A Good Beating, Guest Post by Xan West

This story contains: consensual kink including pain play, rough body play, boot play, edge play, D/s, playing with rage.

an excerpt from Shocking Violet

for Edith, who helped immensely in the eleventh hour

Hunter was one of those older leathermen who didn’t use the word play, called his scenes sessions, and took himself extremely seriously. Zak was certain he had never seen him smile.

This was one of the zillion ways that leather life would make no sense to outsiders. He’d never call Hunter a fuck buddy…because they would never be buddies. (Or fuck, for that matter.) But once a month, he beat the snot out of Zak for a couple hours. They’d been doing this for two years, and it was one of the steady constants that kept Zak going. He needed this.

He’d been surprised when Hunter approached him, because silver fox muscled cis leathermen didn’t generally line up to play with thirtysomething fat trans guys in thick glasses who were more cute than handsome. It had been a few weeks after Sam and Neo had dumped him. His friends had dragged Zak to the Eagle with them, even though he was absolutely certain he had “just dumped” stamped on his forehead and would be terrible company.

He’d seen Hunter around, of course, with his perfectly trimmed silver beard and well-used, extremely well-kept leathers. Zak knew his reputation as a heavy top who was very serious and respectful, and wanted no romance and no sex in his kink. But he was shocked as hell when Hunter approached him before he’d even ordered his usual seltzer, and had said, “You look like you could use a good beating.”

Zak was demiro and gray-ace, and had considered approaching Hunter for play, even though they’d never spoken. He’d thought Hunter would be a good fit, because of his boundaries around romance and sex. When they’d negotiated, Hunter had lead off with “I want to be real clear about something. I’m aroace, do you know what that means?” And Zak had sighed with relief, before sharing his own a-spec IDs. He’d never played with another a-spec person before, and that had him even more excited than the prospect of a good beating.

Though Zak had definitely needed a good beating that night. He’d needed to have the snot beaten out of him so damn badly. It was the best way to find his mad, which was blanketed over with numbness.

He needed a good beating today too. Needed the pain, and the intensity, and just the sheer physicality of it, as a way to move some of what had gotten stuck last night. All that rage he’d had to control when he was facing down Rickie’s asshole of an ex. He needed a way to let some of that out, or it would eat at him.

Sessions with Hunter gave him a way to release some of his rage. For all his formality, he was perfectly fine with Zak screaming, sobbing, and cursing him out. As long as Zak took everything he could, pushed himself, Hunter was happy. He actually seemed to like it when Zak cursed at him, though he would never smile. But his eyes would get this gleam…Zak was pretty sure Hunter was happiest when Zak called him a fucking asshole. What more could he ask for, really? It was rare to find a top that was up for that.

The first Sunday of the month at 1pm, Zak would show up at Hunter’s fancy place in DUMBO, to be methodically taken apart in the man’s living room. After all this time, his body knew what was coming, and was already running on adrenaline before he rang the bell. Hunter was in his full leathers, like always. The only thing that ever changed was the boots. Today it was Wesco Jobmasters, with red stitching, and Zak had a hard time paying attention to anything else for a moment because they were so beautiful. Those treads were going to feel so good.

After greeting Zak, and leading him to the living room, Hunter picked up his very fluffy light grey cat, Melisande. (Zak suspected, but had never confirmed, that she was named after the character in Kushiel’s Dart.) Hunter carried Melisande to her room, crooning to her, telling her she was beautiful and perfect and how very much he adored her. Yes, she had her own room, but of course she liked to roam freely through the apartment (aka her territory). So, when Zak came over for a session, Hunter always set her up in her room and put on Richard Attenborough’s Birds of Paradise for her—it was her favorite video, after all.

When he came back into the living room, he usually slid right into the scene, so Zak shucked down to his boxer briefs and boots, and got himself into headspace. Today was no different; Hunter stalked over and immediately bent him over the side of the couch, yanking his belt from his pants, and proceeded to beat Zak’s back. It was gloriously quick and jarring, and so much of Zak’s most favorite kind of pain all at once, with no traditional warm up at all. Zak couldn’t make words, or even sounds, everything went quiet for this. He was grateful for the couch, for its cool leather pressing into his cheek, the sturdy way it held him. He would not have been able to stand as Hunter poured this gorgeous blaze of pain into him, filled him up with it, methodically, ruthlessly. Yes. This was the way to start, pain swirling into every bit of him so there was nothing else at all. Nothing but the searing wonder of this.

This was the way they began, the way they re-learned each other, tested each other. Abundance, right from the start, a foundation of things to come. It would build and build until Zak bent, like always, and let the first drops of whatever was stuck, out. That meant tears. Sometimes it took 3 minutes of the belt, and sometimes it took 30. It rarely took more than that for Zak to let go. For Zak’s body, and psyche, to take in the reality that he could have as much pain as he needed, and that it was okay to let go.

For so many tops, tears were a signal to end a scene. In their sessions, Zak’s tears were a signal it was really beginning. It took a wonderfully long time to make a crack in the dam today. Such an incredible relief when it finally came, and the sobs were drawn from his body by the inexorable, patient blows of the belt he loved dearly.

It made him so angry to cry. He had always hated it, and most especially hated doing it in front of other people. That’s why this worked, tears were the best way to create an entry point for the rage. Hunter pulled Zak up to stand, and marched him over to the exposed brick wall he had in his fucking living room. That wall was the height of self-indulgence, and a marker of wealth funneled into kinky purpose. Hunter wanted a brick wall in his living room to slam boys into, so he made it happen. And really, who was Zak to complain? It felt so damned good, the roughness of the brick against the welts on his back.

Hunter was done with the belt. He put on his gloves, then pulled his leather sap from his back pocket, fitting the strap onto his hand as if he had all the time in the world. Which, Zak supposed, he did. They were on Hunter’s timetable now. Where he got to be patient and precise, and use as much thud as he wanted. Sting cracked the dam, but thud…thud pissed Zak the fuck off, so much that he let his rage flood out.

Zak thrust his chin out, anticipating what came next. When Hunter put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place, and met his gaze, Zak glared. Hunter nodded, and began, the blows slow and methodical, driving into Zak’s bicep. They were jarring, in a deep way, made Zak feel off balance, even with the wall behind him and Hunter’s hand bracing him. The off balance was inside, this sense of being trapped and needing to prove himself and bubbling rage, already sparked by the tears still drying on his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he spit into Hunter’s face. The man simply hit him harder, making it very clear that he was barely using his strength at all, didn’t need to, as the lead inside the sap did the work for him. Heat built under the pounding, bruises were blooming. Hunter was fucking relentless. The ball of anger grew inside him, the more Zak stood there, and took it, and glared; and Hunter’s face was this completely fucking inscrutable wall for Zak to throw himself against. Steady, constant, dependably there, poking and poking until Zak exploded, knowing that Hunter would stay steady all the way through, hold all of it.

Zak hated and loved Hunter’s inscrutability, because it made so much fucking room, because it meant that Zak had no impact. It wasn’t real, of course. He’d seen the man be completely gooey over his cat. He knew Hunter was deeply committed to raising as much money as he possibly could for AIDS research, and matched donations at the big leather fundraiser for it every single year. Hunter had a sweet queerplatonic partner named Xavier, who lived with him and whom he loved dearly, who always brought Zak a blanket, water, cocoa and cookies at the end of a session.

He knew Hunter wasn’t actually who he presented as during sessions. He might not smile, but outside of topspace he was affectionate toward Zak, and caring, offering an ear for whatever might pour out after a scene, checking on him at least once a day for a few days afterward. His inscrutability was a tool, one that suited his style as a top, one he offered to Zak along with his beautiful methodical sadism. Zak knew all of that, but in the middle of a beating, it floated away; he got to just have the room and the goad that it made for him.

Hunter began to knee Zak in the thigh. It forced Zak to concentrate, because his body wanted to curl in to protect itself. It made him grit his teeth and curse, focusing on staying still for it. There was nothing like rough body play to get his mad going, and he began to spit out curses incessantly, as Hunter drove his knee into his thighs, his fist into Zak’s pecs, in an irregular pattern that Zak couldn’t quite catch up to enough to predict. He just dug his boots into the floor and clenched his fists, so he wouldn’t inadvertently fight back.

That was the thing about allowing rage to build, it still demanded that he control the course of it; as adrenaline flooded him and emotion drove him, he was in charge. That’s part of what made it such a rush, because as much as he was now flooding Hunter’s living room with shouted curses, he wasn’t battling Hunter at all. He was fighting for control over his rage. Not by bottling it up, but by releasing it in exactly the way that he chose.

He focused on making sure his shoulders were back, his legs were steady, his chin was raised, as he glared into Hunter’s face and called him a fucking asshole for doing this to him. He saw that gleam in Hunter’s eyes that told him the man was pleased, and bared his teeth in satisfaction. Then, just as he caught himself swaying, and gripped the wall to steady himself, Hunter told him to lie on his back on the floor. The man was a fucking hawk. Nothing got past him. He always made Zak stand until he just fucking couldn’t anymore.

The floor was cool and hard and perfect against the welts on his back. Zak knew what was coming next. He was going to get to feel the treads of those spectacular boots. Not right away, though. First, Hunter began to kick, driving his boots into Zak’s arms, then his thighs, circling, delivering blow after shattering blow.

Being on the floor, with this miracle of a top towering over him, kicking him, made Zak more aware of his helplessness than anything else ever did. If there was one thing guaranteed to bring out his rage, it was that kind of awareness. This feeling was what had filled him last night, that there were things he could not control, however desperately he wanted to. That was what he had to release. So he concentrated on it, feeling it build inside him, this terrible rage-inducing feeling, as Hunter stoked it with every single blow.

He was screaming incoherent rage at Hunter, had lost words at this point, was just screaming and screaming, even though his throat was hoarse, and Hunter kept going until Zak’s voice was nearly gone altogether, before he lifted his boot, and ground it into Zak’s thigh. Zak felt himself growl, as he glared up at Hunter, who nodded, and, bracing himself on the wall, lifted his other boot, so his entire weight was on Zak’s thighs. Then he slowly, methodically, began to grind first one boot, then the other, into Zak, whose growl turned into a sob, and transformed into a shout.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!” Zak shouted at full volume, before breaking into sobs again. Hunter slowly removed his weight, then sank into his chair nearby, and crooked his finger at Zak, who crawled over to him, and grabbed onto his boots like they were a fucking lifeline. He kept on sobbing, Hunter’s hand stroking his hair, until he was spent. Then he just lay there for a good long while, his cheek pressed into Hunter’s boot, enjoying the man’s hand in his hair.

He raised his head finally, and Hunter told him to sit at his feet and drink some water. Zak sat between Hunter’s thighs, drank the water Xavier gave him, and listened, as Hunter told him what a good boy he had been, how brave and strong, and how much he had pushed himself, but Hunter knew he would, that was one of the things Hunter liked most about their sessions, and that was why he’d chosen to wear his new boots for the first time with Zak. Because Zak had earned this. His tears should be the first ones to touch them.

Zak breathed that in, wanting to set this memory in his mind as one he could draw on whenever he doubted his own strength. It was a beautiful gift, and he thanked Hunter for the honor and babbled a bit about how beautiful the boots were. Then he let Xavier fuss at him, and wrap him in a blanket, and concentrated on drinking his cocoa and eating his cookies—Xavier had baked the gluten free almond ones that he loved. As Zak focused on sweets, Hunter drank his own water and leaned into Xavier, who stood next to his chair, a pillar of support, telling him about the dinner he’d made for them.

Back Seat Brat, Guest Post by Jack Stratton

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?” I laughed.

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

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

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

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

I laughed nervously.

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

I swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fisting Practice (Asher & Jesse #2)

When we last left Asher & Jesse, Asher had just revealed her inclination to kink, and Jesse was left pondering: Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

Asher’s lips still taste like cream and orange. Jesse pushes her hands up over her head and shoved her backward onto the many throw pillows covering Asher’s bed, a soft easy landing. Asher keeps her thighs pressed together. She rubs them against each other, feeling the smoothness where she’d shaved, the softness, the tenderness. Jesse tries to nudge her legs open with her jean-clad knees, still using both hands to hold Asher’s hands onto the pillow. Asher presses back against Jesse, and Jesse could tell Asher would squirm away if she didn’t hold her arms there. Not because she didn’t want it, Jesse kept reminding herself. It’s like what Asher had told her earlier: “If I squirm, it’s because I want more—I want you to hold me down harder.”

Those words echoed as Jesse searches for a way to hold Asher’s hands and open her thighs simultaneously. Asher’s skirt was riding up and Jesse wanted to kiss her thick thighs, bite into the tenderest places, wanted to run her lips along her skin, wanted hands everywhere.

Jesse spies a thin scarf, a decorative slip of fabric, on Asher’s headboard and reaches for it, wrapping it easily around Asher’s wrists as she holds Asher’s body down with her own weight. Asher easily weighed more than she did, she could’ve forced Jesse off of her. She didn’t want to, Jesse kept reminding herself. Jesse doesn’t know much about formal bondage stuff, but she easily secures the scarf to Asher’s headboard.

“Hey—what are you—” Asher pulls at the restraints and her eyes flash, supple and desire and smoldering. She bites at her lip a little and shifts her body under Jesse’s. “Um, what are you going to do with me now?”

“Whatever I want, I think,” Jesse replies softly, tracing her hands with the lightest whisper touches over Asher’s exposed thighs. “God, I want to touch you for hours. Drive you wild. Hear you beg to come. You like to beg, don’t you, Asher? I bet you do.”

Asher whimpers a little. The touches, the words. “Yes,” she breathes.

“Yes what?”

“Yes … sir?” Asher tries.

Jesse actually laughs. It isn’t what she was going for, but she would take it. She even kind of likes it. It makes her feel hot, and in charge, and strong. “I want to hear you say it. You like to beg for your orgasms.”

“I like to beg for my orgasms, sir. I like when someone tells me I can come. When I earn it.”

Jesse drags her fingers over the tops of Asher’s thighs, brushing closer and closer to Asher’s underwear. With each brush she moves Asher’s skirt a little farther up. She can see the smallest strip of solid grey lace.

“And you want me to tell you when you can come.”

“Yes, yes I do. Please Jesse, tell me,” Asher’s voice drops, quiet and smaller, that vulnerable sweetness of revealing something deeply treasured.

“What else do you want?” Jesse asks, palms on Asher’s thighs.

“I want your fingers, I want your touch on me. In me. All of it. Fuck. Fill me up, Jesse—please, I can’t take it, please I want it.”

“You want … my fingers?” Jesse rubs the delicate fabric between her legs.

“Your whole hand, your fist, all the way in me, please!” She stops writhing to catch Jesse’s eye. “Have you … can you?”

Jesse looks a little sheepish. “I haven’t, not exactly … but I can. I know how.” She’d been fisted before, and she’d tried it a variety of times, even getting all five fingers in, but she could never quite get her hand in past her knuckles, the thickest part. Asher, though … Asher had already told her that she was experienced. Maybe she could do it. Jesse hadn’t even touched her cunt yet, but she thought it was possible. Not only because Jesse’s hands were so small and Asher’s body was so much bigger and thicker and more pliable than Jesse’s … but something in the energy, something in how much Asher wanted it and how much Jesse herself wanted it told Jesse that she would fit inside and nestle there, that Asher could press and squirm all she wanted, and that she would.

Jesse dives back in to Asher, and her body, and her responses to Jesse’s touch. Now that Asher’s hands are bound, Jesse can use both of her hands to push her thighs open, pinching them a little, not giving Asher much of a choice. Asher resists and squirms and cries out and finally gives in, opens her legs a little more, just enough for Jesse to cup her holes and for Asher to relax and breathe and sigh and simmer. Jesse teases her on the outside of those grey lace panties. Her lips feel slick already, swollen. Jesse traces the contours and imagines what’s underneath. “Can I … ?”

Asher lifts her hips, and nods. “Uh huh.”

Jesse slides the grey lace down her legs, slowly, and uses her fingertips to trace thin lines up and down her legs. So fucking sexy. Those legs she’s stared at in class, those thighs she’s watched cross when she sits and switch when she walks. Jesse can smell a little bit of Asher’s wetness, just a faint hint of sweet and musk that made Jesse want to dive forward and tongue the source. She trails back up Asher’s legs and pushes between her knees, pressing her knees apart even farther, and looks at her exposed pussy.

It takes restraint, but finally Jesse asks, “Gloves?” When they talked about it earlier, Asher said she wanted to use them. That she kept some on hand, ha ha, just in case.

“In the nightstand. In the bottom,” Asher says. Jesse finds gloves and lube, a big bottle, from the little cupboard in the dark wood bedside table, and snaps one on her right hand with ease. She doesn’t usually use gloves, but she doesn’t mind them. Plus, she read somewhere that it was easier to fist with gloves on, since the lube wouldn’t absorb into her own skin.

Hand covered, she gets back in place between Asher’s knees and gently cups Asher’s cunt again, letting her palm move softly against Asher’s lips. Her tissues are darker than the skin on her thighs, nearly black curly hair all along her cunt and spilling onto her thighs and belly, unashamed and unrestrained. Asher sighs and presses against Jesse’s hand, and Jesse moves her fingers, slick, over the folds and contours of Asher’s cunt. One finger tucked in, to the first joint, just tracing the lines around Asher’s opening, looping around her clit, figure eights and circles.

Asher moans. “More, please more, there, just there—” And Jesse pauses, staysthere, flicks with her fingertip. Asher shifts against the scarf tying her to the headboard and presses her hips up. Fuck, Jesse wants to use her mouth. Patience, patience, go slow, take it easy. There will be other times, if I’m lucky.

Jesse teases and tickles, tips of her fingers fluttering, rolling Asher’s lips between her fingers, pinching just enough for sensation. “God, you’re so good at this,” Asher sighs, breathing hard. “Please, please Jesse …”

“What?” Jesse circles around Asher’s cunt without sliding in, touching the pad of her finger to the opening but not pushing.

Asher moves her hips but can’t make Jesse do it. “Fuck!” she swears. “Just please, go inside, please, I want it!”

Jesse dips her head so Asher can’t see her grin, and offers her finger with a little more pressure. Asher envelops it immediately, pushing down, moaning in relief and pleasure, “Mmmmmm.”

Still, Jesse lets Asher call the shots. She can feel Asher’s pulse, can feel her walls tighten and relax around her, testing the fullness. Then she starts moving her hips a little again, and Jesse moves too, testing the pressure in different places inside, pausing when Asher seems to respond particularly deliciously. It doesn’t take long for Asher to ask for more.

“What do you say, then?”

“Please. Please Jesse, please may I have another finger, two more, please, more, and harder, please! Ohh!” Jesse has another finger in and sliding before Asher is even done pleading. She drips a good dollop of lube onto her fingers where they meet Asher’s cunt and use the friction to work the lube around. It’s slicker now, and easier to slide in and out. Jesse thinks Asher might bust out of the dress entirely, she really should have taken it off of her before they started in on … this, but she was just so eager, they both were.

“Come up here, kiss me,” Asher whispers. Jesse lays her body out over Asher’s and tastes her mouth again, both of them nearly panting, lips tender, practically sparking when they touch. Jesse keeps her fingers sliding inside, one knee between Asher’s, fitting together like sliding a chair under a table. “I like the way you taste,” breathes Asher, lips still touching Jesse’s.

“Please, more Jesse, please.”

She did say she liked to beg. Jesse didn’t know how much she liked hearing Asher beg, but fuck, she knew now.

Jesse slid a third, but just as easily tucked her littlest finger under and slid the fourth in too. Easy where they are all bundled together, but more intense when Jesse gets them in up to her knuckles. Asher contracts around the girth, but then opens. Jesse adds more lube, then settles back on top of Asher, nestled against her breasts and belly, dress still tight over her skin. If the zipper or buttons had been in the front, Jesse would have torn at them until they’d popped. Probably better that they aren’t.

When her knuckles slide in, Asher’s eyes open, mouth opens, cunt opens, and something in her relaxes, Jesse can practically see it unwind and settle. Jesse can’t get her thumb in at this angle, but she can, she knows she can, she can feel the space inside of Asher expand and it just feels so empty, she can tell how good it would feel, how easy it would be to tuck her thumb and curl her fingers and fit.

Jesse slides back down Asher’s body to have a better angle for her wrist, kissing her through her clothes, biting at her breasts through her grey dress, finding her nipple hard and using her teeth so she can really feel it.

“Fuck me, please fuck me, please,” Asher starts saying it like a mantra, like a prayer, coinciding with breath and motion. Jesse pours more lube. More than she needed, probably, but she liked to be safe. The black glove is completely covered, wet and shiny.

They make eye contact. Asher nods, eyes still pleading. “I want it.” Almost a whisper. And Jesse tightens her fingers into an arrow, tucks her thumb, and slides in to the wrist, all the way.

“Ohhh godddd,” Asher groans in release, splaying open even wider, sinking into the throw pillows. Jesse is still for a few moments, until Asher starts moving her hips again, then Jesse moves with her, experimenting with moving her knuckles into Asher’s g-spot and fingers against her cervix.

“Can you—can you reach my wrists, can you untie me? I mean, without taking your hand away,” Asher asks.

Jesse reaches up with her left hand. “Yeah,” she says, and starts untying the bind.

“Do you mind, is it okay if I … help?”

Jesse grinned, stretching her shoulder a little farther to more easily reach. Kind of tricky with just one hand, but the knot wasn’t exactly complicated. She manages to loosen it enough so Asher’s hands slip out. “Mmm I don’t mind at all.”

Asher, shyly, reaches her right hand down her body and to her own cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling Jesse’s whole hand still snug inside. She circles it a moment and then settles her fingers at her clit, pinching and pulling her lips, using a lot of pressure. She even slaps it once, twice, harder than Jesse would have done.

From inside, Jesse can feel her tighten, then soften, and tighten again. Asher gets bolder and starts showing off, looking right into Jesse’s eyes, tongue flicking over her lips, scraping her teeth along them. Her breathing gets heavy and faster, her chest moves up and down as she thrusts with her hips, pressing hard onto Jesse’s hand, fingers rubbing back and forth so quickly, faster, harder, until she contracts so hard she pushes Jesse’s hand out from inside her and practically screams out, yelling, as her body curls and her thighs press together, coming. Jesse leaves her fingers gently touching, just the longest ones still inside to the first knuckle, just so it doesn’t feel like a shocking emptiness. Asher reaches out and wraps her arms around Jesse’s shoulders, and pulls her back on top of her body, holding as her body settles.

Asher giggles and nuzzles into Jesse, sighing. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you!” She can’t quite make words or sentences work yet. Jesse finds it adorable. There is quite a rush in making a girl as put-together as Asher come … undone.

They chat for a little while, that pillow-talk of lovers in whispers and murmurs, breathing each other’s breath and feeling each other’s skin, still electric and sultry. Asher brightens and her brain and body come back into alignment. She wiggles out from under Jesse and props herself up on her elbows, taking Jesse’s hands into hers and marveling at their smoothness, their square fingertips, their lines and patterns, the callouses on her thumb and middle finger, the scar on her knuckles.

Asher gets all squirmy and Jesse catches her looking. “Butch hands,” Asher explains, as if that makes things clearer. Jesse raises her eyebrows. “Or, I mean, genderqueer androgynous masculine-of-center whatever gender word you prefer hands.”

Jesse laughs. “Butch is okay. Seems kind of old school I guess. Mostly people call me a ‘baby butch,’ I don’t like that much.”

“Yeah. You’re not babyish.”

“Mmhm.” Jesse is trying to form the words of a looming question in her brain.

“Something … on your mind?” Asher asks.

“It’s just … um, how do you feel about strap-ons? Or, blow jobs?” Jesse looks down and blushes a little. Asher grins, and dives into her arms, kissing her hard.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Handling Her (Asher & Jesse #1)

Wait for me after class?

Jesse’s heart pounds. That’s all the note says, but she knows it’s from Asher. Asher, who is deliberately not paying any attention to Jesse, even though Jesse positioned herself on the end of the second row in the lecture hall, on the side closest to where Asher usually passes around the handouts. Asher, whose dress is just a little shorter than is probably appropriate for college, especially for a Teaching Assistant, but whose tight grey pencil-skirt dress, long dark hair pulled up in a bun, red lipstick, and cat-eye glasses are fueling a variety of teacher-student fantasies in the room right now. Asher, who has been biting the insides of her lips thinking about Jesse’s hands, the smoothness of the palms, the skin on her fingers kind of rough, the way they’ll feel in her mouth.

Trying not to squirm, Jesse tries to slide the note into her skinny jeans with nonchalance.

No big deal. I’ll just wait. For Asher. After class.

She tries to focus on the psychology handout that Asher dropped on her desk with the note. Her fingernails were painted a soft shade of pink, the same as the accents on the grey dress. Asher didn’t look at her. The note was a stealth move. Ash’s handwriting is tight and fine cursive—the t and the f are loopy but compact. Her fingers are deft and precise, dropping the note with the handout and moving on to the next desk without another glance.

Jesse barely hears the rest of Ms. Bell’s lecture. She watches the slides and takes notes, but all she can think about is Asher. Asher’s lips when they kissed yesterday. The way she tasted like oranges and cream. Probably that was her lip gloss, otherwise how would her lips have been shimmering? Asher’s hair spread out in the grass under the cherry blossom trees in the quad. How Asher kept smiling and laughing at Jesse’s stupid jokes.

All the students start rustling their books and notebooks and backpacks when the clock gets around to 1:20pm, and Ms. Bell raises her voice over the noise to remind them to read chapter 6 by Thursday. Jesse delays packing up her things—the thick hardback course textbook, her blue spiral notebook with PSYCH 201 written in big sharpie letters on the cover, her Slingshot day planner, a pack of Post-Its of various sizes and colors to use to make notes in the textbook, and her pencil case, which actually only has one pencil in it, for when the professors insist on marking up a text. She slides them one at a time, deliberately, into the brown canvas shoulder bag, shifting around the granola bars (which had fallen to the bottom) so they wouldn’t get smashed. She leaves a pen in the groove on the desk, one of her non-important ones, a blue Bic with a chewed up end.

Asher’s note, she tucks into her Slingshot, where all the important things go.

Jesse goes into the girl’s bathroom across the hall and waits with a few of the other Psych 201 students. They are prattling on about lacrosse and don’t stop talking to each other even when they go into the stalls. Jesse pulls the strap on her bag tight, hangs it on the back of the door when it’s her turn, washes her hands, dries them on her jeans, and goes back out into the hall. A few classmates are left at the end of the hall, but mostly they’re clearing out. Jesse peeks in the door of the classroom. Asher and the other two TAs, including Bryan, who is the TA of Jesse’s section C, are still in there talking to Ms. Bell and gathering the paperwork. The last two students leave the room. Jesse takes a deep breath, and walks in.

“Forgot my pen,” mumbles Jesse when Ms. Bell turns to look at who has entered. Bryan is saying something about grading tests. Jesse returns to the desk she was sitting in and looks around, setting her bag in the chair next to her. She doesn’t look at Asher. She pulls up her jeans and crouches down to look more carefully on the floor.

“I like a girl on her knees,” Asher says suddenly, loudly. Jesse nearly falls over. She stands, and Asher has the blue Bic in her hand, standing right next to the desk. The rest of the room is empty. Jesse is sweating and blushing and maybe has to pee all at once.

Asher laughs. “I’m going to get a snack at By George. Come with.”

“Okay. I, uh, I’d like that.” Jesse stands and shoulders her bag. Asher hands her the pen, leaving her fingers on it so they touch Jesse’s when she reaches out to take it, and leans in to touch her lips to Jesse’s cheek. Jesse puts her sweaty palm on the desk to keep her knees from giving out.

Asher doesn’t carry a bag, just the plain file folder stuffed with paper and the course’s textbook in a pile. She’s tucked a pen and a pencil into the bun on the back of her head. She has a purse slung around one shoulder, but it probably holds little more than a paperback book.

“I’m glad you waited,” Asher knocks Jesse with her hip when they get out of the grassy quad and to the slick bricks of red square. It was raining this morning and the ground still isn’t dry.

“I’m glad you asked me to,” Jesse knocks Asher back. She had the urge to wrap her arms around Asher and kiss her, hard; to push her against the side of the building and hold her arms above her head.

Asher talks a little on the short walk to the cafe; Jesse mostly listens, swallowing down a few words here and there, unsure if they sounded smart enough. Jesse picks out a Sprite when they go through the cafe line, and Asher gets a paper basket of french fries and a root beer. They find a table over by the window, away from the groups of students who have pushed tables together, being rowdy.

Asher puts her tan tray down on the table and before she’s even sat down, she says, “I have to tell you something.”

Jesse’s knee is folded under her on the chair and she’s lowering herself down to sit, but she slows, looking up at Asher, still standing. “Okay?”

“I just …” Asher sucks in a breath, and sits down, then fingers two fries and pops them in her mouth, chewing. Jesse tentatively reaches into her bag for the peanut butter granola bar, still watching Asher, who is staring out the window. Asher fingers the straw in her root beer, taking a few sips, leaving a ring of red lipstick on the straw.

“I like you,” Asher starts, leaving the last word hanging.

Jesse thinks that isn’t the thing she’s trying to say, and waits for Asher to finish. She realizes she’s holding her breath. After a few too many moments of silence, Jesse says quietly, “I like you, too.”

With a quick glance at Jesse, Asher hurries on like she was interrupted. “But I want you to know. I am … I’m pretty kinky. I just have to—. Tell you.”

Jesse gulps. Kinky? Oh. That’s what she was trying to say? … Isn’t everybody kind of kinky?

Asher keeps staring at her fries. “My last girlfriend, we didn’t work out because I wanted things that she, she didn’t. I don’t really want that to happen again,” she says quietly, the pain of that loss still evident. Who knows how long ago that was, or how long they were together. Years? Were they married? What did Asher want to do that the ex didn’t? Could Jesse be that for Asher?

But that’s it. Asher lets out the breath she’s been holding and munches a few more fries. Jesse ponders what Asher has revealed. “That doesn’t … that doesn’t bother me. I mean, okay. I like some of that stuff too, I think. I haven’t … I don’t really know what to do, all the time, but I like to try things.”

Asher gazes a little sideways at Jesse across the table. “Are you … I’m not sure you could handle it. Me.”

Something about how Asher said it made Jesse think she was sad about that, or vulnerable. Like she wanted someone to handle it. Her. And that little glimpse of softness gave Jesse a thrill. She leaned forward just a little, whispered, “Maybe you should try me before you decide,” and snapped open her can of Sprite, which fizzed in response.

Jesse took a swig and Asher’s face relaxed, breathing out hard like a half-laugh and smiling. She regarded Jesse again, in that way of hers that made Jesse feel like Ash’s hazel-gold eyes had x-ray vision. “Alright,” she says, considering. “Maybe I should.”

But maybe I’m wrong! Jesse’s mind suddenly screamed. Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

The Great Reader Mini-Interview, Part Four: “Shut up and get hit,” Communion, and fun erotica

What’s your relationship with sugarbutch.net and Sinclair?

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(As a brief addendum, I publish the above blog anonymously! I’d love others to see it, but am a little nervous, as I have a fairly conservative day life. How have you reconciled your public and private lives intersecting? I’m always curious.)

I’ve been reading you on and off for about four years now. I love your erotic writing and, as a fellow butch, have felt a kindred sense of discovery with you as I’ve come into my own. It’s refreshing to read your perspective as it mirrors some of my own experiences.

PS: I saw that you were attending QI in Hartford. So am I, and fuck, I’d love to suck your cock.

—J, http://camionneuse.wordpress.com

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Started reading 4-5 years ago. Most frequently repeated quote: “shut up and get hit.” Seriously, your life. Never stop writing about it for public consumption.

—Simon Hoardash

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I just came across Sugarbutch a week or two ago, and wish I’d found you sooner! I’ve been skimming through your archives whenever I have some free time. I’ve been thinking about sex/uality, gender, and relationships a lot lately, and thirsting for more discussion of them. I’m especially interested in the D/s dynamic since that’s something I’m currently exploring, from a framework of being queer, poly, and in committed partnerships with two people of different genders. And of course I love your dirty stories.

—elspeth, https://fetlife.com/users/2485909

What advice would you give your younger self about sex, gender, or relationships?

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ohgod. calm down. it’s okay to not know (anything). thinking too much about what other people are thinking (and inventing what you think they are thinking/feeling/doing) is the absolute fastest way to create totally unnecessary drama. if you don’t know, ask. when you can identify that you are making an assumption, especially about what someone else is thinking/feeing/wanting, STOP IT, and ask.

—Kat Heatherington — http://yarrowkat.livejournal.com

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That my pleasure in and relationship with my body is the starting point of sex, not an extra. That it should be closer to communion (with self and other) than performance (totally externally focused) in order to be nourishing. I would congratulate myself on not shaming myself about trying lots of things, and suggest not shaming myself about my body shape. I’d suggest trying less hard to please unattainable people, and know that such advice at that time in my life would have meant nothing to me.

—Shereen, http://twitter.com/ShereenSamuels

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Femme is not a bad thing. It’s actually really, really powerful. I know you’ve somehow fallen into the mindset that to be Femme is to be weak or not queer enough, but that’s utter bullshit, darlin. You’ll eventually embrace Femme as an identity, and you’ll finally start to feel as strong and badass as you are. And red lipstick is the best armor you will ever find.

—Ashlee, http://femmeandfists.tumblr.com

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I would leave a link to your website and other queer friendly spaces on my computer for my 18 years old self. I struggled a lot with desire to begin with. I struggled even harder to come to terms with my same sex desires. Feminist and queers spaces have really helped me become a person I much more like.

— Gladys, https://www.facebook.com/gladys.is.awesome

What one resource has had the most impact on you, and why?

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Body Electric. because it has opened me up to listening to myself in a way I have never really done before.

—Kat Heatherington — http://yarrowkat.livejournal.com

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The Artist’s Way. It was such a lovely, creative, non-prescriptive way into figuring out lots of things about myself. Many years ago in my early twenties, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah turned my whole world upside down – even though Richard Bach turned out to be something of a self-involved dick, the book changed how I saw and interacted with the world.

—Shereen, http://twitter.com/ShereenSamuels

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This might be a bit of a cop-out of an answer, but recently, Tumblr has had the biggest impact on me. I’ve found some amazing radical queer people and blogs who’ve all been a big part of helping me shape my activist identity. Tumblr also happens to be full of badass Femmes, gorgeous queer people of all identities, and some really, really fun erotica and smut in general.

—Ashlee, http://femmeandfists.tumblr.com/

Whatever I tell you to do

Before the door is even all the way open, I’m on you, slamming your upper back against the wall in the hallway. I’d been waiting for you. Heard your car outside and keys in the lock. Stayed half-hard all day, waiting for this moment where I could catch you off guard and suddenly, make demands and put forth my needs, use your body.

By way of a welcome home, I growl, “Hey, little boy.”

You whimper and melt into the wall, your knees sinking already, keys still in your hand. I shove you aside and close the door, keeping my forearm across your collarbone. Maybe you try to say hi Daddy, sometimes you do that, you’re supposed to reply audibly to me when I address you, but maybe your mouth says it without any sound behind it, maybe I’m keeping your voice clutched in my fist at your throat right now. You don’t need it. All you need to do is what I make you do.

I take a step back. “Strip.” I say first.

You do. I watch. You hang your jacket and slide your tee shirt over your head. Kick your chucks into the small pile of shoes in the hallway and unbuckle your belt. Click your keys back on to your keychain. The heavyness of the objects in your jeans pockets pull them to the floor without much effort and you let them slide off and step out of them. I stroke my cock, thick and hard already, through my jeans.

When we woke this morning I didn’t get the time I wanted to play with you. Didn’t get to slide inside you and sink into that place where our bodies pull and push in synchronicity, simultaneously out when you’re in, up when you’re down. I don’t understand how it is that we compliment each other so well, but we do. I pulled your hand under the elastic waist of my boxers and made you jerk me off while I whispered stories into your ear, my arm around you, hand gripping your arm or shoulder or whatever I could reach. Jerk it, boy, yeah like that. Harder. Just a little more. That’s just right. But you had to go to work. And I had work to do, too, though my work has less of a clock-in-clock-out factor.

I like missing you. That low pull of longing, of want, is enough to keep me focused and productive when otherwise I might be wallowing. I like wanting you. Always better than having too much and craving space.

I get my most important tasks done and pause through the day to fantasize, just enough to keep me hard but not enough to get off. I want to be wanting when you get here. Maybe the second or third time I do this, the vision forms to take you before you’ve even walked in the door. These scenes come to my mind almost fully formed sometimes, like a film I’m watching rather than something I’m creating. When I wonder what next to do, I just watch and listen for a minute, and it shows up.

You drop your tight white boy briefs next to your jeans and as you’re straightening up, looking at me shy with just a slight shiver in your shoulders, I lock the door behind you and I’m ready. “Down.”

You drop effortlessly, in one fluid movement, and I push your mouth to my zipper before you’re even situated. You lean into my hips and bite at me through my jeans. I lean against the wall and relax forward into your mouth. It’s a relief to have you home. It’s a relief to have your mouth here, wherever I put it. It’s a relief to have that control, a relief to know you’d do it, whatever it is, whatever I told you to do. I don’t need to execute that ability constantly—the knowing that it’s there is relief enough, most of the time.

Except sometimes, when I need to feel you supple and soft, feel you harden when you get it right and fall into the job I set for you to do. Just this. This is all you need to do right now, your mouth your tongue right there, your body relaxed and giving in, giving over, always giving it up to me.

You hum a little through your throat and I feel it vibrate against my cock. I feel the weight of the day, of the work, of the hate mail navigated and the dozens of hustling emails I sent with pleas, draining out of me. I pull up from the earth when I breathe in and try to feel myself empty, ohllowed out, able to be filled. You press the palm of your hand gently against my cunt, just enough for me to feel the pressure. Support, something solid for me to lean into. You catch the head of my cock in your mouth through my jeans and suck just enough for me to swoon. I unbuckle, unzip, pull it out while your hand kneeds my lips swollen and hanging like balls.

You suck me down slow and easy, slide it in, each inch slow until I’m all the way in your throat. “Swallow it down, my good boy, you know how I like it.” The thought of shooting, emptying out right here, pressed deep down into you, makes me shudder. I breathe into it and that rhythm, that rhythm takes me, moves me forward, the rhythm that starts in that bowl in my hips like a quake and starts moving me almost involuntarily, and I slide a little deeper into your throat and you open, open, open.

We writhe and rock and move together for a while. I let the pressure keep building, that pressure that started early this morning before you had to go to work, before we peeled ourselves out of the soft jersey sheets and made coffee and got dressed and were responsible. Or maybe it started when we met, or maybe it started long before we met, maybe it’s just something I have, that craving, that desire for taking and takedown. I watched you go out the door and felt that growl of want, not yet satisfied. What will satisfy me? Even when I get “enough” it isn’t exactly enough, it’s only temporary. I always want more. And you always give more.

“Enough,” I pull out, immediately feeling the lack, the emptiness where I used to feel held. “Hands and knees. Crawl.” I walk to the bedroom and strip, lay out the waterproof sex blanket over the sheet. I almost switch to the bigger cock but decide I want to fuck his ass, so I’ll keep this one on instead.

You’re breathing hard when you get to the doorway. You like crawling. Makes you feel controlled, it’s not something you would do without being ordered to. It makes you tremble and swell. I can see how you are pinkening between your legs.

I pull you up by the chain around your neck (“Up. Come on.”) and onto your stomach on the bed. Your open mouth is against the mattress, biting at the jersey sheet, arms twisted to hold you, ass up, legs splayed open, back curled. You know what’s coming. My thumb against your back hole and you moan and open even further. Your hole is so pretty and shades of rose (sometimes I really understand why erotica stories call it a “rosebud”) and I want to plunge in. I squirt lube right onto your hole, a generous line up my cock, and press . The head is the biggest and thickest, so pronounced on this particular cock, but you push back against me and moan Daddy Daddy and I can do it, we do it together. I go slow even though I want to plunge. I want to feel myself buried to my balls in you. Falling into you. But I restrain, and the tension between what I want and what I do feels palpable. I lean forward, hold my weight off of you while I slide in. Take a bite of your shoulder as my chest melts against yours, still holding my hips up. Slow, slow. Wait. And then you whimper and I feel your skin against the front of my hips and we’re there.

I sink against you. You hold me up.

Ask Me Anything: My Favorite Smut

Meredith asked:

I’m excited for the anthology and your turn at editing. I’ve read some of your other published pieces and of course this blog so it begs the question: What is YOUR favorite smut to read? Got a favorite anthology? Author?

Oh sure, I have a few thoughts about that.

My Secret Garden by Nancy Friday changed my life and was significantly formative to my sexuality. I hunted down a copy in the last year or so and was pleasantly surprised that her opening introduction is still amazing and relevant, though that’s also kind of sad—it was published in 1973, it is almost forty years old, yet the limitations, stereotypes, and restrictions placed on women are still relevant. I wish I still had my teenage copy with the spine broken at all the best places.

Amazing single-author smut books are hard to come by, so the anthologies are easier to mention. I love Doing it for Daddy edited by Patrick Califia, Back to Basics: A Butch/Femme Anthology edited by Therese Szymanski (especially “The Trick” by Amie M. Evans), and Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino—but those are very specific to my butch/femme and daddy orientations, so they might not be your favorites. I adore the stories “Poster Boy” by Carol Queen and “Dress Leather” (one of my favorite short stories ever, of any genre) by Robin Sweeney in Switch Hitters: Lesbians Write Gay Male Erotica and Gay Men Write Lesbian Erotica, edited by Carol Queen & Lawrence Schimel. The stories “Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney and “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato in Best Lesbian Erotica 1998 edited by Taormino were very formative for me, as I started obsessing over lesbian erotica in the late 90s while I was working up the nerve to leave my boyfriend and come out, and they are cock-centric and butch/femme in a way that made me realize that I still had a lot more to explore.

I’ve also been really into the “sudden sex” stories lately, the super short ones. Often the longer short stories feel like they just drag on to me, especially when I just want to pick something up in order to get off and I’m not leisurely reading. Got a Minute?: 60 Second Erotica edited by Alison Tyler and Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex edited by Alison Tyler are great, and Rachel Kramer Bussel just put one out called Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex (which I have a story in, but the book is good regardless). I’d pick up just about anything Rachel publishes, she has great taste and her anthologies are always well done.

    
    

It’s harder for a single author to sustain an entire book, so there aren’t as many of those that I go to when I want inspiration (for writing or for getting off). I am kind of in love with Mr. Benson by John Preston and The Leather Daddy and the Femme by Carol Queen. I have read them both many times. I can’t believe it took me this long to read Mr. Benson.

Cherry by Charlotte Cooper, Breathless by Kitty Tsui, and Macho Sluts or Boy in the Middle by Patrick Califia (or just about anything by Califia, really) are also amazing and worth reading. It’s been a while since I read Cherry but it comes to mind immediately as fun and readable and great.

I also really love Jack Stratton’s stuff at WritingDirty.com, especially What’s in a Name. He’s got an eBook of Writing Dirty volume 1 which I haven’t purchased yet (I should go do that right now), but I’ve read all the pieces on the site (seriously I’m sure I’ve read every single one), so I highly recommend the collection if you’d rather read it on your reader than in a blog-form.

Other things I read online … well, I read a lot of Daddy/girl stories these days. I’ve been quite enjoying the recent Bedtime Stories blog. I still think The Provocateur has some of the best writing ever, but it’s generally more literary and fancy than I turn to when I want to get off. For that, I like the quick and dirty stuff.

Many of these books can be found on my smut bookshelf … and there are more of my favorites in my Amazon A-store.

And now, what about you all? What are your favorite books of smut? Got any recommendations for things that I perhaps haven’t read? What is your go-to story when you want to get off? What do you love in an erotic story?

Train Fantasy

Jiz Lee called Kristen to wish her happy birthday, too, and told this little fantasy about running into each other on a crowded train. Not so far off from the last time we had a drink with Jiz …

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Jiz & Kristen on the subway in New York; I snapped this from across the way
If you don’t know Jiz Lee’s porn work artistry, you are missing out. Check out her work on The Crash Pad Series, follow @jizlee on Twitter or check out her site, Jizlee.com.