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.

Are You Game? Guest Post by Dilo Keith

Moments before my boss arrived on Friday, I sent her a message about an especially troublesome client. It was no longer awkward thinking of Lisa as “boss,” though it had seemed damn weird at first. I had almost asked for a transfer when they assigned me to her team three years ago, but it turned out we functioned better as co-workers than romantic partners. Now we were getting along so well that we had talked about having sex again, or at least exchanging massages. Such intimacies, however, required the permission of her wife-to-be Morgan, otherwise known as “Master M.”

My relationship with Morgan had vastly improved since the day we met. I could recall little about our first encounter other than my embarrassment at calling her “Sir” and the fact that she bore an uncanny resemblance to my senior year math professor, Mr. Foxman. I’d swear she wore the same hat. After they returned from lunch that day, Lisa told me Morgan actually enjoyed being called “Sir”, but didn’t elaborate until weeks later.

Lisa was late and wearing a familiar expression that told me her tardiness had nothing to do with snarled traffic. Damp locks on her forehead suggested she’d been up to something that had required a quick rinse afterwards. I shook my head to clear memories of sweaty morning sex with her curly, mocha brown hair tickling my breasts.

“I hate to wipe that smile off your face,” I said, “but Mr. Harrison left three voice messages.”

“Fuck. I wish he wasn’t a priority.”

The rest of the day was uneventful, enabling Lisa to finish the Harrison project and leave on time. I stayed late to make up for a long lunch break, but was almost out the door when Harrison called with “critical” changes. I hastily assured him we could make them over the weekend, only to realize as I hung up that this meant I had to find Lisa.

She didn’t answer my calls or texts, so I emailed what I could and stuffed the relevant hardcopies into an envelope. Considering her house was on my way home, dropping them off would be quicker than scanning and emailing everything. Two cars were in front of the house she now shared with Morgan, but the doorbell went unanswered. After trying the land line and cell again, I decided this qualified as the sort of emergency in which Lisa wouldn’t mind my using the spare key, something I’d done before. Neither woman answered when I called Lisa’s name from the front hall, and there was no sign of anyone on the first floor. Weighing the urgency of the Harrison project against Lisa and Morgan’s privacy, I cautiously headed upstairs. I assumed they’d be in the bedroom and the most obvious place to leave the folder would be right outside their room.

The bedroom door was closed, fortunately, and I was startled to hear the unmistakable cracks of something solid striking naked flesh, a paddle or maybe a hand. The sound didn’t surprise me intellectually – Lisa’s more intense interest in BDSM was one reason for our incompatibility – but I hadn’t expected to actually hear it right then. Sharper sounds, probably from a whip or crop, followed. I scrawled a note on the envelope and bent down for a discreet delivery that had almost succeeded when my phone slid out of my pocket and thumped against the door.

“Anna – that you already?” Morgan called out, referring to a weekend guest I knew they were expecting.

Shit. “It’s Kylie. Sorry to bother you, but something came up at the office. I was leaving some files.”

“Sounds important. Hold on.” After several seconds, Morgan said, “Come in.”

Knowing Lisa’s proclivities didn’t prepare me for the sight of my beautiful, olive-skinned ex kneeling naked at Morgan’s feet, her wrists in leather cuffs clipped together behind her back. Two stripes across Lisa’s reddened ass confirmed my suspicions regarding what I’d heard. Morgan was fully dressed, the severe uniformity of her black clothes broken only by a splash of color from the bright purple cock sheathed in Lisa’s mouth. I’d frequently imagined myself with Morgan in relatively vanilla versions of this sizzling scene.

Lisa tried to pull back, but Morgan twisted her hand in her dark curls and pulled Lisa more firmly onto her cock. “Lisa’s having trouble speaking at the moment. Go on.”

“I… uh… I mean…” I felt my face warming. “I’m really sorry. It’s Harrison again. I stupidly promised we’d make more revisions this weekend.”

“You were right to come. Do you need Lisa now? Can she call later?”

“Later’s fine. Sorry about this.” I turned to leave.

“Wait,” Morgan said. “I could use a second sub tonight. Interested?”

“Me? A sub?” What had Lisa told her? In our mismatched attempts at kink, I had topped. Even so, something about Morgan’s confidence made obeying her seem perfectly natural. It didn’t hurt that she was solidly built, with muscled arms that I could imagine pulling me into an inescapable embrace, or that she was almost twice my age. Her cropped hair walked a fine line between butch and femme, and her square jaw added an extra hint of toughness.

“I think you’ll do fine.”

No matter how hot she was, I had no interest in getting beaten. “Thanks… no… um, I mean, you know I don’t really do that sort of thing.”

“You don’t even know what ‘sort of thing’ I’d require.”

“I have the general idea.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She might be right, but, fuck, Lisa’s my boss now, and this looks damn private. “Won’t Lisa mind?”

She stroked Lisa’s cheek. “I won’t include Kylie without your consent.”

Lisa nodded – as best she could with a mouthful of dick – and pressed her face into Morgan’s hand.

“Are you sure?”

Lisa glanced at me.

“Is it awkward, considering Kylie works for you?”

Lisa shrugged and nodded. That probably meant “a little”.

“Kylie?” Morgan prompted.

“Nothing will change at the office, boss,” I assured Lisa quickly. “If I join you, that is.”

Lisa nodded again and Morgan caressed her head approvingly. That seemed like my cue.

“Okay, I guess I’m game. I get a safe word or something, don’t I?”

Morgan chuckled. “Sure, but I doubt you’ll need it.”

“How does this work?”

“Follow instructions and be respectful. I won’t hurt you. You may not do anything to Lisa without my permission. She’s not allowed to speak at all. Try not to talk unless I ask you a question or give you an order that requires feedback. If necessary, say something like ‘Please, may I speak?’ You don’t need a safe word – if you’re uncomfortable, say so. Call me ‘Master M’ or ‘Sir’. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then strip. Any delays or interruptions will result in punishment for Lisa, regardless of who’s at fault. Lisa, don’t forget you’re to remain completely silent unless I say otherwise.”

As I hastily peeled off my clothes, Morgan led Lisa to the bed and patted the mattress. “Kneel up here.”

That left Lisa facing away from us, below a pair of chains hanging above the bed. Morgan unclipped Lisa’s cuffs and pointed at one dangling chain. “Hand me the end.”

Morgan attached the snap hook on the chain to Lisa’s cuff while I did the same on the other side. “Bring me that blindfold,” she said, pointing to where it was laid out with other toys on the dresser.

“Stroke her gently, anywhere you like except her cunt.” Morgan blindfolded Lisa and double-checked her restraints while I fondled her lovely breasts and smoothed my hands across her toned torso. She pressed her body into my hands appreciatively, and I forced myself to veer away from the forbidden zone. The treasures of her back side weren’t explicitly prohibited, but I limited myself to palming the delectable curves of ass.

During my lustful explorations, Morgan had stripped down to underwear, a black compression tank and silk boxers. She quickly closed the distance to the bed and shoved the side of her hand between her lover’s legs. Lisa made a visible effort to suppress a moan as she ground onto Morgan’s hand.

“I could forbid you to move,” Morgan said with a wicked smile. Lisa froze. “But not now; I’m not that sadistic. Not with company, anyway.” Morgan allowed Lisa a few more thrusts before withdrawing her hand.

Morgan stood and pressed her body against Lisa’s back. Her lover’s sharp intake of breath was loud enough that I wondered if it would count as a noise, but Morgan let her off with the warning, “Careful, love.” She kissed the back of Lisa’s neck and reached around to pinch her nipples. Lisa leaned into Morgan’s hands and parted her lips in a silent moan when Morgan squeezed harder.

“Kylie, bring me the short flogger.”

I touched the nearest implement and glanced wordlessly at Morgan, who was still playing with Lisa’s breasts.

“No, two over. Yes, that one. Bring the one to the right of it, too, but leave it on the bed.”

The first item was a soft, medium-sized flogger that I imagined Lisa would enjoy, unlike the one I’d put aside. Lisa had tried explaining that submission sometimes meant doing unpleasant and painful things. I had no problem with the light play we’d been doing, but it suddenly occurred to me that Morgan might make Lisa suffer for real at some point, something I didn’t care to see.

Morgan gradually reddened Lisa’s skin from the base of her neck to her knees, soft and hard strokes following one another with no obvious pattern. Lisa met the leather with her body, tensing and relaxing in an erotic rhythm that left little in the room but the beauty of two women in perfect harmony. Shockingly, Morgan turned to me and said, “Here, you try.” She handed me the flogger. “Nice and gentle to start.”

I held it, not moving.

“Go on. I know you’ve done this before. Lisa thought you had potential.”

“Really? I thought she was just –”

“Quiet,” Morgan ordered.

So I wasn’t supposed to answer that? Subbing is harder than it looks. I landed light strokes on Lisa’s ass until I felt comfortable enough to strike more forcefully.

“Very good. Harder now,” Morgan said.

Lisa seemed to welcome every blow, and Morgan eyed me approvingly before climbing onto the bed. She played with Lisa’s nipples and caressed her breasts as I plied the flogger. When Lisa seemed lulled by the sensations, Morgan slid her hand between the wet lips of her cunt. Lisa swallowed her low moan quickly, but not entirely.

“Earning a punishment so soon, slut?” Morgan wiped her fingers on Lisa’s hip.

Punishment?! Oh, right, for noise.

Morgan continued, “Since you weren’t expecting the distraction of company tonight, you get a little break. You’ll receive all six, but you don’t have to be silent.” She motioned for me to fetch the short whip – or whatever the harsh-looking single-tailed thing was called. Morgan must have noticed my unease because she said firmly, “Lisa knew this could happen. Stand back.”

Thwack.

Lisa yelped, and a long, red stripe appeared. I winced, but didn’t look away.

Morgan delivered another hard lash to Lisa’s ass and two to her back, evoking stoic grunts each time. Next was an even harder lash to the base of one ass cheek, the sensitive spot just at the top of the thigh, and another on the opposite side.

“You did well. Try not to misbehave again.”

Morgan directed me back to the bed and laid a gentle hand on my neck. “You’re doing well too, and you’ve earned a little treat. Face down.” She stroked my back and ass, traced the ridge of my pelvis, and continued across my groin, lingering close to where I most wanted her. Did she say “treat” or “tease”? Begging for relief for my throbbing cunt was probably unacceptable, and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause Morgan to stop. As I was about to try a suggestive whimper, she snaked a finger into my bush and stroked my clit. Despite my most encouraging moans, it was over far too soon. I could hear the amusement in the blonde sadist’s voice when she said, “Get up,” and held out her other hand for the softer flogger.

She struck Lisa harder this time, and after several lashes, positioned me in front of Lisa. “Keep her from moving around too much. Suck her nipples and use your hands anywhere you like.”

Lisa stiffened delightfully in my mouth as the blows of Morgan’s flogger forced her breasts into my face. I explored her body, glad I didn’t have to avoid the treasures between her legs but not quite daring to delve inside. Instead, I slid my fingers across her swollen clit and around her slick folds, holding her by one hip. Lisa trembled, but managed to remain silent. When Morgan stopped the flogging, I shifted closer to get a solid handful of Lisa’s now-unobstructed ass. She moaned, and we both froze.

Morgan, her hands full of condoms, gloves, and a bottle of lube, exclaimed, “Kylie! What did you do to her?”

“I’m sorry, I leaned in to fondle her ass. Maybe it was my, um, tits?” Lisa had always loved their feel, and she was highly sensitized at present.

“I told you to use your hands, not your boobs. It was a simple instruction.” She glared at me sternly.

“It was an accident, Sir. Please don’t hurt her.”

“The rules don’t change when something unexpected happens.”

I asked, “May I say something else?”

“You may.”

“I volunteer to take her punishment, Sir.”

“Lisa’s willing to go by the rules.”

“I don’t like being responsible.”

“You’re not. Plus, I’m in charge, remember?”

“But Lisa –”

“Quiet. Lisa, tell her. Briefly.”

“I’m fine with the rules, and it’s more… um… interesting with you here.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Morgan said, “Since you’re feeling responsible, I’ll reduce the sentence. A second offense normally gets double the first, but I’ll deduct three. Stand over there. Lisa, no noise.”

Lisa managed, impressively, to remain quiet for the first several strokes. When one landed on Lisa’s inner thigh, a barely audible “fuck” escaped her lips. Oops. Morgan shoved the whip into my hands and sprang onto the bed.

“No swearing.” She slapped Lisa’s face.

“I’m –” Lisa started.

“And you haven’t been given permission to speak!” Morgan slapped the other cheek, harder this time. “For that, you’ll get the remaining lashes from the original twelve – five more. Be grateful you don’t get another punishment for talking.”

I stood in place, wide-eyed. Despite her clear preference for stricter command than I had ever offered her, Lisa’s earlier assurance of consent wasn’t very comforting. Morgan got off the bed and approached me determinedly. I slowly handed her the whip, this time looking away as the strokes bit into Lisa’s tender thighs.

“Help her down onto the bed.”

Morgan rubbed Lisa’s neck soothingly. “If you endure what’s coming next in silence, I’ll allow you to make noise for the rest. I know having Kylie here makes it more difficult.” She removed the blindfold and ran a finger over Lisa’s lip dented from her efforts at silence. “And don’t hurt yourself. That’s my job.”

“Kylie, on your back in the middle of the bed. Knees up, and spread ’em.” I scrambled into position.

“Lisa, put that talented mouth to work. No hands.”

Lisa crawled between my legs and, without preamble, lapped a broad stroke across my cunt before flicking my clit with her tongue.

“Omigod!” It had been far too long since Lisa – or anyone – had done that. Toys are terrific, but there’s nothing like the wet heat of a woman’s mouth. Her tongue danced around my cunt, not always on my clit, which was good since I didn’t know if I was allowed to come. Should I ask? I also didn’t know if I could touch her, so I clutched the blanket and concentrated on staying in position, not wanting to dislodge Lisa’s sublime tongue. Through the haze of arousal, it occurred to me there was a pattern – she was tracing letters on my pussy. My name, twice, then… I tried hard to follow…“I miss you.” I almost laughed aloud.

“Lisa, stop that for a moment. Kylie, stay put.”

Damn — did she see my face and detect Lisa’s covert naughtiness? I hope it’s just a moment. But it wasn’t. She spanked Lisa for what seemed like a full minute before telling her, “Get back to it.” My guess was that Morgan had warmed Lisa’s ass just because she could.

Far too soon, Morgan ordered Lisa to stop for good, leaving me panting in combined arousal and frustration. She tossed a glove and the lube in my direction. I ignored them and watched Morgan fingering Lisa’s lubed ass, which had Lisa shoving her face into the mattress to keep quiet.

“Very good,” Morgan said when three fingers slid in effortlessly. “You may speak from now on.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Morgan discarded her gloves and gave Lisa a passionate kiss. “Kylie, too,” Morgan said, and Lisa kissed me almost as thoroughly before returning to her place on the bed.

“Kylie, would you like to fuck this gorgeous ass?”

It was tempting, but I said, “Honestly, Sir, I’d rather watch you take her.”

Morgan chuckled and shook her head. From the bedside drawer, she extracted a small butt plug that she had me cover with a condom before she stuffed it into Lisa. “That’ll hold you, girl. Now, on your back like Kylie was.”

Morgan explained, “She’s not allowed to come yet, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to make her. Anything you want.”

I lost myself in Lisa’s familiar, delightful taste and smell, barely reacting when Morgan plunged her fingers into me and rubbed circles around my clit with her thumb.

“Is something wrong?” Morgan asked as she slid her hand out.

What? Why? Put it back! “No, just concentrating,” I managed.

“Well, concentrate on this.” She shoved her cock in, driving my face into Lisa, and went after my clit again. “Kylie, you may come anytime.”

I did, sooner than I’d hoped, clenching around Morgan’s cock and gasping for air as I tried not to suffocate myself in Lisa’s cunt. Morgan guided me down next to Lisa, who whimpered with need.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve been a lot of fun, but I’ve detained you long enough.”

Dismissed already? “I have nowhere else to be. Please, Sir?”

After a nod of permission from Morgan, Lisa said, “We need to finish here. Thanks for understanding.”

“Sure thing, boss. I guess I’ll see you Monday. Let me know if I can help with Harrison.”

Morgan pressed a finger to Lisa’s lips. “She will, and she’ll definitely call you about a play date.”

Although the sentiment seemed inadequate for the trust and intimacy we’d shared, I said only, “Thanks .. for everything.”

_________________________

Author’s note: Thanks to Meghan for permission to use portions of her lovely whipping scene from Mon Corbeau.

Ariadne’s Thread, Guest Post by Jean Roberta

Content warning: this story contains humiliation, objectification, sploshing (food play), and force.

“Let me in, girlfriend.”

 The sound of Zoe’s voice assaulted Ariadne’s ears where she sat in the funk of her misery. Dirty dishes covered her tables and counters, pungent clothing littered her floor. Her curtains were closed, leaving the apartment in perpetual gloom. “Go away.”

 “Come on, baby. I know you’re not feeling good, but there is life after a breakup, you know? We’ve all gone through it. You need company.” Silence. “Ari, come on. I don’t want to stand here talking to you through the door. Do you want all your neighbors to hear this?”

A dark, swollen eye appeared at the peephole, then the thin wooden door was yanked open. Ariadne Megalopolous blocked the entrance, taking up space out of proportion to her girlish, fine-boned, high-breasted body. The smell of her sweat and her contempt for the world confronted the brisk assertiveness of her friend Zoe, who stepped back before she could stop herself.

Ariadne sneered like a damned soul, her white face framed in greasy black hair. She held onto the doorframe, slouching in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans so old and dirty that they held the shape of her ass and thighs even when she wasn’t in them. Her presence was so intense that Zoe felt it in her clit.

Ariadne filled the silence. “What are you, Zoe, human Prozac? If you think you know how I’m supposed to feel, then fuck you.”

For an instant, Zoe heard her say, “Fuck me.”  What a pleasure that would be.

“Okay, you wanta be a good Samaritan, you can come in and wash my — Jesus.” Ariadne had stepped far enough into the hallway to see Carter lurking a few feet away from Zoe.

Suzanne Carter, who preferred to be known by her last name, was wiry and wily. As an employee of Child Protection Services, she took bewildered, mistreated children away from their violent or distraught parents after warning the adults of the legal consequences of their behavior. Carter dreamed of being a secret agent for the federal government.

Carter grabbed Ariadne by the arm before she could slam the door on her two friends.Zoe tried to soothe her with words. “Ari! We’re concerned about you. We just want to —”

 “Help me get her inside,” grunted Carter.

Zoe worked for the Department of Social Services, like Carter, but in a milder role. She specialized in job-readiness counseling.

Ariadne saw through the good-cop/bad-cop act. “Fuckin’ Christ!” She made no effort to control her volume. “You two dykes are a fuckin’ joke! What is this, a scene for World’s Worst Videos?” She wasted so much energy expressing herself verbally that Carter had no trouble forcing her back into her apartment. This didn’t prevent Carter from glaring at Zoe for awkwardly trailing behind and closing the door quietly instead of helping to restrain the prisoner.

Carter’s pale, spiky hair seemed to bristle more than usual. It was naturally blonde, and Carter tried to compensate for the baby-chick color by keeping it short and artificially stiff. Zoe suspected her of using starch.

“What the hell do you want?” Ariadne was still hostile, but quieter.

Carter loosened her grip, and slid a hand up to Ariadne’s chin. “Why didn’t you answer your phone for a week, Ari? Don’t you think anyone cares what happens to you?”

Ariadne backed away. She seemed to be wondering whether anyone in the world could actually worry about her. “You didn’t have to spaz out. You knew Denny dumped me so she could be with whatsername. Everyone knows everything in this community. There’s no flippin’ mystery here, okay? That’s why the fuck I didn’t answer my phone.” 

Ariadne still gave off a dull-red glow, but Zoe could feel her exhaustion. Zoe offered traditional advice. “You can forget her, Ari. Denny didn’t deserve you. You’ll find someone better.”

Ariadne fended off a hug by pushing Zoe’s hands away. She looked like a cornered animal. “You can go to hell, both of you.”

 “Hey!” Carter objected.

Ariadne wasn’t finished. “Damn social workers get all your lines out of a book. I’m not gonna find someone better. You know that damn well.”

Something in the air chilled Zoe to the bone. It was the presence of death, lured in by the despair that lingered in the smell of stale food and body odor.

Zoe had watched the luck drain out of Ariadne’s life, one event at a time, for the past seven years. She had had to drop out of university due to lack of funds, and lack of credit. She had found a good job at an advertising agency, but a volatile male boss had first groped her and then ridiculed her ideas until she quit. Her mother had died and her father had moved his girlfriend into the house a few days after the funeral.

A series of alcoholic girlfriends had wrecked or taken all of Ariadne’s most treasured belongings, including her car, her good-luck stone and her grandmother’s earrings. She had given notice on her apartment after accepting Denny’s invitation to move in with her, then Denny had changed her mind after a one-night bar hookup with someone else.

Like her namesake in Greek mythology, Ariadne seemed to be lost in a maze with a monster at its center, and no one had given her a thread to guide her back to the open air.

“Just leave me alone,” she said. The dark eyes in her puffy face said something else.

 “We can’t do that,” Carter told her, unconsciously imitating the coolly-dangerous voice of a cop in a crime show on prime-time. “A stupid little thing like you can’t be trusted alone.” Carter seized her by both arms from behind as though she were planning to handcuff her. Ariadne’s T-shirt was pulled against her small, perky breasts and her hips bucked provokingly.

Zoe was appalled at Carter and herself.

Carter looked at her like a conspirator. She kept speaking to Ariadne. “Besides, if you can’t find anyone better than Denny, you’d be lucky if we do you a favor. Everyone knows everything in our community, honey, and we’ve heard all about you. We know what a greedy little pig you are, and you have nothing to lose.”

Ariadne looked at Zoe in disbelief. “Oh please. You’re not going to try cheering me up by fucking me.” It was more of a question than a statement.

The heat of evil joy spread through Zoe. “She said please,” she told Carter. “We both heard her.”

Ariadne seemed strangely resigned, even serene in Carter’s grip. If she hadn’t, Zoe would have gushed apologies and tried to soothe Ariadne with hugs and tea and grief counseling – anything to appease whatever gods seemed to blast everything she touched. Anything to prevent the curse from spreading like a virus.

But Ariadne seemed easy. “This place is filthy, and so are you,” Carter told her. “Should we give her a bath first?”

Zoe brushed the hair off Ariadne’s forehead. She cradled Ariadne’s head, releasing the hot smell of her scalp as she pulled a tragic young face closer to hers. Zoe could see the faint mustache above Ariadne’s full, curved lips, and a row of eyebrow hairs that were trying to grow back in after being tweezed out. Ariadne’s eyes were closed, and her black eyelashes rested on pale, clammy skin.

Zoe was aware of her own neatly-trimmed hair, her subtle makeup, her skin cream and deodorant. She felt like a cleaner, older, saner version of Ariadne.

Zoe felt moved to tears. She fought the feeling by pressing her lips to Ariadne’s. The taste was fresher than Zoe expected, like spring rain enriched with salt and iron. Zoe could taste Ariadne’s grief and rage, her confusion and self-hatred. Underneath it all, she could taste fear. Zoe was surprised at how easy it was to taste emotions on another person’s porous, vulnerable skin.

Zoe slid her tongue between Ariadne’s lips. Ariadne didn’t exactly co-operate, but she didn’t fight the invasion. Zoe could swear she tasted hope in Ariadne’s mouth, just enough to keep her alive.

“No,” said Zoe to Carter. “We can wash her later. Let’s play with her first.”

“We need to take her clothes off. They’re gross.” Zoe unbuttoned and unzipped Ariadne’s jeans while Carter kept a firm grip on her arms.

“Hey, I can see what you’re trying to do, but I’m not into it, Masters and Johnson. Sex therapy won’t work on me.” Ariadne sounded sad, not outraged. Zoe felt encouraged.

“Shut up,” said Carter. “This isn’t for you, this is for us. We get tired of taking care of other people all the time. We want someone we can use, and you were born for that, baby. You’re a piece of trash living in a garbage dump. We’ll just take what we want and then leave.” Carter reached under Ariadne’s T-shirt to pinch her naked nipples.

Zoe watched Ariadne for real signs of distress, but the captive squirmed more like a friendly puppy than like a frantic victim. Zoe helped Carter to pull Ariadne’s T-shirt over her head. The smell of her neck and armpits wafted over them, but Zoe wasn’t offended. She was reminded that all human beings have a smell if nothing is done to erase it, and that most people in Western civilization have been trained to feel unreasonably ashamed of their own.

“Ariadne, you’re a slut,” Zoe explained. “That used to mean a dirty woman, one who doesn’t keep herself clean. Literally. A lazy housekeeper. We can’t mess you up any worse than you already are.”

“She needs a spanking.” Carter looked at Zoe.

“Good plan.” Zoe had been acquainted with Ariadne all her life because their parents attended the same church, but Zoe had never wondered before whether Ariadne’s parents believed in physical punishment as a spur to sound character development. Zoe and Ariadne hadn’t been close enough as children to play hitting or touching games.

Zoe wanted to make up for lost time.

Carter efficiently pulled Ariadne’s jeans off her legs, lifting each of her feet for that purpose. Beneath the denim, Ariadne wore nothing but her own skin, lightly coated with oil and sweat. “Bend over and touch your toes,” said Carter like a police matron.

The sight of Ariadne’s deep rose-colored cunt-lips, surrounded by black fur and the delicate skin of her thighs, was as appealing as Zoe and Carter had hoped. Moisture glistened in her slit as its fragrance filled the air. “Mm,” the two women hummed quietly. We don’t all look the same down there, thought Zoe. And even if we did, that wouldn’t stop us from wanting to see other women’s secret fruit.

Carter stroked Ariadne’s girlish butt-cheeks, then lightly slapped one of them. “Bad girl!” Ariadne twitched, but stayed in position. Carter slapped the other cheek with more confidence.

Zoe faced Ariadne and held her hips in place. She could feel Ariadne’s breath on her ankles.

 Whap! Carter was getting into it, and Ariadne was taking it.

“My turn next. Leave some skin on her for me,” Zoe told Carter. She pulled off her sweater, her bra, her belt, her corduroy pant and her sensible cotton panties as quickly as possible. Being naked made her feel free, not exposed.

Ariadne stood up, looking flushed and disoriented. She noticed Zoe. “Nice tits, mama,” she said.

“None of that from you!” said Carter. She let her eyes travel over Zoe’s small breasts, slim waist and full hips, which she had never seen before. Carter grinned. “Will you do the honors, ma’am?”

“Gladly.” Zoe and Carter pushed Ariadne back into position. Zoe thought of reaching for her belt, and decided against it. She held her right hand as stiff as possible, and slapped Ariadne’s butt smartly. “Dirty girl!” Zoe slapped the other cheek, trying to keep the force even. Ariadne squeaked. “Are you going to learn how to wash dishes?”

Ariadne grunted something which could have meant “yes.”

Whap! “Speak up, girl! Are you going to wear underwear, and keep it clean?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Ow, stop, that’s enough.”

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Zoe pulled Ariadne upright, and hugged her with passion. Both of them were shaking. “Ari,” sighed Zoe. She kissed Ariadne and snaked one hand down between them to find Ariadne’s wet bush.

Ariadne moaned, and something melted in Zoe.

“I just need to know how you’re doing,” she mumbled. She hunched down as two of her fingers found Ariadne’s swollen clit and squeezed it. 

“Zoe, are you fucking her already?” Carter tried to pull them apart, but Ariadne spread her legs and Zoe plunged her fingers in as far as they would go, like shooting a bolt into its slot. Ariadne clung to Zoe for dear life, moving fluidly on Zoe’s slippery fingers.

“Hey, don’t let her come! She can’t come yet!” Carter really seemed annoyed, although the subject of coming hadn’t been discussed at all. Carter grabbed Zoe’s wrist and abruptly pulled her out of Ariadne. Carter wedged herself between them.

“Carter, I really want her.”

“Well, show some self-control, woman. Shit. There’s a way to do things, and this isn’t it. Think about it, Zoe. Now I have to find something to keep her worked up that won’t let her get off.”

Carter looked wildly around her, and saw a spool of black thread on the floor. Half of it was unwound, lying in a dusty snarl. “This isn’t clean, but it’s good enough for you.”

Carter bent down, picked up the spool, unwound more of the thread and bit off a length of it with her teeth. “Here, you. Stay like that, legs spread.”

In a humble-looking gesture, Carter knelt on one knee and spread Ariadne’s bush with both hands. Then Carter pulled a Kleenex out of her jeans pocket and actually wiped Ariadne’s lower lips like a mother wiping spittle off a child’s mouth. Zoe could see her making a fast circular motion.

“Uh,” grunted Ariadne.

“There. Don’t touch it until one of us takes it off for you. You better do what you’re told or you won’t get no satisfaction.”

“It’s hard for me to come anyway. You didn’t need to worry about it.”

“We’re in charge here, trash, not you.” Carter stood aside to let Zoe see her handiwork. Zoe spread Ariadne’s lower lips to see that her clit was tied as tightly as possible with a tourniquet of thread. Zoe snickered.

“It’s like a cock ring for a girl,” bragged Carter. “Best I could do.”

“Do you think it will stay on while we wash her?” Zoe wanted to see Ariadne sopping wet, and she wanted an excuse to touch her all over.

“She’ll get a lot dirtier before she gets clean.” Carter briskly unbuttoned her shirt, folded it, and continued undressing until all her clothes were lying in a neat pile in a corner. She had an impressive number of tattoos and piercings, but Zoe and Ariadne were too distracted to study them.

“I’ll need your help, Zoe.” Carter handed her a small rubber butt-plug. “Plug her with this, will you?”

“Gladly. Bend over, slut.” Ariadne let herself be maneuvered into a convenient position for Zoe to find her small, puckered hole and push the plug into it. “Keep this in until we take it out. It will keep you in the right frame of mind.”

“I have something to show you, Ari.” Carter grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the kitchen. “This room is a fucking health hazard. Do you want to start a maggot farm or die from an infection? Down on your hands and knees. I know it’s a nasty floor. That’s the point.”

Ariadne arranged herself on all fours. Zoe stood closest to the door, where she could admire Ariadne’s red ass.

Carter rummaged in the fridge. “You like beer, do you?” She popped open a cold can. Without warning, she poured a fizzy yellow stream on Ariadne’s hair.

“Aww!” wailed Ariadne. But she didn’t move. Zoe didn’t know what to say.

 “You like that, do you, piggy? There’s more.” Carter opened a jar of applesauce and shook blobs of it over Ariadne’s back. “Zoe, what do you think would happen to her if we left her to live in this filth? She eats in this kitchen.”

Ariadne was a gleaming mess. “She’s right, baby,” said Zoe. Her hands itched, and she opened a cupboard to find something with a contrasting texture. A half-empty box of crackers caught her eye. Zoe was soon crumbling them over Ariadne’s head, admiring the starry shine of salt crystals against the midnight darkness of her dripping hair.

Zoe wanted to see what Ariadne would look like with something red and viscous on her skin. Carter seemed to have the same thought, and she found a jar of pasta sauce in the fridge. Using a wooden spoon, Carter trailed a red line down Ariadne’s back and spread some of the sauce into horizontal stripes like stylized ribs. Ariadne shivered.

Zoe added canned peas and black olives for color contrast. She drizzled olive oil all over Ariadne to give her a slick shine.

The naked woman on all fours responded to each new substance with a new sound. She seemed to have lost the power of speech.

Carter slid her hand between her ass cheeks to jiggle the base of the plug. A ripple seemed to flow from there through the rest of Ariadne’s body.

Zoe ran her hands all over Ariadne, teasing her nipples until they pointed redly at the floor. Zoe smeared some of the mess on herself, and straddled her victim, pretending to ride her. Zoe slapped her greasy rump. “We’ll have to hose you down with industrial-strength detergent. Unless you want to stay like this.”

“How’s your clit?” asked Carter, bending down to examine it.

Some of the liquid dripping from Ariadne’s face seemed to be tears. “It’s—beating. Like a pulse.” Her voice sounded huskier than usual. Zoe could almost feel an intrusive plug in her own ass, and hear it calling to a bound clit.

“You’re a stuffed little animal, but you still need something else,” said Carter. Zoe needed something herself, but she also wanted to push Ariadne to a breaking-point.

Zoe stood up and pulled Carter into her arms, loving the hardness of her muscles and bones. She had a hunch. “I bet she has a dildo.”

“Is that true, Ari?” asked Carter. “If you don’t tell us where it is, we’ll take you outside and tie you to the fence while we look for it.”

“My top left dresser drawer,” said Ariadne.

“I’ll get it.” Zoe didn’t really expect to find it where Ariadne said it was. The obscenely realistic silicone cock was impossible to miss, and it looked too big to fit inside Ariadne. Zoe wondered if she had kept it as collateral for something of hers which had disappeared with a fly-by-night companion.

Carter had two fingers deep in Ariadne’s cunt when Zoe came back to the kitchen. “See this,” she said.

Carter laughed and withdrew her fingers, which shone wetly. “We knew she was a greedy pig. There’s the proof. Do you want to do her?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Ariadne was shaking and shifting her weight, but Zoe found her as wet between the legs as she was everywhere on the outside.

“Fuck her hard,” urged Carter. Zoe spread Ariadne’s lower lips wide enough to accommodate the smooth, arrogant head. Ariadne moaned as it sank into her, inch by inch, under Zoe’s steady pressure.

The dildo filled Ariadne to its wide base. By pulling and pushing, Zoe set up a rhythm which must have affected everything in the neighborhood of Ariadne’s deep channel.

“This is your life, Ari,” sneered Carter. “Living in garbage and getting fucked with an elephant cock. You asked for it. It’s what you deserve.” Carter reached under her and tugged at the thread on her clit. Ariadne grimaced in pain.

“No-o!” she screamed. Zoe could feel her convulse around the objects inside her. She came and came as though she would explode. Zoe and Carter held her like human shock absorbers.

Zoe’s face was wet when she carefully pulled the dildo and the butt plug out of Ariadne’s swollen flesh. Zoe kissed Carter over Ariadne’s back before they each wrapped their arms around her and helped her to her feet.

Carter looked more shaken than Zoe had ever seen her. The two conspirators formed a pungent sandwich with Ariadne as the filling, and they kept her balanced between them.

The three women swayed together, slipping against each other. Zoe wondered if they had fucked open a new crack in the universe, a way out of no way. She felt as if they had all fought a monster, and it made her love the other two like crazy.

Zoe knew there was plenty of time for them to clean up the mess and continue their game, or vice versa. She could hardly wait to offer her own ecstasy, an explosion out of her skin, to whatever gods might be watching.

You Asked Me About My Fantasies, Guest Post by Kitty Faut

… but then we didn’t really talk so I’m just writing them here.

In my fantasies we’re at N’s place in Thessaloniki, old furniture and random things on the floor and your hair is the way it was the day I met you, or we’re at your old flat, night turning to day or it doesn’t really matter.

No, no — I know.

We’re gonna go at a party later that night. You came over to drink tea, it’s bitter almond and the bougainvillea flowers that help me breathe and you need help to pick an outfit, even though I can’t really imagine us ever doing that. I show you the dresses: the long silver one, the skater dress I got just for you, the kinda see-through one with the big flowers. Will you try them on? You do a shy little catwalk for me, you look so pretty, I wanna eat you up alive. The collar that says SEX TOY, the one with the three D-rings, one for the leash and two for the handcuffs even though you’re not wearing any leash or handcuffs right now. I want to kiss you, you say, I smile and grab the middle ring of your collar and bring you closer and kiss you and bite your lip.

I write those words missing you even though I just saw you two days ago. I miss the idea of you more, of what we could have been.

I wanna do your nails. Will you pick a color? You choose a dark blue and I choose a silvery glitter top coat to go together, look like the starry night. I really like painting your nails, I love caring for you in these tiny ways, I like these still and silent moments when I have an excuse to be quiet and so close to you. Now you have to wait for like five minutes for the first layer to dry but we’re so close and I see how you look at me biting your bottom lip, tapping your fingers on your knees impatiently, but I’m sorry, I just did these nails and you’re not gonna mess them up, so stay still boy.

I get up and leave you desperate, sitting on the floor with your back on the bed, your hands placed carefully on your sides. I come back with strawberry juice and grapes and yesterday’s pizza. I smile and you smile. I sit on the bed behind you, spread my legs and place your head in between my thighs, are you comfy? You nod. I grab my book and read to you about caves and trees and birds and you’re so excited with everything. I feed you grapes and check your nails, they’ve dried so let’s apply a second layer. I kiss the top of your head and place your right hand on my thigh, start doing your nails, while I feel your other hand slowly touching my leg. My hand pulling your hair hard stops you and you apologize shyly. You have to politely ask first, remember?

I feel okay with you. Sometimes I’d like to be more confident, like Dom/mes are. Sometimes I’d like to find a way to be a Dom/me without needing to be confident. Does my desire for you make me vulnerable? Is being vulnerable a bad thing? Is vulnerability reserved only for subs?

I’d like to tie you up, would you like to be tied up? There’s a new knot I’ve been practicing that I’d like to show you, I say. You smile so wide and nod excited like a puppy, yes, yes! I bring out the scissors and the ropes, purple and teal and gray. I tell you to sit on the bed and I sit behind you, tie your hands firmly behind your back and try to remember the pattern I had practiced but at some point give up and do the same old things I know so well. I run my hands through your chest to straighten the ropes and as an excuse to touch you more. Are you okay? Does this feel good? I bring you closer to me, hold you tight, wrap my arms around your neck and my legs around your waist. I just sit still to feel your breath, its rhythm getting faster. You turn and try to kiss me, can I kiss you please, you beg softly. I turn you around, sure thing, boy.

We kiss a bit and I lay you on your back. I’m thirsty, you say, and I take a sip of water and pass it carefully from my mouth to yours. I sit on your crotch and feel you getting harder. I rub myself against you for a bit and you moan. I get up and clumsily take my underwear off, leave just the binder, or should I take this off too? I sit right next to you as you’re laying on your back, wishing you could touch me, trying to get your hands free even though you know it’s no use, but you know I love seeing you struggle. You manage to crawl closer, what do you want, boy? You know that if you ask nicely you might actually get it. Can I eat you up, Sir, please? Pretty please. Well, if you ask so nicely, how can I ever say no? I ride your face, my clit just a breath away from your mouth, you struggle but can’t reach me. I stand there enjoying the view of your pretty face in agony. I decide to be nice and just lower my hips a bit and let you get a taste of my pussy. Your tongue feels amazing, licking and sucking slowly, gratefully, carefully, your tongue feels like home. I feel like I can be myself with you and I had just missed you so much. I let myself enjoy this for a bit but then get up again. I sit next to your face, far enough so you can’t reach me, but if you crawl a bit you’ll be able to. Won’t you come here, boy? You struggle and you almost make it, but I just move away a tiny bit more. You’re so annoyed, I love it, you kiss and bite my knees and I laugh. I grab my toy box and tell you that I’d like you to suck my dick now, would you like that? Yes Sir, thank you so much.

Do your arms still feel ok? I bring you all the colorful dildos to choose from. I strap the one you picked on and sit on top of your face. You start licking it slowly, sucking the tip, then taking it all in. I love how you gag on it, keep looking me in the eyes, my sweet boy, my pet, my toy, I lock my hands around your throat while I fuck your mouth, slip my thumb inside it, keep doing that, you’re mine.

I lay you on your stomach, I just want to spend a moment with your back, with your ass, with the back of your thighs, with your tied up arms. I untie you slowly and kiss the rope marks, I wish they’d still be visible tomorrow, but I’m gonna make you some bruises to remember me by. I take my time tidying up the ropes, letting you wait, unsure what’s gonna happen next. You feel my dildo pressing up your butt and bend towards me. But for now I just wanna taste your salty skin, bite the back of your neck and pull your head up by your hair to get a kiss. I wanna map every little part of your body, scratch your arms and your back, hear all the different sounds you make that correspond to all the different ways I’m touching you.

I’m scratching and spanking your ass, watching it get pink and then red, hearing you louder, begging just for a little bit more. Then I stop. You’re shaking from desire, you know what’s coming next. Soft bites on your butt and the inside of your thighs. Little kisses. My fingers running on your skin gently. My tongue on your anus, my wet fingers, you sound as if you can’t take it anymore. Please, Sir. I apply lube and then one finger, two fingers, you close your eyes and say you like it, you want more. Lucky you, you’re just about to get more. You breath heavily as you feel the tip of my dildo rubbing against your anus, going slowly inside and then all the way. I fuck you a bit like that but I just wanna be able to see your face. Turn around, I demand and you obey. You’re the sweetest thing, I just want you so much. I feel your hands around me, you pressing closer to me to feel my dick deeper inside you. You hold me close as I fuck you, you reach for a kiss and you get it, you deserve it. I taste your sweat, your chest, your neck your armpits, I feel your nails on my back. I slow down. I kiss you gently, your lips, your face. Are you okay, boy? You nod. You’re so pretty, you’re too much to bear. I think that’s enough, you say. I need a break, We cuddle and kiss and whisper little things and make plans for the night. What time should we get there? Who will be there? You haven’t picked a dress yet! I drink some of the strawberry juice and you ask for a sip.

Can I touch you a bit? You ask, and I say sure. Can I touch your breasts? I smile. You kiss and suck on my nipples softly, then a sudden bite. I love it when you hurt me like that, I love this pain. I want you to bruise me. You get on top of me and spend some time caressing my hair, licking my fingers, kissing me all over. Little kisses on my belly and hips, little bites on the inside of my thighs, I feel so nice and safe with your head between my thighs. Will you get your sexy gloves? I ask you smiling. And of course you do, you look so freaking hot with them on and it feels so good when you finger me wearing those. I grab my wand while your fingers slip so easily inside my wet pussy. You fuck my faster and harder, bending over closer to me to kiss me, it’s so nice letting go, trusting you to fuck me, trusting to be vulnerable and strong and soft with you. Trusting you enough to cum hard, my wand vibrating against my clit and three of your fingers inside me. I collapse and you hug me, hold me super closely against your warm body that smells like home and lust and sweat and all the nice things. We stare at the ceiling together and you give me tiny kisses.

We get up, my hands are still all over you, caressing and scratching softly, playing with your hair and your ears and your shoulders and your hands. You smile and I smile. Can I do your makeup? Yes please, you say and take a sit while I bring my lipstick and brushes. You stand still, almost holding your breath. I apply eyeliner softly, I kiss your nose. Your new bruises go so well with the lip color. I bring the mirror and you see yourself and you have the widest smile. You like it? I love it.

Let’s get dressed and let’s go.

Getting Wood, Guest Post by Morris Danielson

In the woodshed, kneeling, Nia is looking away from me, stacking logs on her arm. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Don’t be angry.”

I might be.

“Me and Kim, last night.”

“In my bed? Did you?”

She nods, quickly, and looks up. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not. That’s really hot.”

“Really?”

I squat in front of her. “What did you do?”

“You want to know?”

“All of it. Who started?”

“I asked her if she wanted to cuddle.”

“And she did?”

“She did. I was holding her and … we started touching.”

“Did you ask?”

“She started stroking my side first. Then we were kissing.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“I … I think I started the kissing. Are you okay with this?”

“I’m so okay with this.” I’m close to her and she searches my face. For what? She still thinks I might be angry, or jealous. She can see my eyes are dark and my cock hard, and smiles. Her hand is on my arm, her touch so light it”s hardly there.

“We were kissing, and I asked if she wanted to. She just nodded.” I know that nod. She’s shy but she’s honest. “I pulled her on top of me, I wanted to see if she’d top.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She did a bit, my hands were in her hair to keep it off my face.”

“Still kissing?”

“Still kissing, and her eyes …” she’s breathing heavily, she’s moved closer so our knees intersect. I can picture Kim’s eyes, hazel and secret and wanting, and not quite comfortable on top. I take the logs from Nia’s arm and lean into her, feeling her body tense against me. “Then she rolled us over, her hands were on my back.”

“Where was your leg?”

“You know where my leg was.”

“Tell me.”

“Between hers, rubbing on her.” Does Nia know she’s started moving against me? Her little skirt up around her waist, her pants tight and moving, just a little, on the leg of my jeans. Can she feel that I’m packing, hard against her leg? She’s looking up at me, light grey eyes holding fire. “I put her hands above her head and held them, and touched her side with the other hand.”

“Like this?” My hand traces her curved flank through her tee shirt, around her waist and into the small of her back, pushing her down against my leg, and she draws breath, quick and harsh. She wants me to kiss her, but I’m not going to, not yet. I lean down to her, she closes her eyes, but I move past to her ear and whisper, “Then what?” Her cheek is against mine, my hand at the nape of her neck. I’m holding her close, not letting her kiss me. I’m in charge here and she likes it, riding my leg in earnest now as I pull her to me and breathing hard in my ear, I wonder if she’s let go of her story, but she hasn’t.

“I let go of her hands, and she took mine and put it on her cunt, and pushed up against me. A sound escapes me, because I’m all of them, I’m Jodi on top of Kim, parting the trimmed fur to find slick wetness, I’m Kim feeling Nia’s weight on me and the sweetness of surrender, I’m Nia, pushing her cunt into my leg and wanting to feel my fingers on her, I’m both of my selves, Leah, wet with my packer pressing in just the right place, but most of all I’m Lee, my cock on Jodi’s leg, hard and real and mine, and now I have to take her face in my hands and kiss her.

“Did you go inside her?” I need to know, my voice is harsh and urgent. My fingers brush her lacy pants and she moans in my ear. “Did you?”

“Her clit … then inside … please …” she’s lost the story now, as I slip my fingers inside the fabric and find her clit, circle it with my thumb, move my fingers inside.

She’s close, I can feel it in the tightness of her shoulders and her breath in my neck, but the house door opens and someone calls out, “Are you getting wood or what?”

“Just coming!” I yell back. She’s looking up at me, her eyes wide and needing more. I grab a handful of her hair and yank her head to the side, lean down and bite her neck, hard, and mash her face into my chest to muffle her cries as her body twists in my arms and her cunt contracts around my fingers. The door slams, they won’t come out; I have time to hold her while her breathing slows, feeling her melt into me, every muscle letting go. Then I kiss her. “Are you going to do it again tonight?”

“Probably.” Her voice and her eyes are soft now. “Can I tell you about it tomorrow?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Back to One, Guest Post from Kit McGuire

I’ve displeased her in our games. Today it’s because I took too long to respond to a request. I did not give my complete trust in that moment, and now I must pay for my disobedience. At times she allows more time, but when she is in a certain mood she expects immediate action, and anything else means that I was not present and ready to appease. She can always tell when I have not given myself up to her power, and she will always remind me who holds the upper hand. It does not matter the reason for my correction, because at the end of this punishment I will not question her control. I will beg for her forgiveness, and I will know with surety that I deserved what she has dealt.

With a firm tone I’m told to stand, push my underwear down around my ankles, then bend and grab my calves. I’m ordered to count each stroke of her hand, and thank her for each part of my correction. If I miscount, back to one. If I dare to whimper or complain, back to 1. Sometimes she takes pleasure in making me spell long, difficult words and if I become too distracted by the sting and misspell, it’s back to one. I’ve gotten very good at counting to ten. My vocabulary now is fairly extensive. I’m often bad.

The first smack is always the easiest. She will always ask if I’m ready as to announce herself before the first blow is struck. My body will always let out an involuntary hiss of air through my teeth, but my knees know to lock. She tells me to be a good girl and take what’s coming to me.

One

It is sharp, but her hand is cupped. She’s warming me up. It stings, but at the same time my cunt contracts. I shouldn’t enjoy this. It’s punishment, but again, I am often bad.

Two

I need to bite my lip to avoid a groan. She has gone hard in the second stroke and waits for my brain to receive the signal that it stings like fire. She reminds me that she can tell when I enjoy it, and good girls don’t enjoy punishment. Am I not her good girl? She won’t be kind this time.

Three

This time she’s struck on my thigh. A tear trickles from my eye. I know that one has left a solid hand print. I breathe through the pain. I can take this. I should have been a better listener. I shouldn’t have questioned her motives.

Four

It is a series of smaller taps where where my ass and cunt connect. Sharp and short, but I feel myself get wet. She continues sharp taps then plunges her fingers inside me.

Five

She calls me a slut. Apparently my cunt is drenched because I enjoy it so much. I remain silent. I have to trust what she says. She smears my juices on an ass cheek, then delivers a harsh blow. The wetness makes the bite that much sharper. I end up biting the inside of my cheek and tasting blood.

Six

I wait. There is no connection. I don’t dare turn around to see what she’s doing. I scrunch my eyes shut and listen for her movements. She is playing with my mind now. I must wait, and the wait is excruciating. Suddenly there is a sharp snap and I cringe, but my pain receptors receive nothing. She’s smacked her own leg. While my brain is trying to figure out what’s happened, she winds up and smacks with such force I’m thrust forward and I have to take a step to steady myself.

Seven

I feel like I’m floating above my body and looking down. It’s at this point when I’m ready to tap out. But I can’t, I mustn’t. I must muster my control and push through. If I beg for forgiveness now, when I feel like I’ve hit a wall, it’s back to the beginning and that is torture. I know. I’ve been weak.

Eight

My back hurts. The blood has rushed to my head and I am slightly dizzy. I can feel all the spots where her hand will have marked. Her canvas this time has taken a few nail rakes while she decides where to leave the next mark. They’ll welt. I could use the word now, but then she’ll think I can’t take it. I start to silently cry. I don’t want her to stop. The spots where she’s hit most are now numb. I am ashamed that I can feel a dribble of my own juices run down my thigh. The tears are both from the pain and the fact that good girls shouldn’t enjoy this. She’s told me so many times. Reminded me other times while she has her fist inside me that good girls would be shocked at my wanton whoreishness. All I want is to be good for her. It’s my only goal; not be this nasty girl who wants the pain, wants all her attention.

Nine

My weak thanks comes from a place of honesty. She knows and she asks me to repeat myself. I am too quiet. Too unconvincing. She needs to hear me loud and clear. She tells me I’m nearly there. I struggle knowing I have more to take. I will please her. Next time I’ll listen, next time I won’t take my time responding. Next time, next time. Next time I’ll probably be bent over again like the shameful thing I am.

Ten

It’s more tender and she grabs me before releasing. I can hear her behind me, breathing heavily. Her hand likely stings nearly as much as my behind. I know it is a drug to hear the small noises that escape my lips, the ones she pretends not to hear. Hearing my voice struggle to contain a cry as I thank her for each delivery drives her into a frenzy near the end and she has to catch her breath and steady her demeanor before she tells me I’ve finished.

When I’ve been good, when I’ve reached the goal, I’ll be turned around in a mirror and told to look. She’ll place her hand over the most red mark to remind me who left the perfect print. She does this now, and traces the nail crescents she’s also left this time. I can see her smirk in the mirror, like the cat whose swallowed the canary. We lock eyes and I feel her powerful feelings for me.

She whispers in my ear that she’s to go get a towel and the almond oil. I’m to get a delicate rub over her marks for taking such a thorough spanking. My skin is hers and she takes care of her things. We can’t have that skin think it’s not cared for, can we?

No, no we can’t.

Call for Submissions: Guest Posts on Sugarbutch

I occasionally post stories by guest writers on Sugarbutch, and I’m looking for more to publish in 2018.

Criteria: Erotica, 1500-2000 words, extra dirty / kinky / bdsm, queer. Here’s some ideas of what I like.

I’m open to other non-fiction articles about butch identity, master/dominant identity, and strap-ons, and possibly a few other things; please contact me with a pitch before sending me anything.

Pays $50 for one time rights (meaning I get to publish it this one time and you get to publish it however you want after that).

Email me the file, a short bio for you, and a reference or two: [email protected] POC & gender radicals to the front!

Please ask if you have questions!

Edited to Add:

Deadline: July 31, 2018. I’ll accept these on a rolling basis. I’m publishing one (max) per month, and will accept as they come in. I already have about a dozen submissions (which, if they all fit, would be a year’s worth of guest posts). I hope to have 10-15 after this call.

(I also have another editing project coming up, so keep an eye for that if you don’t get one in by July 31!)

References: I’m looking for character references particularly. It’s difficult to judge just based on a really good story and a great bio who someone really is — I don’t want to accidentally publish someone with TERF politics, for example (not that they’d ever submit here). Your Twitter account, your blog, your Facebook would all be okay references; sharing a mutual friend or someone you think I know would be even better, so I can have a quick chat with them. I don’t say this to scare anyone off, but by publishing someone else on my platform, I’m basically endorsing them. I will be clear regardless that all I can really “endorse” is this one story that I like, and whatever they do separately from this has nothing to do with me and is not necessarily endorsed by me. But I want to ensure good politics & community on this story AND outside of this story as much as I can.

That said, I’m pretty sure, if you have even seen this, then you read Sugarbutch or follow me somewhat regularly, so then we have a lot in common. I’m not that worried about it, just trying to be professional & thorough!

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.

The End of Innocence, Guest Post by Guy New York

Growing up, Vogue had more naked pictures than Playboy. Or at least they were more appealing to my budding teenage imagination. Maybe they spoke more to my aesthetic, or perhaps they felt illicit because they were so unexpected, but whatever the reason, I used to pour through my mother’s magazines almost as much as my father’s. I remember one ad, a double page spread I believe, of an elegant dinner party where the women were all stark naked while the men wore suits. And that was hotter than any centerfold had ever been.

But to be fair, I also remember flipping through the giant collection of New Yorker cartoons we had sitting on the coffee table in the old farmhouse. It was an oversized paperback of every single cartoon in the magazine over the course of thirty years, and I read it from cover to cover again and again. I have no idea how much my twelve-year-old self understood any of the jokes, but again, there were glimpses of nude bodies, albeit inked with a pen, that while I didn’t lust over, I relished all the same.

What is it about naked bodies that fascinated me? Was it more the dirty magazines or the sex-ed textbooks from my mother’s library? Maybe it was the naked girls and boys in my room as we played doctor, or possibly it was a trip to a nude beach when I was nine, where for the first time in my life I looked up to see a woman, spread eagle on a blanket, less than ten feet away from me. That image has stayed in my mind although it’s more the feeling of watching than it is a photograph. She was an adult, and she had a thick covering of pubic hair between two round thighs, but the rest is a blur as much as everything else. I know I wandered the beach after that, my own naked body irrelevant to my interests. I don’t remember feeling shame, in fact, the only thing I recall firmly is the desperate interest to see new bodies, new shapes, and new people.

But home from the beach I was left with the familiar images in my father’s house. But I had seen the National Geographics, and I had flipped through the one copy of Playboy dad had a photo in. I had explored the old photography magazines until I knew them by heart, and my mother’s sex-ed manuals all knew the shape of my fingers.

Which meant there was only one choice for a pubescent boy in the northern wiles of New Jersey. I had to head to the woods.

When I was maybe twelve or thirteen I spent as much time as I could in the woods not far from the house. Sometimes with a friend or two but often alone, I’d wander through the small nature preserve kicking rocks, climbing over streams, and searching out the hidden grottos where older boys might have hidden the greatest treasure known to man: a truly dirty magazine.

And lo and behold I would find them! As I’ve gotten older, I’ve met other men who also found porn in the woods, and it’s become something of a joke. Kids these days with their internet! When I was young, we used to have to look for porn under a rock or hidden in a hollowed out tree. We didn’t know what it would be. We couldn’t search for “Blonde Teens” or “Big Titty MILFS” like they do these days. No! We’d find something, often half a page, and we loved it for what it was. Most often it was a centerfold from a Playboy, or if we were lucky a few pages of a Hustler where you could not only see some bush but some skin as well! My god, is that girl holding her pussy open? I had no idea what that looked like.

And once, maybe in sixth grade, Matt and I found a whole magazine that must have been European. It was black and white, with photos covering the paper like stamps. And there, on those wrinkled, rain-soaked pages I saw a woman fucking herself with a carrot! My god, I had no idea that’s what women did! Why did I never think of it?

The truth is, the thrill of discovery was always more exciting than the final reveal. The long hours walking through the woods, the digging through our father’s closets or basements, and the channel surfing late-night cable in hopes of seeing some semblance of nudity was all the more exciting because of how rarely they panned out. But the searching got my heart beating, and the hope was a drug. And when the web finally appeared it was still the same. In those early days of surfing, it was a hunt to find good nudity, and sometimes we’d wait for an hour as the file downloaded only to discover a girl in a bikini from a sports illustrated we had already seen a hundred times. Often it was the same model, the same naked girl that popped up on every site, and some of those faces are still familiar even if I don’t know their names.

What I don’t remember is ever getting off to a picture. I don’t remember crawling under the covers with a stolen Playboy or jerking off fantasizing about Miss May. The New Yorker cartoons didn’t get me hard, and even the impossibly beautiful models in Vogue didn’t drive me to self-abuse. The longing was there, the desire for discovery was overpowering, but the sexual release was seemingly disconnected as if my lust for the images was separate from my want for release.

The first pornographic movie I ever saw was on a VHS, and I barely remember a thing about it. I’m sure it was enticing, and I have a strong sense of attachment to it when it somehow ended up in my possession, but as for the scenes? They’re as much a blur as anything. I’m reasonably sure there was a blonde but after that?

None of this is to say that I didn’t like to get off, that I didn’t get turned on, or that my love of dirty pictures was disconnected from my sexuality. But if I was going to touch myself to a magazine, it was going to be a Penthouse, because dammit if those letters didn’t do something for me! There were two magazines in the house that had stories in them, and I don’t know how many times I read them. Strangers fucking on a beach during a summer vacation, a young man picked up by a woman only to discover that her husband liked to watch from the closet and a road trip that ended with a beautiful hitchhiker getting fucked in the backseat of a truck.

I read them over and over again because while the pictures were enticing, the images in my mind were something else. Because when that husband came out of the closet to watch his wife have sex, the story was only beginning! I read it with my cock in my hand, and I’ll never forget my shocked delight when our hero knelt on the floor by the bed and learned how to suck the husband’s cock like a pro! It was a Penthouse, a magazine for straight men, and yet there he was, on the floor with a big dick in his mouth as he struggled not to choke.

And if they could put that in a Penthouse then where else could it appear? What else had I misunderstood about what was allowed and what was not? It was easy to look at the pictures of the pretty women and the nude models, but the men were something else. And if I was lucky enough to find a magazine with not just a man in it, but a hard cock as well, then my year had been made. Because in those days, men were rare in straight printed smut unless you read the words.
But the more I searched, the more I found them! Hidden in the middle, between articles, nearly every single men’s magazine had a letter about a man discovering a new side to his sexuality. Maybe he was “forced” into it for plausible deniability, but sometimes he jumped into it gleefully, as if to tell me that nothing was as it seemed.

No one is as straight as they look.

And the books were even better because in books anything could happen and often did. There were a few books in particular that worked in the same way, and I vividly remember the scene in Eric Van Lustbader’s classic novel The Ninja about two women in a bathtub fucking a pistol which turned out to be a shower attachment. But lo and behold, there are a man and a boy (can I possibly remember that right?) who fuck as well because nothing was off limits to Mr. Lustbader. I think there was a rape scene and possibly a sexy murder, all of which I slotted into my mind’s rotation or horrible jerk-off material.

Clan of the Cave Bear had a scene which got dog-eared as well as Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose because those were some graphic sex scenes. A girlfriend in high school revealed the secrets of Anne Rice, and at some point, I discovered hidden among my brother’s comic books the filthy ones whose names now escape me. And I’m sure there were others, although those are the only ones I remember this morning.

It would be easy now to jump forward to Literotica, but there’s a middle that’s even harder to ignore.
Because before that, there’s Innocence.

At that point, I had only recently come out. My senior year of high school I wore a skirt to school one day, which prompted a whole lot of questions from other boys and cemented my reputation as the gayest kid in school. We had one gay teacher who was barely out, and he was as close to a community as I had. Because when it came to the students, I was it.

But once I found my way to college, I discovered at least a few other queer men, which meant that thankfully I was no longer the expert. I attended a meeting of the alphabet soup committee and helped organize the Midwestern Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual College Conference which brought in a hundred queers to our tiny college in Indiana. And one night, I found myself in bed with two men, trying desperately to navigate my desire for one and my fear of the other.

As a newly minted bisexual, I had work to do, and since I only knew those two other gay men and they identified as full-on gay, I was still somewhat adrift. It was better than high school, but the pickings were slim, the community complicated, and room to explore negligible. Because let’s face it, all of us were awkward and confused, and that didn’t make anything easier.

There was one place, however, where I might have better luck. It was new, and it was confusing, but I heard enough rumors to believe something was out there. It wasn’t just a place to form community either; it was a place where stories were told, and sexuality was explored. And I was going to find it no matter how complicated and confusing this new-fangled Internet thingy was.

My first foray online came from an old friend of mine who shared the log-in to a bulletin board system out of the University of Chicago. I had to dial in via Telnet or some other technology I only understood well enough to make my way into the text-based heaven of chat rooms. And there, one afternoon, hidden deep in the basement of the school’s library, sitting in an imaginary hot tub in what was called the Bisexual Cafe, I met Innocence.

I found my way there through dumb luck and sheer force of will, and once I had arrived, I learned how to chat, how to use the basic commands, and how to interact with other perverts halfway around the world. Innocence was the handle of a girl in England who had also managed to Telnet into to the BBS and make her way through the ether to the Bisexual Cafe where she too climbed naked into a “hot tub” to chat with strangers. And my god was she enticing! I pictured her in my mind’s eye that very first day I logged on, and we talked for an hour as I fantasized about all the imaginary sex we would soon be having.

We flirted, her and the others as well, and in that one afternoon, I joined a small community of queer and questioning people desperate to find others like them. When I finally logged off, I felt alive and afraid. I had discovered something new, something foreign, and yet something that I was sure was unstoppable. It was just a taste of the future, a hint at how the world might be, but in my heart, I knew everything was about to change.

I just didn’t realize how quickly.

The next day I found my way back to the computer lab, worked out how to gain access to the BBS once more, navigated my way through the text-based interface, and then once again landed in the Bisexual Cafe, sitting in the hot tub. Which is where I heard the news.

“Hey, where’s Innocence?” I asked someone. There was silence on the board for a few moments until someone sent me a private message.

“Sorry, didn’t you hear? Innocence was hit by a car in London last night and was killed. Sorry to have to tell you.”

And my god, if right then, hidden in the basement with a broken heart, I didn’t realize the truth of it all. I had found the internet. I had discovered a brave new world that would soon change everything. And at that moment, after my initial discovery, right then as it all began, Innocence died.

What a fucked up metaphor, I thought to myself. What a completely messed up, disturbing, and in your face lesson to learn. And my god the poor girl! She was a teenager, maybe a year younger than me, and just as she too found her way into the new digital closet, her life was snatched away seemingly so that I could be hit over the head with a message from the future.

The internet is here. The world is changing. And Innocence is dead.

Please., Guest Post by Jade A. Waters

I’ve got an exciting mid-winter read for you: an excerpt from Jade A. Waters’ new book, The Assignment, from the 3-book Lessons in Control Series (part two comes out this spring). I love Jade’s writing and I can’t wait to read the whole thing!

“I trust you,” I said. The dig of the rope made it hard to focus, but when Dean bent over me, his crotch was so near my face I couldn’t resist.

I lifted my head and mouthed the bulge at his groin.

He stilled and closed his eyes, a growl pouring from his throat. “You minx,” he said. He surrendered to the heat of my mouth, not stopping me from cupping my lips around him through the fabric.

“I want to taste you.”

Dean ran a finger along my arm, then over my cheek. “You will.” He set back to work, locking my second wrist in place and pretending not to notice the hungry way I mouthed his covered erection. I wanted the fabric gone to taste his skin, but Dean kept right on working, captivating me with his focus. When he finished, he sat back to survey his handiwork.

“Not so bad,” I said. I fisted my hands. The pull of the rope was noticeable yet bearable, and as he grabbed my breasts and rolled my nipples between his fingers, I strained against the rough strands with a choked murmur.

“Oh, I’m not done yet.”

Dean lowered his face to my nipple and took it gently in his teeth while he kneaded my other breast. He clamped his teeth tighter, and I bucked beneath him, the sheets rumpling beneath my back. Dean sat upright.

“See, that’s why I’m tying you all the way down. Already, though, you look amazing.” He ran his hands along my waist before resting his fingers over the ridge that tented his slacks. He rubbed himself, and I moaned.

“No fair!”

“I love how eager you are.” Dean climbed off me to grab another coil, and when he returned, he pushed my legs up until I folded at the knees and my back rounded against the mattress.

The sensation of being moved—no, arranged and positioned, with my hands bound like this—made my blood rise. Dean’s jaw remained taut with seriousness, and yet his eyes glowed with a zealous enthusiasm when he settled between my thighs. My heartbeat clattered in my chest as he tied me with my lower and upper legs pressed together, the coils weaving multiple times around my shin and thigh, binding them tight. Dean finished the other leg much faster than the first. Then he spread my legs apart.

“You’re positively dripping,” he said, staring down at my groin. The wet spot beneath my ass was cold and alluring.

Fuck, this entire experience was alluring.

“Dean.” I didn’t understand the sensation in me. My body shook, and I felt euphoric without him even touching me yet.

Dean’s face brightened. He took a couple of fingers to my cleft, tracing my slippery opening and making me cry out. I started to close my legs but he shoved them apart, the muscles in my thighs quaking against his force. “Your legs stay open,” he said sharply, his fingers making slow, entrancing circles. He slid them up to pinch my clit and sank his thumb inside in rapid thrusts. I rolled my hips up with a groan. “If you want more, you must keep them open. Do you understand?”

I tugged on the ropes in affirmation, the tingling in my pelvis maddening. I was bound and trapped beneath this beautiful man, and so fucking turned on.

Dean didn’t cease the exquisite movements of his thumb and fingers, and his eyes slit as he watched my pussy flex. Heat showered me, threatening to knock every reasonable thought from my head. My vision blurred. Everything about this consumed me.

I’d never felt anything like it.

Dean raised himself on his knees. He eased down the zipper of his slacks, pulling them and his briefs off his hips in a quiet sweep. His cock leaped up to his belly, the crown bulbous and smooth, and all I could think of was my lust for him.

“Please.” I kept my legs wide like he’d instructed, overrun by burgeoning need so heavy even my lungs felt weighted. “Fill me, please …”

Dean took his shaft in his hand, squeezing until the head turned a lighter shade of red. Against the muscles of his stomach it looked like a dream—hard as stone and beckoning me, promising delight.

Dean wrangled his trousers off and took two condoms out of his pocket. He threw one of them onto my nightstand and dropped the other on the comforter, circling my hips with his fingers before dragging them back to my slit. Once he slipped both thumbs inside, I was delirious with pleasure. “Are you on the pill?”

I came to slightly. “Yes, but—”

He shoved his thumbs deeper. “I don’t intend to take off the condom. I’m simply asking to know. Backup is good.”

He came at me then, his tongue dipping in with his thumbs, the pressure of his touch profound as he lapped at me. I struggled to keep from clamping my thighs around his head, concentrating on the burn of the rope in the shifts of my thighs while he brought me to elevated planes of pleasure. My face grew numb, my breath ragged and I was floating in my mind, separating from my body. Dean dragged his tongue lower, his thumbs making hearty thrusts to match his tease of the tender ring of my ass.

I moaned, subjected to his touch and unable to move. His tongue penetrated me and he rubbed his nose against my cunt, his thumbs grazing my inner walls.

My reflex was to thrash, to jump away from this, but he’d pinned me in place. Dean groaned, his tongue bringing the orgasm close, and I felt such driving need I shrieked out his name.

With his eyes glassy and his face drenched, Dean pulled away from me. Feral moans escaped my lips as he found the condom and rolled it over his throbbing length. He crawled over me, his sexy body about to overtake me in this bound-up state.

“Please,” I breathed.


Pick up The Assignment by Jade A. Waters at your local awesome bookstore, or, if you must, through Amazon.

Hard Handed Femme, Guest Post by Dena Hankins

This story contains consensual BDSM play, including choking, punching, and foreplay.

As she circled the large structures for rope play in the middle of the room, she found him.

Jack stood with his feet spread like a sailor, arms crossed over a black chest harness that came together in the middle of his back at a shiny ring, probably stainless steel. His compass rose tattoo covered the bulk of his skin, with the light scribing of chart details radiating along his shoulders and sides, disappearing into his dark blue jeans. He was in three-quarter profile, and she could see the tattooed chain loop around his arm and cross his shoulders, but not the anchors on his forearms. His tousled hair caught the light over the scene he watched, giving him a nimbus that contrasted with the dirty-boy tone of his presentation.

She must have come into his range of vision, because he started and turned toward her. His arms dropped away from his chest, covered only with the leather straps and a buckle so that she could see his nipples harden. She’d planned to start aloof and make him work for her attention, but she couldn’t contain her sly smile. No reason to stick to a plan when an opportunity stared one straight in the face.

She wanted to walk right to him and grab him by the neck. She wanted to see his eyes widen and feel his breath catch, but, yes, a DM wandered close by. She’d have to give the impression of negotiating.

Eve stared into Jack’s eyes as she approached, daring him to look away. She stopped so close his short breaths warmed her neck. The couple of inches she had on him gave her the high ground and she took it. “I want to beat you with my hands, open and fisted, and fuck you with your granite cock. Do you agree to that and the conditions for play that we set out both the night at my house and in our video chat conversation?”

“Yes, Eve.” He didn’t hesitate.

“Are you ready to start?”

“Yes, Evrim.”

The joy burst through her. To be heard and understood, for him to remember and value her ways. What a gift.

Not that it softened her. Anything but.

“Get the cock and take care of any side trips you need to make. Meet me in that corner,” she pointed, “with two bottles of water and your cock as soon as you’re done. Don’t change anything you’re wearing.” She dropped her eyes to the lump in his pants, either a packing cock or stuffing. She’d find out later.

“Yes, Evrim.”

Evrim watched him walk away, nearly laughing out loud at the skip in his step. No second thoughts from this one. Evrim draped the sling with an absorbent pad and put another on the spanking horse for good measure. She turned to find Jack at her side and struck as swiftly as a rattlesnake.

A groan tore through her throat at the feeling of Jack’s throat under her hard hand. She squeezed the muscles on either side of his trachea and his wide eyes flickered. “Give me the cock.”

He handed it over and she put it on the table without looking away from him. He kept his hands down and stood still, waiting for her to do what she would.

Evrim drew out the moment. He flushed slowly, though she wasn’t cutting off his blood flow. She stared at him from inches away until his throat jerked hard against her palm and his eyelids fell to half-mast. That was the signal she’d been waiting for.

A hard, thudding blow to his chest with the side of her fist. He shuffled his feet to lean into the blows he correctly expected, and she tenderized him, beating him slowly, heavily, between his collarbone and his nipples. She switched sides, releasing his throat to do so, then used both hands, simultaneously and in a rhythm that drew the first sounds from him. Grunts, groans, signs that it was starting to hurt, that his reddening, swelling flesh was signaling its danger to his brain.

She kept going, finding the edge where he groaned without screwing up his eyes, then going over it. Her hands glowed, receiving just as much of a beating as they were providing, and Evrim gave herself a break by switching it up.

With her palms flat on his tenderized chest, she shoved hard enough that he swayed, then brought himself back with a flex of his stomach muscles. Fucking hot. She made him do it again, for the sheer pleasure of watching his body jerk, then dug her fingertips into the area she’d beaten. He flinched, his shoulders curving in as though to shield himself from the pain, but his hands remained by his sides.

“You may put your hands on my waist.”

His eyes darted to hers, his surprise clear. “Thank you, Evrim.”

Hmm. Telling, that. He wasn’t used to having permission to touch his top. What kind of services had he performed in the past?

“But keep your shoulders back. If you need me to slow down or wait, tell me.”

“Yes, Evrim.”

When his hands touched her corseted waist, she could barely feel him. Not at all what she was after. She put a finger out and pressed it lightly against the end of his nipple. He stiffened as though electrocuted and his hands tightened on her. Better.

Evrim stroked both his nipples, squeezed them, gathered them in her hands, and pulled. Everything she did brought him to a higher level of tension until he was strung far too tight to maintain it. She punched him hard with the sides of both fists, three times in a row, and he shouted.

At that sound of release, Evrim unleashed her craving. She beat and pulled and twisted and squeezed, moving too fast for Jack to process one sensation before another crashed over him. She overwhelmed him, and his cries became nonstop repetitions of two words that flew into her like thunderous rain.

“Please yes please yes…”

His unfocused eyes drifted with the rain of blows, then flashed their shock when she reached around to grab what she could of his short hair and pull his head back. She pinched his nipple hard at the same time she pulled him into her body. She bit the strong muscle of his shoulder, and the combination made him hold on to her as though he would fall otherwise. She pulled him in and squeezed hard.

Breath sobbed from his open mouth against her neck, hot and damp. His body shook and twitched in her arms, and she held them solid for him. When his arms went slack, she nudged him with her hip, got him moving backward, and bypassed the spanking horse for the sling. She’d beat his ass and thighs another day. He was primed for a deep, hard fucking.


Pick up Dena Hankins’s new book, Lysistrata Cove, and read all about the adventures of Jack and Evrim.

Femming the Strap-On, Guest Post by Artemisia FemmeCock

I used to think I wasn’t gay enough to have a cock.

I cringe at that now, wondering what the hell it even means to be “gay enough” for anything. My 16-year-old self had some very ingrained assumptions though, assumptions that formed an identity radically different from the one I inhabit so comfortably today.

It seems natural to introduce myself as a “queer femme dyke” now, but to my newly-out teen self, those were three very incongruous things: queer was a slur, femme was the counter-identity to masculine, and dyke was a term reserved for only the most visible, butch lesbians.

These were conclusion influenced by the community I found when I first came out as a freshman in high school, a community that assured me I was a lesbian without ever asking because I am a cis woman attracted to women. It was like a scratchy, ill-filling sweater, but amongst the many other discomforts of high school, it was warming to feel welcome somewhere.

However, this meant that an identity was crafted for me before I could even begin to claim one for myself. Part of that identity was my presentation as a femme woman who was dating a butch woman, which coded me as the submissive and receptive partner, while they were perceived as the dominant, the pleaser, the one who wore the strap-on.

We were swathed in binary stereotypes by others, queer or not, and there were endless jokes about how gay my partner was for being a visible butch woman. The most vivid being when a group of friends attempted to quantify our collective “gayness.” It was decided that my partner constituted two whole gays, while I could only claim one half. I don’t like math to begin with, but when that math is based on the idea that sexuality can be calculated from one’s appearance, I really don’t like math.

I played into this role of “half gay” though, laughing along with jokes that dismissed my sexuality because of my femininity, about being hit on by men or asked if I had a boyfriend because I didn’t “look gay,” and accepting generalized assumptions about my relationship and sex life.

I was so compliant because many of their assumptions were true: I could have had a billboard above my head that read “I’m fucking GAY” and I would still hear the dismissive rhetoric “but you’re too pretty…” and “are you sure?” In my relationship, I was submissive and my partner was dominant, I chose the cock but she always wore it, and she didn’t enjoy being penetrated while I did. Presentation and sex became linked in my mind, and I conceded to the stereotypes.

It wasn’t until I went to college and saw unabashed, gender fucking, non-binary femmes that I began to see my identity as more than half: the half gay, the receiving half, the other half of butch. I started to understand that my presentation isn’t complimentary, it’s individual and multi-faceted. I can like, do, dress, and fuck however feels right to me. So I took off the itchy sweater and all the assumptions that were pinned to it.

From there, I started playing with my femmeness, seeking to reclaim my body as strong and loud and queer. I grew out my body hair and dyed it pink, I gravitated towards bold lip colors and nails, and I found power in ritual: taking time to get dressed, do my hair, apply copious amounts of glitter. I embraced my femmeness in my sex life too, savoring snapshots of deep red lipstick smudged on a silicone cock, masturbating with nails that matched the color of my vibrator, and styling the cutest pony tails to be pulled on.

I found a partner who has shifted and changed with me over the past two years, and though our journeys of sex, sexuality, and presentation are undeniably different, we’re able to express our needs and wants in dynamic ways. For so long, I just didn’t have the language or references or support to communicate in that way, and a large component of my shift in understanding is centered around exchanging that sweater for a strap-on.

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femmecock2

My first cock was a milky pastel pink that coordinated so well with my mint and pink lace harness. When I put it on, the wispy hairs on my thighs, two chubby bumps for knees, and slightly pigeon-toed feet all defocused, obstructed by that new view. I began to bob and sway as my hips swung and my legs lifted off the ground. I danced around in my new naked, the weight of my cock against my pelvis, brushing my skin as I shook and spun. It was like the queerest tampon commercial dance montage you’d ever seen, and I would have gladly accepted a trampoline to complete the image.

There was reclamation in that cock, feeling my queer femmeness in something that I had known as a symbol of masculinity and dominance. That was years ago, and since then, wearing a cock has become an ever present part of my life. Literally, it’s in my name, but it’s also my identity. Albeit, a very condensed identity, but it took me years of unlearning a selfhood formed by others in order to get to the point where it seems comfortable to join “femme” and “cock” together in a declaration of who I am.

Tiger Stripes, Guest Post by Kyle Jones

One lamp was wedged between the wall and the side table, casting odd shadows across the room. The bed’s top mattress was halfway off its base and the bedding was completely off, a lumpy pile at the foot of the bed. The large console­ height dresser looked as if it had been tipped over and hastily righted, its drawers still hanging half open. Clothing was strewn around, some on the floor, some caught on corners of furniture in all directions. In short, the bedroom was wrecked, like a movie scene where the cops have tossed the place looking for evidence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my packy peaking out of a tangle of my underwear and jeans. There were other sex toys scattered around the room, as well as objects borrowed from other rooms in the apartment and repurposed. The rubber spatula in my hand was one example. I took in these details with my peripheral vision, while keeping my eyes on my adversary/lover, on the other side of the bed. Only her eyes and the top of her ginger head were visible. In this moment of pause, the sound of our harsh breathing bounced off the plastered walls, underwritten by her feral growl.

I didn’t dare look away for fear she’d launch herself at me again. I felt the damage she’d inflicted with her fingernails in the welts stinging all over my body. The moment was about to break, I could feel it. Besides, I’d need to move soon, my legs were threatening to cramp. I raised my head, bared my teeth and hissed. Her head came up as well and I saw the furrows, like tiger stripes, that I’d dug into her upper chest. Her eyes were wild and her face was flushed.

What did she see when she looked at me? Did she see the wild beast in me that mirrored the one I saw in her? Did she see my desire? Did she know I was thinking about how I could pin her down between the bed and the wall and spend my passion on any part of her body I could get under me?

Was she thinking about how quickly we’d gotten from staring at each other all lovey dovey at dinner to staring at each other like prey?

The evening had started romantically, with a meal at a nice place in town and an after dinner stroll. On this particular night, she’d gone butch. Her hair was shaved close except for high on her crown, where the vivid orange of her natural color was accented by a bleached streak, reminding me of a sidewalk sundae. The short sleeves of her shirt displayed her strong upper arms and her tight blue jeans gave me plenty to enjoy with that sweet ass and bulge. After catching sight of our reflection in a storefront window, I whispered in her ear, “Look at those hot fags” and she’d grabbed my ass. We’d kissed and groped all over downtown before deciding it was time to go back to her place.

I’d figured the rest of the evening would be as romantic as dinner. Hand in hand, we walked toward her car and I was already thinking ahead to the ways we would enjoy each other’s bodies when she suddenly stopped, almost yanking my shoulder out of its socket as my feet kept going forward.

“Whoops” I said, swinging back around awkwardly. She pulled me close and bopped me lightly on the nose.

“Hey, sexy, what’s on your mind? Have you heard anything I’ve said?” She sounded curious, rather than angry, which I appreciated.

“I was thinking about later, when we get home…” There was no good reason for my face to blush at that moment, no reason to be embarrassed about fantasizing about having sex but my face heated up anyway. I grew hotter at the sudden intensity of her gaze and as I watched, her expression changed.

“Is that right?” Her purr had a hardened edge to it. Sometimes it was just that quick, from sweet and romantic to predator in 60 seconds. The hunger in her eyes was only distantly related to the romantic desire I’d seen over dinner.

She turned me around quickly, pressing me against a wall of uneven brick that bit into my flesh, and forced her knee between my legs. Light, noise and people spilled from a nearby bar causing me to flinch at the unwanted witnesses. I’m not normally squeamish about public sex, in fact, I usually initiate it. At that moment, however, I felt very exposed, nervous, unsure of myself.

“What’s wrong, baby? Where’s my cocky lover?” Her fingers dug bruises into my forearms. The color red flared into my vision as the pain registered. I pushed away from the wall quickly while pulling her off balance. Soon our positions were reversed and I pressed my body against hers, remembering the uneven brick and hearing her gasp as it dug into her shoulder blades. I looked at her through narrowed eyes, my lip curled into a sneering smile.

“You rang?” We stared at each other for a moment or two before becoming aware that we were attracting unwanted attention.

I stepped back and gestured toward her car, “Shall we, my love?”

She drove and I leaned back in the passenger seat, rubbing my crotch. The sensation transferred through my packy to my engorged clit. She kept stealing looks and it was even odds that she’d pull over somewhere, even though we were moments from her place. I was out of her car almost before she’d parked it, trying to get to her door first with my set of keys. I thought I could get there first and lie in wait in the apartment but she caught me on the stairs. She got one hand on my belt loop and pulled, which caused me to miss a step. She got ahead of me but I caught up in the short hallway near her door. I pressed her against the wall and reached between her legs to grab her mound. She swooned and cursed me almost simultaneously before pushing me off and moving to unlock her door. I came up behind her and pressed myself against her ass. She opened the door and we fell through it.

I turned to lock the door behind me and she slammed me against it so hard I tasted blood. She was laughing almost maniacally, pressing me against the door while she tickled me. Dammit, I cursed to myself, it was hard to be aggressive while giggling. Cursing and flapping my hands, I managed to get free and stand out of range, catching my breath and considering my options. I chose humor as a method for buying time, “Apparently, an episode of wrestlemania had broken out in the middle of our date.”

There was a mischievous light in her eyes. “So, old man, how long you think you can go at it with me before I beat you?”

“You little shit,” I chuckled and rubbed my bulge. “Long enough, youngster, long enough.”

“I don’t know, grandpa, you seem pretty out of breath, I think this is my night.” The wide grin on her face softened the taunt. She was moving toward me, hands at her sides. I didn’t trust her, and was wary, while simultaneously wanting to kiss her mouth hard. I made my move, holding her arms at her sides and attempting a lip lock. She wiggle and resisted, laughing triumphantly as she pulled one hand free.

“You are definitely going down, old man.” Her fingers sought the tender spots under my arms, twisting until I screamed in pain.

“Ouch! Dammit, you little fucker!” I wrenched free of her pinchy fingers and threw myself at her.

She stumbled back into her bedroom and into a wall with a loud thud. I wondered what neighbors must be thinking with all this shouting, cursing and crashing about. Not that it was the first time we’d made a ruckus. So far, no one had called the cops.

I had moved fast to make the most of my momentary advantage. Pressing an arm against her upper chest, and gritting my teeth against the way she pulled and pinched my nipples, I got a grip on her upper thigh with my thumb in the crease, and squeezed hard. That got her attention.

She cried out and tried to slap me. I responded by kneeing her between the legs and delivering a stinger across her face. After a few more strikes with my knee, I stepped back and gave her a hard look, hands on my hips. She’d gotten a rise out of me, which is exactly what she’d wanted.

The sadist in me came to the fore. I wanted to taste her pain, to see the feral look in her eyes when I began to push her through that pain to the other side.

“Is it on, little girl?” I growled out the words.

Her eyes widened as my dig found its mark.

“Oh, it’s on, old man, you’re going down.” And then she came at me.

We grappled for a bit until I had her pinned to the floor, my legs wrapped around hers to keep her from kicking me. I had her wrists pinned above her head, my arms dangerously close to her teeth, a fact she emphasized by snapping and growling. We were both breathing hard. I began to grind my packy into her mound, shifting my weight so that I would hit her just under her clit.

She moaned from pleasure and roared in frustration. I was so hot for her and the pressure against my clit was building. I wanted to come on her right then and there, as she struggled and cursed me. I wanted to come not in spite of her resistance, but because of it.

“Dammit, we’re fighting, not fucking!”

“All’s fair in love and war, babycakes” I worked her just the way she liked it, and she did her best to resist but I knew her tells. Her eyelids were half closed and her hips were responding to me. “Besides, isn’t fucking AND fighting your favorite?”

I got my answer seconds later. I’d gotten cocky again and let my guard down. She got her feet braced and flipped me.

We went at it for a while like that. At one point she had three fingers in my cunt and I was chewing on her shoulder while growling. Not long after that, I was vigorously sucking her left breast while teasing her asshole. Neither of us was able to get consistent advantage over the other. We are very well matched for size and strength. We finally broke free of each other when her attempt to flip me over on the bed sent me flying off one side and her tumbling over the other. And now we were catching our breath, staring each other down.
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It’s never a good thing to let my mind wander when we’re playing this way. I realized that a second too late and she took advantage, coming up and over the bed at me before I could move. She slammed me into the carpet, knocking the wind out of me. In the time it took me to get my breath back, she’d pinned my wrists down at my sides and was doing her best to chew chunks out of my chest while kneeing me viciously between the legs.

Lying on the floor with my arms pinned and her knee bruising the hell out of my cunt, I thought, Maybe she’s right. Maybe the old man is gonna lose. On the other hand, I could feel my cock getting harder as she pummeled it. So was I really losing? When I started moaning, she narrowed her eyes and stopped.

“Dammit, you’re not supposed to enjoy this!” She sat down on my pelvis and let go of my arms to punch my chest. Then I was able to get my feet under me and lift, pushing with my hands, throwing her off me. We both scrambled up, breathing hard. She lunged, and I sidestepped, redirecting her forward motion onto the bed. Then I wailed on her. I put a knee against her back and punched her ass hard, over and over. She pushed up and twisted, getting halfway up until I turned her and threw her down on her back. Then I resumed my assault against her chest and arms. She was getting her licks in too, punching hard against whatever she could reach. Her responses were getting weaker. Was I wearing her down? I wanted to push her over the edge, not just up to it. I knew that’s what she wanted, too. That’s what she always wanted.

I grabbed her wrists and pressed her arms against her sides. She struggled but couldn’t pull free. Leaning down, I got a mouthful of her chest and bit hard, causing her to yowl and me to wonder, for the millionth time, which of her neighbors would be the first to call 911. We paused, looking at each other, catching our breath. Her expression had softened, I eased up on my grip around her wrists. She slapped my face again, but not hard.

“That hurt, fucker!” She put on a mad face and I laughed. She took another swing at me and I caught her hand.

“Yes, I hurt you and you hurt me. That’s exactly what you wanted it, wasn’t it, beastie?” I kissed her forehead, then her cheek and hovered over her lips.

She pouted briefly and then pulled me in for a kiss and bit my lower lip, hard. Damn, that hurt. I didn’t pull away, that would have hurt more. Instead I waited her out. She let go after a moment and gave me a sweet full kiss, this time without teeth.

All of this physical exertion got me hot and bothered and I guessed the same was true for her. I moved my body so my clit was pressing against hers and she pressed back against me.

“Oh baby, yes, please, I need you.” Her urgency went right to my cock, and I could feel myself getting harder.

I licked her collarbone, then her nipple, moving downward while dragging my tongue along her curves. With a kiss to the top of her flaming ginger mound, I looked up at her and said, “You’re right about one thing, baby.”

“What’s that, love?” she asked.

“The old man IS going down.”

Lying Down, Guest Post by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Excerpt from Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Reprinted with permission

She presents her back to me, unadorned and shivering in the early morning air. I know she loathes to being naked, the humility and vulnerability of it, so the fact that she’s offered it to me has moved me greatly, made me rock hard. She is spectacular, standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes blinking sleepily, her body already melting in anticipation.

I have surprised her with this, barely allowing her to finish her first cup of coffee before ordering her to take off her clothes and give me her flesh. Although this is our ritual, a Sunday morning play-date we rarely, if ever, miss, I am usually gentle with her. I allow her to wake slowly and warm up to the day, serve her coffee in bed, warm up to the day. The ways in which we arouse each other during these weekly assignations are myriad indeed, sometimes kinky, always juicy. This morning I want kink, demanded it of her. Although this is unexpected, she has scurried to please me, collecting my whips, the lube, the condoms, arranging them within easy reach on the coffee table before she stands before me and offered herself up. She is eager for my instructions, always. I run my hand down the skin of her creamy back and murmur, “That’s a good girl.”

She quivers in response and raises her eyes to mine.

“I didn’t say you could look at me, girl,” I hiss, and we are on.

She knows the drill, eyes now downcast as she slips into her submission. There is a smirk of pleasure and excitement playing about her lips. I should punish her for her sass, but her morning face is so pretty that I decide to allow it. For now.

The first licks of my galley whip are a tease, a flirt of leather on her skin. Kisses promise more to come and render her shaking with desire and a bit of fear.

I like the fear. I let it build slowly, increasing the intensity of the lashes she is receiving until she moves her body in expectation of them, a slight shifting toward the whip. I laugh and hit her pussy, not gently. She moans and spreads her legs open for me, for more.

“Ooh, you liked that, didn’t you, you whore?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy.” Her voice is breathy.

I hit her pussy again, harder, first with the tails then the handle of the whip. She is moaning louder now, gasping. She blinks back the first sign of real tears—tears of pain or need, I’m not sure—but I give her more nonetheless.

When I stop abruptly her body jerks in response, stiffening, then softening and leaning back toward me. She sniffles, and I flick the whip gently through her hair, letting it caress her long red curls as if it were my fingers touching her.

She has told me it makes her feel cherished, when I beat and whip her flesh, when I fuck her hard and without lube, when I make demands of her. But I want to remind her she is also cherished now, in between the pain—that my whip can be both a brutal weapon and a tender one.

I reach around with my hands and squeeze her tits, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples, tugging them. I slide slowly down her belly, my fingers finding her slick wet pussy. She cries out and stumbles, losing her balance, when I shove three fingers inside her.

“Mmm, nice and wet for me, just the way I like you.”

Just as quickly I pull my hand away. My cock grows even stiffer when she cries out again and there is no mistaking her hunger.

I begin to whip her in earnest now, letting it build, slicing the whip into her skin with enough force to leave marks. That tender spot just under her ass is my favorite, the blood rising to the surface almost immediately in a sweet red welt.

She is fighting to stand still, moaning and sobbing, her entire body quaking. I land a series of intense blows on her back, and she sobs harder, in pain.

“Turn around,” I growl, and she obeys immediately.

Her teary eyes meet mine, her mouth swollen and quivering, and I want to tear into it, bite it, draw blood. I can see juice on her thighs, her pussy glistening. Her eyes are pleading. I know she wants more. She doesn’t have to beg—I’m not done yet—but I decide to make her anyway.

“Have you had enough, girl?” I ask. She starts to shake her head, than catches herself; she knows I prefer she answer me when I ask a question.

“N-no. No.”

“Do you want more then? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes. Yes, please. Please.” Her begging is not part of our play. I know she means it, and I am so stiff for her I might explode.

“Lift your arms for me.”

I demand full access to that delicate flesh. I want to devour her. Instead, I settle for my whip’s access, the ferocity of my own need barely restrained as I slice the tender skin of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Her nipples are hard, her breath rasping, her lips trembling. She bites her lower lip to keep from crying but she can’t stop the flow of tears, the sobs. When I lash out at her pussy, she again opens her legs for me, rocking her hips forward so I can better reach her clit, moving back and forth in time with the leather. This is a dance we have perfected over time, a dance not just of desire but of devotion.

I can’t wait a moment longer to enter that tight pussy, and I lay down the whip and grab her, pressing her against me. She collapses in my arms, simply melting, and I feel her wet cheeks buried in my neck.

Read the rest of the story in the anthology Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Get more information about the Dirty Dates anthology here. Thanks for letting me reprint part of it!

Little Liar, Guest Post by Rebekah Weatherspoon

I need routine. It grounds me, keeps me sane, keeps me from going off on the teenagers I work in my other life. So I’ll tell you about my day, how things go when I’m with Daddy.

11:07am

Hours before, Daddy pulled me out of my bed, the cedar box at the foot of her CalKing. It’s comfy and cozy, the refreshing rich wood lined with a soft mattress and linens and pillows. There are plenty of holes that let me breathe just fine. I was afraid of my bed at first, but I like it now. It gives me a place to get away. It gives me a quiet dark place to think about Daddy. She always lets me sleep in. Her day starts early and we both know how cranky I am before ten a.m., but every morning she opens my box and helps me half asleep under the soft sheets where she spends the night. Sometimes I wake up a bit, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I remember the way Daddy touches me before she slips out the door.

Like this morning, I don’t want to wake up. I’m wrapped around my teddy bear, cozy in my bed. Daddy had me up late the night before fucking in the backyard so I went to sleep all worn out. Still when she opens the lid, it’s like my pussy isn’t done with her. Like we left some unfinished business in the grass by the pool. My body wakes up even though my mind doesn’t and I wiggle my way onto her comforter. She says something to me like “Good morning”, or “Good girl”. There’s a “good” in their somewhere as I flop against the pillow.

She touches me all over. My shoulder, my tummy, my breasts. I like it and I don’t tell her to stop. So when she rubs my pussy I might be sleeping, but I squirm a little and a little more until her fingers are inside me. Daddy has to leave. Gym, shower, juice bar, contracts, meeting, meeting, but she wants me as much I want her, so she fingers my pussy, letting me mumble away in my half sleep as I ride her hand until I come. That orgasm puts me right back to sleep. Or maybe I know Daddy is just teasing and doesn’t really want me to wake up because when I start talking that early in the morning, my mouth is smart and Daddy doesn’t have time to punish me.

But at little after 11:06 I do wake up. It’s the drone of the lawnmower, the rhythmic hum that blends into my dreams and makes me think I should do something weird like fly a helicopter. I take my time getting up, but when I do it’s into Daddy’s massive shower. Daddy takes care of my grooming so I just have to get myself nice and clean before I eat a healthy breakfast. I watch my figure, but I know how to balance waffles with fruit exercise and Daddy has the fanciest waffle maker. I have waffles and fruit and then three hours of daytime TV.

I don’t have any chores except cooking dinner, but Daddy has S, her housekeeper and the gardner, George. S stocked the fridge with everything I needed for the day including the chicken I’ll make for Daddy tonight, so I can watch all the junk TV I want while Daddy’s away.

2:00pm

I hit the pool. The hedges behind Daddy’s are high, but there’s a woman next door. She works from home and there’s this little spot where the trees part and she can see right into Daddy’s yard. When she works from home, most days she watches me. Like today she watches me as I work on my tan lines and play with my pussy. I told Daddy that the woman watches me. Daddy doesn’t mind. She might even invite her over sometime so she can get a load of me up close. We’ll both tease her, Daddy says, but it hasn’t happened. yet. I send a few texts. My friends are at work. They don’t get summers off. I get a few messages back, but soon I doze.

4:30pm

There’s chicken to bake and potatoes to prepare. I blast my music as loud as I want. S stops by for a bit after she’s spent the morning with her sick mum. She checks the mail and the gardener’s work, does some dusting, and makes Daddy’s bed. But the house is usually so clean so she doesn’t have to stay too long. She finds me as I’m dicing carrots. S checks my pussy just to make sure I’m wet. My nipples too for good measure.

She tells me to watch the chicken and not too dry it out. She tells me to turn down the music just in case Daddy calls. I need to hear the phone. And she tell me to put my toys back in my box before Daddy comes home. And I get a lecture about sunscreen. She likes my tan lines almost as much as Daddy doesn’t, but cancer isn’t cute and she doesn’t want me to get a sunburn.

S doesn’t want to play. She has her own fun with her own pets, but she’s a dirty old lady so she she checks me one more time, her hand gripping my pussy hard until my juices make a little squeaking noise as they slip between her fingers. I tell her she’s dirty and I don’t like it. I tell her to stop, but she knows I don’t mean it by the way I hold still. I like being teased this way. A slap on the ass and she’s gone.

6:30pm
I sneak a glass of wine. I hope Daddy doesn’t find out.

6:45pm

A text from Daddy. She’ll be home at her regular time. Dinner’s done and left to warm so I cover myself in this almond scented oil that Daddy loves and pull on these thigh high athletic socks with pink stripes that Daddy is obsessed with. Then I climb back in my box for a bit to wait for Daddy.

7:15pm

I’m playing games on my phone in the dark, but I hear Daddy. She doesn’t announce herself, I can hear her making her way to the bedroom. The front door shuts. Keys on the counter. I can’t hear her put down her bag, but I know she leaves in the kitchen right next to the counter. She’s checking to see if dinner is ready. Daddy likes to know before hand where or not she needs to punish me. But dinner is ready and I’ve been a good girl. Daddy opens my box. She’s adjusted the light in the bedroom so I can look at her gorgeous face without having to squint.

Still so handsome. Gray hair, almost pure white styled back away from her face. Brown eyes and full lips. Her dress shirt sleeves are already rolled up. I love her arms. I love her muscles.

“Hi,” she says.

I hide my face against my teddy before I look at her again. “Hi Daddy.”

“Were you a good girl today?”

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Pick out a toy and let’s have dinner.” Daddy’s so strong she reaches down and helps me out of my box. We walk over to her toy chest, where we keep all our straps and dildos and paddles and whips and the gags I asked so nicely for.

I look at the dildos laid out all nice and clean. I like to get them dirty for S and tease her when she has to clean them. I joke that she licks them when I’m not looking. Daddy laughs and tell me to cut it out.

“I want you to pick, Daddy,” I say before I shove my thumb in my mouth.

“You do, do you? Let’s go with Big Blue then.” Blue is the widest toy we have. I like to choke on it, and make my pussy hurt. Daddy grabs it for me and we go to the dining room. I get on the table while Daddy makes herself a plate and gets herself a drink. I get on the table and Daddy sits down with her food between my legs. When she takes the first bite that’s when I start. I sit up on my knees and suck the big blue cock in my hands. I suck it deep, push it down my throat until I gag. I pull it out and let saliva dribble down my chin. Daddy doesn’t like it when I swallow.

I do it again, drooling all over my chest. I use the big blue tip to spread my spit around my nipples. Daddy likes that.

“Is your cunt hungry, baby?” Daddy asks.

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then you should feed it.”

I stay on my knees, but slide Big Blue between my legs. I sit it on. Daddy likes the way I whimper. It hurts so much, but I’m so wet and it feels so good.

“Make it feel better,” I tell Daddy.

“Not while I’m eating, baby. You have to make yourself feel good.”

I bounce up and down, taking the ache, grateful the table’s so study. Daddy scoops up her wine before it spills over.

I’m close to coming, but I want to give Daddy the show she deserves. I slide to my ass and open my legs real wide. Daddy sits back and takes another sip. I’m going to be sore in the morning, but I don’t care. I fuck myself with Big Blue, harder and harder, until my cum dribbles all over the table and squirts on Daddy’s plate. I’m not done so I do it again and again. I know how Daddy likes it so I don’t make her wait too long before I crawl back to my knees and lick up the mess that I’ve made.

Daddy’s pleased, but there’s a look on her face. “Did you get into the wine?”

Daddy knows I’m a liar so I don’t tell the truth, I just keep licking at the slick table top. “No, Daddy. I don’t like wine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s yucky.”

“You sure about that? Come here baby.”

I move off the table as Daddy pushes back her chair and then I straddle her lap. She doesn’t pack to work, but some time while she was making her play she put on a strap and cock. I slide myself along the ridges in her slacks. But Daddy shakes her head.

“No, baby. You lied to me.”

“I swear, Daddy. I didn’t.”

She tips her glass and pours a few dribbles of the cool white wine over my nipples and then she cleans me up with her mouth. I whimper and moan and grind myself along the hidden ridges between my legs. “Only good girls get Daddy’s cock,” she whispers in my ear.

I pull back and drive myself against her lap even harder as I look her in the eye. “What do bad girls get, Daddy?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #176, Indigo Bleu and Viceroy.

Calibrate, Guest Post by Jen Cross

This is how it was between them: leaded with need, full throttle, every night.

It didn’t matter who they were outside of the apartment. It didn’t matter how the world saw them. It didn’t matter: the misconstruals, the misreadings, the misunderstandings, the harassment, the rage. It didn’t matter that it often seemed as though no one could see them but one another.

They saw one another, and that was what really mattered.

Daphne placed the call, every afternoon at three, right when her boss stepped out for his afternoon constitutional – which actually amounted to making a rounds of the department and harassing the rest of the secretaries for awhile, giving Daphne a break.

At ten to three, Gage knew to step away from whatever machine she’d been underneath, wipe as much grease from her hands as she could, and stand nearish the phone. Every one of her coworkers at the shop knew what she was waiting for, and they didn’t quite understand why she pretended not to be waiting for her girlfriend’s call. The guys raised eyebrows at one another, but no one talked any shit. Gage had been at the shop longer than anyone, was the first woman the boss had ever hired back almost twenty years before; she had slowly but surely trained the boys how to deal when she was around: “No sexist bullshit,” she’d explain to a new hire, clapping him or her on the shoulder while showing them around the place. “I don’t wanna hear about any gash or pussy or tail or ass you got last night, got it? None of the other guys do, either. You talk about your women with respect, or don’t talk about ’em at all, got it?”

It didn’t matter to Gage that plenty of the guys wanted to hear about the pussy and the gash. She was all right with them resenting her for that. Fuck them. If she had to walk through the walls of hostility just to get to work every day, they could fucking well hold their tongues to avoid the shop getting sued for creating a hostile work environment.

Exactly at three, the oil-stained phone rang. Gage wiped damp palms on her coveralls and picked up the line.

“Stoney’s Auto.”

“Gage?” Daphne’s voice sounded like warm honey that’d been poured over shards of broken glass in the back alley behind some biker bar.

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Always, baby.”

“You got something for me when we get home?”

It never failed. Gage had to swallow hard just to be able to answer. All these years, and still she went immediately rigid at the sound of a woman—her woman—asking for what she wanted. Gage dropped her voice a shade, deepening it the way she knew Daphne liked, and trying to keep a little something private from the guys trying not to look like they’re listening in. “You want something when we get home?”

“Yeah.” A little whimper at the end.

“You gonna tell me about it.”

“Yeah.” A little sharper whimper.

“How’m I gonna calibrate?”

“Bring it all.”

Gage’s heart ached. She knew from this that Daphne had had a particularly hard day; maybe the boss had tried to feel her up again during the staff meeting, or maybe he’d offered up his only-very-thinly-veiled reminder that if she’d only go home with him, he would happily promote her up to management.

“I got it ready.”

“Ok.”

They hung up. One of the guys across the floor, Samuel, Gage’s oldest buddy at the shop, made eye contact with Gage as she hung up. Gage nodded a little slowly. Samuel gave a small smile and a shrug. Gage shrugged back. “Yeah,” she said. Then she went home, mind spinning with what was to come.

Daphne got home before Gage nearly every evening. Most nights she tore off her office drag—button-down shirt and pencil skirt, “nude” nylon stockings, low black pumps—off as soon as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Gage since their four-month anniversary. She’d let her long auburn hair down from its tight bun and wrap herself in one of the many peignoirs she’d collected over the years. Most nights she’d have a bath drawn and dinner started by the time Gage walked in the back door.

“Go clean up,” she’d say to her love, eyeing with hunger Gage’s thick shoulders and broad, filthy hands. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She’d let the satin robe fall, accidentally, from one smooth shoulder as Gage walked past her, which she’d trained Gage never to leave unsuckled, and so, most nights, she had to boil a pot of water to reheat the tub by the time Gage made it from the kitchen into to the bathroom. Most nights, Daphne was the one who’d sit down to their shared dinner oilstained.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw them, what anyone else read into the roles each played. What mattered was how each of them ached, specifically, for what and who and how the other was.

On this night, Daphne did not take off her clothes. She did not start dinner. She didn’t even remove her red plaid trench coat. She didn’t get past the kitchen. She fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the ones with the metal frame backs and the plastic covered seats that came with the ’50s-era linoleum kitchen set they’d found at an estate sale not long after moving in together. She didn’t cry, not again. Everything in her was numb.

Gage found Daphne this way when she arrived home a half-hour later. The evening sun had already given way to shadow, so Daphne was just a silhouette when Gage walked in their back door. There were no lights, none of the music Daphne always had going, no aromas of arroz con pollo or fried plantain or feijoada. Just the stinging scent of lemon cleanser and Daphne’s sorrow.

Gage didn’t speak. After kicking off her work boots, she knelt in front of Daphne. Gently, she removed Daphne’s coat, then let down her hair. She listened to Daphne’s body, the shallow intake of breath. She listened to what needed to happen first.

Gage took both of Daphne’s hands in her own then stood, pulling Daphne to standing with her. She slung a dirty arm around Daphne’s somehow still pristine white work shirt, and led her into the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, Gage began to unbutton Daphne’s shirt.

“No.” Daphne still had not met Gage’s eyes. “Leave them on.”

Gage hardened. It was going to be like this, then. She took a box from next to the bed, and as she went into the bathroom, she said over her shoulder, “Take your nylons off. Leave them on the floor.”

When Gage returned to the bedroom, Daphne had done as she’d been asked. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, far away. Gage collected her woman up in her arms, eased them both back onto the bed, then lifted herself up, reached down, and inched Daphne’s skirt up over those thick hips. She unbuttoned her fly, took out her cock, lubed it up and slipped into Daphne’s cunt.

It was then that Daphne started to cry. She fitted herself to Gage’s body—legs wrapped hard around thighs, arms clenched to Gage’s well-muscled back, fingernails digging in hard. She wept in big, fat sobs, burying her face in Gage’s chest as Gage buried herself in Daphne. Gage knew what to do. She found her rhythm, their rhythm, and kept steady as Daphne’s sorrow brewed and boiled over. It took awhile. She never knew how long it would take on nights like these. Give it to me, she thought. Give me what no one else can see.

The shift was immediate, when it came. Her gasping sobs shifted to gasps raw and thick with hunger. “Yes,” Daphne whimpered. “Yes. Like that, baby.” And Gage knew she could let go. She dropped her hands from where they’d been cradling Daphne’s head and shoulders, grabbed her woman’s hips, and drove herself home. “Yes,” she answered, panting. “Like this.” Daphne’s face wet, her body sore, her heartache subsiding. Yes, she thought, as she had every night for seventeen years. Yes, girl, please. Like this.

Getting Grown, Guest Post by BD Swain

BD Swain is a butch dyke who enjoys writing queer smut – not just because it’s fun, but because sex and pushing my sexual expression is what makes me feel most alive. I am turned on by trust and by pushing the boundaries of it. Follow me @redswain on twitter; @bdswain on instagram, bdswain.com.

“You expect me to suck this tiny cock? Your little girlfriends might like the size of this thing. Maybe. But look at me. Do you see me?” She grabbed my face, “You think this is good enough for me? I’m grown.”

I was shaking. I was lying on her couch, posed as if I’d just been thrown. My body splayed out like a belly up crab. My back tensed, I craned my neck to lift my head as high as I could. My hand floated in the air above my belt, half unbuckled. I was scrambling with my feet, pushing myself up on the cushions, kicking with my legs in a panic.

Let me go back. Start over. I need to tell this right.

I was a baby. I’d lived all my life in Tulsa, a rich kid with a Daddy in oil like everyone else I knew and I hated it more than anyone. I took my dad’s hair trimmer to the bathroom one day and walked out with a buzz cut that was never discussed at the family table. You don’t fuck up the family situation where I come from and if you do, you suffer in silence. Some families might have beat the shit out of me, mine just never spoke to me again. Fine by me. San Francisco. I knew where to go.

I want to tell you this story right, but I don’t need to go through every detail. Listen, I had fucked girls. I was good looking. I was cocky. Girls let me finger them after school behind the bleachers. I played the bad boy with the good heart I’d seen in all the movies. I was sweet with my soft cheeks and worn out jeans. We fucked in the back of our trucks and out on the rocks when we went camping. We took blankets and cases of beer out to the swimming holes. I played the boy for any girl who wanted. I was the boy who never asked for anything but to make you come. The boy who gave and gave and gave. The boy for a night when there wasn’t another boy, a real boy with a hard dick and demands. But that was the boy I wanted to be, who I thought I was.

I got to San Francisco and learned how to be butch. I was demanding and cocky, pushing a girls face down between my legs. Watching her lips curl around the tip of my cock. Wrapping my fingers in her curls to shove her deeper onto my hard-on. No one had a real name here and one girl took to calling me Tulsa. It felt good. I was where I wanted to be. A butch with femmes all around me in short skirts and low cut tops with their heels or their sexy boots. I liked the lipstick stains on my undershirts.

I thought all femmes were like this. Waiting for me to grab them. Watching my ass as I played a round of pool. I liked the back and forth of it. Sitting on the barstool with my back to the bar and a beer resting just inside my thigh, my thumb and finger loosely gripping the bottle’s neck, watching a girl walk slow in front me to the bathroom and back out again with her eye on me and her lipstick touched up. This was our dance. She would slide up to the bar next to me and I’d turn to listen as she ordered a cocktail. I could put my money on the bar and pick up her tab. She would smile and thank me. A lady and a gentleman; it was routine but not boring. Predictable in a way I had always hoped. We’d go back to her place. She’d suck me. I’d bend her over and fuck her. She’d come. I’d leave.

This woman I met, I thought she was that same girl. I’d been living here a few years. I had my own bedroom. I made a little money bussing tables and a little more selling drugs. I dated girls for a couple months before they caught me cheating on them and screamed and cried and told me what I dick I was. And I was. I wasn’t sure what else to be. I thought that was the whole point really. Isn’t that what everyone expects? This was the set up when I met her. This is what I knew. Nothing.

The first thing that threw me off was how we met. I was bussing tables. I hated the work. Everyone yelled at me at that job. I was always in someone’s way or worried that I was going to drop something. I felt like I was covered in other people’s food the whole time. I couldn’t wait to run home and shower after work but even then I couldn’t get the stink of deep fryer grease out of my skin. So I didn’t feel sexy when I caught her looking at me. I felt uncomfortable. Caught scavenging in the headlights. She looked so hot, too. I hated being seen like this but I knew that look she gave me and it still made me flush hot. I weakly strutted around after I caught her look, too tired to really make much of myself but feeling cocky as hell anyway. I didn’t look back again, but I felt her staring at me as I made my way through tables.

She caught my eye on her way out the door and I smiled to myself, sure she’d left her number for me on the table. I saw a small, folded piece of paper and slipped it into my pocket smiling. I didn’t look at it until I unlocked my bicycle to head home. I stared down at the paper like an idiot. “You should have asked,” was all it said. “Fuck,” I spat out, punching myself in the thigh. I felt so stupid. This woman didn’t look anything like the girls I’d picked up in bars. It sounds dumb, but the description that ran through my head was that she looked tall and clean. Those were the words that came to mind when I saw her. I wanted her. I wasn’t good enough for her. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined bringing her into my dingy little room with the dirty, dank bathroom down the hall. I shook my head. I knew that wouldn’t do. I shouldn’t even try. But hell, I caught myself looking for her everywhere after that. After several days with no luck, I realized this was a woman who wouldn’t be seen in my usual haunts. Not regularly, at least. I decided to expand my territory without a clue as to where I should start. I tried the new wine bar and the coffee place with the line down the block. I felt crazy for even trying. I was out of my league.

It was three weeks later that I was locking my bike in the Castro when I looked up and saw her. She was alone, walking towards me but looking across the street at something. She looked stunning. She shone bright in the sun, standing out from all the jeans and leather in a cream-colored pencil skirt and jacket with a sheer beige top and matching heels. I sucked in my breath and stepped into her path, “Hey,” I said. The woman looked at me up and down, appraising me, clearly considering the goods in front of her. “I’m Tulsa,” I said with a smile and held my hand out to her. She stared for a minute and shaded her eyes from the sun before answering, “No. No you’re not. You have a real name, I’m sure.” I hesitated, not knowing where to go from here. “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. I jumped at a second chance, “Let me buy you a drink.” She looked down at my boots. “No,” she said, “not a bar. I don’t think so. But why don’t I make you a drink at my place.” She walked past me briskly, clearly intending for me to follow, and I obliged. We walked a few blocks in silence until she glanced over her shoulder at me and walked up a few steps to her door, turning her key in the lock without giving me another look.

My mind was racing. I’m always prepared for a date, for fucking, a cock in my pants. I’d been caught off guard here, but maybe that’s not what this was. Or maybe she had a cock I could use. I pictured her falling to her knees with her fingers on my belt. I pictured her bent over a creamy white sofa or a nice coffee table. Maybe in the dining room or leaning over the kitchen counters. I pictured her legs sliding apart as she begged me to fuck her. I felt more and more cocky with each image, each step into her place.

“What do you drink?” she asked me, walking towards a small bar in the living room. “I’ll take a beer,” I yelled out, a little too loudly. “I don’t have beer,” she said, amused, “I’ll pour you a whiskey. Do you take ice?” I nodded before realizing she wasn’t looking at me. “Uh huh,” I grunted, “Yeah, ice.” I tried to shake the nerves creeping up on me. Whatever, I thought. She wants me to fuck her. I swirled the whiskey around in the glass and took a deep sip before opening my mouth to say something, but she cut me off. “I don’t think there’s much to say, do you?” she said with a slight laugh. I smiled at her. I belted the rest of my drink and set the glass down as I swaggered over to her, grabbing the back of her head to kiss her. In my mind, everything was playing out a few steps ahead. I eyed the couch and started to lead her over to it.

Her kiss was cold, sterile. I didn’t understand where I was going wrong. I grabbed her hand and pulled it down between my legs. That’s when everything shifted out from under me. She shoved me backwards onto the couch and got down on her knees. I leaned back, pulling my hands behind my head, ready for something familiar but the look on her face stopped my smile. “Do you want something, little boy? Were you going to ask nicely or just shove my face in your crotch like you grabbed my hand? Didn’t anyone ever teach you good manners?” she seemed to grow larger in front of me. She shoved my boots, spreading my legs wide and grabbed my dick through my jeans. Or what would have been my dick. I felt her fingers grabbing and feeling around through my jeans.

She looked at me, mocking with a false puzzled look on her face. I could feel my cheeks turn red and hot. I stared back at her as long as I could but had to turn away. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you had something for me here?” My insides burned. “Didn’t you just grab my hand and put it on your dick?” she went on, “I got the feeling you wanted to shove my face down there. Is that right? You want to show me?” She slowly brought her gaze to my belt and nodded her head at me. My hands moved, without thinking, to my belt. She grabbed me hard between my legs, “You’re so small, I can’t even feel you.” She punched my clit through my jeans several times.

Now we’re back where we started. The beginning of my story. The moment when everything shifted. “You expect me to suck this tiny cock?” she started to berate me. I felt sick. I wanted to disappear, run out the door and never look back, but I also wanted to play this out. What the fuck was going on? I’d lost my script and it turned me on.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, unbuckling my belt and tugging my jeans down my thighs. She pushed my chest, sending me back against the couch again and grabbed me through the front of my briefs at the same time. I yelled out, more surprised than in pain. She kneaded me, starting to coo, her face held near mine, “Where did it go, big boy?” I froze like a frightened animal. She snarled in my ear, “Where’s that big cock you wanted to show me? Did you lose it somewhere?” I shuddered, my whole body convulsed, I could smell my own sweat as my instincts jumped from point to point. Did I want this or was I just stuck? I was scrambling to figure it all out. Then she pet the side of my head and cradled me in her arms for a moment, “It’s okay. We’re going to find a way to have fun anyway, aren’t we?” she whispered in my ear and I stopped shivering. I knew. My body told me what I wanted. Every muscle relaxed for a split second before tensing again. She punched my clit again and again, “I just don’t think we’re going to find it, baby,” she said, “but don’t worry, I don’t think that’s what you’re really here for anyway.”

She ran her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes and let her pet me. I’d never been pet. I’d never allowed it. I had always acted so tough, unfeeling, never could let my guard down but somehow it was gone. “Please,” I said and I felt hot tears well up in my eyes. I squeezed my eyes and gulped down all this emotion about to pour out of me. “I know how to take care of you, baby boy,” she said, her voice teasing between soothing and sadistic.

She ran her hand under the collar of my shirt and over my small, hard tits. “Are you hiding something from me, boy?” she said. Her posture changed. She stood up tall over me and took off her jacket. She spoke to me as she unbuttoned her blouse, “Let’s cut the shit.” She slapped me hard. The impact made my clit jump. I looked up at her with a suckling mouth, wanting more. She looked at me hard and laughed, tracing her finger around my lips. I wanted her finger in my mouth, but she tugged my shirt out of my jeans instead. Her nails circled around my nipples, tracing little lines until she squeezed me hard, making me gasp.

I heard myself speak. “Thank you,” I said, my voice hollow and lost. I was so far away, so outside of myself. It was perfect. She was perfect. “Thank you,” I said again and she punched my chest, knocking the wind out of me. “Thank you,” I repeated. It was all I could say for a long time as she punched and slapped me, poked and prodded. I didn’t stop saying it until she returned to my mouth and stuck her fingers inside me. I sucked my cheeks in, my tongue curling around her knuckles, sliding along the ridge between her fingers. “At least you know how to suck, don’t you?” she said, petting my head. I nodded with her fingers held soft, but firm in my mouth.

“You didn’t need to pretend you had a big dick for me” she said, “I think you know better now, don’t you?” She slid her fingers out of my mouth, dragging them down my belly, into my briefs, feeling my swollen clit in her fingers. “You’re so tiny,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. I know what you really want.” She looked at her hand in my pants, “Here. Hold this for me,” she said and shoved my own hand between my legs. I circled my throbbing clit while she stepped out of the room for a minute, coming back in only her bra with a large cock strapped on.

I winced. I don’t get fucked. I didn’t get fucked. I didn’t know who the hell I was anymore but it didn’t matter. I turned over and shoved my ass in the air towards her. She laughed. A beautiful, rich, caramel laugh that made my spine melt. “Oh, you’re too easy,” she said. I felt her dick press against my ass, “I get to choose what hole I fuck you in,” she said. I wanted to ask her to fuck my ass, but I only nodded. I was ashamed of my own pussy but nothing mattered anymore. She knew who I was, not me. I needed her to show me.

Her fingers slid, one by one, under the elastic band of my briefs. She tugged them down slowly, letting me feel her dick press harder and harder against me. I heard the lube, her hand, the ritual. Something that had been mine, but not like this. Everything was turned around and new. “Thank you,” I whispered, inaudible. She held my hips and slid her cock against my ass, between my legs. She held it in her hands and teased my holes. I didn’t care what happened, I just wanted her to use me.

“You’re a sweet little boy,” she whispered, “Have you ever been used?” I shook my head, “No, ma’am,” I answered, Tulsa coming out strong in my accent. “Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “No,” I repeated, “There was no one before you.” She moaned, “That’s so good, baby. That’s just right.” She shoved her prick into my cunt and it hurt. It hurt but I wanted her deeper inside me. My hands reached behind me, grasping. “Yes,” she comforted, “I’m right here.” She was pumping me hard and my face kept hitting the back of the couch. My skin felt raw. My lip started to bleed. I instinctively pulled my shirt into my mouth to keep from dripping blood on her furniture. “Thank you,” I cried. Over and over again, I said it, “Thank you.”

“Grab your little dick,” she demanded, “Jerk yourself off while I fuck your hole.”

I obeyed.

I came, doubled over, with my legs shaking so hard she had to hold me and ease me back onto the couch. I was her pet. She told me so. And it was true.

Hunger, Guest Post by Maria See

Content warning: Age play, nipple sucking, lactation play.

Maria posted this a few (5?) years ago online, and it cracked open my desire in a way I never would have expected. I am grateful she gave me permission to reprint it, to share it with you all.

Hunger

by Maria See

Ask Mr. Sexsmith: What happens to the stuff on the anal toys when you boil them?

Dear Mr. Sexsmith,

Ok, this is a really dumb question. When you clean silicone toys used during anal sex, do you boil them? I know that you can clean silicone toys by boiling, or by soap and water, or 10% bleach, or by the top rack of the dishwasher. But like, if you boil them, does the leftover lube/etc stay on the pot? Do you wash the pot afterwards? Do you have a separate sex-toy pot for sey-toy cleaning? Why bother dirtying something else, especially something else used in food preparation?

Thanks for any help.
Christy

Hi Christy!

I am not an expert on toy cleaning, really—I have my own way of doing it, but I’m not always sure that’s the right way. Since my activities as of late are very low-risk (currently, I have one person I share toys with), what I do feels adequately good enough.

And, I have less knowledge of the healthcare side of cleaning toys and STIs than some of the other sex educators out there. So, instead of stumbling through my own answer, I asked my buddy Sejay Chu what their thoughts were on this question. They worked for Planned Parenthood doing sex education, and are one of the best workshop presenters I’ve ever seen. Their depth (heh heh) of knowledge is astounding. (And plus, they’re super hot, so that’s always a bonus.)

Sejay wrote:

This is box title
(A) Not a dumb question.

(B) Before doing any cleaning intended to sanitize (bleach, boiling, soap, etc.), it’s best to always scrub the surface gunk off first. Kinda like you “clean the dishes before you clean the dishes” for the dishwasher — if you have a dish with globs of food & grease on it, just tossing it in the dishwasher probably won’t get rid of the globs of food & grease very well… get my drift?

Bleach, boiling, soap, etc. is intended to get the microscopic bits and do a good job of it, but it can’t do that very well if it’s blocked by a (relatively) gigantic mound of whateversonyourtoy. So do a preliminary scrubbing to get the gunk out of your sanitizer’s way.

(C) Some people use a sex-toy-only pot, and some just wash the pot afterwards. It’s a matter of preference, not necessarily cleanliness. Things you cook in pots tend to get boiled or super hot in the process of, y’know, cooking anyway, right? But if it “icks” you or the people you live with to eat out of something that boiled a buttplug yesterday, it might be worth the $10 pot. Plus then you can call it a “sexpot,” hehe.

(D) Just FYI, some dishwashers don’t actually get hot enough temperature-wise to disinfect the way you’d want to, so be weary of that.

Thank you Sejay! The number (B) point was basically going to be my point too, which is that I’d use a mild soap to scrub down all the toys before doing the sanitizing of boiling it.

Sidenote:

Sanitize, by the way, is more accurate that “sterilize,” even though most sex educators tend to say “sterilize your toys by boiling for 8 minutes, 10% bleach solution, or washing in the top shelf of the dishwasher.” However, in order to actually sterilize something, you need an AutoClave or some other hospital-strength unit. But as soon as something is exposed to the air, it’s no longer sterile. Regardless, what we’re doing is sanitizing sex toys, which kills most (idk, 99.9%?) bacteria and any STI viruses. (I learned this at Catalyst East in March and I’ve been meaning to write a post about it ever since—that I’ve been saying “sanitize” all these years and all along I had never actually sanitized my toys! I don’t think it’s just me, I think it’s a common mistake of words that sex educators often use. (Or maybe it is just me, and everybody else knows this difference, and I was the one always equating the two.)

Also, if you are worried about the extra santorum* on your toys or on your cookware, I suggest using a condom with anal sex toys, because that will add a protective layer to your toys and make them even easier to clean.

I didn’t know that (D) about the dishwashers. Sejay, do you know what the required temperature is, and how to figure out if your dishwasher gets that hot or not?

And, I love the idea of having a (C) sexpot, but I tend to just use the biggest soup pot in the house. I clean my toys first, and clean the pot after. All good!

* Definition of santorum: that frothy mixture of come and lube and other rectal contents created during anal sex. See: Savage Love, 2003. (I think the word “frothy” is the key part of that definition, personally.)

In Response to a Rant Against Female Masculinity, Guest Post by Jesse James

A response to the girl who posted that awful rant against female masculinity on Craigslist from The Closet Musician, one of my very best friends. Thank you.

I feel like there’s no way to properly respond in this particular forum that would have much of a chance of softening the angry girl’s mind about any of the angry things she said. So, what do I do? It’s obvious that all of this hurt and fear is in her from somewhere, and her default reaction is to put it back out in a hateful, anonymous add that anyone, from anywhere, in any place or state of being can run into.

So, what do we do?

Personally, I tucked right back into that slightly tougher skin of mine, so not to have my heart impaled by a hateful, cowardly stranger on Craigslist. This is that thicker skin that queers, people of color, disabled people, anyone different from the “norm,” have been wearing since the dawning of time. The one that at some point, we all have to learn to throw on at the drop of a dime, at any moment, for an immeasurable amount of unpredictable moments of attack. In this case, the one that all of us queers grew or will grow at some point: when we first cut our hair short, the first time we shop in the clothing dept. that doesn’t coincide with our biological sex. This is the skin we put on before we go into a public restroom, or when we are awkwardly sir-ed in a crowded place, or spat at, or threatened, beat up, ignored, laughed at, or when a really close friend or perfect stranger or parent or lover says some of the same things that the angry girl on Craigslist posted. This is the skin we wear when we aren’t butch enough, too butch, faggy, not gay enough, wear makeup, wear a suit, when we are insulted, rejected, fired, not hired, gawked at, thrown out or any of the other plethora of things that happen to us because people like this girl cannot or will not deal with their own internal issues of hurt and insecurity and so shove it on us somehow, carelessly and spitefully in the form of hate and discrimination. This is nothing new, right? We are just taken off guard, angry and offended and confused and hurt … again … or maybe for the first time.

Most of us aren’t counting the hits anymore, but there are some of us that ran into this post and got hit in that soft unarmed place, where our true and fragile identities are trying to bloom, for the first time. Some of us just cut our hair really short yesterday and then walked down a busy street, some of us just admitted to ourselves that we’re queer and that this was okay, some of us braved our first gay bar last night, some of us just had our first queer kiss, some of us just came out to someone and it went ok, some of us finally went out in a tie or a skirt for the first time and were told we looked handsome or pretty for the first time ever, by a pretty girl or cute boy or a parent or a friend or a stranger – and then we read this post and got hit in that soft place for the first time – and that thicker, tougher skin, that I’ve been wearing for a few decades now, that filters what can and can’t get into your heart, started to grow. And this makes me mad, this makes me very, very sad.

I wonder, even though it’s pointless, I wonder why she wrote most of everything she wrote. It didn’t really have anything to do with anything and was so careless and aimless. She just opened fire on anyone who ran into it. She hurt a lot of people.

Regardless, it’s out there now, for most of us as a reminder, for some of us as a harsh awakening, that our identity, our self understanding is just that: it is our own and it is deeply personal and sensitive and pliable and impressionable, breakable, insecure, vulnerable, real and very, very… very important. And as you discover you, you have to wear it, claim it, right? It’s who you are.

And I think that when who you are is hit with hate, go ahead and feel it, give yourself permission to react, just chose your reaction consciously so that maybe the hatred going around will lighten up and so that maybe insight and acceptance can have some room to get somewhere, and so that maybe this girl, who, like it or not, is everywhere, might learn something from you … and …but … maybe she won’t. But, for all of us who are brave enough to be who we are and let our identities free to style our hair, dress us, create our stride, our speech, and any and all of the infinite possibilities of potential expression for the identities we claim – good for us!

Audre Lorde said, “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” As a boi, butchy, lesbian, dyke, girl, androgynous, top, bottom, sister, partner, writer, daughter, friend, gardener, Cher-loving, liberal, sexy, funny, handsome, cocky, fragile, political, sensitive, angry, kind, self-loving person, I really like that quote.

And now my comment directed to the girl that wrote the original ad on Craigslist:

Angry, Anonymous Girl,

If your misplaced hatred is at all removable and you are even slightly open to things that don’t make sense to you, I (by myself) or some of my friends and I (a lovely bouquet of butches, bois, dykes, fags, hags, trans, femmes, studs, bi’s, queers, and straighties) would be more than willing to have an open discussion with you. If you promise to leave your sword at the door, I’ll take off my thicker skin and talk to you from an honest place: girl to girl, lesbian to lesbian, boi to however you so choose to self identify at that particular moment.

If you are going to respond to this letter with hate, please warn me first, maybe in the title, so I can put on a layer first.

Thanks for listening.

An Argument For Butch/Femme

Guest post from my best friend The Muse. We were discussing a post I found earlier today called “an argument against butch/femme,” which I may discuss more later, and she, brilliantly, sent me this.

That rhetoric is so frustrating. Why is it so hard for people to understand that for some, defining yourself can be liberating, not limiting. There’s so often a snobbery in queer women who feel they’ve transcended the societal expectations placed on them by rejecting femininity. Anyone who does it another way is clearly still oppressed, unenlightened.

I rejected my femininity too, for ten plus years, but that was mainly a rebellion against my hetero lifestyle. I was like, if men want me, they’re going to have to want me in spite of all this. I’m not doing them any favors, making it easy for them.

Realizing I was gay helped me back out of that contrary corner, but I still wasn’t sure where to go next. My first girlfriend was an andro dykey sort who really dug masculinity, and was a total bottom, so she often encouraged me to be more toppy, more masculine. “I like you so much better without makeup.” “Clearly you look femme, but your energy is very butch.” Haha.

After her, I knew I wanted a masculine girl. It turned me on. But I ended up with someone who rejected her masculinity, her butchness, and was deeply ambivalent about how she was perceived. One early morning she was going out for coffee, but first put on these dangly earrings. I remarked something like, “oh, aren’t you fancy, adding jewelry to your hoodie and jeans ensemble.” She looked at me, dead serious and a little sad, and said, “If I don’t wear them, sometimes people mistake me for a guy.”

So I was constantly conflicted about who I in was her context, since I was made to feel guilty for the very reasons I was interested in her. In turn, she gave me mixed messages about my femininity, sometimes rewarding it, sometimes rejecting it. Fairly often I was left hanging, frustrated and confused in the lingerie I’d bought for her amusement, feeling costumed and stupid.

After that one, I knew I wanted a self-identified butch, but I didn’t know how femme I was. Was I femme enough to get into the club? Would a real butch be satisfied with my level of overt femininity? I couldn’t really walk in heels and I defaulted to jeans 80% of the time, and I felt the need to apologize for that. I put up personal ads describing myself a “tomboy femme” or a “low-maintenance low femme,” which the butches I went out with tended to eschew. In spite of my ever-present jeans and my aversion to the huge collection of skirts in my closet, they thought I was femme. Definitely. “Just look at your perfect red toenails, and your cute little sandals,” one said. “That’s certainly not butch.”

But even dressing up for your reading at the Stain Bar that Sunday in September, I felt a little costumed. I had been in jeans at work and changed there, and walking down fifth avenue to the L train, I got lots of looks from people I passed. My gut reaction was to think, “oh, they think I look stupid, or like a slut, or maybe the tops of my stockings are showing…” It didn’t really occur to me that I might just look hot. It’s so much easier being under the radar in jeans, wow.

Two days later, though, I went on a date with a butch named Lee. For some reason, I decided to ditch the jeans and wear a skirt, tight busty sweater, fishnets, heels. I normally wouldn’t do that for a first date, preferring to set expectations low and give full disclosure that I’d usually be in jeans, that the dressing up was occasional. She even asked me, “so, do you normally dress like this?” and I responded, “no, I just wanted to look nice for you.”

Four hours later. After seeing the toppy look on her face that gets me instantly wet, makes me tilt my chin down and look at her wide and expectant through my eyelashes, my mouth dropping open a little, just before she leaned over and kissed me hard, interrupting whatever I was saying. After making out wildly in an overpillowed winebar, her hands running up my skirt and finding the baby pink band of my thigh-highs, looking at me surprised and saying, “oh, that’s nice.” After a shameless PDA marathon along 14th street, grinding up against brick walls and in the middle of the sidewalk and in dark corners and on subway platforms.

After all that, I was convinced of the utility of skirts. And heels, two and a half inches or more, that put her cock just below my clit when I’m up against a wall. Fuck yeah. A (high-minus? medium-plus?) femme was born.

So, it very much arose out of sex for me, this butch-femme thing. I finally had a context in which I made sense and felt hot, and I loved it. Still working out the details, but I feel more me than ever. And I got there without help from societal norms or heterosexual paradigms, which of course had been with me all along, and of no use whatsoever.

We definitely need to explain to these anti-butch-femme ranters that this is a subversion of the hetero masculine-feminine spectrum, not an emulation of it. The butch-femme identity is as queer as all get out, and other queers should respect that, and not hierarchize the “best ways” to be queer.