A Moaning Mess of a Girl, Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

I wake with a start, reaching for my phone. 5:35am. Shit, which way is it again? Could be either 2:35 or 8:35 where you’re at. This should be quick and easy math in my head but I keep going back and forth between adding the threes for you and subtracting them for me. Both of these options seem like impossible times in my hazy, dream-laden mind. Subtract the three. Yes, it’s definitely subtraction on my end. But it doesn’t matter. Both of these preposterous times mean that you’re probably asleep…and I unquestionably ought to be as well. I roll over and barely have a minute of self-indulgent pouting before I realize something is vibrating in my hand.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

I blush, curling into a tiny ball, beaming into the phone. Your voice is cracked, raspy with slumber heavy on your tongue, honey to my ears. My lugubrious lips quickly arc upwards, forming the sweetest smile.

“Good morning, handsome.”

“Do something for me.” You politely await my reply even though this favorite line of yours has long since ceased being a question. Really, more of a call and response because my answer is always the same:

“Anything.”

“Roll over. Touch yourself for me. Be a good girl for Daddy.”

I can tell from the tone in your voice how hard you are already. The desire drips from each slow syllable. And these few simple words have an immediate, palpable effect on my body. My clit began to throb before you completed that first sentence. My pussy quivers, glistening so soon. I can barely form words when you talk to me like that. You know how to make me so fucking shy. Delighting in it. Add to that my mounting orgasm and I’m a non-verbal, moaning mess of a girl. Lucky for me, you’re perfectly content to hear nothing but those inarticulate melodies as I come for you, writhing in between my crimson sheets. And then again.

My butch Daddy, your unique flavor of female masculinity and dominance was set to high heat the moment you laid eyes on me, stirred to a quick boil that first night we spent in your precariously lofted bed, bubbling up and spilling all over my body every day since. I feel blessed to witness you coming into your own so thoroughly, to get to experience it firsthand. Mmmm…your hands. How I long for them. So rough and strong, you never knew to have pride in them until I purred under your touch as you stroked them down my exposed back, cupping my ass. I cooed my craving into the curve of your neck, letting you know just how much the ascendancy of those hands turn me on. My femme instinct smelled the butch all over you long before you ever used the word to describe yourself. I sensed it burning inside of you, eagerly awaiting a femme like me to show you just how desirable female masculinity can be. To express how it’s one of the many parts of you I honor and cherish. To prove to you that I just can’t get enough. And even with all the distance between us now, we don’t let that get in our way. We simply search out other methods to stay connected.

Email, Facetime, mobile-to-mobile, texting (sexting), voicemail. Damn, you’ve got me going against everything I believe in. I detest technology. In all of its many, varied forms. Yet here I find myself. Sleeping with my phone turned on in case you call, sending endless fantasies on the tiniest keyboard until my thumbs cramp up, last night you even put me to bed over the computer. I normally resist sleeping in the same room with anything electronic, let alone something connected to wifi. But I’ll admit that the sound of your voice singing me to sleep and that of your shallow breathing when I awoke in the middle of the night was so sweetly comforting. And such a turn on. Instead of waking you though I let you sleep.

This time. Next time you’re going to be roused with quite the little show. I decide to pour all my mid-night lust into mid-day distractions that’ll make your hours at work fly by faster.

2:57pm. Subtract the three. Noon is just as good a time as any to get this started. Text is my weapon of choice today.

I lick my lips. Slowly. You groan, fighting hard against your instinctual impulses. My mouth is watering, Daddy. May I please give you a little kiss?

The minutes crawl by too slowly as I impatiently check my phone for the hundredth time. I want to keep going but I can’t. Not without your express permission. So I squirm around in my bed, jilling off lazily, feeling more and more desperate for your response. Proud of myself for only sending one frantic pleading message in the meantime as I wait out each of those torturous, interminable forty-seven minutes before you reply.

Lick your lips again and kiss Daddy.

I nearly come when you send me such lascivious demands. But I can’t be distracted now. My aim is to distract you.

 I bend forward and gradually lower my mouth. My pretty little mouth that you so love inching closer and closer to your hard-on, the tip of my tongue gliding across my upper lip. Looking up at you with big brown eyes, I pucker my lips and kiss the head of your cock. An electric volt of desire starts there, shooting straight through you, making your whole body jump.

The current running through your body is so intense that you don’t even notice until it’s too late that I’ve gone and gotten greedy, wrapping my hand around the base of your cock and going in for another kiss. Sans permission. Bad girl. It’s not until your feel the warmth of my lips opening a little wider this time that you realize. You feel the pressure of my tongue ease across the tip of your cock. Very bad girl. So you grab me by the back of my hair with such force that I cry out.

You drag me up and throw me down on the bed. Your patience was bound to break and I pushed you over the edge sooner than you’d have liked. So now I’m gonna get it. Fear and desire shine in my eyes, a lustful tempest in yours, as you shove my legs apart. You hear the lace of my panties ripping as you tear them to the side, not giving a fuck what you tear. You drive your cock into me, taking me rougher than ever before. Taking it all in one single thrust. Taking what’s yours.

I look down at my phone, grinning and gratified at having ruined you for the rest of your day.

*       *       *

I can feel my phone trill in my pocket but I’m in the middle of a story, surrounded by my family. Receiving anything from you while I’m around them makes me nervous. So I wait until an opportune moment presents itself to make my way to the bathroom. Closing the door while fumbling with the touch screen, I see the little red circle above “Mail” has increased in number many times over. Most of them are photos – which I love, don’t get me wrong, my eyes drinking in every pixel of you, the beauty you’ve encountered in your journeyings – but it’s your words that do me in:

I look into your eyes, your wanting eyes, and return the gaze with mine. Bending you over slowly, you grip your ankles for support as I take my cock in hand and place it between your legs. But I don’t go inside you, I don’t touch anything, actually. I hold it there beneath your pussy and wait, like waiting for raindrops. Opening your pussy with my right hand, I exhale with satisfaction. It is as I hoped. You are wet enough for this. Your wet is all over my cock now, dripping onto it as I hold it at your hole. It’s running up to your clit, it wants to make its way to your inner thighs. This. This is what I wanted. I pull away from you and run my hand all over your juices. All over me. I can feel it all over me.

These words go straight to my cunt and now I’m unbuttoning my jeans one-handedly, struggling to get to my clit fast enough. Fuck, I’m so fucking wet. Just like in your fantasy. Rereading it two and a half more times before I’m coming hard and fast, I wash my hands and rejoin my sisters, hoping they won’t smell how much I need you.

God, my jaw is aching. You make me too happy. The muscles in my cheeks are out of practice. It seems like my head is constantly thrown back these days – either in a fit of laughter or of passion. I suppose the jaw-ache could also be all the blow jobs I’ve been giving you. Still I can’t stop myself. I glance at the hands on the wall. Quarter to four. You’re off at 3:00pm today. Add the three. That gives me plenty of time to get myself going and leave you a voicemail.    

Before dialing yours, I call mine and search out my very favorite message. I want to be so close when I call so that nerves don’t take over and I’m actually able to orgasm. I know you’ll hear the difference if I don’t. Hitting the four, I replay your words once more. “That’s my good girl. Oh, I’m so close. Fuck. You get me so hard. I’m gonna take my cock out and come all over your pussy. Ohhh, I’m coming for you. Fuck. So fucking hard. All over you. Reach down and put that cum in your pussy now. Do it for me. Do it for me, babygirl. Shove it in with your fingers. Now rub it up all over your clit. You like that? I want my cum all over you.”

Despite being quite the filthy girl, I had never imagined myself getting off to such a thought. And you never dared dream a dyke would find your secret fantasies so arousing. Yet here we are. Reveling in every last drop. And you know my screams are genuine when you skip out of work early to take a listen. Leaving you throbbing the rest of the day.

I wake with a moan, clutching at the covers. You know I’m yours, all of me, so you’re allowed to take whatever you want, whenever you want it. And so you do. 4:44am. Subtract the three. You must be just getting home from your gig. Horny. We both sleep weird and few hours. Fewer and fewer since we first met. The unpredictable hours kept by a musician and a writer. Between band practice, random deadlines, my insomnia on top of yours, we’re lucky if either of us gets more than a few hours’ sleep at any given time. Still you can’t help yourself. Or rather, you do. You help yourself quite generously. There may be 2,818 miles between us, but I still know when you’re jacking off to me. You take me in my dreams, I awake with the sheets soaking wet.

I wake with a start, reaching for my laptop. 5:51am. I don’t bother with the math – it’s not you I need to write this time, it’s a story that needs to surface. Fuck, it’s been too long since I woke with a story itching at my fingertips. And this one is all you. You and me. Us. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I need to give it a voice. One of my favorite love stories of all time. One that’s so brimming with lust it pours out all around us. Unlike so many of my fantasy-filled favorites that exist only between the covers, this one is real. So painfully and beautifully real. Plagued with writer’s block for frustratingly drawn-out months, you came along and broke the spell.

Thank you, my muse, my butch, my Daddy. I whisper a blessing of gratitude to whomever is listening. Hoping you hear me as well. Knowing you’re feeling me. Because I’m feeling you.

How I Became A Daddy

I came to be a Daddy in a dominance/submissive context somewhat reluctantly. For years, I’d heard about this kind of play in kinky relationships — particularly among my gay male friends. I felt a certain charge about it whenever it came up in conversation, but my charge mostly felt very negative: Why would people play with that? How was it sexy? Wasn’t it glorifying incest? How was it not about child abuse, on some level?

I remember very clearly the first direct conversations about it, which was about fifteen years ago now: my friend Greg was giving me a ride home, and somehow it came up in conversation. He was (probably still is) notoriously slutty, and always chatty about his sexcapades and adventures. In my memory, he’s the one who brought it up, but it could’ve been me — I’ve often been the one to eagerly stick my foot in my mouth around kink, asking all kinds of personal questions no matter how appropriate. But I like hanging out with other folks who like to talk about kink, and generally, they answer my questions.

“What is up with all this daddy stuff!?” I asked him. “I mean, how is it not about incest?”

Greg, level-headed and at least fifteen years older than me, answers slowly: “Well … it kind of is about incest. But it’s also about having an older male figure, in the gay boy communities. About having a positive male role model, and how so many of us lacked that as young boys, and how we still crave it.”

I sat with that answer for a good eight years, devouring all the lesbian erotica I could find, my favorites of which had daddy/girl overtones. Why do I like this so much? I’d ask myself. This isn’t something I want, it’s just something I like to read about, for whatever reason. My dirty little secret, the erotica I would never tell other people that I like. It’s wrong, I can’t justify it. But still … I must like it, I keep coming back to it.

For a while, a close friend of mine was a femme girl looking for a butch daddy. I remember those conversations with her clearly, too — and I was still pushing, asking poking questions. It seems obvious now that I was deeply drawn to the dynamic and couldn’t look away, but that I was also trying to work it out for myself.

“But what is it about the daddy/girl dynamic that makes it, you know, not incest?” I’d ask her incessantly.

“It’s just different,” she’d answer, somewhat vaguely. “It’s not about that, for me. It’s about power, and strength, and feeling taken care of, and submissive.”

That language, at least, I could grok. She’s the one who insisted I read Carol Queen’s book The Leather Daddy and the Femme, and that helped me get it even more.

Then, a conversation with a femme who identified as a babygirl I had a few brief dates with helped cement it for me. “Think of it as two different definitions,” she told me. “Like the word baby. We don’t mean literally ‘you’re a baby’ when we call our lovers ‘baby.’ But we invoke the sweet tenderness that word implies. Same with daddy. We don’t mean definition one: the man whose sperm helped conceive you, we mean definition 2: a masculine person who nurtures and cares for you, usually in the leather communities, where sex may or may not be part of the exchange.”

As a word person, it helped to parse the two definitions apart. It helped to start conceiving of this whole separate definition of what a “daddy” is, and how that relationship dynamic worked.

That babygirl femme and I didn’t date long, but our conversations around those concepts were a big turning point for me. I knew I wanted to explore them more. I finally thought, oh, I think I like that, that’s why I’ve been so drawn to slash repulsed by it all this time. Amazing how repulsion and desire can sometimes be two sides of the same coin.

So when Sarah and I got together, shared a lot of our fantasies with each other, and started to explore the realms of kink that we’d always wanted to or hadn’t yet, being a daddy came up for me early on.

“I know it’s something that I want,” I told her. I was dating other people when we got together, and I told her I was interested in exploring polyamory. “I’m not saying that it’s something we have to do together. But I am saying that it’s something I want to figure out if I like, and how I like it. I know it’s something I want in my erotic toolbox, so to speak. If that’s not something you feel willing to play with me, that’s totally okay, but I might want to do it on my own elsewhere.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum, but I did think that it might end up being a dealbreaker.

“I just don’t get it. I mean why would I want to invoke my dad during sex?!” she said.

“It’s not about that. It’s only about you and me. And, in my opinion, we already have the kind of sex and play that I’m talking about. I nurture you, I call you baby and girl and sometimes little girl. You like all that stuff.”

“Yeah. I really do,” her eyelashes fluttered. “Really a lot.”

I grinned. “Honestly I think the only difference between what we do now and what I’m asking for is that one word: daddy.”

She looked pensive. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

The next time it came up, in a different discussion about kinks and explorations, and I mentioned again that I was interested in exploring it, she said, “I’ve been thinking about that. And I think I might just … say it, during sex, sometime.”

I had thought it was never going to happen with her. She’d been pretty clear about her disinterest.

She looked at me sideways, slyly. “We’ll see.”

It was a tease, but it totally worked.

A few weeks later, she did it: just casually let it slip from her mouth into my ear while she had her arms and legs wrapped around me, fucking her slow. It tipped me over the edge and I shuddered inside her, grabbing at her hair, toes curling, coming hard.

After catching my breath, she giggled. “I guess we know what you like!”

It was almost embarrassing, so vulnerable to be known and seen like that. To be splayed wide open, even in front of someone I trusted most in the world. But her eyes were warm and I could see that she liked it, too, and that we were in this together.

A Little Note About Father’s Day

@imsleather boys.

My dad died a little more than two years ago, suddenly, of a heart attack. He was 60, and not in perfect health, but I was under the impression it was improving.

It was a serious shock. My world was turned upside down. I have lost people before, breakups, deaths, sudden shocks—but I’ve never experienced anything like this before. My world unraveled, my sanity unraveled. Grief has been a fascinating process. I have been writing constantly about it, though I’ve only been publishing about 10% of it.

It has changed everything, to lose my dad (and then my partner), and I’m still getting back on my feet.

This is the third father’s day without him. It’s different—being a Daddy in the leather-kink way to this boy whose adoration and devotion I strive every day to deserve, and to whom I offer my adoration and devotion too—it means I think about Father’s Day in a dirty intimate way that is completely different from my own relationship. And yet, when the words are the same, how different are they really? But they are. And they’re related. Maybe they come from the same wound, somehow, or from the same deep need, from the same crevasse filled with diamonds that can slowly be excavated with the right tools. I’m just poeting here, I don’t really know.

As someone who always had a decent if somewhat complicated relationship with my family-of-origin genetically-related dad, Father’s Day was only a moment to call him, say hey, talk about the latest TV sitcom or how his business was going. But now that I’ve got this other relationship to the day, I am feeling into all of you out there who are fatherless kids, who are unfathered or under-fathered, who are fathers or daddies or papas or poppys yourselves, who have that masculine paternalism to whomever or from whomever in your life. It’s more complicated than the Father’s Day of my first 32 years would have told me. I

I was hoping to write up a gift guide for butch daddy presents, but honestly, my feelings are in the way of any masculine accessory thing. You can always check out Butch Basix for inspiration, and search for belt buckles, cuff links, cigar holders, dopp kits, collar stays, or ties at Etsy, and I bet you’ll come up with a thing or two.

Pro Etsy tip: if your butch daddy has some particular love of birds or Texas or motorcycles, put in “cufflinks+motorcycles” or “birds+belt buckles” and get something really rad. If all else fails, add “customize” to any of those and get something with their initials.

I’m actually in Phoenix this weekend, at a leather boy retreat, so I’m curious to see what will come up around Father’s Day for me in the next few days. I’ll be over here, writing. I hope your brunch is epic and your love is radiant.

Here’s a couple things to read for your Father’s Day weekend:

PS: I love you, boy.