dirty stories, fiction

Whatever I Want, Whatever I Say

“I’m going to do whatever I want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did promise I wouldn’t break her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open your legs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My body thrums.

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” she says. “God.”

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queer women" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert.

5 thoughts on “Whatever I Want, Whatever I Say”

  1. SaDiablo says:

    Very hot. *fans self*
    “The pink of her is showing” is such a brilliant line I had to stop for a moment and consider the implications.

  2. kfemmescorner says:

    Wow!!! So hot! Thank you for writing again…especially Butch/femme erotica! You have a way of writing it that just gets to me. I know it’s not what you live anymore but please never stop writing Butch/femme (and preferably DD/lg) erotica! You are one of my favorite authors…if not my favorite.
    Take care and big hugs, k

  3. Rebecca says:

    Your stories always make me cum 💦💦. Thank you!

  4. Asrai Devin says:

    OH this was amazing. I LOVE IT.

  5. Mark Mitchell says:

    OMG! Great story!!!

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