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Titrate My Urges: Chapter 1 (Untitled, Unpublished Novel Excerpt)

This is chapter 1 of the unpublished, unedited, untitled novel that I wrote for Nanowrimo a few years ago. I’m starting up Nanowrimo for the 5th time tomorrow — wish me luck! — so I thought I’d share a little bit from a different project. This piece is also an excerpt from this novel, though much later in the book.

Content warning: sex scene, spanking, brat, dirty talk.

Chapter One

Her bottom is blushing pink under my palms, despite her dark skin; she is warming up quite nicely. She’s starting to move her hips in that undulating, pulsing desirous way that makes me ache to rip open the buttons of my fly and shove hard into her, bury myself up to the hilt. She’s still a little delicate for that. She wants romance, coaxing.

I’m getting a little tired of having to titrate my urges.

Her thighs are thick and her calves are strong, she’s up on her tiptoes bent over the small leather-covered horse in my dungeon, the spare room I’ve been working on building up into an SM space for the past year or so. She’s the one who asked for a spanking tonight, after pouting through dinner and not quite pouring my wine right, even though I’ve trained her to do it before. Maybe it’ll remind her for next time. If there is a next time.

“Harrison,” she whimpers, pushing her heavy dark hair out of her eyes and looking back at me. Her eyes are watery and big, wide-open and that deep brown sparkly gold color that has me enamored of her beauty. The way she would blink those long lashes and look up at me from under her bangs and toss it, just a little, out of her face—oh that gets me. That gets me good.

“That’s ‘Sir’ to you, young lady,” I growl in reply, smacking her ass again with my open palm. My hand is getting tired, palm is getting more sensitive, but she’s not quite that shade of red that I want her to be, so I have to keep going. No way to back off now. She’s pushing her ass back into my hands and breathing heavy, writhing on the horse and raising up onto her toes and back to her feet as she tries to get me to touch her between the legs, her arousal already visible.

But this isn’t for her, this is for me.

Except, it kind of is for her. She’s the one who wanted this. She’s the one who thought a spanking after screwing up the wine would absolve her of her missteps. Me, I don’t really believe in punishment—it’s proven not to work, after all, as a long-term strategy of training. Plus, these things that we play with should be fun, pleasurable, reward—not given as a negative. But, I do think it can absolve some guilt, if one is actually feeling guilt. Perhaps I can smack some guilt into her. Perhaps if I hit her hard enough, she’ll remember that she’s in trouble. No, no, bad idea—I don’t want to play from some place of anger or frustration. I want the intention of love and care behind every swat. I want this to be the time we connect most deeply—to ourselves, and to each other.

But Tally is off in her own world, writhing and biting the leather horse, swaying her hips back and forth and grinding into the leather like it might jump up and caress her if she does it well enough. This isn’t about pleasure, except that it is.

If she wasn’t just so damn sexy, I would have a lot more will power. I would resist the ways she’s trying to get me to do particular things and instead impose what I want, deny her, attempt to make her earn what it is she wants only to take it away at the last minute. But she pouts and whines, and she gets that look in her eye like I’m being so completely unreasonable, and it isn’t just play.

She tosses her hair again. It falls down her upper arm on the left side in a cascade that looks like a blanket, it’s so dense I can’t see her skin through it. I shift my body over hers so I can grip it and take as much as I can into my small hand and fist it, pulling her head up by it, just a little bit of pressure, pulling her neck long, as I rub her ass with my right hand. I hit her ass again, this time with the heel of my hand, almost a punch. Cupping my hand and more smacks. She lifts herself a little onto her hands to support her weight and gasps, eyes closed, mouth open. Her teeth are crooked in the front and it makes her smile look just a little bit lopsided, just a little stronger on the left than on the right, like a little kid who lost a tooth. Her lips are full and red from all the kissing, from the arousal, from the leather she’s been rubbing them against. Her cheeks are flushed. Her ears are pinned to her head by her long hair which I still have in my fist, pulling just a little too hard, she’s not sure she likes it but she does, so she doesn’t protest. Her neck stretched like this makes her back arch and her ass flip into the air, those girl-curves so exaggerated. Her body is already full of curves, her ass and thighs and breasts and stomach, plump and pudgy, something to grab on to, something to cuddle against.

“You look so pretty like this,” I say into her ear, soft and low, letting that growl come out of my throat. I kiss her neck and jaw and she swoons, opens her throat wider for me to reach her. She tastes like honey and sweat and I want to devour her. Want to rip at her throat.

I can’t. I can’t. Don’t get carried away.

“Mmmm I like that … that feels good,” she coos, reaching for my jeans and trying to get closer to my body. It’s hot in here, I’ve taken my shirt off, the light brown fur on my chest only slightly damp from sweat and work, my nipples hard. My light brown hair is just tickling the tops of my ears—it’s time to get a haircut. I keep it shaved short on the sides, just long enough on top to push it back and style it in some modern masculine style that makes me look older than I really am. It makes me feel strong, official. Still have my shoes on, the soft brown leather loafers that I’ve broken in so well over the years. I like to have the click of a sole against the hardwood floor while I play. I like the effect, the intimidation.

“Tally, wait,” I order, impatient already. “Not yet.”

“But I want to!” she immediately replies, her lower lip coming out just a little in that pout that I can’t resist. I want to smack her face. I almost bring my hand up to do it, but I know she’d get mad about it. Feel punished, but in the bad way. I can feel how she wants to. I know what she wants — my dick — though I have continuously refused to give it to her. First, I tried to ensure her that she had to earn it; then I tried to explain that I wasn’t ready; then I just flat-out denied her. She doesn’t seem to get it. It’s not all about that, for me. She’d asked me if I was one of those “tantra guys who never come.” No, I replied. I just don’t do that with everyone. We’ll see how far we get, you and me. Maybe it’ll happen eventually. But don’t count on it. “Do you still want to fuck me, though?” She’d asked with that wide-eyed stare up at me. Of course.

Fuck, of course I do. The way she writhes and coos and comes while biting her lip and thrashes and her hair goes everywhere. The way she breathes out and reaches for me. The way she softens. I crave it, I crave girls in that state, I wake up thinking about her face and my fingers inside her and when it’s going to be my hand and when it’s going to be my dick. I’m just not ready.

Women aren’t really used to men who don’t use their dicks. Or men with these kinds of boundaries, for that matter.

“Just a little longer, girl,” I reply, pushing her head back down to the leather horse and focusing again on her ass, smacking her with my fingers, small upward swats that make her gasp and sting my fingertips. I keep her hair in my hand and push her into place, lean against the horse gently in the curve at her side between her hips and shoulders. She leans into me, just enough to shift her position on the horse.

“Harrison, that’s not fair!” she protests again, but gives in, sighing down onto the leather. She tucks her arms under her and it feels like a protesting pout again, an annoyance.

I’m just about done with this back-and-forth game. I don’t know how to get what I want when she is only interested in getting what she wants. It’s just not the game I want to play. I consider telling her to get up and get her clothes and get out, but I’m not that mean. Plus, I really like her, and the way her ass is reddened and her sex is all swollen is making me salivate. Maybe I can at least help her get off, before she goes.

“You’ve done a good job, Tally,” I compliment, trying to boost her up a little more so she can take it. Come on, just a little more, girl. You can do it. I want more, dammit, why can’t I have more.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I appreciate you taking this for me, though I do want you to be able to take more, and with less protest. Maybe that will come with time. You’ll get there.”

She relaxes a little more, reaches out to touch my jeans again, but just for contact, not a request.

“I’m going to go get a vibrator for you. Stay here, don’t move. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? Yes what?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. Actually rolls them! At me! For enforcing a protocol we have set up, for expecting her to do the things we’ve agreed upon. This girl, this girl.

“Yes, sir,” she offers reluctantly.

I get up to retrieve the Magic Wand from my toy box against the wall and plug it in. That eye roll is just about the last straw. What am I going to do with her? I can’t just do whatever I want, she needs too much hand-holding. I want to explore the side of me that needs, that wants, that could lose myself in another’s body, in a woman’s body, in a submissive’s obedience. I want to be able to follow my impulses. I want to be met and held there. There’s something down underneath that, but I’m not sure what it is. I want to find out.

Sliding up against her body, I turn on the Magic Wand so she can hear it. She gasps. She knows that sound. Not everyone loves the Magic Wand, the mother of all vibrators, but once you get used to it, it becomes an essential piece of the toy box. Don’t think it’s just for the girls, either—it feels amazing on my balls. I keep one handy for those who can handle the lawn mower intensity of vibration. When Tally came to me, she rarely came any other way—which was fine, it meant that I could really control when and how she came. She protested that kind of play, however, despite that she had dropped to her knees and declared her determination to “become your favorite submissive” on our second date. But three months in? I, well, I have doubts.

This Magic Wand has to stay plugged into the wall, but the leather horse is strategically placed such that it reaches just fine. She’s moaning and writhing, she knows what’s coming; I’m glad she can’t really see me, or perhaps she’d be clued in to how bored I am. Would she care? Who knows. I can’t help that we aren’t the right match, I just can’t.

Tally is arching her back, showing off her fabulous ass, stretching up on her toes trying to reach her hips back into me, into the Wand, into anything that remotely resembles sensation so she can get off, and get off now. I want to scold her for it, point out her desire and embarrass her with it, but I’m not sure how she’ll respond to that. Considering how she thinks of herself as such a super-sub, she really hasn’t laid out what it is that she likes and dislikes, so I’ve had to come across it during our scenes, which is a lot less fun for me. I wish she could be clearer about it. Wish she could just tell me outright. We’ve played enough, it should be easier now to be clear with me, but she’s still evasive, acts shy and giggly when we start talking about sex, as if she is so innocent and can’t possibly know what it is that she likes. It is such an act, and I hate it.

Maybe it’s rude of me to keep playing with her when it’s so clear that I’m not into her. I don’t mean it as a pity-fuck, I really don’t. I want it to work. She’s so fucking sexy. Her body … her body. And I haven’t been with a woman in a long time, a very long time really. I’ve been meeting with my mentor X for the past six years and before that, well, let’s just say I didn’t have any luck. It’s just that, now, after all the work with X over the years, I know what I’m looking for. Call it a character flaw, if you wish, but I generally think that I deserve to get what it is that I want, and I’m not really afraid to make some waves while I’m trying to get it.

Still, I mean Tally no disrespect. I do genuinely have fun playing with her—or, I usually have, up until tonight. For some reason, I just don’t have the patience tonight. I just don’t find her quirks as charming as I did before. Maybe some of the novelty of a willing, gorgeous woman has worn off, and I’m remembering all of those things that make my dick hard and my mouth water, all of those traits of obedience and discipline, assistance and service. I crave someone with devotion, with willingness, who will strive along side me as I figure out what’s next. And not just someone—a woman, an incredible woman, someone open and good and giving and game and I just don’t know where to find her.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queer women" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert.

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