First Time With Daddy, Guest Post by Kimberly Dark (Excerpt from The Daddies)

excerpt from The Daddies by Kimberly DarkBrill | Sense (October 24, 2018)
Content: Sex, daddy/girl language, bondage. All characters are 18 years of age or older.

I am interested in finding out what she means. She is articulate and open with a confident stance. She is tall, not particularly attractive, grey-blue eyes and ruddy white skin. Her hair is fluffy, not quite curly, as though it carries its own small wind. Still, she seems strong; she speaks with curiosity and good grammar. She has good posture. These things attract me. I react. I am a spasming muscle; she is the stimulant. We flirt – in that ambiguous way that can never convict us.

I meet her at a university where I am giving a talk. I am the expert on gender for this evening. She is in attendance. It could be any city, any university – but it isn’t. I used to live in this city – Colorado Springs. I have a history here, finished my undergraduate work at this very campus. I have connections here – and here she is, connecting to me.

After my talk on gender roles, she lingers to question, to hold my gaze, to touch my elbow in conversation as we walk together to the parking lot after the event. I want to know what she means when she says, “There are complexities to this butch/femme thing that I wonder how much you know about. Some things I don’t know who to talk to about. The sexual identities…” She pauses, and then continues. “I don’t know how much you know about the leather community …”

She pauses again. It wasn’t really a question; she intended to continue all along.

“In the leather community, I am a Daddy. But because I pass for femme, I don’t get much recognition, much respect. And I think, I could change my appearance, but I don’t want to. I like to be soft too.”

She seems to read my attentive silence, renegotiates her admissions and adds, “but you know, I also used to be a bottom, and I looked a little more butch then.”

This admission is unique – her timing, bold. I am nodding, pondering the creation of balance between appearance and behavior. I could say, “You’re so big and strong, so forward and in control of this conversation. I think you have the credibility of a Daddy, despite the long hair, the eyeliner.”

I don’t say this. I think it. Fascinating. And so it begins, an academic discourse. She is a seeker. I am a teacher. She is a Daddy. I enjoy a considered submission. And so it begins. She watches me, listens, responds, leans in. She uses the same tools of communication I use: disclosure, analysis, physical openness, negotiation, and re-negotiation.

Later, about 5 a.m., I ponder how she presented herself to me. I agreed to have coffee with her, so I will interview us both further on this theme. To what, in me, was she responding, in order to create this response in me? She is remarkably skillful, or perhaps, I don’t know that I am an easy mark for this sort of intellectual and erotic tension. I am an easy mark for curiosity about what “leather daddy” means to her, and how she does that role – what “femme” and “passing” mean to her – what “bottom” means to her.

A few years later, we are lovers – more than lovers – we are something like family. She asks me, “How did the Daddy thing start with us? Did you ask me for it?”

I stare, incredulous. “You brought it up the first time we met.”

“Right, but we were just talking about it. How did we get around to doing it? I mean, we were lovers for a few months before that came up.” She wobbles her hand around the word that, assigning it indescribable meaning.

I am fascinated that she really doesn’t remember, that she really doesn’t know what she chose in me, the first time she laid eyes on me. We have had time to think about this. I have thought about this, but apparently she hasn’t. I don’t recall my exact words – how I gave her permission to do what she did for the first time, but I know I gave permission – the soft, steady reassurance that a violation would be allowed, appreciated.

She stood on the balcony smoking her pipe, watching the light retreat over the city skyline. She was wearing her black bathrobe over her white boxer-briefs – the snug kind that keep the soft-pack in place, hug the thighs, the gluteal muscles. (“I’m developing an ass like a Clydesdale fucking you as much as we do,” she chuckled once, admiring her rear in the mirror.) She stood alone, smoking against the pink sky. We’d been lovers for a few months, but tonight, something was different. Before she walked out, she held me for a kiss, made sure I felt her cock, soft but assertive, against my pelvis.

She was quiet, and felt somehow unapproachable, enjoying her pipe in the warm night air. She was quiet and yet, entirely legible to me and I knew not to say much. I knew to wait patiently. I already loved her and had already begun making sacrifices. I tingled with anticipation that her inflexible ways would soon reward me.

I became small and quiet, a transformation prompted by her rigidity, prompted by my permission, prompted by her assertion, and prompted by my invitation. We fell like dominos, a brutal, beautiful cascade. With a different entitlement in her hands, she felt my breasts, held me around the waist and pulled me in. She kissed me differently, her tongue so deep down my throat, I couldn’t breathe for a moment and I liked it – knew not to speak of it, but I liked it. “Go get in bed, sweet girl. Take off your clothes and wait for me.” She patted my ass and I turned from her, obedient.

I saw moments of her, through the bedroom door, emptying her pipe, methodically stowing it away, washing her hands, and brushing her teeth. My skin tingled beneath the sheet. I saw her change the soft dick for the hard one, long and black, protruding beneath the bathrobe. This part was nothing new, but something was new – and I knew not to speak of it. She joined me in bed. I was on my back, her body next to me. She was propped on one elbow, gentle but assertive, touching my breasts, my belly with tender fingers, pulling me in occasionally for a hard penetrating kiss. The mutuality of our passion suspended, I became shy and waited, thrilled and a bit frightened – could I do it? Was she going to do it? We’d been talking more and more about Daddy. Still abstract, still talking. I could feel it coming. Could I? Stay present and genuine, really do it?

Deep breath. Let the body decide. Breathe. The body is deciding.

Her soft hand still on my breast, she leaned toward my ear and asked, “Are you going to give your Daddy what he wants?”

As she spoke, my throbbing thickened, slipped. The body is deciding. “Uh-huh.” I managed, and my willing embarrassment, face flushing, fueled her. She was on top of me in an instant, her hand holding my wrists above my head and pushing down, hard. I had neither the strength nor will to move and a fear of both truths fluttered gently in my stomach, the sensation drowned out by my slickening need. Her tongue down my throat, my wrists aching beneath her significant strength, she straddled me, pressed her hard cock against my belly. Her body held my legs shut.

“Daddy’s cock is going to be too big for you. Is that going to be okay?” She was speaking into my ear, between kisses. I managed a whimper and she said with a small chuckle, “That’s right, it’s going to be just fine. And afterward, when Daddy’s all done. When I’ve taken all I want, I’ll kiss you better.” She gently kissed my forehead. “I’ll clean you up with my tongue, where I hurt you. I’ll take care of you because every part of you is perfect. Every part of you is mine.” She kissed my cheek and released my wrists with a stern look and said, “Don’t move now.”

Indeed, my wrists were still bound.

My eyes wide, no words, the mind reeled briefly with astonishment. Could she not have started a little slower with the Daddy-thing? But I could feel the answer in her touch. It was too big. She was going all-in. And I would take it just as she gave it. The body was deciding.

She gently knelt between my legs and spread them. “That’s my good girl,” she said, gazing at my glisten. “Legs up,” she said. I obeyed and as she nestled down onto my body, she put one arm around my back and held me, tighter than she’d ever held me, more lovingly than I’d ever felt her. The other hand found her cock, so she could move into me slowly, her forehead against my sternum, she was feeling every moment of her entry. Her first, in a way. She said, “I’m going to go slow at first, but because you’re so good, I won’t be able to hold back once I get started.” And in she went, little by little, “Are you my good girl?” And I was nodding against her head. “That’s so good. You are my good girl.”

And my mind was lost, belly fluttering. Already all in. My body was choosing this. My body was saying yes in every language it knew and she was listening so attentively. It was bringing her so much pleasure; I couldn’t conceive how exponentially mine was multiplied. How could I not have known this joy before? Her pleasure was amplifying and the mind went deaf in the soaring sound of it. Her fierceness and release became one and I felt the holiness of it. How could I not have known?

As soon as she pulled back and pushed all the way in, her restraint was spent. She was talking, as she started moving faster, not an apology, but an explanation. Not a request for permission, but a surety, a deservingness that was so beautiful, so beautiful, my mind was blinded by it. “Oh yes, good girl, that’s it. Remember, I’ll kiss it better after.” She said as she fucked me harder. “That’s it. I know it’s big, but you’re doing so good. It’s so good.”

I had to have something to hold onto. And though afraid of breaking the invisible restraints her hands had put upon my wrists, my arms sailed down and I wrapped around Daddy’s thick back and she moved to accommodate. Her one hand around my left breast, squeezing hard for leverage, the other arm still holding me close and solid, she affirmed me. She did not admonish my move to hold her. She affirmed it.

“That’s a good girl. Hold onto your Daddy while I fuck you.” Accommodating my need, she said, “You hold on.” And a warm, tingling light spread through my body, emanating from my pussy, emanating from her piercing. The point of her pounding ready to supernova, she was within herself and still with me. She was within her own pleasure, yet spurred by mine.

“Daddy needs to fuck you hard now, princess,” she said and how could it be any harder? I didn’t know, and everything felt right. I wanted to please my Daddy more than anything, more than anything and my body was choosing. My pelvis was tipping forward to give her all I could and then I had to hold on. The impact was so great, I had to hold on. I had never been fucked so hard before and she was commanding, “You take all of your Daddy.”

And I was screaming, “Yes!” And filling up. “Yes!” I had never felt so full of love before. “Yes!” Her anguish overflowed into joy, and I contained it all. I didn’t spill a drop of Daddy.

And by the time she was done closing my wound with her tongue, licking up her come and mine too, so no one would see, I was exhausted and wordless. I would’ve made my fortune on the business of sleep, if she hadn’t awakened my drifting, her eyes blinking at the ceiling, chewing her lip with worry.

“What is it, baby?” I said when I sensed the shift. I expected the post-Daddy-sex trauma to be mine. She had done this before with a lover. I had not. I was frightened by her urgency, looking for the right answers when she asked, “What do you think about what we just did.”

“It was good.” I offered, dumbstruck by the experience itself, this question, too much.

“Because you know, that’s not just sex for me.” She sat up, cross-legged on the bed, searching my face. I felt suddenly exposed, any move might be wrong and I knew no matter what we called it, I could not lose her. Right then I knew: I would do way too much not to lose her.

“I know.” I said, and I sat up too.

“No, I don’t know if you know.” She was shaking her head. “We have to talk about this, have a talk. Because we’ve been having good sex for the last few months, but that’s not just about sex for me.” She said that with bulging eyes and an emphatic glance toward where my body had lain. She continued. “I mean, I don’t know how that was for you. But for me, right now is the time to decide. We can still say ‘okay, we tried that out and we’re never doing it again.’”

My mind reeled. I had no words yet to discuss what we had just done – no words at all – and now something had to be decided? I chose words carefully and each felt like a failure in my mouth. “If you don’t want to do that anymore with me, it’s okay.”

Perhaps she saw the confusion in my eyes. “But you wanted it?” she asked.

“Yes, I was there with you.” I said, holding her gaze.

“I know you were,” she said simply. “But you have to be sure, because if I go there, it’s all the time. It’s not just sex for me. It’s all the time. It’s in our lives.” She was nodding while she was speaking. “It’s big. For both of us.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I crawled across the big bed toward her seated form. I crawled into her lap as best I could and I felt her worry soften.

“Yes.” I said.

She held me, and rocked me a little bit, soothing herself as much as me, I think. She kissed my forehead and we were silent for a time. Before she loosened her hold on me, she said, “Okay?”

I reiterated. “Yes.”

The gentle teacher, she added, “And you say, ‘Yes Daddy.’”

My whole body tingled. And I whispered it into her ear.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Get your own copy of The Daddies by Kimberly Dark, published by Brill | Sense

Some Notes That May Turn Into A Sex Manifesto

Because the boy & I have been together for 9 years, and because we are also adults with jobs and families and obligations and bodies that aren’t always in the mood for sex, and because even the most compatible people have phases of being mis-matched in their desires and drives.

Because it is of incredibly high priority to me to have a rich erotic life.

Because I crave sex frequently. Because I struggle to feel close without the addition of pheromones and the alchemy of fluids. Because I want the physical closeness of losing ourselves in each other, of getting skin-drunk, of the intoxication that comes from tasting you. Because I use it to let my guard down. Because I let my guard down to have it. Because I want my guard down but I don’t always know how to take it down. Because my guard goes up so intensively automatically that I don’t always even notice it’s there. Because I still think about the boner preservation society and what would be on my list.

Because sex is the best way I know how to pray. Because sex is the best way I know how to see god. Because I need the release of orgasm like some people need a workout, to wring things out of my body, to shake and release. Because I have no better way to experience the holiness of my body. Because I start feeling floaty when I don’t have someone on top of me for a little while. Because I crave the feeling of all my senses activated, and you feeling every one.

Sex Manifesto (first draft)

1. The boy should assume that all sexual and erotic play is intended to have some pleasure in it for him. If it is not pleasurable, he is not only invited but expected to speak up about that and let that be clearly known.

2. It is possible that the Dominant will want to engage in erotic play that is not pleasurable to the boy, and the boy should do his best to accept that. However, this play should be intentional and with full knowledge that it is not pleasurable.

3. The boy can expect to have basic needs met before engaging in erotic play, including: hunger, using the bathroom to relieve himself, temperature (especially being too cold), and tiredness. If those needs are not met, he is expected to speak up and let them be clearly known.

4. We have long engaged in erotic play without a safeword, but we do have certain code words and phrases that can and should be used. a) “Mercy” is an accepted code word, and the Dominant will always consider mercy when the boy asks for such. b) “If it pleases you,” can be used to mean “I don’t particularly want to do this, but I will do it because you want me to.” c) “Only if it pleases you,” can be used to mean, “I do not want to do this, but I will because you want me to.” d) “I am a tool for your pleasure,” can be used to mean, “I am focused on servicing you,” meaning, “this is not about my pleasure right now.”

5. Masturbation is encouraged, orgasms are not restricted, and there are no particular requirements for how either should be done. Asking permission to come pleases the Dominant, but is not required at this time.

6. Fantasies are encouraged, porn is encouraged, and other erotic explorations are not just allowed but encouraged.

7. Having sex with other people during dreams is allowed. (Let’s just make this explicit, since the boy’s dream-self sometimes feels guilty.)

Take My Whip: Fantasy Date Night, Guest Post by rife

It’s Friday night and we keep this night blocked off on the calendar. 5:30 rolls around and you send me around the block to walk the dog once I wrap up my work for the day. When I come back, you’re sitting on the porch in your jeans with the leather crotch, a tight new black t shirt and the chest harness. All the deck furniture has been pushed off to the side and your Bluetooth speaker is playing a mixture of jazz and romantic pop music. You are wearing your heavy harness boots and you let your goatee grow out a little.

I giggle, suddenly feeling underdressed in my daytime pajamas and sneakers. I prance over and get up on my toes to kiss you. You let me. “Hi, Daddy! What’s all this?”

“I’m taking you dancing, boy. Go get dressed.”

“Mmmhm. I mean, yes, Sir.” I say softly and pad inside to feed the dog and put on that slinky grey dress you like and my combat boots with the soles that have worn down to slick nothing and the chain wrist cuffs that match my collar that you like to see on me. I wash the work day off my face and scrub dry until I’m pink.

You raise an eyebrow at my outfit choice but you’re smiling underneath it.

We dance for days and days on the porch as night falls and the bats come out to play. Sometimes the tempo is slow and our feet barely remember to shuffle while we kiss with lots of tongue and you run your fingers through my fresh soft buzz cut. The smell of wisteria finds its way to us across the breeze and if our neighbors see us, they pretend not to.

Sometimes the tempo is faster and you throw me across the boards in controlled chaos. It takes every ounce of concentration to just follow, to listen for the cues in your palm on my back, to remind myself of the rock step-triple-step beat, to give over to the music and your direction. There are moments when it is effortless and we are just flying, one creature.

Finally it is fully dark and you press me back against the one oak tree, breathless and sweaty on the warm summer night. Ed Sheeran or some other sensitive white guy is still crooning on but all I can feel is your dick hard against the fly of your jeans against me.

You press me hard enough that I’m sure the rough bark will leave marks, pinning my hands over my head, looping the chains around my wrists into that hook that usually holds the wind chime. I’m impressed by your forethought but the nation is quickly swept away my your hands doubled up on either side of my rib cage, stroking the length of me up and down from exposed armpits to the bottom curve of each hip. I shiver and swoon under your firm big hands that make me feel so small. You inch the bottom of the dress up teasingly slowly. I really hope the neighbors aren’t watching now.

Just when I can feel myself start to squirm and rub my thighs together anxious of the wetness I can feel coming on… you pull back. I whimper a little and sigh involuntarily, which of course is what you want.

“Not now, pet. You’re going to wait.”

“Mmmrf. I mean, yes, Sir.”

Inside, we make pizzas — yours pesto and salami with a cauliflower crust, mine sourdough and jalapeños and onion. They are delicious, but I am distracted thinking of the packer still between your legs. After dinner you tell me to ignore the kitchen mess and follow you, so I do.

You strip my dress off like someone who has done it a hundred times before and nod approvingly at what is revealed: just mounds of tight exposed flesh with no underwear. I feel you press up against me from behind and your arm wraps around my throat.

“You’re going to take my whip, boy, and then you’re going to take my dick.”

“Mmmmmm… ! I mean, yes, Sir.”

The wood of the coffee table is shockingly cold at first and my nipples flinch against it, but I relax into it as you layer gentle strokes with your big fat deerskin flogger all across my back. I moan despite myself as you ramp up in intensity and land a few solid strikes across the curve where ass meets thighs. You always were a leg person.

You pause to lean over me and grow into my ear. “Mmm, beautiful. Good boy. Ten more. Count for me.”

This time, I do not hesitate. “Yes, Sir.”

You step back but your fingers trail across my reddening back like it pains you to be separated. I can still feel the energy of you reach out to me across the room.

Until it is concentrated into a fiery pinprick of the kiss of your single tail.

“One, Sir.”

I try to remind myself it is just sensation. I try to erase pain from my vocabulary and just feel it. Easier said than done.

“Two, Sir. Three, Sir. Oh…! Four, Sir.”

Now we are both flying, drunk on your power. You push me harder to see if you can draw blood and break in this whip. Make it bound to me like i am to you.

The lash falls hot across my shoulder and i squirm hard, but the trickle raised is just sweat.

“Five, Sir..!”

You love me but you quiet that part of yourself with reserve to get what you want. No, it’s not want. You will be nice later. You need blood.

“Fuck! Six, Sir. Seven! Ah!”

I squeak out with difficulty eight and nine. You tell me a hundred times i am a good boy for taking it so nice and it lands every time.

Finally the warm droplets are pooling for you and you can feel your dick hard and straining in your jeans. You laugh aloud as i flinch hard out of habit while you barely tease me with number ten.

“Ten, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

You run the tails and your fingertips over my back and ass, drawing in the red, savoring my flinching as you pass over the already raised welts. My breath is heaving and so is yours, in time, I think.

In a moment your fly is open and you are crammed against me, sliding in easily to the hilt of your open jeans. You pull my hips back into you with both hands and groan as you start thrusting slow and deep the length of you. You wrap your hands around my face and shove your fingers hard against my tongue. You are growling a steady stream of filthy words but my brain isn’t even processing it anymore. I am overwhelmed by you.

“Fuck, that’s so nice. That’s right. You just take it for me, you little whore. That’s Daddy’s slut. Unh, you feel so good. So tight baby. Daddy’s going to give it to you. Fuck…!!!”

I guess I came too, because the next thing I remember: I am in a puddle, dripping into the carpet and high and there is no pain anymore.

You scoop me up and guide me into the shower, lather down my dully aching back with peppermint soap and wrap me in your big soft Daddy robe.

We eat Girl Scout cookies and watch Steven Universe until I fall asleep on your shoulder.

Whatever I Want, Whatever I Say

“I’m going to do whatever I want.”

By now, I have my hand over her mouth. My arm is pressed up against the plaster wall; the paint is scratchy and the plaster is cold. The curves of her — hips, ass, ribs — against my body are warm.

“And you’re going to do whatever I say.”

I’m not stupid. I know there are limits to what I can do with her. When I negotiated with her owner a few nights ago, we went over all kinds of things I could feasibly see myself doing, and some things that probably would never cross my mind. Although now that they have, perhaps I shall.

Her owner laughed when we started negotiating. “Honestly, I can’t imagine anything you could do that would be over the line.”

“That’s very generous,” I replied, smiling. We laid out everything we could think of, and made it all clear.

She whimpers under the palm of my hand. Her hair is caught at my wrist, probably in my watch. I might rip it if I move too quickly. She keeps arching her back and rubbing her ass into my thighs. I wonder if she even notices she’s doing that.

I reach under the loose, knee-length wrap dress to trace my way up her thighs. I savor the feeling of fishnets on my skin. The pad of my fingers fit perfectly into one of the little holes, and when I press just a little on her skin, I can feel how it dips inside of it. How easily I could hook my finger in, and pull her hole open.

She makes a sound that is half of a whimper and half of a moan, muffled by my hand. Her lips are open and she’s almost sucking. I can feel her teeth.

The straps of her garter belt are pulling at the raw top of her fishnets. I can feel the strain. They aren’t going to last much longer. My breathing gets shallow and faster. I want to tear, rip, split apart, shatter. I want that moment when the pounding against her is what forces the sound from her mouth.

I did promise I wouldn’t break her.

She isn’t wearing panties underneath anymore. She handed them to me after she walked in the door, one hand on the doorframe to steady herself while she peeled them over her delicate t-strap heels. She knows the protocol.

I promised myself I would fuck her mouth before I touched her pussy, before I made her feel good. I promised myself I would focus on my pleasure and her service. But when I think about feeling her wetness on my fingers I feel the tension ratchet up and up and up. I want it. I want to feel her stretch open. I want to shove my fingers in her mouth with her juices all over them and feel her open her throat.

Slow, I tell myself. Go slow. The faintest finger on her velvet lips.

She whines. A sweet noise, a long high note from her throat.

“Shut up,” I whisper. My lips touch her earlobe. “You’re mine tonight. Just for tonight. Aren’t you lucky, you slutty little bitch.”

She swallows whatever cry was going to come out of her next.

I feel the folds of her. She is not bare; her hair is short and thin. It feels impossibly dry, and I try not to think about sinking my finger into the slick of her.

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” I slide my lips to her neck to kiss, to suck. To taste her skin, the sweat of her, and the sweet. She arches her neck, rolling her head back on my shoulder, offering herself up.

My fingers find it, the spot I was looking for, where she is pouring, where she is waiting for me. I wonder how long I can wait. I wonder how cliche it is to want to strap on and fuck her. I let her wetness coat my fingertip, but only that. I don’t put it inside.

I pull it away, tighten my grip around her chest, and heave her toward the bed. She stumbles slightly and catches herself. I grab her ankles, one with each hand, pushing her up onto the bed and twisting her legs so she turns over onto her back. Her eyes flash a little fear, a lot of arousal. She bites her lip, unsure if she can speak yet.

In a breath, I whip my belt from my jeans, slide the end back through the buckle, and loop it around her wrists. It’ll do. I wrap the end in my fist, pull it above her head, and push between her thighs. She reaches for me. She looks at me, pleading. She wants.

I want to slide in. Her pussy is making a wet spot on my jeans. I want there to be something I can feel ready for her to take. I want the nerve endings. Instead, I have this: the color of my flesh, supple, flexible, on demand. I pull the buttons of my fly and they open, pop pop pop. It is easy to heave forward the swell of me.

She moans right away, with thick breaths and pressing hips, and turns her head to bite her upper arm. Her lip catches and turns out. The pink of her is showing.

I rub the head against her cunt. Her hole is so slick it almost slides in just by touching. She is an invitation, an open door: come inside.

“Just because I’m going to fill you with come doesn’t mean we’re done tonight,” I growl above her. She glances at me sideways, then lowers her eyes. She didn’t think this would be it, did she?

“Yes, sir,” she whispers. She steals a glance at me again to check my face and see if her words please me. “I will do whatever you say.”

A place in my core liquifies and groans, filling a void the has needed soothing. That is what I need to hear.

I let go of the belt and stand. Is she trembling? Her wrap dress is a mess, falling off of her. I reach for one end of the fabric belt of it and tug, and the bow dissolves. One side of the dress spills back, exposing the skin of her stomach, the curves of her plush body, the curl of her breast.

“Open your legs.”

Her face goes tight around her eyes, but she does. Her knees butterfly open and she slides her feet apart. My thighs are inside of hers, touching. I can feel the scrape of her tights when she moves. I want the indentation in my skin, want to feel the pinch and burn of it.

She has the expression of a woman who has readied herself to be entered. She knows she may or may not like it; she knows she may or may not come; she knows it isn’t for her. She knows who it is for. She knows what she is for, and right now, she is a plaything her owner loaned out. She is a toy her owner is showing off.

“Pull your hands free of the belt. Open your lips.” My mouth is going dry. “Show me.”

She slowly brings her arms down from over her head and reaches for her pussy, spreading her fingers to show me what’s underneath her layers. I grip her thighs with my hands. Strong. A handful. With the kind of pressure that will leave finger marks tomorrow. Gifts for my friend. She lets me push her thighs open further. I press forward with my hips. My cock is stiff in front of me and I find her hole with the tip of it, I keep my hands gripped on her thighs, the flesh of her giving under my hands. My fingertips feel the holes in the stockings again and I don’t resist, I slide my fingers through them and pull. I slide my cock into her and push. She writhes and gasps. I flex and urge forward. The cells of her stockings burst with my pressure.

I slide in and out. My eyes are closed, I don’t see her, but I do, through my touch, through the heat of her. I pull her thighs to me. I rip her stockings again. She cries out when it gives way. I feel myself close, so close.

“Please,” she whispers. She has moved her hands out of the way so I can push in deeper. “Please.”

Does she want it to end, or is she fearful of what comes next? Does she want my seed in her, or does she want me to pull out?

Doesn’t matter. What I want is to flood deep inside of her. To surprise her with the pressure. To fill her. Instead, I empty myself, thrust after thrust, and she milks me, she catches me, she holds everything I give her.

My body thrums.

Then I breathe out. “Good,” I say, righting myself again, pulling to my feet. Her dress is a piece of fabric. Her fishnets are shredded, falling off of her thighs. My lust is poured inside her and I can control myself, I can think, again. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s start.”

I button my jeans slowly and watch as she comes back together. I take my shirt off, bare from the waist up. I kiss her mouth and she is supple and so, so soft. Then I reminder her, and I grip her throat, a little too hard. “Say it again,” I tell her.

“You’re going to do whatever you want,” she whispers. She rubs her thighs together, presses her lips tight before swallowing. “And I’m going to do whatever you say.”

I pick up the belt and fist it. I try to stop the wicked grin from spreading over my face.

“Oh,” she says. “God.”

I Know Where You Live, Guest Post by Raki Kopernik

Content warning: this story contains being groped in public, stalking, being followed home, restraint, hands on the throat, force, knife play, offensive name calling, and fisting. All characters are consenting adults.

I’ll be on a crowded bus traveling south down MLK. At 6:15 pm, you will get on the bus, walk past me, make eye contact for a quick moment, then step behind me. I will be standing, holding the overhead bar. You’ll have to stand too. I won’t be able to see you, but I will feel you looking at me from behind, at my ass and the back of my neck. The bus will make a sudden stop and you’ll almost fall into me. One of your hands will land on my ass. I’ll feel it, but I won’t turn around. When you catch your step, you’ll stand closer to me, behind me. Your hand will stay on my ass and faintly rub up and down, creeping between my legs. I’ll feel the heat of your breath on the back of my bare neck. I won’t do anything. The bus will stop suddenly, again, and your hips will press into mine. You’ll stay there, reach your hand around to the front of my body, and rub my crotch, pressing your pelvis into my ass with the rhythm of the bus. A few people will notice. They will look, trying not to stare, but no one will do anything about it. I won’t make eye contact with any of them, embarrassed. Your breath will get hotter on my neck and you’ll whisper in my ear that you’re going to follow me when I get off the bus. The next stop will be mine and I will push you away, simultaneously pushing other people out of my way to get off the bus. You’ll barely make it off the bus behind me.

It will be already be dark out. I will walk fast toward my house. I’ll feel you behind me, turn to look, but I won’t see you. I’ll start running and I’ll hear you running behind me. I’ll turn but, again, I won’t see you. When I get home, the house will be dark and empty. I’ll forget to lock the door behind me. I will go upstairs and light candles to calm myself. I’ll hear a noise downstairs but will convince myself it’s the cat. I’ll look out the window toward the bed, away from the door and the stairway. I’ll see my reflection in the glass, rub my face and my eyes. Suddenly, your right hand will be pressed over my mouth. Your left hand will be tight around my chest. You’ll whisper in my ear not to move or make a sound. I will wince.

If you scream, you say, I will hurt you.

Then you will let go and push me hard onto the bed, belly down. Stay there, you’ll say, and I will not move, in fear and anticipation. I’ll hear you open your bag and rustle around in it quickly. You’ll straddle my ass and tie my hands together above my head, firm with a black nylon rope, then fasten the rope to the bed frame. With the brown bandana you wear around your neck, you will tie my mouth. Bite this, bitch, you’ll say. I’ll wince again.

Then you will flip me over onto my back. There will be a small hole in my shirt, just above the chest, and you will put your index finger into it and tug, making the hole bigger. You’ll put another finger in, then another until the hole is big enough for all of your fingers. In one quick motion, you’ll tear my shirt apart and pull my pants down around my knees. Your right hand will rest at my throat. You will spit into your left hand and reach it between my legs, forcing your fingers, two, three, then four, inside of me. I will be wet and you will call me a slut for it. I’ll scream into the bandana. You will keep moving your fingers in and out of me until I get so wet you think I might come, and then you’ll stop. Again, I will wince and you will shake your head, no, and smile. You’ll flip me back over onto my belly and pull me up onto my forearms and knees. Then you will slap my ass several times, hard and quick, leaving bright red welts.

You’ll place your fingers back between my legs and say, Damn, you’re dripping, you can’t get enough.

I’ll push my pussy into your hand but you’ll pull it away. You’ll put your hands on my ankles to hold me in place while you breath hot air onto my pussy from behind. I’ll feel your tongue barely lick. I will almost come.

You’ll take out your pocketknife and run it along my back, down between my legs. Are you afraid, you’ll ask. I’ll flinch in fear and want. The tip of the knife will press into my inner thigh, then up around my cunt and ass crack. It will scratch the surface of my skin without breaking it. You will run it back up my spine and around my tits, down my belly, and almost to my pussy again. My breath will quicken and you will laugh. You will, again, press its tip into my inner thigh and this time, a tiny drop of blood will surface. Oh, sorry, you’ll say, condescending, then slap my ass again. And again. I will feel the redness of the skin around my ass and thighs, burning. For a moment, nothing more will happen. We will just breathe, me on my knees, you behind me.

I will hear you close the knife and put it back into your pocket. The bed will creak as you get up. You’ll start to walk away. When I no longer hear your steps I will think you’re almost gone, but suddenly, you will thrust your fingers into my pussy and fuck me hard and quick, from behind; three fingers, then four, then your knuckles, then your whole fist. I’ll scream into the bandana. I will be swollen and damp, yet still you will tear me open and it will hurt. Your fingers will move back and forth inside of me. I’ll scream into the bandana again and again. I’ll bite it, feeling like my teeth might break. I’ll pull my wrists at the rope, I’ll push my hips into your hand, I’ll writhe.

You like that, you’ll say. Yeah, I bet you do, bitch.

Your hand will quicken until I gush and collapse onto the bed. You’ll laugh, then smack my ass once more, for luck, you’ll say. You’ll untie the rope and the bandana and leave me in a pile on the bed as you walk away, down the stairs. I’ll hear you run the water in the kitchen sink and drink, then slam the door as you leave to catch the bus home.

When I’m sure you’re gone, I will wipe my pussy on a towel and get dressed quickly. Then I will go downstairs, drink a glass of water, and slam the door behind me as I run to catch the number 6 bus, the one you take to get home. I know where you live.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I guess she must be monogamous?”

“Pretty much.”

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

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bathroom,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

They looked at me like a helpless creature.

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

“No. Not allowed anymore, remember?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I Became A Daddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a tease, but it totally worked.

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

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

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

Five Blow Jobs on the Me & My Boi blog tour

Sacchi Green’s new erotica anthology Me & My Boi is finally out! It’s been multiple years in the making, and it includes one of my favorite stories (about rife), Five Blow Jobs.

The first part goes like this:

I.

After the workshop. I haven’t had enough of you (will I ever get enough of you) and strip you bare, glove my hand, slide two fingers inside you, sideways on our huge bed. The lamplight is different than the bright white of this room during the day, more warm, orange-yellow-gold and more full of shadows, and the shadows and the gold fall onto your skin like paint. In the car on the way back I couldn’t resist (can rarely resist, it’s so hard to resist when part of our dynamic is built around taking what I want) and slide your small fingers into my mouth. You miss the exit. Your fingers are blunt and I trace your jagged nails with my tongue, suck the salt from the pads, taste the day on your skin. I pull your wrist down to your pelvis and take two fingers in my mouth again when my two fingers are inside you, gently pressing, not a lot of motion, and I start to suck you off. Up and down your fingers like a cock. I hold your g-spot and feel it quiver in my fingers. I let your fingers out of my mouth so you can touch your clit, and keep my tongue on the back of your hand. You shudder and convulse against my mouth, your cunt grips my fingers. You slide your fingers back in my mouth, eager, and I taste you, just a little, at the tips, and I do it all over again.

The book is particularly special to me because there’s so little butch-centered erotica out there, and this is one of the rare ones. I believe it’s not exclusively butch/butch erotica, but includes masculine-of-center identities of all kinds, whether they use the word ‘butch’ or ‘boi’ or don’t use labels at all.

As Sacchi writes, in the introduction:

This book is a celebration of all things boi, butch, masculine-of-center, in those who include lesbian as a part of their identities. These are stories of people we love, and people we are, who put their own personal spins on the gender spectrum. Bois who like girls, bois who like bois, bois who like both; those who don’t label themselves boi or butch at all but can’t stand to wear a skirt; screw-the-binary free spirits of many flavors. Cool bois, hot bois, swaggering bois, shy bois, leather bois, flannel bois, butch daddies, and the femmes and mommas and tops and bottoms and even girls next door who wouldn’t have them any other way.

The anthology includes a lot of my favorite queer erotica writers with new works … I can’t wait to read the entire thing!

Blog Tour

June 12—Sacchi Green—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 13—Annabeth Leong—http://annabethleong.blogspot.com
June 14—Anna Watson— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 15—Sinclair Sexsmith—www.sugarbutch.net
June 16—Jove Belle— https://jovebelle.com/
June 17—Tamsin Flowers— www.tamsinflowers.com
June 18—Victoria Villasenor— https://breywillows.com
June 19—J, Caladine—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20—Victoria Janssen— http://victoriajanssen.com
June 21—Dena Hankins—  http://denahankins.net/my-summer-of-boi/
June 22—D. Orchid— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 23—Pavini Moray— https://emancipatingsexuality.com/
June 24—Melissa Mayhew— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 25—Jen Cross— http://writingourselveswhole.org
June 26—Kyle Jones— www.butchtastic.net
June 27—Gigi Frost— www.facebook.com/gigifrost
June 28—Aimee Hermann— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 29—Sommer Marsden—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 30—Axa Lee—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
July 1— Kathleen Bradean— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

Oh and also, there’s a BOOK GIVEAWAY

Anyone who comments on any of the posts will be entered in a drawing for one free copy of the anthology. You can comment on more than one post and be entered more than once. The winner will be announced and notified by July 5, if not sooner.

Pick up Me & My Boi from your local feminist queer radical bookstore, directly from Cleis Press, or, if you must, from Amazon.

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.