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.
Get your own copy of The Daddies by Kimberly Dark, published by Brill | Sense
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.)
A friend of mine recently asked me if I had any resources for chronic pain and sexuality. I knew of a few off the top of my head, but I started looking around, and querying in a few of the sex educator groups I’m in, and on Twitter, and compiled this list.
Thanks to everyone who weighed in and made suggestions!
What else do you all recommend? Please leave them in the comments.
Y’all probably know about the spoon theory — it is very widely popular in many circles, not only when talking about ability, written by Christine Miserandino. If you don’t, highly recommend you familiarize yourself with it — here’s the sweet article that started it all, over on ButYouDontLookSick.com.
Chronic Sex – & their Podcast
KinkAcademy.com – Shanna Katz & Wintersong Tashlin have series on sex & disability
Sexability.com – Rafe Biggs
Disability After Dark – Andrew Gurza
SexAbled – Robin Wilson-Beattie
Sex Positions for Limited Mobility
Mastering Mind: Dominants With Mental Illness and Neurological Dysfunction
Hell on Wheels: Disabled Dominants
Sex & Disability conference – happened in 2017 but there are listings for presenters and resources here
Content: mama/boy age play, sex.
Dyke Mama seeks little boy. Leatherboy. Butch. Non-negotiable: compassion, integrity, Leather Heart. Any age, size, ethnicity, etc. Are you willing? Let’s play.
I’ve got my coffee, black. Cruise on through the back door of The Brew Zone coffee shop and find a metal bistro table with two chairs in the rear patio. The air is hot, but misters lightly cool my skin. Feels great, but my hair is starting to cling to my forehead in short, annoying, curls. Dammit, I’m trying to look my butch best here. And now my white tee, half tucked into well worn jeans, is damp, too. My feet are sweltering in heavy, polished boots. I sit down, attempt a pose, and wonder what the hell I’m doing.
Thirty-two, scrawny, butch leatherboy waiting on a blind date with some internet stranger. Is this stupid?
But what choice did I have?
I’m a boy, and after being ashamed and shy about it for years, I’ve finally accepted that I want to be with a Leather Mommy. Well, good for me. Hurray. Whoop-dee-doo. Problem is, Daddies are everywhere, whereas no-one even mentions Mommies without a bit of a sneer. Total double standard. So because of some fucked up taboo, it’s practically impossible to find a queer, femme, Leather Mommy. Screw that! I’m 32 and sick of hiding, done with waiting. My options few, I had to cowboy up and post a personals ad. Not cool. Except, on that same day, some “Dyke Mama” puts up an ad looking for someone just like me.
I don’t believe in coincidences, so here I am.
I check the back door again, for the zillionth time. Nothing. Maybe she stood me up. Maybe she saw me, didn’t like the goods, and decided to leave. Fuck that shit! I’m not going to humiliate myself waiting on a no-show. I start to get up, ready to blow this off, and then the door opens and a woman walks out into the sun. Her. Olive skin, blue-black dyed hair, a bit fat, older than me by at least ten years. She looks around, sees me, smiles like a cat and heads toward my table.
I swear I can feel some sort of energy radiating from her. Smacks me right upside the head. I forget to be cool. Forget everything. I’m just a tongue-tied, butch lump-in-a-chair. Looking up at her.
“Hello, little boy,” she purrs. Heat rises up my neck and flushes my cheeks. Great. Real sexy. But at least I remember to stand up and pull out her chair like a civil gentlebutch.
I check her out while I’m holding her chair. Her hips are wide, and they spread when she sits, overflowing the chair. She’s wearing matte-black men’s leather boots, dark jeans, a thick, intimidating black-leather belt — the classic Leather Uniform — but she wears it with a sheer white blouse, at least 20 thin bangles clinking on her wrists, long earrings almost to her shoulders, cropped hair, black cat eyeliner and red, red lips. A black lace bra shows through the blouse and her cleavage is … fuck, it’s incredible! I tear my eyes away, worried she’ll think I’m disrespecting her.
She smiles like she’s amused. “A lemonade would be nice.”
And — “Yes, Ma’am!” — I head inside for the cold drink, happy to occupy myself with something she wants. When I get back, I see her forehead is beaded with perspiration, and she’s sweating a bit through the thin blouse. I should have had ice water waiting for her, I kick myself. Good thing there wasn’t a line to get the lemonade. I place it carefully before her, scrape my chair back, and she nods very slightly, so I sit. God, she has kind eyes! Finally, I can smile at her. I know it’s a big, goofy, shiny smile, but she seems to like it, so it’s all good.
She takes an icy lemonade sip. I lick my lips. Then we do the small talk thing, generally shooting shit about the heat, our hobbies, coming out, work, the scene. I pull myself together, and I’m very charming, I think. I hope.
She pauses for a moment, then abruptly asks me “What did you come here looking for? A Mommy? Tell me what that means to you.”
I stumble a bit. “Um … Not some mean, ego-bound Mistress, doing Leather as performance, that’s for sure.” I nurse my cooling coffee. “And not a role-player or a weekend player.” I think hard about it, trying to put it into words for the first time. “I want a genuine Leather Mommy. A kind-spirited, nurturing Mommy. One who can take charge of me and take care of me, teach me and love me and … take me down.”
She considers this. “Are you a little boy?”
“Well, yeah. Guess so.” I know I’m blushing again. “But I still like to play hard. Rough. And to serve. I want all that, too.” Long pause, then quietly, “I need it.”
She nods, really listening to me. Then we start talking about limits and wants, boundaries and experience. Our conversation ramps up. Consensual this and Safe that. And Sane whatever. And I’m thinking: Yes, yes. Thank you for caring and reassuring me. I will do the same for you, Ma’am. But let’s get real: What can we both expect if we do this? I mean, what comes next?
To be honest, I’m half terrified, half excited and half horny as fuck. Yeah, I know: too many halves; it’s called “being overwhelmed.” She must see my anxiety, because she takes my hand across the table and holds it in hers. My racing thoughts calm a bit.
“Okay, here’s what it would look like, if you were my boy.” Her voice is tender and yes, maternal. “We could play games together and draw pictures and play with toy cars. We might even go for ice cream or to the zoo. And you could sit on your Mommy’s lap any time you want. Even in the bar.” She squeezes my hand. “You will need to be a good boy, well behaved with good manners, and do as you’re told.” Then she smiles conspiratorially. “But you could be a bit naughty when it’s just us. Most important of all,” she continues, “you’d be cuddled and loved and treasured.” She looks right in my eyes. “I want to take care of you like that.”
I shiver at the last bit, feeling small and hopeful. I swallow and my chest aches, like something heavy and hurting is trapped inside, and I’m just now noticing it.
She continues, her tone a little firmer, “You would also be my Leatherboy, not just my little boy. My Leatherboy, with all that a D/s relationship implies: negotiations, expectations, protocols, SM, Leathersex, service, obedience. I expect you to be open and proud of who you are and who you serve. And I do not tolerate anything less than authenticity, honesty and integrity.”
This is a lot to take in. But I love almost everything she’s saying. I imagine living it, and it seems unreal. I can’t quite believe; Could it really happen?
Without warning, the patio lights click on, cuing dusk to fade in. How did the afternoon just slip away? She squeezes my hand again and lets it go. We exchange references and phone numbers. And then, it’s over.
Except when we get up, she traps my wrist, pulls me close against her softness and kisses my cheek so gently it burns. In the span of that moment, as if a spell has been lifted, I suddenly see her incredible beauty. Striking. Alluring. A stunning, magnificent creature for whom I would willingly kneel. I am totally wrecked as I watch her navigate away from me. She doesn’t look back. But I keep staring at the door after she’s gone.
Two weeks later, references verified and ground rules established, we’ve shared three phone calls, two Skypes, dinner and a movie, one long, deep goodbye kiss, and a snail mail card from her to me, with a hot-as-fuck biker boot on the front, a romantic message inside and a dinosaur sticker slipped into the envelope.
But now we’re finally going to meet for dinner at her home. I think I know what that means. So I’m literally shaking with excitement when I arrive at her apartment.
“Perfect timing. I just finished making dinner,” she exclaims as we hug hello. So we go straight for the dining room.
The fish she prepared is probably very tasty, but I am far too distracted to notice. Later, after I clear the table and wash the dishes, loving this first small act of service, we move to the living room.
We are sitting on her couch, digesting and chatting for a while, as if that’s what this date is all about. But then, during a break in the conversation, she reaches for my hand and holds it in both of hers. I shift a bit closer on the couch. The warmth of her body hovers around her like a sweet, humid halo. I lean against her shoulder, holding my breath, feeling small and safe but also uncertain. The world seems to pause, listening.
She turns and gently pulls me into her embrace and her kiss, tender and soulful. I’m floating. I’m trembling. Every single molecule in my body vibrates. She stands up, gently bringing me with her. Looking into my eyes, she strokes my hair, then leads me silently to her small bedroom. Oh my God, yes!
She lays me down on her bed and kisses me from above, like she’s searching for something deep inside me. She presses her leg up between mine and pushes against my crotch like she wants to fuck me through my jeans. Taking my hands, she holds them firmly down against the bed while she keeps kissing, kissing … and I am unresisting. Maybe she’s put me in a trance, because I can’t move, can’t make a move on her. This has never happened to me, I swear. Yeah, I’ve bottomed before, but this is so freaking gentle and slow, hypnotic.
A ceiling fan stirs the warm air. I notice it as she releases me from the spell and pulls me up to stand in front of her. We kiss again, and it fills me with want. Her tongue steadily becomes more possessive, then invasive, until it claims my mouth. She grips my jaw, holding my mouth open, the other hand on the back of my skull, keeping my head still, making me her receptacle. She runs her tongue over my palate, deep into the softness of my throat, then exploring between my lips and teeth. I can only receive her, and it provokes an almost delirious hunger. Nothing else exists except her filling my mouth.
She releases my jaw, but continues to kiss me as she covers my body with her hands, over my shirt, then up inside, seeking skin. Her hands under my shirt, moving up my back, fingers resting on my shoulder blades as her thumbs press sharply into my armpits, as if she’s testing my response. Her hands soften again, trailing down my chest, sliding fingertips an inch under my waistband and circling the inner fabric to my belt buckle. Releasing the buckle, opening my fly, she slips a hand down into my jeans, over my shorts, pausing to cup my dick in her palm: a soft packer that seems adolescent beneath her caress. She squeezes and fondles and strokes me like she wants me to stiffen in her hand. Her eyes are locked on mine now, hazed with lust and power; she almost looks high.
Her hands at my waistband again, she eases my jeans over my ass to the floor. As she slowly unbuttons and removes my shirt, she wets her lips then uses her palms and teeth and tongue on my skin. Everything is mesmerizing and so incredibly sexy. I feel disoriented, but I know I must want it; my cunt is so slick and my cock pushes hard against my shorts.
Before I can fully take in what is happening, she has pulled my underwear down past my knees, my packer with them. I’m suddenly so naked, with just a tangle of fabric at my ankles.
She reaches down again, now staring impassively into my eyes but breathing roughly. With one finger tip, she slides between the folds of skin in my crotch. With a fluid motion, she dips slightly into my cunt and drags the wetness up over my clit and onto my belly, leaving a slick trail. I feel like I might cry. Like all my butch bravado has just fizzled out.
She steps back to get a look at me. “Such a sexy little boy,” she croons. I start to shake.
Feeling way too vulnerable, I kick off my jeans and briefs and move toward her, reaching for her, wanting to feel her body up against my skin. But she pushes me, and I stumble inelegantly backward onto the bed. With a soft chuckle and a wicked smile, she begins to undress. And I’m under her spell again. First the jewelry. Tinkling earrings, rings, long necklace. She unbuttons her sheer black blouse, and it flutters to the ground, exposing a satin bra with just a hint of lace. The flowy crepe black skirt slips off easily, to reveal a black leather harness already strapped on. Well, that makes things clear as crystal.
Finally, she removes her bra, releasing breasts, generous and natural, heavy with large areolas and nipples. She is thick and fleshy… and not perfect. But she is confident, seductive and erotic. And all woman! Without meaning to, I moan just a little, and it is a rough, throaty sound.
Flashing me a sly smile, she opens the bedside drawer and takes out a thick, black cock, stroking it suggestively. She inserts it into the silver o-ring at the front of the harness and tightens the straps. Then she wraps her hand around the shaft, like she’s ready to jack off. She slides her hand up to the head and circles it with a finger, then lightly strokes the tip, where the piss hole would be. Then she looks up at me and lets out a wicked little laugh. My body’s electrified, almost painfully aroused. When she stands above me, arms akimbo, naked and strong, her femme-cock sways and bobs gently in my direction.
“Mommy?” I murmur.
She closes her eyes. A wave seems to move through her, and she sighs soundlessly. Then, like a benediction, she breathes huskily, “Yes, boy.” And she leans to kiss me. Gentle and floaty, and then harder. Then deep and hungry and overpowering. Mid-kiss, she lies her body on top of mine pressing against me, soft and full, with her hard dick wedged between us. I moan a little. Can’t help myself. I am bursting with want, buzzing with it. Dying from it.
She wraps her embrace around me and My Whole World is contained within her arms. The sweet natural scent of her. The yielding spread of her breasts. Indulgent, she offers them to me, and I suckle, unquestioning. She pulls me into her voluptuous warmth with a heavy, sensual groan. But I am not focused on pleasuring her, sexing her, fucking. Not focused on my hard-on or whether she likes my body or what she’s going to do with me later. I just suck her heavenly nipple and let go into a dreamy bliss.
I feel like her all-grown-up, baby boy, and it is so natural and so good. I want to be snuggled and held. I want to love and be loved in a sort of innocent, childlike way. I want to trust her. I want to let down my guard.
And somehow, drifting in this euphoric haze, I do.
I let go of my embarrassment and fear, my bravado and the insecurity underneath. All the inner-child-longing I’ve hidden away from a judgemental world: that is Hers now. I let it all go. All of it. I give it to her while I nurse at her breast; a crazy moment of pure trust. I feel like her precious boy. Hers.
Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I should be more cautious, guarded. But I know that this is right. I know that she really is my Mommy. I have no question. And she wants me, too! She She She. Wants me, her little one. Her leatherboy. Baby boy. Hungry boy. Grown up, sex-hungry boy.
Lust suddenly overtakes my other needs. I’m sure she can feel the shift, how I’m not so little anymore. Now, her breasts are making me hard and wet and horny. I drown myself in the softness of them, cupping and holding that pillowy flesh. Licking her nipples and biting and losing myself in her. Squeezing and kneading. My whole body is asking for her attention.
Please Mommy, I need your gentle fuck.
I need your deep, hard fuck. Your fingers. Your cock. Use me. Wear me out. Find the way to my tender self. Open me. Please. Fuck me open.
Content: Surprise BDSM, flogging, singletail, daddy/girl, butch/femme, outdoor sex, fisting, biting.
My toes curl around the smooth pebbles as the cool water flows over the tops of my feet and swirls around my ankles. A few leaves float past and a small fish darts out from between the stones before quickly disappearing further downstream. I’ve been sitting on this bank for about twenty minutes and my bum is beginning to go to sleep. I shift a little to let the blood flow. You’ll be here soon.
I close my eyes and inhale the rich, earthy scent of the forest floor and the peaty water. The stream takes a meandering path through the trees. I’ve chosen a shallow spot but I know there are places where it runs deeper and faster. My emotions are like this river: I may feel relaxed now but I know it won’t be long before I quicken and traverse new depths. My body is like the water too: moisture already beginning to pool between my thighs in anticipation of your arrival; my mouth alternately dry when I think of what is to come and then salivating with desire.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. The light is beginning to fade and I’m afraid of being alone in the dark.
The snap of a twig underfoot alerts me to your arrival. Your first command swiftly follows, “Don’t turn around. Stay just as you are.” I can hear you busying yourself behind me. Some of the sounds are familiar: the zipper of a bag being drawn back; the clank of your metal water bottle as you drop it on the ground. Others cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand tall: makeshift antennae endeavouring to place the noises I know I have heard before but in a very different setting. Then I remember: I am listening to rope being uncoiled, knots being tied and tested with the weight of your body. The hairs on my arms stand tall now too and I shiver.
I feel you approach me: the heat of your body emanating several feet in front of you. Or maybe it is your energy I feel. Or perhaps simply your will. I feel suddenly small in the presence of you and the forest. You could easily be as tall as the oak trees that surround us. You are just as solid and strong too. I feel like a will-o’-the-wisp in comparison: insubstantial and transient. I wonder if you’ll be able to catch me before I disappear.
Your hands on my shoulders bring me back to my body and my solidity. Your touch grounds and reforms me. I am a woman again; dusk is falling; you have come for me.
The lanterns you placed around us begin to glow brighter as the daylight recedes. A few early moths stun themselves on the glass before flitting around in dizzying patterns. Your hands move from my shoulders to cover my eyes. “Are you ready?” your voice is deep with lust. Mine gets stuck in my throat and I merely nod my assent. Your fingers drag through my hair, scraping it back from my face, tugging a little on the ends before you let go. “Stand up – slowly.” I scramble upright, my wet feet quickly coated with dirt and decaying leaf matter. You reach to remove my clothing. As instructed, all I am wearing is the long smock dress you asked for: easy for you to take off and toss to the ground. My sudden nakedness is a stark contrast to your unchanged attire: well-worn jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt with low cut armholes that reveal just a glimpse of your breasts, and leather boots laced high around your ankles.
You bend to scoop water from the stream into your hands and then stroke the wetness over my torso. My nipples harden as a reaction to your touch and the cooling moisture. I see you eye them with a lascivious smile, then you check your impatience and take me by the hand, “Over here.”
The oak tree has been transformed into your playground: ropes tied around its girth and dangling from overhead branches; more lanterns placed around its base to light up the set. My peripheral vision lets me see the camera and tripod you’ve set up too. Just like we agreed. I feel a flush of excitement burning its way up my body. Fuck. We’re really going to do this.
You position me facing the trunk of the tree and carefully wind the ropes around my waist and wrists. The rough bark scratches my breasts and stomach and I lean into the discomfort. I’m going to need this tree to hold me. A long, slow exhale from you tells me you are satisfied with the quality and tightness of my bonds. Now you are able to release your practical, human, self and take on your animal form. The same forest that dissolves my edges only serves to strengthen yours: muscles thicken, your voice becomes a growl, you begin to pace. The hunger and want in the space between us is palpable. We can both smell and taste it. We lick our lips in unison.
You begin as you always do: rhythmic swats with a heavy flogger. You are the snake-charmer hypnotizing me into swaying my body for you and I move to the tempo you set. Your leather warms my skin; your attention warms my heart. I feel gifted with your presence. It’s just me and you. Just us. Only ever now.
The thuds from the flogger become heavier and I instinctively pull away from you and closer to the oak’s embrace. It doesn’t help. There’s nowhere left for me to go. My fear of being broken begins to rise and I know I need to lean in to the blows and welcome them as my lover’s vicious kiss.
There is a deceptive peacefulness when the flogging stops. I can hear the sounds of the forest bedding down for the night. Occasional whirs and buzzes from passing insects. A rustle high up in the leaves that suggests either a bird or a small mammal settling in despite the disturbance below. Then the sudden crack of leather behind me. A practice stroke. You are measuring the distance, the location of the overhanging branches, the level of the ground beneath your feet. Now the flogger’s kiss has ceased, it is time for the singletail to bite.
I welcome the pain. This is your gift to me: our bodies join along the length of the whip; energy flows from your heart, along the tail, through my skin, and fills me. I drink it in until the agonizing stings reach a crescendo that can only be released through my voice. I call out half-formed words, nonsensical pleas for more interspersed with my stuttered gratitude: “Thank-thank-thank-you, Sir.” We are both gasping with the intensity and the exertion.
My back burns with a fire that could easily ignite the fallen twigs around our feet. I fear we will consume the forest with our passion and, before we do, I force myself to profess, “Please, Sir, I can’t take any more.”
It’s not our safeword but you know me and my limits well. You lay down the whip and come to me: “Good girl. My girl.” You untie me quickly and turn me to face you, then press the mouth of the water bottle to my lips. “Drink.” I swig and gulp, splutter a little in my rush to obey.
I watch you reach inside your jeans and slide your hand into your underwear. My lips part in expectation and I am rewarded with your juice-coated fingers filling my mouth. I suck the taste of you inside me. I want to drop to my knees and taste even more of you: your clit must be achingly hard, your cunt sodden; I could drown myself in the river of you. But you have other plans to fulfill first. Despite the scent of you so fresh in my nostrils and on my palate, I can smell my own arousal and I know you won’t let me go until you have milked every last drop of want from me.
The front of my body is imprinted with the pattern of the tree’s bark and there are small pieces of moss and lichen stuck to my skin. The forest is claiming me as hers but you aren’t fooled by my camouflage: underneath the forest’s covering you know I already belong to you.
My nipples are firm against the cooling night air and you reach for them now. You have exhausted your patience and want now only to feed and devour. I flinch as you reach for me but I can’t escape your grip as you pull and twist. My gasps become cries and tears quickly prick the corners of my eyes. My beseeching begins again but only serves to make your touches crueler.
My brain warns me of what is to come while my body begs for more. I can feel sweat and my juices running down my inner thighs. My nipples are screaming for release while my cunt pleads for your attention. I cry freely from both the pain and the frustration. “Please fuck me.” It starts as a whisper; I doubt my capacity and my desire. Be careful what you wish for, my thoughts caution. “Please fuck me, Sir.” Bolder now, there’s no going back, you’ve heard me. You wait until my plea becomes a mantra: “Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir.”
I have abandoned my rational, thinking self and now fully inhabit my soft, animal body. Belly side up, I am completely at your mercy. You snarl as you lunge at me, tearing into me, not with teeth and claws, but with your fingers thrusting inside my willing cunt. I am trapped between the unyielding tree behind me and the heavy weight of you in front. Two mighty beings holding me in place while I begin to dissolve and pour my offering into the earth beneath. The rough bark scratches my already bruised and inflamed flesh. You press against my throbbing breasts, your breath burning hot against my ear. “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion,” you growl, and I believe you.
I am fully liquid now. I flow over your hands and body, pool at your feet, form a new tributary and run to join the river. The current will carry me away from this place, out of the forest, towards the freedom of the sea. Except you won’t let me go. You sense the change in me and pull me back sharply with a slap to my cheek. I snap back into my body, abruptly feeling the shriek of every nerve ending and the firmness of my cunt walls clamped around your hand. I am no longer the free-flowing river; I am trapped prey and you are the hunter.
You latch onto my shoulder and hold me in your bite: a firm counterbalance to the pressure of your fist inside my cunt. Fingers from your other hand casually circle my clit. The forest seems to hold its breath along with me. You deliberately pump your fist in time with your fingers: callously slow movements that sink into me and vibrate throughout my whole body. You have lit a fire inside me that spreads through every muscle, organ and bone.
“Breathe.” Of course, fire needs air to burn: I exhale in order to draw in a deeper breath. You issue the command again, “Breathe.” Fucking me faster now, my breaths quicken to match your pace. I am molten, overflowing; unable to keep my form from merging with you, with the oak, the river, the decaying ground beneath and the star-filled sky above. I let go and a surge of bliss engulfs me, tipping me into the void.
You bring me back – again – but this time with your lips on mine, your tongue as insistent as the motion of your hips grinding against me. “My girl,” you breathe between kisses, “my glorious girl.”
I wrap my arms around you and hold on tight while my body trembles and jolts with the aftermath of my orgasm. I don’t want to let you go but, after a while, you gently ease me off of you and encourage me to sit at the base of the tree. “I’ll be back in a second,” you promise. I close my eyes and feel the safety of the earth holding me. I’m still in a liminal space and allow myself to drift for a moment.
You return and help me to my feet. You are naked now too and lust flutters in my stomach as I see the curly hairs on your mound slick with your longing. You have laid out blankets, your water bottle and a tub of trail mix. We sit together and drink and nibble. Your care for me is impeccable but I can sense your yearning and eagerness for more play. I take a swig from the bottle and hand it to you, “Thank you, Daddy,” head just a little bit bowed so I can look up at you as I speak. You swallow hard and take the offered bottle from my hands.
Your body is heavy on top of me and I allow you to press me into the earth beneath. Your weight is reassuring and comforting and, for a moment, I wish we could just go to sleep now. Then you shift your legs so you are straddling my thigh and I feel the heat and wet of your cunt sliding over my skin. My hunger rushes through me like a thundering train and my fingers hurriedly reach for you. I need to feel your slickness, your hardness; to feel you open and blossom under my touch.
You moan gratefully when my hand makes first contact with your cunt. With my arm sandwiched between our bodies, I am reliant on the fine motor movements of my fingertips dancing over your clit and around your opening. I’m not allowed inside you and I’m careful to keep to that promise as you slide yourself over and around my hand and thigh. You set the pace. You make the rules. I give everything I can in service to your pleasure.
You move yourself faster on top of me and drops of perspiration fall from your brow onto my face. Your sweat washes away the forest, the river, until I am solely yours again. “I love you, Daddy.” These are the words you have been waiting for. You tense and roar, pressing hard against my hand, as you let yourself climax again and again.
We wrap ourselves in each other’s arms and some more blankets. The night creatures of the forest are awake now but we are daytime animals and ready for sleep. As your breathing slows and I match mine to yours, I remember the video camera you set up, and whisper into the darkness, “Happy anniversary, my love.”
I wake with a start, reaching for my phone. 5:35am. Shit, which way is it again? Could be either 2:35 or 8:35 where you’re at. This should be quick and easy math in my head but I keep going back and forth between adding the threes for you and subtracting them for me. Both of these options seem like impossible times in my hazy, dream-laden mind. Subtract the three. Yes, it’s definitely subtraction on my end. But it doesn’t matter. Both of these preposterous times mean that you’re probably asleep…and I unquestionably ought to be as well. I roll over and barely have a minute of self-indulgent pouting before I realize something is vibrating in my hand.
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
I blush, curling into a tiny ball, beaming into the phone. Your voice is cracked, raspy with slumber heavy on your tongue, honey to my ears. My lugubrious lips quickly arc upwards, forming the sweetest smile.
“Good morning, handsome.”
“Do something for me.” You politely await my reply even though this favorite line of yours has long since ceased being a question. Really, more of a call and response because my answer is always the same:
“Roll over. Touch yourself for me. Be a good girl for Daddy.”
I can tell from the tone in your voice how hard you are already. The desire drips from each slow syllable. And these few simple words have an immediate, palpable effect on my body. My clit began to throb before you completed that first sentence. My pussy quivers, glistening so soon. I can barely form words when you talk to me like that. You know how to make me so fucking shy. Delighting in it. Add to that my mounting orgasm and I’m a non-verbal, moaning mess of a girl. Lucky for me, you’re perfectly content to hear nothing but those inarticulate melodies as I come for you, writhing in between my crimson sheets. And then again.
My butch Daddy, your unique flavor of female masculinity and dominance was set to high heat the moment you laid eyes on me, stirred to a quick boil that first night we spent in your precariously lofted bed, bubbling up and spilling all over my body every day since. I feel blessed to witness you coming into your own so thoroughly, to get to experience it firsthand. Mmmm…your hands. How I long for them. So rough and strong, you never knew to have pride in them until I purred under your touch as you stroked them down my exposed back, cupping my ass. I cooed my craving into the curve of your neck, letting you know just how much the ascendancy of those hands turn me on. My femme instinct smelled the butch all over you long before you ever used the word to describe yourself. I sensed it burning inside of you, eagerly awaiting a femme like me to show you just how desirable female masculinity can be. To express how it’s one of the many parts of you I honor and cherish. To prove to you that I just can’t get enough. And even with all the distance between us now, we don’t let that get in our way. We simply search out other methods to stay connected.
Email, Facetime, mobile-to-mobile, texting (sexting), voicemail. Damn, you’ve got me going against everything I believe in. I detest technology. In all of its many, varied forms. Yet here I find myself. Sleeping with my phone turned on in case you call, sending endless fantasies on the tiniest keyboard until my thumbs cramp up, last night you even put me to bed over the computer. I normally resist sleeping in the same room with anything electronic, let alone something connected to wifi. But I’ll admit that the sound of your voice singing me to sleep and that of your shallow breathing when I awoke in the middle of the night was so sweetly comforting. And such a turn on. Instead of waking you though I let you sleep.
This time. Next time you’re going to be roused with quite the little show. I decide to pour all my mid-night lust into mid-day distractions that’ll make your hours at work fly by faster.
2:57pm. Subtract the three. Noon is just as good a time as any to get this started. Text is my weapon of choice today.
I lick my lips. Slowly. You groan, fighting hard against your instinctual impulses. My mouth is watering, Daddy. May I please give you a little kiss?
The minutes crawl by too slowly as I impatiently check my phone for the hundredth time. I want to keep going but I can’t. Not without your express permission. So I squirm around in my bed, jilling off lazily, feeling more and more desperate for your response. Proud of myself for only sending one frantic pleading message in the meantime as I wait out each of those torturous, interminable forty-seven minutes before you reply.
Lick your lips again and kiss Daddy.
I nearly come when you send me such lascivious demands. But I can’t be distracted now. My aim is to distract you.
I bend forward and gradually lower my mouth. My pretty little mouth that you so love inching closer and closer to your hard-on, the tip of my tongue gliding across my upper lip. Looking up at you with big brown eyes, I pucker my lips and kiss the head of your cock. An electric volt of desire starts there, shooting straight through you, making your whole body jump.
The current running through your body is so intense that you don’t even notice until it’s too late that I’ve gone and gotten greedy, wrapping my hand around the base of your cock and going in for another kiss. Sans permission. Bad girl. It’s not until your feel the warmth of my lips opening a little wider this time that you realize. You feel the pressure of my tongue ease across the tip of your cock. Very bad girl. So you grab me by the back of my hair with such force that I cry out.
You drag me up and throw me down on the bed. Your patience was bound to break and I pushed you over the edge sooner than you’d have liked. So now I’m gonna get it. Fear and desire shine in my eyes, a lustful tempest in yours, as you shove my legs apart. You hear the lace of my panties ripping as you tear them to the side, not giving a fuck what you tear. You drive your cock into me, taking me rougher than ever before. Taking it all in one single thrust. Taking what’s yours.
I look down at my phone, grinning and gratified at having ruined you for the rest of your day.
* * *
I can feel my phone trill in my pocket but I’m in the middle of a story, surrounded by my family. Receiving anything from you while I’m around them makes me nervous. So I wait until an opportune moment presents itself to make my way to the bathroom. Closing the door while fumbling with the touch screen, I see the little red circle above “Mail” has increased in number many times over. Most of them are photos – which I love, don’t get me wrong, my eyes drinking in every pixel of you, the beauty you’ve encountered in your journeyings – but it’s your words that do me in:
I look into your eyes, your wanting eyes, and return the gaze with mine. Bending you over slowly, you grip your ankles for support as I take my cock in hand and place it between your legs. But I don’t go inside you, I don’t touch anything, actually. I hold it there beneath your pussy and wait, like waiting for raindrops. Opening your pussy with my right hand, I exhale with satisfaction. It is as I hoped. You are wet enough for this. Your wet is all over my cock now, dripping onto it as I hold it at your hole. It’s running up to your clit, it wants to make its way to your inner thighs. This. This is what I wanted. I pull away from you and run my hand all over your juices. All over me. I can feel it all over me.
These words go straight to my cunt and now I’m unbuttoning my jeans one-handedly, struggling to get to my clit fast enough. Fuck, I’m so fucking wet. Just like in your fantasy. Rereading it two and a half more times before I’m coming hard and fast, I wash my hands and rejoin my sisters, hoping they won’t smell how much I need you.
God, my jaw is aching. You make me too happy. The muscles in my cheeks are out of practice. It seems like my head is constantly thrown back these days – either in a fit of laughter or of passion. I suppose the jaw-ache could also be all the blow jobs I’ve been giving you. Still I can’t stop myself. I glance at the hands on the wall. Quarter to four. You’re off at 3:00pm today. Add the three. That gives me plenty of time to get myself going and leave you a voicemail.
Before dialing yours, I call mine and search out my very favorite message. I want to be so close when I call so that nerves don’t take over and I’m actually able to orgasm. I know you’ll hear the difference if I don’t. Hitting the four, I replay your words once more. “That’s my good girl. Oh, I’m so close. Fuck. You get me so hard. I’m gonna take my cock out and come all over your pussy. Ohhh, I’m coming for you. Fuck. So fucking hard. All over you. Reach down and put that cum in your pussy now. Do it for me. Do it for me, babygirl. Shove it in with your fingers. Now rub it up all over your clit. You like that? I want my cum all over you.”
Despite being quite the filthy girl, I had never imagined myself getting off to such a thought. And you never dared dream a dyke would find your secret fantasies so arousing. Yet here we are. Reveling in every last drop. And you know my screams are genuine when you skip out of work early to take a listen. Leaving you throbbing the rest of the day.
I wake with a moan, clutching at the covers. You know I’m yours, all of me, so you’re allowed to take whatever you want, whenever you want it. And so you do. 4:44am. Subtract the three. You must be just getting home from your gig. Horny. We both sleep weird and few hours. Fewer and fewer since we first met. The unpredictable hours kept by a musician and a writer. Between band practice, random deadlines, my insomnia on top of yours, we’re lucky if either of us gets more than a few hours’ sleep at any given time. Still you can’t help yourself. Or rather, you do. You help yourself quite generously. There may be 2,818 miles between us, but I still know when you’re jacking off to me. You take me in my dreams, I awake with the sheets soaking wet.
I wake with a start, reaching for my laptop. 5:51am. I don’t bother with the math – it’s not you I need to write this time, it’s a story that needs to surface. Fuck, it’s been too long since I woke with a story itching at my fingertips. And this one is all you. You and me. Us. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I need to give it a voice. One of my favorite love stories of all time. One that’s so brimming with lust it pours out all around us. Unlike so many of my fantasy-filled favorites that exist only between the covers, this one is real. So painfully and beautifully real. Plagued with writer’s block for frustratingly drawn-out months, you came along and broke the spell.
Thank you, my muse, my butch, my Daddy. I whisper a blessing of gratitude to whomever is listening. Hoping you hear me as well. Knowing you’re feeling me. Because I’m feeling you.
Content: this post contains a gang bang, possessive language, name calling, sex, whips, and a public scene.
Wrists and ankles trussed together, Delilah fought to stay on her feet. Her arms and legs ached from effort, her exposed pussy slick with hunger. She moaned softly, struggling not to wiggle her ass in the air like she was begging for it. She heard murmurs of approval at her position, felt the stares of strangers raking over her flesh. God help her, she was begging for it. But she had been ordered to wait, to hold herself upright and still. She waited.
An hour earlier, Delilah had wandered the club, somewhat disenchanted, definitely bored. The scenes that night were lukewarm at best, amateurish to her seasoned experience. She played hard, she played long, and she was not the sort to bow down to any old Top in the room. The crew tonight seemed to expect that of her, and she kept her distance. Choosing to bide her time and keep her eyes peeled for potential in the midst of greenness, she circled the outskirts of the room.
When she spotted Von across the sea of inexperience, her heart leapt into her throat. A salt and pepper butch with volumes of confidence and expertise, Von was the sort to make a girl want to roll over onto her back and spread her legs as soon as she swaggered into the room. Damn, but Delilah was hot for her. She had observed Von’s skills at many a party, had even enjoyed a choking and gagging blow job with her in the back seat of her car on one memorable occasion. She had grown to respect and admire Von, and considered her a friend. Taking care to swish her ass provocatively as she crossed the room, Delilah greeted her warmly when she arrived at her side.
Von tossed an arm casually around her shoulders as Delilah sparkled up at her.
“You look gorgeous,” Von murmured appreciatively, and Delilah all but purred.
After several moments of small talk, Von perused the room thoughtfully, then turned her attention back to Delilah.
“Up for it tonight?” She queried.
“Yes!” Delilah’s immediate and enthusiastic answer drew a laugh.
Their negotiations were brief, thorough, and easy with the understanding of some shared history.
“I will take care of you for the evening, and in return I expect that you will be completely honest with me if I cross a line or go too far. Other than that, you are entirely mine for the rest of the night and will do all I ask. Do you understand?”
Delilah nodded, trusting both Von and her own limits.
Von shook her head. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I understand,” Delilah’s face was open, an invitation. And with those few words she placed herself into Von’s capable hands.
Von undressed her slowly, her eyes never leaving Delilah’s face. Sliding the straps of her slip from her shoulders, Von kissed her skin with a tenderness that surprised her. She shivered deliciously as the slip dropped to her ankles. Von lifted her legs one at a time, and kicked the slip aside. She crouched down to trace the lace edge of Delilah’s stocking with one finger until she was quivering.
“Mmm. These are nice. You may keep them on.” Von winked.
She cupped Delilah’s tits in her hands, working them over gently. Her nipples became erect the moment Von put her hands on them, and Delilah arched her back, granting Von greater access to her. When Von lowered her head to Delilah’s nipple, her mouth was greedy, sucking and tugging on her tit until she was gasping for breath. When she suddenly used her teeth to tear into Delilah’s tender breast, she cried out in pain.
Von lifted her head and slapped Delilah’s face. Hard. Delilah bit her lip to keep from crying out again.
“Did I say you could make a sound?” Von growled.
She shook her head.
“Answer me when I ask a question.” Von’s tone brooked no argument.
“N-no. No.” Delilah felt a twinge of her first real fear.
“Then keep quiet. You may do nothing until I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good.” Von nodded, apparently satisfied for now, and Delilah felt herself relax again.
Von removed a coil of hemp rope from her bag.
“Bend over. Grab your ankles.” She commanded, and Delilah complied. It was that easy.
Von positioned Delilah’s legs slightly apart, stabilizing her on her spiked heels before working the rope between her legs and around her wrists. The hemp was abrasive and smelled like damp earth, and her head swam with longing.
Von tugged on the knots, running her fingers under the rope to ensure it wasn’t too tight. When she judged all to her standards, she straightened and placed her hands on Delilah’s waist. Her touch was a light caress, just enough to drive her mad. Von’s hands explored her, sampling her round bottom, opening her pussy and rubbing her clit teasingly, kneading her thighs. Tears of desire coursed down Delilah’s cheeks at this inspection, her thighs sticky with her juice. Von’s hand was in her cunt now, pumping slowly in and out of her until her hips rocked in response. Just as she was driven to an edge she felt she could not bear to cross, Von abruptly withdrew her hand.
“Oh.” It was barely a breath, but when Von heard her utter it she smiled to herself. She had Delilah where she wanted her.
“Tell me you are mine,” she hissed. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I am yours,” Delilah breathed, her voice thick with desire for it. For Von to belong to her. Yes. She meant it with her entire being. For this scene, for tonight, for the next 20 years — at this moment in time, Delilah wanted it all.
“Tell me you are my whore.”
Delilah stammered. “I am your whore.”
“Tell me you would do anything for me.”
“Anything. Anything.” The word reverberated in the air between them.
Von snapped her fingers. Delilah felt it before she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye a small crowd moving in closer around them, a crowd she had not even been aware of until that moment. A handful of queers now leering at her lithe, naked body, their desire for her obvious and disconcerting. A ripple of wolf whistles and catcalls pierced the otherwise all too quiet room. Were all these people with Von?
Delilah’s fear was back, her body trembling with anticipation and a twinge of anxiety.
“Von?” It wasn’t so much a question as a searching for something, perhaps comfort. Delilah wasn’t entirely certain, her nerves fraught.
“Shh. Close your eyes.” It was a command, not a request, but spoken kindly. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited.
The waiting was the worst. Moments, hours, she had no concept of time. Her limbs strained with the effort of holding still, of staying upright on her now wobbly legs. And yet, more than her fear, more than her pain, more than anything else she wanted to please Von. As she realized that, took it in and allowed herself to relish it, her pussy ached with need. She gave herself over to that need, embraced it, and with that, began to thoroughly enjoy herself and the attention she knew was focused on her.
When she felt hands roving over her skin, she shuddered as much from revulsion as from excitement. Although she had been expecting it, she felt completely unprepared for the vulnerability of so many strangers pawing at her flesh. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and oh so powerful. Basking in that power, Delilah raised her ass higher, opening herself up and giving her audience a better view. Her subtle move was met with a round of applause, and a deep chuckle from Von.
“Enjoying yourself, are you? Such a whore.” Von slapped her ass hard enough to leave an instant red welt. Delilah lifted her ass even higher, seeking more.
The first lash of the whip struck her in the tender spot between her firm cheek and the top of her thigh, just above her stocking. She rocked on her heels before collecting herself for more. After that initial, almost flirtatious lick of leather, the blows of the whip came fast and strong. Delilah writhed beneath the lashing, a mix of pain and pleasure. She was on fire, both her cunt and her cherry red bottom a fury of liquid heat. It was delicious, the whip her favorite instrument of torture. Did Von know this? Her mind struggled to remember if Von had witnessed her submit to whip play in the past, or if this was merely one of the many implements with which she was so skilled. No matter, Delilah relinquished all thoughts and embraced the physical sensations assailing her. Pain, arousal, surrender, the deepest desire and pleasure — she succumbed entirely. Her pussy and thighs were soaked with juices. Delilah felt sure she could come at any moment from the intensity of this experience alone.
Jolted out of her state of pure feeling by the cessation of the lashings, Delilah moaned softly. Her tender flesh hurt, her legs and arms in agony from holding her position for so long. As if she could read Delilah’s mind, Von reached down to untie the rope that bound her. She loosened the knots, untangling the rope and letting it fall to the ground. She gently massaged the blood flow back into Delilah’s ankles and wrists, then wrapped her arms around Delilah and pulled her to her chest. She melted into the strength she found there, and closed her eyes, resting. Her respite was brief, however, as moments later Von straightened her and held her at arm’s length.
“I’m not done with you yet, whore. Can you take more?”
Delilah nodded immediately, then recalling earlier instructions, answered, “Yes.”
“I’ll allow you to stand for this, give you a bit of a break. But you must not open your eyes. If you do, we will be done with you. Eyes stay closed, arms stay out to your sides. Ready?”
Delilah assumed the position, her arms held out in a way that left her feeling completely exposed to the room. Again, the hands of strangers grabbed at her, pinching and caressing her skin simultaneously. It was almost too much, and she was dimly aware of the tears on her cheeks. Her breasts were handled roughly, twisted and pulled at until she felt raw and bruised. Her nipple was sucked into someone’s mouth, teeth nibbling at it mercilessly.
Someone’s hands grabbed her thighs, prying her legs open even wider. The cold air on her heated pussy rendered her weak with lust, and she wiggled her cunt despite her best intentions of holding absolutely still. She was rewarded with a hard slap to her sex, but the torment of her captors continued without interruption.
The sudden thrust of a rubber cock into her ass was so startling she screamed. She was pinned for a moment, immobilized by pain. Then whoever was inside her began to move, thrusting herself in to her base and out again, ripping her ass open. Pumping hard into her, grunting in her ear, her hands a steel vice on Delilah’s waist holding her on her feet while she claimed her. It was brutal and beautiful agony, being fucked like that by god knew whom, and she began to thrust back in time with the rhythm, squatting a bit lower so she could better take it.
She pulled out of Delilah before she came, so abruptly Delilah nearly toppled over. Delilah’s hair was twisted in strong fingers, and her head jerked back. Someone — Von? — hissed in her ear.
“I’ll have every hole before I am done with you.”
“Please.” Delilah had only that word. “Please.” Uttered again and again. She needed to come. She was terrified Von would not let her.
A large hand slid inside her cunt to the wrist. Delilah opened easily, ready for it, and moved against it, trying to rub her engorged clit on it. Someone laughed cruelly, the hand withdrew, and Delilah splashed onto her own legs and the floor. Her arms were lowered and pulled behind her back, thrusting her tits upright. They were slapped with increasing force as Delilah squirmed, with hands or a paddle she could not be sure and dared not peek. She did not want this to end, and would not risk the displeasure of her tormentors.
Again, that cruel laughter.
Delilah was hoisted into the air in strong arms, her legs wrapped around someone’s waist. She heard the sound of a zipper, a sound she considered the utmost in foreplay, and the tearing of a condom wrapper. Her thighs and stomach were slapped and battered by another rubber cock. It was demeaning. It was divine. She arched her back, moving her pussy closer.
“Oh, I’ll give you more, whore. You are going to take every inch of me.” She recognized Von’s voice and cheered inwardly, craving her inside her cunt.
Anticipating the cock that pierced her pussy did not take away from the thrill when it happened in the least. The contrary. Long and swollen with hunger for her, Von’s cock took her slowly at first, with a languid thrust that left her feeling she would die without more.
Again, that one word. Delilah was rewarded instantly, the cock ramming her, tearing into her with thrust after jackhammer thrust. Riding that cock, she begged for more, begged to come, shouting nonsense beseechingly, her pussy keening with need.
“Yes. Come, whore. Come now.”
And she did, her desire spilling over, her body wild with it, jerking and flailing against the people who held her down. She sagged briefly, panting, then came again with no less force.
Completely and utterly spent, satiated, Delilah could barely move as Von finished herself off before pulling out. Delilah felt empty immediately.
She was laid on the floor gently. Someone brought a pillow, lifted her head to slide it under her. One of the women stroked her hair tenderly, another held her hand and kissed it. She was soaked with sweat and sex, and thoroughly exhausted. Her eyes still closed, she felt rather than saw that the crowd was thinning. It must be over. Both relieved and disappointed, she focused on regaining her breath. Although the hands stroking her were soothing, she shivered, her muscles still contracting.
“Open your eyes.”
She did, to find Von standing over her, her cock still in her hand. She stroked it casually, a sexy smile on her face. Delilah could not help but smile back in return. God, she wanted Von all over again, even now.
Delilah’s eyes widened when Von unrolled a fresh condom and covered her cock with it in one smooth motion.
“I said I intended to take every hole, remember? I will own you, whore.”
Delilah gasped and attempted to raise herself up on her elbows.
Von gently put her boot in the center of Delilah’s chest and nudged her back down.
“Stay where you are. Don’t move. And open that pretty little mouth for me.”
Delilah traced her tongue over her lips to moisten them, unaware that the simple gesture caused Von to swell all the more. She knelt over Delilah and slid the tip into her mouth, just enough for her to suck at the head. Delilah lapped and licked at it, surprised to once more be incredibly aroused. How could she be this greedy for yet more? But she was, and she drew Von in to the base of her throat, gagging on the girth. Von moved slowly, relishing every flick of Delilah’s tongue, every pull of her lips, allowing her need to build with Delilah’s.
Von fucked Delilah’s mouth deeply, savoring her, and she choked on her cock, tears in her eyes, aching to come once more. As if Von could again sense her thoughts, she reached one hand back and ran her fingers lightly over Delilah’s clit. Delilah spread her thighs open for Von, and she worked her back up to the edge. She exploded against Von’s hand, crying out as she came, never breaking the momentum of what she hoped was the blow job of Von’s lifetime.
Delilah could smell herself on Von when she grabbed her face in both her hands and held her still. Von stopped sliding herself in and out of Delilah’s mouth, stopped moving altogether. Pinned beneath Von, unable to move, Delilah raised her eyes to meet hers. Von smiled down at her as she came. Delilah wanted to drink it in, take it inside her, and although it caused her to choke all the more, she laughed with pure joy.
Von sagged for a moment, gasping. Her cock dangled in the air above Delilah’s face. Emboldened by the obvious thrill she just gave Von, Delilah kissed the tip of her dick lightly. Von opened her eyes, raising her brows at Delilah’s daring move. When Von winked at her, Delilah relaxed visibly.
“You were a good girl.” Von smiled at her as she pushed herself to her feet. Delilah had the grace to blush.
Delilah remained on the floor, limp with exhaustion, while Von conferred with the handful of observers left. Just as she began to slip into sleep, she felt hands behind her back raising her to her feet. She stood, blinking in the suddenly glaring light at the faces smiling at her.
“You may thank everyone now.” Von nudged her forward with a firm hand on the flat of her back.
Head bowed in deference, Delilah moved from person to person, kissing a hand if it were held out to her, accepting the generous embraces a couple of folks offered. She was surprised to discover that she was not merely acting out a scene anymore. She felt profoundly grateful to have been used by strangers, gorgeous even, like a work of art the group had created. She could not recall ever having felt so moved by a public scene.
When Delilah came to Von, she knelt gracefully before her, tears in her eyes. It was a presentation of sorts, an offering. She held her breath, praying she would be accepted, petrified of disapproval, rejection. The events of the last two hours had shifted something inside her, and she knew instinctively there was no going back. She felt decidedly sure she was ruined for anyone else.
Von’s hands reached for Delilah’s face, lifting her head. She brushed her mouth tenderly with her own and smiled.
“Yes.” One simple word from Von. It was that easy. Delilah’s heart soared.
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?”
“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.”
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?”
“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.
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.
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.
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 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?”
“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.
Content: This story contains explicit sex and dog play. All characters are consenting human adults.
I’m a morning person, but it’s early, too early even for me, when you wake me up with a soft growl. It’s low in your throat, a menacing promise, thick and thrilling. It goes straight to my cunt, flooding me, my flesh starting to swell, my cock’s morning wood hardening from pine to oak. I wake up, fuzzy-headed, with a start as I feel your hot breath on my neck. You smell like deep shadowed forests and green riverbanks when you become the dog, all dank and feral, ready to take what is yours. I’m half in dreamland, that nebulous point where reality is hazy. Our bedroom is still dark, the worn cotton quilt heavy over us. You rumble a low warning again and, as I awaken more fully, I realize you’re behind me, spooning me lovingly like the good dog that you are.
I start to shake, knowing this is a temporary quiet. Your paw snakes over my throat, pulls me closer as your erection skids across my ass, leaving a trail of doggie precome, and your odor deepens, a layer of rotting autumn leaves and cool mossy caves. Your hold on my neck is tight, and I can’t help but panic for a minute, starting to struggle. I can see the furniture in our bedroom taking shape in the predawn light that is filtering through the open window, the linen curtains billowing slightly as the chilly morning air blows them open. Birdsong floats into our bedroom, urging us to rise. Your cock has taken these instructions to heart; it is a homing device, poking and pressing between my soft thighs. Your arm tightens around my neck, urging me to hold still and I squirm in panic. That’s when I realize that you must have refastened my wrist cuffs as I slept, and my wrists are locked together, making it difficult to ward off your early morning growl and fuck. Do I want to stop you anyway?
Your paw lifts my hips, arranging me on all fours, my ass in the air, vulnerable and expectant. One paw reaches down to twist my sensitive tits that are hanging low, and I start to breath hard, my panting echoing yours. Your breath is hot and moist as you tease my nipples into elongated points, then fasten the tit clamps onto them that we have chained to the wooden headboard. I whimper and writhe, my tits throbbing. I’m now chained to the bed by the tit clamps, my tits stretched out. I moan in desperation; my wrists bound together and the tit clamps holding me in place.
As I struggle, your red wet doggie cock works its way bluntly between my clasped thighs, opening my cunt’s cleft, until the hard length of it is resting like a sword in its scabbard between my cunt lips. You’re not inside of me…yet. You fuck the slippery folds of my cunt, the head of your cock rubbing my clit with each stroke. I whimper, “Please, my love. Please, fuck me,” but you continue your agonizingly slow fuck of my cunt lips, your slick dog cock thrusting along my outer lips, which are swelling and hardening with pleasure. My cock is painfully hard, and each pass over it with your blunt cock head pushes back its foreskin. My legs are wet with my juices and I’m groaning with abject need for your cock to be buried in my cunt, my ass. You reach around with one paw and pull the chain of my aching right nipple, still sore from last night’s caning, then tighten your grip on my neck, jabbing my clit with short hard strokes and I have my first small orgasm of the day, fighting for breath and moaning into the morning, my cunt beating its wings.
I’m twitching beneath you, writhing. I can feel an avalanche of orgasms gathering in my belly and I moan, incoherently begging you to fuck me. You snarl, a low sound that comes from your heart and your cock, then the morning air in our little bedroom thickens with something hot and primitive.
Everything smells of cunt and dog, with a layer of fog over all. Your cock is at my asshole, obediently resting on that ring of muscle, and my asshole is desperately opening already, trying to gulp you deep inside. You place your furry paws on my hips, one on the left and the other on my right. Your claws prick my skin and you lean over to bite my neck hard and suddenly, your sharp teeth painful, then you straighten up, and with a triumphant bestial growl, plunge deep into my ass.
That first plunge is the most difficult. Even though I live for your dog cock pulsing in my ass, I cry out in fury and pain at the suddenness of your fuck. My asshole opens up under your cock; it has no choice. You batter your way in, past the little cave in the beginning and through into my bowels. Oh, god, I want your cock to spear me and pierce my heart.
You snap and growl, fucking me savagely. I know you’re watching your cock disappear into my asshole, that bright crimson canine flesh, shiny with come and lube being enveloped by my white ass cheeks, by my hairy asshole. You love to watch, fascinated by your meaty cock being swallowed by my greedy asshole. It gets you hotter; you tighten your grip on my hips, digging into my flesh to hold me in place. I’m babbling and have started a series of comes that aren’t going to stop until you’re done with our fuck. My cock juts out hard and wet through my cunt lips into the morning air, that crimson knob of flesh that you love to suck. I can feel come dripping down my thighs onto the bed.
You snarl and smother my cock with your huge paw, and I scream, coming hard at your unexpected caress. I hear a low, triumphant growl from you, as you tug at my cock again. And I’m coming, a roller coaster of pleasure that you control. With each thrust, my body is pushed forward. You’re drooling, thick strings of spit falling from your pointed teeth and lolling tongue onto my ass, but you pull out, your slimy cock head resting on my asshole, then reach beneath me and tug on my tit clamps and plunge into my ass in one movement. I bellow, an orgasm crashing through me with the sudden pain and the pleasure. For a moment, everything is covered in a red fog, my eyes are rolling back in my head, and I can hear you roaring with pleasure in the distance. Are we still in our bedroom? I can’t tell. This moment is when I finally feel complete and real, when our bodies have fucked a magical hidden world into existence. The odors of violet-shadowed forests and mossy, green riverbanks flood my senses.
I’m woozy with coming, but you need more. My dog always needs more and I live to be her vessel, the living body that is opening beneath her, always opening, like a sea anemone, soft and salty. With a snort and a roar, you take what is yours, the hard, round knot at the base of your cock starts to force itself into my asshole. All I can do is babble, “Oh god, oh god, oh god!” as the enormous bulb further stretches out my asshole. I can feel your cock pulsing deep inside of me, as your knot brazens its way inside. I’m whimpering with pain; but is it pain or is it pleasure? I can’t tell the difference any longer, all I know is that I need your knot inside of me like the sky needs clouds, popping inside and filling me. I’m never confident that I can take it, this knot that binds us together, and start to sob with love and terror. I love you so much; this pain that you give me when you take me is a blessing for us both, an anointing that seizes us with unearthly powers. You give a harsh roar, as your rock of a knot impels its way inside, past that ring of muscle, into my ass. Once within, you snarl and pound yourself into my ass, deep, reaching my soul. The room fades away. We are the only spirits on earth.
I can feel your drool on my back, thick strands of warm spit, and your flanks are trembling with your impending orgasm. I want to come with you, our bodies beating together like birds’ wings. With another roar, your paws tighten their grip on my hips and you come, hips pumping and hot liquid bursting from your cock, filling my asshole with viscous sweet come, until it’s dripping out.
When you come, it feels like your doggie cock has reached my heart. My last orgasm gathers in my belly like thunderclouds, thick and heavy, ready to burst. Your cock pulses with a riotous beat, and my cunt does the same. My orgasm floods my body with pink ribbons of electric energy, from my ass, to my cunt, up my belly, through my chest and heart, and exploding through the crown of my head. My belly contracts and I come explosively, shooting out in a hot squirt of come onto your thighs. You’re mine, and I’m yours.
We collapse in a fuck heap on the quilt, our hearts racing and our breathing raspy. Gradually, I become aware that you’re kissing my neck and murmuring, “I love you,” and the room comes back into focus. I stir and whisper that I love you back.
You try to ease out of my ass, but you really are stuck inside of me. I can’t help but giggle giddily, which sets you off laughing. Finally, you wiggle out of your harness briefs and cock, reach into my asshole with your fingers, squish your knot, and ease it out. I sigh with relief, and we snuggle for a minute. You get up to throw your cock and sheath in the bathroom sink, while I start the kettle for tea and feed the cats. The sun is up now, and Sunday is officially beginning. Later, we’ll meander hand-in-hand through the farmers’ market for the week’s vegetables and fruits; I have a hankering for blackberries, and you for herb-flecked goat cheese. The birdsong, our dog fucking, our coming until we’re weak with pleasure, our pots of morning tea, and the farmers’ market is the brilliantly beautiful, secluded world of hedonism and love we’ve created. My Dog, my sweetest Dog.
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.
“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.
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.
“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!
Another excerpt from the NaNoWriMo “novel”, the draft of which I completed this morning! I wouldn’t say the novel is actually done, but it’s 50,000 words strong and ready for revision. This is the beginning of chapter 6, Master Jack Harrison’s second date with Sidra (after they’ve been texting and emailing dirty things for a week).
Sidra is sitting on the steps, shivering a little in a too-short skirt and a long wool winter coat, when I walk up to my apartment building after I park the car. Her heels are high and poised carefully on the steps below her, feet apart, while her knees are together. She’s cute. Desperately so. I can’t believe she came all this way. What a good girl, asking for what she wanted. I’m salivating already.
I walk straight past her, getting my key out and unlocking the front door. She stands. “Come,” I say, a simple, clear command. I hold the door and she walks through it. She blinks at me when she walks by me, catching my eye, but she doesn’t say anything. “Go ahead; up.” I say as we reach the stairs. She looks slightly down and sideways, giving me a flash of her coyness, before she starts up the stairs. Her skirt is so short that I can see the tops of her stockings, which stop at her thighs, and the way her ass switches. She’s not wearing any underwear. I can see everything, the pink of her exposed. That must’ve been very cold, out there, waiting for me.
I just watch. I could watch this all day, her legs, the way her thighs rub together, how she criss-crosses her heels just the tiniest bit. The angles. I get my smart phone out and take a couple of photos, discreetly. I adjust my dick in my jeans, getting hard already. I want to fuck this girl.
But I want to hold the line I’m trying to draw, the line of a hard, strict master, even more.
She pauses at the top of the third floor, and I slide my arm around her waist and guide her down the hallway. The walk to the end seems excruciatingly slow and has never felt this far away. She leans into me, just enough that I can feel it, and I turn to inhale the scent of her hair: clean and floral, with the faintest hint of sweetness. The purple is growing on me. Somehow, it looks so elegant on her. “It’s good to see you,” I say quietly.
The key in the lock won’t turn, and I might burst and break it down if I can’t get it open momentarily. I breathe. Concentrate. Focus. This isn’t going to get any easier; in fact, it’ll only get harder as I get more turned on. Hold the line.
I take her coat when we walk in and immediately point to the floor. “Down.”
She obeys, dropping to her knees like she’s done it a thousand times for me, like she already knows the hardness of my floors and she doesn’t have to calculate how much to let gravity take her weight and how much to resist against it. It’s beautiful, seamless. Her eyes are down, hands behind her back. Her shirt is a small, tight tee shirt, white and simple, almost school girl-ish, but a little more grown up. Her black skirt fans out around her thighs, toes of her heels tapping the floor.
“Good,” I say, and turn to hang up our coats. “Wait there.” I put our coats away, place my keys in the dish by the door, pour us both glasses of water, and fuss with a few other things on the counter before I come back to Sidra. She’s still on the floor, breathing hard, the anticipation of waiting making her even more turned on and ready. Her purple hair hangs in her face, which is still lowered, focused; she’s playing in some internal landscape of submission, focused on her inner senses, not her knees (which are probably killing her by now) or her discomfort.
I step up right next to her, my boots clicking against the hardwood. “Come with me,” I say. She looks up at me and nods, unfolding her hands. I turn toward the dungeon, not watching her rise, letting her stretch and get the kinks out without my gaze on her.
I set the glasses down on the table next to the door. The moment we are both inside, I close the door and turn to press her up against it. Hard. My hand at her throat, hips grinding against her, my other hand holding both of hers above her head in one smooth motion. My mouth close to hers. She gasps, half closing her eyes, lips pursed and almost panting. She’s caught, like prey in a trap, like a fly in a web. I smile at the familiar current of dominance and power that come over me. She melts a little against the door, against me, her hips pushing back against mine, squirming a little, but not to escape so much as to feel the resistance back against her. I hold her firm.
“What did you expect to happen tonight, girl? Did you expect to come over and get fucked, get worked over? Did you think I would spank you for touching yourself, scold you like a naughty schoolgirl? Did you think this outfit would work on me?”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to speak, but doesn’t, and closes it. My hand is still at her throat, though not pressing with any real pressure; just holding it there, reminding her that I can.
“If you want to be mine, you’re going to have to do what I say. Are you ready to show me what you can do?”
“Are you ready to be mine?”
She swallows, I can feel it against the palm of my hand. So vulnerable, the throat. So open. She nods again. “Please,” she whispers.
“Please, do what you want with me. I will obey you. Sir.” Her eyes are still almost closed, lips pink, cheeks flushing. My feet are planted firm and I trace my hand down her sternum, past her belly, down between her legs, and I hold her cunt in my hand through her skirt.
“Looks like you are eagerly ready for me,” I say, feeling the heat even through the black fabric of the skirt.
“Yes, yes, I am. So ready,” Sidra assures me.
“This could be just for tonight, Sidra; do not misunderstand me. I’m not promising you are mine forever. Just for tonight.”
I can feel each time she inhales and exhales in her throat. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating, to hold her breath in my hand, to squeeze it just a little. I lean in closer to her, inhale her scent, smell the longing and desire building in her. My shoulders relax. My mind goes so perfectly clear. “I’ve been wanting this too, you know. Someone to play with, to use. A toy to do with as I please.”
A friend of mine emailed me this week asking for recommendations for other queer erotica online. I emailed her back with some links off the top of my head, but I’ve been pondering this question since then … where ARE all the queer sex bloggers? The ones who write erotica, I mean, not the ones who are writing sex commentary (because there are certainly some of those) or about butch/femme culture (ditto some of those) or who are reviewing toys (also some good ones) or are actual video/photographic porn (yay, but not erotica) or who aren’t writing anymore (there are a few who haven’t updated in years).
Kinkly has a top sex bloggers ranked list, but they don’t specify if they’re queer or not, or what kind of sex blog it is—and most of the ones at the top are sex toy blogs.
So here’s some recommendations of my personal favorite places to go read smutty erotica words written by and about queers. Am I missing anyone? Leave comments with recommendations, please!
From the micro-stories on her Instagram to the longer works on her blog, BD Swain has written some of my favorite smut ever. Mostly butch/femme, but switchy, and includes some other pairings occasionally.
Also, if you like BD’s dirty photos, pick up her custom deck of poker cards. So hot.
Mostly they write about writing erotica, and there are not as many actual erotic stories on their site, but there are excerpts from their upcoming novel “Shocking Violet.” Definitely check out his new book Show Yourself To Me (there’s one story from that book on Sugarbutch, called “The Tender Sweet Young Thing”).
“Don’t forget to breathe, honey,” she drawled.
She was right. He wasn’t fucking breathing. He licked dry lips and tipped his glass to her before taking a swallow of cool water.
Written by non-monogamous, trans, queer femme Olivia Dromen, hir work is incredibly sexy and detailed and well-written and full of genderqueerness. This is a new link for me, so I’m excited to dive into the archives and devour it all.
Ze pats zir knees with both hands.
Butch/femme, butch/butch, writings about gender … Kyle has been one of my favorite bloggers since he started Butchtastic.
“Daddy… I’m sorry… what… what are you going to do to me?” The mixture of anticipation and fear in your voice makes my clit pulse.
From the description: “two transfags of color living in a big city, exploring safe anonymous play with bio-boys.” This is new to me, and doesn’t have updates since 2014, but the archives are rich and interesting.
Rebekah doesn’t have a lot of stories online, but she has tons of ebooks and they’re fantastic. Her book “At Her Feet” is a Mommy/girl story, and it’s fantastic. She’s also an avid erotica reader and has tons of recommendations of other titles, and also runs WOC in Romance, highlighting romance written by women of color (not queer, but important!).
Kiki’s work is mostly in erotica anthologies, but she does have some excerpts on her blog.
“NO, Daddi!” I cry out before I can catch myself. Your free hand lands severely on my ass, harder this time, my body uncontrollably releasing a violent jerk as I swallow the pain.
“You will take your punishment like a good grrl.”
Jen has run Writing Ourselves Whole, writing workshops “at the intersection of sex and trauma,” for a decade, and her work is phenomenal. She doesn’t have a lot of her erotic writing online, but she did undertake a masturbation May project, We Can Come Home, a few years back and that is fascinating to read. Her work explores the very complicated intersection of desire and healing, and much of it is explicit.
Jack writes mostly m/f erotica—and some of my very favorite smut of all time—but he also has a variety of gay erotic pieces, which I find complex and interesting. Not exactly a queer erotica writer, but he’s pretty queer, and you might find things you like in his extensive archives.
Henry felt the fear mix with a little anger. It felt like Adam was reading his mind and laughing at him.
“I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my cock.”
Benji Bright’s work was recommended to me by Xan West, and I’m very glad to have discovered it. He has many stories in anthologies and, recently, his own short story collection Boy Stories.
Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires
I adore Giselle Renarde’s work. She is in dozens of anthologies, and has an elaborate page of free smut online at her blog.
Gloria made happy noises as she lunged at my ass, fucking me with her tongue. It felt fat inside me, with far more girth than her finger. As she went at me, I reached for my clit and found it engorged, my pussy dripping with juice.
- Also check out the guest post section here on Sugarbutch – mostly the guest posts include the authors I’ve mentioned above, but you still might find something exciting.
- Someone suggested Archive of Our Own, which is primarily fan fiction but includes quite a bit of queer erotica if you’re willing to dig through the archives.
- There are a few internet archive sites of erotica that include queer work, like Nifty, which is exclusively LGBT, Literotica, and Lust Stories, but the quality is very hit-and-miss.
There MUST be other gay boy erotica blogs out there, but I don’t know them. I mean there must be other queer erotica blogs in general—please tell me this list is incomplete! Honestly, I have been looking and asking on Twitter & Facebook and this is the best of the best that I can come up with. Who have I missed? Do you write erotica & share it online?
Please let me/us all know in the comments!
I was distracted. Attempting to finalize a dinner menu while simultaneously shopping for the six course meal on four hours of sleep was making me dizzy. Throw into the mix her flustering flurry of taunting words that kept popping up on the screen of my cell phone, continually drowning out my mile-long grocery list. It was enough to draw my focus away from the task at hand. Yet somehow I was managing, not missing a single ingredient while receiving her praise at my last minute addition of a baked brie. And then this: a simple photo. I wouldn’t have thought that one little pic could stop me dead in my tracks. But it had been quite some time since I had been the recipient of one so compelling. And so I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape.
I clicked on the photo to examine its details. Sunlight tickling at the edge of the notebook, her hand-crafted leather flogger draped dramatically across the page, and braided falls spilling just under the solitary inscribed word: Careful. A vintage Eversharp Skyline fountain pen angled just so as to place appropriate emphasis upon the command. The meticulous composition of the photo elevated it to a true art form.
A warning and a demand wrapped up in this seemingly unassuming, simplest of sentences. It echoed in my mind.
Precisely the type of caution I was recklessly scattering to the wind with each passing second.
The decree that brought me to my knees.
Mouthy little quips had flowed freely from my fingertips up until that moment. And with one little photo, one little word, my hands were silenced into submission. Trust me when I say I behaved myself for the remainder of the day. My ceaseless tasks kept me so busy in the kitchen that when it came time for the dinner party, I hadn’t had time to grow nervous. Sans prompting, she made herself useful, helping clear between courses, chivalrously following me into the kitchen every time I rose.
One of the times we had a few seconds to spare and smiling at the din of laughter coming from the other room, I took advantage of momentary bravery, confessing, “I have a thing for strong hands….” I glanced up ever so briefly to meet her gaze before returning mine to my peep toe pumps. “When you were massaging me last night, your fingers tangled in my hair, your fists punching my shoulders … I couldn’t help but imagine them exploring a couple other places as well.”
“A couple other? Aren’t we a bit … ambitious?” A spark in her eyes.
I was too close to saying something smart. Or even just cheekily placing my palm up against hers in order to make an accurate assessment of my ambitions, knowing full well just how much my body is capable of taking, given the right circumstances. Instead I bit back my grin, remained silent, and twirled around on my heel, letting her come to her own conclusions. Allowing her to do with that information what she would.
After all, she had spent the better part of three days with me gathering information. It seemed as though nothing about me was lost on her watchful eye. She wasn’t exactly the typical butch I usually go for, but energy trumps type every time, and after the second day the energy was dazzling. Her academic researcher skills proved quite useful in other fields as well, having gleaned everything she needed to know to have her way with me. By the third night, I was hers.
The very tip of her blade kissed the surface my skin, threatening to pierce flesh if I chose to move too quickly or suffered an involuntary spasm. My flesh gave generously under the steel’s unwavering affections until met with the muscle’s resistance.
A catch in my breath.
An almost indistinguishable shift sparked at the air as she dragged its point downward, scraping away at the epidermis.
Before she even brought the blade back up to its point of origin, I knew where this was headed. Breathing into my anticipation, a trickle of cum forged a path down my left lip. My mind finally began to quiet and submit to the impossibility of intellectualizing such primal cravings. At the curved completion of that very first “D” a moan betrayed me. I kept my eyes on her the entire time—when I could manage to keep them open, that is. No need to look down at my thigh to know precisely what was coming—my nerve endings piqued, keenly aware of the shape of each letter that would follow. An all too predictable read, given that the word loitered on my tongue when in her presence, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to form the disyllabic honorific.
She carved her possession into what we both knew was already hers. The visual effect giving rise to a shared desire that threatened to ignite the air between us; the haptic sensation of her staking her claim penetrating me much deeper. When I finally did look down, “DADDY’S” was etched into my inner thigh—a spell had been cast, an alchemical equation set into motion. This changed everything. An erotic act beyond titillating had established the tone for the evening. Her marking me in this way had dropped me down into an abyssal submissive headspace unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Utterly unexpected, I had not readied myself for these emotional depths, had not warmed to the vulnerability about to surface. But there was no turning back.
I needed it too badly and was willing to risk the emotional aftermath that was to flood over me in the days to come. Our interactions were gritty, a little bit wrong. The honorific of Daddy didn’t really belong. It wasn’t exactly hers. It was mine. Not mine to embody but, rather, my fetish, my desire, my greatest weakness. She took on the role, however, with an ease that convinced me otherwise. She was a natural, vacillating between nice Daddy and mean Daddy with a finesse that takes others years to master.
My cunt yielded to her fingers and cock, eventually capitulating to her fist as well with the simplest lines of encouragement. “Daddy needs you to take this for him,” she would coo. “Don’t make me hurt you again.”
Kissing my back with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes—a particular combination of sweetness and cruelty that is the end of me. “That’s my good girl.” Devastating in the most heart-crushing way, I struggled to stay in my body. It was too soon. Far too soon. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t want to get swept away.
Gathering me up in her arms, she whispered into my hair, “Tell Daddy how you’re feeling.”
I couldn’t. Couldn’t go there. Couldn’t give her access. She was to be my Daddy for that one night only and in that short time I learned a new, startling fact about myself. I could no longer do pick-up play with this particular archetype. It left the little girl in me feeling too exposed, too raw. So I used the opportunity to teach that girl a harsh lesson. Employing every last trick in the book, I drew out this Daddy’s most ruthless sadist. Made her beat the lesson down past the hematoma, penetrating every last haematid, so that I’d never forget. So that I’d never fail my babygirl self in this way again.
“I’m going to need you to take ten more of these on each side. Think you can do that for Daddy?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of her stance in my peripheral vision just for a split second before my eyes watered, unfocusing, drifting off to a place where only the sensation of her spankings existed. “Yes, Daddy.”
Her martial arts training was evident not only in her stance and the blows she landed but, perhaps most impressively, in her follow-through. That is where I could truly taste the skill level of her black belt. I could’ve sworn she was striking me with a closed fist, her hands possessed that much power. She bruised her wrist all the way up through her palm with my ass, leaving us both delectably empurpled.
Flipping me over deftly, she began slapping my inner thighs. My body automatically shifted to give her greater access, legs spreading of their own volition. “Such a little harlot. Is that all it takes for you to spread your legs?” I blushed hard, knowing she was right. My mouth could invent some excuse but my body would always relay the truth.
Daddy grew impatient with my arms getting in her way, demanding full access to all parts of me at any given moment. As soon as I thought I had figured out her plan of attack, she’d switch directions to forge a completely different path. My lack of grace combined with her erratic movements meant my appendages were constantly in her direct line of fire.
“Quit fidgeting. Arms behind your back. And stop licking your lips. You’re just trying to be provocative. No one’s lips are that dry.”
That last line really challenged me in stifling a giggle, but I somehow managed to keep it together, delighted to be under her direction. The new position forced my tits to stand even more prominently on display as I gave her the uninterrupted access to my flesh she required. She beat me with only her bare hands that night—punishing enough in their brute force—but the next morning, she brought out her toys. Only the crop with an inflexible leather tab was store-bought. The other six she had made herself.
She began with a simple nylon flogger—the likes of which could be almost soft and sweet enough to take without end. But not with the brand of exertion she put behind it. “I’m going to take out all my hatred for Emily Dickinson on your back,” she quipped, the white falls raining down on the tattoo between my shoulder blades featuring a stanza from the poetess. Then quickly moving onto a dragon tail when it became clear the Belle of Amherst hadn’t been disciplined severely enough for her untold crimes against literature.
“How many is that?”
Silence as I tried to figure out how to wrap my tongue around words … and then numbers. “Seven?”
“That sounded like a question.”
“Seven.” Only slightly more confident, I managed to avoid the higher pitch tell that signaled doubt.
She was looking for an (unnecessary) excuse to extend my punishment—which I won’t deny I longed for but the good girl in me wanted so badly to please her Daddy—and in the end, my answer was correct so she simply carried on with the original twenty she had promised. Whipping me so brutally, so evenly on each side, I could feel myself slipping into boundless subspace.
In my tranced out state, I caught a flash of myself a couple days from then, tears in my eyes as I acknowledged aloud for the first time that my emotions had gotten all tangled up with my abandonment issues. My new Daddy was never meant to have any staying power, but the lingering repercussions of our scene were tangible in my body. They had more of an effect on my soul than I would’ve liked to admit and I was only then coming to terms with the consequences. Shaking my head free of this vision, I re-grounded myself in the present, accepting my fate and taking responsibility into my own hands. I was a big girl. So what if this Daddy couldn’t provide me with the aftercare I needed? I could take care of myself. And to prove it to myself, my brattiest side surfaced, inciting her to beat me harder. I refused to regard myself as an innocent in this scene.
Her divinely thuddy leather flogger, plump with innumerable falls, afforded me an opportunity too tempting to pass up. The instrument composed the most seductive symphony on my shoulders, but despite its impressive soundings it didn’t inflict enough pain to suppress my smart mouth. “I thought you detested Dickinson. Didn’t you want to punish her? This feels more like a reward, a massage of sorts.” I could feel her indignation bubbling up as the thwacks rang increasingly louder with each bit of sass until finally I had to shout to be heard. “…Almost as if you’re making sweet, sweet lesbian love to her … like only her sister-in-law could do.”
That last line sealed the deal and she flung one flogger to the side, taking up a much nastier one in its place. The one with the braided tails from the photo. I had been waiting for this and we had moved far beyond anything even remotely resembling warm-up. She laid into me, holding nothing back, thoroughly delivering the warning she had conveyed in the photo that had interrupted my grocery shopping days prior.
As delicious as it was to finally earn what I had coming to me, getting beat with the strop that came next was, hands down, my favorite. Its sensation was biting and delicious but there was something special about being all too aware of its primary function. Mindful that buried in its leather grain was the energy her knives. Cognizant that while it licked and prickled at my flesh, it had also served to sharpen the same blades that had marked me the previous night.
Sufficiently satisfied by the painstaking beating she had administered but not quite yet done with me, Daddy ordered me to my feet. Holding me the entire way to steady me against vertigo, she lead me into the bathroom in order to make me look in the mirror at what I forced her do to me. I was entranced by the marks just beginning to surface across my flesh. They would bloom and blossom in the days to come—shades of pink, red, and purple, then blues, greens and yellows that eventually faded altogether. But the deeper effects would take longer to wear off. I knew I would carry that scene with me long after my scarring healed over. Until the day I was ready to release it on my own.
Admiring her handiwork, she ordered me to bend over farther still such that the view was then hers alone. A lecherously voyeuristic indulgence, she kept me bent over like that, staring long enough to ensure proper embarrassment on my part. An act of contrition. She was to send me home feeling objectified, as though she had used my body for her pleasures alone. Though we both knew better.
As I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taken aback by my babygirl self blinking wide-eyed back at me—tender, laid bare, and the most contented I had seen her in years. “The coming down is going to hurt,” I warned her with a look. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one to take care of you.”
Mindful of my promise to her from that day forward, I remained steadfast in her protection, always watchful, ever careful.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I sneak a glass of wine. I hope Daddy doesn’t find out.
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.
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.
“Please Beck, please put it in, please,” Lauren says, pushing her hips back to encourage the tip of Beck’s strap-on cock to slide inside of her. She’s on her knees, hands gripping the headboard of the bed for support. Beck has Lauren’s hair tight in her fist like reigns and a bridle.
Beck grins. She wants it excruciatingly slow. She wants it to last. She wants to savor this rare moment, this time when Lauren actually asked her to strap on and fuck her. Please Beck, will you fuck me with your cock? Lauren doesn’t usually ask for more than fingers. Beck’s hips are quivering.
They have been working all weekend, moving all of Lauren’s worldly possessions from her small apartment in Berkeley up to Beck’s house in the Oakland hills. Luckily, they had a lot of help: Lauren’s roommate, a few of her friends from work, plus Beck’s gaggle of friends who follow her around anywhere. Mostly big, burly butches who like to be useful—they had the heavy furniture moved in practically before Lauren even got out of the car. Fast and furious.
The move has been a long time coming. Beck has been wracked with anxiety these past few weeks, as the August 1st moving date got closer and closer and the reality of no longer living alone started setting in. They spent fewer nights together, savoring their own rooms and own space. Lauren finished packing early, the bulk of her objects being kitchen gear and clothes, and relatively easy to pack away. She even had the audacity to suggest that they rent the moving van a week early and just go for it—but Beck quickly stomped out that idea.
After three years together, the topic of moving in together came up frequently, but Beck became adept at changing or skirting the subject, deflecting or, eventually, out-right saying no. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” Beck used to say. “I just need my space to be the way I want it to be. I know we spend most of our nights together. But those one or two nights we don’t spend together are important for me to have.”
“I understand,” Lauren says. And she did. But she also wanted their books mingling on the same bookshelf, she missed her good set of knives whenever she was cooking at Beck’s house. Which was practically every day.
But things changed in the six months since Mallory died. Beck softened, somehow; everything about her is a little more raw, a little more exposed, a little less together and buttoned-up. Even her fucking has become more raw, more full of tears and growl. They weren’t that close, not since Beck moved to the opposite coast, but as soon as Mallory got sick, Beck almost moved back. Mallory was the one who told her no, who told her to live her life out in San Francisco the way she wanted to. They were practically the only family each other had, so the loss has turned Beck’s life upside down in the weeks since.
Now, Lauren’s fancy memory foam mattress is on the bed frame that Beck inherited from Mallory, a family heirloom of dark carved wood. It is practically the only thing that is put together in the whole house, with Lauren’s boxes and a few pieces of furniture haphazardly placed all over Beck’s usually neat and tidy home. Beck can feel the chaos of moving, even though it wasn’t her who moved; the suspension of security in order to become something new, something bigger than what she was before. This has been a year of letting go, of letting things happen, of accepting the gifts that the universe is offering, of learning how to ground and comfort herself.
And Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Such a beauty, how lucky Beck is to have her as a partner, as a friend, as a lover. She has been supportive, in her own way—which is not always the way that Beck wants her to be, but is a way, and ultimately, it works. Whenever Beck straps on, she wants to pour herself into Lauren and swing around inside until she’s wrung out. She knows those tight muscles of Lauren’s so well with her fingers, her tongue; she can envision them around this temporary fake cock, is starting to feel what it’s like to thrust inside of a girl and feel her clench.
Beck enters her slow, so slow. Lauren breathes in, breathes out. Beck closes her eyes, holding on to Lauren’s hips with both hands. She applies more lube and slows down even more.
Lauren is on her stomach, legs squeezed together, Beck’s thighs on the outside, thrusting in still so slow. Lauren is moaning into the sheets, hair falling in her face, hands clenching. She flexes her feet, her toes are curling. She tries to get Beck in even deeper by moving her hips. Beck responds slow and they are dancing, meeting each other’s rhythms, tension building.
“Please fuck me, please, do it harder, please baby, please,” Lauren says. Half of them are into the pillow and she’s drooling and Beck can barely tell what she’s saying, but she thrusts in a little harder now, a little faster, picking up speed as her own pleasure builds. She has these micro-orgasms, spasms that clench and release, every couple of thrusts, but she wants to go after the big one, too, wants to feel herself emptied into Lauren’s beautiful slit.
Beck holds on and focuses on the tip, just the tip of her cock, where it touches Lauren inside, where they meet and merge. Lauren is gasping and pressing back into her and it makes Beck crazy, it makes her hips tremor and thrust, it opens up new wanting in her pelvis like a bowl of milk. “Fuck, Lauren—fuck!” Beck starts to say as she comes, shaking and pressing harder inside, spilling out and deep into her.
“Baby, baby,” Beck murmurs into Lauren’s hair as her thrusting slows.
“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more Beck, just a little more—” Lauren works her hand down under her body and touches her clit, moaning out and thrusting her hips back again. Beck adjusts the strap-on so it’s a little higher, not so directly against her cunt anymore, and starts thrusting again. A little bit higher this time. “Yes, there—there—”
Only a few more thrusts, and Lauren is done. Flying and coming and screaming into the pillows, her own hand furiously touching her cunt as Beck smoothly slides inside at just the right angle. Her whole body tenses, so tight and hard, every muscle and joint contracted, even holding her breath, until she lets it go, releases everything, breathes out with a huge sigh, and inhales sweet new air. She moans, her body still jerking a little from the electricity running through it. Each breath gives her a little more spaciousness, a little more relaxation. Beck is still inside, and Lauren shifts her hips to ease her out.
“Was that what you wanted?” Beck asks, after Lauren has curled on her side and Beck is smoothing her hair back from her face.
“Yes, oh god yes,” Lauren says, kissing Beck lusciously with thick lips and fervor.
“Mmm, I’m glad.”
They’re quiet for a minute, gazing and touching, bodies still sensitive and heightened.
“Baby?” Beck starts.
“Can we unpack now?”
Lauren laughs. “Is that going to bug you basically until it’s done?”
Beck looks a little sheepish. “Yes.”
Lauren ruffles her hair. “I know. Yeah, let’s start. How about with the kitchen!”
Beck nods, starting to peel herself off of the bed to face her chaotic house. “It will make it easier to make dinner later.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lauren started, digging into a box for her silky robe, the blue one that goes to her mid-thigh. “Ricky is bringing over dinner later. He found some new Ethiopian place he says we have to try.”
Beck’s mouth waters. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they started talking about food. “Sounds great.” She grins, pulling on her boxers with the Superman S and not even caring that her clothes are strewn all over. It’ll come back together, soon, she tells herself. It won’t be the same as it was before, but it’ll be better. They’ll be stronger individually for being with each other. I’m ready, she thinks, as she watches Lauren’s ass in the thin robe as she walks out of the bedroom, lifting her hair out from the neck of the robe and letting it cascade down her back. This is it.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.
“Good morning, baby,” I whisper, kissing Fern’s neck as I spoon her from behind. She mumbles something sleepy into the pillow and presses her hips back into me. Her skin is so smooth, I can feel the bone of her hip under my hand and it feels strong, thick, capable.
Even though my body is calibrated to an earlier time zone, I always wake up before Fern. She’s kind of a night owl—she’d sleep until noon if it wasn’t for me. She’s been keeping me up late, but I still can’t sleep much past nine.
I stretch my toes and circle my ankles in her big bed; the cotton sheets caress my legs. Our bodies are touching, still nude after last night’s play time, and I hear her sigh just a little and nestle deeper into the covers. It still smells like sex in here, like her come and my come and our sweat all mingled together. And under it all, that honeysuckle smell, but just a hint of it, not too sweet. The leather of her furniture balances it out, too—that dark, pungent smell of oils and skin. I know I keep going on about her sheets, but—my god, her sheets! I’ve never felt sheets this good. I really have to ask her where she gets them, what makes them so perfect. I feel like I’m in water, they’re so smooth and soft. Her hair is tangled behind her and tickles my nose as I nuzzle into her neck, trying unsuccessfully to wake her. Lying down, we fit together so well: my breasts against her back, her butt against my hips. We just fit.
I shift my body around and manage to turn her hips so she’s lying flat back on the bed, and then I start kissing my way down her body. First her clavicle, the tops of her breasts, then her nipples, where I pause to suck so, so slowly and gently, so soft that she won’t even wake up, just feel something pleasant and keep dreaming. Her nipple gets hard in my mouth, they are long when they get hard and it feels like sucking a clit. I purse my lips and work my mouth around it, barely touching, just enough to keep it in my mouth. I suck the other gently into my mouth, roll it around on my tongue. Then I kiss her stomach, her hip bones, while I slide down further under the covers and my feet and calves dangle off the edge of the bed. I kiss at the crease of her hip, where her thigh meets her torso, that delicate tendon. I latch my mouth onto that, too, and suck again, just enough to get my mouth wet and salivating, enough to get her relaxed and opening her legs even more.
Fern sighs, her hips and shoulders open, eyes still closed. She might be more awake now, but she isn’t showing it. Either she’s faking or she’s still dozing.
I can smell her cunt now, the sharp sweetness and salt of her juices, and I loop my hands around the backs of her thighs. I explore every inch of her cunt with my lips, my cheeks, my nose, brushing as lightly as I possibly can, breathing warm air and inhaling in her scent. The sun is starting to come in through her bedroom window and I take a moment and just look at her, too. Her labia are asymmetrical and pink, her curls are blonde and fine. She looks a little swollen, a little turned on. Her outer lips are thickening, her clit is just barely visible when I gently, gently use my hand to spread her lips apart.
She tenses, pushing her hips up toward me, and I open my mouth to meet her, letting it rest on her cunt, nuzzling my chin a little more so she can feel me against her. My own pussy throbs, I can feel it getting wet and longing to be touched.
I use the wide of my tongue to lap at her softly, with the full width of me but without much pressure. Lots of softness, sweetness. She tastes delicious, I want to lap her up. Who would’ve thought I would like the taste of pussy so much. But after just a few days, I’m craving it, moaning and gulping it down like it’s my last and favorite meal.
With the tip of my tongue, I start tracing the contours of her cunt, the crevasses and divots. But not hard, not jabby—just the softest tip of it, gently against her tenderest places. She shifts again, a little “mmmmm” coming out of her like a half-sigh, half-moan, her arms opening up on either side of her. I like the noises she makes. She’s so relaxed, open. I take this as a good side and keep working my tongue against her, focusing a little more on her clit, but making wide circles around everything.
As I start gently pushing my tongue against her hole, she stirs even more, and when I get up to suckling on her clit, taking it between my lips and working it up and down like a tiny cock, she gasps and sits up halfway.
“Girl! What do you think you’re … doing, ohhh …”
I giggle, but also don’t want to stop. I stretch my tongue and talk between lapping at her clit with the tip of it. “Oh, I thought you said—” Lap lap lap. “That it was okay?” Flick flick. “I can stop—” Lap lap lap. “You know, if you want me to.” Suck, lap, flick.
She collapses back on the pillows and moves her hand into my hair, holding my head where it is. “Don’t you dare move. God that’s good.”
Fern is wide awake now, and so am I. I use every trick I know, all the things I know I like on me, and when she moans or presses even harder into me, I keep at it. She pushes my head down harder and I use more pressure, then she pulls up on my ears and I use less. I follow her lead. She guides me. I suck on her clit like it is dessert and I will eat every single drop of it.
When she comes, she thrashes and stomps the bed with her feet, bent-kneed and flailing. She cries out in big gulps of air, holding my face down against her hard, my tongue working as hard and fast as I can make it go. I can barely breathe. She holds me there, her hands fisting my hair, and I lighten my touch and offer long, slow licks until she is ready to let me go.
She’s breathing hard, body thrumming with blood and pulse and aliveness, when she pulls me up against her and holds me close. I fit perfectly against her, curling up and tucking my legs under me. She wraps her arms around me and we both sigh, giddy with pleasure.
“Angie, goddamn … I … wasn’t expecting that,” Fern finally manages to say.
“It’s my pleasure. Truly,” I say, kissing her neck.
She pulls me even closer and tilts her head to kiss me, her lips soft, mouth opening against mine. I probably still have her salty sweet taste in my mouth.
“My turn,” she declares, and turns out from under me so fast I barely even notice what’s happening until she’s between my legs, on top of me, and holding my thighs open with her knees. I gasp and moan, feeling exposed.
Please, I think. “Please,” I whisper.
She has a sparkle in her eye, and she begins kissing my neck, holding the palm of her hand against my cunt as she travels down my body.
Still sex-hazed and loopy, I stand in Fern’s flower-printed robe in the kitchen flipping banana pancakes. She had a craving, and the Bisquick, so we went for it. Fern is unusually quiet, setting the table and pouring coffee, orange juice, water, and getting plates out. She tossed on a white teddy, this short little slip of a dress with spaghetti straps and lace trim, and when she bends it shows off a matching white thong. Note to self, buy better lingerie.
I bring the serving plate over to the small breakfast nook in her apartment’s kitchen, bright and white with lace-edged curtains over the lower half of the windows. The white tile is bright and clean, the floor is immaculate. Either she doesn’t spend much time in here, or she has a housecleaner. My money is on the latter.
I eat two pancakes with yogurt and cut strawberries and maple syrup before I notice that Fern hasn’t said a word. I put down my knife and fork. “Fern?”
She doesn’t look up, but keeps staring at her pancakes, moving the fruit around with her fork. “Yeah.”
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“It’s just … Oh, god, Angie, we just have to start being honest here. Okay?” She kind of pauses, glancing up at me, but hurries on. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I mean, you’re going back to school in wherever the fuck you’re from—”
“Indianapolis,” I offer.
“—Wherever. And I live here. I mean, we can’t really do this. So we may as well just call it good. Don’t get me wrong, I like you. But there’s no future here.”
I try to breathe in but suddenly my body doesn’t work that way. Call it good? We can’t do this? I feel dizzy. I try to speak. “What … what do you mean?”
“I mean, how many more days are you here? Two? This is silly. I’m being silly, thinking we can make something of this. You should go. I mean, you should finish your breakfast, but then you should go.”
“I should … go?” I can’t keep up. She’s talking too fast. I thought … but I wanted …
“I just can’t see a way. You still have school. I’m not moving there. I don’t do long distance. We may as well rip the band-aid off now,” Fern mumbles, and I can feel that she is trying to convince herself, too.
“But, there have to be options—”
“There’s no way, Ange,” her voice is soft and betrays her sadness. She really has feelings for me. I stand up and go over to her, tentatively touch her shoulder. She reaches for me roughly, her arms around my waist and her head against my chest. Fern looks up at me and I see her eyes are wet and wide, bare and open. She’s not quite crying, but not far from it. She buries her head against me.
“There has to be,” I say softly, holding her close, and at that moment, I make a vow to myself to make it work.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.
Content warning: Rough sex, face slapping, dirty talk.
Bean fists Mickey’s hair, yanking hard, holding her motionless, before she throws her down onto the bed.
Mickey moans and lays still. Taking it.
Bean isn’t worried about what she wants. She is ready to take. Eager to trust her girl, eager to believe that Mickey can stop her or safeword or use her skillful negotiation to shift things if she really needs to. But Bean also knows that Mickey gets off on being used, abused, like property, like an object. She loves being a receptacle for that kind of pure, strong desire that Bean can dish out.
Every smooth surface she can find, Bean slaps. Ass, thigh, cunt. Throws her body around on the bed, just for a show of force, just so she can get used to being off-guard and off-kilter. Bean holds her down, bites into her shoulder, too hard too fast but Mickey likes it, she screams out, but she likes it. Her cunt is wet, wetter still. She’s along for the ride. She lets herself go, she turns herself over to Bean like a plaything.
Bean pulls her hair. Moves her closer to the edge of the bed.
That’s when Mickey starts to struggle. She bites Bean’s arm when she reaches. She wrestles against Bean’s weight, even though she has no chance. She’s fast, though—wily, and quick, and strong. She twists out of Bean’s grip and forces Bean to catch her again, to grab her harder, hard enough to leave fingerprint-sized bruises on her arms. She scratches. Bean pins her against the wall but Mickey ducks out of her arms, so Bean takes her down, hard, to the floor, knees hips wrist, but everyone is okay and so Mickey is pinned again. Bean takes hold of Mickey’s hair and drags her up to the bed.
Mickey smirks. As if getting to bed like this is her idea. As if it’s what she wants.
Bean smacks her in the mouth, wipes that smug look off her face. Bean has her attention now.
Mickey looks up, eyes and mouth wide, feeling a little wounded, a little shocked. She relents. It’s that moment Bean waits for, lives for. When Mickey gives up, gives in, gives herself over.
Bean leans over and growls in Mickey’s ear: “That’s right. I can fuck you any way I want, whenever I want. I can do anything to you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you. And you like it rough, don’t you, you dirty girl. You are such a bad girl. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. You’re going to get it now.”
Bean puts her in her place.
Mickey stays there, and whimpers, and pleads, and begs, and opens her legs wide to her lover.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.
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 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.
I have always wanted to throw someone a gangbang. And by someone, I mean DJ. Maybe because they’ve thrown a few for me—it’s amazing how easy it became to orchestrate one after we’d been traveling to go to kink conferences for a few years—or maybe because I’ve never seen a gang bang where the person at the center is also the top. I’m not quite sure I can wrap my head around it, even though DJ and I have talked about it a bunch.
This year, for their birthday, I decided: fuck it. Let’s just try. Worst case scenario, all the hotties we know come and it’s an awkward good time.
I’ve invited a dozen people to meet us at the dungeon at IMsL at 8pm on Friday, and DJ thinks they and I are having a scene. I asked them to strap, and I’m bringing their favorite toys to use to fuck me up.
They’ll fuck me last. I mean, they’ll do whatever they want, but I hope to be last, even better if they let me get them off after they’ve gotten their fill of everyone else. I’m packing, for sure, and wearing a crisp white tee shirt I starched just for this. On top of that, my leather shorts, suspenders, and my tall boots. I mean it is a leather event, after all.
International Ms. Leather, IMsL, is one of my—our—favorites. It happens annually in the San Francisco Bay Area. The focus is on leather women, but all kinds of genders attend, and the vast majority is queer. There are dozens of classes with amazing presenters in the day, and evening entertainment while some folks compete for the titles of International Ms. Leather and International Ms. Bootblack. We’ve been attending for the past five years, ever since 2009 when everything blew up and we almost broke up, but it ended up being a huge transformation instead. We’d always been open and slutty, but it took a reconfiguring of our relationship to put kink play in the center of our sex lives. We’ve been going to all kinds of workshops, demos, parties, and munches since then. We really reprioritized what DJ calls ‘preserving the boners,’ and have revalued sex in our partnership (and outside of it). I mean, we didn’t want to break up—but we weren’t having sex, like at all, so something had to shift. I’ve been in relationships like that before, where sex peters out and wanes, and I’d never been able to get it back—but hey, we did! It is possible, I always believed in it, I’d just never actually seen it happen before. It sounds cheesy, but I think we really loved each other enough that we wanted to stay together, so we both made commitments to change and keep growing. Plus, therapy. That was essential.
And events like these weekends are so rejuvenating for us now. It’s like we can shut out the world, dive into the power and strength of our sexual connection, and let the rest of our lives go for the whole long weekend. So blissful. It helps that we know everyone here after going for so long—but I still love meeting the new folks. You could say I have a fetish for showing the newbies the ropes. I figure it’s part of my community service.
I show up in the dungeon at 7:30 to get the perfect spot—the corner where a sling, cross, and a massage table are all nearby. Nobody else is there for the gangbang yet, but they will be soon. I told them to be a little early. My pulse is racing already and I’m nervous but excited to get this going. How will it work? What will we do? Do I really have to sit here and wait, with nothing to do, for twenty minutes?
Thankfully, Tanner walks in carrying a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign and starts looking around for me. “Over here,” I projct my voice to reach them. They nod and head toward me.
“Setting up?” Tanner asks, giving me a hug.
“Yeah, not much to do though really. I mean all the equipment is already here, so. I like this corner. Lots of options.”
We hear a smack and someone yelps from the next room over, the thin hotel walls barely concealing it. But mostly the dungeon spaces are empty. Everyone is probably still in the hospitality suite having drinks.
Tanner agrees with me about the corner, and we tart talking about the details—who is coming, how will it work? I’m getting excited. It’s going to be great. Where is everyone? Where is DJ? They had a playdate a few hours ago and were going to shower and nap before joining us at 8, but it must be almost time.
A few more folks arrive—Tanner’s friend Rachel; one of my occasional playdates, Lee; DJ’s regular fuckbuddy (and sometimes boy) Ayden. We all discuss what we’re going to do, and how our IMsL has been so far. Lee has already been in two other gangbangs today.
“It’s important to have that friend you can rely on to show up for your gangbang,” I grin at Lee.
“It is my pleasure, buddy, all mine,” they respond generously, clapping me on the shoulder.
Ayden and Tanner are doing that flirting dance, nervously watching each other and talking low. Rachel is pretty quiet, as usual, she’s just watching us all and playing with what’s left of her hair. I’ve never seen it this short—she must’ve cut it for IMsL. Practically a boy cut from the back, but the front comes down to her chin and frames her face. It’s very cute. Something about it makes me want to kiss her.
A few other folks arrive, and Tanner and Lee make the rounds in the dungeon to see if there are any stragglers who would want to come join our scene. They come back with a few wide-eyed new kinklings in tow, talking about negotiation skills and what we’re planning in our scene. Mostly, this gangbang will mean that DJ will have an audience for whatever play they want to do, and each of us gets to have a turn with them. I decided to set a timer: 3 minutes each. That’s not a lot of time, but I also kind of expect people to start lining up if they hear that DJ is down here flogging anyone who wants it. We’re all milling about a little, and Ayden and Tanner start making out, Tanner sitting up on the massage table and Ayden between their legs.
And then DJ comes in.
“What! Is this!” They shout, grinning ear to ear, arms held out wide as now more than a dozen queers rush over to them, grinning, offering hugs and kisses.
“Happy birthday!” We all yell. I’m still in the corner, holding a flogger in one hand and my phone in the other. DJ makes their way to me, scooping me into their arms and holding me hard for a deep kiss. I laugh and moan, melting in their arms.
“Happy birthday, Sir,” I say, quiet. “Welcome to your birthday gangbang.”
“What! Oh man, this is the best. Thank you, Kai, and thank YOU …” they raise their eyes to the group, gathered around tightly, eager to get going.
I put on my game face. “Here’s how it works: You get three minutes each, and thirty seconds to negotiate what you’re going to do. I mean, more if you need it, but most of these folks you know.”
DJ nods, eyes shining.
“Tanner is going first. From there, we’ll just keep offering ourselves to you, until you’re done. Good?”
DJ nods vigorously, eager. “Great.”
“And … can I be last?” I ask, a little quieter.
I think their face is going to break from smiling so hard. “Ready Tanner?”
Tanner hops down from the massage table and comes over to DJ, kneeling in front of them. “Ready, Kai. Ready, sir.”
I start my timer. “Go ahead, then!”
DJ leans down and they whisper with Tanner for a moment, then Tanner gets up and pulls their leather chest harness off, and then their tank top, so they are naked from the waist up. They cover the few steps over to the St. Andrew’s cross and DJ follows. DJ selects a flogger from the variety of toys I’d laid out and starts swinging. They’ve been playing together for months now, and DJ so skillfully knows how to warm them up and take them up to the edge, but not push them too far. It’s lovely to watch. Tanner starts breathing hard, I can see their chest heaving, sometimes twisting away from the flogger and crying out when it’s a particularly rough blow. Three minutes isn’t very long, though, and Tanner’s back is just starting to pinken when my timer chimes go off.
“Time!” I declare. “Next?” Rachel is right there next to me, so I snag her by the arm. “You ready?”
Her eyes are playful, sparkling. “Fuck yeah.” DJ directs Tanner back toward me and I catch them, stroke their skin while they purr and hum, eyes open, still anticipating what’s next. Rachel goes right over to DJ and asks, “Can I suck your cock? Please?”
“I would be honored,” DJ says, and unbuckles their belt. When DJ gets it into their hands and adds a condom, Rachel works her mouth on it, kissing and sucking, using her tongue expertly, her inner lips, her fingertips. She makes little noises around it, closes her eyes, swallowing like it’s gourmet dessert. DJ is rapt. We all are.
I almost forget about the timer, so I start it for two minutes and that goes by so quickly. “Lee, want to go next?” I stage-whisper. Lee nods. “Know what you’re going to do?” Lee shakes their head.
“Time,” I call over. Rachel grins and laughs a little, sucking the spit back into her mouth and giving a couple more tugs and kisses on DJ’s dick.
DJ groans. “Fuck, thank you.”
Lee shyly walks over to DJ as they help Rachel up, and Rachel joins Tanner in the post-sexy blissed out pile. “What do you want to do, DJ? Anything in particular?”
“I want to fuck you.”
“Great. Yes please.”
They navigate expertly, getting Lee up on the massage table while Ayden and I grab lube and gloves. DJ has flavored condoms in their pocket and slide a new one over their dick. Ayden pulls up their Utilikilt to reveal nothing underneath—”The way god intended!” they declare—and they start in as soon as I start the clock. They’re comfortable enough together that they just go, without much warm-up: DJ slides in slow and starts to pound. Ayden holds their legs up by the knees.
“More lube!” Someone cheers.
“Yeah, get them!” We’re all crowded around, I can’t quite tell who is talking. Voices overlap as they start cheering DJ on.
By the time it’s my turn, half of the folks have wandered away or started their own scenes nearby, but we still have a few folks still watching.
“Do I need to set a timer?” I ask.
“Not for you, baby,” DJ answers. They’ve lost their shirt by now, skin slick with sweat. I lick some of it and it tastes so good, like DJ but saltier.
“What do you want? What can I do for you?”
They think a moment and then grab my hands. “Fist me,” they say. “Did you bring the Hitachi?”
“Yes.” I go for the toy bag and find the nearest plug. It is close enough so they can be on the massage table and it still reaches.
It takes us no time to set up. DJ is swift and determined, and I am so fucking hard after watching all of that. It’s only been an hour or so, but it was a lot of people, practically every instrument of torture and pleasure that I brought, and a lot of people to wrangle. DJ takes off their boots so they can remove their pants, and leaves their dick on. Their harness is easy enough to get under, and this way they can jerk it while I am inside of them.
They’re so wet. Open. Ready to be filled already. DJ leaves their hand lazily on their dick and works the Hitachi at the base, figuring out how best to feel the intense vibration through the harness, or whether it’ll fit under. They find a good spot and settle, sighing, back into the table. It still takes me a while to work four fingers into them, but once I do, and I add even more lube, the thumb tucks easily and I start to push. They open against me, pressing back, and I slide in. A perfect fit.
They start working their dick faster, and pressing the Hitachi harder, and bucking their hips against my hand, and by the time all of that is in place they don’t last long at all, and they come in a deep grunt and a tense spasm that crunches my hand and starts to push it out, leaving only a few fingers still trailing inside. DJ is panting on the table. They pull me up on top of them, between their legs, my weight on their whole body, and they kiss me soft and sweet. Rachel brings over their water bottle, refilled again. Ayden and Tanner are doing some wrestling scene nearby, laughing and grunting at each other.
“So good, Kai,” DJ is still smiling, blissed out and high.
“I’m so glad,” I say back, hugging them hard. “I want your birthdays to be special.”
“Is there anyone left at IMsL that you haven’t fucked?” Rachel asks, holding the water bottle so DJ can sit up a bit more.
They laugh. “I think there are a few more, yeah. Hey, it’s only Friday, after all!”
I laugh, taking a swig of water. I can feel it go down my throat, cold and sweet.
By the time I ease two fingers into DJ’s ass, they already have tears streaming down their cheeks, crying in that silent release way that I’ve only seen a handful of times in the years we’ve been together, but that always means something big is going on. I breathe in, slow my fingers down, and wait. Present. Attuning to each of the smallest movements DJ’s body communicates.
“Don’t stop,” they whisper. “Just keep going.”
They make small sips of eye contact, but are mostly having their own experience. Their body shivers, sometimes from their head to their toes, sometimes left to right, rippling like a chill is going through them. I recognize that release, too. They have been so tight, so tense, their body all locked up for months now. I’m so grateful for the request to fuck them tonight. I’d do anything to help them through this.
Their back hole is tight but pliable, and they relax deeper into my hand as I slowly, slowly use my fingers to massage their insides. It feels like I’m unlocking something, that something has been clenched and is now letting go.
I’m completely unaware of the play party going on around us. There are people up on St. Andrew’s crosses, bent over spanking benches, on massage tables, tied to the wall with the eyebolts that are scattered all around this space. We are in the back corner. I snagged the sling as soon as we got here, after we checked in and made it through the socializing space where the cold pizza, nuts, and mixed veggie trays were laid out already for anyone needing a snack after or during their play. DJ is lying back in it comfortably, body completely supported, swaying slightly with the pressure of my hand against their hole. Their legs are up in the sling’s stirrups, permanently hung there for better access.
We could have done this scene at home, but DJ wanted to come here. Not necessarily to be witnessed, though the exhibitionism is something some folks at play parties seek. It is more that they wanted a place to have a big experience, a big release, that was safe and known and comfortable. Plus, they wanted to be in a sling. It’s the best place for them to receive.
DJ isn’t stone, exactly, but kind of stone-ish. I don’t fuck them very often, and almost never strapped on, though they do suck me off sometimes. They don’t have trauma about getting fucked exactly, they just don’t like it very much. It’s not the best way to get them off, I know—it doesn’t turn them on nearly as much as topping, or fucking with their own cock. But I do get to use my hands on them sometimes, especially after we’ve been going for a while and they have fucked everything out of me that they possibly can but are still hungry—that’s when I know it’s time for me to beg to suck them off, and to offer to use my hands if they want me to, which they almost always do. I think it took them a long time to receive while still being in charge.
Like tonight. They’ve been planning this all week—decided what toys we’d bring, packed the bag, made the arrangements, drove us here. They even told me what to wear (jeans and a crisp white tee shirt, often my uniform when we’re out in public anyway, but it was nice to know that they like it). DJ specifically requested a night for release and catharsis, but I probably won’t do any impact play or anything. I suppose we’ll see if they need that or not.
“Keep going,” they whisper again. I move my fingers a little faster and their asshole relaxes around them. They nod, eyes squeezed shut, tears still coming. Their hands grip the chain of the sling and they rock their pelvis a little, swaying the swing. I focus. I keep breathing. I nearly start crying myself with the emotion pouring off of them like heatwaves, I can practically see it. It’s been bottled tight inside of them ever since we got the call that DJ’s aunt, the one who had practically raised them, died suddenly of a stroke.
They are usually pretty good at handling their own emotions. I wouldn’t be with them for this long if they weren’t. But this kind of grief … only people who have gone through it really know what it’s like. My best friend was diagnosed with cancer and died when I was 20 and I lost my shit for a few years after that. It took me a while to even realize what was going on, it just felt like my life was suddenly falling down around me. DJ hasn’t lost anyone this close before, just relatives and occasional community acquaintances. I know it’s their own process and there’s only so much I can do, but I want to support and be helpful when I can. Especially when helping involves adoring their body, which I love to do anyway.
They arch their back in the sling, press their hips further into me. Their body is shuddering, shoulders shaking—maybe they are starting to really cry, those heaving sobs that are rarer still.
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. It isn’t about words now, this is just about their body, the emotions stored in their thick muscles, the tenderness of their brown skin. I use my fingertips to caress them, then rest my palm on their chest, their heart. I can feel them crying through my hand. They press against me harder, and I move my two fingers a little more furiously. Their mouth opens, they cry out a little, sadness and grief and release and pleasure all mixing, still squeezing their eyes shut, face scrunching up in frustration and fury.
They find my hand with theirs and squeeze, press against me. I stand a little closer, off to the side, to get a better angle. DJ brings their other hand down to their clit-dick and starts jerking it, not quite sobbing but body heaving, beginning to moan. I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or grief or both. The music pounds and I’m starting to sweat, I can feel it dripping on my neck. It’s good that it’s warm in here, easier to be naked that way, and those of us working hard really get a workout. DJ is still pawing hard at their clit, and their hole grips my fingers and I can barely move, so tight, every muscle in them gets so tight, their hips lifting even further, pressing against me, body twisted and contorted, face all torqued like something is in their mouth that they have to swallow. They fist my hand so hard it hurts.
Until … slowly, slowly, the sobs start to come. Then a wail, long and low. Body heaving. I keel forward to offer my body next to theirs and they gladly accept, wrapping their arms around me, pulling me closer to them, crying into my shirt for a good long while.
I still don’t say anything. I can’t find my words. But really, what is there to say? It’s not about me. It’s what they need. It’s the only thing they need right now, to be able to cry for as long as they need to without someone fussing about them. I don’t need them to feel better, or to stop, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I just feel honored that they want me here, that they let me do this for them. I know sometimes they prefer to release their feelings by themself.
DJ slowly pulls their arms through our tight embrace and wipes their eyes and face and nose on my tee shirt. I laugh a little. “Is that why you wanted me to wear white?”
They smile. “No,” they say, eyes downcast. “I just like it.” They sound small, but when they open their eyes and look at me, finally, softly, they are shining and bright, alive.
The boy is in the center of our bedroom, hands chained to the eyebolt in the ceiling, body stretched long. Their eyes are closed and head is hanging, just a little, and their arms are pulling up and out of their shoulders. They aren’t that tall—our chain was barely long enough. I suppose if you didn’t know better, you’d think this was a torture scene.
I guess it is, kind of. I slipped Tanner’s shirt off before we tied them up there, so their round belly and small chest with a smattering of fine light brown fur over them are exposed.
“You’ve done an excellent job today, Tanner,” DJ says, and swings their favorite flogger again, a hard thud against the boy’s body.
“Thank you, sir,” Tanner says, obediently, after they groan.
“You have been a wonderful houseboy for us,” I add, taking my turn with my own flogger, this one with wide and flat leather tails—some call it a massage flogger. It’s my favorite to be hit with, so I use it whenever I can, when I top.
Tanner lets out a grunt when it collides. “Thank you, Kai.” We can’t decide on an honorific that fits me—sir and ma’am are too binary. So we just use my name. It still feels formal, and respectful.
Tanner is starting to drip with sweat. It rolls down their back and into the waistband of their briefs, tracing the contours of their young, strong muscles. They aren’t toned, but being chubby has it’s strength advantages too. It’s almost always a toss-up to see who wins when we wrestle, even though my upper back and chest and arms are pretty well sculpted, because Tanner has actual wrestling skill. They’re fast, too. Small, about the same height as I am.
Clearly we’ve got the heat up high enough. Tanner’s dark hair is starting to glisten from sweat, proof of their hard work—not just today, doing house chores, but also the hard work of Taking It. Orders, sadistic impulses, rules—you name it, Tanner took it today. This beating is the last of it, probably. Or rather, the last part of Taking It that is for us, and the start of Taking It that is for Tanner. DJ has a plan, I can tell. And I generally find it works best to just go along with DJ’s plans.
“Go around Tanner and hold them up, will you, Kai?” DJ pauses the flogging to lightly touch Tanner’s back, trailing their fingers over the sensitive exposed skin, still dancing with sensation.
“Yes, Sir,” I answer, draping my flogger over my shoulder. I don’t usually call DJ “Sir,” but when they’re being sir to someone else, I get the urge. I brace my feet and legs, grounded into the floor, and press myself against the front of Tanner’s body. They immediately lean into me and sigh, some of the pressure lifting from their limbs.
“How you doing?” I say softly, stroking Tanner’s hair.
“So great,” they reply, words humming and high. “More?”
I chuckle. “Sure. How about I stay while DJ flogs you for a while?”
Tanner nods, body limp and leaning on mine.
“Go for it, Sir,” I move my arms out of DJ’s way and focus on being a tree for Tanner.
The boy stiffens when he’s hit, then collapses again; stiffens, collapses, stiffens, collapses. Their breathing catches, evens out, and catches again. I breathe too.
I peek over Tanner to watch DJ. Their body flexes and heaves, shifting their weight back and forth on their legs, turning at the hips to get more torque into each blow. They are so elegant with a flogger. It looks like an extension of their arm, the energy flowing out and then fraying into the leather, colliding with another and emptying the charge down DJ’s arm, into the flogger, and out through the tails. DJ’s face is all concentration and precision—I’ve seen that look when they work me over, probably hundreds of times before. It makes me blush and rub my thighs together. It turns me on, hard.
Tanner sighs, body releasing, relaxing into me even further. It’s hard on a body to hold itself up and receive a beating at the same time. I readjust my feet to be more stable, so they can take the pressure out of their muscles and bones. They really did do incredibly well today. They showed up precisely on time (after the last time they were late, I would’ve been shocked if they hadn’t), and had clearly been working on the postures we’d wanted them to learn: kneel (when at rest and we are sitting), present (when they have something to ask or request), stand at ease (when chatting), stand at attention (when receiving orders). They even went through them all gracefully in a way that still felt masculine, not feminizing.
DJ winds up and throws a few more times, hard, the smack of the leather jolting both me and Tanner. I can almost feel the flogging through their body, its impact reverberating through me like bass through a speaker. Tanner cries out and their breath comes in heaves, deep sighs and moans coming up from somewhere low. DJ presses their body up against Tanner from the back, arms reaching around to hold me too, and the three of us synch up in breath, in heartbeat.
The boy is in the center between us, stripped bare, still sweaty, doing an excellent job of being holes for both of our cocks. Mine they are working over with their mouth, tonguing it and keeping their throat open, as DJ’s pushes in and out of their asshole. Don’t worry, we worked it in slow, with lots of lube, the way you’re supposed to. But Tanner was well-stretched and ready for it. They have been practicing with a butt plug in the weeks that we don’t play.
We’re all piled on the bed, our dark blue comforter and crisp white sheets already torn from the bed and scattered. DJ has ahold of one of the tall, sturdy posts on our four-poster, and I’m entirely on the bed, kneeling up by where the pillows usually are. They’re only half-way on the bed, one foot planted on the floor and the other knee hiked up onto the mattress, perfectly positioned behind Tanner. The lights are dim in here, the walls are a soft suede shade of tan. Our furniture is crowded to two walls in this smallish bedroom, but that’s just so we can have room for the eyebolt and to throw a flogger. We’ve been slowly outfitting this room as our bedroom slash dungeon for a few years now, and I still have dreams of making it even better, but for now, it’s great.
DJ and I are stripped bare too, mostly because clothes just seem to get in the way. Don’t tell them I told you, but DJ loves being naked. They’re rarely clothed beyond boxers when we’re home alone. It is kind of hellish on our heating bill, but it’s well worth the eye candy.
Each time DJ slides their cock in, the pressure pushes Tanner just enough that their mouth swallows my cock a little deeper. I barely even have to move, just the movement between us is enough. When I get my hips going, Tanner is like a ping-pong ball between us: I push them back to DJ, onto DJ’s cock, and DJ pushes them back to me, onto mine.
Tanner is moaning and drooling and coming, eyes closed, limbs limp. We’ve been at them for probably an hour like this already. They have moved past the begging and screaming stage into the blissed-out sub-space that is practically non-verbal. They’re just about done. But we’re not.
DJ reaches for me, catching the hand that’s on Tanner’s back, and pulls me toward them. We can just barely reach each other to kiss. “You’re going to come, Kai,” they whisper, mouth on mine.
I gasp, hips thrusting and contracting automatically when they talk like that. “Yes, Sir,” I manage to sputter.
“You’re going to thrust that dick of yours into this boy’s little mouth and use it.”
“Yes, Sir!” Harder now. Tanner chokes a little and opens up their mouth to get more air.
“You’re going to come while I fuck this boy in the other end.” They thrust harder and I match their rhythm. DJ holds my head with one hand and Tanner’s hip with the other, their hips gyrating like a pop star. Their spine is snake-like, each movement rippling up. They grip my head harder.
“Ohh, ohhh fuck, god that’s so good,” I keep one hand in Tanner’s hair, not forcing anything but more to feel the movement on my dick from a different angle, and the other hand is reaching for my clit under my harness, getting the angle as close to perfect as I can. I’m so close.
“Do it for me. Come on.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying, if anything is coming out of my mouth aside from groans and whimpers. Maybe I said thank you or I love you or oh god oh fuck holy good god damn … all I remember is the explosion that started in my pelvis and radiated out, squeezing every drop of resistance from me and opening up every cell in my body. As if all at once, each proton and neutron and electron shivered, shaking off any old dust or residue, and when the haze settled, each one was shining, sparkling anew.
I can barely hold myself up by my own thighs, they’re still quivering as Tanner looks up at me, one hand on my cock, licking the final drips from it, kissing it as they take their mouth away. DJ is grinning that cocky half-smile that suckered me in to a date with them in the first place, and I swoon and collapse and nearly start to cry with the adoration.
I fall over sideways, collapsing and starting to laugh, still breathing hard. “Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn you two. I’m surprised I didn’t just have a heart attack. My whole body felt like it just … exploded.”
DJ wraps around Tanner and they both reach for me. We’re all humming with vibration, pulsing with lust and thrusting.
“God, I love you,” I say, holding eye contact with DJ.
“I love you,” they say back, soft, their eyes crinkling at the corners, licking their lips and looking at mine like they want to kiss but can’t quite reach me.
“I love you both!” Tanner bursts. And we all laugh—not because it’s ridiculous, but because it’s so obvious and sweet, and we can all feel it alive in us.
“I love you, too, Tanner,” DJ says.
“Yeah. Love all around,” I say, and Tanner hoists forward to cuddle against me, and we all rest and talk for a while, before sending Tanner on their way.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Bare Leatherworks floggers.
“Sexually, I have a fetish about truth telling. I find it profoundly arousing to watch somebody struggle to articulate their desires. One of the things my girlfriend and I say together is that you can have anything you want if you have the courage to ask for it. But having that courage to ask for it, wow! So we set up situations where you can have anything, honey—you just have to be able to ask for it.” —Dorothy Allison, from Writing Below the Belt
Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.
“Oh fuck, oh my god …” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out.
Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.
The hotel is sleek, modern. Mostly grey, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s Master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capital Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.
But for now, there is only each other, luscious and wild, so eager for the other and so hungry for more.
Now that Jesse has opened up this dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.
When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread eagle, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mhm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”
When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slow, fucking her gently and sweet, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft-fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.
Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.
When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: To be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, to stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too—it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated, and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to overspilling with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request. Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.
Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.
She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things is for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again.
So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.
In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”
Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick. Her mouth is red from sucking.
“Once,” Asher whispers.
“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”
“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just, it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.
“Shh, it’s okay baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come … at least sometimes,” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses her fingers to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between her fingers, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.
Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”
“How many … times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.
“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”
“Could I come … right now? I don’t … really know,” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”
“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.
“Yes! Oh yes I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”
“Okay, baby, ready? Come … right now.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, pulses her cunt hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.
“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”
“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop …”
“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”
“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.
“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”
“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wet dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.
“Three,” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.
“Four! Please four, Jesse please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.
“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.
“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”
“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know … it’s too much, I can’t.”
“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,” but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more,” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.
“I can’t, I can’t Jesse … oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck …” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.
“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you,” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that post-fucking haze-y loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.
Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”
Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”
Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.
Turns out, Jesse is a natural. Topping comes to her like all the skills are downloaded right into her brain, like she is in a kinky version of The Matrix.
“Hey, want to try tying me down to the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy?” Asher texts.
“Why yes, yes I do,” comes the reply immediately.
“How about blindfolding me?”
“How about it?” It goes on like this.
The quarter is almost over, and they walk through the Quad on the way to Psych together nearly every day. Asher whispers into Jesse’s ear. “Maybe I could wear those stockings you like, and you could slice them off of me with a knife—or better yet, rip them with your bare hands.” They’d stayed in bed late, fucking, exploring each other’s skin and taste and touch and eagerness. Jesse could still feel Asher’s pulse and breath and blood pressure synced up to her own.
She tries not to stumble and fall over. Fuck, this girl, this gorgeous creature, and she wants me to do all these fantastic filthy things to her? She feels drunk on gratitude. I Must’ve Done Something Good keeps getting stuck in her head.
“I have a surprise for you later. You’re still coming over after dinner, right?” Asher kisses Jesse’s neck as they approach the building.
“Mmhm, after my shift at the store,” Jesse closes her eyes and tilts her head to expose more of her neck. “Can’t wait,” she whispers, kissing Asher back and sliding her hands around her, along her trench coat. Asher may not be able to wear the fancy femme shoes she wanted to on Seattle’s rainy campus, but goddamn if she wouldn’t have femme rain gear. She even had a white umbrella with ruffles for particularly wet days. Jesse swoons.
“Fuck,” Jesse mutters, low and under her breath as Asher emerges from the bedroom in a tight white leather corset, white thigh-high fishnet stockings—the industrial ones with no finished top edge—held up by a simple white garter belt. Her panties, a blush shade of pink, were on top of the garter, a style she’d told Jesse is more British than American, and easier to remove while still keeping the rest of the outfit … intact. Her tits are pushed up and together, making her full figure nearly spill out of the top.
Jesse wants to climb inside her cleavage and snuggle and nuzzle for hours.
“Fuck,” she says again, sliding her arms around Asher’s waist as soon as she is within arm’s reach. “You look … goddamn.”
Asher giggles. “I like reducing you to expletives.” She reaches her arms around Jesse’s neck and switches her thighs, rubbing the stockings together and against Jesse’s jeans. Jesse feels so … clothed. She likes the strength she feels held up against Asher’s vulnerability. Asher kisses her, soft, their mouths at almost the exact same height, but only because Jesse is still wearing her boots.
“You brought the strap-on, right?”
Jesse swallows. “Yes.”
Jesse can feel her body getting close. That swelling in her cunt, the way she tightens and tenses every muscle and tendon, legs getting sharp and straight, bending less and moving her body more as a unit, one strong, long piece.
She plunges her strap-on dick in and out. Asher writhes on her back underneath Jesse, legs splayed open, wrists still bound by the rope she’d run beneath the mattress, that cheap baby-blue blindfold with the JetBlue logo on it over her eyes. Her mouth is open, breathing hard, lips and tongue wet. Asher raises her hips to meet Jesse’s and with each thrust, some little gasps escape.
Jesse isn’t sure how long she can stand it. The wetness. The hole. Being inside Asher. The feeling of being enveloped and held, safe, contained. Jesse grips Asher’s hips and digs her knees into the mattress, mouth landing on Asher’s shoulder, sucking as she lets her hips follow that feeling there—just there—that one—that—
And with a few more thrusts, that’s it—she yells out, coming hard, shoving into Asher as she convulses and collapses on top of her.
Asher kisses the parts of Jesse that she can, her neck, her upper arm, letting Jesse move when she’s ready. Jesse reaches down to ease the strap-on slowly from inside Asher and only felt her own wetness. Fuck, what had happened? Her harness was loose and the dick sags … and probably hadn’t been actually inside of Asher for some time now.
“Was it—did this slip—aw, fuck.” Jesse blushes hard, fiddling with the dick, unsticking the leather harness from between her legs.
Asher can see out of one eye, the blindfold now askew. “It’s okay, Jesse—it was so hot to feel you come.”
Jesse starts undoing the rope bindings around Asher’s wrists. She’d pulled the knots tight and it took both hands to work them free. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You could’ve told me!” Jesse whines a little.
“I guess. But I really didn’t want you to stop,” Asher’s voice was low and husky, playful.
“I’ve never … I think that was the first time I’ve been able to. Come, I mean. When strapped on.”
“Mmm, well I loved it. Let’s do it more, okay? I want to feel you filling me up next time.”
“Could you just … make sure to tell me? If it slips out. Maybe you could kind of, beg for it, like I’d slipped out on purpose to tease you?”
“Ooh yeah. Like, ‘No please wait, I want it back, come back inside me, don’t go yet.’?”
Jesse grins. “Yeah, like that.”
“Deal.” Asher nuzzles into Jesse and yawns. “You’re going to wear me out,” she sighs, clearly very pleased with this new idea. Jesse laughs a little, thinking, she’s the one who’s going to wear me out, hoping she can keep up with Asher’s lust and drive.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.
When we last left Asher & Jesse, Asher had just revealed her inclination to kink, and Jesse was left pondering: Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
Asher’s lips still taste like cream and orange. Jesse pushes her hands up over her head and shoved her backward onto the many throw pillows covering Asher’s bed, a soft easy landing. Asher keeps her thighs pressed together. She rubs them against each other, feeling the smoothness where she’d shaved, the softness, the tenderness. Jesse tries to nudge her legs open with her jean-clad knees, still using both hands to hold Asher’s hands onto the pillow. Asher presses back against Jesse, and Jesse could tell Asher would squirm away if she didn’t hold her arms there. Not because she didn’t want it, Jesse kept reminding herself. It’s like what Asher had told her earlier: “If I squirm, it’s because I want more—I want you to hold me down harder.”
Those words echoed as Jesse searches for a way to hold Asher’s hands and open her thighs simultaneously. Asher’s skirt was riding up and Jesse wanted to kiss her thick thighs, bite into the tenderest places, wanted to run her lips along her skin, wanted hands everywhere.
Jesse spies a thin scarf, a decorative slip of fabric, on Asher’s headboard and reaches for it, wrapping it easily around Asher’s wrists as she holds Asher’s body down with her own weight. Asher easily weighed more than she did, she could’ve forced Jesse off of her. She didn’t want to, Jesse kept reminding herself. Jesse doesn’t know much about formal bondage stuff, but she easily secures the scarf to Asher’s headboard.
“Hey—what are you—” Asher pulls at the restraints and her eyes flash, supple and desire and smoldering. She bites at her lip a little and shifts her body under Jesse’s. “Um, what are you going to do with me now?”
“Whatever I want, I think,” Jesse replies softly, tracing her hands with the lightest whisper touches over Asher’s exposed thighs. “God, I want to touch you for hours. Drive you wild. Hear you beg to come. You like to beg, don’t you, Asher? I bet you do.”
Asher whimpers a little. The touches, the words. “Yes,” she breathes.
“Yes … sir?” Asher tries.
Jesse actually laughs. It isn’t what she was going for, but she would take it. She even kind of likes it. It makes her feel hot, and in charge, and strong. “I want to hear you say it. You like to beg for your orgasms.”
“I like to beg for my orgasms, sir. I like when someone tells me I can come. When I earn it.”
Jesse drags her fingers over the tops of Asher’s thighs, brushing closer and closer to Asher’s underwear. With each brush she moves Asher’s skirt a little farther up. She can see the smallest strip of solid grey lace.
“And you want me to tell you when you can come.”
“Yes, yes I do. Please Jesse, tell me,” Asher’s voice drops, quiet and smaller, that vulnerable sweetness of revealing something deeply treasured.
“What else do you want?” Jesse asks, palms on Asher’s thighs.
“I want your fingers, I want your touch on me. In me. All of it. Fuck. Fill me up, Jesse—please, I can’t take it, please I want it.”
“You want … my fingers?” Jesse rubs the delicate fabric between her legs.
“Your whole hand, your fist, all the way in me, please!” She stops writhing to catch Jesse’s eye. “Have you … can you?”
Jesse looks a little sheepish. “I haven’t, not exactly … but I can. I know how.” She’d been fisted before, and she’d tried it a variety of times, even getting all five fingers in, but she could never quite get her hand in past her knuckles, the thickest part. Asher, though … Asher had already told her that she was experienced. Maybe she could do it. Jesse hadn’t even touched her cunt yet, but she thought it was possible. Not only because Jesse’s hands were so small and Asher’s body was so much bigger and thicker and more pliable than Jesse’s … but something in the energy, something in how much Asher wanted it and how much Jesse herself wanted it told Jesse that she would fit inside and nestle there, that Asher could press and squirm all she wanted, and that she would.
Jesse dives back in to Asher, and her body, and her responses to Jesse’s touch. Now that Asher’s hands are bound, Jesse can use both of her hands to push her thighs open, pinching them a little, not giving Asher much of a choice. Asher resists and squirms and cries out and finally gives in, opens her legs a little more, just enough for Jesse to cup her holes and for Asher to relax and breathe and sigh and simmer. Jesse teases her on the outside of those grey lace panties. Her lips feel slick already, swollen. Jesse traces the contours and imagines what’s underneath. “Can I … ?”
Asher lifts her hips, and nods. “Uh huh.”
Jesse slides the grey lace down her legs, slowly, and uses her fingertips to trace thin lines up and down her legs. So fucking sexy. Those legs she’s stared at in class, those thighs she’s watched cross when she sits and switch when she walks. Jesse can smell a little bit of Asher’s wetness, just a faint hint of sweet and musk that made Jesse want to dive forward and tongue the source. She trails back up Asher’s legs and pushes between her knees, pressing her knees apart even farther, and looks at her exposed pussy.
It takes restraint, but finally Jesse asks, “Gloves?” When they talked about it earlier, Asher said she wanted to use them. That she kept some on hand, ha ha, just in case.
“In the nightstand. In the bottom,” Asher says. Jesse finds gloves and lube, a big bottle, from the little cupboard in the dark wood bedside table, and snaps one on her right hand with ease. She doesn’t usually use gloves, but she doesn’t mind them. Plus, she read somewhere that it was easier to fist with gloves on, since the lube wouldn’t absorb into her own skin.
Hand covered, she gets back in place between Asher’s knees and gently cups Asher’s cunt again, letting her palm move softly against Asher’s lips. Her tissues are darker than the skin on her thighs, nearly black curly hair all along her cunt and spilling onto her thighs and belly, unashamed and unrestrained. Asher sighs and presses against Jesse’s hand, and Jesse moves her fingers, slick, over the folds and contours of Asher’s cunt. One finger tucked in, to the first joint, just tracing the lines around Asher’s opening, looping around her clit, figure eights and circles.
Asher moans. “More, please more, there, just there—” And Jesse pauses, staysthere, flicks with her fingertip. Asher shifts against the scarf tying her to the headboard and presses her hips up. Fuck, Jesse wants to use her mouth. Patience, patience, go slow, take it easy. There will be other times, if I’m lucky.
Jesse teases and tickles, tips of her fingers fluttering, rolling Asher’s lips between her fingers, pinching just enough for sensation. “God, you’re so good at this,” Asher sighs, breathing hard. “Please, please Jesse …”
“What?” Jesse circles around Asher’s cunt without sliding in, touching the pad of her finger to the opening but not pushing.
Asher moves her hips but can’t make Jesse do it. “Fuck!” she swears. “Just please, go inside, please, I want it!”
Jesse dips her head so Asher can’t see her grin, and offers her finger with a little more pressure. Asher envelops it immediately, pushing down, moaning in relief and pleasure, “Mmmmmm.”
Still, Jesse lets Asher call the shots. She can feel Asher’s pulse, can feel her walls tighten and relax around her, testing the fullness. Then she starts moving her hips a little again, and Jesse moves too, testing the pressure in different places inside, pausing when Asher seems to respond particularly deliciously. It doesn’t take long for Asher to ask for more.
“What do you say, then?”
“Please. Please Jesse, please may I have another finger, two more, please, more, and harder, please! Ohh!” Jesse has another finger in and sliding before Asher is even done pleading. She drips a good dollop of lube onto her fingers where they meet Asher’s cunt and use the friction to work the lube around. It’s slicker now, and easier to slide in and out. Jesse thinks Asher might bust out of the dress entirely, she really should have taken it off of her before they started in on … this, but she was just so eager, they both were.
“Come up here, kiss me,” Asher whispers. Jesse lays her body out over Asher’s and tastes her mouth again, both of them nearly panting, lips tender, practically sparking when they touch. Jesse keeps her fingers sliding inside, one knee between Asher’s, fitting together like sliding a chair under a table. “I like the way you taste,” breathes Asher, lips still touching Jesse’s.
“Please, more Jesse, please.”
She did say she liked to beg. Jesse didn’t know how much she liked hearing Asher beg, but fuck, she knew now.
Jesse slid a third, but just as easily tucked her littlest finger under and slid the fourth in too. Easy where they are all bundled together, but more intense when Jesse gets them in up to her knuckles. Asher contracts around the girth, but then opens. Jesse adds more lube, then settles back on top of Asher, nestled against her breasts and belly, dress still tight over her skin. If the zipper or buttons had been in the front, Jesse would have torn at them until they’d popped. Probably better that they aren’t.
When her knuckles slide in, Asher’s eyes open, mouth opens, cunt opens, and something in her relaxes, Jesse can practically see it unwind and settle. Jesse can’t get her thumb in at this angle, but she can, she knows she can, she can feel the space inside of Asher expand and it just feels so empty, she can tell how good it would feel, how easy it would be to tuck her thumb and curl her fingers and fit.
Jesse slides back down Asher’s body to have a better angle for her wrist, kissing her through her clothes, biting at her breasts through her grey dress, finding her nipple hard and using her teeth so she can really feel it.
“Fuck me, please fuck me, please,” Asher starts saying it like a mantra, like a prayer, coinciding with breath and motion. Jesse pours more lube. More than she needed, probably, but she liked to be safe. The black glove is completely covered, wet and shiny.
They make eye contact. Asher nods, eyes still pleading. “I want it.” Almost a whisper. And Jesse tightens her fingers into an arrow, tucks her thumb, and slides in to the wrist, all the way.
“Ohhh godddd,” Asher groans in release, splaying open even wider, sinking into the throw pillows. Jesse is still for a few moments, until Asher starts moving her hips again, then Jesse moves with her, experimenting with moving her knuckles into Asher’s g-spot and fingers against her cervix.
“Can you—can you reach my wrists, can you untie me? I mean, without taking your hand away,” Asher asks.
Jesse reaches up with her left hand. “Yeah,” she says, and starts untying the bind.
“Do you mind, is it okay if I … help?”
Jesse grinned, stretching her shoulder a little farther to more easily reach. Kind of tricky with just one hand, but the knot wasn’t exactly complicated. She manages to loosen it enough so Asher’s hands slip out. “Mmm I don’t mind at all.”
Asher, shyly, reaches her right hand down her body and to her own cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling Jesse’s whole hand still snug inside. She circles it a moment and then settles her fingers at her clit, pinching and pulling her lips, using a lot of pressure. She even slaps it once, twice, harder than Jesse would have done.
From inside, Jesse can feel her tighten, then soften, and tighten again. Asher gets bolder and starts showing off, looking right into Jesse’s eyes, tongue flicking over her lips, scraping her teeth along them. Her breathing gets heavy and faster, her chest moves up and down as she thrusts with her hips, pressing hard onto Jesse’s hand, fingers rubbing back and forth so quickly, faster, harder, until she contracts so hard she pushes Jesse’s hand out from inside her and practically screams out, yelling, as her body curls and her thighs press together, coming. Jesse leaves her fingers gently touching, just the longest ones still inside to the first knuckle, just so it doesn’t feel like a shocking emptiness. Asher reaches out and wraps her arms around Jesse’s shoulders, and pulls her back on top of her body, holding as her body settles.
Asher giggles and nuzzles into Jesse, sighing. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you!” She can’t quite make words or sentences work yet. Jesse finds it adorable. There is quite a rush in making a girl as put-together as Asher come … undone.
They chat for a little while, that pillow-talk of lovers in whispers and murmurs, breathing each other’s breath and feeling each other’s skin, still electric and sultry. Asher brightens and her brain and body come back into alignment. She wiggles out from under Jesse and props herself up on her elbows, taking Jesse’s hands into hers and marveling at their smoothness, their square fingertips, their lines and patterns, the callouses on her thumb and middle finger, the scar on her knuckles.
Asher gets all squirmy and Jesse catches her looking. “Butch hands,” Asher explains, as if that makes things clearer. Jesse raises her eyebrows. “Or, I mean, genderqueer androgynous masculine-of-center whatever gender word you prefer hands.”
Jesse laughs. “Butch is okay. Seems kind of old school I guess. Mostly people call me a ‘baby butch,’ I don’t like that much.”
“Yeah. You’re not babyish.”
“Mmhm.” Jesse is trying to form the words of a looming question in her brain.
“Something … on your mind?” Asher asks.
“It’s just … um, how do you feel about strap-ons? Or, blow jobs?” Jesse looks down and blushes a little. Asher grins, and dives into her arms, kissing her hard.
Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.
When someone corrects your technique while fucking, set your ego aside and say thank you.
Thanks for telling me.
Thanks for making that clearer.
I like knowing your body better, thanks.
You are lucky that she* spoke up—it is a good thing. It means she is capable of communicating about what feels good for her body during sex! I assume—I hope—we can agree that that is an important foundation of good sexytimes.
It also means that she knows what feels good on her body. Believe it or not, this is not a given. Many folks have not had the trust in a relationship (or their own body, or their gender) that it takes to really be able to show up fully feeling their bodies and just play, just explore. It’s rare.
But it doesn’t always feel like a good thing at the time, does it?
It feels like you were doing something wrong. Or it feels like you were being careless or unobservant. Maybe it was your best move, and now it feels like your mad skillz don’t work on this person, so what if the rest of your mad skillz don’t work either?
Or, if you’re doing some sort of power play thing, perhaps it can feel like she is “topping from the bottom,” trying to instruct you on what to do?
Being corrected or given even a little instruction can cause us tops to spin out in our heads with fear and anxiety so easily.
But it doesn’t have to.
It used to happen to me, more often than I care to admit. And even now, when I’m touching someone and they express some request for something to change or for me to stop, sometimes I feel hurt. But I guess I kind of set that aside (and perhaps, if I need it, request some (top) aftercare later), because in the moment, I remember my rule about it: To say thank you.
Even if I don’t say it aloud, I say it in my head. Thank you for telling me. I can relax in the script of what I’m supposed to say and how I’m supposed to react—based on my own morals, not on some imposed social code. That one little “thank you” can sometimes be a stand in for things like: of course, you know your body the very best and only you are feeling what it’s like to feel that, so I would be honored to know more about what works best for you.
I want it to be okay in sex play situations for everyone to speak up and request some sort of change if they need it. Faster, slower, harder, deeper, shallower, not so much on the nipples, you’re pulling my hair too hard, ow your knee is digging into my thigh, ease off the slapping please—whatever it is, I want to know, and I do not want to be so blinded by my sore ego that I make it seem like they shouldn’t say those things.
So I say an enthusiastic thank you, and I mean it.
Any questions? …
But what if you have some sort of power play in place?
So, in a dom/sub situation where the sub is just supposed to “take it” and you, the dom, are doing whatever you want to them, perhaps it’s a little different. But her discomfort isn’t any less important, and it isn’t running the scene any less: The entire point is that she is going to be uncomfortable.
(Some people are into that, myself included. It’s a game of trust and body literacy and self-knowledge and communication, and I find it exhilarating and fun and sexy as fuck. Not everybody’s into this, of course. And if you’re playing with power like this, play safe—negotiate, use safewords, play with folks you trust, check in after, and make sure everyone goes away from the experience feeling good.)
Why would a sub want to just “take it”? Maybe because they want to really play the part of being a good sub, or a good boy, or slave, or pet, or girl, or fucktoy, or kitty, right? Maybe she loves to feel overwhelmed with sensation and needs that kind of push to get her there. Or maybe because she’s trying to earn jerk off rights for the week, or maybe she wants to encourage you in your own edgy dominant territory.
I’m sure there are some other reasons, too. Feel free to leave them in the comments. What’s hot and sexy about “taking it” from your perspective?
From a dominant’s point of view, especially doms who are still getting their sea legs under them, causing someone else deliberate discomfort, for one’s own pleasure, with the disregard for that other person’s feelings or, gasp, physical pain … that can be so incredibly edgy. And some submissives love to play in edgy dominant territory. Still, it is a hurdle that is so hard to reconcile for many dominants and tops. (I’m not going to go too much into reconciliation here, but it’s related.)
So your job as the top in a “take it” discomfort scene (or at least one possible job—there are dozens of ways to do this, I’m sure!), is to find that edge of discomfort and ride it. And what better way to do that than by listening? Start by finding the places where there is so much pleasure, do all those things that you know her body just adores, and then do them just a little too much, or just a little too hard. Ride that edge and play with it, go from the pleasure into the discomfort and back, see how far you can push the discomfort while still bringing them back into the pleasure.
If you enter into the discomfort slowly, each time you cross back into it, you can explore farther, and then you can both get off on how much she is “taking it” just for you.
So when she expresses some sort of discomfort or makes a request—assuming she’s not saying, “Okay stop this, I want out of this scenario now,” or red or yellow or other some such safeword, of course, because you’re not a jerk—you aren’t obligated to do the change she is requesting, but it is always good to have the information about her body and how she expresses. This is a sensitive place for a very careful, calculated move, however, and it takes a lot of confidence and trust in each other to play with this edge. If I’m in a D/s scene and they make a specific request or correction, I usually ask myself, is there still pleasure going on with what I’m doing? If I lose track of the pleasure, most of the time I have basically kinda sorta I have lost the scene. It’s not ruined, but it needs some mending.
So I’ll follow the pleasure, and possibly go back to what I know is very pleasurable for us both. Or, I might keep doing what I’m doing for a couple more blows or heartbeats, just to prove that I can, and throw some dirty talk in to make remind her that she’s mine and I get to do what I want, at least for right now. Y’know, if that’s the dynamic. But I can’t not hear what she said, still. And I do care what it was. So I often still say “thank you,” if only in my mind.
Because see, you don’t just want her to “take it” from you, you also want her to trust you. Building trust is probably the most important thing in a D/s relationship. All that power we’re playing with is based on trust.
But regardless of whether it’s D/s or a one night stand, when she is expressing discomfort or has a request to do something different … set aside your ego, and say thank you.
Meanwhile, there was a poet who lived in northern states of Alaska and New York and their pine treehouse of aching fists. They were bursting open with gift and overspilling with a fountain of voice. They liked bergamot and the boy’s skin and tall mountains and sandwiches and smooth flat beach stones and getting fucked by the planet.
Their gravity together is undeniable. They make fingerpaintings of their inner visions on each other’s insoles, on each other’s tongues. They try on their places, their callings, in the haven of hotel room walls. Their pulses become synched.
On days in the north like this where the birds are flocking and the sky is clear, on days where the boy’s car is clean and ready for the yellow dotted line and return, there is little more than a single pane of glass between them. An arbitrary distance of separation, because the moonbeam pulled like taffy stretched between their chests keeps them imperceptibly drawn to the other’s orbital motion. The string between them keeps them ready to snap like rubber bands, ready to pounce like predators, ready to take their leather and gold hearts and suspend them on a chain to hang from the ceiling of their treehouse. They pull the ladder up and take it apart to use the rope, but put it back together anytime they needed kale or whiskey or tacos. Their bed is scraps of paper and scattered recordings of bliss and scars.
Happily ever after is many, many moments, strung together in lines of text and pressed leaves and sketches, and worn like a crown.
Before the door is even all the way open, I’m on you, slamming your upper back against the wall in the hallway. I’d been waiting for you. Heard your car outside and keys in the lock. Stayed half-hard all day, waiting for this moment where I could catch you off guard and suddenly, make demands and put forth my needs, use your body.
By way of a welcome home, I growl, “Hey, little boy.”
You whimper and melt into the wall, your knees sinking already, keys still in your hand. I shove you aside and close the door, keeping my forearm across your collarbone. Maybe you try to say hi Daddy, sometimes you do that, you’re supposed to reply audibly to me when I address you, but maybe your mouth says it without any sound behind it, maybe I’m keeping your voice clutched in my fist at your throat right now. You don’t need it. All you need to do is what I make you do.
I take a step back. “Strip.” I say first.
You do. I watch. You hang your jacket and slide your tee shirt over your head. Kick your chucks into the small pile of shoes in the hallway and unbuckle your belt. Click your keys back on to your keychain. The heavyness of the objects in your jeans pockets pull them to the floor without much effort and you let them slide off and step out of them. I stroke my cock, thick and hard already, through my jeans.
When we woke this morning I didn’t get the time I wanted to play with you. Didn’t get to slide inside you and sink into that place where our bodies pull and push in synchronicity, simultaneously out when you’re in, up when you’re down. I don’t understand how it is that we compliment each other so well, but we do. I pulled your hand under the elastic waist of my boxers and made you jerk me off while I whispered stories into your ear, my arm around you, hand gripping your arm or shoulder or whatever I could reach. Jerk it, boy, yeah like that. Harder. Just a little more. That’s just right. But you had to go to work. And I had work to do, too, though my work has less of a clock-in-clock-out factor.
I like missing you. That low pull of longing, of want, is enough to keep me focused and productive when otherwise I might be wallowing. I like wanting you. Always better than having too much and craving space.
I get my most important tasks done and pause through the day to fantasize, just enough to keep me hard but not enough to get off. I want to be wanting when you get here. Maybe the second or third time I do this, the vision forms to take you before you’ve even walked in the door. These scenes come to my mind almost fully formed sometimes, like a film I’m watching rather than something I’m creating. When I wonder what next to do, I just watch and listen for a minute, and it shows up.
You drop your tight white boy briefs next to your jeans and as you’re straightening up, looking at me shy with just a slight shiver in your shoulders, I lock the door behind you and I’m ready. “Down.”
You drop effortlessly, in one fluid movement, and I push your mouth to my zipper before you’re even situated. You lean into my hips and bite at me through my jeans. I lean against the wall and relax forward into your mouth. It’s a relief to have you home. It’s a relief to have your mouth here, wherever I put it. It’s a relief to have that control, a relief to know you’d do it, whatever it is, whatever I told you to do. I don’t need to execute that ability constantly—the knowing that it’s there is relief enough, most of the time.
Except sometimes, when I need to feel you supple and soft, feel you harden when you get it right and fall into the job I set for you to do. Just this. This is all you need to do right now, your mouth your tongue right there, your body relaxed and giving in, giving over, always giving it up to me.
You hum a little through your throat and I feel it vibrate against my cock. I feel the weight of the day, of the work, of the hate mail navigated and the dozens of hustling emails I sent with pleas, draining out of me. I pull up from the earth when I breathe in and try to feel myself empty, ohllowed out, able to be filled. You press the palm of your hand gently against my cunt, just enough for me to feel the pressure. Support, something solid for me to lean into. You catch the head of my cock in your mouth through my jeans and suck just enough for me to swoon. I unbuckle, unzip, pull it out while your hand kneeds my lips swollen and hanging like balls.
You suck me down slow and easy, slide it in, each inch slow until I’m all the way in your throat. “Swallow it down, my good boy, you know how I like it.” The thought of shooting, emptying out right here, pressed deep down into you, makes me shudder. I breathe into it and that rhythm, that rhythm takes me, moves me forward, the rhythm that starts in that bowl in my hips like a quake and starts moving me almost involuntarily, and I slide a little deeper into your throat and you open, open, open.
We writhe and rock and move together for a while. I let the pressure keep building, that pressure that started early this morning before you had to go to work, before we peeled ourselves out of the soft jersey sheets and made coffee and got dressed and were responsible. Or maybe it started when we met, or maybe it started long before we met, maybe it’s just something I have, that craving, that desire for taking and takedown. I watched you go out the door and felt that growl of want, not yet satisfied. What will satisfy me? Even when I get “enough” it isn’t exactly enough, it’s only temporary. I always want more. And you always give more.
“Enough,” I pull out, immediately feeling the lack, the emptiness where I used to feel held. “Hands and knees. Crawl.” I walk to the bedroom and strip, lay out the waterproof sex blanket over the sheet. I almost switch to the bigger cock but decide I want to fuck his ass, so I’ll keep this one on instead.
You’re breathing hard when you get to the doorway. You like crawling. Makes you feel controlled, it’s not something you would do without being ordered to. It makes you tremble and swell. I can see how you are pinkening between your legs.
I pull you up by the chain around your neck (“Up. Come on.”) and onto your stomach on the bed. Your open mouth is against the mattress, biting at the jersey sheet, arms twisted to hold you, ass up, legs splayed open, back curled. You know what’s coming. My thumb against your back hole and you moan and open even further. Your hole is so pretty and shades of rose (sometimes I really understand why erotica stories call it a “rosebud”) and I want to plunge in. I squirt lube right onto your hole, a generous line up my cock, and press . The head is the biggest and thickest, so pronounced on this particular cock, but you push back against me and moan Daddy Daddy and I can do it, we do it together. I go slow even though I want to plunge. I want to feel myself buried to my balls in you. Falling into you. But I restrain, and the tension between what I want and what I do feels palpable. I lean forward, hold my weight off of you while I slide in. Take a bite of your shoulder as my chest melts against yours, still holding my hips up. Slow, slow. Wait. And then you whimper and I feel your skin against the front of my hips and we’re there.
I sink against you. You hold me up.
1. What insight about polyamory/open relationships would you share with your younger self?
Don’t give more of yourself than you’re capable of giving. There have been a number of situations in my open relationship which have made me very uncomfortable, but I felt as though I shouldn’t feel that way for one reason or another, and so I would say I was okay with whatever the issue was and hoped that I would eventually become comfortable. I didn’t, and, in fact, it only got worse until it reached the point where I would consistently be reduced to tears and laden with anxiety. Both individuals have to develop and evolve together, and expanding the open aspects of the relationship need to be guided by the least open/comfortable person, not the most.
2. What has been the hardest thing about navigating multiple relationships, and how have you overcome that?
The hurting. It is inevitable that at some point both individuals in the open relationship will get hurt. Whether it’s jealousy, misunderstandings, insecurities, STD scare, or any number of other issues, being part of an open relationship exposes you to a plethora of tribulations and pain that will need overcoming. Overcoming being hurt isn’t possible — which is important to remember when considering your ROI vs cost — but you can address each issue as it arises (or before, if you can foresee it) to minimize future hurting.
3. What has been the best thing about being open/poly?
I won’t lie, the sexual variety has been pretty fantastic, but I suspect that’s the more obvious benefit, so instead I would say the resilience of our relationship. My mate’s brother once asked him, after discovering that we were open, if he was worried that I might leave him for someone I was having sex with. His answer was, “No, because if our relationship is so bad that it can be ended by good sex, then it wasn’t good in the first place.” Because we’ve expanded our sexual experiences as a couple to involve other people, we’ve removed an emotional weak point that is often exploited in traditional couples.
4. Anything else you’d like to add?
- Don’t sleep with your roommate(s).
- Never compromise your morals, convictions, or safe practices for anyone.
- Remember that the health and emotional wellbeing of you and your mate is paramount.
- Don’t use an open relationship to fill the gaps in your current relationship, or to transition to a new person.
- Don’t have sex with a lot of people just because you can. An open relationship isn’t an invitation or an obligation to be promiscuous.
- Don’t use an open relationship as a way to compete with your mate sexually. If you’re having vindictive or equalizing sex, you’re gone astray.
- Always be completely open with your mate. This will save you so much strife.
- Always play safe.
- Remember to put your relationship first, and playing with others somewhere down the list.
- Be mindful of playing with people who are, for one reason or another, emotionally vulnerable. Don’t play will people who will get attached, or angry for one reason or another, or jealous, or otherwise be unable to handle being part of your open relationship. This will take some practice, but trust your gut and learn from your mistakes.
- An open relationship isn’t accountable to anyone but those in it with regards to what you’re comfortable with. Just because other couples or individuals are comfortable with something, that doesn’t mean you need to, or that your open relationship is somehow inferior to theirs, even if you never become comfortable with a given practice. Whatever you and your mate are comfortable with in any given moment is what’s right for you, and there’s nothing wrong with that moving more or less open.
I was interviewed for Time Out NY recently (along with Rachel Kramer Bussel and Rachel Rabbit White and some other folks) about my favorite sex bloggers, and the article came out today.
I’ve meant for a while to compile a list of links to have somewhere here on Sugarbutch. Nominations for the top sex bloggers of 2012 were open recently (and closed now) and I meant to put forward a list of my personal favorites, but didn’t get around to it. (Check out the comments for hundreds of sex blogs to search and surf, if you’re into that.) You can also surf through the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011, but there are very few queer bloggers on there, if that’s what you’re looking for. (Where are they?) (I’ve been retired from that list because I was in the top three years in a row, which is kind of too bad, but Sugarbutch is also totally not competitive in that world anymore. Which is a slightly different post.)
I used to have a community page, but I haven’t updated that in (probably literally) years.
I also used to keep my Google reader shared items in the sidebar, which was awesome and I loved that it was a frequent solution to links, because I’d just share the articles or stories or blog posts that were awesome, and other people who used Google reader as their primary RSS feed reader could see what I recommended in their feeds too. Google reader has since been basically rendered useless as they tried to integrate their shared items into Google+, which nobody uses and can’t seem to be embedded into a sidebar. I’ve looked into Feedly and a few other online feed readers, but nothing has that particular feature that I’d love to see revived.
Any suggestions for a tool where I can a) read my RSS feeds, b) share items, and c) embed the shared items into the sidebar of this site??
There is also Tumblr, of course. I kind of wish I could just share my whole dashboard as recommendations of who to follow, but I guess that’s what the reblogging is for. My tumblr is mrsexsmith.tumblr.com and I try to keep up with that.
Meanwhile, here’s the Time Out NY article, and the links below that I sent them (many of which they didn’t include). These are sex blogs specifically—there are many other blogs I read often and eagerly, though I no longer have the daily habit of checking my reader first thing and reading The Entire Internet every day.
Things I keep in my underwear drawer:
Sometimes I feel very removed from the next new thing—I spent so much time marketing and promoting and doing workshops these days, and less and less time on the net. It does seem like there is a big lack of queer erotica writers sharing their work online. Who are your favorite writers or blogs? Are there queer sex blogs that I should be reading, but maybe don’t know about? Who are your favorite butch/femme bloggers? Who do you read every day? I’d love to know.
This story contains Daddy/girl language, rough sex, and lots of body fluids. This has been your trigger warning.
“Will you pause it for a minute? I have to pee.”
Kristen gets up from the couch and I grab for the remote, hitting pause on the second porn flick we turned on tonight. We’d shared a bottle of wine. I knew she was bleeding, since earlier in the first film, unimpressed by one of the girl’s one-finger banging techniques, I shoved three into her to illustrate that cunts can take more.
Well, maybe not all cunts. But hers, obviously.
She was wet, and moaned a little, making a little mewl of protest when I slipped them out. My fingers came away with just a little blood and I wiped them on her leg.
Do y’all remember the Sugarbutch Star stories? It was a series where readers sent in a scenario and I wrote up the story. This is the last of the 5 stories from the 2008 “contest,” the others being Eileen, Matt, Green-Eyed Girl, and Maze. This story idea comes from blkndblue.
Warning: This story is long, about 18 pages. Click the “read more” at the end to read the final scene (it’s worth it, promise). I figure it’s a good way to kick off a (happy, sexy) new year.
Thanks to Dacia & BB Rydell for help with edits!
Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue
THE PINK DRESS
Emily emerges from the dressing room slowly, suddenly shy, though I’ve seen her naked in dozens of compromised positions. She fidgets with the dress, her hair, sucks in her stomach, but her eyes are lit up and she’s biting back a playful smile. She wants to wear this dress. Her inner three-year-old princess is aflame. “What do you think?” Emily asks; but the question isn’t really about my preference. She wants me to want it so she has permission to wear it. Then she doesn’t have to want it for herself; she is absolved of her own desires. I want to her to have permission to want anything on her body that she is drawn to, regardless of its gendered implications.
I finger the skirt of the baby pink dress, its satin fabric, abundant for its near-full skirt. She looks amazing in the plunging neckline in a gentle scoop, which shows off her round breasts generously. Sleeveless, it gathers at the waist where a thick white band wraps around, tying in a ribbon at the back. It could have been a bridesmaid’s dress, or a prom dress, or maybe someone’s fancy party dress. She’s been eyeing this dress in the window display, and today was the day it came down. She asked them to set it aside for her.
“So?” She is trying so hard to be patient. The words come out in a rush. “Do you like it?”
I come up behind her as she looks in the full-length mirror barely visible behind racks of gently used clothes. I wrap my arm around her waist, pull her gently back to me as she sighs, then smooths the skirt down.
“I think it’s perfect,” I say, my lips next to her ear. “No question.”
“Really?” She’s not sure I mean it, but she wants me to. “But it’s so … femme.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say.
“But, I’m not femme!” She argues.
“What do you mean? Of course you are,” I say.
“No, I mean …” she struggles for the words. “I’m not high femme. I hate that term. I almost always wear jeans and tee shirts.” We’ve been dating for on and off for a few years. We both have primary partners, but we make time to play and go on dates. When she dresses up, she adds heels and lipstick, rarely anything more. She has some impressive lingerie, but seldom wears dresses. She wears power suits for her professional office work, where she has to keep control and is in charge of a dozen people’s activities on a daily basis. She spends a lot of time looking put together, climbing the corporate ladder, and fighting the male privilege in her office, and she’d rather kick around in something comfortable and durable when she has the option.
“I know that’s what you prefer, and it’s perfect—your ass looks great in jeans,” I counter. “Look, you’re twice the femme most self-identified high femmes are. You’re at home in your body, awake in your skin, not judgmental about your own waistline or anyone else’s. And you have your circle of femme friends without gossip or backstabbing. If that’s not high femme, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah, but you have to say that.”
“And I want to. I know the dress is a stretch … but it’s amazing on you. It looks like it was made for you. Doesn’t it?” I ask the passing sales girl. “Doesn’t it look like it was made for her?”
“It is, like, so cut perfectly for your body,” the girl, probably barely twenty, replies. “It makes your curves look even more curvy. It’s practically, like, perfect.”
“Yeah. Perfect,” I echo, and Emily grins at herself in the mirror.
“It is, isn’t it. Yeah. Okay,” she kisses my cheek and zips back into the dressing room, and buys the dress.
The date is my idea, and a surprise. I enlist her friend Sam, a gay boy also known as Serena, who does a fierce drag queen act and has every feminizing, over-the-top accessory one would need. We’ve been out drinking and galavanting dozens of nights in the past few years. Sometimes Emily and I go see him perform. Last time, he did a Judy Garland number with an incredible outfit from the forties that made him look like a black and white movie star.
“I could never do that,” Emily must’ve whispered to me five times that night, but the spark in her eyes told me that she wanted to. I knew Sam would love to see Emily all dressed up.
And tonight, with this pink dress, he’s going to help. I enlist Sam because Emily doesn’t have the femme things I need, and I can’t afford to buy them all. I meet Sam around the corner and pick up the fluffy underskirt that’s used to puff out full skirts, called a crinoline.
I knock on Emily’s door, and she throws it open. “I’m here to pick up the dress,” I say, after kissing her hello. She fetches it from her bedroom, still in the thrift store’s lavender-colored paper bag with their logo on it, and hands it to me across the threshold.
“Thank you. Now, you remember what I told you? What’s the plan?”
“First, I’m getting my nails done across the street. Then I’m going to go to Sam’s at 5pm to get my hair and makeup done. Then I’ll come meet you at your place, and bring the bra and panties.” I know she doesn’t wear the white bra and panty set with the lace trim often. I like that she saves it for me.
“What time, at my apartment?”
“Good. Perfect. Don’t be late,” I add. As if she would be. She shifts her weight from foot to foot very slightly and I can see her ears beginning to flush pink.
I tuck the box with the crinoline under the arm that holds her dress in a shopping bag and draw her to me with the other, smiling as our faces get closer, drinking in her skin and hair and the sweet way her body fits.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Good girl,” I say, and kiss her.
At seven twenty-eight, she knocks on my apartment door. I greet her with more kisses and lead her into the bedroom before she sets her purse down. Some of the things are laid out on the bed: the crinoline skirt, white thigh-high stockings, a white garter belt, and her new pink dress, which I had dry cleaned and pressed just this morning. I see her hand flicker slightly as she reaches out and touch the dress, then pulls it back and makes a fist.
“Are you ready for tonight?” I take a seat in the small armchair in the corner of my bedroom and I take a sip of the glass of water I’d poured just before she arrived, with extra ice so she can hear the clink of it in the glass. She nods. I notice Emily picks at her nails, then stop when she realizes she is probably chipping her nail polish. She must be nervous. The icy liquid is cool in my mouth and I feel it run down my throat. Her chestnut hair is mostly a silhouetted shadow, but I can see it is piled on top of her hair in spirals and curls in a way that is much more complicated than she would usually entertain. It reveals the curve of her neck, which swoops into her collarbone and, later, will lead right to her cleavage.
“Did Sam send you with jewelry?” I ask.
“Get it out, and put it on the top of the dresser.” I cleared it in anticipation. She goes to her bag, removes a couple small boxes and a tiny clutch purse, then arranges it all so each are neat and not touching, then goes back to standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking around the room.
“Take off your clothes,” I say. “Slowly. Fold each piece and put them on the bed.” She starts with her v-neck grey fitted girly tee shirt, quickly pulling it over her head. “I said slowly,” I say, and she pauses, moves a little slower. She folds the thin fabric easily and places it on the bed, then steps out of her low, simple black flats. She’s not wearing a bra; she often doesn’t, not encouraging the curve of her breasts to be shown off. Her bare skin glows in the lamplight. She pulls down her tight blue jeans and steps out of them, folding them a little thoughtlessly, but I don’t tell her to slow down again. She slides her plain black cotton underwear down over her legs and adds it to the pile. She fingers the worn grey tee shirt and looks at it longingly, then glances at the lingerie laid out on the bed and moves her hand to touch it, smiling as her fingertips make contact, her face relaxing.
She stands again, naked this time, crosses her arms in front of herself, then drops her arms and holds one wrist with her hand. After a moment she straightens up, and clasps her hands behind her back like she is presenting herself to me, a blank canvas. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, drops her hip, but tries to stay still. She bites her lip.
“Very nice,” I murmur from my corner. I uncross and recross my legs, ankle to knee, and pick up the cane from next to my chair. I can see her nipples, even in the shadows, hard and dark. “Get the bra and panties out of your bag, lay them on the bed.” She does. “Now, get dressed. Start with the garter belt.” She takes a breath and turns to the bed, picking it up and sliding it up her legs, securing it in place.
“Now the stockings,” I say. “And the bra. Leave the panties off, for now.” She dresses quickly, fumbling a little with the clasps and the delicate fabric, sitting on the side of the bed to fasten the stockings to the lace. “Now the petticoat.” She looks at me a little questioning, then realizes I mean the white crinoline skirt, and pulls it in a flourish from the bed to step into it.
“The dress,” I say. She pulls it over her head, evens it over the petticoat, and does her best to tie the white bow behind her back. With the extra layers of under the skirt, the pink dress is even more stunning than it was in the store. “And the jewelry,” I say, as she admires herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. She takes a step closer and puts small two-stone droplet earrings in; they’re delicate, just an inch or so long, hanging just enough to move when she does and sparkle when the light hits them. She reaches for the matching necklace and raises her elbows to buckle the clasp behind her neck. Her fingers tremble and it takes her three tries to hook it correctly.
Emily steps back and looks at her reflection, buzzing, hardly containing the thrill of happiness at her own reflection. Her smile is as big as I’ve ever seen it. She turns her head, then shakes it to see the sparkle of the earrings, tilts her chin down to see her fancy hair-do, fluffs the skirt out to the side, and finally twirls, watching the dress in the mirror and laughing, giddy.
“Come here,” I say. She turns her head to me and takes short, quick steps across the room to where I am sitting next to the window in her stockinged feet. She notices the cane I have been stroking.
“Is that for me?” she asks.
“It’s for your ass. For later.” I set it on the table with my glass and reach out for her waist, pull her on to my lap. “Very nice,” I say, stroking the skin on her arm, the the slick fabric of the top of the dress, brushing my fingers against her breasts and nipples. I offer my mouth for a kiss and she wraps her arms around my neck, opening her mouth, gently kissing back. “You look gorgeous.”
“You really think so?” she bats her eyelashes. She looks like a sunrise, peeking over the horizon, breaking the dark, reaching up into the sky. She still looks like herself—just polished up a little, enhanced, prettied.
“Really. Very much.” We kiss again and I get lost in her lips, her tongue, the way her hands grasp gently at my neck and shoulders. I let my hands trace her stockings, wander up under the many layers under her dress. “Do you like the crinoline?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” she breathes. “Is that what Sam gave you?”
“Yes. On loan.”
“It’s so … pretty.”
“You’re pretty, sweetheart.”
She smiles shyly, kisses me again.
“Did you like getting your nails done, and your hair and make-up done?”
“Yes! It was really fun. More than I thought it would be. I thought it would be weird but it makes me feel fancy. And important. And … ” she lowers her voice, her eyes a little and brings her hands up to straighten my tie, pinch my collar between her fingers. “And I knew I was doing it for you. That you would like it.”
“Mmm. And you did a very good job getting all ready for me.” I find the patch of skin at the top of her stockings, her sweet smooth inner thigh, and rest my hand there gently.
“I like doing what you say.” It lets her mind rest, she’s explained to me, and is a relief to trust enough to follow orders instead of second guessing and being in charge of everything.
“I know. And I have a few more things to do before we go to dinner. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I toss her a questioning look and she corrects herself. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I take a breath. “I’m going to warm you up for the evening. I want to give you something that will serve as a reminder that this body—” I shift my hand quickly and palm her pussy, making her gasp, then quickly attempt to maintain her composure and keep her eyes open, looking at me, “—this pretty little body of yours is mine to play with tonight.”
She nods, quick, tiny movements of her head, and her eyes flicker with a hint of nervousness.
“Are you worried?”
“No, sir. I know you will take good care of me.”
“That’s right. Good.” I move my hand away and she breathes in, her thighs quiver. I lean in to kiss her again, bring my hands to her waist and then up to cup her chin, neck, the back of her head, careful not to mess up her hair. She relaxes, her mouth softens. She tastes like cream.
“Get up and bend over my lap. I’m going to make some marks on your ass before we go out.”
She delicately places herself over me with more care than usual, though we’ve been in this position many times. She doesn’t want to muss herself. This chair is perfect for over-the-knee spankings, with wide, low arm rests. Her stockinged tiptoes just barely reach the floor. She arches her back automatically, presenting her ass and slit to my right hand.
I caress her neck and shift my arm to cradle her collarbone and begin peeling up the layers of her pretty pink dress and petticoat. The peach of her ass is perfectly framed by her stockings and garter belt, the layers pushed up to her hips. Softly, I bring my hand to her thighs and ass and begin caressing.
“So nice,” I murmur into her ear. I start with some rapid tap-tap-taps with my fingers tight together on the sweet spots on her ass, the ones that make the flesh shake and that makes her muscles relax. She sighs, keeps breathing, keeps filling her lungs and breathing into the increasing sensation. She’s done enough yoga, we’ve played with enough sensation play—she knows how to open.
I keep going with light taps and occasional full-handed gentle swats until I can see a pink flush starting, just a hint. She loves being hit; she snuggles down into it as if I was reading her a bedtime story. I increase my swing, raising my arm higher, and give her a few open-palmed, but not too hard yet. Her skin is fair and it is easy to leave long-lasting marks, easy to bruise and break capillaries on the surface of her skin.
Which is exactly what I want.
I continue, warming up her ass until it is bright and hot, flushed and red, beginning to show some darker parts where it will be easy to leave marks. She moans, sinking into me, humming with pleasure. When we are both warm, when my shoulder feels like it is loose and liquid and easy, I raise my arm high and let fly a few hard wallops, pausing in between, but just for a moment, to let her react. Her body shudders and I feel her tense, then relax, over my lap. I can feel the impact of my hand through her and onto my thighs, can feel her growing heat and intensity. I let my hand down again, and again, allowing gravity to pull me, sucking up the power she’s handing over while I have her upturned and stunned, ready to take more.
I lean down so my mouth is by her ear again. “You are doing so well. Your ass is nice and red and starting to bruise. I’m going to get my cane out now.”
She manages to move her neck slightly, twists her head and looks up at me, and nods just a little. I grip the cane from the side table and it feels hard, solid in my hand. It slices through the air with a hiss and I love the way it extends my arm. The last time we used the cane, she told me every time she sat down, she thought about what I’d done and how I’d used her. That it made her wet to have to act like she could sit normally, when really it was excruciatingly painful. That’s how I want it to be tonight. Something to take away from the terror of being so femme, over the top femme, in public. Something to distract her.
The first hit with the cane is a little off, and not too hard. She gasps but does not squirm. The second is two centimeters toward her thighs and harder. Immediately a light stripe appears. She jumps a little and lets one arm drop, grabbing on to my pant leg, as she lets out her breath in a long thin stream through her teeth. The third, quicker now, is at a different angle, crossing the first two. She sucks air back in and lets out a laugh, bubbling like champagne, thrilling and tickling my nose. Good. She’s warm, dropping into that blurry area past the sharp pain and into sensation.
The next dozen or so are more rapid, in succession, some lighter and some fiercely hard and biting. She takes it well. She gasps and begins squirming, but not away, not off of my lap, just to wriggle and shake off some of the building energy. I fall into a pattern of hard-hard-quick-quick-soft-caress where my eyes glaze and my cock hardens. I can see her slit becoming wet, swollen, as pink as her sweet round ass cheeks.
The striping is beautiful, thin welts rising on bull’s eye circles where my hands bruised her first. I can already see some small places where my handiwork reveals itself.
I lean low against her ear again. “It’s going to hurt for a while when you sit,” I say, as a slide the cane away and bring my hand to her singed bottom. It is so tender and sensitive, like stretched skin over the frame of a drum, reverberating with every touch.
She moans. “Thank you, sir.”
I bring her up onto my lap again to hold her for a minute, her ass already uncomfortable. Sitting at the restaurant is going to be excruciating. I stroke her hair and neck, offer her some water and she takes it. She snuggles against my chest, lets me sooth her, then rocks a little on my lap and I realize she is searching for my cock.
“Looking for something?” I ask.
She falters, remembers herself. “No, sir.”
She nods, tries not to look disappointed.
“I have one more thing for you before we leave. Ready?”
She nods again, brings one hand up to her mouth to bite one finger, a childish gesture of nervousness.
I almost laugh. “Nothing bad, sweet girl. This is a present. A surprise.”
Her eyes light up as she slips off my lap. I go over to the closet where I stashed the bag, then sit on the bed, patting the bedspread next to me. She shuffles slowly over the thin carpet in her stockings, smoothing out the skirt of her dress and walking slowly because her legs are still weak from being bent over my lap and beaten. She brings her hands behind her, to touch her ass, as she walks, and I can tell the muscles are already sore.
I hand her the bag. She gives me a shy smile and pulls the shoe box out of the plain white shopping bag. Her eyes widen. She realizes she only brought the flat black shoes she came in.
“Oh!” She exclaims when she opens the box. They took me a few days to find: the exact pink shade as the dress, with a small strap over the arch of her foot, delicate white trim, and a tall, thin four inch heel. She pulls them both out and pushes the wrapping aside on the bed, holds them flat in her hands, grinning. “May I?”
I slip off the bed to kneel in front of her, holding my hand out. She blushes—adorable—and hands the shoes to me, offers me her foot so I can slide them on, one at a time.
She laughs, and twirls. “I feel like these are fancy shoes from my fairy godmother, and I’m Cinderella!”
“You look amazing,” I say, standing up, and offer my hands to help her stand. It may take a minute to get used to them. I take her in my arms again and she melts into me, offering her mouth for more kisses.
When I pull away I take the delicate white panties still laid out on the bed and offer them to her. “Put these on, we wouldn’t want you getting your dress any more wet than it already is. Freshen up your lipstick and let’s go to dinner. Are you hungry?” Her lipstick is smeared from kissing me, and she hasn’t noticed. It’s probably on my mouth. I quickly wipe my mouth in the bathroom mirror and when I come back in, she’s sitting on the bed to step into her panties, pulling them up over her shoes and stockings, leaving them on the outside, so they can be the first thing that comes off later. She stands and picks up the tiny clutch purse she laid out on the dresser, checking her make-up in the dresser mirror. I slide my suit coat over my shoulders, watching her twist the lipstick up and pucker her lips. She would never do these things on her own, but she is flushed and giddy and thrilled, ready to go.
Kristen and I spent the weekend in Chicago, in part to attend a concert, and in part because tomorrow, December 13th, is our third anniversary. This story does not involve daddy/girl play specifically, but there is once when she calls me Daddy. Because that’s what she does. It does involve some rough sex. Just a warning.
While Kristen showers, I put my cock on under my boxers, leaving my tank top on. She emerges with the white hotel towel wrapped around her, hair wet and dripping onto her shoulders. When she sits onto the bed I stand between her legs and pull her towel open, then grab her hand, lifting her to stand.
I pull her to the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto the Chicago river, Lake Michigan, and a dozen other skyscrapers nearby to our hotel, leaving her towel on the bed. I take each of her wrists and press her hands into the cold glass, feeling the outside freezing temperature through the thin barrier.
“Leave your hands there,” I say. I press into the back of her body, kissing her neck. She shivers, a ripple up her spine, and I feel it. “I’m going to take you down. You can stop me anytime, but you’ll have to safeword out. I don’t care if you cry or fight me.” She’d been emotional all day, it is possible she’ll cry. And I’m guessing she needs the release.
So do I.
She nods. “Red?” She doesn’t have a usual safeword aside from yellow and red.
“That’s fine.” I reply. “Okay?”
She nods again. I kick her legs open, press harder into her, and drag my hands along her naked body, the curve of her ribs down to her hip, then over her ass, and I plunge two fingers between her lips, hard and right deep into her. She gasps, arches her back a little to push against me harder. I pull my fingers out and spit on them for lube, inadequate but better than nothing, and work them back in. Pushing deep. Fingering her g-spot and cervix and reaching around with the other hand to touch her clit.
The first time she comes, she drops her hands from the window, tits still pressing into it, cheek against it, her breath fogging up the glass. “Who said you could drop your hands,” I growl at her, and she raises them back up to shoulder height, moaning.
“Come for me again.” I work my fingers inside, mouth on her neck and next to her ear. “You see all those windows out there?” She opens her eyes, looking. We’d remarked the night before that we could watch the TV in the person’s apartment across the way. It wasn’t close enough for much detail, but shapes and people surely.
She swallows. “Yes.”
“Wouldn’t take much for someone to notice you here, getting fucked, getting played with. My little toy. Pretty girl, you think someone is watching you right now?” She comes again, twice more, shuddering against the window, torn between wanting to press into it to hold herself up and pulling away from its chilling temperature.
I want to get rough with her. I know it’s easier to do that—for her; she can take more—if she’s already come a few times, hence the warm up. I want it quick, urgent, and dirty.
I pull back, twist her shoulders to swivel her body around. “Down,” I said, pushing on her shoulders. She almost stumbles down onto her knees on the scratchy hotel carpet. I pull my cock out, the big one I like to fuck with, my favorite, the one that is a little too big for blow jobs, especially in her tiny mouth, even considering her skill.
But right now, I couldn’t care less.
I feed it to her, sliding it onto her tongue. “Put your hands behind your back.” She doesn’t need to be doing the work, this time. She is just a hole. She closes her lips over the head but not much deeper. “Get it all wet.” I pull out and rub it against her mouth. She swallows, works her mouth for more saliva, and opens again, and I push inside, deeper this time.
“Come on, you can do better than that. Take it. Take it down, good girl. Let’s see what you can do.”
She tries, but it isn’t enough. I grip her hair at the base of her neck and push, trapping her between the pressure from my hand and my cock. I thrust in a little deeper each time. I can see the teeth marks in the saliva on my cock. I almost tell her to stop using her teeth, but I don’t really care. I can’t feel it, anyway. If she needs to regulate that way, it’s fine.
I push too deep and she gags, closing her mouth, twisting away so I’m not lined up anymore. “Come on,” I urge again. “You’re fine. Do it again.”
She parts her lips and I shove in. Deep again, more, in and out, until she gags again. I give her a moment and touch my cock back to her lips. “You’re not done yet. Again.”
She looks up at me and swallows, hands still behind her back. “Stick your tongue out,” I say. She does, and I slap it with my cock, four, five times, then shove it in. She closes her lips and sucks, and a jolt of something goes up my spine.
“That’s good. That’s my good girl. That’s right.”
She sucks it well and I grip her head again, forcing it in deeper, holding her against my cock at the deepest point until she recoils. “Breathe,” I remind her. She gasps, regains her breath. I slap her tongue again, slap her cheek, and shove it back in.
I’m hard and thick, pulsing, in her mouth. I can smell the come on her thighs, dripping. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks and looks at me with pleading eyes.
I pull out and shove her again. “Down.” She flattened onto her belly, twists, on to the carpet. “Hands and knees,” I say, kicking at her thighs. “Crawl. Go.”
She moans and picks herself up, slowing moving the short distance from the window to the bed. I shove my heel into the flesh of her ass, knock her off balance. “Keep going.” I get a few kicks in with my bare foot, light and easy, but I feel it reverberate through her. She has been so quiet so far, dropping so quickly into that space of submission and giving over, barely talking, and I suspect this—making her crawl, kicking her—will just exacerbate that. But she is in it, feeling every touch and every inch, showing me everything with her eyes and the flushes on her skin.
“Up,” I say, and she slowly moves to stand, faces away from me, and I shove her, bend her over the bed, hand finding her hole again, spreading her lips open with my hand and positioning my cock. I spit down between her legs, into the crack of her ass, as low as I can, and make circles with the head of my cock to rub it around before pushing inside her. I pull her hips up as I thrust. “Arch your back. Give me that hole.”
She pushes back into me just as I thrust and I get that angle, that tension, that friction that I love, that shoots energy right up through my core and into my heart, throat, and up and out, back into her. I reach around for her clit while thrusting and I thrum it and she comes again, I feel her tighten around my cock but she doesn’t push me out. But the bed is not quite the right height, my knees are bent and I’m pulling her hips up to me, and I need another angle.
I pull out and pushed her legs together. “Turn.” She does, quickly. I shove her back onto the large king hotel mattress and grip her thighs, pushing them apart as I climb onto the bed between her legs and palm my cock, rubbing it against her slit again.
She moans and arches her back. Her cunt is pink and swollen. I spit again but she doesn’t need it, she’s wet and dripping with come.
I keep my cock in my hand and thrust in and out of her, shallow, a few times. She opens her mouth, hands above her head, fists reaching to grip the sheets, pushing against the headboard. I slide closer to her, in the deep V of her legs, pull out and slap her cunt with my cock, aiming the ridge of the head right at her clit. It works, and she comes quickly, come spraying as I keep slapping. I see it splash onto her breasts, onto my boxers. Good thing the hotel towel is under her. She convulses, thrashing against the bed.
“That is so good. So good baby girl, you feel so good.” She whimpers, crying out as I get harder, releasing and open but not in a big dramatic display. “That’s my girl. Come for me again, come on pretty girl—right on my cock, do it for me. Come on.” And she does, almost on cue, thrashing between me and the bed. I take her wrists into one hand, push against her, keep fucking. I’m close, working my clit against the harness strap as much as I’m working into her.
“Thank you Daddy, thank you Daddy,” she manages. Her low sweet voice sends a jolt through me.
“Open your mouth.” I release her hands, though keep my forearm on her shoulder, holding her down, and slide three fingers into her mouth. Her tongue is wet and soft. “Come on, do it. Suck me down. Take me in to all your little holes so I can fill you up. Come for me again. Come on, do it.” She does, mouth open around my fingers, body rattling, legs kicking on either side of me, gasping. My cock stays inside and I work it. “That’s not enough,” I growl into her ear. “Again. More. Come on, I know you can do it.” She comes again, bigger this time, yelling out, spine undulating. “Good, yes, that’s what I wanted, very nice. That’s my girl. That’s my little toy to play with, my little holes to fuck. Such a good girl.”
She quiets and I pull up to slap my cock against her cunt again, making her come a few more times before I’m done with her, pulling back.
I didn’t come. I am still dressed, wearing the boxers and tank top I slept in. She barely touched me. But I’m as satisfied as if I came twice (a rarity), content and buzzing as I lay down next to her and gather her into my arms.
We kiss, curl into each other. When she gets her voice back, she takes a minute to tell me what she liked—”I liked it when you kicked me, made me crawl,” “I liked being against the window,” “I liked coming over and over for you,” “I like when you tell me what to do”—which she knows I like to hear as part of my aftercare. Lessens my top guilt. I hold her close and stroke her skin.
We lay together a while as our bodies quiet and calm, then I strip and get into the shower. Later in the day, doing one last sweep over the hotel room before we leave, I notice her handprints still on the window, and a lip print where her face was pressed up against it. Usually I hate leaving the oils of my hands in prints on glass, too aware of janitorial jobs that must clean up after carelessness, but this time, it’s so pretty, I can’t bring myself to wipe them away.
I’m starting to write a new column on SexIs Magazine, this time it’s an advice column called Mr. Sexsmith Says. The first one came out today, about stone identity and butches, and they’ll be published every other week.
I have a pretty decent stack of index cards from my workshops, as well as some unanswered questions from emails and from the Ask Me Anything Sugarbutch anniversary thread, so I already do have a lot of fodder for this new column.
However! I still get questions pretty frequently, and now that I have a place to put them, I invite you to ask me about things you’d like to know. No seriously, ask away. I can’t promise to answer all of them—I have no idea if I’ll get two or two hundred, so you know, I’ll have to do some experimenting here—but I will do my best.
So now there’s a sugarbutch.net/ask-me-anything URL, and a place specifically to submit questions. Please feel free to ask away.
It started with an email with the subject line “butch at your service,” and an offer for a blow job. And I thought, hm. Well, you know, I do like those. But I’m not usually attracted to boys. So, we’ll see.
Then at Summer Camp, rife made a point to say hello. We chatted a bit, attended similar workshops. I was surprisingly affected by his energy, his tender sweetness, the way he was clear about what he wanted and owned his desires but still bashful and shy, submissive. I watched him blush and bruise and cringe, and take it, when the person he was serving for the weekend gave him some punches on the arm, and I felt the urge come from down low to see if I could make him respond to me that way.
I’m not usually attracted to boys, but I was attracted to this boy.
The next day, chatting, he said shyly, “What’s your schedule like? I would love the opportunity to play with you.” He wasn’t looking at me when he asked that, and had trouble sometimes maintaining eye contact when we spoke. When I came near him, his voice dropped, quieter, and so did his eyes. His mouth curled at the corner with the slightest little lines of dimples.
I said, “I don’t know my schedule yet, and I need to check with my girl, but I would like that.” Kristen and I had agreed that I could do things to practice skills before she came down and joined me at Summer Camp for the weekend, but that if I was going to be doing any fucking, I would wait until she arrived, and she could be there to witness.
I could tell he was experienced as I watched him get hit for fun, make dates, talk about his adventures at the dining table, and play. I kept my eye on him as I continued teaching and attending classes, and later picked up Kristen at the train station, telling her that I thought I would be interested in playing with him. “He’s really cute,” she said after they met. “I can see why. I don’t have to be involved, but it’s fine with me if you play. I’d like to be there.”
I kept seeing rife all day, but hadn’t quite figured when we could play. In the morning we circled each other and didn’t talk, but I saw him looking at me, and he saw me looking back. The quiet attention got me hard. I made a point to go up to him and grip his upper arm, and whisper in his ear, “Good morning.” Later, I found him at dinner the next night and asked about his evening plans. “See me at the Cigars & Chocolate event,” I said, “and we’ll go do something after.”
He came in after I did, with his crew of folks, and I saw him scan the room looking for me. I got my boots done by a talented bootblacker, smoked a cigar, learned about ashtrays. When the place started thinning out, he came over to me. He and Kristen and I headed up to the barn, which was empty: one big room with a concrete floor, some platform bleachers on one side, and a mat and bondage trestle of sorts in one corner. Kristen sat herself on the bleachers. rife picked up a few unlubricated condoms from the bins laid out on the safer sex table.
I took hold of his unsnapped black shirt lapels, his binder and the skin of his stomach exposed underneath. He inhaled. I pushed with my fists to move him around a little, feeling our legs move together in a dance, feeling how he followed. Immediately he fell in to my direction.
“Anything I should know?”
He didn’t look at me, keeping his chin low and shoulders in a little bit of a shrug, letting me move his body around the room. “Bruises are fine. I like barriers. I’d like to suck your cock.” We said a few more things in negotiation that I can’t quite remember. He was direct and clear, but quiet, keeping his head curled down. I think this is when we kissed. Perhaps I asked if kissing was okay first. Then he asked, “Can I call you sir?”
I grinned. “Yes.”
He shifted his weight and started backing me up, moving me. I followed. “Where are you taking me?”
He stopped at the mat and trestle. “I’m a masochist, but not for concrete floors.” I found the pole of the trestle and leaned against it, pulling him to me and opening his knees a little with mine, finding his mouth again. He shuddered, body pliable, giving in easily and smoothly. There wasn’t a lot of kissing—so intimate with someone I don’t know—but we kept our heads close, him curled into my shoulder while I kept a grip on his body.
“Will you call me a faggot?” he asked quietly into my neck. I didn’t hear, asked him to repeat it.
“That’s what you like, huh, dirty boy.”
“Yes, sir,” he breathed out.
“Unh, god you’re so sweet,” my hands went to my belt, zipper, untucking from my harness. “Are you ready to suck my cock now?”
“Yes,” he didn’t move. I didn’t ask him to do it, but if he was ready.
I fingered the back of his head, his short and soft hair. “Do it,” I growled in his ear, and he dropped to his knees, in a flash had a condom in his hand, rolled it onto the tip and pushed it down the shaft with his mouth. I felt a surge of power and pleasure roll through me, up my legs into my core, as he sucked me in. I fumbled to tighten my harness, moved my hands back to his head.
He took the length of it down easily, his tongue gentle and persistent as he sucked. I leaned into the trestle, aware that Kristen was getting a show, that she doesn’t usually get to watch me receive from afar. I fingered his neck, cupped his jaw, touched his lips with my fingers and he sucked them into his mouth.
After a moment I broke away and leaned down to kiss him, his mouth wet. “You like that, faggot? Sucking my cock?”
“Yes, yes sir,” he managed, gasping a little.
“You’re good at it. Do it again,” and I slid back onto his tongue. “Mm,” I groaned. His hair was almost shaved all around except a wide mohawk patch on top, which I grabbed hold of to work in and out of his mouth, gently. Kind of.
“That is so good,” I leaned down to kiss him again. My cock was throbbing and hard. “You got me all hard, sweet little faggot.”
He swallowed and whispered up to me, “I want you to throw me down.”
“You do huh.” He was on his knees, thrown off balance with not very far to fall when I gripped his upper arms and pushed him to the floor. No fighting at all, just letting my weight take him, grounding him down into the mat. His eyes closed, he bit his lip, curled his small sweet body as he rearranged himself, getting his legs out from under him, and I worked a knee between his thighs. I held his shoulders down and reached between his legs, a little surprised he wasn’t packing, finding the heat and feeling my own cock harden in response, jutting out from my hips.
Small sounds from his mouth as he groaned and pushed against me, testing the feeling of being trapped. I gripped his sports bra and ace bandage binder in one hand over his chest and worked the other hand between his legs, over his jeans, and could feel him bucking forward, wanting more. “That feel good on your dick, huh? Getting hard for me?” I asked. He panted. I realized I didn’t have a glove.
“Stay right here,” I said next to his ear, pushing my body on top of his, my arms holding me up on the mat. “I’m going to get a glove. Put your arms over your head.” He did. “Stay like that. I’ll be right back. You alright?”
He nodded, quickly. I didn’t want to get up but wanted a hand down his pants, wanted to feel him, and trusted that staying in this position I’d ordered him in would only deepen his submission. I stood and took the ten or so steps to the supply table, picked up a glove and some lube packets. I looked at Kristen as I went across the room, but in the dark shadows it was hard to decipher her expression. Upset? Okay? Turned on? All three? I trusted she would tell me if she needed anything.
When I returned, I let myself look at rife a moment before bringing myself back down to the floor. His body quivered a little, waiting for me, arms still extended over his head, one hand in the other. “Hi,” I said as I knelt next to him, my eyes scanning over his black button down shirt open, his tight stomach, smooth skin. I ran my hand along the skin that was exposed and pushed at his body again, felt him groan and shudder in response.
I unbuckled, unzipped his jeans, fast, eager, and pulled them down on his thighs, not past his knees, left them high to give some restriction to his legs and thighs, and then pulled on his hips. “Turn,” I said, impatient. “Over.” He did, flat until I pulled his ass up to kneeling, his elbows out in front of him to catch his body weight as I pushed him down into the mat. My gloved fingers easily found his hole and slid in, one then two, then out again and along the whole length of him, feeling how smooth and supple, testing his responses. He was sensitive, back arching at the slightest change in pressure or speed. I slid my fingers back inside, turned my hand over and worked his g-spot, massaging, and he moaned.
Tearing open a lube packet for my cock, I smeared it onto the length and pressed myself behind him, sliding in awkwardly but fully. My jeans and his jeans were in the way, mine not pushed down any farther than his, our legs tangled, the angle wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t get that good drive, all the way in and out, but I wanted him to feel me behind him for a while, taking hold of his hips and pulling him back onto me. His back and neck arched, spine curled. I managed a building rhythm for four, five, six strokes, pushed my hips hard into him, held him to me, shuddering a little as I felt myself diving into him.
He kept breathing hard, mouth open and drooling on the dirty mat. I gripped his hair again, pushed his shoulders down. “That’s it, good boy,” I murmured, thrusting still, opening him up, my hips pulsing. “Fuck.”
I switched to my hand again so I could better feel his muscles, his responses. Fingered his clit and his back rippled. Thrust in hard and he smashed his cheek into the floor.
“You’re dripping wet,” I growled into his ear. I slid my arm under his chest and pulled him up to his knees. There was a puddle on the mat beneath him, another damp place where his mouth had been on the mat. We knelt next to each other, his knees apart, jeans bunched under his calves.
He nodded in response.
“Yes sir, I’m wet, sir.”
“You didn’t tell me you do that.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“No, I like it. I just didn’t know.” The sleeve of my sweater was damp, but I couldn’t tell if it was from him or from sweating. I kissed him again, his mouth open and chest heaving, lips swollen as I ran my tongue on them. I brought my left hand up to his jaw and held him there as we kissed deeper, then slid two fingers into his mouth. He sighed and moaned, swallowed them deeper, bent his head back to open his throat, kept them deep, then slid them in and out.
“Oh, that’s good, faggot. Sweet boy, that is so good.” My own muscles shuddered in response throughout my body, thighs contracting, and for a second I thought I’d fall over. I kept my mouth next to his ear. “Touch your clit with your other hand. Come for me again. Will you?”
He nodded, eyes lidded and mostly closed, and he slowly brought his hand between his legs. I could barely see what he was doing but could feel his body respond, tightening, his stomach crunching in as his hips tightened and thrust, just a little.
“Is that good? Does that feel good?” I teased in his ear. He swallowed and I felt his throat contract around my fingers. “I like being deep in your throat like this. You suck cock really well, little fag. Does it feel good to touch down there? Are you going to come for me again?” I kept going, pushing a little with my voice and my fingers, until his body convulsed and he squirted again, falling against me. “Oh that’s nice, good boy,” I murmured, running my hands along his body as he quieted.
“Is that enough, or do you want some more?”
He straightened up and looked at me, a little sly. “I could … take a little more.”
“Oh, you could, huh.” I could hit him, I thought, but I loved how sensitive he is to touch. Loved how he curls in response, gives in, takes it. I loved watching him come. I pushed him down again, on his back this time, pushed his jeans a little further down, and slid my fingers down his cunt again, still dripping and wet everywhere. I slid two fingers in easily and held his chest down with my forearm, then gripped his binder again, pulling at it, leaning my weight into him.
He held my wrist, groaned. “More,” he managed to say, and I slid another finger in, pushed harder in and out, twisted my hand so my thumb was up on his clit and pinky finger was below his hole, and thrust in. I anchored my hand above his shoulder so I could go in harder. He twisted under me but couldn’t move away from my grip, my knees holding his thighs apart.
“Is that what you wanted? More?”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, just barely audible, in my ear.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Again,” as I thrust harder inside, fingering his g-spot, felt him tightening.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir thank you … ” He trailed off, coming again, pushing my fingers out, and I didn’t let up, flicked his clit as he continued shuddering, mouth open so I slid my fingers back in, working them in and out, fucking his mouth and feeling his tongue swollen on my knuckles. I cupped my hand around him for a moment, then tapped and started slapping, which got a moan from his mouth and more convulsing from his stomach and hips, so I kept going, slapping, and I felt him squirt again, wetness dripping from my hand. Probably I was saying other dirty things while I touched him, I don’t remember. This time I got to watch more directly, and that’s what I wanted. I watched his muscles ripple and settle, ran my hands up under his shirt, clamored up next to him to feel his body along mine.
“You smell like a boy,” I said, his musky scent so different than what I’m used to. He laughed, and had this smile on his face by then, a grin, ecstatic and giddy, and I wanted to kiss him, slap his face, get him back on his knees. The hunger was still palpable, I wanted more. I also figured he had other plans, didn’t want to take up his whole night, and knew I should check in with Kristen. He sat up, pulled his shirt and tangled binder off. I tugged my jeans up, took my sweater off, my button down shirt underneath totally soaked through with sweat. I gathered the condom and glove, ripped lube packets, brought them over to the other side of the room, and grabbed some wet wipes for the mat. He took them from my hand, “Let me, I made the mess,” with that shy little side smile with the lines, dimples, at the corners of his mouth, and we composed ourselves to go back out into the dark night.
He walked Kristen and I back up to our room and went off to find trouble. It’s been an interesting experiment, for Kristen and I to play with other people, and we have been talking about it openly and being interested and careful with each other about it. That’s kind of another post I have brewing, how we are dealing with our particular version of monogamish openness. And don’t worry, Kristen wasn’t left out—she had her own adventures during Summer Camp weekend.
What was your first time strapping like? What advice do you have for strap-on virgins? My butch just placed the online order for her first cock, and I have no idea of what to expect.
Go slow. Use lots of lube. LOTS of lube. More than you think you might need, especially at first. It’s just a little messy, which is always better than having not enough. DON’T use silicone lube, as it’ll screw up your silicone toys.
Talk to each other, be as vocal as you can—even “ooh yeah ooh yeah” type of vocalizations will help give cues to each other about what feels good and what is not quite working.
Don’t be afraid to slow each other down or stop. It might just click and work and be amazing, but you also might want to just do it as something to try and to play with, at least for now, so don’t expect one or both of you to get off, especially not at first.
If you’re not used to penetration during sex, you might want to mess around with getting yourself off (or her getting you off, using her hands on your clit I mean) while she’s inside, but without much in-and-out motion, at least for now, while you’re getting used to the feeling of her cock.
The typical porn positions are the best, in my opinion, which is why they are so frequently used—missionary, and doggy style from behind (in various incarnations, like leaning over the bed, or with your head down on the bed instead of on all fours). In missionary, also try it with her sitting up on her knees, with her thighs under your thighs, that is often a really good angle.
Don’t be afraid to touch it, kiss it, lick it, suck it—that stuff can be really hot, though that can also be kind of delicate, so see how your girlfriend feels about it. Sometimes it seems to me, as the strap-on wearer, that I am expected to be the one who does all the action once I put it on, but my point is that you can do things, too. If you aren’t sure if she wants you to touch it (or kiss it or suck on it), ask. “Would you mind if I …” “Wow, I didn’t expect to want to … , but I do, please may I?”
Personally I think just about any sex act is all the more hot with someone saying what they are doing (or want to do), regardless of what it is. Maybe that’s me—I really love language.
Most women can’t come from penetration alone, which I assume the two of you know, but just a reminder that you both might want to start practicing touching your clit while she’s fucking you, either with your hand or, if she can reach comfortably, with hers. It takes some practice to be able to fuck with a cock and use your hand at the same time, but it’s possible! And worth figuring out how.
And from her side … it is possible to get off while strapped on, but that might take some time and practice. For me, I like the harness to be VERY tight, tighter than is all that comfortable around my hips, because I like to be able to feel every stroke against my cunt while I’m fucking. I like the stimulation of a one-strap (g-string style) harness better than a two-strap (jock strap style) harness, but that seems to be the minority opinion, so your milage may vary. She can try adding bullet vibes or butt plugs or the We-Vibe to increase stimulation, though I find those are more distracting than helpful. But if she really likes a vibration on her clit or something in her ass, that might be just the push she needs to be able to fuck and come.
Other than that, in my experience, to be able to come while strapped on, just following the sensation—when you find a spot that feels good, rub up on it, over and over, and see how far that can take you.
Consider anything you do in playing with it an experiment, and collect the data of that experiment. Did it work? Would it work better if one variable was different? Would you try it again? Or was it a complete fail and did not feel good? Gather the data and figure out what you like and don’t like, what was luke-warm and what you might try later if things were a little different.
Did I mention lube?
And … the first part of that question was, what was my first time strapping on like? Well, to be honest, my first time strapping on was to peg a guy, my boyfriend of about 5 years that I was with in high school. I bought a strap-on when we broke up, and I came out as a lesbian, and it was a tiny silicone thing that was very hard silicone and black and narrow. I do still have it, actually, I keep thinking it might be a good size for anal sex, but then again, now that I have the Spur why would I use a cock that was so hard?
We then went cock shopping together and bought a cock that was roughly the size and shape of his, which was what I pegged him with. It was fun enough to peg him, but it also made me realize that I was (really really for sure) a dyke and wasn’t that into it.
I did fuck my first girlfriend with a strap-on, but we were more of the I-do-you-you-do-me type of couple, so we took turns. It took quite a few more years before I felt like I had a cock that was mine—really not until I ended the relationship with my college girlfriend and started dating femmes exclusively. Which I have widely chronicled here!
It’s been a long journey to claiming my cock-centricity and cock confidence. Actually, I teach workshops on Cock Confidence now, in case you’d like to attend one—I’ll be doing it next at Good Vibrations in San Francisco in August.
Anything else y’all would recommend? Any other tips for first-time strap-on users?
Like Tuesday, I also have a question about strap-on sex. Whenever my girl and I use a strap-on, the cock always falls out because I move entirely too much. We’ve tried numerous positions and restraints (we rarely have sex without them). Got any additional solutions?
The first thing that comes to mind is that you might want to get a bigger cock—at least a longer one. Which one are you using right now?
And maybe she would say she doesn’t want or need any more length inside her, but that’s okay—just because it is 8″ or 10″ doesn’t mean you have to put all of those inches in her. And if you have a longer shaft, you can pull out farther and move around (which is what it seems like you want to and like to do) and still not pull all the way out.
I would suggest one like this one, Bandit, which is 7″ long. It does have balls, but they are very flat, so I think it’s still about 6 3/4″ insertable. It’s made by Vixen Creations and it is one of my favorites.
But, if getting a new cock is not an option, for whatever reason (her comfort, your wallets, etc), here’s a few other ideas.
Try keeping your hand on your cock most of the time while you’re fucking. I do this a lot, also because I don’t want to slip out and can easily do that sometimes, especially when I get going. I find it’s most comfortable for me to either have my hand loosely on the base, or up against her, where the cock is going in, loosely. Sometimes it is very good in this position to be able to stimulate her clit, too (or finger her asshole, or whatever). This is so you can feel when you’re about to come out, you can feel the ridge of the head of your cock if you pull out that far, and you can keep yourself inside.
Try moving less! Seriously. I understand it probably feels good when you do that, but there are other ways to move so you can still feel good and you aren’t slipping out as much. See if you can get a side-to-side movement working well. Practice moving your hips in a circle rather than in-and-out. Or go in-and-out but use a different angle, so you don’t pull out so far. Try five quick strokes in-and-out at about half-length, not all the way, and then five excruciatingly slow strokes where you pull pretty much all the way out.
Try tightening your harness so you can feel any movements better, maybe you won’t need to move around so much that way.
You said you’ve tried other positions, but try more. If she’s on top, she can control the depth and it’s a lot harder to pull all the way out. If you’re on top, try drawing your knees up instead of having your legs splayed out straight so you have more control with your hips.
If none of this works to prevent slipping out, well, maybe you can just accept that you’re going to fuck and buck wildly, and you’re going to slip out. I mean, does that really matter so much? Just put it back in. You might want to create a script that you say—or a couple different scripts—so that it becomes part of the play, and also so that she has a way to tell you that you’ve slipped out without embarrassing you or you feeling silly for having continued to fuck without being actually inside (it’s one of the downfalls of not actually having nerves there). She can say, for example, “Wait, I want you inside me, come back, you’ve slipped, put it back in.” You can tease her and say, “Do you really want it?” and make her beg or say please. Or she can order you around and make YOU beg to put it back in, if that’s more like your dynamic.
Okay, what say you out there reading this? Any other ideas for staying inside? Any more thoughts or suggestions?
What’s your advice on positions that work for strap-on sex between people of very different heights? especially taller person receiving
Well, if your torsos are different lengths, especially if the one receiving is much taller, it’s going to be pretty difficult to be in the missionary position—or just about any position where you are strapped on and fucking and also simultaneously kissing (on the mouth) and holding each other close.
If your thigh heights are different, then fucking from behind on hands and knees is going to be difficult too. If both your torso and your thighs are different heights, it’ll be almost impossible to get into a position where your entire bodies are pressed up against each other and fucking at the same time.
There are still many other positions you can fuck easily in, but that one is going to be hard, maybe impossible.
1. Strap on wearer (giver) seated, receiver on top, straddling
2. Receiver bent over a bed which is at the giver’s hip height
3. Receiver with their knees tucked under them, but leaning forward, so they can hold themselves up at the right height by their thighs; giver behind them
4. Giver on their knees, with the receiver on the bed (or floor or etc) on their back, receiver’s thighs up over giver’s knees; giver stays upright. (I particularly like this one for rough and deep penetration because I can grab on to their thighs and move them against me.)
You may just have to try any or every position, until you find a few that seem to work most of the time, and go for those. Try glancing through one of those positions for sex books—you probably don’t need to buy it, just glance through it—and see if any of them strike you.
You also might want to think about getting some sex furniture. They’re much more solid than regular bedroom pillows, and the microsuade material means that you don’t slip or slide. Sometimes those are excellent for angles and positioning, it might be worth trying (though they are expensive). Take a look at the Liberator Wedge, Ramp (which is the best for multiple positions), or the Ramp & Wedge combo.
Anyone else have suggestions?
WARNING: This story contains Daddy/girl play (and dirty talk). Read Part I.
She is a bad girl.
There is very specific protocol if she wants me to fuck her. She is supposed to ask for it, nicely. If she’s embarrassed, she is to sit on my lap and tell me she has a secret.
She wants it, all the time. She is the first girl I’ve dated seriously who has a higher sex drive than I do.
I want her to own her desires. To know there’s nothing wrong or shameful about wanting to be fucked, to be opened, to be taken. But sometimes, she can’t. She forgets she’s supposed to ask, and instead drops hints and tries to turn me on, to entice me. Sometimes, this frustrates me. Sometimes, it becomes a game, reminding her she is a bad girl for wanting it and not being able to tell me.
This is what happens.
I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. She doesn’t look at me as she finds the place marked by a small piece of paper and starts reading. I’m not paying attention; she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. Her legs stir, she shifts position, pull them underneath her as she inches closer to me.
I turn a page. She turns her eyes to the pages of her book, moves them along the words, not reading. She’s tried to get my attention all through dinner. Touched her foot to my ankle under the table. Gazed at me, lusty and devourous. Touched my hand and forearm, leaned across the table to display her breasts. Kept her thighs apart. Crossed them, rubbed her legs together.
She gets frustrated that I’m not paying attention. Starts pouting a little. She sighs, audibly.
I ignore her.
We read a while. I’m deeply involved in the middle of this book, and besides, didn’t she just get fucked this morning? I am impatient with this seduction routine, it makes me feel anxious, itchy. And simultaneously, something dark in me growls from down low.
I finish my tea, put my book down, and get up to brush my teeth. When I emerge, she watches me from the couch, waiting for some cue from me, and almost rolls her eyes when I give her none. She sets her book down on the coffee table a little harder than necessary and gets up to brush her teeth, wash her face, prepare for bed.
We cross next to each other in the hallway and I slam her up against the wall, face first. She whimpers, gasps. Breathes in.
“Is this what you wanted?” I grip her arm and twist it behind her, my mouth close to her cheek.
WARNING: This story contains Daddy/girl play (and dirty talk).
Sometimes, I am a Bad Daddy: I hate it.
I hate it and I want it and I crave it and I hate that I want and crave it, this, this girl, this way that I use her, this way she uses me. Sometimes I resent it. Her, me, my own desires. Why do they run this way? Where did these wounds come from, or are they scars now?
I have to remind myself not to ask myself too many of those questions. That it’s okay to want what I want. That after the flash of feminist guilt, as Karlyn Lotney once wrote, it is quite the handy little fetish.
And it is a fetish, or maybe rather it is many fetishes wrapped up and tied with a big pretty satin red bow. Power. Gender. Age.
I hate it, but I have never loved any play more.
This is what happens.
I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. I don’t watch her as I take another sip of my tea. This is what I practice: Not paying attention. But in not paying attention I still pay attention, I just don’t let her know that I’m paying attention. When I notice I’m focused on her, I try to turn the focus inward. What do I want right now? And I feel something stir.
She inches closer to me. I turn a page. She sighs inaudibly. I turn my eyes to the pages of my book, move them along the words, not reading.
I don’t look up, yet. “Yes?”
“Can I …”
“May I.” I correct.
“May I … sit on your lap please?” It comes out in one quick string.
I pull the bookmark out of the back of the book and slide it in between the pages, close the book, set it on the coffee table, look up at her. Her eyes gleam gently. Hopefully. Like she just asked for candy at the grocery store. Her dress is pushed up from how her legs are crossed on the couch and I can see a hint of her inner thigh, and I want my cheek on it, want to bite it, want to feel her squirm and hold her there between my teeth as I leave marks. I breathe in. Keep it under control.
“Yes, sure darling.” With the Good Daddy voice.
She climbs over, sits sideways on my lap, knees bent over my thighs. Wraps her arms around my shoulders and her face buried into my neck and collarbone. Her hair smells faintly of shampoo, clean and bright with a gently fruit-flavored hint. It’s soft and thin and I bring one hand up to the back of her head, play with the gentle curls there.
She settles in and drops one hand to my chest, resting it on my waist. I shift a little, a growl rising in my belly. My arms fold easily around her. I don’t notice the sigh I let out, a low hum, the precursor to the growl.
“I like to sit on your lap.” She snuggles a little closer. I can feel a tightness spreading in my groin. I don’t say anything. “Do you like it?”
“Does it feel good?” Her voice drops softer.
“Does it feel good …” she’s whispering now. “In your pants?”
I stir. My cock stirs, jumps. The growl grows. My arms tingle and tense, a sensation I want to let out with a fist. “Yes.” I whisper too. Our mouths are close.
I am a Bad Daddy. I want my girl to do dirty things; I want to do dirty things to her. I know she’d let me if only I asked, but sometimes the desperation is more fun. The arguing with myself. The attempts at holding myself noble, resisting her sweet girlish body. Feeling dirty for wanting it so much that my palms ache.
“I feel you getting hard, Daddy,” she keeps her head low, shifts her hips to rock against my cock. My eyes roll back, wrists go slack. So soon. Fuck.
“Do you, now.”
“Yes.” She waits. “Can I feel it?”
“You want to?”
“Yes.” Again, a pause. “Please?”
My hands flex. “Please what?”
“Please can—may I touch your cock, Daddy?” She knows how I like to hear it. All the way through, from the ‘please’ to the way she should address me when we play.
I try not to groan audibly. I swallow instead, clear my throat. “Well, since you asked so nice and pretty. Yes, sweet girl, you may.”
She bites her lips and shifts her hips again, reaches down with one hand to grip the hard packer I’d slipped in after dinner. She strokes it through my trousers. She licks her lips unconsciously.
“Daddy,” she presses close to me, hand still stroking, and I feel her small, round breasts against my chest. “It’s too big. It should come out of your pants, Daddy.” Her lips are nearly touching my ear and she knows how I love that. My whole body shudders, relaxes, stomach muscles clench for a moment as I contract and release. I picture her pretty hands with her perfect sparkly red nails wrapped around my cock. I picture her lowering her lipstick-painted mouth toward it. I am a Bad Daddy, and she is so good.
“It’s big and hard in your pants, Daddy. Don’t you want to take it out? It’s too tight under there. Too big. Can I take it out? Daddy, can I?” Her lips are on my neck, earlobe, jaw. I can barely see straight.
I breathe out. “Yes. Yes, you may.”
She slips off my lap and crouches between my knees, staying on her tiptoes on the floor and unbuttons, unzips my pants, pulls the too-big cock from under my briefs and straightens it out, poking from my fly. She wraps one hand around it, then the other. “Mmmm,” she hums a little, smiling, stroking, biting her lower lip then keeping them parted, pressing them together.
Her lips are flushed red.
She watches her fingers stroking my cock for a quick minute, then looks up at me, still crouched. “Daddy …”
I bring one hand down to her jaw line and trace it gently with my thumb. She leans into it a little, eyelids half closed.
“Daddy,” she starts again. “I could put my mouth on it. Don’t you like that? You like it when I do that. And I like to make you feel good. It feels good when I put my mouth on it, Daddy. Can I?”
I stiffen, feel my cock jump. Breathe in. It is so dirty to want this so badly. To hear her beg, to hear her ask over and over at each step of the way. I fight every urge I have to just shove my cock into her mouth, slide it over her tongue, and instead do my best to resist, and the tension keeps my body cocked and loaded.
She flattens her tongue and runs it over the very tip, smiling up at me. “I’m a good girl, Daddy. I know how to make it feel good.”
That breaks me. I breathe out. “Yes, I know you do, sweet girl. Put your mouth on it for me.”
She swallows the spit her mouth is already excessively producing and opens her mouth, and that momentary flash of a pause burns my eyes as if I’d hit pause, her hovering open lips just centimeters away and closing in.
When she drops down, my cock slides in effortlessly, right into the vacant space she’s made for it, and I barely feel it until she’s got the head at the back of her throat and closes her lips around the shaft and pulls up, sucks, lips pushing out as she slides them up and over the ridge, until it pops free.
Mouth open, lips wet, she pauses to say quietly, “I like it in my mouth,” then bends her neck again and takes it deeper, sucking expertly.
I could watch her do this for an hour, two. What is it about this that gets me so hard and hot? I can’t feel it, but I can feel it, every stroke, every graze of her teeth, every swirl of her tongue, as if it was me filling with blood and swelling as she closes her mouth around it, again and again. My hips tighten and knees rotate open, just barely, pushing.
“That feels good,” I manage to mumble, eyes blurry, as I slide my hand into her hair, tangle my fingers into it.
She glows at the slightest praise. “You like that, Daddy? Does it make your cock feel good to be in my mouth?”
“I like it, Daddy. You can put it in my mouth when it gets big and hard. It feels good. I like to suck on it.”
“You’re getting it all wet.”
“Yes Daddy. My mouth gets wet when I suck on it. Want to see?”
I nod. She swallows a little again, pools the saliva on her tongue, dips her neck down to my cock and slides it deep, far back into her throat. I groan. She leaves it there for as many seconds as she can. When she opens her mouth to slide it out, it glistens slick with the thick spit from her throat. She smiles as it strings from the tip of my cock to her lips. Again, and she leaves even more wet behind. She laps at it with her tongue, moves it around.
I groan again. “Baby, that’s so good, you’re so good at that.”
She rubs her lips together, licks them, swallows. Shifts her legs and raises up to bring her mouth close to mine. I quickly bring my hands to her waist, squeeze the sweet curve of her hips, and bring her body in closer and bring her mouth to mine, kiss her hard. I’m practically panting. She knows it, too.
“I like it. It feels good for me too. See, Daddy?” She raises one knee up next to my thigh on the couch and pulls my hand from her body down between her legs, and I feel her pussy against my hand, swollen and slick, before she slides two of my fingers into her easily.
“Feel that? Sucking on your big cock makes my pussy all wet.” Her mouth is by my ear again. “It’s okay, Daddy. You can put your cock in all my little holes. You like it when we play this game. You can put it in my pussy, too. Want to put it in my pussy now, Daddy? Do you want to?” My fingers go in and out, pausing to rub circles over her clit. “See how wet my pussy is? It’s wet for your cock, Daddy. So it will slide right in and go in and out. It’s just for your cock. Don’t you want it in there? It’s okay, I want you to put it in, I want you to, Daddy …”
She shifts in my lap and knees on either side of my thighs, starts guiding my cock toward her hole. I watch, slip my fingers out, bring my eyes up to her face as she reaches for the shaft to guide it in. “Do it,” I growl low, already thick and pulsing just feeling her slick lips touch the tip. “Slide it in, baby. That’s good. Yeah, like that.” And she does, she slides it right inside, slow, and pushes all the way down until her thighs are pressed against mine.
We both shudder and sigh, and she rests her cheek on my shoulder for a second before clenching her thighs and lifting her body up and off of me until only the tip of my cock is touching her opening, then pressing down and letting her weight rest on me again, clenching, squeezing her thighs together.
My eyes roll back. I breathe in. I can’t stand it.
“I like it, Daddy. I like it going in and out. I like your big cock in my little pussy. Does it feel good, Daddy?”
I move my hands to her hips and hold her steady, start thrusting with my hips. I’m close. She’s got me so close. “So good, you’re such a good girl, baby, my good girl.” My lips can barely form words. She kisses me, sucks my tongue into her mouth, wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight with her thighs and cunt.
“Do it more, Daddy. Do it harder. Please? Please put it in my pussy. Please, harder, Daddy, please, please …” She knows I’m close from the way my hips are shuddering, faster now, more of a shake than a thrust. She keeps her lips next to my ear. “Do it, Daddy, come in my pussy, make your cock come in my pussy Daddy, please, come Daddy, come Daddy …” And I do, I thrust harder up inside her and my groans and grunts turn into yelling, fuck, yeah, fuck, body pulsing, gushing, until I feel every drop squeezed out of me, and I collapse back, head rolling gently, eyes closed, as she kisses my neck and rocks gently against me.
I breathe out. Open my eyes. Smooth her hair, run my hand along the side of her body. “My good girl.”
She grins and brings her mouth down to mine again, sweet soft kisses, and I wrap my arms around her.
What are some tools/techniques that help someone to “try on” a dominant persona? … How can I help her to get into the right mindset? How would you advise a new, and perhaps, reluctant dom to become more comfortable with her power? —Sophia
Great question. Wish I had had some guidelines, or someone who could’ve given me some pointers, when I was starting to come into my own dominant/top orientation.
I think it’s important to have conversations, outside of the bedroom, about your interest in playing with domination and submission, and to do some assurance that you want to be submissive—that you really really want to be submissive, and oh aren’t you so lucky that the two of you can play with that together. You might have to continually assure them of your desire to submit—before, during, and after. I know from my own experience, it sometimes boggled my mind that someone would let me do all those things I wanted to do to them, but I still felt that twinge of guilt and worry that I was going to hurt them, somehow. Assure them that they will not hurt you—or rather, that a) you want them to hurt you, and b) if they hurt you too much, or in a way that you don’t like, you are fully capable of using your safe word and getting out of the situation. They have to trust that you can take care of yourself if things get to be too much. You have to be fully capable of saying no for the yes to have any meaning.
Talk about what might happen if they do hurt you in the wrong ways—that you’ll stop, that you won’t both jerk away and get all distant, but that you’ll have a minute to talk about it, assure each other that it was not intentional and you both know the other wouldn’t do something that was too much on purpose. Apologize, and try to understand why it was too much, if it was just circumstantial (we’ve done this other times and right now it just wasn’t right) or if it was the actual thing (you tried this new thing and it went too far), or something else entirely.
There are some exercises you can do around this, if you want to. For example, you could do some light play with the intention of safewording out of it, at some point, to practice. And when you do safeword out, practice that moment of coming back together, taking care of each other’s needs, and then getting back into the play. A safeword doesn’t have to mean “stop forever and ever I need hours to recover,” it could just mean “okay I really need a break from this for just ten minutes and they don’t seem to be letting up.”
Say things like, “I liked this and this and this that you did, but this one small part was just too much for these reasons.” Assure and re-assure, especially in the beginning. Tell them what you liked, what was working.
Remember that your safeword can also be no or “stop” or “enough” if you aren’t playing with power exchanges where those words are used to arouse.
It really helps to have some parameters when playing with dominance or topping and trying to bring about a more dominant persona in bed. Those parameters can be various things: time, clothing or costume, dirty talking, or assuming another role with certain expectations.
Using time as a parameter can be a great way to start. Put a timer on and say, “I’m going to spank you for 5 minutes, and then we’re going to make love.” Or count: 30 spanks with my hand, 5 minutes of warm-up with the flogger and then 10 really hard strokes, 5 strokes with the cane.
Sometimes certain clothes can really enhance an exchange, and sometimes just one key item can transform a scene from “us” to “play.”
Dirty talk has been key for me in getting more comfortable with my dominant persona. Not only was it key for me to hear a semi-constant reassurance from people I was sleeping with that they liked what I was doing, it is also a way for us to keep in better contact during play, because we’re engaging our brains instead of possibly zoning out.
Role play can be a fantastic way to try on a dominant persona and get more comfortable inside of it, because you can hide behind both the fantasy and the role. Most role plays requre some sort of negotiation before hand, especially if you’re talking about what you’re doing (or what you’re doing in the fantasy). Say you decide that you’ll be a student and they will be a teacher, and you’ll do anything to get a better grade on that test, even bend over the desk. You’ve established a power dynamic, it’s within these specific constraints (because you’ll just go back to being yourselves when you’re out of these roles, you don’t have to own the desires quite as much when you’re stepping into another persona), and you’ve already established some guidelines about what you’re going to do and how you’re going to yeild that power such that your partner consents (“anything” for that better grade, even bend over the desk). They know this, because you already talked about it.
That kind of scenario gives someone permission to play with variations on a theme. They know they can bend you over the desk—but what happens if they try to get you on your knees first, or to sit on their lap? They know they have permission to do these kinds of things (especially if you’re good at the dirty talk, egging them on: “What do I have to do? Tell me, I’ll do it, you just tell me what to do. I have to get a good grade, I have to pass this class, I just have to.”).
So: negotiate, talk dirty, role play, fantasize together, work on your trust.
And don’t forget to assure and re-assure. Do it sincerely, don’t push it too hard, but step up and express the things you loved, the ways you felt, what you’d like to do again or more of. Write it down in email or chat (or a shared Google document) if it’s hard to do in person. Do it in pillow talk right after, if your tongue is more loose at that time.
Hope that helps.
That’s where that whole online writing project (aka blog) of mine started, really: in an attempt to write myself into a better sex life, and into personal relationships about my own sexuality, gender identity and expression, and sustaining relationships. For the first three years, I was attempting to write myself into a long term, stable, sane relationship, in part because I wanted to have a better sex life and in part for all the rest of the good stuff that comes with intimacy, cohabitation, and love.
And now, I’ve found the girl I’ve been with for a year and a half, Kristen. And the longer we’re together, the longer it seems we’ll last.
So, now what? Is my quest for a fulfilled sex life over?
To some degree, yes—many of the problems and questions that plagued me as a single butch top, such as, “When am I going to get laid next?” and “Who’s it going to be with?” and “How do I know if she’ll be into what I’m into?” are no longer a factor. I love that I am with someone as open and eager to explore sex as I am, if not more so. I love that our sex drives are pretty well matched. I love that I am with someone whom I can try out new toys with (it was much harder to be a toy reviewer when I was solo, that’s for sure).
But that is not necessarily a recipe for perfect sexual compatibility, or ongoing sexual fulfillment. Note the key word there: ongoing. A sex life is just that—a LIFE—which means it happens every day. And like any other aspect of life, it is interwoven tightly with all sorts of other aspects, and can be different, feel different, or present unique new obstacles at any time.
How does one navigate fulfillment with all sorts of other things—bills, work, health, family, projects, friends—are also vying for attention? How do you keep the spark going?
Perhaps this relates to my theories around general relationship intelligence and the lack of depiction of many stable, sane, healthy relationships in the various storytelling arts. Most romantic comedies or dramas, for example, focus on the part of a relationship story where the couple is overcoming obstacles in order to begin their life together. At the beginning of the film, the couple is not together; the dramatic action focuses around their miscommunications, struggles, possibly sex, expectations, who called (or didn’t call) who, and who can get over their issues in order to fully embark on a committed monogamous relationship; then the end of the movie shows the couple, triumphant, and we are happy, having been rooting for them all along.
But we see very little of what happens next in the relationship. How the couple communicates, negotiates, reaches consensus, struggles, forgives, fights, and maintains a balance between their individual separate selves and their collective togetherness. So rare is a film where the couple is together at the beginning and the end, where the dramatic action centers around the relationship trials or the couple coming together to solve outside problems.
Without such good models of problem solving in long term relationships, and with such high divorce rates, meaning that for folks my age it is rather rare for our parents to still be together, or even to have an older couple in our lives as mentors, how can we be expected to have the relationship skills to sustain our own long term relationships?
And isn’t it similar with sex: when we are single, we expect getting into a relationship will fulfill our sexual needs. The smarter folks among us know that getting into a relationship isn’t quite enough, but that we need to get into a relationship with a person with whom we are sexually compatible. A subtle but key difference!
Yet still—life happens. Even if you find that special someone, there is still ongoing navigation to keeping it up and getting off. And sharing a life with someone means distractions, miscommunications, unforeseen occasional tragedies, and our ever-changing bodies and lives.
This is what I have been puzzling through in my own relationship, as we are increasingly sharing space and continually sharing our lives.
My relationship with Kristen started as almost purely sexual. She lived a few hours away from me, and worked in another state, and would come visit on weekends. She’d lived in New York City before and planned to move back, which is how we met in the first place. We spent whole weekends in bed, rarely leaving my apartment, rarely leaving my room except to eat and shower and rest our bodies. After she left, I would spend the whole week playing over and over the last weekend, often writing about what we’d done, how we’d played, and planning some new ways to play when she came back.
I would pounce on her as soon as she walked in the door. Already hard packing and waiting anxiously to feel her again. Not even letting her put her things away before shoving her up against something, so eager and grateful to have someone who let me play with dominance, someone who was open to play.
It was erotic, connected, passionate, heated sex, full of longing and relief and release. Plus, we continued falling in love, discovering all the ways we enjoyed each other’s company outside of the bedroom.
It’s easy to look back and see the bliss, but equally present was the ache of longing, the fear of the fragility of a new relationship, those days when we would have given anything to come home to each other, all the fetishizing and idealizing of a shared domesticity. I brush over those feelings now because that wish was granted, I no longer have to long to share other parts of my life with her, as our lives are increasingly entwined.
Now we have the new obstacles of sustainment: Am I getting what I want in bed, in this relationship? Are we having sex often enough for me? Are we having the kind of sex I want, or am I longing for something else, something new? How do I ask for more, or different, sex? How do we keep the spark of eroticism, passion, longing, and eagerness when we are available to each other, in so many ways, constantly? How do we keep it fresh and new when we’re willing to do, and have done, so much experimenting already?
Maybe this sounds like a trite problem, especially to those who don’t have partners, don’t get laid, or don’t prioritize sex as a serious hobby the way Kristen and I do, but I suspect many people in reasonably satisfied relationships ask these questions at some point or another.
I’m sure all of our relationships have a unique set of circumstances behind these questions. For me, it seems to be that my girlfriend would like to have sex more often than we do, and in part because of our dynamic and the sexual roles we like to play with of Daddy/girl and domination/submission, she has a hard time asking for more. She feels greedy and unwarranted. I know I also have a hard time allowing myself to be seduced, so even when she does feel bold enough to make her desires clear, I don’t always respond with what she wants. I adore our dynamics and they are a key important part of this relationship, roles I have been eager to explore for years and I am grateful to do so. But precisely those dynamics erase my own desire for the chase, since she is constantly available to me, sometimes my desire runs a little low. I crave some denial, something to conquer, something to come up against in order to create friction.
We have discussed this; and of course I don’t want her denying me just for the sake of denying me, of turning me down when what she’s really interested in is playing, but we are still working out the details of dynamics we have chosen.
I’m pretty confident that we’ll figure this out, but I’m not exactly sure how. For now, we’re talking about it (though hopefully not too much), being open with each other, being honest about where we’re both at and what we want, and of course, working on our own shit in therapy. Every relationship is complicated. Every relationship has triumphs, low points, complications. I don’t know how things will get resolved, but things are improving, we are talking well to each other, still having great sex, and enjoying each other.
Really, does it get any better than that?
I was being a jerk. Not sure the details are all that important, I just got up on the wrong side of the bed and everything was bothering me and it was 95 degrees outside and I was mad at the world. I made the mistake of thinking that running errands in Manhattan would make me feel better. Get some things done, knock things off the to do list. Did I forget that I don’t deal with heat well? (Can I stop complaining about the heat already?)
Plus, the errands were unsuccessful. I’m only a recent Mac owner, my MacBook is about a year old, and I’ve never had to go into the Apple Store for service before. My power cord shorted out over the weekend (anybody out there have an extra one lying around? Will trade) and I didn’t know I needed an appointment at the Genius Bar, so i just went in. Plus, my iPhone 4G, which replaced my ancient 3G since I broke the screen when I dropped it on a playground in Alaska, is getting a terrible signal and I’d just heard about the booster cases Apple is giving to 4G owners. Of course, you have to do that on the website, not at the store, and they’re unavailable/out of stock. We shall see how that goes.
Combine my disappointment, my not working cell phone, my powerless laptop, with the heat, not to mention the crowds of Soho and then Union Square, and I was ready for a drink.
What I’m saying is, I was spending all my energy trying to keep it together as Kristen and I shopped for peaches and tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market.
By the time we got home I’d picked a fight, then started to backpedal out of it. We were both upset. I was being a jerk. I couldn’t seem to calm myself down or shake this “everything sucks” mood. I apologized; I knew I was off, and I said so. I tried to state what I needed, I tried to remove myself to give myself time to calm down. I could have done better. I gave up and took a nap.
Hours later I woke up a little reset, Kristen and I had a decent evening, dinner and a movie, sitting close on the couch, being more careful with each other.
Later still, after we got in bed, I pulled her close as we snuggled in together and kissed her, a physical apology for my distance that I was trying to make up for with closeness. I wanted to be closer still, feel her everywhere, make it up to her, be inside her. I still felt fragile and a little thin, but the want was growing as we kissed. I got flashes of my forearm across her chest, holding her down. Adding some extra bruises to the two on her inner thighs, which are blooming nicely. I saw flashes of fucking her fast and hard and furious and it made me hot, eager.
I kissed her again, let my hands slip under her green tank top, one fingertip into the top of her undies. She sighed, kissed me back, hands in my hair, and I felt myself melt a little into her.
“Play with me?” I asked, quiet, our mouths still nearly touching.
Her whole body responded with a flush of heat that rippled through her. “Of course baby. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” C’mon, I chided myself. Say something. “I feel the instinct to be mean. But I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if that’d feel good, after how I treated you today.”
“You could be my mean Daddy. I like it when you do that. It would be okay.”
I was quiet. Not sure it was a good idea. I’d rather not be so torn. I’d been torn all day.
“Or you could be small,” she whispered close to my ear, stroking my hair.
Even the words felt like a relief. I nodded. “Just … take care of me for a while?” She nodded back and kissed me again, a little more commanding than usual. Her lips were sweet, tongue soft, warm, and I started to get lost in the kiss, in the feel of her next to me, touching me.
“Give me your hand,” she said, and took it up and under her shirt, to her breast, firm and round and soft in my palm. I ran my fingers over her nipple like it was a fence I was walking by, brushing it as it grew more stiff, then pinching it hard, and the arch of her back made the growl return to my stomach. Strength. Power. Maybe I need some of that. She squirmed and let out a little cry as I twisted and pulled, then took a huge handful and kissed her.
I like her nipples in my mouth. Supple and soft. I have never been, as they say, a “breast man,” never quite got it like others seem to. Don’t get me wrong, I feel and play and suck and pinch, especially when I know that’s what she likes, but maybe it’s because my own aren’t very sensitive that I didn’t used to derive a lot of my own pleasure from playing with them. Recently, though, that’s been different. (Have I written about this before?)
I was starting to salivate, to get that itch for that feeling of smallness and sucking, when she said, “Will you suck on my tities, sweet boy?” I smiled, then bit my lip to hide it. Pushed her shirt up farther and took my arm out from under her neck, lying back down over hers, a little bit of role reversal, allowing her to give me some needed comfort for perhaps the first time that day.
I lowered my mouth down to her nipple, rested my head on her arm and against her chest as her hands pulled my head closer, and sighed. Her areola puckered in my mouth, against my tongue. Her skin was sweet with that salty wisp of sweat and summer. I sucked her in deeper and used my teeth to hold her there. She gasped. I flicked my tongue, then widened it and lapped at her nipple, thick long strokes over and over.
“Ohh that’s good … that feels so good.”
I let myself get lost in the sucking. Let it feel like nourishment, let myself be filled. I pictured energy pouring out of her, down my throat, pooling in my belly, and kept drinking it in.
After a minute I shifted, brought my mouth slowly off and over to the other, brought my weight slightly over her so I could free up my right hand. I cupped her tits and kept the angle in my mouth, then dragged my hand down her stomach and hips to her thighs, which she easily parted, a nonverbal request. I slid my hand into her panties and found her wet, dipped my fingers in slow.
I lifted my mouth and looked up at her. “May I?”
“Yes, mmm yes,” she murmured, leaning back into the bed and pressing her cunt toward my hand.
I wet my fingertips and traced her lips around her clit, flicked it, stroked it. Bit at her nipple. It didn’t take long; she started writhing, breathing, “Oh that’s good, that’s my good boy, my good boy,” and came, shuddering against me.
I kissed her mouth again and she stroked my neck, held me to her. “That felt good baby.”
“I like to feel you do that. Like to touch you.”
“You made me all wet, you made me feel so good.” She kissed me again. “Suck my nipples again, sweet boy?”
I lowered my mouth again, settled next to her as she kept me cradled.
“Did that make your cock all hard?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said quietly, not looking up. “A little.”
“Did that make you want to touch it.”
I murmured something between an “um” and a “mm.” Hesitant and feeling shy. That boy-feeling of exposure, vulnerability; you can see how much I want this by the strain against my zipper, the uncomfortable hardness, the pressure.
Of course, I don’t really have that. But there are moments, like when she starts talking about it, that this feeling comes up, and this is the best I can do to explain it.
“Touch it,” she said quietly. “Touch it for me. Tell me how it feels.” She knew I wasn’t packing. She meant my cock, my other cock, my little cock I sometimes call it, my dick, my clit.
I reached down to feel under the boxers I’d pulled on to sleep in, found my cunt wet and lips swollen, my clit—my cock—hard and slick. It felt good to touch. Like I had permission, like I could take my time. Like relief from the tension that had mounted in my body during my bad mood all day. Like release.
I dragged my fingers along lazily for a minute, touching, relaxing, with a massaging touch, building arousal. I thought she might ask me to go get my big cock, so I didn’t want to come quickly. Let’s let it build.
“How does it feel?” she asked into my hair, arms still wrapped around me.
“It feels good. Hard. Thick and big.”
“Mmm. I like it when it gets hard and big. Then you put it inside me, don’t you, my sweet boy? You like to put it in my pussy.”
Quickly, the flash of pushing my cock into her, her tight resistance, the way she opens up and wraps around me was in my head. My cock pulsed harder. I could barely respond, her nipples still in my mouth, still needing the distraction and permission of sucking.
I started rubbing my
clit cock faster, jerking it a little, keeping my fingertips wet. My muscles got harder, too, contracting in my thighs and ass and stomach, starting to clench down and press into my hand. My knees straightening out, toes curling, then knees opening out to the side, legs splayed.
I let it build until I was almost ready to come and then backed off, took my hand away for a second, concentrated on sucking at her tits again, a little harder, a little deeper into my mouth, tonguing her nipples and swallowing as I breathed and concentrated on the heat building between my legs.
Only a quick break, a quick moment before I reached back down and started rubbing my clit again. Moaning through my full mouth, pressing myself against her, her arms pulling me toward her chest and keeping me close to her as I got closer, closer. Stroking up and down and, if I was being really honest, I would tell you I was thinking about my other cock, my big cock, the go-to one I usually use, and whose weight I miss hanging from my hips if I don’t wear it a few times a week. The girth of it in my hand, what it’s like to slip over the head and feel the ridges, feel its tip against my palm. What it’s like to slide inside of her.
More noise from my mouth. Growls and grunts and heavy breathing and convulsions as my chest and stomach contracted.
“Are you getting closer, sweet boy? Come for me. Come on, jerk that cock for me.”
I kept my fingers low and felt the tension hard and swollen under my fingers. Just a couple more strokes, just—there—just—closer, my fingers in fierce rhythm getting harder, quicker, as fast as I could go, “Yeah, yeah, fuck,” I started trying to exhale more, I’m holding my breath, pushing my hips up to meet my strokes.
“That’s good baby, that’s so good,” she keeps murmuring.
I’m ready and it burst out of me as I pulsed and thrusted, stroking fast and hard once more, twice, three times, my body convulsing in the microseconds between, shuddering as the shock waves faded, gasping as I calmed and tried to keep letting go, still feeling ripples of release through my whole body. I realized her nipple was still in my mouth, loosely held so I could suck in air, and I let up to take a full breath, let it out slow. Still shuddering. Still tingly all over. And as I relaxed I released even more, letting something out, some tension I’d been holding on to, something bigger, who knows what, something stored deep in my muscles, and tears started rolling down my face and toward my ears, I started gulping, soft sobs between breaths. Just a few before it passed, faded, and my breath smoothed.
I turned toward her again and sighed, rested against her, kissed her. I was spent. It didn’t take long to fall asleep (in a slightly wider embrace, still affected by the heat).
I woke the next morning feeling scrubbed clean, not a trace of that bad mood left in my system, pulled her close, smelled her skin, felt her shoulder with my cheek. Everything is much better when I remember how lucky I am to wake up with this beautiful girl every day.
Have you nominated your favorite sex bloggers for the Top Sex Bloggers 2010 list yet? Just leave a comment with your favorites before July 31st.
I wrote about it, thought about it, and the question has been bugging me a little bit ever since.
About a month ago, Axe and I decided to meet up again and have another go at this question. He’s since in a long-term relationship with the lovely mistress/dom Sade, and I’m since another year into my relationship with Kristen, so I figured that he and I would have some different takes on the conversation and the question now that we’re not swinging single anymore, but involved in relationships. Still, the question still applies: as a submissive, how do you encourage your lover to be more dominant? How do you ask for sex? Is asking for sex outside of the “role” of the submissive? How do you make yourself available? And as a dominant, how do you allow yourself to be seduced? What works to get you to be more dominant in bed? What encourages you to allow a little more grrr to come out of your body during play?
All these questions & more are in this conversation with Sade, Kristen, Axe, & me. Got thoughts about this subject? I’m very curious to hear other people’s take on this.