Let It All Go, Boy: Part Two, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Content: mommy/boy role play, sex. All characters are consenting adults. Read Part One here.

**

Mommy:

I pull away. Stand up, looking down at you.

“You need to stop. Now!”

You look stricken. Poor boy. Still dazed, struggling with your lust. You are embarrassed. And sorry. I can see it in your eyes. I soften my tone.

“Don’t worry, little one. I’m not angry. You’re not in trouble. I just need you to understand. Privilege like that is earned. When I want you to touch me, I will invite you. I will direct you.”

I step closer, bending down and touching your cheek. “I know you didn’t mean anything wrong. You are a very good, very sexy boy.” You smile tentatively.

I sit with you, stroking your cheek and hair for a while, like you are my creature: petting you, lulling you. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper in your ear, I speak. “I know what you need, boy.” Your eyes get wide. I run my hand possessively over the length of your bared body. “And I’ll take what I want.”

When you breath out with a silent “oh”, I pull you to me and kiss your mouth with all of my hunger and desire exposed. Crush your lips with mine, use my teeth on you, press my mouth against you so you can’t turn away or catch your breath.

Then, using your short, disheveled hair, I roughly bend your head back, holding it there to stroke your throat with my nails, graze your jugular with my teeth. Then very gently, like a shadow touch, a hint, I wrap your neck with my hand, placing the slightest pressure on your throat.

Oh, sweet boy, how can I resist you? You don’t know how your pretty eyes make me ache, make my cunt drip, make my Femme-cock harden. Dear little boy, you make me ravenous, and I can’t help myself!

I release your wrists, shove you down. Run my hands firmly up your thighs. Over your torso and chest, your hard, small nipples brushing my flat palms.

Then down again. I want you open beneath me. Hungry now, I press your legs apart. I want you to give me your butch-virginity, again and again. All boy. All dyke. All stone melted, flowing. Searing hot lava pouring from my boy’s hungry cunt, slick and steaming on my hand, lubricating my entry as I slip my fingers into you, spreading you slowly wider until my folded hand slides into you, and I take possession. Mine. I have you.

For a moment, you panic and your body stiffens. I stop and hold my hand motionless inside you, swathed in your swollen, silky inner flesh. I allow a moment of stillness while your mind catches up with reality and sensation.

Then, beginning with minuscule movements, I start to gently pump you with my fist. Slowly, your tensed muscles melt. With each penetration and retreat, a slight twisting of my forearm eases the stroke. I’m moving languidly, gradually dipping my fist deeper into you, taking a little more, pushing further. Your legs are relaxed and unconsciously splayed, but your hips push up at me, thrusting almost imperceptibly. Your eyes are screwed shut, hands clenching the sheet at each side, like you’d fall through the bed if you let go. You are focused, tuned to the frequency of invasion and disconsonant sensation. Your lips are dry from panting and the guttural groans that accompany each thrust. You are opening beautifully, boy.

Now I move harder and quicken my stroke, fucking you rough and deep. Your moans are long, drawn out, filled with vibrato and pitching higher until you are wailing and keening. Your kegels are a tight band on my wrist and you unwittingly crush my fingers together inside you. Every part of you is tensed, straining. Thigh muscles, taut and shaking, hold your full cunt higher, seeking release.

I don’t let you come. No, not yet. I want to keep you straining for me, begging. So I pull out, amused by your surprise and taking a small thrill in the tears of frustration that wet your eyes.

“Silly, little boy. Did you forget?” I purr, “I own you tonight. You are my toy for the moment. You funny thing… to think I would let you get off so easily.”

I turn you over abruptly, press you face-down into the mattress. Move to your side and hold you down, my left forearm pressing the back of your neck and shoulders.

Don’t wriggle. Don’t cry. You did this to me. Your pretty-boy body, firm and yielding. Your pretty-boy face, flushed and bright. The tousled, sweaty hair. You must know how you provoke my desire. You, with your hopeful, wanting eyes. The mix of hunger and confusion and eagerness. Your surrender, peppered with fear and seasoned with arousal. This little boy is crying for Mama. Why should I resist?

I don’t.

I know you need it. But the first smack to your ass is unexpected. A shock. Yes! The electric snap of energy. The biting pain. I feel the sting on my hand when I strike you, and I watch your ass cheeks quiver and redden. It is a sharp surprise, and you yelp. I almost laugh out loud at such guilelessness. But I don’t want to bruise your pride along with your body.

“Time for a proper spanking, boy.”

I release your neck and teasingly rake my fingernails down your spine almost to your butt crack. Your ass reflexively tips up. Now that you know what I want, you steady yourself to accept it, lifting up onto hands and knees, ass completely available.

“Such a brave little lad,” I praise you. “What a fetching little boy you are, when you know your place.” I smack you soundly. Then again. And again, building a rhythm that makes us into a fluid machine, working together seamlessly toward some unnamed goal.

In a smooth, instinctive movement, I wrap my left arm around your lower back and drag you by your waist, unresisting, to me. Hold you close and tight across my lap where I’m kneeling on the bed, with your head resting face down on the mattress to my left. Your ass is perfectly positioned for me. With my dominant right hand, I whack your already hot and red-purple cheeks. Harder, now. You are doing so well, my little boy with tears in your eyes.

I ball my hand into a fist and punch the soft muscle of your bottom. I laugh lightly when you jump. “I need to bruise you, little one, so you can relive this moment when you examine yourself in the mirror tomorrow.”

Once, twice, three more times I punch your cheek. You give a little yelp with each blow. Then you groan, a husky sound filled with hurt and desire. I move to the other cheek, throw a smack like a whipcrack, then deliver three hard little punches in quick succession. You breathe in, sharply, and release it in a loud moan that breaks into a genuine sob.

Not much more tonight, then. This is too fragile, yet. It is too soon to push you further.

So when I strike you again, it is softer. And I leave my hand pressed motionless against your heated skin until your shuddering breath settles into a regular rhythm. Then I tenderly caress you with my fingertips, softly blowing cool air on your hurts. You relax into the gentle touch with a childlike sigh. I bend and very lightly kiss that hot skin. Another sigh. I pause, take a deep, quiet breath. Savor the moment before I move on you.

I almost denied you this proper finish. But I enjoy how you willingly suffer for me, and I believe you can take this last torment. So I grasp a pliable handful of your ass cheek and twist your hurting flesh, digging hard into the developing contusions, while you cry out in surprise and pain. I release my grip and then crush the flesh of your other bruised and burning cheek, driving my fingernails into you like teeth. I relish how you do your best to silence your cries, but I love the sounds of your pain when you can’t. Silence bores me.

I let go with a little shove, pushing you away before I go further, barely able to contain the ferocious hunger you inspire. You are on your belly, breathing hard, and I let you have a moment, while I gather myself and excruciatingly tamp my fire down to a less destructive flame. Then, I lay my hand flat against your back between your shoulder blades and help you steady, breathing with you. When your breath is even and calmed, you slightly tip up your butt, quietly offering it to me again.

“What a good boy,” I croon. “Hmmm … do you think you deserve more?”

I reach for the pump bottle full of J-lube sitting discreetly next to the table lamp, and I drizzle the slippery cool wetness over the crack of your ass, using my thumb to open you and get it up in there until your hole is as slick as your boy-cunt. I ignore the noises you are making as I slather lube over the length of my hard, black cock, stroking it like I can sense every touch. I feel the power of it, this extension of myself that you will accept as part of me. I pull your hips close to me and rest your dripping asshole against the head. I see you are shaking. Desire? Fear? Fatigue? There is a moment of holding back.

“Tell me you want this,” I demand in a low voice. “Be truthful. Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

No hesitation: “Yes! yes! Please!” You are flustered and so earnest. Heart-meltingly earnest. Your words tumble out like marbles falling all over each other.

“Yes! I want You… I mean this. I want this! I need to be Yours. Please, Ma’am? I mean… Mommy.
I want Your… uh… dick? I mean … Is that ok? I do, though. I want it. In me. Please? I mean … if you want me… Mommy? Do you?”

You take a deep breath. Then very softly, “Please fuck me, Mommy. I need… I need you to fuck me.”

So nervous, but so very genuine. You make me want to laugh and hug you and fuck you and hurt you and own you and take such good care of you. But mostly, I want to fuck you.

“Oh I want you, little boy,” I growl. “I want your Tight. Little. Hole.”

You suck in air. Mmmm… I love your hunger, love your need. Your trust and fear. It is all so… delightful and… delicious.

Then quietly, I answer your request, “Yes, you may have Mama’s cock. You have been very well behaved, very honest. And you deserve. To be fucked. By your Mommy.”

‘Your Mommy’. These are powerful words. I think you know that I don’t throw them around like they are anything but sacred. They are an invocation. A baptism. These words name you and claim you. I’m not Mommy to just any cute, horny, butch bottom. I can’t be Mommy for a scene and then walk away.

This is me, accepting responsibility for your body and heart, your want and need. And it is me letting down my guard and entrusting you with my dark and vulnerable self.

How is it that I know so soon … really know … that you are my boy. And I am your Mommy. It hasn’t been long enough. I never take on a D/s relationship like this so quickly, especially Mommy/boy. I don’t understand it, but I don’t have any question in my heart or mind that this is right. I feel a rush of almost painful joy, and I wonder if I’m going to spill tears on your back. I suddenly want to gather you up into my arms and whisper “My boy, My boy” into your ear over and over, kissing you and feeling you against me. But instead, I press gently against your tightness with the tip of the dildo that is also my dick. I need you. Like this. Now.

I take you slowly this first time, this exquisite first possession of your ass. I maintain an insistent, gentle pressure, moving very slightly in and out, nudging you open. I feel it when you release, the ripple of acceptance passing through your body. You sigh as I slide through and in. Filling you. All the way in. I stay there, sunk deep in you, your hot, sore flesh against my skin and the harness. Silence holds the moment. Then I begin to slowly stroke myself inside you. I watch my cock fucking in and out of you, see it stretch your distended hole, watch your tender skin hugging my shaft, moving with it. I listen to your groaning and the rhythmic, wet sound of slow fucking. God, I feel you. I feel myself inside you.

We are in our own small sphere of time and space. The room has faded, the apartment, dinner, personal ads… all faded into the outside world of everyday. Time stretches, somehow viscous. The air is denser, humid, hazy. In this moment we have our own microcosm of sensation, the synergistic dynamism of a perfectly crafted engine, a capsule universe webbing us with bright, breathless energy.

You moan: a low guttural howl. And I feel the fear finally, fully drain from you, weeping from you as if from a lanced wound. Your shoulders are shaking: silent sobs, (I keep slow-fucking you). You pull yourself together, groan and whimper, (I don’t stop). Then you grunt and push against me, wanting more, begging with your body for pleasure.

We begin moving together in a hard rhythm. Each thrust is a shared heartbeat, pumping the tide of heat flowing between us. I bend forward, take a gentle-firm grip on the back of your neck; you strain back toward me, like a bridled horse, unconsciously obeying my touch. I slip my hand up into your hair, combing through your soft, short curls, then grasp them in my fist, holding you, bending you back to me.

“Mine. I fuck you to make you Mine, boy,” I growl. And you give it to me. Your tears and sweat and your body fucking me back, insistent. Your asshole strained and accommodating, so willing.

I want to feel your body against me, so I bend forward, supported by my hands on either side of you. And you curl down and arch your back into me. My body envelops you, my breasts pressed to your skin. I shift my weight to my left arm. With my right hand, I reach around your pelvis to find your cunt hole dripping. I slip two fingers into you, thumb against your clit, and moan with the thrill of your heat, liquid fire lust. You pump against my hand, carnal animalistic grunts escaping your throat. But I can’t fuck you properly in this awkward position, and before long, I pull my fingers away, reach for your hand and guide it to your crotch.

“Be a good boy and make yourself come while I fuck your pretty ass.” My voice is husky and distant. You pant your tremorous reply. “Yes. Mommy.”

I kneel up, knees planted on the bed behind you, ready and eager to fuck you for my pleasure alone. My desire is blinding; I want the wild ride, driving you like a beast. But instead, I force myself to hold back, and I pace myself to you, listening to your body, matching your desire. Because… I want your come, boy. That is my pleasure tonight.

Your hand is busy. “Oh God! Oh yes!” you whisper, and say it again. “Yes. God, yes!” Chanting it in sync with each thrust I make. Your breath is quickening and the energy in the room pulses like a live thing. My mind dives deep into the blur of your pleasure and our synergy. I feel your orgasm gathering. “Oh my God! Yes!” You howl, “Yessss! Please!” Your muscles tighten, your ass tries to push me out. But I push back and give you just that much more until you convulse and shout, “Yours! I’m Yours!” and your body spasms and spasms again, and then again.

But you are still stroking yourself intently and still moaning: a long, drawn out, “Ohhhhhhh,” almost as if you are surprised by what you feel. Your moan pitches higher and suddenly all of your muscles clench, hard and juiced. You are frozen, tense and mute. Then the wave breaks; you wail and howl, riding the swell of pleasure I can see and feel pulsating through you. I press my cock deep in you, holding your hips and pulling you against my pubic bone, pulling your orgasm up against me. Your thighs are shaking. You cry so sexily, “Oh Mommy. Oh Mommy.” Over and over like a mantra.

And I cum from your cum. It always shocks me when I climax without physical stimulation. Not earth-shattering, but a surprising, gushing pleasure. My cunt contracts and throbs, and clear ejaculate sprays from me, drenching your ass, trickling hot down your thighs and mine. A lovely way to end things, you covered in my cum. Like an animal, marked and claimed. I hold myself stiff inside your ass and enjoy the bright moment. I deep inhale, tasting the sex in the air. Exhale and savor your exhaustion, satiation and post-come, starry-eyed pleasure. I am finished, so I pull out slowly, releasing your hips. You whimper just the tiniest bit and crumple to the soaked sheet below. I love what I can do to you, boy.

I lie down next to you and draw you very close, lifting a blanket over our bodies, murmuring softly, “Dear boy, sweet boy. My darling boy.” Kiss your head and face and stroke your shoulders until you drift into sleep nestled in my arms. Sleeping in your own wetness and mine. Sleeping like an angel. I live for this; these magical moments.

But, you don’t know.

You don’t know what goes on in my head.

Lying here with you sleeping in my tender embrace, I imagine all that I might do to you. There is a caged Tiger in me that hungers and wants release. My hunger is dangerous, darling boy. My hunger wants to violate you, tear you open, destroy your innocence.

Oh yes, Mommy wants her sweet boy to take it hard. Mommy wants to slip a hand over the boy’s mouth, keep you quiet while I use you. I’ll push my fingers into your mouth so you can suck for comfort while I force you. I’ll croon in your ear, “Be a good, quiet boy and I’ll give you what you really want. I’ll give you the fuck you need.”

I want to watch you try not to cry, try not to turn away or disobey, try so hard to offer yourself to me like a good boy. (I know you can do it. I know you can take it, boy. Make Mommy proud.) I’ll fuck you until you hurt. I’ll hurt you until you’re Mine. I’ll push up in there and give you the deepest drilling you’ve ever had. I’ll open you so wide. I’ll break you. Break you.

You know why I want to hurt you, don’t you, my boy? It’s because you are good. The sweeter you are, the more I want to beat you, cut you, choke you. You seduce me with your trust and naivete, and I can’t stop myself. I want your tears. I want to hear your suffering. The more you snuggle into my arms, the more I want to fuck your mind, blind-side you, turn you roughly over and ram into you, hurt you and take my pleasure in your pain and submission. You’re just a little boy, but I’ll use you for my fuck hole. My little rough-trade boy-bitch.

Someday, maybe soon, the Tiger will emerge, with claws and teeth, eager to devour you. Perhaps I will wrap your neck in my hands, choke you until I see your eyes roll back, until your lips are purple-blue and you start to go slack. Bring you back from the edge and do it again.

Perhaps, I will take a steel cane to you, bring up welts, maybe blood. Then fuck you from behind, wearing a spiked harness, scraping and abrading your hurt skin with every thrust.

Oh my boy, I will cum so hard in you, I will finally be truly gratified, fully satiated.

Exhausted, sweat dripping from my breasts and clinging to my hair. Pumping the last of my cum into you. My legs buckling so that I fall onto you. Collapse on you, pinning you down, breathing in gasps and shuddering, my cock still wedged hard in your ass, still owning you.

But, dear boy, before I destroy you, I need to love you first. I need to trust you. I need to know you. Because when I pull out of you and roll to my side, spent, for a brief moment I will be yours, letting it all go. Crying, maybe.

You see, I need your gratitude. I need your forgiveness. I need you to tell me “thank you”, so I know I didn’t hurt your spirit. Tell me you love me, that you are always mine. Then I’ll know I haven’t truly broken your mind or damaged your trust. Smile and kiss me, so I know you can take it, whatever I need to do to my boy. Rest in my arms, so I know you want me, Tiger and Lover. Mommy and Master.

I’ll float, while you stroke my back and hold me quietly until I can move. Until I am your Mama once more and can take care of you again.

Then I’ll hold my broken boy until my love can knit you back into joy, bright-eyed wonder, devotion. So you can stand proud and whole, my strong Leatherboy. Precious Mommy’s boy. Cling close, and I’ll embrace you until my own heart melts, and I’ll know I have loved you how you need it. How I need it. How it can only be for a Mommy and a boy.

Let It All Go, Boy: Part One, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Content: mama/boy age play, sex.

 

Dyke Mama seeks little boy. Leatherboy. Butch. Non-negotiable: compassion, integrity, Leather Heart. Any age, size, ethnicity, etc. Are you willing? Let’s play.

***

boy:

I’ve got my coffee, black. Cruise on through the back door of The Brew Zone coffee shop and find a metal bistro table with two chairs in the rear patio. The air is hot, but misters lightly cool my skin. Feels great, but my hair is starting to cling to my forehead in short, annoying, curls. Dammit, I’m trying to look my butch best here. And now my white tee, half tucked into well worn jeans, is damp, too. My feet are sweltering in heavy, polished boots. I sit down, attempt a pose, and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Thirty-two, scrawny, butch leatherboy waiting on a blind date with some internet stranger. Is this stupid?

But what choice did I have?

I’m a boy, and after being ashamed and shy about it for years, I’ve finally accepted that I want to be with a Leather Mommy. Well, good for me. Hurray. Whoop-dee-doo. Problem is, Daddies are everywhere, whereas no-one even mentions Mommies without a bit of a sneer. Total double standard. So because of some fucked up taboo, it’s practically impossible to find a queer, femme, Leather Mommy. Screw that! I’m 32 and sick of hiding, done with waiting. My options few, I had to cowboy up and post a personals ad. Not cool. Except, on that same day, some “Dyke Mama” puts up an ad looking for someone just like me. 

I don’t believe in coincidences, so here I am.

I check the back door again, for the zillionth time. Nothing. Maybe she stood me up. Maybe she saw me, didn’t like the goods, and decided to leave. Fuck that shit! I’m not going to humiliate myself waiting on a no-show. I start to get up, ready to blow this off, and then the door opens and a woman walks out into the sun. Her. Olive skin, blue-black dyed hair, a bit fat, older than me by at least ten years. She looks around, sees me, smiles like a cat and heads toward my table.

I swear I can feel some sort of energy radiating from her. Smacks me right upside the head. I forget to be cool. Forget everything. I’m just a tongue-tied, butch lump-in-a-chair. Looking up at her.

“Hello, little boy,” she purrs. Heat rises up my neck and flushes my cheeks. Great. Real sexy. But at least I remember to stand up and pull out her chair like a civil gentlebutch.

I check her out while I’m holding her chair. Her hips are wide, and they spread when she sits, overflowing the chair. She’s wearing matte-black men’s leather boots, dark jeans, a thick, intimidating black-leather belt — the classic Leather Uniform — but she wears it with a sheer white blouse, at least 20 thin bangles clinking on her wrists, long earrings almost to her shoulders, cropped hair, black cat eyeliner and red, red lips. A black lace bra shows through the blouse and her cleavage is … fuck, it’s incredible! I tear my eyes away, worried she’ll think I’m disrespecting her.

She smiles like she’s amused. “A lemonade would be nice.”

And — “Yes, Ma’am!” — I head inside for the cold drink, happy to occupy myself with something she wants. When I get back, I see her forehead is beaded with perspiration, and she’s sweating a bit through the thin blouse. I should have had ice water waiting for her, I kick myself. Good thing there wasn’t a line to get the lemonade. I place it carefully before her, scrape my chair back, and she nods very slightly, so I sit. God, she has kind eyes! Finally, I can smile at her. I know it’s a big, goofy, shiny smile, but she seems to like it, so it’s all good.

She takes an icy lemonade sip. I lick my lips. Then we do the small talk thing, generally shooting shit about the heat, our hobbies, coming out, work, the scene. I pull myself together, and I’m very charming, I think. I hope.

She pauses for a moment, then abruptly asks me “What did you come here looking for? A Mommy? Tell me what that means to you.”

I stumble a bit. “Um … Not some mean, ego-bound Mistress, doing Leather as performance, that’s for sure.” I nurse my cooling coffee. “And not a role-player or a weekend player.” I think hard about it, trying to put it into words for the first time. “I want a genuine Leather Mommy. A kind-spirited, nurturing Mommy. One who can take charge of me and take care of me, teach me and love me and … take me down.”

She considers this. “Are you a little boy?”

“Well, yeah. Guess so.” I know I’m blushing again. “But I still like to play hard. Rough. And to serve. I want all that, too.” Long pause, then quietly, “I need it.”

She nods, really listening to me. Then we start talking about limits and wants, boundaries and experience. Our conversation ramps up. Consensual this and Safe that. And Sane whatever. And I’m thinking: Yes, yes. Thank you for caring and reassuring me. I will do the same for you, Ma’am. But let’s get real: What can we both expect if we do this? I mean, what comes next?

To be honest, I’m half terrified, half excited and half horny as fuck. Yeah, I know: too many halves; it’s called “being overwhelmed.” She must see my anxiety, because she takes my hand across the table and holds it in hers. My racing thoughts calm a bit.

“Okay, here’s what it would look like, if you were my boy.” Her voice is tender and yes, maternal. “We could play games together and draw pictures and play with toy cars. We might even go for ice cream or to the zoo. And you could sit on your Mommy’s lap any time you want. Even in the bar.” She squeezes my hand. “You will need to be a good boy, well behaved with good manners, and do as you’re told.” Then she smiles conspiratorially. “But you could be a bit naughty when it’s just us. Most important of all,” she continues, “you’d be cuddled and loved and treasured.” She looks right in my eyes. “I want to take care of you like that.”

I shiver at the last bit, feeling small and hopeful. I swallow and my chest aches, like something heavy and hurting is trapped inside, and I’m just now noticing it.

She continues, her tone a little firmer, “You would also be my Leatherboy, not just my little boy. My Leatherboy, with all that a D/s relationship implies: negotiations, expectations, protocols, SM, Leathersex, service, obedience. I expect you to be open and proud of who you are and who you serve. And I do not tolerate anything less than authenticity, honesty and integrity.”

This is a lot to take in. But I love almost everything she’s saying. I imagine living it, and it seems unreal. I can’t quite believe; Could it really happen?

Without warning, the patio lights click on, cuing dusk to fade in. How did the afternoon just slip away? She squeezes my hand again and lets it go. We exchange references and phone numbers. And then, it’s over. 

Except when we get up, she traps my wrist, pulls me close against her softness and kisses my cheek so gently it burns. In the span of that moment, as if a spell has been lifted, I suddenly see her incredible beauty. Striking. Alluring. A stunning, magnificent creature for whom I would willingly kneel. I am totally wrecked as I watch her navigate away from me. She doesn’t look back. But I keep staring at the door after she’s gone.

***

Two weeks later, references verified and ground rules established, we’ve shared three phone calls, two Skypes, dinner and a movie, one long, deep goodbye kiss, and a snail mail card from her to me, with a hot-as-fuck biker boot on the front, a romantic message inside and a dinosaur sticker slipped into the envelope.

But now we’re finally going to meet for dinner at her home. I think I know what that means. So I’m literally shaking with excitement when I arrive at her apartment.

“Perfect timing. I just finished making dinner,” she exclaims as we hug hello. So we go straight for the dining room.

The fish she prepared is probably very tasty, but I am far too distracted to notice. Later, after I clear the table and wash the dishes, loving this first small act of service, we move to the living room.

We are sitting on her couch, digesting and chatting for a while, as if that’s what this date is all about. But then, during a break in the conversation, she reaches for my hand and holds it in both of hers. I shift a bit closer on the couch. The warmth of her body hovers around her like a sweet, humid halo. I lean against her shoulder, holding my breath, feeling small and safe but also uncertain. The world seems to pause, listening.

She turns and gently pulls me into her embrace and her kiss, tender and soulful. I’m floating. I’m trembling. Every single molecule in my body vibrates. She stands up, gently bringing me with her. Looking into my eyes, she strokes my hair, then leads me silently to her small bedroom. Oh my God, yes!  

She lays me down on her bed and kisses me from above, like she’s searching for something deep inside me. She presses her leg up between mine and pushes against my crotch like she wants to fuck me through my jeans. Taking my hands, she holds them firmly down against the bed while she keeps kissing, kissing … and I am unresisting. Maybe she’s put me in a trance, because I can’t move, can’t make a move on her. This has never happened to me, I swear. Yeah, I’ve bottomed before, but this is so freaking gentle and slow, hypnotic.

A ceiling fan stirs the warm air. I notice it as she releases me from the spell and pulls me up to stand in front of her. We kiss again, and it fills me with want. Her tongue steadily becomes more possessive, then invasive, until it claims my mouth. She grips my jaw, holding my mouth open, the other hand on the back of my skull, keeping my head still, making me her receptacle. She runs her tongue over my palate, deep into the softness of my throat, then exploring between my lips and teeth. I can only receive her, and it provokes an almost delirious hunger. Nothing else exists except her filling my mouth.

She releases my jaw, but continues to kiss me as she covers my body with her hands, over my shirt, then up inside, seeking skin. Her hands under my shirt, moving up my back, fingers resting on my shoulder blades as her thumbs press sharply into my armpits, as if she’s testing my response. Her hands soften again, trailing down my chest, sliding fingertips an inch under my waistband and circling the inner fabric to my belt buckle. Releasing the buckle, opening my fly, she slips a hand down into my jeans, over my shorts, pausing to cup my dick in her palm: a soft packer that seems adolescent beneath her caress. She squeezes and fondles and strokes me like she wants me to stiffen in her hand. Her eyes are locked on mine now, hazed with lust and power; she almost looks high.

Her hands at my waistband again, she eases my jeans over my ass to the floor. As she slowly unbuttons and removes my shirt, she wets her lips then uses her palms and teeth and tongue on my skin. Everything is mesmerizing and so incredibly sexy. I feel disoriented, but I know I must want it; my cunt is so slick and my cock pushes hard against my shorts.

Before I can fully take in what is happening, she has pulled my underwear down past my knees, my packer with them. I’m suddenly so naked, with just a tangle of fabric at my ankles. 

She reaches down again, now staring impassively into my eyes but breathing roughly. With one finger tip, she slides between the folds of skin in my crotch. With a fluid motion, she dips slightly into my cunt and drags the wetness up over my clit and onto my belly, leaving a slick trail. I feel like I might cry. Like all my butch bravado has just fizzled out.

She steps back to get a look at me. “Such a sexy little boy,” she croons. I start to shake.

Feeling way too vulnerable, I kick off my jeans and briefs and move toward her, reaching for her, wanting to feel her body up against my skin. But she pushes me, and I stumble inelegantly backward onto the bed. With a soft chuckle and a wicked smile, she begins to undress. And I’m under her spell again. First the jewelry. Tinkling earrings, rings, long necklace. She unbuttons her sheer black blouse, and it flutters to the ground, exposing a satin bra with just a hint of lace. The flowy crepe black skirt slips off easily, to reveal a black leather harness already strapped on. Well, that makes things clear as crystal.

Finally, she removes her bra, releasing breasts, generous and natural, heavy with large areolas and nipples. She is thick and fleshy… and not perfect. But she is confident, seductive and erotic. And all woman! Without meaning to, I moan just a little, and it is a rough, throaty sound.

Flashing me a sly smile, she opens the bedside drawer and takes out a thick, black cock, stroking it suggestively. She inserts it into the silver o-ring at the front of the harness and tightens the straps. Then she wraps her hand around the shaft, like she’s ready to jack off. She slides her hand up to the head and circles it with a finger, then lightly strokes the tip, where the piss hole would be. Then she looks up at me and lets out a wicked little laugh. My body’s electrified, almost painfully aroused. When she stands above me, arms akimbo, naked and strong, her femme-cock sways and bobs gently in my direction.

“Mommy?” I murmur.

She closes her eyes. A wave seems to move through her, and she sighs soundlessly. Then, like a benediction, she breathes huskily, “Yes, boy.” And she leans to kiss me. Gentle and floaty, and then harder. Then deep and hungry and overpowering. Mid-kiss, she lies her body on top of mine pressing against me, soft and full, with her hard dick wedged between us. I moan a little. Can’t help myself. I am bursting with want, buzzing with it. Dying from it.

She wraps her embrace around me and My Whole World is contained within her arms. The sweet natural scent of her. The yielding spread of her breasts. Indulgent, she offers them to me, and I suckle, unquestioning. She pulls me into her voluptuous warmth with a heavy, sensual groan. But I am not focused on pleasuring her, sexing her, fucking. Not focused on my hard-on or whether she likes my body or what she’s going to do with me later. I just suck her heavenly nipple and let go into a dreamy bliss.

I feel like her all-grown-up, baby boy, and it is so natural and so good. I want to be snuggled and held. I want to love and be loved in a sort of innocent, childlike way. I want to trust her. I want to let down my guard.

And somehow, drifting in this euphoric haze, I do.

I let go of my embarrassment and fear, my bravado and the insecurity underneath. All the inner-child-longing I’ve hidden away from a judgemental world: that is Hers now. I let it all go. All of it. I give it to her while I nurse at her breast; a crazy moment of pure trust. I feel like her precious boy. Hers.

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I should be more cautious, guarded. But I know that this is right. I know that she really is my Mommy. I have no question. And she wants me, too! She She She. Wants me, her little one. Her leatherboy. Baby boy. Hungry boy. Grown up, sex-hungry boy.

Lust suddenly overtakes my other needs. I’m sure she can feel the shift, how I’m not so little anymore. Now, her breasts are making me hard and wet and horny. I drown myself in the softness of them, cupping and holding that pillowy flesh. Licking her nipples and biting and losing myself in her. Squeezing and kneading. My whole body is asking for her attention.

Please Mommy, I need your gentle fuck.

I need your deep, hard fuck. Your fingers. Your cock. Use me. Wear me out. Find the way to my tender self. Open me. Please. Fuck me open.

***

Read part two here.

Sugarbutch is #1 on the Kinkly Erotica Blogs and LGBTQ Blogs Lists

Thank you.

I want to write about how I’m on the list of sex bloggers that Kinkly released at the beginning of this month. And about how I’m holding strong at #3 on their ranked overall list — not the annual one, but their database that calculates popularity. And about how this particular year I’m also on their Reader’s Choice list and on their erotica list and on their queer list. And those last two, I come in at number one.

They’ve been putting out this list for six years, so it isn’t new to me to be on it. I saw the results get posted, saw some chatter about it on social media, tweeted about it, emailed a few things about it, and then kept going. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to it. But about a week later, it kind of hit me. Wait … this site is ranked number one? In both the erotica category and the queer category? They’re saying that Sugarbutch is the best queer sex blog on the internet? And the best erotica blog?

What?!

Well … Thank you.

I think I want to write this, here, just to let myself sit in the discomfort of acknowledging that for a little bit longer. We don’t usually celebrate our wins enough, you know? And when it hit me, I really wanted to ensure that I “took it in,” somehow. Whatever that means, however you do that.

Sugarbutch is thirteen and a half years old, started in spring 2006 when I was 27. I have grown with it; it has grown with me. Pretty much all the major mistakes of my late twenties & all through my thirties are on here, archived. What I’m doing with it right now is my favorite version of it that has been yet — and, I still don’t know where it’ll go next. I have some ideas, but no set plan; just steering in a direction, aiming for a horizon, and I’ll fine-tune the plan as I go along. The internet is a completely different place now than it was when I started it. If I was starting a project now, this isn’t what I would do. So. I don’t know what’s next, but I’m chewing on it.

The patrons of Sugarbutch know I’ve been chewing on this — this is probably the fourth or fifth time I’ve written about it, and I still don’t have answers. I’m in a transition, though I think that transition is at least five years long, so it’s not immediate.

Being on the Kinkly list again, and being recognized as at the top of the class for what I do, and not being lumped in to all the general sex toy review blogs but being recognized for the particular skills and viewpoint that I bring, is just exhilarating. Thrilling. Gratifying. I’m so grateful. I’m so appreciative that you all keep reading and listening and being curious about the kinds of things I like to study and talk and write about.

So, back to where I started: thank you.

And because sex toy review blogs dominate the sex blog world these days, here are the two supplemental lists from Kinkly focusing on queer and erotica blogs. Check ’em out.

Top Erotica Blogs of 2019

Top LGBTQ Blogs of 2019

If you’re into this, you might also like to take a look at the queer sex blog list I compiled — this features sex blogs with a lot of queer erotica, if not all erotica.

Down by the River, Guest Post by Anna Sansom

Content: Surprise BDSM, flogging, singletail, daddy/girl, butch/femme, outdoor sex, fisting, biting.

My toes curl around the smooth pebbles as the cool water flows over the tops of my feet and swirls around my ankles. A few leaves float past and a small fish darts out from between the stones before quickly disappearing further downstream. I’ve been sitting on this bank for about twenty minutes and my bum is beginning to go to sleep. I shift a little to let the blood flow. You’ll be here soon.

I close my eyes and inhale the rich, earthy scent of the forest floor and the peaty water. The stream takes a meandering path through the trees. I’ve chosen a shallow spot but I know there are places where it runs deeper and faster. My emotions are like this river: I may feel relaxed now but I know it won’t be long before I quicken and traverse new depths. My body is like the water too: moisture already beginning to pool between my thighs in anticipation of your arrival; my mouth alternately dry when I think of what is to come and then salivating with desire.

Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. The light is beginning to fade and I’m afraid of being alone in the dark.

The snap of a twig underfoot alerts me to your arrival. Your first command swiftly follows, “Don’t turn around. Stay just as you are.” I can hear you busying yourself behind me. Some of the sounds are familiar: the zipper of a bag being drawn back; the clank of your metal water bottle as you drop it on the ground. Others cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand tall: makeshift antennae endeavouring to place the noises I know I have heard before but in a very different setting. Then I remember: I am listening to rope being uncoiled, knots being tied and tested with the weight of your body. The hairs on my arms stand tall now too and I shiver.

I feel you approach me: the heat of your body emanating several feet in front of you. Or maybe it is your energy I feel. Or perhaps simply your will. I feel suddenly small in the presence of you and the forest. You could easily be as tall as the oak trees that surround us. You are just as solid and strong too. I feel like a will-o’-the-wisp in comparison: insubstantial and transient. I wonder if you’ll be able to catch me before I disappear.

Your hands on my shoulders bring me back to my body and my solidity. Your touch grounds and reforms me. I am a woman again; dusk is falling; you have come for me.

The lanterns you placed around us begin to glow brighter as the daylight recedes. A few early moths stun themselves on the glass before flitting around in dizzying patterns. Your hands move from my shoulders to cover my eyes. “Are you ready?” your voice is deep with lust. Mine gets stuck in my throat and I merely nod my assent. Your fingers drag through my hair, scraping it back from my face, tugging a little on the ends before you let go. “Stand up – slowly.” I scramble upright, my wet feet quickly coated with dirt and decaying leaf matter. You reach to remove my clothing. As instructed, all I am wearing is the long smock dress you asked for: easy for you to take off and toss to the ground. My sudden nakedness is a stark contrast to your unchanged attire: well-worn jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt with low cut armholes that reveal just a glimpse of your breasts, and leather boots laced high around your ankles.

You bend to scoop water from the stream into your hands and then stroke the wetness over my torso. My nipples harden as a reaction to your touch and the cooling moisture. I see you eye them with a lascivious smile, then you check your impatience and take me by the hand, “Over here.”

The oak tree has been transformed into your playground: ropes tied around its girth and dangling from overhead branches; more lanterns placed around its base to light up the set. My peripheral vision lets me see the camera and tripod you’ve set up too. Just like we agreed. I feel a flush of excitement burning its way up my body. Fuck. We’re really going to do this.

You position me facing the trunk of the tree and carefully wind the ropes around my waist and wrists. The rough bark scratches my breasts and stomach and I lean into the discomfort. I’m going to need this tree to hold me. A long, slow exhale from you tells me you are satisfied with the quality and tightness of my bonds. Now you are able to release your practical, human, self and take on your animal form. The same forest that dissolves my edges only serves to strengthen yours: muscles thicken, your voice becomes a growl, you begin to pace. The hunger and want in the space between us is palpable. We can both smell and taste it. We lick our lips in unison.

You begin as you always do: rhythmic swats with a heavy flogger. You are the snake-charmer hypnotizing me into swaying my body for you and I move to the tempo you set. Your leather warms my skin; your attention warms my heart. I feel gifted with your presence. It’s just me and you. Just us. Only ever now.

The thuds from the flogger become heavier and I instinctively pull away from you and closer to the oak’s embrace. It doesn’t help. There’s nowhere left for me to go. My fear of being broken begins to rise and I know I need to lean in to the blows and welcome them as my lover’s vicious kiss.

There is a deceptive peacefulness when the flogging stops. I can hear the sounds of the forest bedding down for the night. Occasional whirs and buzzes from passing insects. A rustle high up in the leaves that suggests either a bird or a small mammal settling in despite the disturbance below. Then the sudden crack of leather behind me. A practice stroke. You are measuring the distance, the location of the overhanging branches, the level of the ground beneath your feet. Now the flogger’s kiss has ceased, it is time for the singletail to bite.

I welcome the pain. This is your gift to me: our bodies join along the length of the whip; energy flows from your heart, along the tail, through my skin, and fills me. I drink it in until the agonizing stings reach a crescendo that can only be released through my voice. I call out half-formed words, nonsensical pleas for more interspersed with my stuttered gratitude: “Thank-thank-thank-you, Sir.” We are both gasping with the intensity and the exertion.

My back burns with a fire that could easily ignite the fallen twigs around our feet. I fear we will consume the forest with our passion and, before we do, I force myself to profess, “Please, Sir, I can’t take any more.”

It’s not our safeword but you know me and my limits well. You lay down the whip and come to me: “Good girl. My girl.” You untie me quickly and turn me to face you, then press the mouth of the water bottle to my lips. “Drink.” I swig and gulp, splutter a little in my rush to obey.

I watch you reach inside your jeans and slide your hand into your underwear. My lips part in expectation and I am rewarded with your juice-coated fingers filling my mouth. I suck the taste of you inside me. I want to drop to my knees and taste even more of you: your clit must be achingly hard, your cunt sodden; I could drown myself in the river of you. But you have other plans to fulfill first. Despite the scent of you so fresh in my nostrils and on my palate, I can smell my own arousal and I know you won’t let me go until you have milked every last drop of want from me.

The front of my body is imprinted with the pattern of the tree’s bark and there are small pieces of moss and lichen stuck to my skin. The forest is claiming me as hers but you aren’t fooled by my camouflage: underneath the forest’s covering you know I already belong to you.

My nipples are firm against the cooling night air and you reach for them now. You have exhausted your patience and want now only to feed and devour. I flinch as you reach for me but I can’t escape your grip as you pull and twist. My gasps become cries and tears quickly prick the corners of my eyes. My beseeching begins again but only serves to make your touches crueler.

My brain warns me of what is to come while my body begs for more. I can feel sweat and my juices running down my inner thighs. My nipples are screaming for release while my cunt pleads for your attention. I cry freely from both the pain and the frustration. “Please fuck me.” It starts as a whisper; I doubt my capacity and my desire. Be careful what you wish for, my thoughts caution. “Please fuck me, Sir.” Bolder now, there’s no going back, you’ve heard me. You wait until my plea becomes a mantra: “Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir.”

I have abandoned my rational, thinking self and now fully inhabit my soft, animal body. Belly side up, I am completely at your mercy. You snarl as you lunge at me, tearing into me, not with teeth and claws, but with your fingers thrusting inside my willing cunt. I am trapped between the unyielding tree behind me and the heavy weight of you in front. Two mighty beings holding me in place while I begin to dissolve and pour my offering into the earth beneath. The rough bark scratches my already bruised and inflamed flesh. You press against my throbbing breasts, your breath burning hot against my ear. “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion,” you growl, and I believe you.

I am fully liquid now. I flow over your hands and body, pool at your feet, form a new tributary and run to join the river. The current will carry me away from this place, out of the forest, towards the freedom of the sea. Except you won’t let me go. You sense the change in me and pull me back sharply with a slap to my cheek. I snap back into my body, abruptly feeling the shriek of every nerve ending and the firmness of my cunt walls clamped around your hand. I am no longer the free-flowing river; I am trapped prey and you are the hunter.

You latch onto my shoulder and hold me in your bite: a firm counterbalance to the pressure of your fist inside my cunt. Fingers from your other hand casually circle my clit. The forest seems to hold its breath along with me. You deliberately pump your fist in time with your fingers: callously slow movements that sink into me and vibrate throughout my whole body. You have lit a fire inside me that spreads through every muscle, organ and bone.

“Breathe.” Of course, fire needs air to burn: I exhale in order to draw in a deeper breath. You issue the command again, “Breathe.” Fucking me faster now, my breaths quicken to match your pace. I am molten, overflowing; unable to keep my form from merging with you, with the oak, the river, the decaying ground beneath and the star-filled sky above. I let go and a surge of bliss engulfs me, tipping me into the void.

You bring me back – again – but this time with your lips on mine, your tongue as insistent as the motion of your hips grinding against me. “My girl,” you breathe between kisses, “my glorious girl.”

I wrap my arms around you and hold on tight while my body trembles and jolts with the aftermath of my orgasm. I don’t want to let you go but, after a while, you gently ease me off of you and encourage me to sit at the base of the tree. “I’ll be back in a second,” you promise. I close my eyes and feel the safety of the earth holding me. I’m still in a liminal space and allow myself to drift for a moment.

You return and help me to my feet. You are naked now too and lust flutters in my stomach as I see the curly hairs on your mound slick with your longing. You have laid out blankets, your water bottle and a tub of trail mix. We sit together and drink and nibble. Your care for me is impeccable but I can sense your yearning and eagerness for more play. I take a swig from the bottle and hand it to you, “Thank you, Daddy,” head just a little bit bowed so I can look up at you as I speak. You swallow hard and take the offered bottle from my hands.

“Lie down.”

Your body is heavy on top of me and I allow you to press me into the earth beneath. Your weight is reassuring and comforting and, for a moment, I wish we could just go to sleep now. Then you shift your legs so you are straddling my thigh and I feel the heat and wet of your cunt sliding over my skin. My hunger rushes through me like a thundering train and my fingers hurriedly reach for you. I need to feel your slickness, your hardness; to feel you open and blossom under my touch.

You moan gratefully when my hand makes first contact with your cunt. With my arm sandwiched between our bodies, I am reliant on the fine motor movements of my fingertips dancing over your clit and around your opening. I’m not allowed inside you and I’m careful to keep to that promise as you slide yourself over and around my hand and thigh. You set the pace. You make the rules. I give everything I can in service to your pleasure.

You move yourself faster on top of me and drops of perspiration fall from your brow onto my face. Your sweat washes away the forest, the river, until I am solely yours again. “I love you, Daddy.” These are the words you have been waiting for. You tense and roar, pressing hard against my hand, as you let yourself climax again and again.

We wrap ourselves in each other’s arms and some more blankets. The night creatures of the forest are awake now but we are daytime animals and ready for sleep. As your breathing slows and I match mine to yours, I remember the video camera you set up, and whisper into the darkness, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

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.

Frisson, Guest Post by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Content: this post contains a gang bang, possessive language, name calling, sex, whips, and a public scene.

Wrists and ankles trussed together, Delilah fought to stay on her feet. Her arms and legs ached from effort, her exposed pussy slick with hunger. She moaned softly, struggling not to wiggle her ass in the air like she was begging for it. She heard murmurs of approval at her position, felt the stares of strangers raking over her flesh. God help her, she was begging for it. But she had been ordered to wait, to hold herself upright and still. She waited.

An hour earlier, Delilah had wandered the club, somewhat disenchanted, definitely bored. The scenes that night were lukewarm at best, amateurish to her seasoned experience. She played hard, she played long, and she was not the sort to bow down to any old Top in the room. The crew tonight seemed to expect that of her, and she kept her distance. Choosing to bide her time and keep her eyes peeled for potential in the midst of greenness, she circled the outskirts of the room.

When she spotted Von across the sea of inexperience, her heart leapt into her throat. A salt and pepper butch with volumes of confidence and expertise, Von was the sort to make a girl want to roll over onto her back and spread her legs as soon as she swaggered into the room. Damn, but Delilah was hot for her. She had observed Von’s skills at many a party, had even enjoyed a choking and gagging blow job with her in the back seat of her car on one memorable occasion. She had grown to respect and admire Von, and considered her a friend. Taking care to swish her ass provocatively as she crossed the room, Delilah greeted her warmly when she arrived at her side.

Von tossed an arm casually around her shoulders as Delilah sparkled up at her.

“You look gorgeous,” Von murmured appreciatively, and Delilah all but purred.

After several moments of small talk, Von perused the room thoughtfully, then turned her attention back to Delilah.

“Up for it tonight?” She queried.

“Yes!” Delilah’s immediate and enthusiastic answer drew a laugh.

Their negotiations were brief, thorough, and easy with the understanding of some shared history.

“I will take care of you for the evening, and in return I expect that you will be completely honest with me if I cross a line or go too far. Other than that, you are entirely mine for the rest of the night and will do all I ask. Do you understand?”

Delilah nodded, trusting both Von and her own limits.

Von shook her head. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I understand,” Delilah’s face was open, an invitation. And with those few words she placed herself into Von’s capable hands.

Von undressed her slowly, her eyes never leaving Delilah’s face. Sliding the straps of her slip from her shoulders, Von kissed her skin with a tenderness that surprised her.  She shivered deliciously as the slip dropped to her ankles. Von lifted her legs one at a time, and kicked the slip aside. She crouched down to trace the lace edge of Delilah’s stocking with one finger until she was quivering.

“Mmm. These are nice. You may keep them on.” Von winked.

She cupped Delilah’s tits in her hands, working them over gently. Her nipples became erect the moment Von put her hands on them, and Delilah arched her back, granting Von greater access to her. When Von lowered her head to Delilah’s nipple, her mouth was greedy, sucking and tugging on her tit until she was gasping for breath. When she suddenly used her teeth to tear into Delilah’s tender breast, she cried out in pain.

Von lifted her head and slapped Delilah’s face. Hard. Delilah bit her lip to keep from crying out again.

“Did I say you could make a sound?” Von growled.

She shook her head.

“Answer me when I ask a question.” Von’s tone brooked no argument.

“N-no. No.” Delilah felt a twinge of her first real fear.

“Then keep quiet. You may do nothing until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” Von nodded, apparently satisfied for now, and Delilah felt herself relax again.

Von removed a coil of hemp rope from her bag.

“Bend over. Grab your ankles.” She commanded, and Delilah complied. It was that easy.

Von positioned Delilah’s legs slightly apart, stabilizing her on her spiked heels before working the rope between her legs and around her wrists. The hemp was abrasive and smelled like damp earth, and her head swam with longing.

Von tugged on the knots, running her fingers under the rope to ensure it wasn’t too tight. When she judged all to her standards, she straightened and placed her hands on Delilah’s waist. Her touch was a light caress, just enough to drive her mad. Von’s hands explored her, sampling her round bottom, opening her pussy and rubbing her clit teasingly, kneading her thighs. Tears of desire coursed down Delilah’s cheeks at this inspection, her thighs sticky with her juice. Von’s hand was in her cunt now, pumping slowly in and out of her until her hips rocked in response. Just as she was driven to an edge she felt she could not bear to cross, Von abruptly withdrew her hand.

“Oh.” It was barely a breath, but when Von heard her utter it she smiled to herself. She had Delilah where she wanted her.

“Tell me you are mine,” she hissed. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I am yours,” Delilah breathed, her voice thick with desire for it. For Von to belong to her. Yes. She meant it with her entire being. For this scene, for tonight, for the next 20 years — at this moment in time, Delilah wanted it all.

“Tell me you are my whore.”

Delilah stammered. “I am your whore.”

“Tell me you would do anything for me.”

“Anything. Anything.” The word reverberated in the air between them.

Von snapped her fingers. Delilah felt it before she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye a small crowd moving in closer around them, a crowd she had not even been aware of until that moment. A handful of queers now leering at her lithe, naked body, their desire for her obvious and disconcerting. A ripple of wolf whistles and catcalls pierced the otherwise all too quiet room. Were all these people with Von?

Delilah’s fear was back, her body trembling with anticipation and a twinge of anxiety.

“Von?” It wasn’t so much a question as a searching for something, perhaps comfort. Delilah wasn’t entirely certain, her nerves fraught.

“Shh. Close your eyes.” It was a command, not a request, but spoken kindly. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited.

The waiting was the worst. Moments, hours, she had no concept of time. Her limbs strained with the effort of holding still, of staying upright on her now wobbly legs. And yet, more than her fear, more than her pain, more than anything else she wanted to please Von. As she realized that, took it in and allowed herself to relish it, her pussy ached with need. She gave herself over to that need, embraced it, and with that, began to thoroughly enjoy herself and the attention she knew was focused on her.

When she felt hands roving over her skin, she shuddered as much from revulsion as from excitement. Although she had been expecting it, she felt completely unprepared for the vulnerability of so many strangers pawing at her flesh. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and oh so powerful. Basking in that power, Delilah raised her ass higher, opening herself up and giving her audience a better view. Her subtle move was met with a round of applause, and a deep chuckle from Von.

“Enjoying yourself, are you? Such a whore.” Von slapped her ass hard enough to leave an instant red welt. Delilah lifted her ass even higher, seeking more.

The first lash of the whip struck her in the tender spot between her firm cheek and the top of her thigh, just above her stocking. She rocked on her heels before collecting herself for more. After that initial, almost flirtatious lick of leather, the blows of the whip came fast and strong. Delilah writhed beneath the lashing, a mix of pain and pleasure. She was on fire, both her cunt and her cherry red bottom a fury of liquid heat. It was delicious, the whip her favorite instrument of torture. Did Von know this? Her mind struggled to remember if Von had witnessed her submit to whip play in the past, or if this was merely one of the many implements with which she was so skilled. No matter, Delilah relinquished all thoughts and embraced the physical sensations assailing her. Pain, arousal, surrender, the deepest desire and pleasure — she succumbed entirely. Her pussy and thighs were soaked with juices. Delilah felt sure she could come at any moment from the intensity of this experience alone.

Jolted out of her state of pure feeling by the cessation of the lashings, Delilah moaned softly. Her tender flesh hurt, her legs and arms in agony from holding her position for so long. As if she could read Delilah’s mind, Von reached down to untie the rope that bound her. She loosened the knots, untangling the rope and letting it fall to the ground. She gently massaged the blood flow back into Delilah’s ankles and wrists, then wrapped her arms around Delilah and pulled her to her chest. She melted into the strength she found there, and closed her eyes, resting. Her respite was brief, however, as moments later Von straightened her and held her at arm’s length.

“I’m not done with you yet, whore. Can you take more?”

Delilah nodded immediately, then recalling earlier instructions, answered, “Yes.”

“I’ll allow you to stand for this, give you a bit of a break. But you must not open your eyes. If you do, we will be done with you. Eyes stay closed, arms stay out to your sides. Ready?”

Delilah assumed the position, her arms held out in a way that left her feeling completely exposed to the room. Again, the hands of strangers grabbed at her, pinching and caressing her skin simultaneously. It was almost too much, and she was dimly aware of the tears on her cheeks. Her breasts were handled roughly, twisted and pulled at until she felt raw and bruised. Her nipple was sucked into someone’s mouth, teeth nibbling at it mercilessly.

Someone’s hands grabbed her thighs, prying her legs open even wider. The cold air on her heated pussy rendered her weak with lust, and she wiggled her cunt despite her best intentions of holding absolutely still. She was rewarded with a hard slap to her sex, but the torment of her captors continued without interruption.

The sudden thrust of a rubber cock into her ass was so startling she screamed. She was pinned for a moment, immobilized by pain. Then whoever was inside her began to move, thrusting herself in to her base and out again, ripping her ass open. Pumping hard into her, grunting in her ear, her hands a steel vice on Delilah’s waist holding her on her feet while she claimed her. It was brutal and beautiful agony, being fucked like that by god knew whom, and she began to thrust back in time with the rhythm, squatting a bit lower so she could better take it.

She pulled out of Delilah before she came, so abruptly Delilah nearly toppled over. Delilah’s hair was twisted in strong fingers, and her head jerked back. Someone — Von? — hissed in her ear.

“I’ll have every hole before I am done with you.”

“Please.” Delilah had only that word. “Please.” Uttered again and again. She needed to come. She was terrified Von would not let her.

A large hand slid inside her cunt to the wrist. Delilah opened easily, ready for it, and moved against it, trying to rub her engorged clit on it. Someone laughed cruelly, the hand withdrew, and Delilah splashed onto her own legs and the floor. Her arms were lowered and pulled behind her back, thrusting her tits upright. They were slapped with increasing force as Delilah squirmed, with hands or a paddle she could not be sure and dared not peek. She did not want this to end, and would not risk the displeasure of her tormentors.

Again, that cruel laughter.

Delilah was hoisted into the air in strong arms, her legs wrapped around someone’s waist. She heard the sound of a zipper, a sound she considered the utmost in foreplay, and the tearing of a condom wrapper. Her thighs and stomach were slapped and battered by another rubber cock. It was demeaning. It was divine. She arched her back, moving her pussy closer.

“Oh, I’ll give you more, whore. You are going to take every inch of me.” She recognized Von’s voice and cheered inwardly, craving her inside her cunt.

Anticipating the cock that pierced her pussy did not take away from the thrill when it happened in the least. The contrary. Long and swollen with hunger for her, Von’s cock took her slowly at first, with a languid thrust that left her feeling she would die without more.

“Please.”

Again, that one word. Delilah was rewarded instantly, the cock ramming her, tearing into her with thrust after jackhammer thrust. Riding that cock, she begged for more, begged to come, shouting nonsense beseechingly, her pussy keening with need.

“Yes. Come, whore. Come now.”

And she did, her desire spilling over, her body wild with it, jerking and flailing against the people who held her down. She sagged briefly, panting, then came again with no less force.

Completely and utterly spent, satiated, Delilah could barely move as Von finished herself off before pulling out. Delilah felt empty immediately.

She was laid on the floor gently. Someone brought a pillow, lifted her head to slide it under her. One of the women stroked her hair tenderly, another held her hand and kissed it. She was soaked with sweat and sex, and thoroughly exhausted. Her eyes still closed, she felt rather than saw that the crowd was thinning. It must be over. Both relieved and disappointed, she focused on regaining her breath. Although the hands stroking her were soothing, she shivered, her muscles still contracting.

“Open your eyes.”

She did, to find Von standing over her, her cock still in her hand. She stroked it casually, a sexy smile on her face. Delilah could not help but smile back in return. God, she wanted Von all over again, even now.

Delilah’s eyes widened when Von unrolled a fresh condom and covered her cock with it in one smooth motion.

“I said I intended to take every hole, remember? I will own you, whore.”

Delilah gasped and attempted to raise herself up on her elbows.

Von gently put her boot in the center of Delilah’s chest and nudged her back down.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move. And open that pretty little mouth for me.”

Delilah traced her tongue over her lips to moisten them, unaware that the simple gesture caused Von to swell all the more. She knelt over Delilah and slid the tip into her mouth, just enough for her to suck at the head. Delilah lapped and licked at it, surprised to once more be incredibly aroused. How could she be this greedy for yet more? But she was, and she drew Von in to the base of her throat, gagging on the girth. Von moved slowly, relishing every flick of Delilah’s tongue, every pull of her lips, allowing her need to build with Delilah’s.

Von fucked Delilah’s mouth deeply, savoring her, and she choked on her cock, tears in her eyes, aching to come once more. As if Von could again sense her thoughts, she reached one hand back and ran her fingers lightly over Delilah’s clit. Delilah spread her thighs open for Von, and she worked her back up to the edge. She exploded against Von’s hand, crying out as she came, never breaking the momentum of what she hoped was the blow job of Von’s lifetime.

Delilah could smell herself on Von when she grabbed her face in both her hands and held her still. Von stopped sliding herself in and out of Delilah’s mouth, stopped moving altogether. Pinned beneath Von, unable to move, Delilah raised her eyes to meet hers. Von smiled down at her as she came. Delilah wanted to drink it in, take it inside her, and although it caused her to choke all the more, she laughed with pure joy.

Von sagged for a moment, gasping. Her cock dangled in the air above Delilah’s face. Emboldened by the obvious thrill she just gave Von, Delilah kissed the tip of her dick lightly. Von opened her eyes, raising her brows at Delilah’s daring move. When Von winked at her, Delilah relaxed visibly.

“You were a good girl.” Von smiled at her as she pushed herself to her feet. Delilah had the grace to blush.

Delilah remained on the floor, limp with exhaustion, while Von conferred with the handful of observers left. Just as she began to slip into sleep, she felt hands behind her back raising her to her feet. She stood, blinking in the suddenly glaring light at the faces smiling at her.

“You may thank everyone now.” Von nudged her forward with a firm hand on the flat of her back.

Head bowed in deference, Delilah moved from person to person, kissing a hand if it were held out to her, accepting the generous embraces a couple of folks offered. She was surprised to discover that she was not merely acting out a scene anymore. She felt profoundly grateful to have been used by strangers, gorgeous even, like a work of art the group had created. She could not recall ever having felt so moved by a public scene.

When Delilah came to Von, she knelt gracefully before her, tears in her eyes. It was a presentation of sorts, an offering. She held her breath, praying she would be accepted, petrified of disapproval, rejection. The events of the last two hours had shifted something inside her, and she knew instinctively there was no going back. She felt decidedly sure she was ruined for anyone else.

Von’s hands reached for Delilah’s face, lifting her head. She brushed her mouth tenderly with her own and smiled.

“Yes.” One simple word from Von. It was that easy. Delilah’s heart soared.

Stone Femmes Should Be Called Diamonds, Guest Post by R. Magdalen

I could see Jaci’s outline as they were coming into the bar, and I could guess already how it would go. There was something in their body language that signaled a difficult conversation. I closed my book and put it on my lap. Their short gray hair falling a bit into their eyes. Looking around for me for a second, and then focusing. They were wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a an old white t-shirt. They walked up and sat down roughly, looking at me and then looking away, like some kind of 1950’s bad boy. Even though I felt what was coming, their face and the smell of the leather and pomade made my heart flutter. Or maybe the flutter was lower down. Or maybe there’s some disagreement about where my heart is actually located.

“You look pretty. Is that a new dress? How have you been?” I could tell they were going to put off the conversation as long as possible. I accepted the compliment and told them about my family, about the concert I went to last week, and they asked some feeble follow-up questions. I tried to make eye contact with the waitress, but she was busy.

“We have to talk.” There it was. I felt a bit of panic starting to rise.

“That’s why I’m here,” I answered, steeling myself.

“So, we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and that’s been great, but …”

“But.”

“But this was obviously not ever going to work out.”

“I thought it was fine,” I really don’t know why, but I did.

They ran their fingers through their hair and I felt the color rise to my cheeks. A thought occurred to me.

“You’ve already met someone? That was quick.”

“Yeah,” they said, looking down. I guess I was looking down, too, because abruptly the waitress was there. I wondered how much she’d heard, what she thought this was. I looked away and ordered a glass of wine, as my lover decided on a fancy beer.

As the waitress left, I could tell my lover wanted to chicken out, change the subject. I could not allow that, now that we’d finally started, so I didn’t skip a beat.

“And I guess she must be monogamous?”

“Pretty much.”

“Fair enough. It’s part of our arrangement. I back off when things get monogamous.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded. I knew what the thing was. “You know this about me. You know I can’t…be touched. By other people, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” We hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but it was true. They let me. I don’t know why they didn’t let anyone else, but they let me. It was the thing I needed. Because it was true for me, too. Jaci was the only one I could let in, the only one I felt comfortable enough with, and they knew it. They put their head down and rested it on their hands.

“I just, I just couldn’t ever do anything for you. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

My eyes stung at this, even though I’d seen it coming. They knew exactly what this change would mean to me. I’m a service top for my other lovers, just not them. I’d miss being touched. It would hurt, and my cunt would miss their hand, but I had other ways to fix that problem. I could turn to stone again. I could feel it already, as if my skin were cooling and hardening, creating a shell that protected a soft core.

Their eyes were suddenly red and they grew quiet. I could tell my lover was squirming inside, wondering if they’d lose me forever this time, and decided to wait a few beats before reassuring them. The blow to my ego was very real, and I am not without sadistic impulses. They slumped, and I decided to put them out of their misery.

“It’s okay,” I lied, and reached across the table to put my fingers in their hair, “It’s alright. We’ve been here before and it’s fine.”

They looked up with relief in their eyes. These things were never really certain. It’s the nature of the beast. There had been other women, other femmes who were warmer, prettier, more loving. I had backed off before, enough to give those relationships space to grow and then die on the vine. It was never easy, though, knowing I couldn’t be one of them. There were things I was not capable of giving. What I was capable of was another matter.

I smiled, shifted, and moved my book so they could see the outline of the big cock I had strapped on under my dress. I had come prepared for a somewhat different, more mutual sort of scene, but my mind shifted and adapted to the new reality. A cool, calm feeling spread through my chest. Jaci’s eyes widened, and they bit their lower lip, curled in the tiniest of smiles.

“Bathroom,” I said.

“Uhhh? Don’t you want to talk about this?” Maybe we should’ve, but I couldn’t stand the thought of processing right now. It was too fucking exhausting. Right now I wanted to believe that I was somehow too enlightened to need what Jaci had given me, and that I was completely comfortable with everything. I had to be nonchalant, and I had to fuck.

“Bathroom!” I said again, this time my voice came out harder than I intended. I slung my purse over my body so the cock was obscured again, picked up my book, and slid out of the booth. I led the way to the bathroom.

There was a woman leaving by the time we got back there. I smiled at her as my lover and I both went in, when there was obviously only one toilet.

I closed the door behind Jaci and pushed them against it. I moved my face close to theirs and we both opened our mouths slightly, but I didn’t move in for a kiss. They shifted forward, and I backed away, reaching down and pulling the leather jacket off of their shoulders instead. Then I pulled their t-shirt out of their pants, and yanked it and their binder up, exposing their chest. The binder left bright red welts behind. These, I kissed. They moaned and their face went slack and serious the way it does. I bit their nipples the way I do. I could do this for hours, with my teeth and my tongue. The taste, like nothing, and like everything. I liked to put my tongue in every cleft, under those tits and between them, still half compressed into firmness by the binder, like the skin of a plum. I bit, leaving red ovals. They were leaning against the door now and I reached down between their legs to feel their cunt’s warmth through the denim. I squeezed and they made a beautiful little sound.

I felt around for their belt buckle, and when I hesitated, they unbuckled it for me and opened their jeans. I pulled their pants and boxers down a bit, just to their thighs. The angle would be … suboptimal … but enough. I knelt down in front of them, the threads of my fishnets pressed into my knees, the floor dirty. I inhaled their cunt for a moment before giving the small mound the same as I’d given their tits, biting and teasing and kissing, covering it with attention before I worked my way to their slit. I wouldn’t be able to fuck them this way, but I took a long, delightful taste, pushing my tongue between their lips to find the wetness and the familiar flavors I loved. I reached their clit and a small wave washed over both of us. For a time, I just moved my head back and forth, my tongue rubbing their clit. When I felt their knees get a little bit weak, I jerked away and stood up.

They looked at me like a helpless creature.

They reached for me, tentatively, their hand moving toward the V of my wrap dress and the fluorescent pink bra that was starting to peek out. I slapped it away, hard, liking the sound.

“No. Not allowed anymore, remember?”

They drew their hands back. I adjusted the front of my dress to reveal as little as possible.

Then I put my fingers in their short hair again and pulled. Not gentle or comforting this time. I grabbed a fistful of gray hair and with the other hand pulled off their jacket. Not letting go, I turned them around and pushed their face hard against the door. With the other hand, I touched their ass. I squeezed, hard, until they whimpered. There would be a nice bruise there tomorrow. I wondered who would see it. I worked my hand between their legs and touched their cunt for a time, and they moved against me.

“You’re not coming. Not this way.” I took my hand away and they whined.

I pulled open the front of my dress, pulled down the fishnets a little, and let my big silicone cock bob out, pointing at that round ass. I reached into my purse and groped for a small packet of lube. I didn’t want to let go of their hair, so I opened it with my teeth and awkwardly squirted it into my hand. I rubbed some of it on my cock, and, with the rest, I started massaging their tight little asshole. They moaned and it did not take much of my massage before I felt their asshole relax enough for me to put a finger in. I fucked them like this until they moaned and said, “Now.”

Then I put the head of my cock against their asshole. There was the smallest resistance at first, and then it slid in easily. They moaned a little louder.

“Shut the fuck up or we’ll get kicked out,” I said in a stage whisper and I started pumping them slowly at first. I let go of the hair and held their hips. Their belt, still hanging from their pants, jingled a bit in time with our rhythm. The sound evoked a vestigial response in my cunt, from the days when the sound that belt made meant they’d use it.

I fucked them until I got lost in the fucking and forgot where we were, why we were there, and what they’d come to say. Then I pulled their hips as close to me as they would go and reached around with my other, unlubed hand, for their clit. I rubbed it in circles, my cock still deep in their ass, until they tensed and shuddered and came, not quietly enough at all. I pulled their body against mine, to keep them steady, to keep them from falling on the floor. I wanted to be their strength for a little bit longer. I held them for a while and then pulled my cock out. They winced at this. It was the end of a connection.

“We’ll be okay,” I said. We wouldn’t. The new girlfriend would find out, would become insecure with having me in the mix, and eventually even a friendship would become impossible. This would be the last time I’d see Jaci alone.

“My hair looks terrible,” they said, running a casual hand through it before pulling up their jeans and reaching for their jacket. They walked out of the bathroom, briefly meeting my eyes in the bathroom mirror.

I stayed and looked at myself. My skin looked grayish in the shitty light, my eyeliner was smudged. I wrapped the dildo in a plastic bag and stuffed it into my purse. Then I washed my hands and carefully tended to my face, gently drawing new lines around my eyes. I added some sparkles to my eyes, put on lotion and dabbed perfume on my wrists. There is something beautiful and strong about stone, I thought.