Let It All Go, Boy: Part One, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

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.

***

boy:

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.

***

Read part two here.

Published by Sonya Bolus

If she were an animal, Sonya Bolus would be a half-wild Lynx. For now, Sonya is a genderfluid Leatherdyke who is Switchy as Chaos-theory. She is a feminist, nerdy scifi enthusiast, pagan, avid knitter, artist, and expat Kiwi. Oh yeah, she writes stuff, too. For the past 12+ years, Sonya has had the honor of being collared and married to her beloved Daddy/boy Marty, an exceptional and eccentric, very-handsome transman. Their home is ruled by Magick, a ridiculously intelligent and talkative black cat, and Maya, a loving, loyal chihuahua, who is so cute it makes your teeth hurt. Sonya is also mother to a beautiful and mysterious, grown human son. Sonya lives in Sacramento, California where she serves on the board of Queer Leather Association Sacramento (QLAS). She has given workshops throughout the West Coast on such topics as Archetypal Leather Relationships, Leather and Spirituality, Gender Identity, Age Play, BDSM & Disability/mental illness, Partnering a Transperson, Switching, and Puppy Play. She is grateful and proud to have been profoundly shaped by her participation in the Women’s Butchmanns Experience, Advanced Butchmanns, SPLF Girl & Boy Training Camp, the School for the Work, and the Dance of Souls at the Southwest Leather Conference.

2 thoughts on “Let It All Go, Boy: Part One, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus”

  1. Sandra Sherman says:

    Sexy and charming story

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