes her pointy talon over my bud, causing an exhalation of breath. “It’s too bad you look so lonely over here,” she says, now pinching my nipple between two fingers, tugging on it. I glance upward enough to see her lips curving into a smile that gets bigger the harder she pulls on my nipple. I don’t wince, even though my body quivers where she’s touching me.

  “I enjoy it, Ma’am. I want to be accessible to all the women here, just like Mistress Karen told me to be.”

  “Forget about Mistress Karen,” she says, twisting my nipple even more fiercely. Before I even sneak a peek toward the rest of the room, I know they’re all watching us curiously. Their chatter has quieted down from its previous din as they wait to see what she’ll do to me.