Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission Read online

  Jake started stroking my hair. “Wow,” he said. Then he pushed the blindfold off my face and kissed me gently on the forehead.

  “I think I might need some water,” I managed to croak after a few minutes.

  Jake laughed. “No, honey. I think you deserve some water.” And he got up and moved to pour me a glass from the sink. I watched him, bleary with satisfaction and utterly spent. He squatted next to me and lifted my head so that I could drink. “Let me go get you a towel,” he said after helping me sit upright. “You deserve that, too.”

  “And a bath?” I said, trying to sound sprightly. “And some chocolate cake?” I blinked at him with wide, wide eyes.

  He laughed. “Don’t push your luck.” Then he helped me up off the carpet and down the hall into his warm, soft bed.

  COFFEE BREAK

  Kristina Wright

  I wait for him to call with the impatience of a hungry cat waiting for the mouse to peek from under the stove. Except in this case, he’s the cat and I’m the mouse, waiting for him to pounce and put me out of my misery.

  There are six files open on my laptop and a dozen emails that all require my immediate attention, but I repeatedly check my cell phone to see if he has called in the thirteen seconds since I last checked it.

  He makes me wait on purpose. He likes torturing me like this. He calls it anticipation, not torture. He says he likes the way my voice sounds breathless when he’s kept me waiting for so long I can barely contain my impatience. Or my excitement. Or the wetness pooling in my panties—if I’m even wearing panties.

  The phone rings as I pick it up to check it for the hundredth time in thirty minutes. I’m so startled, I drop the phone and it skitters across the slick tabletop. I catch it as it slides off the edge.

  “Hello?” My voice is as breathless as he always says it is. It would piss me off if I weren’t so excited.

  “Are you thinking about me fucking you?”

  That’s what I love about him. There’s no preamble, no chitchat. He cuts right through the bullshit and gets to what he wants. What we both want.

  I laugh, but it’s the kind of laughter that’s an escape valve for all of my pent-up frustrations and nervousness. “Something like that,” I say, conscious of the people around me.

  “Tell me.”

  Damn. I should have known he wouldn’t let me off the hook just because I’m in public. I cup my hand around the phone and whisper, “I’m thinking about you fucking me.”

  “Louder.”

  I glance at the woman next to me, who is wearing ear buds and seems oblivious to my presence. “I’m thinking about you fucking me,” I say, louder this time.

  Maybe too loud, because she glances over at me with a weird expression on her face. I turn my head to the wall, but the full-length mirror reflects the three tables of people behind me, not all of them wearing ear buds.

  “Good girl,” he says, his voice silky smooth. He sounds like sex. He is sex. “I want you to go order a coffee.”

  I look at the cup in front of me, nearly untouched. “I already have a coffee.”

  He makes a sound of impatience. I know that sound too well. It means I’ve displeased him. If he were here in person, there would be some punishment to go along with that sound. I can’t decide whether I wish he were here or not.

  “I want you to order something specific,” he says. “A medium coffee with cream and two pumps of vanilla. Because you’re as far from vanilla as they come, aren’t you, Meredith?”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. There is nothing vanilla about me except the way I dress. I’m your typical coffee-shop freelancer, dressed for comfort, not for style. “Yes, Sir,” I say. “Then what?”

  “You’ll know what to do. What’s your safeword, Meredith?”

  “Latte,” I say. It was my choice of word—a tip of the hat to my love of coffee. “Will I need it?” I can’t imagine what he’s up to, but a shiver of anticipation tickles along my spine.

  “I hope not.”

  Ah. There it is. The expectation that I will be able to handle whatever he is about to do to me. He pushes me, this man I’ve grown to love and lust for. Pushes my limits, pushes me to test my own boundaries. I say yes to everything he wants because I know I’m really saying yes to myself; yes to the secret desires and longings that I’ve kept bottled up for too long. Yes to the need I have that bubbles to the surface whenever I hear his voice.

  “Go order your coffee, Meredith.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And Meredith?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wouldn’t have you do anything dangerous or anything that I didn’t think you would enjoy,” he says.

  “I know.” I do know. I trust him.

  “Good. Talk to you soon.”

  He hangs up before I can say good-bye.

  I pack up my laptop and tuck my phone into the side pocket of my messenger bag. The coffee shop had been quiet when I got there an hour before, but now it was hopping with the lunchtime rush. I wait in line, impatient as the woman in front of me asks the difference between an espresso and an Americano. I nearly groan in impatience while she confers with her friend over which to order.

  Finally, it is my turn. The barista is a young hipster guy with black-rimmed glasses and the perpetual smirk of coffeehouse workers.

  “Could I get a medium coffee with cream and two pumps of vanilla?”

  The smirk is replaced with a genuine smile and an arched eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  I bite my lip. What does this guy know that I don’t? “Um, yes.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I am distracted by a group of moms pushing strollers in line behind me. Barista guy clears his throat to get my attention. “Here you go,” he says, handing me a cup that feels suspiciously light. “It’s on the house.”

  “What? Oh, thanks,” I say, wondering what I am supposed to do with the cup. I start to ask him, but he is yelling to the guy at the end of the counter.

  “Hey, I’m past due for my break. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

  “Excuse me? Are you done?” asks one of the stroller moms behind me.

  I nod and move out of the way, carrying my empty cup to a new table since the one I vacated has been taken over by two businessmen with BlackBerrys.

  I turn the cup in my hands and see that it is marked, See inside.

  Curious, I pop the plastic lid off and look inside. A piece of paper is folded up in the bottom of the cup. I fish it out, unfold it and read it. Then I read it again, a feeling of dread sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach.

  Go to the bathroom now. Leave the door unlocked. Get undressed. Kneel on the floor facing the door. Masturbate to orgasm no matter who walks in. You may get dressed and leave when you are finished. Then call me.

  My breath catches in my throat. I feel like I am going to hyperventilate. I refold the paper so I won’t have to look at the words. But not seeing them is worse somehow than reading them, so I spread the paper out on the table and read it again. The businessmen walk by on their way out and I instinctively cover the paper with my hand as if they might read my secret shame.

  I remember what he said on the phone. He wouldn’t have me do something dangerous. He wouldn’t have me do something that I wouldn’t enjoy.

  But how can I enjoy this? It is dangerous. He is pushing me too far.

  And yet…I cannot resist him. Even though his commands are written, I can hear his voice in my head. That makes it easier somehow to obey his words.

  I refold the paper and tuck it in my pants pocket. I stand on shaky legs and make my way to the bathroom carrying the empty cup. Out of habit, I push the button lock on the door once it closes behind me. Then I remember his command and twist the knob so the lock pops free. I stare at the door, waiting for it to open. It doesn’t.

  I put my messenger bag on the floor and take a breath. It does nothing to quell my nerves. I figure the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can leave. Once in motion, I
move quickly. Shoes, socks, pants, blouse, bra, panties, until I’m standing naked in the coffee-shop bathroom.

  I’m loath to kneel on the dirty floor, so I pull a handful of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and lay them out on the floor. Then I kneel, facing the door. I take another deep breath. How the hell am I supposed to masturbate like this? I’m not even aroused.

  I slip my hand between my thighs and discover otherwise. I’m soaked. My pussy feels swollen and my clit is rigid between my fingers. I am so nervous, I hadn’t realized I am turned on. But of course he would say I am turned on because I am so nervous. Because he is pushing me to my limits. Because it arouses me to be humiliated like this, to risk being caught, to think of a stranger walking in and catching me kneeling on the floor and stroking myself to orgasm.

  I am already ridiculously close to orgasm. This won’t take long. I close my eyes and think of him standing over me, watching me. I slide my fingers between the lips of my engorged pussy and thumb my clit at the same time. Two pumps of vanilla, I think. My perfume I dab on my wrists is vanilla scented and the smell wafts up to me—the scent of vanilla and my own sweet musk. Cream, he said, and I feel my own cream trickle out as I stroke my G-spot.

  God, he knows how to get to me. He knows just the right words to drive me wild.

  Head thrown back, eyes closed, I pinch and pull my nipples, feeling them tingle and burn as I manhandle them roughly, the way he would. My clit throbs in response, aching for the same rough treatment. I pull my fingers from my pussy and rub my entire mound, grinding against my palm as I pump my hips up to meet my hand. I’m so close.

  I’m panting and my pulse is pounding in my ears, but I hear the distinct click of the door opening. I freeze, midthrust. For a split second, I hope it’s him. I hope he’s come to watch me obey his commands.

  I open my eyes and see the barista smirking at me. I panic. He locks the door behind him.

  “I—uh—I,” I stammer, but there is no explanation. I’m kneeling naked on the bathroom floor of the coffee shop, a puddle of my own juices underneath me. What can I say?

  “He gave me a fifty to come in here,” he says, fumbling with his belt and unzipping his pants. “But I’d do it for free. You’re so fucking hot.”

  His dick is hard and thick and beautiful. I swallow hard. Fucking him wasn’t on the agenda. I can’t. I won’t. I realize I’m shaking my head before I can even say the words.

  “I’m just here to watch,” he says, stroking his erection. “Don’t worry. If you want me to leave, just say latte.”

  He knows my safeword. I feel the panic fade. He won’t hurt me.

  My hand is still pressed between my legs and as I watch him touch himself, I find myself matching him stroke for stroke.

  It doesn’t take long. He leans against the door, his eyes fixated on my hand between my legs. He occasionally glances up my body to watch me torture my tender nipples before going back to my fingers pumping my pussy so hard the wet sound echoes off the walls.

  “Yeah, do it,” he mutters, and I doubt he even realizes he’s speaking. “Do it. I’m watching you.”

  And I’m watching him. Watching the way his dick swells as he masturbates, watching as his body goes stiff and the first spurt of come hits the floor two inches in front of my trembling knees. His eyes close as he comes, but I can’t look away. I want to see him.

  Then I’m coming. Coming as he jerks off in front of me, for me. Instead of feeling helpless and at his mercy, I feel like a fucking goddess being worshipped.

  “Look at me,” I hiss between clenched teeth. “Watch me come.”

  His eyes flutter open as he slowly milks the last drops from his dick. He is breathing hard, his forehead glistens from his exertion, but he watches me. Watches as I stare at his dick and thrust three fingers inside of me, watches as I open my mouth in a silent moan and imagine the taste of him on my tongue. I pump my fingers inside my pussy, feeling wetness trickle over my knuckles. I come until I am trembling and whimpering and barely able to remain upright. Finally, I close my eyes.

  When I open them a moment later, he’s gone. The door is unlocked again, and though I’m weak as a newborn deer, I hurry to stand and lock the door before I dress. Moments later, I’m splashing water on my face to cool the heat in my cheeks. I exit the restroom, eyes straight ahead, afraid to look behind the counter and see if I’m being watched.

  “Have a nice day,” someone calls after me, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same barista. I don’t know where he’s gone, but I know he won’t ever forget this experience. Neither will I.

  Out on the busy street with people hurrying past on their way back to work after lunch, the whole scene feels surreal. Standing at a light on the corner, I squint in the sunshine and press REDIAL on my phone. He answers on the first ring.

  “Did you enjoy that, Meredith?”

  I let out a breathy sigh. “That was intense. But I can never go back to that coffee shop again.” I nearly laugh at the incongruity of it. It’s the only coffee shop I ever go to.

  “Of course you can,” he says. “You’ll go back tomorrow. And you’ll smile if you see him and know that he enjoyed your beauty and passion nearly as much as I do.”

  He’s right, of course. I’ll go back. I’ll do anything he wants me to do. Because when all is said and done, it’s all about me and what I need and want, even if I can’t find the words to say it.

  CHATTEL

  Errica Liekos

  Shortly after they got married, Alex had told Sasha, “Do what you want. I love you, and I don’t ever want to stop you from being you. If you want to be with me, be with me. If not, don’t. I won’t stop you. I want you to be happy.”

  Her friends thought it was romantic. A man who wasn’t jealous, who didn’t get weird about girls’ night out, or get mad when she wanted to go to book club or knitting circle instead of serving him a beer while he watched the game. She could just do whatever she wanted, when she wanted; total freedom. They acted like it was a dream come true.

  Sasha wasn’t so sure.

  For her birthday last year, he’d gotten her coupons for a couple’s massage…for her and a friend. She took Lucy. The year before, it had been tickets to the ballet, with a suggestion that she take Regina. He hated the ballet, so she did. He knew she didn’t enjoy softball and didn’t ask her to come with him when he played. Once they even went to a movie theater and split up to watch different movies when they couldn’t agree on documentary (him) or action (her). She did all the things she would have gotten to do if she was still single.

  Sasha was miserable and hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to complain about. She tried talking to some of her friends about it and ended up getting lectures on women’s rights and the history of marriage.

  “Women used to be chattel,” Lucy scolded, “and you’re telling me you want your husband to be more possessive of you? What next, you’re going to take his last name?”

  “Fine, you can trade husbands with me,” Regina said. “I’ll take the man who wants us to see Swan Lake and you can have the man who tells me I put the ‘bitch’ in ‘Stitch-and-Bitch’ every single time I leave the house for knitting circle. You don’t know how good you’ve got it, honey.”

  Sasha didn’t want to give up her maiden name, and she didn’t want Alex to turn passive-aggressive on her, but yes, she thought, she did want him to be more possessive. Maybe he should demand that she show up to root for him at his softball games, and maybe he should make her watch the movie he wanted, just because he wanted it, and wanted her company at the same time.

  So when she opened her latest birthday present over dinner at a Turkish restaurant to find a pair of opera tickets, she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  “I don’t want to keep going to these things alone.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex said. “There’re two tickets.”

  “But you don’t want to go with me.”

  “So you should miss out on Don Giovanni
because I don’t like it? Come on, who’s that girlfriend of yours who’s into opera, too? Lucy? Jessie?”

  “It’s Lucy,” said Sasha. “Jesse is a guy. You want me to take another man to the opera with me?”

  “If that’s who you want to take, I’m not going to stop you.”

  Sasha slammed her hands down into her lap in frustration, knocking her napkin to the floor. “I want to take you. But I know you don’t like opera, which means my choices for enjoying your birthday present to me are to make you miserable or be without you. Doesn’t that seem a little wrong to you?”

  Alex leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s just that…marriage is compromise, right?”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Yes, Alex, I think it does. I can’t do all the things I did when I was single and still be the kind of wife I want to be. Or have you be the husband I want you to be.” Sasha trailed off. Alex’s expression was unreadable.

  “Go on.”

  “You’re so focused on us each doing our own thing.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t really want to be married to me.”

  Sasha didn’t order her usual dessert, and Alex skipped his coffee. They drove home in silence. Sasha felt like crying. Regina was right; she had the perfect man, and she didn’t appreciate him. He’d dressed in his best suit, given her a chance to wear a new dress, taken her to a lovely dinner, and bought her a present that showed he thought of what she liked at the expense of his own preferences. And now he was pissed off at her, and she’d ruined everything.