A Poem About Worship & Worth

I need your worship, boy —
come home and put yourself
under the sole of my boot.
Flatten yourself beneath me. If
I toe you off the floor,
only then is that your signal
to rise. I need your spit,
boy. Down your chin soaking
the split of my jeans. Open.
The soft of your lip kissing here
and here, I need that, too.
You see,

I forget my worth. I forget
how much I can control the rise
of the sun. The rise of the walls
between us. I forget how much
I can evoke the me that will
be able to solve this problem.
The me that likes to puzzle and
forgive. I forget what it is not
to have what I have, and the ache
that never goes away, even after
the finest meals, the lushest wine,
the perfect starshine redwood
grove. Thank you

for reminding me with your eyes.
with your tongue. With your open
holes. Thank you for every time
you beg, though I can’t say it to you
then — I can only tell you to beg
harder. You deserve your atonement,
your devout surrender, who am I
to tell you otherwise. Who am I to
change so unapologetically into
someone I might actually love to
spend the rest of my life with.
But who am I not to? And who
am I, really, to stand in the way
of your worship?

Back Seat Brat, Guest Post by Jack Stratton

All characters in this story are over 18 and consenting adults.

The first time I met Lola was in the backseat of my cousin Tommy’s black boat of a Lincoln Town Car. She was one of his friends. Tommy had a crazy crew of friends — hippies, stoners, punks, and musicians.

Tommy let me hang with him during the summer break before my senior year of college. As I sat in the back, he pulled up to a bar and a few of his friends jumped in. Lola opened the door I was sitting next to and climbed right over me to sit in the center of the back seat. She was this little firecracker. Around my age. Short, feisty, jet black hair with bangs, and lips that were always bright red. She dressed all rockabilly, like some modern take on one of the girls in Grease.

We drove around for a while. Visiting Tommy’s haunts. Picking up beer. She didn’t say anything, she just watched me. At around eight, we pulled up to a burger joint and she looked at me expectedly after tap tap tapping on her phone.

“My Daddy’s not here, so you have to pay for my fries,” she said plainly, looking bitchy and bratty at the same time.

“Is that so?” I laughed.

She didn’t laugh or even smile. She moved closer, sitting right on my hand, pressing her big ass down on it.

“Yeah it is. You have to or you can’t sit next to me,” she said threateningly. There was no irony there. It was a stupid juvenile thing, but it worked. She leaned back and stretched, pushing out her chest. I reached for my wallet.

Tommy left us alone in the car and went to talk to some friends inside. After eating her fries and most of mine, she chewed on her straw while she looked at me inscrutably. She unbuttoned the first few buttons of her navy blue dress, to expose a pink bra. I was hypnotized by her. She slowly traced the top of her bra with her finger, pulling it down a little, almost giving me a glimpse of more, all the time watching me.

“I think you like me,” she said with a self satisfied grin.

I laughed nervously.

“I bet you’d rob a bank for a taste of my pussy,” she purred.

I swallowed.

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up and read something, smiled, and then furiously typed a response. Then just like that, I was forgotten. She leaned over me, her hands pressing painfully into my shoulder and chest, rolling down the window next to me and sticking her head out.

“Tommy, we gotta pick up Frank!” she screamed.

With that, Tommy came back to the car and we headed for the bus station.

I saw him waiting there, leaning against a wall. Her “Daddy.” He wore a leather jacket, a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. When we stopped he walked slowly to the car. He slid in the other side of the back seat, sandwiching Lola between us.

He was a little older than me. He had a chiseled jaw with some stubble. His hair was parted perfectly and slick with grease.

His hand went possessively to Lola’s knee. She turned and hugged him tightly.

“Hi Daddy,” she said almost breathlessly. Then she kissed him. I wondered if I should go sit up front, but we started driving. Lola and Frank whispered to each other. As they did, she became sweet and childish. Not the brat I had come to know, but some reflection of it. A brat who was put in her place.

“Him? The pretty boy?” I heard him ask her with a laugh as they both glanced at me. She cupped her hand to his ear and whispered more, with her eyes on me.

“Rob a bank, huh? I bet he would too,” he said with a chuckle. I blushed deeper, knowing what they were saying about me.

We drove to a pool hall at the edge of town and Tommy got out and went in. I got out too and took a few deep breaths of the night air. I heard Lola and Frank get out. I didn’t want to face them, but I couldn’t ignore them when I heard them whistle for me, as much as I tried. I turned to see them walking into the alley behind the pool hall. Lola was motioning for me to follow.

In the shadows of the alley I saw them making out. They stopped as I approached and looked at me expectantly. I walked to them, unsure of what else to do.

Frank grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me against the wall. “You been taking care of my girl while I was gone?” he asked, though he didn’t sound mad. “I’ll tell you what, kiddo, you want to play with her, you have to play with me a little first,” he said with bravado.

I looked around and laughed a little. He was joking, right?

He pushed me up against the wall again, the cold bricks against my back. His face was suddenly close to mine. “Come on, pretty boy, you said you’d do anything. She told me,” he growled into my ear. He smelled like aftershave and whiskey and cigarettes.

She was behind him, arms around him, lips near his ear, eyes on me. “Hit him, Daddy,” she begged and then bit her fat bottom lip.

He smiled at me, reached up and took my chin in his hand. It seemed like he was thinking about it, but then he turned away from me and grabbed her.

“What did we talk about, Lo? Good girls don’t make demands. What did we say?” he said, clearing his throat and walking towards her as she backed up and fidgeted with her dress.

“I’m not supposed to be a bossy little brat,” she said, looking down and fuming.

He grabbed her by the hair and spun her around. He flipped up her dress and smacked her ass. My eyes were glued to them.

He pulled up her dress a little more, exposing white panties with little hearts on them. He spanked her again, hard, and she let out a little yelp. A red mark the shape of his hand appeared immediately.

I followed his fingers on her skin, watching as he traced the mark he left, then the edge of her panties, slowly slipping just the tip of his finger under the thin material.

When his long fingers got to the crotch of her panties she arched her back and stuck her ass out as high as she could, standing on her on her toes. His fingers slipped between her thick thighs and I heard her let out a low whimper. I may have let out a similar sound.

I could see it, just barely. He pushed the fabric to the side just enough that a delicious little bit of pink was exposed and my heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“Well, kiddo, time to rob that bank,” he said, turning to with daring in his eyes. He slipped his finger across his bottom lip. I felt a scared little puppy whimper emanate from my chest.

My brain didn’t seem to command it, but somehow my body was moving forward.

He was tall. I felt small and clumsy next to him. He leaned down, then all I felt was stubble across my lips. It was embarrassing how much I wanted all of it, her taste, his mouth. He kissed me and I got light headed. My hand went up to his firm chest. I sucked his bottom lip and I could swear I tasted heaven.

He chuckled again as he let go of me and he reached up and grabbed my chin. He slipped one finger into my mouth and I sucked it greedily. His thick fingers pushed deeper into my mouth, two, then three.

“Look how much he take. Look at what a good boy he is, Daddy,” she whispered to him, right in my ear.

“What do you say, kiddo? You want to be my good boy?” he said, rubbing his hand through my hair.

“Come on pretty boy, don’t you want to suck my cock? Just think how much Lola would like to watch you. She’d probably do anything to see it,” he said pulling me closer by my hair.

I fought his grip a little, trying to pull away, but his hand tightened around the back of my neck. Did I want to suck it? It was complicated. It made me want to run out of the alley, but somehow I was sinking to my knees.

Lola was there with me, sounding excited. Then she was kissing my neck again. “Do it for me,” she whispered into my ear. “If you do it good, I can be your little girl tonight, too,” she promised

“Okay,” I choked out through a dry throat.

She rocked with glee and tugged at his belt. “You’ll be great, I’ll show you what to do. Maybe, you know, you can call him daddy too, if you want,” she said, and flashed a huge bright smile.

The smile of a spoiled brat that was getting exactly what she wanted.

100 Bedtime Strokes (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #2)

“May I sit?” morgan’s voice surprised Elise; she hadn’t seen him approach. She looked up from her book and blinked, then composed her face and her answer at once.

“Are your chores complete?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Tell me.” This was their ritual every night, the way they loved to come back together. Elise’s eyes sparkle as she fights the urge to reach out and grab him, pull him into her lap. Rituals are important, she reminds herself. Not only to display her authority, though yes that too, but also to reminder her of all that he does, the many ways he is devoted. She stays more present in gratitude and strives more successfully to be worthy when she pays attention to their rituals.

He begins the list. “Your tea service is complete; the dishes are done and put away; your clothes and jewels are put away, and tomorrow’s are laid out for you. Sir Elvis Purrmeister has been fed.”

Elise feels a smile pull on the corners of her mouth, starts to suppress it, and lets it come. Her cat’s name is just Elvis, but morgan has taken to adding the honorific and surname, and Elise is too amused to have him change it. It is clear who is above whom in the hierarchy, anyway, so the proper respect is just one more thing to admire about morgan.

“Tomorrow’s schedules, both yours and mine, are next to the bed and the morning alarms are set. The bed is turned down. And, I have picked tonight’s implement, it is in the usual place on the nightstand,” morgan doesn’t look smug or tired, just pleased to be useful and grateful to be serving.

Elise sighs a little, with relief and relaxation, with the pleasure of being taken care of precisely as she likes it. “Good job, boy; you may sit.” She pats the side of her elegant thick leather reading chair and he takes his seat at her feet, leaning against her bare legs and cuddling into her with happy sighs, the tension from the day leaving his shoulders.

She takes another sip of her tea and goes back to her book—one of those classic English novels that she likes. This one is Pride and Prejudice, a favorite she re-reads once a year or so. This is the second time morgan has seen it in her hands.

Most nights, this is how it goes. Sometimes morgan has a book, or something to study, or some lines to write for training or task. Usually, Elise has a novel, something that feels indulgent but keeps her mind steady and her heart thrumming. She likes to be as far into the adult-land in the evenings as possible—spending all day with pre-schoolers and kindergarteners for her job is exhausting, and can take such a toll.

She fingers the hair on the back of his head absently, as if fingering a blanket on the chair or her own sweater. His presence is comforting, reassuring. The warm mint tea and honey soothes her and flows golden down her tongue. Everything is just right.

After a few more chapters, when Lydia elopes with Mr. Wickham, Elise closes the book with a small snap and stands. morgan blinks and quickly rises to his ready position—hands behind his back, eyes down—he does not stay seated when she is standing. She pulls him close, nuzzles her cheek against his forehead, and he wraps his arms around her waist. How well they fit together, their bodies’ contours so complimentary. She holds him there for a moment until she says, “Okay; bedtime, boy,” and they separate. She turns to the hall to go into the bathroom for some of her evening self-care, and he goes to the bedroom to strip. She takes her time—brushing and braiding her hair, applying cleansers and creams to her skin, brushing her teeth. He waits. The waiting is like meditation, but cleaner for him, as it is totally beyond his control and thus much easier for him to let go. (This is the kinds of things he tells his Mistress in his journal, which she reads weekly.)

He has picked out the thick wooden paddle, taller than her hand’s widest spread. One side is soft suede, the other is hard wood. The handle is wrapped so her hand is protected.

This paddle makes beautiful, deep bruises.

When she enters, he has taken off his tee shirt and boy short-shorts, the ones that almost show the bottoms of the cheeks of his ass. He’s down to a jock strap, the white one, on his knees, hands behind his back in his submissive meditation position next to the bed. He knows to wait there until he is released by her. He breathes in the smell of her evening lotions, now so familiar to him and so related to their evening beatings that he flinches when the sweet tangy scent reaches his nose, and his mouth salivates. He is a trained pet. She can see his arousal in the flushing of his nearly naked skin, the slight hardening of his nipples. She is nearly bare now, too, down to one thin cream-colored slip with nothing beneath it. Her feet are bare. She keeps her bedroom warm.

“Here.” She points to the bed. She is not cruel, not really—just direct, specific. She eliminates superfluousness. She does not believe in coddling in D/s; she believes in trust, agency, consent. She believes morgan’s deep desire to serve and to please, and she is grateful, yes, but she also feeds off of it. She consumes it like cotton candy, leaving her mouth pink around the edges and her fingers sticky. She needs it, just as he does. Her clipped tone is only for simplicity, and for intimacy, as she trust him not to need hand-holding. Not anymore.

Mistress Elise Winter is deft with a paddle. It was always one of her favorites when she was domming professionally, delivering such a satisfying smack and leaving such good bruises. Plus, it can be a key prop in any age-play scene: just a few words and it is suddenly a cutting board the bottom’s mom grabbed from the kitchen, or a sorority girl who stole a fraternity paddle or a headmistress’s prized discipline tool. Even more than obedience, Elise likes her subs small and little, with feigned (preferably not real) innocence. Something about the corruption just works with the way she is wired.

She whispers in her boy’s ear before she begins—something soothing, something that makes him relax, arch his ass in the air a little higher, and lean in to her just a fraction of an inch more. She rubs herself against his ass and thighs, her hand stroking the fine muscles of his back. When he whimpers a little, she knows he is ready. 

Starting with her hands, she warms up his ass and thighs and upper back. He is chest-down, his face kissed by her burgundy 1000-count sheets, his feet just touching the floor of her raised bed. When she moves from the quick light swats to the deeper fist-thuds, he asks her if it is time. 

“Yes; go ahead and start,” she replies. 

He begins counting aloud. She’ll do twenty or thirty more with her hands beofre bringing in the paddle to finish the hundred strokes. 

They don’t say much. It’s just one of those quiet nights. Elise tries to let her job fall away, the stresses of her vaninlla life out of sync with her kinky self, the projects for the non-profit board she sits on, the pressure of her mother’s struggling health battle with emphysema. Nothing precisely fills Elise’s mind, but she finds her inner world quite full when she quiets and focuses. The relief of a target, a victim, is almost enough to make her start crying, the release feels so huge, like a dam beginning to leak and ready to smash apart with the weight of what is held back. 

morgan is counting. “32 … 33 … 34.” He is diligent, and taking it for her. He is deconstructing and reassembling in front of her eyes in that way that power and sensation can inspire. She slides the paddle into her grip and opens a rain of blows on his tender flesh, already pink and warm to the touch. His breathing gets heavier and his voice gets more strained. She doesn’t care; they are only just barely to 50. She winds up like a baseball batter and swings. He screams into the sheets. Drops of sweat form and trickle at his neck, at the small of his back. His ass is a round handful and she takes her grip as it pleases her, kneading like dough. She leans down to bite his ass. He yells out, “Mistress, please, oh god, please, it hurts!” He squirms away, but her hands hold his hips. She leaves a dark ring mark from her teeth; that one will bruise up nicely.

She licks her lips, and swats with the paddle again.

“This is for me, not you,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I need it, I don’t know why I need it, but I need it, need your ass like this, need my marks on you, need your ache to show in your face tomorrow when you sit down.”

“68 … 69 … 70.” He is panting between the numbers. She is taking her time, savoring each one. His ass is already purple—he won’t be able to sit. She focuses on his thighs. He is trying so hard not to squirm. She slips a finger between his ass cheeks to check on his hole: it flexes against her finger pad like a kiss, open and eager. “Hungry boy,” she murmurs, swatting again with her right hand. He whimpers, pushing back against her just a little, not wanting to be too eager or demanding, but showing he wants it.

His knees are getting weak. The bed holds him up. Elise strokes his hair and he turns so one cheek is on the bed and he can see her, just a little. Her thick braid is flying behind her like the tail of a kite, her hands moving quickly, opening his tight back hole as the paddle slams in to him. He tries with all his concentration to keep count. He misses a few, but she lets it go; he is doing so well. “So good, boy,” she coos. “You’re so good.”

He’s in the nineties now and they are both climbing. Her two fingers have dipped into the Boy Butter on the nightstand and opens his hole just enough to feel the pressure distracting him from the wicked paddle. She might let him get off. Will she? She can’t decide. She likes it when he does.

“98 … 99 … 100,” morgan is whimpering each number, tears down his beautiful cheeks, body shuddering in waves of release. Elise steps back and breathes, separates herself from him for a moment so they can both catch their breath. Her wrists throb, shoulders buzz with aliveness. A few hairs have strayed and she tucks them back into her braid.

“Morgan,” she says softly. “Get on the bed and turn over.”

He does, slowly, testing out how his muscles have been changed, wincing at the rawness. She slides her slip up her thighs and kneels on the bed, swinging her leg over him and sliding up his body.

“Oh god,” he says, muffled, before she has even lowered her cunt onto his mouth to feed it to him. Hers is a hungry mouth, too, swollen and wet, dripping. She never lets him enter her, but she uses his mouth when she wants. His stamina is impressive.

She lifts her slip just enough to it is out of the way, not restricting the openness of her thighs. Its hem kisses his forehead. He laps with his tongue, sucks with his lips and throat. Her clit is huge and bursting with need, angry and red like the palms of her hands, like his ass. She needs it, this release, maybe even more than he does—though how can they compare? But her want is monstrous, never-ending. She almost feels like herself again. She rocks her hips over his mouth and steadies herself on the headboard, arms outstretched. She barely remembers there is a person under her right now, she just grinds down and against this beautiful boy, this toy who always does it just right, just right there.

“Come when I do,” she orders, low and fast, not giving much warning—but he won’t need it. He’s been ready to come since she fingered his ass. And he knows what she sounds like, what it means when she starts clawing at his hair and suffocating him with her hole.

“Fuck, that’s it, there, god oh god oh GOD!” Elise is sitting on a volcano and erupts through her mouth with words and grunts and screams when she comes, heavy, filling his mouth with liquid, pushing it into his throat. He opens wide and takes it, shuddering under her and swallowing.

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” he repeats, breathless, still only breathing small sips of air. She moves off of him and collapses onto the pillows, he curls up in her arms.

“Stay in my bed tonight,” she says, stroking his hair.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he sighs, happy, pulling the covers up over them both as they drift off to sleep.