I just need to use you.

morningContent warning: Power dynamics, ownership/property play.

Sometimes, I just need to use you.

I don’t know how to describe it: Those times when I wake up and your skin is just right there, you’re not allowed to sleep with clothes on anyway and this is exactly why, so that my hunger stirs the moment I wake and realize that your skin is already under my hands. This particular morning I woke with you behind me and immediately wanted your dick in my ass. I rubbed against you, and you got hard. “You’re hard, aren’t you,” I teased. You woke up and moaned. Ready. Always ready, for whatever it is I need, whatever it is I want to take. It’s what you most want, isn’t it? To be told what to do, to be taken, to be used in the ways that I need. As much as that can be hidden in sex, or desire, or kink play, the same need in you would be filled if I decided you would now only be my footstool and never speak, or be my pet curled up on your little pillow bed in the corner, or my sex slave chained to the bed. I own you, and you know it.

It helps me that it’s what you want, because it is so what I want, but I never thought I’d have it. I never thought this craving for devotion in me was going to be allowed, I never thought I could degrade and humiliate and own and worship and demand in the ways that I can with you. I was always too much for other partners—needed too much, demanded too much, expected too much. I’ve said it so many times, but I am still surprised by how much I feel met with you. You step up, you show up, you don’t shy away from what I need, you don’t let my insatiable hunger scare you.

Or maybe it does scare you, a little. Because you know I’m bigger than you, not exactly stronger but certainly when I throw my weight around I can make you do what I want, what I say, what I need. Not that you would need to be physically overpowered. You’d go willingly, shakingly opening all your holes and skin and mind and will to me, even if it makes you shiver and cry. You are so good. And you like it, I know you do. You can resist all you want, but it doesn’t make the outcome any different. And when you gush and come so hard you drip down my thighs, I know you like it.

That’s what you did this morning, isn’t it. You did just what I told you, and you liked it. You took it just how I told you. You gave all that come to me, because it’s all mine, everything you have is mine now. And I can use what’s mine, I like to use it for exactly what it’s for. And this is what you’re for, isn’t it: To be taken and used, filled and opened. You’re all mine, and this is what I need.

Weight. Mouth. Rough Sex.

Content Warning: Force, coercion, descriptions of rough sex. Also dominance and submission, and depictions of ownership.

Sometimes I just think of the simplest of things.

Your mouth.

That look on your face, that look, when you’re giving over even more, just a little deeper, giving in to the sensation, giving in to wherever I’m moving your body, however I’m touching you.

Your skin.

The way your hands feel in mine. The way my fingers close around your wrist or throat or earlobe. The back of your head in my palm.

I think of these little flashes of your body, of us.

Other times, a more elaborate story.

What happens when I pick you up and drive you somewhere deserted and quiet, an empty kind of creepy parking lot where no one is around, no other cars, and lock the doors before I force your head into my lap. You struggle against me, but you know I will have my way, no matter what you do. You know it’s better to go easy, but not too easy, because then I’ll beat you for liking it.

I don’t really need an excuse to take you, or to hurt you, or to use you. It is so comforting, so deeply validating, to be able to have you in this way. To know that if you are in arm’s reach, I can use you for anything I may need, from fetching me a glass of water to your hands as an ashtray to your holes for my cock or fingers or tongue or whatever I might want to do with them.

Lately, I think a lot about rough sex. Pressure and strain and resistance and using my weight against gravity to hold you down. I think about going too far, pushing too hard, making you gag, spit, sputter, making you cry out and bleed, bruises under my fingers holding you so tight, making you beg and cry, making you take it anyway. There’s something about the release on that level that is different—deeper?—than most other releases for me … knowing I can just pour into someone else and they can hold it, they have to. I love how you do this for me.

You release me in so many other ways, too, though. Moments of energetic intensity come to mind, times we’ve been outside with your hand in me in some way, the earth underneath shooting up and connecting me with … everything. I miss being somewhere with places to fuck outside.

I think about what it’s like to force you, use you, disregard what you’re feeling in your body or your mind. Why is that such a fetish, such a kink of mine, when I am so obsessed with consent and permission and pleasure and connection? Maybe I’ve just answered my own question. And knowing that we are both guided by a deep craving here—me, the craving to play with taking and owning and destruction, and you, the craving of being used and coerced and owned—is what makes the play possible, of course. Without that deep craving underneath the play, it would be completely different, and unappealing.

Fuck, I am so grateful for how our wounds/gifts are attuned.

Lately, I think a lot about your sucking mouth. Maybe that is the equal and opposite of thinking about pounding into your open holes: instead, having this sweet suckling softness draw it all out of me. I think of you sucking your thumb or sucking my toes or nipples or cock, even the uncut packing cock, my current favorite. I get hard with just the thoughts. The way you can nestle in and cuddle up to my thighs, sigh, and relax.

Somehow, when I’m deep inside you, when you’re slowly drawing me hard and all of the things pent-up inside start drizzling out, that’s when I can best let go, feel the tightness in my shoulders unravel, and relax, too.

Yes, you really do need that packing cock from New York Toy Collective. Use the code SUGARBUTCH to get $5 off (free shipping!).

I need you to take a little more for me.

Content warning: This story contains bondage and Daddy/boy language, with some language around force and ownership. Read it at your own risk/pleasure.

“Be good, and I might let you come.”

My mouth is right next to their ear as my hands work to snap the hooks in place. Their wrists are bound above their head to the eyebolt they installed in our bedroom. They are stripped bare, except for their strap-on—the one that is precisely the smaller version of mine, which makes me feel like we are related, connected through our cocks. They are already shivering a little in the air, but they’ll forget that soon. I have to bend a little to reach their neck, but it makes their holes perfectly hip height when they bend.

“Please, Daddy …” they are already whimpering. My boy, my little faggot cocksucker, my dirty slut, my boy, my boy. I could say it all the ways all the time. Mine. I love owning them, love the thrill of saying the words every time, love their willingness and eagerness to turn over all of themself to me.

“Please what, boy.”

“Please, you’re going to … make me …”

I grin, sucking on the tender flesh at his neck, above his chain collar, beneath his ear. “You just relax. You’ll be fine. Daddy will take care of you.” I move my mouth down their body. They like it, and they shiver, and their skin has goosebumps from the exposure and the rush of sensation. Their nipples are hard.

Their cock is hard too. I tease it gently with my fingertips while I use my mouth and tongue on their skin. Every inch, neck and collarbone, biting at their shoulder; they are so “shouldery,” so muscular in the upper body. Their skin tastes salty, a little metallic where their collar has been rubbing. I like to leave the big red bruises, bites so hard my dental records are impressed into their skin. After months of this, they kind of know better, and squirm out of my grasp now when I start to go for it. But it’s harder to squirm away when they only have a few feet of movement, and I have them trapped between my body and the wall.

I start the bite slow, sinking my teeth in, sucking, trying to distract from the sharpness with my tongue and mouth, with my hand on their dick. My mouth right in the upper arm where the bicep starts thickening. They squirm, whimper. Whisper, “Daddy, Daddy …” But I know they like it. They ask me all the time for marks, bruises, lasting trophies of which to be proud. I can feel their pelvis tipping back, cock tickling my palm.

If I had my mouth on their cunt right now, they would be gushing. The thought of it makes my knees weak, makes something harden inside me, makes me grip harder on their body and press my teeth deeper. They cry out. Take it, take it, I urge silently. They struggle for another couple breaths, gasping a little, toes curling, pressing against me, pulling their arm away as they lean into my body, until they let go, just for a moment, and their muscles relax. Oh so much easier to get a good, deep bite in when they aren’t resisting. I pull back to reposition; they squirm and gasp in air at the blood rushing back in to the muscle.

“Just a little more, boy,” I soothe as I find the bite, the right contour that fits just where I want it to fit in my mouth, and sink in again. Harder this time. No time to wait. Getting more urgent. They cry out, head back, throat open, and I suck them down into my throat, swallowing once. They are sweating a little more, I can smell it from their armpits exposed, a sweet-salty clean smell of boys and work. It’s urgent now, this build in me, this craving for more, for control, for taking all that is mine from their sweet boy body. I know this is a service, I know they need to give it over just as much as I need to take it. We have carefully negotiated this, built this over the last three years. I trust. They trust me. It is not arbitrary or new. This is the long game, and hard won.

I tease the crown of their cock with my hand as their hips keep shuddering. They’re probably close. I could keep them here for a long time, but I want that come. I want it sliding down my throat, I want what’s mine back in me.

As soon as I realize that, it’s immediate. I grip their hips as I dip to my knees to take from them what I want: this boy cock, this come, this orgasm. I cup my hand between their legs, my thumb on their wet, hot opening as my fingers push their split open and find their tight rosebud hole. They are so ready for me, open and puckered, pink and bright and eager to be shoved in.

I warm them up with my tongue. Suckling with my lips. Teasing at the underside of the head, that sensitive cleft.

“I’m trying, Sir … I’m trying … not to …” they can’t quite get the words out.

“Good boy,” I mumble into their cock, the vibrations of words causing a shiver. This isn’t for you, I think. This is what I need. This is mine. I follow my want with their cock, sweet and perfectly shaped, it fits so well against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Sometimes I so relate so deeply to all of you cock-centric cocksuckers: the lock and key of cock and mouth, the stabilizing completion of this empty hole, the need for nourishment going deep into my belly.

Their head is bent back again, hips shaking, little thrusts of involuntary shudders, heels coming off the ground and shuddering, holding on to the bonds that hold their arms up. I move my hand from their slick split up to their cock, pressing it against their flesh underneath, alternating the pressure. Thumb still against their front hole. Tongue working against their shaft. I’m lost in it, sucking, swallowing. I’m filling myself on what I need, taking it from deep inside down into me. They shudder. Cry out. I hear their words but I’m not sure what they’re saying, something like, “Daddy, I have to Daddy, I have to let it out, Daddy you’re going to make me …” and I am hard and near to bursting myself as they come, releasing liquid into my palm as their hips shudder against my mouth. I catch their cock in my teeth and hold them there, milk it out of them as I hold between their legs. Dripping down my wrist and forearm onto my elbow.

My movement slows, theirs does too.

I bring my palms together at their cunt, as much in worship as in gratitude, bowing my head, feeling the fire quenched and burning in my belly, in the bowl of me down low. I breathe. Hold on to that for a moment, remembering what it’s like to have the privilege of this connection, this service boy, this worship, this care, this body—both theirs and mine, functioning, whole—and this love. This miracle. Every brush of skin and contact and understanding feels precious after years of relationships full of misunderstanding and expected attack. We are making new pathways, new trails to follow. We are making more things make more sense, more of ourselves make sense.

As they are catching their breath and moaning in afterglow, I trail my fingers along their sensitive skin and rise from my knees. I whip open my belt, unbuckle my jeans. Ready for more.

“Sir, was it okay? That I came?”

“Yes, boy, it was okay. Just what I wanted. And, now … I need you to take a little more for me, baby boy,” I say, pulling out my cock, the big one, the one that is just like theirs but bigger. Twisting their body around, my hand at their shoulders to push them against the wall, pulling their hips toward me, spreading their legs, readying their holes. “Daddy needs a little more.”


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Thumbnail image created by rife, first published in Salacious Magazine.

Daddy’s Good Boy

Content warning: This story contains Daddy/boy play, rough sex, spanking, and some woo about energy. Proceed at your own risk.

Or, The Divine Beast in Me

We’re watching TV and his sweet hand keeps going to my dick. Softly, absently, like it just happens to be where his hand lands, but it gets more intentional as the mystery on the show grows. I feel it jump and shudder involuntarily. Feel my bits start to swell and thicken under the straps of the harness. Feel the harness dig a little tighter into my skin.

The boy can feel the response it elicits. Fingertips grazing the head of his daddy’s prick, just hard enough to feel the contours of the head and the veins that run along the shaft. This one is my favorite, the most realistic, the one I can comfortably pack all day and then easily bust out and play with.

We aren’t talking about it. He’s just absently stroking.

I may have started it by grabbing his wrist and placing it squarely on my package, he may have groaned and buckled a little into me. I watch his throat for when he swallows. He’s salivating. My heat is growing, rising, as he circles his thumb and forefinger around the corona and strokes the underside of the head with gentle tiny quick strokes, pad of the thumb barely touching. My toes curl. I bite the inside of my lip and breathe.

Very slowly, I bring my hand up to the back of his head, palming his neck with a slight grip on his collar, and turn my head so my lips are next to his ear.

“What do you think you’re doing.” It’s not really a question.

He squirms, rubbing his thighs together, doing that curled in thing that he does when he gets turned on and curious and wanting and small. I like him small. It makes me feel big, or maybe, rather, it gives my bigness meaning and value.

“Nothing, Daddy,” he whispers.

“You know what happens when you get me going, boy. You want to get me all hard right now?”

He whimpers.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch this.” I push his neck down with a firm hand and he immediately opens his lips. But I push him past my lap until his hips are over my thighs and his face is in the pillow at the edge of the couch. I reach forward to stop the TV show and leave my mouth close to his ear again, that growl in me coming from down low. “Such a dirty boy. Can’t even keep your hands off of me for one hour.”

“N-no, Daddy, I’m not, I’m a good boy,” he’s still squirming.

“Dirty little slut. You feel how hard you made me? Huh? Can you feel that digging in to you?”

“Yes, Sir!” His hips buck against me, ass in the air as I palm his cheeks through his jeans. They’re loose enough that I work them down past his hips just far enough to expose him.

I swat at his butt with my right hand and hold his neck gently with my left. He buries his face into the pillow. He likes this.

“You like this,” I accuse.

He hesitates. “Daddy, I want to be good.” Honest answer, if slightly deflecting.

“You do, huh. Good boys do just what I say. Are you ready to do what I say?” The fetish of controlled behavior. Still spanking lightly, with the flats of my fingers.

“Yes, Daddy! Yes Sir! Always … always.” He shoots me a look, wondering if I really don’t know he would do anything. Anything. It’s in our contract. It was the line we both jerked off the most over. Sometimes it’s a “thought experiment,” a game we play, to see if we could come up with a thing I would realistically, feasibly ask him for that he would have any good reason not to. So far, we haven’t found any.

“Mmmm. Maybe my dirty little slut is a good boy after all.”

I keep warming up his ass, hitting deeper now, with the heel of my palm instead of the little swats. He prefers this, the deep thud to the surface sting, and he sometimes comes just from me punching his ass. I shake the bones in his pelvis, knocking to wake them up. He moans and settles over my lap. This won’t take long.

We go on like this for a while. Him settling into the spanking, me shifting it up, from swats to thuds to fists to heels of my palm to knuckles popped for added bruising. He starts swelling, his parts swelling and pinkening between his legs, starting to drip. I can see it, smell it. I love how our bodies can wrap around each other in this position, him curling around my thighs,me the base support. I drape my arm over his back, my left elbow to the center of his shoulder blades, arm down his spine, while I hold his ass open with both hands. His asshole puckers and releases.

What is it about those tight, sweet little holes that make me crave the pushing inside? I cannot explain the magic of shoving into resistance so beautifully well that it dissolves. Maybe that’s why I write about it so much, because I wish I could capture it. Wish I could have it in a bottle to recreate whenever I need to be reminded that god exists, that my body and his body and your body are made for pleasure, that we are spiritual beings having a human experience, that we are blessed with these messy sensory overloads of flesh and physical manifestation and that someday, one of these 365 days, we won’t have them anymore. That moment of resistant pushing, force against force until one or the other yields, is what I turn to most when I need to understand how mortal I am, and how immeasurable.

I crave his holes like I crave the ocean, all salt and dissatisfaction until I can actually just breathe the expanse that opens up and swallows the horizon.

I’m hitting harder, entranced and rhythmic, our hips connecting through that energy spark that flows when I stop using my head so much and allow my body to speak. He’s moaning something, oh god or Daddy Daddy, I don’t make it out over the throbbing in my dick. It’s time.

“Up,” I push out from under him and roughly pull his pants down, moving him where I want him, kneeling on the couch, legs spread, shoulders draped on the back of it. He’s breathing deep and his back body fits into the front of mine perfectly, like we were carved in each other’s negative. I pull my shorts low and his hole finds the tip of my cock with a tilt of his hips and with a quick bend to the flexible shaft I slide it in, slow, inch by inch. He takes my weight, holds me up. Everything is poised on the precipice of me and I’m falling. He grips from inside and I cry out. Yes, please, please one of us is whimpering. It might be me. He opens and opens and opens. I didn’t know I could get so far inside with just a few inches of silicone like this.

One hand is at his mouth, fingers at his lips; he sucks with his throat and pulls me down. A vortex at the middle of him, pulling me in from both directions. If I’m filling him this far with my cunt, he fills me at the heart, and as soon as I remember that he’s pouring into me until my chest cracks with a bang and I see fireworks. I bite at his shoulders, hips bucking, the beast in me fucking to extend my temporary impact. To make me last longer.

“Please Daddy, give it to me,” long strings of words are coming out of his mouth. “Fill me up, please Daddy. Come in me, Daddy. That hole is for you, just for you. Give it to me. Use your boy. I’ll take it for you. I’ll empty you out. Fill me up, I’ll open up for you, give it to me, please, please,” still sucking at my fingers while he breathes hard and harder, I feel his lips form the words against my palm. Sweet swollen mouth.

“Squeeze,” I tell him. Fuck I’m close. Poised and I might just stay right here forever. Let this never end, I pray. “Work it out of me, boy. You want that come? Suck it, that’s good. I’ll fill you with it until you’re dripping out of all your holes. That’s right, nice and tight for Daddy … ” I don’t know what I’m saying but I keep going, hole and boy and all mine and good boy and before I know it I can feel all that pressure built up start to peak and tip over, muscles clenched so tight that they stumble and burst. Coming in waves, hips shuddering like a deep tremble, gripping his muscles everywhere my hands can get ahold of, groaning around his flesh in my mouth that I didn’t even realize I was biting.

“Oh, god, oh fuck, baby, my good boy.” I’m babbling again, every muscle shaking, still shuddering from the come, he’s still squeezing every drop from my dick and licking my fingers like he’s cleaning them. His lips are still thick from the swelling.

I nearly collapse on top of him. I notice my thighs are wet, he’s dripping, who knows how many times he’s come. He can be wordless about it when I fuck him like this, with all power and need and little consideration. I want to curl him in my arms and carry him to bed, want to tuck him in and feel him suck my fingers all night.

Pulling out, I shift on the couch to let him off his knees, to bring his thighs together. He snuggles against me, body humming. We touch fingertips and toes, wrap around each other, low laughs and eyes sparkling. Even though I thought it’d be rough and demanding, I get so distracted by the easy way we discover what makes the universe spin every time we collide. I want him more now than I did three years ago, and I feel more whole, more myself. I don’t know what love is or how to keep it, but I know it changes me every time, and it’s the thing I’ve rearranged my life for again and again. It’s the closest I’ve come to an experience with the divine.

Every inch of me feels alive.

* * *

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From the Dirty Faggot Archives: You’re Fucking Mine

From one of the early dates with the boy. The story contains some sensual knife play.

This is how it began.

Two hotel rooms, one park, one bookstore, two restaurants, two—no, three—cocks, eight gloves, who knows how many condoms, who knows how many orgasms, dozens for you, one for me plus dozens of moments of shuddering energetic overwhelm, twice we were barged in on, three dams, one blade you put in my hand, three times you got your waterproof blanket out, at least two pairs of my briefs you soaked through, one tight little fist, four sets of three minutes, hundreds of kisses.

I took myself to the airport moments after gathering you in my arms, our hearts lined up, pounding. Waiting for my flight, I sat still, closed my eyes, to harvest the myriad sensations running through my body, to sink down into it, to catch my breath after running for an airport shuttle, after gender panic through security, after rushing to my gate.

I could feel my blood pressure like waves through my veins, rising and swelling, back and forth in an internal rocking. Connected to my heartbeat, no doubt, which, I’ve read, syncs up after hours of sex. That thrum through my veins was the same one that thrummed through yours, or had been, half an hour ago. What was your heart doing as you drove that twenty minutes north, as you returned to your little city on the Bay, as you went back to your partner with my marks covering your chest and thighs? Mine felt heavy, sore, thick and red, pulsing, alive. My whole body feels alive, each nerve ending aflame and perked, awake and eager for the feel of our skins, slick, against each other.

Maybe this even more than any particular action is what I remember: the aliveness. The awareness of my body, of all my edges, of all my pieces, weaving together.

And I remember your eyes. How shy you were to look at me, even after I asked you for eye contact while you sucked my fingers down, how rare it was to hold your gaze. I remember how little you said, patient, knowing how interesting your thoughts are when you do share them. I remember waiting for you to calm and soften, wanting that before moving in to take, play, shove, hurt.

The three afternoons come back to me in snippets, treasures, a rock in my pocket I’d forgotten I put there, a poem in my notebook I forgot I wrote, tucked away in my memories and then surprising when it emerges—was that real? Was I really there? Did I really leave? Why am I not there right now?

I pulled you to me at every possible red light while you drove. Teasing you on my one-way trip to the last hotel, on the freeway, first your knuckles against my lips, then sliding one of your small fingers into my mouth to hear you gasp and shudder. My fingers on your tongue, my hand at your throat, just for a minute. Your heat. The way you squirm.

Eager and impatient within hours of arriving, making out in the sunshine and already drunk on your smell, your everything, I couldn’t help myself and had two fingers in you until you said gloves please and I had to unzip my suitcase, dig into my toy bag. It is different to keep my hand gloved, but I can still feel so much: how you liked it deep, that spot by your cervix I reached twice when I got deep enough and both times you said ohh right there.

That moment of sliding my cock inside you. Every time. The first day I thought I’d shoot and lose it the moment the tip of me touched your hole and I felt you give way, hips upturned, and a firework exploded up my spine. I thought I’m going to collapse right here and that will be that. Done. But that was when you opened your eyes, brought your arms around my shoulders, and I was so bolstered, held up, supported, that I could fuck for hours. And we did.

Look at me while you’re sucking my dick, boy; where are your manners. You can do it, just a little more. That’s it. Mm, nice. I like that. That’s what I wanted. That’s exactly what I wanted.

You kept shying away from me. Squirming, hiding, closing your eyes. I can tell you like to drink in the sensations, but I want that exposure that comes from your eyes open. From seeing. From knowing what your eyes are tracking and watching your responses. So I started calling you on it. Teasing. Pushing. Where do you think you’re going? Do you think your hand over your face really hides you from me? You like it. Tell me you like it. It doesn’t matter; I’m going to take from you whether you like it or not.

Thank you sir.

Good boy. You said I could. You said I could have you. You said you’re mine. Can you take it? I think you can. You keep squirming; lie fucking still. Trying to get away from me? Do you think you can? Go ahead, try. Let’s see what you’ve got. Go ahead and twist, try to get away from my punches, I can hit you other places, too.

I’m fucking yours.

Look at me while you’re sucking my dick, boy; where are your manners. You can do it, just a little more. That’s it. Mm, nice. I like that. That’s what I wanted. That’s exactly what I wanted.

I’m not shy about taking what I want, but you are. How many minutes did it take for you to sit back and pull that knife from your pocket? When I opened up my palm between us and the weight of it dropped, something clicked. Something clicked and I wanted to open you up, do some damage, mark you. Instinctively I could see the scar I wanted to leave, but knew better than to follow that. That didn’t mean I was going to hold back: I let it pour out of me, almost as good as the thing itself, watching that flash of fear come up through you: would I do it? Mark you, take you, own you like that? Not this time. Not yet. There’s more, so much more, to come.

Your hand in mine while I held you down and spread open your chest, blade to skin, I remember it was the fourth slice that brought the first beads of blood, your mouth open and swollen under mine, ankle turned around mine, entwined as we opened together.

Could you feel how I split open with your tongue on the pulse of me? Could you feel my heart in your palm when you curled inside me? (Go get a glove. A small one, for you.) Messy, red, bleeding out, nonetheless translucent and whole, and tastes like sugar when it touches your mouth.

When you touch my mouth you taste like fall. Like falling. Like I’ve fallen from whatever I thought I was reaching for and find myself at the mercy of gravity. I couldn’t keep my mouth off of you. I didn’t have to. Most of the bruises happened the last day, though there were a few in the afternoons before. But these, I didn’t hold myself back for, even though you squirmed and hissed through your teeth and gasped and cried out. I loved watching them bloom on your skin, marks so deep you could see the impressions of my crooked teeth.

I wanted to hurt you, and I did. My fists contract around you, hips shift and switch and I want to throw you up against walls, push you down to the floor, drag you by your hair. (Not enough of that yet. Just wait. I want to scare you.) Punch you. Use my knuckles. Leave bruises. I pulled your belt out from your jeans and the leather in my hands made my shoulders and cock ache. What are you going to do with that belt, you whispered. So eager, aren’t you. I hadn’t decided yet. Curl it around your wrists, around your throat. Snap it at your skin. Which is what I did, eventually, rolling the buckle and letting it fall from my hands onto your body. Oh the growl that comes up from somewhere low and dark in me. Then there were the boxing wraps, something to protect me as I threw. You took it so well, so nice and good. Every time I got heavy you tensed, shouted into the hotel sheets, braced yourself against the bed. Relax, I kept telling you. I’m going to keep hitting you one way or the other, you may as well relax. I can tell you want it. I can feel how wet you are on my thigh.

Another time I pulled out a glove and fucked you, watched you come, held you down, got you off five, ten, a dozen times, before I started really hurting you. Pain is easier to take when the pleasure comes first, and I’d learned from the first day that you get worked up and need release. Such whimpering, such desperation, I couldn’t tell if I should back off or go harder, but now I know: harder. More. You can take so much. After your eyes got starry and your smile got lopsided, I started in on the punching, the biting, the slapping. (It stings, you said. Take it, I said. You like it. And you whispered back, I do like it sir. I know you do.) Shoving your face with my open palm. Knuckles against your jaw bone.

Spitting onto my fingers and between your legs as I steadied myself to slide inside.

It was when I said my sweet boy and you said thank you … thank you … thank you (breathing out that missing word with your mouth shaped around it) that something in my chest cracked open. I didn’t know I was looking for you, didn’t know I was missing you, but now you are here and I’m not sure how I could have not seen this you-shaped space in my life before. I want to throw open my arms and show you the full body embrace you are invited to come into.

Maybe you should tell me what your limits are, you said. I can’t imagine anything you would ask for that I would deny you, I said.

Later you said fuck me sir fuck me sir fuck me and I spread my forearm across your sternum and what else could I do but everything you wanted.

I’m yours.

And you’re fucking mine.

Featured image from Indie Porn Revolution.

Counting Down

“Come, now. Do it for me.”

He quivers under me: hips splayed open, on his stomach, lower back curled so his ass is in the air. He has been waiting. He has been holding back.

“Now, faggot. This is your one chance.”

He comes easily, so of course it is something I like to control, withhold. Our sexual play isn’t about his pleasure.

“Five … four … three … ”

He bucks back into me, buried to the hilt in his ass. I can feel his other hole convulsing just from having my fingers on the outside. He starts shaking, his tight faggot hole slick from lube and my come already pushed deep inside him. I’m not moving. I’m just buried deep, holding him.

He comes. Bucking, clawing at the sheets.

“That’s it.” I relax. “That’s what I wanted.”

Featured photo courtesy of the Crash Pad Series episode 16, Syd & Dallas.

How I make my boy do the dishes

We’ve been working on discipline and service over in the Submissive Playground course, so I’ve been thinking a lot about both.

Earlier this week, rife didn’t want to do the dishes. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was being “naughty” (though he did apologize for being so later). It was getting late, and I gave him a direct order—”Go do the dishes”—and instead of heading into the kitchen, he hopped onto my lap, kissing me, flirting.

“What if you can’t resist my boyish charms?” He giggled, and I laughed and kissed him back, and he gave me that dimpled smile that I can never resist. But … I’d been thinking about discipline. About order. And, about what it’s like to be a Daddy to someone who grows up, and what it’s like to be a Dominant who is firmly In Charge.

His task this week is to get off every day, and as such I lifted all orgasm restrictions that are usually in place: he can touch himself, he can use any toys he wants, he can come anytime I touch him—he doesn’t have to ask. I did leave one restriction in place, and that’s that he cannot use any toys in his ass without my permission, that hole being my domain exclusively for almost two years now. Having all this permission lifted seems to have made him a bit more bold this week, a bit more playful.

I like it.

(It has also helped that we both are finally, finally recovered from the Holiday flu, which lasted almost a month.)

He rocked his hips on my lap a little, and immediately I felt myself getting hard. He wanted to play. I wanted to play.

I caught his wrists with my hand and said, “I gave you a direct order: “Go do the dishes.” You think you get to just play whenever you want? You think you don’t have to do what I say?”

He backed off a little, sweet and shy, and started to defend himself with a comment, but I pulled his body up and started shoving him toward the bedroom, with a plan. He tried to dig his feet in to the floor and resist, but I slid him easily just by pushing. (Halfway through the kitchen, he mumbled, “Stupid socks!” and we both burst out laughing.)

I know from experience that he can take me. He was a wrestler, he plays rugby. I am a poet who likes to hike. He pinned me five times in a row when we wrestled on an LA beach. I’m bigger than him, so sometimes my size can pin him, but he’s fast and strong and knows the tricks. But that’s part of what makes it fun—I know, on some level, that he doesn’t want to win. That he resists because he likes me to push him.

When I shove him face-first onto the bed, I pull his pants down to his knees, his shirt over his head. We’re both laughing and breathing hard. I gather a few things from the shelves and use them, one by one. First the gag. Then the hanky tie around his wrists. Neither of us are laughing now. Then the little tube of lube to fill up his ass, followed by my fingers—”You may as well relax, boy, it’s going in one way or the other”—and finally, the thick butt plug.

I leave him there for a minute, pressing against him. I whisper some things in his ear … things like, you’re not actually in trouble. I like it when you flirt with me. But I like it when you do what I tell you to do even more. I love the way you make me want you, make me pull in the reigns. I love you. Good boy.

He softens and lets out a couple little moans. I feel our bodies line up, then pull his briefs back up and say, “Leave your jeans. And go. Do. The. Dishes.”

He lifts his head and there’s a pool of drool on the bedspread. He gets up, still with the gag and the wrist tie and the plug, goes to the kitchen; I heard the water start to run and the clink of dishes in the sink. I sit on the small couch in our bedroom and write, thinking about power, thinking about what I am going to do to him when he was done. After a page or so I hear some clattering in the kitchen, and it doesn’t stop, and I know the tie on his wrists are in the way of his task, so I go to remove it, playing with the plug in his ass as cost for this convenience. He bends over the sink to give me his ass, moaning and drooling around the gag. I leave him, briefs now wet, to finish the few things left and go back to writing a little longer.

When he comes into the bedroom, I barely look up. “Down,” I point next to me, our signal for kneeling, and he does, leaning his head on my thigh. I finish my thoughts in my notebook and stand up, strip my pajama pants and briefs, spread my legs around him and pull his head to my cunt.

“Ohh, you still have that gag, isn’t that unfortunate,” I tease. He moans, trying to rub against me, feeling that I’m already hard … and dripping. I let him struggle for a minute, but want his open mouth too much so I undo the gag and toss it aside.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says, and lowers his mouth to my dick, tongue cupping and sucking. In the right mood, I can let him do this for a long time, but I’m a little too eager to relax tonight. I want his fist, I want a thrashing come, I want to shove in, I want to be shaken at my core.

I start working his head on my dick, then holding him steady while I move my hips so I thrust into his mouth. “It’s been a while since you came with my dick in your mouth,” I lean down so my mouth is close to his ear. “Do it for me.” I pull his head away and hold him by his collar, bring my hand down to jerk myself off. “Can you do it if I come all over your face and I make you watch?” He strains at his collar, stretches his tongue to lick me. I can feel his body taut and getting close. He’s straddling my leg and I can feel him rock the butt plug against me. The denial will tip him over the edge. Maybe I’ll just shoot down his open mouth, maybe I’ll not let him touch me. I feel … something … building in me and I want to use him to get myself there, to work it out of me. I jerk it and he gasps, shakes, thrusts forward. I feel his body tighten, and open, then relax, and he collapses against me.

I say some little reassurance things, telling him he’s a good boy and I like using him, and we sit for a minute, touching softly, that sweet pillow talk kind of mood, until I stand up. “Come on,” I say, lying on the bed; he follows me, and I shove him where I want him. “Inside.” I say. “Your fingers. Now.” He works in one, then two; I hand him the bottle of lube and he works in more. I float, working myself up, sliding my fingers around my clit and feeling my tissues swollen and hard, needing, eager. Sometimes it is hard for me to come, but I am determined to tonight. I barely notice when he slides his fist all the way in, just feel that full pressure of being stretched inside.

It is hard to describe my own orgasms. Maybe they have become increasingly internal and complex over the years I’ve done more bodywork, maybe because I’m shy. Sometimes I see kaleidoscope colored patterns, or have visions. Sometimes I feel like I’m scrunching up my face and trying so hard, never quite sure if I’m actually going to reach the kind of release my body is craving.

But sometimes, like last night, it all just comes together, and I have someone so perfectly willing to do precisely what I need, that I can have transcendent experiences in my own bed, with my boy, with just our bodies and our love and our power.

He pulled his fist out when it was too much, and teased just the right spot with his fingertips while I jerked my small dick. Every part of me tensed and gathered. The climax was a relief, a release I can never quite control, where I yell hard, my throat chafed and voice horse afterward, and I groan, and I squeeze out everything I can, until it’s just all flowing so smoothly that I burst open, and the yells turn into sobs, those full-body, chest heaving, I’m-not-sure-I’m-going-to-stop-crying kind of sobs. I breathe. I cry. I trust the sweet feeling of my boy’s body, resting gently on mine, know that he’s there if I need anything. Grateful that he’s there. Grateful that he can hold me the way he does, that he can serve me, that he can take my need for controlled behavior and instructions and tasks and turn it into a way to make us closer together. Lucky to have found him. Lucky that he chose me.

I pull him up to me and wipe my face, catch my breath, as my crying stops. We hold each other in the quiet for a little while. “Thank you for doing the dishes,” I say.

“Thank you for motivating me,” he says.

I fell asleep thinking, That, right there, is the kind of discipline and service that I like.

Featured image borrowed from The Crash Pad Series. More about the featured images is coming soon!

“Pick a hole. You know what happens next.”

Content warning: This story contains Daddy/boy play, lots of ownership/possession, force, and some humiliation. Everything depicted is between consenting adults, intentional, and previously negotiated to be well known that this is what we want to play with. The whole thing is based on an actual morning text message exchange with rife, and edited to make it more of a story.

I wake him slow in the morning. Light comes in easy through the blinds, gold on his skin and the bed. Our limbs are tangled as they often are while we sleep together. He is in small little boy briefs and nothing else, which is what I prefer he wears while he sleeps, and one of our rules is to respect my preferences and execute them to the best of his ability. (The flip side of that is that it is my responsibility to suss out my preferences, and to make them clear and known. It’s quite vulnerable, and transparent, more than I am used to being. And good practice.)

He shifts as I wake, getting out of bed to pee, drink water, and put my dick on. When I come back, he curls into my armpit and shoulder, snuggles his cute little boy butt up against me, pulls my arms around him tighter and sighs. Still drowsy and not really waking yet. He could cuddle for hours.

I let my mind wander to what I’ll do to him, getting hard. He is soft and warm against me. I slip the tip of my finger into his mouth and he suckles in his sleep. Sucking and then drifting into sleep slowly, pausing, then sucking again.

“Good morning, little boy. it’s not time to get up for school yet, but Daddy wants that ass of yours just for a little while. You’ve been wriggling against me all night.”

“Ohhh. Daddy …”

“I like the way all my soft warm skin feels. When I wrap around you all night and you writhe and press, you get me so hard. Feel that, little faggot? You get Daddy hard. Pick a hole, little one. You know what happens next.”

Five Blow Jobs

I.

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

II.

On the side of the bed, but you’re not supposed to be coming that day, and you do. It sneaks up on you in a moan, but before you can really come you stop yourself, blurting out, “fuck!” again, and it’s the second time you’ve come without permission, and you’re in trouble. You back off and look at me shyly; I am laughing at your distress, you just feel so bad for defying the rules, and the guilt is more than enough punishment. I can feel how bad you want to please me. I am enjoying this too, too much: your attempts to do things just right and your scrambles to fix it when you are so happy, so pleased to be serving me, servicing me, kneeling before me, my cock in your throat. It’s enough for you to see that look on my face, that ecstasy you’re causing, that overwhelming lust and adoration as your tongue hits the head so soft and slow as you suck it down, which makes me want to pulse and shoot, makes me feel my balls (as if I had them) contract and swell, cocked and loaded. You move back toward my dick with your lips parted and I push you away. “No—I think you’re done sucking my cock. You lost that privilege when you came without asking. Down. Kiss my boots.”

III.

Long slow aftercare. I let the beating settle into your body—the belt, my hands, the restraints on your ankles and wrists. After some time on the bed I move us to the chair so you can sit on my lap. You wrap around me, sink down. You quiet and calm and I ask, “Ready to suck my cock again?” You say yes, quickly, in a whisper, and kneel between my knees. I loosen the harness and touch my clit under it while you suck me down. (You’re not supposed to come today, still; one of us may as well.) “Good boy,” I breathe as I watch your mouth, tongue, lips, my cock down your throat. I let you guide it. I let you slide it however deep you want. I push a little, because that’s what I do, but mostly I just concentrate on the feeling and the sight. I almost come but it’s too much, I get overstimulated and don’t have the right angle so I get up and take my jeans off, my socks and shoes and briefs, and spread my legs wider, get a better grip under the harness. You start in again and I imagine what your mouth would feel like. I know every inch of it, know every ridge of the roof and every tastebud on your tongue and every valley of your teeth with my fingers and my tongue, but fuck how I wish I could feel those with my cock. We are making do with what we have and you are an expert at sucking me down, swallowing, and I think about how I’d get tight and build up pressure, ready to shoot. You moan around my cock and I feel it in my pelvis and I feel you squirt on my ankle and foot, you’re straddling my leg. “Ohh fuck you’re in trouble,” I manage. You whimper a little, give me those eyes, those sweet little boy eyes like you would do anything for your daddy, you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to, you couldn’t help it, and it doesn’t take long before I’m over the edge for you, coming in your mouth, yelling out and curling my spine and feeling how I’d shove and come to the back of your throat. I breathe, my body stills. You sink down onto your belly and put your tongue to my foot, clean it off, suck my instep. With your head still down low, you say, “Am I still in trouble?” and I laugh.

IV.

You walk over to me with your cock on, hard and thick and fitting you, jutting out from your hips. “Can you stand?” I ask. You nod. I sit on the edge of the bed. You let me feel it, with my hands and along my lips, my jaw, getting to know its new contours. I put my tongue on it, kiss it, and you shudder. I like feeling how hard you are in my mouth. I can’t take it as deep as I think I can, but I try, again and again, wanting you so far inside.

V.

You start on your knees at the end of the bed after I have kicked you, hit you with my belt, after I told you to pick a number and you picked three, after you took more than you thought you could, after you crawled for me, after my hands in you at the edge when I said come on and shoot that load for your daddy, little faggot and I shove in, impatient and hard, to the back of your throat. You gag. I keep going. I hold you by the hair and work my hips so it goes in and out of your mouth. You gag again. I keep going. I stand over you and you rise up a little higher and I keep fucking your mouth. I wrap my hand around your throat. I pinch your nose closed and shove in. You look up at me, pleading, in a rare moment of eye contact. I don’t let up until I count to ten. I take my dick out and let you breathe and do it again. Count to ten. Sometimes I hold my breath with you, but I always let mine go before you do. I fist your hair and shove in deep. My hips shake against your mouth. Come on, little boy, take it, that’s right, that’s how I like it, fuck, yeah, give me that pretty little mouth, take it deeper, you can do better than that, fucker, do it, suck it down, yeah that’s right, nice. You stumble back a little and my fist holds you up.

Featured image courtesy of Crash Pad Series

Under the Desk

Disclaimer: This story includes some Daddy/boy lines and dirty cocksucking. Read it through at your own pleasure.

The first day I get back from the business trip, I call you into my office every hour on the hour for something. Water with ice and lemon. Print these documents and collate. But the requests get more interesting as the day goes by.

“Kneel for ten minutes in the corner.” I point without looking up after you enter the room. I don’t have to explain the parameters of kneeling, as you know the position (butt off your ankles, hands behind your back) and what you’re supposed to do (meditating on the concepts of submission and being owned). You’ve done this before, frequently. I don’t ask you to hold a piece of paper to the wall with your nose (this time).

You leave, and I call you back fifty minutes later. “Under the desk,” I tell you, my jeans already unzipped.

“That’s right. That’s good, baby.” And you choke me down and sputter thank you with big watery helpless eyes. I groan and push your head back down.

“Uh huh. I know you like it. You beg for it an thank me after, little one. But this isn’t for you. Just for me. Daddy needs this. Do it right. That’s good. Fuck. Good boy.” You start swelling up and moaning with each cool sucking breath. I know you want it. I know this is what you’re for, and so do you. I shove it in, feeling myself tighten, that delicious pressure building from deep.

“No boy, not for you. Don’t come, son. You better not. Little slave boy. I need you hard. Don’t fucking do it. Just suck it. I’m almost there. I need you to take a little more for me. Just … a little …” I groan and we feel the tremors move through us both. It would be easy for you to come when I do, but you hold yourself tight and let it pass over and around you.

When I’m done, you’ve swallowed every drop.

Your lips are swollen, throat still contracting and a little raw. You’re hard, but your boxers are dry. Good boy. I grab your package roughly as my breathing evens out. “Good boy. I like you like this. On edge all day. Hard for Daddy. Maybe I’ll let you, later.” I zip up my fly and kiss you, fisting your hair before turning back to my desk. “God, you’re good. Go get me a glass of water.”

And you do. Quickly, quietly, beaming all the way.

Featured image courtesy of Indie Porn Revolution

Whatever I tell you to do

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.

Dirty Filthy Nasty

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.

The Three Minute Game

Warning: This story contains some references to Daddy/girl, because that is what we usually call each other while playing. The story before the cut is an explanation and example of the three minute game, something the Body Electric School explores in their workshops, and does not contain the specific Daddy/girl words; the Daddy/girl play is behind the cut.

I returned home from LA, from four days with Rife, and I was ecstatic to see Kristen. She picked me up early, early at the airport on the red eye, and we fell back asleep at home for a few hours, made some lunch, talked about what we’d been doing.

In the afternoon, we returned to the bedroom.

I know when I travel it’s best to come back to her sweet and slow, and even more so when I’ve been off seeing my lover. I was turned on (she felt so good in my arms, under my hands, her feminine curves, her sweet soft skin) and had some ideas, but we needed a way to reconnect playfully, slowly, first.

“Want to play the three minute game?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said brightly, smiling like I’d offered to make her favorite meal for dinner. “But remind me of the rules?”

“Each of us gets a turn, and each turn is three minutes, carefully timed. There are two turns, so—four rounds. The first is, ‘this is what I would like to do to you for my pleasure.’ Then, ‘this is what I would like you to do to me for my pleasure.'”

“Got it.” We’ve played before, but only a few times, and the last time didn’t go so well—she’d asked me for some touch around my chest and we both got uncomfortable and had to stop, but neither of us handled it well. I hoped we wouldn’t do that again.

“You go first,” I said (being a top is useful sometimes).

“Alright … for my pleasure, I would like to sit on your lap, and for you to kiss my face and neck and suck on my nipples.”

“Mmm, I’d love to,” I said. “Take off your shirt.” Part of the point is to respond well—with eagerness, or with suggestions of something else related if you are uncomfortable with what they request.

I shifted up to the head of the bed so I could support my back against the wall, and Kristen curled up over my lap. I set the timer on my phone for three minutes.

At first, I barely made contact. I let her feel my breath and nose and the heat of my skin; I closed my eyes and remembered the contours of her jaw and cheek with the tiny invisible hairs on my face. Then I let my lips touch her, just brushing, gently, gently, as light of a touch as I could manage, as slow as I could tolerate. Feeling her weight on my thighs and the curves of her waist and back and spine in my hand made me want her, but I resisted.

I traced her jaw, cheek, throat with my mouth, kissing now, using the soft insides of my lips, keeping my mouth supple. She made that soft mewling moan that slays me and a shiver ran down my spine. I kept going, working that spot on her neck by her earlobe that she loves, then where her neck and shoulders meet, and down to her collarbone. I kissed along the curves of the tops of her breasts, making my way between the cleft of them, down to one nipple and then the other, sucking them into my mouth, teasing gently with my teeth and tongue, suckling, nibbling.

Just as I was getting into it, drawing her closer to me with my arms around her back, burying my face in her, just as she was starting to drop her head back and thrust her tits forward, the timer went off, and we both laughed.

I shifted my position a little and she sat more on the bed than on my lap. I kissed her lips. She said, “It’s your turn.”

“For my pleasure …” I swallowed. “I would like you to kiss my feet.” We’ve played with this a little. It is only recently that I have admitted how much I like it—to myself and others—enough to actually experiment with the sensation. It makes me nervous to ask for. But that is partly what this game is for, and it’s only three minutes. I can do just about anything for three minutes.

She nodded, looked at me a little coyly, chin down eyes up lips parted, and said, “And suck your toes?”

My breath caught. “Yes,” I think I managed to say. I think it was audible. So nervous. And it’s something that I wanted to feel, so much.

I set the timer again and she slid down the bed on her belly to take my right foot in her hands and deliver a sprinkling of kisses along the top of it. She ran her tongue along the instep, the most sensitive part, and sucked gently with her lips. She tongued the crease between my big toe and second toe before sliding the larger into her mouth.

I groaned. It is so vulnerable and makes me so nervous to give over, to feel her mouth in that way. The sensation is so close to tickling but is ecstatic, and so close to getting my cock sucked but is very different. She worked her mouth over all the crevices she could reach. She sucked and licked, moving her tongue up and down, holding my heel and ankle in her hands.

Then she switched to my other foot.

(It is so hard to write about this! And words like toes and foot seem so inherently unsexy, somehow—but I know the feeling absolutely turns me on. I don’t think I’ve written about it here before. I don’t know if I want to, except that I like to challenge myself to make myself vulnerable, to Kristen and to myself and in this writing project, and this feels very edgy.)

Those three minutes felt like an hour. I lost myself in the sensation, but I didn’t lose my body: moreso the opposite. I felt my whole self down to each toe, where so much stimulation was concentrated. I felt my cock quiver and my nipples harden and my throat go dry as I tried to swallow. I watched her mouth move and lips darken with blood and sensation and she smiled and giggled a little as she showed me what she could do. My eyes rolled back. My wrists went slack. I almost begged for her to stop, almost begged for more. I was overwhelmed and ecstatic and so turned on.

The timer went off and I breathed out, both a sigh of relief and disappointment that it was over. “For your pleasure, what would you like to do to me?” I asked.

She rose to her hands and knees and crawled forward toward me on the bed. “I would like to suck your cock.”

“Mmmm, gladly,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Give me just a minute to put it on.” I slid my jeans and briefs off, tossed my tee shirt into the laundry basket, pulled on my cock and harness from the small jersey bag I tend to keep it in, and returned back to the bed. She crawled over me. I barely had time to restart the timer before she had my cock in her mouth, tongue eager again, her lips soft and sucking me down. It’s a big cock, the Maverick, my favorite one, the one I use only with her.

She’s still warming up, but I want to push her.

Like a Faggot

Warning: This story contains lots of elements of BDSM, including swearing, consensual violence, face punching, forceful cock sucking, punching, and ass fucking. The first scene (before the cut) is mostly orgasms and ass fucking, and the second scene (if you click through) is a heavy punching scene with a forceful blow job.

This scene occurred at IMsL in April 2012.

I started slowly. He was stripped and bent over the rickety—there’s no other word to describe it—massage table with metal legs and no cross-bars, as far as I could tell. I was packing my medium-sized dick and planned to plug his ass before I fucked him.

This was warm-up.

But when I got his clit nice and hard, when his hole was dripping, when I lubed up my fingers and went for his asshole, he was open and easy, eagerly swallowing down one then two then three fingers, and I knew I could actually fuck his ass, and that I wouldn’t have to start with the butt plug.

He’d never had his ass fucked. Six months of dating this little faggot and he had just revealed that little tidbit. It’s one of my favorite things anyway—that his ass was virgin was a bonus.

I growled at his ear, “Stay there,” and went for a condom. His arms were gathered under his chest almost as if hugging himself, a sweet position that made me want to plow him even more. Rubber tight rolled down and more lube and my cock head pushed open his asshole, slid inside with only a little force.

He moaned into his hand, fingers against his teeth as if I wouldn’t notice how he wanted something in his mouth. His knees buckled. Thighs quivered and tightened. I held him by the scruff of his neck, soothed in his ear, his back against my chest: “Shh, little faggot. It’ll only hurt for a minute. Relax your ass. Come on, give it to me.” He let up a little, I could feel the tension ease off my dick. “Good. Open up for me. C’mon, take it like the faggot you are, I know you like it.”

I slid in a little farther and he whimpered, gasped, sighed as I pulled out and began thrusting. I reached around for his clit and flicked my fingers over it. He came almost instantly. I didn’t back off, slid in deeper, but was met with more resistance. For a moment I was unsure if he could take this cock, unsure if I’d be able to fuck him properly, the full long strokes in and out, but as he relaxed and came—three, five, I don’t know how many times, quickly, in succession—I knew he could do it. My fingers left his clit and I gripped his hips, thrusting harder.

“That’s it,” I encouraged. He brought his arms up to grip the side of the massage table and began to push back into me, taking me deeper. “Nice. That’s good, little faggot. That’s what I wanted. Nice.” He moaned and shuddered, squirting this time, I could feel it on my legs. I pushed him back up on the table to try to keep him on his waterproof blanket.

I took him by the back of his neck again and started pumping harder. “I knew you would take it like a faggot, dirty boy. I knew you’d like it. You like it, don’t you.”

“Yes—yes,” he managed, breathing out the words hard, eyes closed as I pulled his head back, my hand reaching around for his throat.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” he barely whispered.

“What?”

“I like it.” A little louder.

“You like it, what?”

“I like it, Sir. I like it. Ohhh …”

“You like what, boy? Say it.”

“I like your cock in my ass. I like it. Please, Sir, fuck my ass. Please please please.” His pleading cries became whimpers and I groaned, my hips jerking hard against his in response.

“Good boy,” I muttered as my cock slid in and out. I wrapped my arms around him, held us together, breathing hard, and brought my hand between his legs to his clit again, thrumming it gently, sensitive now. “Mmm, fuck, you feel good. Your ass is nice and tight, feels good on my cock. I like to fill you up. Squeeze me harder, let me feel how tight you are, that’s it, yeah.” He came again, squirting, I could see it darken the blanket as his body thrust forward in contractions.

“Just a little more. Then I’m going to beat you.” I slid in and he moaned deep. He whimpered and shook, straightening his body upright until I pushed him back onto the table.

“Take it,” I growled. “Just a little more. Take it like a faggot. You can do it. Come on, dirty boy, I know you like it.” He didn’t stop shaking, barely holding himself up on his legs, and I thrust in again, and again. I rambled on as I worked up a slick sweat. I wanted to wear him out, warm him up before I started beating him. “Do it for me again, faggot. Come on, boy, come on my cock while I fuck you. Do it. Do it for me.”

He gasped and shuddered again, pitched forward, slammed his hand down into the table, and pressed his ass back against me, shaking, quivering, words pouring from his mouth, “Ohhh fuck, please please please, thank you Sir.” I held him close to me, twisted our bodies to kiss him.

Handprints on the Hotel Window

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.

“Come on.”

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.

The Boy at Summer Camp

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.

illustration by rife

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.

“What?”

“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?”

“Yes sir.”

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, just barely audible, in my ear.

“Louder.”

“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.

Gabrielle, Guest Star

It is always different to fuck somebody new. New skin, new lips, new way she kisses, new way she writhes, new way she comes. I don’t keep a lot of assumptions the first time. I don’t expect us to get off, I don’t expect to be able to tell when she comes, if she does. I don’t expect dirty talk, I don’t expect a lot of communication about what’s what. Of course I do my best at all of those things—but with someone new, you just never know. Maybe it’s the chivalrous service top in me, but I watch for cues and tend to take them from her, as best as I can.

Which is how I ended up stroking my cock, still wearing my tee shirt, my back up against the wall in my room, watching Kristen get fisted. By someone else.

After watching her get seduced.

Kristen and I had both noticed Gabrielle when we met her at a queer event a month or so before, so when she was in town this time, we made sure to make plans to meet up for a drink. Who knows what will happen, I told myself. Kristen told me she thought Gabrielle was pretty, and slutty and smutty and loud-mouthed enough to be that big river of energy that Kristen often seeks in those close to her. Gabrielle was running late. No ETA exactly. When we went off to meet her, I was a little bit skeptical about whether she’d even show. “I half expect to get stood up,” I sort of joked.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Gabrielle. When I thought about it later, I realized it was because I had no part in setting up this date. Kristen and Gabrielle arranged it, and though Kristen texted me to ask where we should meet up (the dyke bar in Brooklyn, of course), I had almost no part in the asking, the saying yes, the gauging of how interested or not Gabrielle might be.

All night, I had trouble reading Gabrielle. I was interested, and curious about her—she’s a smart, hot femme who it seems can make anybody laugh. Her style is cute and chic. She’s short, a little shorter than Kristen even, who is 5’2″, and not thin but not so heavy, just enough that I want to grip the flesh on her thighs. She talks a lot, and says interesting things about all sorts of things—being poly, education, being an artist. I liked her immediately when we met.

But I couldn’t tell what was going to happen. I couldn’t quite get a grasp on the conversation; I sometimes felt like the third wheel. I’d bring the conversation around to sex, but it didn’t take long for Kristen and Gabrielle to start talking about other things, like the socio-economic makeup of the cities in which they lived, or the queer community friend politics.

I didn’t try too hard. The conversation was interesting, I jumped in occasionally. Mostly, it was fun to watch them banter back and forth.

Kristen had just made a pie, so we had a good excuse to take Gabrielle back to our place for a slice of it. They talked more. It was getting late. Finally, they started kissing, making out, on the couch. Gabrielle pushed Kristen down and worked her hand between Kristen’s legs, Kristen grasped at her back and shoulders and came once, twice.

“Can I take this off of you?” Kristen asked her, pulling at Gabrielle’s dress.

“Somewhere darker,” she answered. And we went into the bedroom.

Sweat & Summer

1.

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.

2.

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.


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Waking Up

I love waking up with Kristen.

For one, she usually sleeps naked. I still sleep lightly with someone else in my bed, and often wake before her and feel her next to me, shift from whatever sleeping position I’ve gotten myself into overnight and slide my arm back under her neck and pillow, cradle her close to me.

This particular morning, I woke already turned on. A dream, a feeling, the closeness of how we fell asleep together—who knows why. She was wearing a tiny cotton summer dress as a nightgown, and I knew she was bare under it. I knew she’d shaved her pussy recently, too, that it was all smooth and soft, that I could touch her lips without anything in the way.

I dozed a while, tried to wait until a more reasonable hour before waking her. Each time I woke she had shifted slightly closer, curled against my chest, in my embrace, one leg over mine, entangling.

Eventually I couldn’t wait any longer. I slowly touched her, her thighs, sliding my hand up between her legs.

She hums a little and nuzzles into my neck, spreads her thighs apart at my touch, not really awake yet.

This story contains some Daddy/girl dirty talk. If you’d like to read on …

Morning Bondage (Review: Scalloped Cuffs & Snap Hooks)

I woke early the other day, with that familiar urge to hold and protect and control Kristen, maybe it’s the subconscious absorption of her smooth naked skin all night long, how sweet her body feels in my arms as we both turn and slumber, maybe it’s when we go in and out of whatever tough times we’re having, either about each other or just our individual general struggles against the world, maybe it’s just how I am wired, to protect and shelter, and sometimes control and dominate.

I began touching her before she was fully awake. She and I have talked about this, I have permission to take her whenever I want to, particularly in the mornings, she likes to be awakened that way. I kissed her neck and collarbone and breasts and shoulders, let my hand trail slow and soft over her skin as she murmured little sighs and stirred gently, eyelids heavy, not really awake and not really trying to be.

Slipping her panties down and off of her, I stayed low on the bed and kept my hands on her hips, using my elbows to spread her thighs open, the soft and sweet indirect morning light just enough to see the pink and pretty lips of her pussy. Delicate and velvety and I wanted to taste her, lowered my mouth down to run my tongue along the length of her slit. Just the tip of my tongue, breath hot on her cunt, keeping my mouth hovering above her and my hands gripping her hips. She squirmed. Pressed her thighs into the bed, pressed up as high as she could against my mouth, tensed everywhere.

I let my tongue flatten and drag softly, softly along her pussy again, from her hole up to her clit, and rest there, using the soft inner part of my lips to suck and tease.

Kristen comes easily this way. Tongue on her clit, one finger just one knuckle in and circling around the opening of her cunt, she quickly thrashes her arms down into the mattress and gasps, twisting her head and jerking her legs straight. I soften the pressure and go back in, tongue wide and lapping again, with quicker, smaller movements over her clit, until she comes again, crying out a little louder this time, and I shift up the bed to kiss her, hold her close for a moment.

I had set it up a week ago: taken the new fleece-lined wrist cuffs and secured them to another set of cuffs I’d placed around the bars of my headboard with some snap hooks. Kristen likes to struggle, likes to thrash around, and a little bit of restraint goes a long way: it gives her the opportunity to push or pull against something, lets a few more of her muscles tense and tighten and release a little deeper (and plus she doesn’t hit me in the face quite as easily). I took the fleece-lined cuffs down and buckled them around her wrists, then the easy click of the snap hooks secured her wrists to the bedframe.

She immediately calmed and quieted, not out of boredom but out of relaxation, watching me as I moved back down between her legs and set again to tonguing her pussy, making her come. This time I slid two fingers into her pussy, sucking her lips into my mouth and spreading them open with my hands to get to her clit. She strained against the cuffs and I felt the muscles in her stomach and ass tighten every time she pulled against the headboard.

I lost track of how many times she came in my mouth. Sometimes I let up, gave her a break, paused between orgasms, other times I just kept going and she did, too. I brought my elbows up to press her legs apart, kept my fingers inside her or spreading her lips open. I held her hips, pinched her nipples, gripped her ankles, held her legs up by the back of her thighs. I reached for the conveniently located pump bottle of Maximus lube on the nightstand and got a dollop on my third finger so I could slide it into her ass, just a little, filling her up, sucking her clit as swollen as I could and letting up just as she was about to come, changing my stroke down to a tickle until she contracted hard around my fingers and came again, again, again.

I lost track of time. I stopped caring if she was being too loud for this time in the morning, whether my neighbors would be home. I wanted to get my camera out, take up-close macro shots of the curves and lines and folds of her pussy, oh so pink and swollen and beautiful.

Not that she would have minded me doing that, but I didn’t. Next time, perhaps. That image of her arms and legs and pussy spread is still so clear in my mind, still a lovely mental image I’ve replayed more than a few times since then.

The cuffs were easy to unhook, left no marks, no bruises, no dye, were very comfortable. I pulled her close and noticed it was well past time to get up. “Morning, beautiful girl,” I murmured into her hair.

The Fleece Lined Buckling Cuffs w/Scalloped Edge and KinkLab Nickel-Plated Snap Hooks (4-Pack) were sent to me to review from JT’s Stockroom. Check them out for all kinds of other fantastic bondage toys.

Review: Moon Glass Plug, and How We Played With It

This, my friends and readers, is the Moon Glass Plug from Good Vibrations, and it is beautiful.

Can’t you tell already, just by looking at it? That blown glass with the gentle blue coming through it? (Maybe that’s just me. I do have a thing for blue glass. If I had it my way, all of my dishes would be blue glass.)

The other night, when Kristen and I were playing, I had her on her stomach in front of me, her chest down on the bed but her knees under her, ass up. We’d already been fucking for a while, she’d come three or four or eight times, who can keep track, and I slid my cock in from behind her while lubing up my fingers. For a while I just touched her asshole gently on the outside, I could feel her relaxing and starting to enjoy the feeling, opening up a little, pushing back against my finger and cock. I had the Moon Glass Plug out, ready to use, and touched it too against her asshole, but she wasn’t really ready for it, so I started with my fingers instead.

“Put your fingers on your clit,” I said.

She did, brought her hand down between her legs. I started sliding my finger into her asshole, just a little, really only knuckle-deep, just so she could feel it for a while. But it didn’t take long before she was getting all hot and squirming against me, bucking her hips harder, and I worked my finger a little faster in her ass, not deeper, just faster, which she liked, oh I could tell she liked it right away. I’m not sure what she did exactly, moaned maybe, or just responded physically in a way that was clear that was it, right there, perfect.

I noticed I’d kind of stopped moving my cock, so tried to get my hips going while she continued to work herself up. Now, this is a girl who can come by her own fingers in mere moments, so that it was taking much time at all was telling in that she must’ve been very worked up. I could feel her clenching hard on my cock, so hard in fact that she started to push me out, clenching her ass too, hand moving faster, gasping, as she came, hard.

So hard, in fact, that she ejaculated, gushed all over my cock and thighs. I silently thanked my Liberator Throe, and out loud, groaned. “That was so damn hot.”

I moved forward up to the pillow to hold her closer and kiss her for a while. She asked if I’d used the glass. “No,” I said, “that was my finger, just a little of it. Do you want to try it yourself?”

She took it from me and slowly worked it into her ass. For a while she said, “it’s too big, it’s too big!” but didn’t want to give up, and was certain she could do it if she moved slowly. I stayed next to her as she took the whole thing, finally, then brought her hands down to her cunt again to get off a few more times.

I told her I wanted to watch for a while, asked if she wanted my help.

“No,” she said. But then, later: “Lay on top of me?”

She likes the weight, holding her down. I spread my forearm across her breastbone and kissed her, my body slightly lifted from hers as she continued to work her hands between her legs. I like to watch the way her body gets all tense, then releasing as she comes.

I like to watch in general.

She came again, once nice and hard, then another for good measure, collapsing onto the bed. It took a little more work to get the plug out of her ass, since it’s pretty thick and spherical in the middle and has that skinny little neck before it flares to a plug. It’s only 3 1/4” long x 1 3/8” wide, but the shape makes a difference, and even makes it feel more thick than it actually is (though it is pretty thick).

And it’s gorgeous. Did I mention that it’s gorgeous? The most beautiful butt plug I own, though I don’t know if I usually describe them as “beautiful,” so perhaps that’s easy. The glass is smooth and hard, and very simple to clean. I haven’t tried it myself yet, but since it’s easily sterilizable, I will be. And I’m looking forward to seeing it in her ass again, too.

The beautiful Moon Glass Plug was sent to me for review by Good Vibrations. Get your own, or a different butt plug, or many other fabulous sex toys over at the Good Vibes website.

Desperation & Dominance

“Want to know what I was thinking about when I got off yesterday?” she asks. We’re lying in bed, tangled limbs and sheets, a little sweaty, breathing heavily still, hearts calming. She’s nude now. I’m still in boxers and an undershirt. I’ve taken advantage of the ongoing permission I have to fuck her, take her, if I wake in the middle of the night or before her in the morning, as I often do, like this morning, hands on her, fingers in her, forearm holding her down by her collarbone until she thrashed and came and muffled a scream into my shoulder.

“Yes,” I answer, arm under her neck, the other hand on her hip and curved under her thigh and ass as she drapes herself over me partly.

“I was thinking about … you using me,” she starts in a small voice, quiet, by my ear. I can feel her breath. “Filling me up. Fucking me and fucking me without caring how it was for me. I was thinking about tears streaming down my cheeks, and you not stopping, just … taking me, until you get what you want, and you come.”

I bow my head a little to find her mouth by feel in the dark bedroom. “I like to use you like that,” I say. She nods. “Let’s play later.” She nods again, pulls closer to me.

This story contains Daddy/girl roles in sex play, some domination and submission, and lots of tender loving care. Continue reading with that knowledge, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Lipstick Blow Job

Kristen: perfect. well i will come by around 9 then. that is late for dinner but oh well
Sinclair: okay, will be home. that will be our one plan
Kristen: ok
Sinclair: that + a blow job
Kristen: oh yes. yay
Sinclair: so, wear lipstick
Kristen: to yoga? :-)
Sinclair: ha! probably putting it on after is better. but, if you like …
Kristen: hehe

She bought new lipstick recently, thanks to a Sugarbutch reader who recommended her particular shade. It’s bright, but lovely and femme, and it doesn’t come off on anything, even tacos.

She walked into my place wearing lipstick, still in her yoga clothes. Not the new lipstick, one of her others that is more sticky and means I tend not to kiss her when she wears it, lest she get it all over my mouth. Sometimes I don’t care about that, of course. But we kiss all the time, so the wanting-and-not-having is kind of fun, for a little while.

I’ve been craving roasted garlic lately so I spread some on some toasted bread, then baked some sweet potato and potato fries with cumin, and constructed a pretty decent veggie burger (sauteed onions, pepperjack, goddess dressing, sprouts, lettuce). (I’ve had this recent revelation that I really like sandwiches, so I’m indulging in that a little these days. Plus, Kristen is a new vegetarian, and is skeptical of the veggie burger, but I’m a big fan.) We may have also had a beer or three.

So we had a nice dinner. Enough about the food.

We cleaned up, did the dishes, had a few bites of ice cream. Her lipstick had mostly wiped off after eating and I pulled her close before going into my bedroom. Though much of the last few weeks has been a struggle, we are also closer, more clear, creating something lovely and excited to dip back into each other. My weekend with her went smoothly and the things that are coming up between us are more conversations than anxious explosions, which feels good, great, but I’ve been missing the power play, which we haven’t done much of lately. I’ve been careful, wanting to really recalibrate before taking too much on or slipping into the wrong places, but we have talked about how we both miss it.

In my bedroom, I slip on my cock while she reapplies her lipstick. I pull her on top of me as I lay down on the bed and kiss her neck, her face. She gets breathless. Sucks in air as her mouth waters and tongue swells, I can see it, despite her lips already being darkened. I slide two fingers into her mouth, feel her tongue, push them just past the first knuckle so she can lick around the pads with her tongue. She closes her eyes and moans.

“Hmm, you like that?”

She moans a little. It’s not really a question I expect an answer to.

“Ready to get that lipstick all over my cock?” She looks up at me, gasps and her chest collapses a little, shuddering and giving in toward me. I grab her hair. Our lips are nearly touching. I run my fingers down her cheek and jaw and notice a smear of lipstick that must’ve been on them, from putting them in her mouth.

“Yes, ohhh,” she breathes softly. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lay back on the bed, hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder or arm or wrist. She positions her mouth over my cock. rings her fingers around the shaft slowly as she lets her mouth water, parts her lips, watches it in her hand as if it is getting bigger at her touch. I practically feel it quivering. Underneath, my clit swells and strains to feel her lips, to be swallowed in her mouth too.

When her lips finally touch it, it is always a revelation, always a surprise, how much I feel it, how much tenderness is in her light kisses, the soft soft pillows of her inner lips, her sweet wet mouth and tongue. She coos a little and I can’t help but to moan, she gulps down thick breaths of air when she pulls her mouth up and off, holds my cock her in her hand softly. Licks just the tip with her tongue.

My cock is covered in rings of lipstick now, smeared around the head and the little ridges of the underside. She gulps it down again, pushes it all the way back into her throat and holds it there while I push and press and pulse against her, eyes rolling back until they close and my back arches to go farther, get deeper inside her.

She gags a little and pulls off, smooth and quick, smiles, looks at me, a little shy, a little desperate. She knows how hot this gets me. I know how much she likes to be stretched open, filled. She’s wet between her legs by now, she likes sucking cock that much.

She does it again, swallows deep, deeper now, her lips all the way to the base and grazing my harness. She holds it way far back in her mouth again and I am tempted to grab hold of her by the hair, start shoving in and out of her at my own pace. She wouldn’t mind. She would like it. I grip her hair but don’t pressure her head down, just remind her of my arm strength and presence and control.

She takes it as long as she can, then pulls back again, gasping a litlte, wipes the spit from her chin. Her lipstick is gone, smeared all over my cock.

“Kiss me,” I say, and sit up, pulling her toward me.

She rises to her knees to kiss me, her mouth sweet and swollen. I kiss her hard and long, wanting, eager, remembering the feel of being thick insider her and still feeling my dick swell.

I pull back. “Oh thank you, baby,” I say between kisses on her cheek and jaw and neck, “you do that so well, god, I love how you suck it.”

She smiles, hums a little in satisfaction, a little sheepish, cute, sweet. “You like that? Do I make you feel good?”

“Yes, yes baby, so much.”

“I like to do it.”

“Mmm, my sweet girl. Take your shirt off, let me up.” I lean back a little, shift my weight, and stand next to the bed as she slides her tee shirt and thin bra over her head. She still has pants on, too, comfortable black ones she wore to yoga earlier. She looks at me expectantly. “On your stomach,” I say, pushing her down and pulling her over toward me.

I want to fuck her mouth from the side of the bed.

I’m not actually sure that will work, but I want to try. It’s a very different angle than her being above me or on her knees in front of me. Luckily (and not by accident), my bed is on risers, raised just to my hip height. She stretches out sideways on the bed and I pull her forward, mouth to my cock, and keep my hand on her head to guide my cock in and out of it as she stretches her tongue forward and looks up at me. I shift my feet to get more power and thrust in again, hips bucking. I like this. Go figure. I like having control of the depth and speed. I like how she looks up at me with just a hint of discomfort in her eyes, a little bit nervous, not sure she wants me to keep going, but so turned on. Oh hell yeah I like this. I feel the tension building in my cunt and want to fuck her, want inside of her; I keep thrusting for a moment but want us to be more connected, want to suck at her lips and pinch her nipples and hold her down while pounding into her. I hold her head a little harder, cock against the back of her mouth, and pull out swiftly: “Take your pants off.”

She breaths heavy, gasping for the air filling her lungs, and lies back on the bed, slipping her pants down her legs. I strip off my harness and pull out my other cock, my favorite cock, the one I love to fuck with, that is a little thicker and longer than the one I’ve been using for her mouth. (Plus, I bet it’s not great to get lipstick in her.)

She watches me, and her hand hovers a little between her legs. She looks from my cock to my face, one of her hands up on her chest, arm brushing her nipples absently, now totally unclothed and a little chilly in my drafty bedroom. “Can I …?” She starts.

I’m still buckling, adjusting. She wants to touch her clit. “Sure,” I answer, watching her as she does.

When I finish strapping on, smooth some lube over my cock, and lie over her on the bed, she’s breathing heavy and arching her lower back, still touching her clit, watching me. I grip her inner thigh with one hand and guide my cock with the other, touching her lips and skin softly, feeling how wet she is. She’s murmuring “yes, yes, please, ohhh … ” and I’m trying to draw it out, to wait, looking up at her and smiling at her gasping, that arc in her body straining for me, for that moment of contact, of friction between us.

When I slide in, it is slow and fully, all the way, and I lie my weight down on her simultaneously, pushing my forearm down into her chest and shoulders. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth in a silent tense moan. She comes so easily, gets there so fast, I don’t want it to be over yet, not that I can’t keep going but I just want to drag it out a little longer, she hasn’t come yet and she doesn’t usually go this long without doing so. I slow down, deliberate and hard, but she just tightens and tenses until her pussy pushes my cock out of her completely.

“Oh, you done with that?” I tease her, kissing her pretty mouth, hand in her hair while I hold my cock with the other, touching it lightly to her slick lips and hole. “You got enough, you don’t want any more?”

“No no no,” she starts, small and steady, “I want it, I want it, give it to me … ”

“Please?”

Please, please, give it to me, put it back in my pussy, please fuck me with it, please … ”

I do, of course I do, slide it back inside, she lifts her knees high and rocks back her pelvis so I can get deeper, shoving inside as she throws her hands up and back to grasp at the blankets, the edge of the mattress, the headboard, as she pushes against me harder.

Minutes pass, I don’t know how long, I can lose myself in this part, the soft melding of our curves together and the rhythms we create while we circle in and out of each other, cycle through pressure and pain and pleasure, the kisses, the grasping at each other. She sometimes comes like this, I sometimes come like this, but neither of us do so after a few minutes (or ten or forty) I shift to my knees and pull her hips up higher, my hands grabbing hold of her inner thighs to pull her to and from me, pulse my cock in and out of her, slapping her thigh for surprise and that shocking spasm of sting before moving my fingers to her clit, flicking it gently, and she starts to shudder, mouth agape, shoulders and arms and wrists held tense and flailing as she clenches everything tight, tight, tighter, pushing my cock out again … until she releases, groans in a long moan, relaxes back, breathes hard, and reaches for me, eyes still closed, to come closer to her.

I wrap my arms around her, lay my body out over hers, and kiss her, both of us catching our breath, vibrating in the aftermath, until we’re ready to go at it again.

The Dirtiest Kristen Stories

Today is my one year anniversary of dating Kristen. There’s another post coming shortly about our year together, but while that’s coming, here are some of my favorite stories of her from this past year. Many of the most viewed posts on Sugarbutch are stories about Kristen, though to be honest we have had sex probably hundreds of times more than are written about on this site. Sometimes I feel guilty for not keeping you updated about all of the awesome fun we have in bed, but hey, I bet you would rather I was having this awesome fun than interrupting it in order to write about it, right?

Here are some of my – and your – favorites:

My Slutty Little Girl, April 2, 2009:

I pushed her back on the bed easily. Kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks. Kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

She did. Unbuckled, unzipped, palmed it in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

I almost laughed. Her desire handed to me on a silver platter, I took it gratefully. “No.”

“Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but said “no” again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. Took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

(Read the entire story)

Wait For Me On Your Knees, January 29, 2009:

t the dining room table in her living room. She sits on my lap, kisses me. I pull her hair and move my mouth to her neck.

“Ohh yes, yes,” she breathes.

“Mmm, I like it when you say that. Say yes again,” I demand softly, next to her ear. She hears me, and says nothing. She bites her lip and looks right at me, which tells me she’s refusing to say it. Am I pushing her too far? Does she know – she must know – that saying yes is playing with consent, that I am warming her up for saying no. Does she feel pressed? Pressured? I study her face, wait for her to say it for what seems like minutes. “Say it,” I say again, low, with a grip on her hair, desire and dominance building in me. I pull back a little to get enough distance between us so I can hit her. I wonder how fast I’ll have to do it for her to not see it coming. I want her to be surprised.

Underneath her resistance, she’s got that tiny self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She is surprised. A quick, hard smack against her cheek. Then five, six, softer, in rapid succession, warming her up. And another, stronger. Another. Her whole head turns on impact. I don’t stop. Harder. I vary the rhythm and let her have a breath, a quiet moment in between, when she straightens her body and feels the sting.

This is the hardest I’ve slapped her, but I can feel the way she can take it, now, differently. She’s not scared or wincing but open and accepting, drinking in the sensation.

I stop. Pull back a little and watch her recover.

When she can, she whispers, “yes,” hand to her stinging cheek, eyes dark and smoky and submissive, that look, that look, that strong and active giving over that makes my knees weak (and oh I’m glad I’m sitting down).

I kiss her. Smooth her cheek with my fingertips, feel the warmth with my lips. “Good,” I say between kisses. “Good girl.”

(Read the entire thing)

“I’m Kind of … Insatiable.” (aka, our first date), December 15, 2008:

We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.

I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.

She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.

“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.

I grin. So am I.

My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.

(Read the entire thing.)

Her Dirty Talk Got Me Off. Twice. March 31, 2009:

“Fuck my hole,” she whispered, “take me, fuck me hard, pound your big cock in me deep. I’m your slutty little girl.”

(Read the entire thing.)

Rocking Chair Blow Job, January 12, 2009:

“That’s right baby, suck it.”

I lean back again and my dick swells, puckers when she sucks hard and fast. She keeps it deep in her mouth and pulses and I cry out. Fuck.

I pull her up again and lean forward to kiss her, mouth swollen and red, opening for me as I keep my hand on the back of her head, on her cheek, on her jaw, holding her just where I want her, tongue in her mouth and she sucks that too. I reach my other hand down between her legs and push the thin fabric of her panties aside, enter her easily with two fingers and swirl them over her clit. She gasps.

“I like the way you suck me off,” I say, low, into her ear. “Your mouth feels so good. Oh god you’re so wet,” I trace my fingers along her lips and flick her clit, swollen, thick and sensitive. She moans.

“I want you to stand up, bend over, pull off your panties and hand them to me. Understand?” I pull back and remove my hand and she nods. “Do it then.”

She does.

(Read the entire thing.)

Hogtied, May 28, 2009:

After a minute I catch her by the hair. “You’re starting to squirm.” I say, low in her ear.

She breathes out, a tiny voice. “Uh huh.”

I’m still mostly clothed, but my cock is out, hard, stiff from my fly. I kneel behind her, push on her shoulderblades so she’s facedown on the bed again, and tease her pussy with the head of it. “Waiting to get fucked?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m waiting to get fucked. Fuck me, please, please, put your cock in me, baby, ohhh … ” and I do, of course I do, when she asks so pretty like that.

(Read the entire thing.)

Am I forgetting your favorite Kristen story?

Fucking & Making Love

She looked so damn hot yesterday.

I don’t know what it was exactly. She was in an outfit I’ve seen, tight slim jeans, her girly black tank top with the silver star pattern, little yellow sweater with the clear buttons. Maybe it was her hair, she’s been letting it grow and it’s getting longer, almost to her chin, it’s thin so it’s starting to flip up at the ends. So. Fucking. Cute. Maybe it was the earrings, simple large silver hoops, the ones she’s worried are a cliche but I keep trying to assure her they’re classic, sexy.

Off hand, she said yesterday that I am obsessed with my hair. I said ‘obsessed’ was a bit strong, but I see her point. Maybe it’s not just my hair, either, but hair in general. Still, I don’t want to pressure her into doing things like growing her hair long because that’s what I like – I hope it’s okay for me to state my personal preference while at the same time accepting however she prefers to present. Because while it’s true, I do prefer long hair, even more than that I prefer her to make decisions based on her own wants and needs and personal expression, not on what I desire.

Still. Her hair was so much shorter when we met, nearly as short as mine is now; I’ve been growing mine too, going for that early Elvis look. I’d dye it blue-black like his but I really like the few strands of gray that are coming in at my temples.

I guess I really am obsessed with hair.

Point is: she looked so, so good. Fun, flirty. Femme.

We chatted on the couch after I got to her house. How are you, how’s your day, how’s your sister. Maybe it was that I hadn’t seen her in more than a day after spending many days in a row with her. I felt my appetite for her growing, bubbling up. At one point she tipped her head just slightly sideways, her hair doing this little flip on both sides, the lines of her silhouette so perfect, those big hoop earrings brushing her neck, and she gave me a little smile, eyes twinkling. If I’d been on a TV show, it would’ve cut to a shot of me, my spine becoming jelly, my hands to my face, crying OH GOD as I slide off the couch before springing up and throwing myself on her, wrapping around her and kissing her hard, my mouth wherever she’d let me put it, then the camera would snap back to the shot of us on the couch as we were before and nothing would’ve actually happened, just me, sitting there blinking, in awe, probably totally transparent and readable and ooey gooey in love. Am I so obvious? Moments like that I feel oafish, bull in a china shop, too big and awkward next to such grace and elegance, like I am certain how much she knows she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.

Oh and here I am being all dramatic and admirational again. Are you bored of this femme-worship yet? Three and a half years of Sugarbutch and I only love femmes more, I am only more certain of my orientation to them in such a specific way. Only three and a half years of Sugarbutch, but I met my first femme nine years ago, and I knew then … what? Something. The way she shocked me to life, lit up the night like a shower of sparks from fireworks.

And I’ve never had it this good. I tell myself that every day: every day of this relationship I am grateful, so appreciative of every minute we have together. I’ve not known a bliss like this and I’ve never known it to last this long.

When Jesse was here, she had a brief little snag with Violet, some conversation where it wasn’t quite perfect, but she didn’t let it phase her or lose her unwavering faith in their relationship. “We’ve always been able to talk it through, whatever it is,” she said. And so far, Kristen and I have that too – not big explosive fights and feelings getting deeply hurt, but conversations of honesty and self-awareness and accountability and care. There are some things looming, a little, I’ve felt their weight lately, our differences and complications and inadequacies and places where we need more support, but we have always been able to talk things through, even if the journey is more illuminating than the destination, even if the only conclusion is, “well, now we know, that’s how we work, that’s my particular quirks and assumptions coming up against yours in our unique relationship way. We’ll just have to watch how this plays out.” We still come back together, appreciate each other, speak the deep truths. I feel like I am heard, always. And oh how important that is, what a relief to have it in my relationship, with her.

Dacia has a piece she’s read in public a few times lately which has the lines, “I write about the relationship I wish I was having,” and “I buy my own bullshit.” I’ve done that, here, in the past. I’ve written myself into love, used this site to woo and court. I haven’t wanted to do that with Kristen. It’s too precious, too real; I’ve learned from my mistakes, or rather, I am learning, I am trying to learn. That is a major reason why I haven’t written about her like I have others.

Plus, I’m all the more protective of my heart these days. How many heartbreaks is one heart made to withstand, anyway? I love writing about my relationships, but it can also be a crutch – I become obsessed with micro-articulating my feelings and emotional landscapes in writing, sometimes to my own detriment, overdramatizing and letting the articulation of the emotion be more important than the experience, the story, the audience, the effects.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I am protective of this relationship, as it has swelled and sometimes burst, its ups and downs. I haven’t chronicled it all here, preferring instead to articulate it to her as best I can. And there are things, snags, places between us which are murky and lurking a little for me right now, things that have come up and we’ve said “we should talk about that more later,” but now it’s later and I don’t even remember what they were, so that makes me all the more nervous. The unknown rather than the known. I should’ve kept a list, I keep thinking. But I’ve got to calm my nerves about this, not let it affect the really good highs inside of which we still so easily slip. So far, we’ve been able to talk through everything, and for now I’ll rest comfortable on presuming we’ll be able to do that in the future, too.

Yes, I was high when I reached out for her upper arm and pulled her onto my lap, and she’d just told me about how she’d done her homework this morning by playing with her ass while getting off, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t also in love, wanting to make love, wanting to be inside of her, drinking her in as I sucked her nipples into my mouth and left bite marks on her neck and shoulders. She cried out and I thought, someone should be videotaping this she is so goddamn hot.

In the bedroom we slipped off her clothes. “Take off your shirt.” I slid her tight jeans down her legs. She was in this matching bra and panties I hadn’t seen her wear before – she does wear the bra, a little white one with pink polka dots and pink satin bows, very femme, but the matching panties have layers of ruffles. I’ve never seen her in them.

I didn’t take them off.

“I want to see your ass. Turn over.” She does, gets on all fours. “Show it to me. Get down on your elbows.” She parts her knees a little and arches her back, I run my hand over her curves and feel the outline of her cunt and ass under the thin fabric. I let my fingers trail over her softly, slowly. My mind raced. There’s so much I wanted to do to her, with her. All that ass talk earlier made me want my fingers in her there, to get out the little plug I’d brought to leave at her place (her further homework), wanted to plow her ass hard and make her scream. I won’t do that, yet, of course, it’ll take some time to work up to it. I wanted her to stay on her knees, ass in the air, while I gripped her hips and fucked her slow and hard. I wanted her on her knees, mouth full of spit eyes looking up at me as she sucked me down.

But most of all I wanted to be close, pressed against her, kissing her, wrapped around each other. So I strapped on, peeled off her pretty bra and panties, told her to turn over, slid inside, and got lost in her, got lost in the way we wind around and hold each other. We barely spoke, just felt each other, just took it all in with our bodies.

There were a few times I slowed down, savored her, looked at her, but the vibration was so strong between us, I couldn’t didn’t want to stop. Sometimes I wondered if I should, if her hips were okay, if she needed more of a break, but I kept getting so close and ultimately was able to come inside of her for the first time in a long time, I was glad I didn’t stop. (I don’t know why I haven’t been coming lately. I broke out the Spartacus harness I’d retired hoping that would help. It did, apparently.)

Later, she said, “I thought you were going to stop … but you didn’t. That was good.”

Yeah, that was good. And I’m glad she said that. Always affirming to know I wasn’t pushing her. I want to push her, I want to have that kind of power and trust and knowledge and skill, but that has to be earned, that has to be worthy. I want to do so much more with her, to her, want to take her to all sorts of dirty places and cradle her and worship her and honor her and fuck her and smack her around and force her and hold her and let go with her and trust her.

There’s time. It’s been almost a year, but I know enough to know that we’re in this. And that we’ll keep building, and exploring, as this keeps getting deeper and stronger.

Fucking in Public in Liberator Lingerie

Kristen and I dispute how many times we’ve been to the particular play party that we attended on Halloween. I thought we’d been before at least once, but she thinks it was only one other party in the same space. Perhaps because we also attended a completely different party around the same time (where the rocking chair blow job happened) I am blurring the parties together.

Regardless, we hadn’t fucked in “public” in a long time, and Kristen had the perfect costume for the Halloween play party: this “Secretary” outfit from Liberator.

secretary

Okay, you got me: it’s more lingerie than costume. Really it’s just the cuffs and collar that cross it over that line. Not really sure why it’s a secretary outfit, either; I guess because it has pinstripes on it, it is business-y? Whatever. The lingerie is hot. It arrived in a lovely fancy black box in pink tissue paper, and since Kristen tried it on earlier in the week I’d been looking forward to fucking her in it.

This is only the second Liberator item I’ve been sent to review – the first being the Throe, the moisture-proof blanket Kristen and I use pretty much every time we have sex. Well, every time at my house, anyway; we should get a second for her place, too. I’ve been looking forward to more from their product line, particularly some silk pillowcases to see if something higher quality will do less damage to Kristen’s hair, which is inevitably a tangled mess after thrashing against the sheets for a while. (Those of you with fine, baby-thin hair out there may know this problem. So far there’s no cure except conditioner and a shower. Suggestions?)

Instead of the pillow cases, though, they sent us Kristen’s pick for lingerie, just in time for the Halloween party.

It’s kind of hard to order clothes online, especially lingerie, where it should be very form-fitting and specific to a body’s shape. Liberator lingerie comes in x-small, small, medium, large, x-large, and 2x, and the customer service folks told Kristen that it runs small, so she ordered what she thought would be the closest to her size. She seems pretty happy with the fit, but it was a bit of a gamble; we may try a slightly smaller size next time, but it’s hard to say, that one might be too small. Returns to Liberator have to be pre-approved, probably because they do sell all sorts of products for sexiness and they aren’t about to accept used sheets or used sex furniture, but if it’s because the lingerie was the wrong size I bet they would understand. Be sure to ask, though, if you’re not sure.

We dressed at my place; she slipped into it as I got my harness ready under my black slacks, tee shirt, and button-down. When I announced I was ready, she said she was too, and I thought, really? You’re going to wear that out, without anything on top of it? She zipped her jacket up over it, her very short jacket, coming only to her high waist. The garter is almost a mini-mini-skirt, if you stretch your mind a bit, and we were driving, walking only the few blocks from her apartment to the play party. Plus, it IS Halloween, which is practically Scantily Clad Day, and I’d be with her – it’d be okay. (It did make me feel a bit protective, but also hot, that she was willing to venture out into public wearing so little. And knowing I’d probably fuck her later in the same lovely outfit made it all the better.)

We arrived at the play party a bit late; it was packed and going strong. Someone recognized me upon my entrance (who were you? I could barely hear or see, I apologize) and Kristen and I made the rounds, watching the various scenes in progress already: someone holding onto the bars of the “jail cell,” two pairs of dykes giving/receiving blow jobs, someone on a leash being led around by someone very mistressy, a girl with lovely curves face down being smacked by her top in a cowboy hat. Every once in a while the music would quiet just a little and I’d hear someone screaming or yelling or moaning and go investigate – I do love that it is a safe space to come and be naked, be vulnerable, be exposed, and be hot and sexy.

We didn’t stay long, but we wanted to play at least a little. I like to show her off. I like for others to watch her and see how ridiculously sexy she is when she comes or how good she is at her particular talents, like sucking me off.

I’m not sure how it started; with a kiss, I think (isn’t that always how it starts?). I love the way she kisses, from subtle, supple energy to hard, insistent, demanding. I love how she meets me, pushes me for more, mouth and lips and tongue so sweet and open, lovely, tender. I can’t even explain it without resorting to cliche flower metaphors.

Somewhere in the winding labyrinth of little black nooks and crannies I leaned against the wall, feet apart shoulder blades pressing back, cock already tucked into my slacks when I was in the other room, not a packing cock but a fucking cock so it is straining at my zipper and pulling at my belt already. She presses against me and can feel it, rubs up against it, which makes me groan. She winds her fingers through my hair. Puts her mouth to my neck. I feel myself coming undone, coming thickly into my body and connecting to her, those invisible strings that pull us to each other becoming taut.

She wants to be somewhere more public. I want to be somewhere quieter, we were right under the speaker and I can’t hear her noises, can’t hear her breathing. I lead her into the back room, full of signs that read “BDSM and sex only – no chatting please,” where Crash Pad is playing in the background, and I find a chair. We keep kissing before I sit back into it, just enjoying reconnecting and building the sensuality between us.

To be honest, we hadn’t fucked in a while. A few days, probably. Maybe there was some morning making out in there, some quickies, but no half-day laze in bed like we are used to. We kept disconnecting, we’d traveled and had visitors and then were decompressing from a week of socializing, we weren’t arguing but I was particularly exhausted and not communicating that well or being very attentive. It was a relief to let the world fall away outside and just be with her, just feel her back and shoulders and waist, her ass all round and squeezable in that gorgeous high-waist garter.

We kissed for a long time. Standing, arms wrapped around each other, melting a bit, finding the edges of each other again. Finally I pulled back to say, “there’s a chair behind me. I’m going to get my cock out, you’re going to get on your knees. Got it?”

She nods. I kiss her again, so sweet, savoring her lips, and drop back to the chair behind me as she drops to the floor. It is doubtlessly good whenever she ventures to put her mouth on me, but this time was exquisite, the kissing still reverberating on my mouth, still feeling her tongue and pillowy lips, how is it that after nearly a year it just keeps getting better? (I ask myself this regularly.) She kisses the head of my cock, softly. I feel it jolt through my body. Her tongue running along the corona. I shiver, swelling. She pulls it into her mouth deeper with suction and my eyes roll back in my head, I nearly fall out of my chair.

I love to watch her this way. I let her go on, watching the room watching us a little bit, dykes over by the doorway biting their lips and sucking on their fingers absently, eyes fixed. Enjoying them enjoying the view of her ass, her back curved, leaning forward.

The couple in the far corner leaves and the swing is unused. I pull her mouth off my cock with my hand on her chin and kiss her. Her mouth is wet.

“Let’s go back into the corner.”

I tug on my slacks so they don’t fall down around my ankles, lead the way. I undo my button down and slip it off, set it on the bench next to the wall, by the swing and the table that is suspended by chains from the ceiling. She stands next to me as I drop down to my knees and unhook her garter belt to slide her black panties down her legs, then hook up the belt again.

“The swing?” I ask her. “Or the table?” Both are free. She looks over to the table coyly and we take a few steps over to it, maneuver her up onto it. Kind of hard to do without proper leverage. There was a couple fucking right here as we watched earlier and it’s kind of a thrill to do something similar to what they did. She lays back, grabs the chains for leverage, wraps her legs around my waist as I lube up my cock and slide it in. I work it in and out a little, softly, she’s quiet and not nearly responsive enough. I can’t reach her to kiss her from this ninety-degree angle at which we’re fucking.

I can’t hear her, either. The music is too loud, plus there’s porn playing on the TV behind us, and other people fucking nearby, so any joyful noise, so to speak, could be coming from anywhere. I can’t hear her. I can barely see her, it’s so dark in here, a windowless basement with only bare colored dim light bulbs from the ceiling and the light from the TV. It’s not enough for me to tell what’s going on with her, but I can feel it, something’s not quite right.

“You okay?” “Yeah.” She wants it to be okay. (So do I.) But we can both feel something is off.

We mess around for a little while, I hold her, hold her down, push her ankles onto my shoulders so her legs are up, touch her clit, she gets off once or twice. But her heart’s not in it, and she forces it a little, makes it happen faster than necessary. I suspect she wants to go.

I lean down to wrap around her for a moment and she responds immediately, softens and pulls up into me. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. She nods into my neck. We get up, clean up the area, put our clothes back on, I tuck my shirt in.

It was fun, thrilling to debut her lingerie in public, fun to show her off a little, thrilling to watch her go down on me in front of a room full of people. But it isn’t quite enough. We haven’t had enough connection lately. I need some cuddling and intimacy and kisses all night long, wrapping around each other and sleeping late, making breakfast and laughing and leisurely lazing around on the couch watching reruns of 30 Rock, holding hands. I need some quiet to ourselves, with the world on the outside shut off and put away. I need to catch up on the last week, decompress together, let her know what I thought of the parties and people and fun times and her cooking and all the events we’re sharing. I need things to just slow down so I could catch my breath.

I pack up my cocks, we get our jackets, venture back out into the cold, and walk the few blocks back to her place, where we whisper sweet nothings quietly before falling asleep together.

What’s On My Mind

You in stockings and a garter, pussy bare, black bra, your lips and eyes darkened. Heels strapped around your ankles that I take off, or maybe not. Black and red silk ropes around your thighs, under your knees, around your ankles, around your wrists. Smooth ropes on the smooth stockings and I love the texture, run my hands all over you. I slip a blindfold over your eyes and kiss you. Smear the lipstick across your cheek and lips. You get still and quiet, waiting.

Your fist in me deep. Hard. The look on your face when you’re between my legs, that awe and desperate look I know I get too. Sweating. My hand on my clit, hard, rubbing hard, getting close until I grab you by the hair and push your mouth down on it, yeah, like that, suck it, don’t slow down, fuck me, until I’m hard and bursting in your mouth and I lift you by the hair again, take my clit in my fingers again to come, hard, around your fist. I wish I could squirt as easily as you do, I would, I would come in your mouth and watch you swallow it.

Your new thigh high boots, your little black dress. I’d like you in an alley, maybe, a dirty one, street-lamp lit and bricked and you’re nervous about the dinginess but you want me, you trust me. I push you up against a wall, slam your shoulders back, bite your neck, suck your tongue. You’re wearing fencenets between your boots and the tight hem of your dress but nothing underneath; I get my fingers between the wide holes and into your tight one, and hold you there, until your knees buckle and your fencenets rip.

You coming in my mouth again. Last time your knees on either side of my head, dipping your pussy into my mouth while I licked and sucked, tongued your hole as deep as I could. “You want to do it?” “Yes.” Your fingers on your clit and I held your hips (how you like it) and watched you squirt all over my face, dripping down my chin and cheeks, into my ears, and I laughed, mouth filled.

Blindfolded, on your hands and knees, mouth stretched open, pussy, ass, holes stretched open farther than you thought they could go and you like it, you like being filled like this, you like taking me in. A gag maybe. Breathing tight around the edges. Touching your smooth skin in easy strokes and thrusting inside you, my mouth by your ear: no, don’t come yet, don’t come yet, let me do it first, don’t do it baby, just take it.

My hips are heavy this morning and I remember the weight and swing of my longest cock between my legs, the swagger of it, the thrill of filling it, the thrill of filling you, that squeeze and tightening and then the ease when we work into our rhythm and press, thrust, push against each other.

I’m biting at my lips, remembering yours, remembering the way you kissed me when I got off in bed earlier this week, we’d woken early to fuck but I hadn’t gotten off, pulled out and rolled beside you, annoyed. “What’s wrong?” “Frustrated. I want to … ” “I know.” So I did it, put my hands on me, slid my cock off and held you tight to me, wanted your body next to mine, the way you kiss me when I am not in charge of the kiss. That mouth of yours.

I am tempted to get out the little digital video camera and set it up in the corner to make a record of how we fuck. Would we be too self-conscious? Would we get into it like we usually do? Would we be loud enough to hear on the recording? I could tell you louder. Louder. Say that again. Say it louder. Say fuck me. Say fuck me, Daddy. Say I want your cock. Say fuck my little pussy. Say it. Say it. Take it. My sweet girl, my lovely little girl, my darling. What would we capture? What would we look like? Will we look back at this in ten years, wonder how we were ever that young, that in love, that passionate? Or will we look like amateurs compared to whatever we’d be doing then? I want to find out.

I’d Like To Fuck Her Ass

Since we got together about nine months ago, Kristen and I have kept a verbal running list of Sex Stuff To Explore (okay, not always verbal, we have a shared Google doc, too).

Up pretty high on my list, and one thing that I have mentioned quite a few times, is that I’d like to fuck her ass.

I’ve never actually strapped on and fucked a girl up the ass (how come it’s up the ass but in the pussy? Does one say “up the pussy”? No, that’s awkward. Weird). (I have actually fucked a guy that way, but perhaps that’s different. Or perhaps that’s too much for a lesbian sex blogger to disclose in parenthesis without going farther in depth. Carry on.) I want to. The idea is really hot. I don’t know why exactly – not that the why matters terribly, but perhaps if I could articulate it better she’d be more inclined to try it. Maybe because it’s taboo, maybe because it’s tight and I expect the sensation to be a little different, maybe because I have fantasies of sharing her with another butch (or two) as we all fill her and use her, so she needs the practice. Maybe because DP feels good. Maybe because I know it changes and enhances my own orgasms. Maybe because I know it makes her nervous.

I guess the real hangup is that it makes me a bit nervous too. I don’t have trouble pushing her to do things I want that are things I’ve done in the past, even when she’s nervous, but for some reason we still haven’t done much ass play. Sure, a finger here and there, a small butt plug a few times – but I want it to be my cock, and I want to be wearing it.

I’ll admit, too, that since I started keeping a tumblr log and going through my dashboard as another daily inbox, I’ve thought about it more often. There is no shortage of cock-in-ass shots on that site, the sights of which makes my own imagined cock strain against my slacks every time.

Sidenote: why the fascination with girls assholes, guys? Same reasons for mine, I imagine …

Kristen mention Tristan Taormino’s book The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex For Women the other day, asking if I had it. I don’t. I may attempt to hunt down a copy though, and maybe a DVD or two of hers too. She does, after all, have a butt plug named after her.

I may be getting a Fun Wand from Babeland in the near future (crossing my fingers), which I think will be great to play with. I’m tempted by the Njoy Plug also – I have the Pfun Plug, perhaps I should get that out. (I am a bit obsessed with these stainless steel Njoy toys these days, thanks to my Pure Wand.) I have plenty of other butt toys, though – goodness knows I have no shortage of toys. Slim cocks I anticipate working up to, butt plugs in small-medium-large, thicker, wetter lubes. No problem.

Something still makes me a little nervous, though. It isn’t the shit part, at least not for me – I don’t particularly like it, but it is just part of the reality of things up the ass, and whatever, things happen that are sometimes awkward. I can deal. I know how to clean it up, know how to prep with towels nearby and condoms and wipes and whatever other supplies. I’m not sure what Kristen’s hesitations are exactly – inexperience? pain? shit? – but perhaps it’s time to ask her again.

Fucking up the ass strapped on seems like something that is done for her pleasure, not mine. It’s her body that has to get used to some new invasion, some new and violating way of being taken. The top in me – and the use of a dick with no nerve endings – makes me hesitant to pressure something that is all about her.

But then again: this is a frequent topic for our sex life, actually, and a place in which we have some snags. Nothing big; a few tiny things. We have a complex power dynamic (aren’t they all) in that while I am a top, I am sometimes more of a “service top,” doing things to my bottom because I know she wants them, I know how she likes it, I know what she wants. (I could say much more about this – it is, in fact, the reason the Sugarbutch Star stories were born, and often the way I write smut too. That feels like a tangent, I’ll cut myself off.) Sometimes, as you can imagine, this extends out to me being so focused and attentive to her needs and reactions that I ignore my own. I think this is why (at least sometimes) I have trouble getting off. Likewise, it is challenging sometimes for Kristen to contain, to hold – not to let in or open, those are a bit different (I have an article on these concepts in the works) – and we’d both like her to be better at it. Playing with that concept sexually would be a good way to do so, we’ve discussed this, since it is one place where I can practice being completely focused on me with disregard to her feelings, and where she likes being submissive and bottoming to that kind of degrading, using power energy.

But why have I not connected this with fucking her up the ass before? I want to; I am hesitant because I feel like it’s “for her pleasure” and not for mine. But it is for mine, maybe not physically, but in other ways. Obviously! Weird to think I still have a small hangup there. This particular act it is a great symbol of this issue of me taking, selfishly, something for me and not necessarily for her (with, hopefully, the side effect of her liking it). I have pages more to say about this issue, really; I feel like I’m only scratching the surface, but perhaps I’ve written around it enough in the past that you know what I’m talking about.

Kristen, baby, that means you’re going to give me that sweet ass of yours, and soon. You’ll do that for me, right? I thought so.

Folks, Kristen reads the comments – leave some support, wouldja? Tell her being fucked up the ass is not that scary. Tell her it is hard at first but you get used to it. Tell her why you LOVE it, tell her why it’s fun and hot, tell her it makes your orgasms better, tell her your story of when you first tried it. Tell her it’s worth the work. Tell her your story of learning and practicing ass fucking. Lend her some support. Share some resources.

You know I’ll certainly appreciate it.

“Can I come? Please?”

Kristen gets off easily. When we were discussing it last night, she said there’s a point after we’ve been fucking for a bit where she can simply tighten and it happens, so after a while she can basically come on demand. I start murmuring, “do it again, come for me, do it now,” and she does, almost every time.

It’s a bit of a miracle to me, as someone who takes a while to gear up and get off, and as someone who dated someone pre-orgasmic for four years (four years! We weren’t even open, I didn’t make any single person (except me) come in four years, it was torture). I have written about how it’s hard for me to get off around here somewhere.

I love that she comes like that. It is one of the things I crave most about sex: being able to give someone else that feeling of orgasm, of momentary loss of control, of la petite mort. I love the power of that exchange, the way she wants it from me, the way I keep her poised on my fingers or tongue or cock. I have tried to keep track, but I always get distracted, or loose count, or can’t tell when one ends and the next begins, sometimes she just goes and goes. I have asked her to count, telling her I’ll let her out of the ropes after she gets to ten.

Lately, we have been playing more with the torture of waiting, with making her beg for it, with keeping her writhing but not touched until she can’t stand it. She has noticed has orgasms are stronger and bigger the longer she waits, so that made us implement something else new: to make her ask permission before she can come.

This is mostly because I can’t always tell when she gets close, can’t even always tell when she starts coming, sometimes it’s a cry of ecstasy not unlike being bitten hard or fucked well and I can’t tell if she’s close or expressive. So she has to ask.

She waits until she’s so, so close, as if she’s forgotten she has to ask, then forces out the word: “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Please can I?” Gasping.

“Please can you what?” I don’t let up with my fingers thrumming her clit, my cock shoving inside her. I know she’s on the verge.

“Please, can I come!”

“… No.”

Seems I need to remind her that she has to ask if I want it to be ongoing, though, which I think I do. It is easy for both of us to skip over the asking and go right to the coming. And sometimes having one or two orgasms seems to open her up, make her able to take more, deeper, harder. So sometimes perhaps it’s best to let her come a few times before starting to deny her more, to build up to a larger release.

We’ve added this element of asking permission into sex on various occasions in the last few months, but I think it’s worth continuing to explore. I don’t really know how it’ll work yet, but I love the power dynamic of it, love the extra element of control over her body and her orgasm that I get to play with having. Love how she gives that over to me. Love how I can feel like I can sculpt her rise and fall of energy and release – no, not yet, not yet, keep it building, just a little longer, you can hold it in, hold it back, wait, wait … now: let go. This is what I love about being a top, too, at its very best – being able to sculpt someone else’s experience of their body, sensation, release.

Last night, I wanted her to wait until I was coming, until I came, to let herself come, but I couldn’t quite say that, I wasn’t quite confident of my own ability to get off. I wish it was more consistent for me. I can never quite tell when or if it’s going to happen, I can’t seem to make it happen. The factors all seem variable: sometimes I feel disconnected from her and I come anyway, sometimes I feel totally connected and can’t. Sometimes I don’t expect it and it happens, sometimes I do expect it and it happens. Sometimes I don’t try and it surprises me. I came twice on Saturday, that’s rare, but somehow I had the angle, or the harness placement, or the mental turn-on, and it worked.

Someday, that’s what I want. To use her like that, to be oblivious to her pleasure until I get mine. To take what I need.

That feels extremely vulnerable, because it goes against what I’ve been taught – to be respectful and conscious and interactive in our sex lives. But consent in this kind of play can sometimes trump what is “supposed” to happen, and perhaps will move me into new realms, to explore new interactions, to move into new personal realms, weave knowledge into our bones. And oh my god the very idea makes me so incredibly hot.

There is so much to explore here, with her, I still feel we’ve barely scratched the surface. And I just want more, and more, and more.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, when we have sex,” she said last night. “I don’t know if it’ll be sweet and lovely, or some crazy tantric energy release shit, or if I’ll be your little girl, or if it’ll be dirty and kinky.”

We seem to be moving from one into another more and more fluidly these days, able to turn on a dime and make something that was full of dirty talk and name-calling and control and, occasionally, pain, into something sweet and sensual, or into some deep-breathing chakra release. We seem to have a little bit of all of it, all the time, and that is near perfection.

Power, and a Pure Wand

When things get a little out of control in my life, I crave power sexually. Crave that rush that I get when someone’s body struggles and gives in, gives over.

purewandI’ve been craving power lately, like a drug, a junkie needing a fix. My fantasies are getting increasingly harsh and occasionally violent, which sometimes scares me. Sex acts alone don’t seem to be enough to get me off. And since I got a Pure Wand from one of my favorite sex toy stores, and since Kristen moved to my neighborhood, I’ve been getting off a lot more in general. I’ve wanted a good g-spot insertable that is not a cock; as my own cockcentric sexuality has developed I have been more averse to being fucked by a cock, but I still do enjoy that feeling of being filled, of squeezing tight around something, of straining to open.

But: back to power. I feel it from my fantasies and it rushes through me, I feel it coursing in my veins, muscles, tendons, bones. I want to feel strong, crave it, want to feel invincible, indestructible, like I can do anything, have anyone, take anyone down.

While getting off the other night, I let my mind wander. Scary when I do this, sometimes, for the dark places it goes. I ask myself, why is that hot? Why does that ‘do it’ for me, when so many other things don’t?

Power is sexy.

When did those wires get crossed in me? I watch and observe the ways that I am built, deep, where I allow myself to be overridden, to be rewritten, where I allow myself to get overwhelmed by the outside world, empath that I am I cannot help but to take it all in, and sometimes I crave so deeply to push back, draw thick lines around myself shut out the world. And lately – the past few years – that has manifested in sex as my topping, my desire to control, coerce, force, overpower, take, split open, break down.

And when things feel out of control, I crave it all the more.

I question the health of this, at times. But I am nothing if not extremely, extremely careful, cautious – overcautious in fact, overanalytical and overobservant, paying so much attention to others that sometimes I forget to pay attention to myself. And that’s why I crave this kind of play: situations that we construct, consensually, in order to explore power. Because just as I crave to take, control, overpower, so does someone else seek to be taken, to be controlled, to be overpowered.

There’s nothing really to say about the Pure Wand that hasn’t already been said. It’s one of the most coveted sex toys out there – ask any sex blogger and they’ll swoon over it a little. It’s beautiful, sleek and heavy, made of solid stainless steel. The weight of it in my hand (and in my cunt) makes me feel more grounded, more solid, more rooted to the earth. And I need that right now. Perhaps it’s the vibrant brightness of midsummer’s long, long, endless days that makes me feel exposed, like the spotlight is shining on me, like I’m being burned to light instead of my feet in the dark thick mud of the earth, that creative, nurturing soil where life is made, where strength and power flows freely.

I crave it. Desire it. Want it, need it.

A beautiful book I was reading yesterday deconstructed the word “want” a little, explaining that to be in a state of wanting is to always be in a state of inadequacy, of incompleteness, of unsatisfaction. The author was specifically discussing how to state intentions around the creative process and tapping into a spiritual source, and the ways that intention actually communicates with energy and manifests reality. I love this idea, and I do understand the ways the concept of “want” puts us in a state of less-than, of not-whole. And while I do also crave that state of wholeness, this feeling of deep desire that arises in my belly when I start to feel the power rising in me is at times intoxicating, and I wouldn’t want to give that up. But perhaps instead of feeling like that puts me in a state of desire and want and thus inadequacy, maybe I can think of it as being in a state of power, of control, of strength. Revisioning that, just ever-so-slightly, means that I become what I am to be, instead of wishing I was in another state.

Because perhaps I have already arrived.

Buy the Pure Wand at Babeland.

Review: Randy, The New Big Cock

I had to change o-rings for this one. Thick and dense and contoured and completely stiff, unlike the squeezable Bandit that she’d been sucking off minutes before. I like to fuck her with the same cock she’s just blown: the reminder of it in her mouth, the tug of the harness in similar ways. Shoving my fingers down her throat so I can feel how she sucked it. Filling her up.

Except – I wasn’t. Wasn’t filling her. The cock that is perfect for bjs is not perfect for fucking, it doesn’t give that strain of her pussy against me, doesn’t make her gasp and open practically involuntarily.

I wanted something larger.

randySo I reached for Randy, new from one of my favorite sex toy stores and as yet untested. I was unsure I could fuck her with it. It is short, maybe too short; seems like cocks are either fat or long, but both of those together and you get into the novelty and/or gay boy ass toys sections. Toys for pussies seem to be either one or the other. The shorter they are, the harder it is for me to get a comfortable thrust. The other extra-thick cock I have – which is shorter and less thick than Randy – I barely even ever try to fuck with, it’s hard to get the angle right without just popping out of her every time I slide out.

But this girl … we know how to fuck. We have all the angles. I know how to get more space to thrust by holding the backs of her thighs, looping my arm around her shin and pushing her knees to her chest, by putting my elbows to the undersides of her knees.

Cock in my fist I pressed it against her, and it occurred to me for the first time that it might not fit. “You might have to get on top of me,” I warned, “Not sure if this is going to work.” But I felt her open and press against me. “Ohh that feels good, I know you can take it, open up for me, let me in.” She moaned and pressed her thighs open.

I slide inside with caution, feeling her swallow me and close up as I pressed all the way in. She brought her legs around my waist, arms around my shoulders, then up under the pillows, pushing the headboard away to press against me harder. I shouldn’t have been worried; we could fuck with this just fine.

Keeping one hand on the cock so I can feel it in and out, so I can know if it comes out, so I can feel her tight against me, and the other hand with my fingers in her mouth, or palm covering her mouth, “quiet girl, it’s early, don’t wake the neighbors,” or hand gripped on her upper arm or behind her head for leverage, she came two, four, I don’t know how many times. My fingers thrum her clit and she comes again, again.

She started squirming, pressing desperate against me with that hungry desire that means she wants more, wants it harder. Soon enough she started asking for it, too, her whine in my ear, getting rhythmic and repeditive, give it to me give it to me, yeah fuck me deep, fuck me deep, fuck me deep and I fumbled a little. “You sure? You okay? It’s kind of big, I don’t want to hurt you – ”

“No, it’s good, it’s so good, give me more, more baby more.”

Alright, fuck it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been holding back, unsure of driving this new thing. But here she was begging, she’d already come half a dozen times at least, surely she can handle it.

She came again, harder this time, our eyes catching and breath slowing. Then she asked, “Can I get on top?”

Why not. Try out another angle, make sure it’s a thorough review. (Ah the things I do for my work.)

“You might need more lube … ” I reached for the bottle on my nightstand as she lowered onto my cock with a moan. Okay, maybe not.

“I’m … so … wet,” she managed, before starting to rock back and forth and losing her words.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. I lose myself when she’s on top, and I just love to look at her, watch her, feel her, run my hands along her body, let the pleasure between us rise & fall.

She often squirts like this. Something about the angle. I think we could both feel it building in her, and she pulled up and put her hand on her clit while still riding my cock.

“Want me to … ”

“Do it, baby.”

She rears back, hips bucking against me and pussy tightening so hard that she pushes the cock out, before she gasps, moans hard, squirts all over in a wet gush, soaking my harness and my hips and stomach. I can feel it drip down my sides onto the sheets, my nice new sheets. I knew they would get broken in sometime.

“You know, this is why we have a Throe,” I laughed. That blanket has saved my bed on many occasions, we kind of need one for her house too. Makes it much more fun to watch her and make her squirt, takes away that twinge of “oh no my sheets” that does tend to plague me.

I pull her close, kissing her, god I love it when she does that. So hot. “So, seal of approval?” I ask, referring to the cock.

“Oh god yes.”

Purchase Randy (6″ x 2-1/5″, silicone) at Babeland.

Snippets

These are some of the moments I remember, some of the flashes of motion that still play in my mind.

Her arms bound to her chest; fifty feet of rope wrapped around and bound. Then her knees bent up and back and bound to her wrists. Wrapped around again. The way her muscles strained to the edges of the rope. Her eyes when she came, her face open, hips open, straining.

In that sunny summer dress in the park, without panties. I layed out my jacket for her to sit on. My mind racing the whole time we sat in the grass. Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, but I couldn’t, I wanted her lifted against that tree, dress pushed up around her waist, with everybody watching as she screamed while she came over and over.

Her mouth on my cock. That look on her face. Oh so many times. Eyes wide and glancing up at me, filling with tears when I push too hard. My hand on the back of her head. Yeah, suck it, suck it deep. More, baby, take it deeper. Good girl. Slapping it on her tongue. She wants it. Opens her mouth and I shove it in.

The moments I resist, wait, torture her just a little. Tip of my cockhead against her pussy lips, rubbing upagainst her clit, up and down, and she pushes into me, starts wriggling her hips. Oh, you want something? Whatcha trying to do, baby? Slap it against her, she’s wet, I hear it. She starts saying please, please please please, in that voice that undoes me, and of course I slide it in. I can deny her nothing.

All the aftercare pillowtalk when her eyes sparkle and she is flushed, glowing. All that light in her laugh and feather-soft touches make me feel easier, like I make sense. I’ve said it before but she is very easy to love, easy to spend time with, easy to adore, easy to shower with affection.

Camping last weekend and we created our own sanctuary in the small tent, we couldn’t even stand up. The woods are easy for me, no struggle, everything takes less work, though for her it takes a bit more. She is more of a city kid than I am, despite my current reisdence in the one-zero-zero-zero-zero zip codes. We wriggle out of our clothes and I have such a grip on the ground that I can be even deeper inside her, even harder, even faster. Birds and trees and smoky campfire and even the thunderstorms all afternoon, all night, and though I was not exactly relaxed I enjoyed every minute of being with her, and I wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else.

Trying out my Hitatchi before she decided she wanted one of her own, keeping it shoved hard against her cunt, no stop I can’t take anymore she’d say, then come again, and again.

Whispering at her neck, into her ear, you’re mine, you’re mine, and she moans yes, yes, take me however you want, I’m yours, take me how you like it, take me, I’m yours, please, please.

There is so much. The sex memories are running together and sometimes I can’t remember what happened yesterday. It’s been six months, can you believe it? Six months this past weekend since we started dating, and I still can’t get enough of her, still want more of her, still there are so many things to do and explore. Our future continues to expand as we build this deeper, stronger, more solid. I don’t know if we really “took it slow,” we’re both such passionate, intense, emotional people who fall hard and fast, but I kept myself solid, I did not lose myself (did you hear that? I just said I did not lose myself and that’s a big deal), and it’s just so fucking good.

Hogtied.

cnvax-b-hogKristen sits on the edge of the bed. I kneel, take her calves in my hands, shackle the ankle cuffs on her one at a time, then rise and hold out my hand for her wrists.

I love this part. A tiny moment of patience and waiting as I’m not sure if she really will give me her hands, or if I’ll have to take them. After one breath too long, she looks up at me, brings her hands together, and pushes them forward.

“One at a time,” I say, and wrap black rope around one, then the other. Four points of tension, four points of restriction, four points of restraint. She’s ready. I can see it in her eyes, that impulse to struggle, to strain against the edges of what is possible.

I pull her by the dangling rope back onto the bed. Push her down, push her legs open, hold her there, then turn her over.

I love that meditative bell-like sound of metal on metal that belts, cuffs, and leather straps with D rings made into hogties make.

She knows what I’m going to do. I’m nervous, haven’t used this before. I use clips to get the cuffs connected to the hogtie, tie the rope directly. She’s on her stomach. It makes an x over her back that is beautiful, seems like a natural object to put onto her body, contoured to her curves like jewelry. There’s more room in the tie than I expected. I thought her limbs would be pulled taut, but in reality she can move around quite a bit, though at some cost. She gets her hands under her shoulders to lift herself up, can pull her knees under her to get her ass in the air.

(I like that.)

I let her try out the restriction, the limitations. She’s not tied to anything, only to herself, and she’s small, so there’s quite a bit she can do.

After a minute I catch her by the hair. “You’re starting to squirm.” I say, low in her ear.

She breathes out, a tiny voice. “Uh huh.”

I’m still mostly clothed, but my cock is out, hard, stiff from my fly. I kneel behind her, push on her shoulderblades so she’s facedown on the bed again, and tease her pussy with the head of it. “Waiting to get fucked?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m waiting to get fucked. Fuck me, please, please, put your cock in me, baby, ohhh … ” and I do, of course I do, when she asks so pretty like that.

I leave her hogtied for a while, taking her as I want her, telling her to put her ass in the air for me, get up on your knees, head down, face still shoved into the blankets of the bed as I pound her, biting her shoulders, slide in and out, she’s so wet, slamming into her hard, from behind, from above, until we both collapse, my mouth at her ear, at her cheek, at her neck.

Later, I untie her hands and leave her legs bound. Then unhook her ankles and hold her, weave our bodies together, faces nearly touching on the pillow.

Thanks to a particular sex toy store for providing the hogtie, one of their many bondage items. Kristen thanks you, too.

Sublimation

It was the build-up and release from this weekend that has stuck with me well into today’s Monday afternoon.

The way we rock together, slow and sweet, the way the friction between us builds and rises like waves, then cresting and crashing, leaving a perfectly smooth beach full of tiny worlds in its wake.

How I can feel it swell palpably between us. Sometimes it is something I can touch so easily that I feel I can cradle it in my hand, mold it into something new.

And it builds. Oh god it builds. Clinging to each other and we both start holding our breath, crying out, at the same moment, precise sounds from our throats in ecstacy and pleasure, pushing all the way to the edges of our bodies, into each other’s.

Two moments:

The quiet build before she began thrashing under me, arms spread wide like wings, grasping at the edges of the bed, mouth open throat open chest open, until her back curled and she cried ohhh god with such purity that I still feel her syllables reverberating in my chest every time I think of it.

And then coming. Inside her, again on top. (I could have her any way I want and that’s what I want: her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her shoulders, so close to her, so I can feel her mouth.) I loose track of how many times she’s come, can feel myself getting close and shift positions. She can tell I’m close when I start moving my hips like this, faster I think, maybe more shallow but still intense, precise. I’m still not exactly sure what I do to make it happen, but it’s starting to get easier. Every weekend now, though not every day. Challenging when I can start to tell that she’s paying attention and thinks I’m close, I get self-conscious, but when I can tell what she’s feeling and how much she likes what I’m doing and that she’s lost in it all, I can let go too, and that’s what happened on Saturday, she started coming, again, crying out, oh I love the way she sounds, and it was enough, just enough, just what I needed to tip me over the edge and I felt it hit my clit, shake through my pelvis in waves, tumbling through me, through both of us, each time I slid in again, and again, she felt it too, I could feel the pulse of it between us, pure energy, unblocked and unhindered, just flowing, sweeping, rippling, with uninterrupted ease.

My slutty little girl.

Or, how her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

In my bedroom. We both knew we only had a few hours until she would leave, back to her city, an hour and a half drive away.

I didn’t waste time. Pulled her by her hair toward me and thrust my tongue in her mouth. Moved her around, hands hard and thick on her torso. Pressed against me. She feels good in my arms.

I stripped her and left my office clothes on, for now. I was already hard packing (not with Silky but with Rick, I broke my Silky again), and hard, and wanted to fuck.

I pushed her back on the bed easily. Kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks. Kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

She did. Unbuckled, unzipped, palmed it in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

I almost laughed. Her desire handed to me on a silver platter, I took it gratefully. “No.”

“Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but said “no” again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. Took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

She lowered her lips to my cock and kissed. Swallowed. Lapped with her tongue, ran it along her lips. I didn’t stop with the talking. “Baby, you suck it so good. That’s so pretty in your mouth, suck it deeper, yeah that’s it, good girl.”

I pulled her up to kiss me a few times, mostly so I could feel how her lips and tongue get swollen and wet when she sucks me off, and so I can have that moment of thrusting her head back down to my cock, pushing on the back of her skull.

She started taking it deeper, deep as she could, nearly the whole thing, kept it there while her throat contracted around it and she fought her gag reflex, then pulled up and kneeled.

“Do it again,” I said, and she looked up at me, mouth open tongue thick, and lowered her mouth back down, sucking me all the way again. “Deeper. Good girl. Take that cock in your throat. Swallow it. Good, that’s so good.”

And again she came up for air.

“Do that one more time,” I said, caressing the back of her head, “and I’ll fuck you.”

She quivered a little, I could see it ripple through her back, and then she did: brought her mouth down on my cock once more, took it deeper this time, pretty, so pretty, so far back in her throat.

When she started to resist I pulled her up by her hair, shifted next to her, put my hands on her hips and turned her over to her back, slid between her legs again.

She was so wet I barely needed lube. “Oh, you liked that, huh.”

“Yes.”

“You like my cock in your mouth.” My hand on it, putting it in place.

“Yes.”

“You like to suck it. You like when I fuck your pretty mouth.” I guided it in, hard, and started fucking her sweet but steady, deep. She moaned. Tried to say “yes” but it came out in a slur.

“I like it too. I like my cock in your mouth, I like how you suck it. You get me so hard, I just have to fuck you.” I continued, cock thrusting in and out as I took her wrists in one hand, held her down, kissed her jaw and neck. “I like it in your pussy too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, put it in my pussy. Fuck my pussy hard.” She shifted her hips up and back and I thrust an inch deeper, reached around her thigh to get a nice grip on her ass.

Somehow, she was set off and kept a steady stream of words at my ear, every time I thrust harder into her I’d get a nice reward of her lovely voice saying dirty things: oh yeah baby just like that, fuck me hard, you know how I like it, you know how I love your big dick in my pussy, put it in me, harder baby, fuck me, fuck me hard, and when she gets closer it becomes ooh baby you fuck me so good, you fuck me so good, baby that feels so good, so good, you fuck me so good, baby, baby –

And somewhere in there I lost it. Blurted “I’m gonna come” as it started happening. Groaning, harness against clit, thrusting my cock deep in her; I don’t even know what I do exactly when I come like that because I’m so unpracticed at it that my body goes and releases and moves and I’m not sure what I’m doing.

She wrapped her arms and legs around me, held me close as my breathing evened and my pulse calmed.

Her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

“So,” Kristen said, arms around my neck, looking up from under me, my legs between hers but bent and wrapped around each other, both of us naked, skin to skin, sheened with sweat and still a little bit out of breath. “I guess we figured out what gets you off.”

Not that I – and she – and, let’s be honest, the entire fucking internet – didn’t already know what I like: blow jobs, strapping on, fingering a girl until I make her squirt. But this was different: I came twice in the few recent hours we’d been fucking. Probably mostly thanks to what Kristen was saying.

We’d talked about it the day before. “I want to be used,” she’d said. “Just … fucked with no regard for my pleasure.”

And so I did. And we liked it, a lot, both of us.

“Fuck my hole,” she whispered, “take me, fuck me hard, pound your big cock in me deep. I’m your slutty little girl.”

Just typing that makes my knees go a little weak. Why does that turn me on so goddamn much? Makes my head spin. I feel guilty for it, really, somewhere, just a little, a small piece of me that fears that treating a beautiful, smart, strong woman like that – objectifying, humiliating – is bad and wrong. I know fantasies and role play are so much more complicated than that, that the problematic power play and gender play that we oversexualize for pleasure is just that – oversexualized – in a very specific context, and it doesn’t mean I would ever do those things outside of that context. In fact, the context is what makes them hot at all – the consent – the way she asked for it, explicitly and specifically.

I’ve known this is what deeply gets me off. This isn’t new. I discovered that I could come while strapped on and fucking with Callie, and this is precisely what we used to play with, precisely the language we used, precisely the kind of thing she wanted. I had trouble with it, sometimes, partially because I wasn’t sure I could trust her (go figure) and because of how she demanded it, and that if I didn’t deliver correctly there were consequences.

So this kind of play does open me up in sensitive places, triggers me a little bit, pulls on old wounds of trauma.

I’ve known how much these concepts, this play, turns me on, but I haven’t really brought it up with Kristen before. Well – no, that’s not entirely true. We’ve been building to this, been learning each other and building trust and playing with consent and dirty talk and power play. We’ve been building to this, and it’s of course I wouldn’t have come to her on the first date – or in the first month! The first three months! – and say, I want to take you down like this. I want to fuck you until I get off and disregard what you feel, whether you like it or not. I wouldn’t say that! Even now, I have trouble writing it out – it’s more complicated than that being what I want, what I crave, because while it is, I just can’t get there to do that until I know for certain that my respect and honor for her are in place – and that I know she knows that, too. That I know some of her history and why she craves to be degraded in these ways. I need the trust to be there, and a deeply feminist understanding of sex and power play such that the issues of consent and degradation are clear, understood between us, and ultimately irrelevant to the way we play.

So I didn’t say it first. Honestly, it never occurred to me to this extent – if it had, I might’ve brought it up. We have played with elements of this, but nothing quite so specific or elaborate as we did yesterday. But I so needed that extra little piece of consent, that explicit permission which came from her – so I know I didn’t coerce her into it – that says take me. Overpower me. Use me.

We talked about this a bit recently – I wrote about it – about how hard it was for me to get off and how much she wants – we both want – me to get off more, and one of my major conclusions in exploring that has been that I pay so much attention to her, how she feels, what I can read from her tones and moans and body language, that I forget to pay attention to myself. It’s a strength of mine, to be observant, thoughtful, to pay attention to the person I’m with, I think it makes me a good lover and friend, but it doesn’t always serve me well: I loose myself sometimes, in ways even that I don’t always recognize at the time.

(I wonder how this relates to my history with Callie too, the ways I lost myself so totally and terribly with her. Maybe my getting off (easily) with her wasn’t actually deep connection with myself – or perhaps that’s unfair, since honestly that’s precisely the benefit that I took from that relationship: knowing that I needed to learn to deeply trust myself. But maybe the ways I came with her were about something else. Regardless, whatever connection to myself I began culminating with her was so challenging to keep while dealing with her neuroses and insecurities.)

And that’s precisely what Kristen brought up when we talked about it later: it makes sense that it is a big relief, and release, for me, when I stop doing that. When I no longer put someone else’s needs above my own, and in fact allow myself to override theirs with mine. I never do that, sometimes to my own determent. So being able – and being asked explicitly – to do that sexually is a huge, huge turn-on.

What I’m trying to say is, Kristen & I opened up something deep and wounded and complicated and beautiful and fucking powerful yesterday evening. It brings up guilt, it triggers some old wounds, brings some of my issues of overattentiveness to the surface, and makes me feel so strong and powerful, like the king of the world.

I know you want to know more about what it was we actually were saying, those dirty, filthy things that got me to come inside her twice while strapped on, during a blow job, during a punishment spanking for her being such a dirty girl, during some intense fucking with her ass in my hands and her legs in the air. It’s taken me all day to get through this, unfortunately, so I’ll have to write up the dialogue tonight and get it to you tomorrow.

Did I mention how much I am just totally loving my life? I can’t believe what an amazingly dirty filthy sexy hot freak I’ve found. And? She likes me as much as I like her. Grateful, grateful, grateful.

A Resplendent Image

Some days just the memory of her is enough to drive me wild.

I’ve been holding on to the image of her in my bed last Sunday all week, rolling it over in my mind like I roll my ring on my finger.

We’d already been fucking, all day really. Woke and I couldn’t keep my hands off her, stayed in bed until hunger forced us up after one. Back home and I wanted more. Cradled her, fucked a while, until I wanted to watch.

I’m perhaps more of a voyeur than even I know. And she is such an expert at her own body, I love watching her as her skin flushes, fingers move, hands hover above her own pussy as she shakes, then opens her eyes to look at me: “want me to do it again?”

This time, she was on her back, on my bed. I wished aloud for a spreader bar and then made one, makeshift, from a white-tipped straight black cane and black rope, her ankles as far apart as they could go, she couldn’t close her knees.

Then: clamps on her nipples. Tighter than I expected, but I know she likes the pressure, likes it when I bite hard.

Then: I got a cock out, a big one, the widest I have, I can’t even get my thumb and forefinger all the way around the narrowest part. It is short, so, hard to strap-on. I keep it in my hand as I watch her writhe for one, two orgasms on her own, as she can’t take something that big until she’s warmed up.

I tug at the chain of the nipple clamps, twist them around for more of a pinch. She moans. She likes it.

I watch her come and lube up the cock, slide it in without much resistance, watch her face change, her hips open, as she starts working her clit again right away.

And these are the images that flash in my mind: that thick red cock shoved all the way in; her hands, both, between her legs, upper arms pushing her breasts together as the clamps and chain accent her nipples and swollen aureole; knees up and rocking back and forth, straining against the bar holding her ankles apart.

I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees apart, stroking my cock, still strapped on, watching from slightly above as she writhes and moans.

Then: next to her, my hand working the cock in and out, my mouth at her neck, shoulder.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, as I refuse to close the distance and keep her straining to reach my mouth.

I grin, and slap her instead, three four five six times in rapid succession. She moans, I hit her again. “Or slap me, that’s good too,” she breathes, nearly under her breath, as I continue to make her cheek pinker, and I do, again, and she starts coming, harder, so I slap her a few more times before leaning in to kiss her, until she starts jerking as she comes and nearly knocks me in the nose with her forehead.

“Fuck me, please,” she is unhinged like this and asking for just what she wants, and I love that.

I shift between her legs, the bar holding her ankles apart now behind my knees and I keep some pressure on it so she can strain against it, and slide inside easily, wrap my arms around her, kiss her hard, and we lose ourselves in it, rocking against each other, going deep.

What we did on Valentine’s Day

We spent the morning fucking, so we didn’t get on the road until after 1pm, nearly 2. “America’s Oldest Winery” was only about a two-hour drive from New York City, and they had a Valentine Special – a chocolate truffle pairing with their 6-wine tasting menu.

It was a surprise, for Kristen.

I prepped for the mini-road-trip as if I was on the West Coast, old habits I suppose. Most drives over there were six or eight hours, or at least four or five, so I am used to gathering games, books to read aloud, mixed roadtrip CDs, snacks not bought at a gas station. (What I’m saying is, I overplanned.)

I’d asked her to wear a short skirt, and lipstick. She added a garter, over-the-knee thin socks, heels. Her lipstick is sticky and bright. I want it to last, and avoid kissing her for the longest short drive I’ve been on in ages (which takes a lot of willpower, let me tell you).

Arriving too late for the tour, we settle easily into the tasting, even befriend the unimpressed gay boy couple next to us. Sparkling whites, whites, reds, then dessert wines – blanc du blanc, a dry and a sweet riesling, pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon, the winery’s signature mariage (my favorite and of course the most expensive), port, sherry. They even let us try a bit of mead. It was a wonderful time.

Kristen is tipsy. I am less so, as I am driving (and many pounds heavier). After buying a half-case and carting it to the car, we strategize: I’d planned to bring us to a local cafe for something to eat.

“You know when I drink there’s only one thing on my mind,” Kristen says, sliding her arms under my leather jacket as we stood next to her car.

“Can I mess up your lipstick yet?” I ask, mouth close to hers.

She gives me that shy, sly look. “I’m not sure I want it all over your mouth.”

I clear my throat. “So. Want to go get lost and … park … somewhere?”

“Yes.” She answers before I even finish my sentence.

I open her door, then go around to the driver’s side and start the car.

I don’t want us to be so lost that we (and by we, I mean I) can’t navigate back, but I want off the main roads. I take a few turns, a few long stretches of houses getting farther and farther apart, until there is a small pull-off and I take it, put the car in park, cut the engine, push my seat back, get my cock out.

(There might’ve been some conversation in there too. I’m cutting to the good parts.)

She leans in to kiss me. lets her heels slide off her stockinged feet, and peels her panties down her legs, leaving them on the floor.

“I want to feel that pretty mouth of yours,” I whisper. I grab the back of her head and our lips nearly touch, but not yet, I can feel the lipstick, slick, just barely.

“Not on your mouth,” she says again, shifting a little in her seat to be further on her knees.

Oh my god. Can I even explain how hot she is in moments like this? Eyes all alive and dancing, mouth thick and lips parted just a tad, I want to feel her everywhere. Suddenly this car seems like a bad idea, why didn’t I get a hotel? Or race back to the city to be in my bed with her?

She lowers her mouth onto my cock slow, torturously slow, just her tongue on the tip of it, running along the underside. Kristen is the best I’ve ever seen, paying soft attention to all the sensitive places, taking her time, swallowing it all only after she gets me good and hard, then getting it so slick with spit and sucking in and out with vigor. I’m groaning unselfconsciously, alone and on our own and not afraid to be loud.

I pull her off me when her lipstick is all gone and bring my mouth to hers. Her lips are thick and soft.

“Oh, goddamn,” I gasp, a little breathless. “You are so good at that. So good at sucking my cock, oh my god.”

She kisses me, hard, and pulls back. “I’m not done yet,” she says in that playful whispery girl tone.

I groan. God. Language barely working in my mind. I kiss her again and take the back of her head into my palm, shove her down. “Do it then.”

She moans a little, surprised, gasping, and picks up right where she left off, cock on the back of her tongue, far. I can feel every sweet slick place in her. I work my fingers under the straps of my harness; my clit is as hard as my cock and I roll it gently, savoring, mimicking the way her mouth goes up and down. She makes it all wet and runs her tongue on the shaft, kisses it.

I try not to thrash around in the driver’s seat, but I let myself be loud. No one around except the occasional approach and disappearance of headlights, but surely they can’t see inside, it’s getting darker and the windows are nearly fogged.

I pull her up by her hair and the back of her head again and kiss her, hard. She’s gasping a little, swallowing the saliva in her mouth. “I want you on top of me,” I say, reaching for her.

“Yes yes yes,” she whispers, like a moan. She shifts in her seat and steps across the gear shift to straddle me, short short skirt revealing the curves of her ass, tall socks still held up with the garters.

I hold my cock still as she guides it in, takes the pace and starts rocking her hips nearly right away. Moaning. Hands on the seat next to my shoulders as mine are on her thighs, around her waist, reaching for her ass, spreading her open wider.

She feels so good like this, wrapped around me.

Something she does when she’s on top of me makes me yell with the intensity: a way she moves her hips which feels so deep, so far inside her. I don’t even know how to explain it in writing, it’s so physical, visceral, sometimes blooming and growing in my core and connecting to hers.

I let the waves of it swell and crest and break, rising back in me strong. Hard to move my hips when I’m under her, but it’s easier if I get a grip on her waist, I can get leverage to thrust against. Pressing up into her I lengthen my legs, squeeze my thighs together, feet reaching all the way behind the car’s pedals to the floor, which feels great, adds an extra surface to push against. She curls around me, spine moving in an S shape, mouth open, her hands on my shoulders, then arms around my neck. Gasping and moaning, oh yeah fuck me deep baby, that’s how I like it, you know how to give it to me, god that feels so good …

(Sounds cliche to write it all in a row like that, but oh she says it so sexy.)

I reach for her and kiss her, hard. We’re both breathing hard and the kiss gives us momentary pause to catch our breaths and calm ourselves. I am nearly laughing with the hum of sensation and connection, and she sighs, breathes, gives a low satisfied mmmm, and leans back, awkwardly at first but then she hits the steering wheel and gets some distance between our bodies, still rubbing against my cock, and puts her fingers on her clit.

She’s close, she’s been close for minutes, maybe she’d even already come once or twice, she’s almost always close in that multiply-orgasmic way (if only one could learn how to do that) and as soon as she starts flicking her clit gently I can feel her body shudder, hips twitch and pussy clench down so tight she nearly pushes me out of her.

I loose track easily of how many times she comes. Sometimes I can tell and it’s big and obvious, sometimes it’s small and I don’t even stop, just keep going, and she comes over and over, no way for me to discern a number.

She leans back onto me and works her hips up and down again, for longer this time, and I thrust up into her and push so hard I nearly scream with the pressure and intensity. I want to feel what it’s like to come inside her. I want to feel her tightening around me, really feel it.

After ten, twenty, thirty? minutes like this, after I grip her hips and pump her up and down on my cock, after she comes again, and again, I wrap my arms around her and we quiet. She nestles into my shoulder and neck and hums that low, satisfied hum as she catches her breath. I trail my fingers along her neck and shoulders and back, hold her close.

“We steamed up the windows completely,” Kristen says. “Hey, I bet there are stars out there! We’re in the country!”

“Want to go look?”

“Yeah!” We get out of the car and I cross over to the passenger side. She’s shivering as soon as she exits the warm interior, it’s chilly out here and pitch black, plus her legs are practically bare, just the socks and garters and still no panties. Her skirt has hiked up a little from all of our fucking and my hands go to her ass, peeking out from under the hem, so cute. It’s too cloudy to see stars. I kiss her instead.

“I want to bend you over something and smack your ass a while when we get home,” I say. “Feel your ass as it gets all warm, then hot, and pink …”

“Yes,” she says, curling into me, kissing me again, “can we do that? Please?”

“You’d like that, huh.”

“Yes, yes.”

Somehow, we went from talking about it, to doing it, and she is bent over the hood of the car. “It’s cold,” she complained.

Yeah, shut up and get hit, I mutter. (She didn’t hear me.)

Cars zip by us. It’s dark but we are right in their headlights. I don’t know what they can see, but I stop smacking and just hold her or palm her ass as they go by, then quickly swat her again when they pass. She’s relaxed, she can take a lot; I let my hand come down again and again until her cheeks get warm under my hand and her knees start to shake. The backs of her thighs are cold to the touch, but I don’t want to let up. I dip my hand between her legs to find her wet, open, and slide my fingers in, fuck her right there, in the open, next to her car just off the road as she’s bent over it.

When she comes, again, god does she ever get worn out?, her knees start to buckle and she starts sinking to the ground against the car. I keep my knee up under her thighs and one arm around her stomach as my hand works inside and against her clit, harder, shoving hard into her, against her, until she’s spent and moaning, breathing hard.

It’s cold, we’re both cold by this point, but blissed out, wrapping ourselves into each other and laughing, smiling, playing. We get back into the car, I get out the hummus, wasabi rice crackers, rosemary crackers, delicious buttery brie, and gruyere that I’d brought and we snack, decide to head back into the city and get dinner when we get there. Someone mentioned Thai food earlier at the wine tasting and so I crave going to Song in Brooklyn.

We’re famished, and eat until satisfied, still buzzing from the good wine and seeing stars from the sex. I slide the driver’s seat forward again, put the car in drive, and make my way back to the highway, returning to New York City.

Wait for me on your knees.

Two weeks ago:

I arrived at her place late – I was delayed, but I won’t go into that – but still in time for dinner.

I don’t remember what she wore, what I wore. I remember what she made for dinner: caramelized onion and gruyere tart with roasted broccoli, and peanut butter & chocolate pudding for dessert. (And she made scones in the morning.) I remember her lived-in kitchen, the way she looked at me with passion and want, the way her body felt under my hands again. I remember I brought wine.

She gave me the quick tour of her apartment.

“I want you in every room before the weekend is through,” I said.

“Even the bathroom?”

“… There are ways.”

I started with the kitchen, before dinner was even ready.

*

The next morning:

On her bed, after hours of fucking, in the bright light of midday because her room has no curtains. I study every inch of her.

Inside her, on top of her. Riding the waves of energy between us, sometimes strong and steady, sometimes collapsing to kiss her neck and whisper sweet nothings. Not so much “oh you’re beautiful, you feel so good” as much as “you little slut, you feel my hard cock in you like that?” – though the former is sprinkled into the mix, too.

We come down together from a peak, panting, I’m shivering from my body’s own heat and sweat in contrast to the cool air, and rest against her, still inside.

Her legs around me.

Her arms around my neck.

And she shifted, and suddenly I was coming, right then. Don’t mind the tantric-hippie moment here, but it was all energy, her pelvic bowl opening to catch me, pull me deep inside her. I can still feel how the contractions shook me, eyes rolling back, so sudden – and it started from stillness! – so sweet. Gasping in her ear and shuddering.

We lay wrapped in each other for a while after. Talking touching, fucking more, her insatiable body able to take more, more, more.

And then: “I’d like your fingers in me. Would you do that?”

She nearly froze, as to not disturb whatever was aligned for this delicate moment. “Now?”

“Please. Now.”

We shifted, I took my cock off, she got on her side next to me, hand on my thighs, between my legs. Gentle and sweet and slick.

“I know you said inside,” she whispers, mouth close to mine, “but I want to feel you.”

“Feels good. Don’t stop.” I whisper back.

Slowly: her fingers in me, pressing deep and stretching full, my hand on my clit, calling it my dick in my mind, and keeping my eyes open, watching her, as long as I can, until I come, screaming, hard and big, a release a year in the making, and pull her close against me.

*

Later:

At the dining room table in her living room. She sits on my lap, kisses me. I pull her hair and move my mouth to her neck.

“Ohh yes, yes,” she breathes.

“Mmm, I like it when you say that. Say yes again,” I demand softly, next to her ear. She hears me, and says nothing. She bites her lip and looks right at me, which tells me she’s refusing to say it. Am I pushing her too far? Does she know – she must know – that saying yes is playing with consent, that I am warming her up for saying no. Does she feel pressed? Pressured? I study her face, wait for her to say it for what seems like minutes. “Say it,” I say again, low, with a grip on her hair, desire and dominance building in me. I pull back a little to get enough distance between us so I can hit her. I wonder how fast I’ll have to do it for her to not see it coming. I want her to be surprised.

Underneath her resistance, she’s got that tiny self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She is surprised. A quick, hard smack against her cheek. Then five, six, softer, in rapid succession, warming her up. And another, stronger. Another. Her whole head turns on impact. I don’t stop. Harder. I vary the rhythm and let her have a breath, a quiet moment in between, when she straightens her body and feels the sting.

This is the hardest I’ve slapped her, but I can feel the way she can take it, now, differently. She’s not scared or wincing but open and accepting, drinking in the sensation.

I stop. Pull back a little and watch her recover.

When she can, she whispers, “yes,” hand to her stinging cheek, eyes dark and smoky and submissive, that look, that look, that strong and active giving over that makes my knees weak (and oh I’m glad I’m sitting down).

I kiss her. Smooth her cheek with my fingertips, feel the warmth with my lips. “Good,” I say between kisses. “Good girl.”

“Yes,” she says again with her breathe out, chest shuddering.

I want more.

“Get off me.” I say quickly, pulling away and pushing on her body. “Down. On your knees. Now.”

She does. Slides onto the floor and I unbuckle, unzip, pull my cock out. “That’s right, suck my cock. Oh that’s good. Yeah, that’s so good.”

And she is so good at this. Lips pursed, tongue flicking softly, eyes looking up at me, hand gripping the base of it and sucking hard into her mouth. I take hold of her hair. Pull her up by it and shove my fingers in her mouth. I like how her tongue gets wide and flat. I like the gulping noise she makes when she swallows.

“Up,” I say, and stand, pulling her to her feet. “Take these off.” I tear at her clothes and so does she, pull her shirt over her head and her jeans, socks, undies off, then embrace her briefly for kisses on her swollen mouth. I bend her at the waist, swift, over the dining room table.

I start spanking her, hard. Harder than I usually would without warm-up but she’s warm, the blood rushing through her, veins dilated already, I can see it in the flush of her skin and in the response each time my palm makes contact, landing with a satisfying smack. She’s moaning and squirming off the table, wants her pussy touched. I haven’t even felt how wet she is yet, how have I resisted this long? She’s pushing back against me so hard, her torso is nearly off the table. She lifts herself up and stands, presses back into me, reaches back for me.

“Who said you could get up,” I growl in her ear and bend her over quickly, her palms landing hard on the table to catch her. “Stay there.”

She likes direction. And oh do I like to give it to her. I like it even more when she does what I say.

She stays put. Breathes. I pause, run my hands down her back and thighs, tease her cunt only slightly with my fingers on her soft hair, then bring my arm back and down in a smack right to her cunt and she gasps, winces, sighs. I go slow with taps more than slaps and build up to a couple sweet ones, hand landing just right, her body responding, so smooth and open.

I keep my tongue unlocked throughout. I wish I could recall better now what I was saying. [Kristen, if you remember any particular good phrases, perhaps you could leave a comment, or tell me?] I know she wanted to be called names, so I began a narrative about how much she loves sex, look how wet you are, you like it when I hit you don’t you, slut. Bad girl. You like this, look how wet you are, feel that?

… And by time I got about to there in the talking I couldn’t wait, I had to have her, I was practically growling with lust.

Still unzipped and unbuckled, I pulled my cock out, only to realize: I left the condoms in the bedroom. I try to keep one in my back pocket so I have it at the ready, but I think I hadn’t replaced the one we used earlier.

Mouth next to her ear, bent over her: “I want to fuck you, but you’re going to have to wait,” I sneer a little. Then … yes. Let’s make her wait.

I pull her up from the table and cradle her close, her naked body against me, still fully clothed. Kiss her tender and run my hands along her skin.

“Now: down.” I command. “On your knees.”

She didn’t quite respond quickly enough, still looking at me heavy-lidded and getting her brain to catch up with the sensations in her body. I push on her shoulders. “Down.”

And she slides to her knees. I take a fistful of her hair. “Put your hands behind your back.” She does, eyes shining, blinking.

“Wait for me. Be right back.”

I walk the ten or so paces to her bedroom slowly, deliberately. Pick up two condoms from the nightstand. I hear her cry out softly. Can feel the desire rising between us, even from the next room. I pause a moment. Feel the dominance rushing through my body like a drug. Quickening my blood pressure, the pump of my heart. I can see her so distinctly in my mind, kneeling. I breathe, put my hand on the wall for support, to gather myself.

I have no idea what I’ll do when I get back to her. Fuck her, eventually. But I want to play first.

She’s waiting so nicely for me. Knees apart, head down. When I approach she looks up at me with such fierce submission my knees go weak: eyes heavy, smoky, dark; mouth and tongue swollen.

Cock at the ready, I press it right to her mouth. “Suck my cock, again, while you’re down there,” I say, and touch her cheek, her forehead as a sweep her hair back, palm the back of her head.

She does. Takes it deep and long with the first stroke in. I start groaning, moaning, pressing into her farther, down her throat. “That’s right, so nice, feels so good,” I’m babbling but I don’t care. I have her tipped backward and she’s left her hands behind her back, I’m throwing her off balance. My hips start thrusting – she gags a little with the depth and breathes hard with her mouth full. I don’t let up, but keep shoving my cock in, down her throat.

I nearly come. Can feel how her mouth and throat would tighten as I pulse and shoot. But I can’t, I can’t quite get there, just not quite enough, so frustrating. I pull out fast and shove my fingers in her mouth before she can notice her mouth is empty, kneel down between her legs and push her back onto the floor, lower my mouth onto and cock into her beautiful body.

I slide in easy. Easy, slick. God I love the way she takes me in. Deep, deeper, I keep her pressed open all the way, laying back, legs spread wide, hands grabbing at my shoulders until I grab her forearms and hold them above her head. Perfect leverage. And I thrust, fuck her hard, burn my knees against the hard dark wood of her living room floor.

Damn, the floor is hard. No give whatsoever. I haven’t fucked her lying on a floor ever – I’ve forgotten how it feels. She can’t squirm as much, she doesn’t slide as much, stays where I put her and the impact is harder, I do like that. But there’s less give-and-take, less sensuous connection, and goddamn my knees are going to be wrecked after this, probably it’s the sheet burn from earlier more than the floor itself, but I’ve got to change positions.

I lose myself in the hard impact of cock against cunt for as many strokes as I can muster before I lift myself up, sit back on my heels, and breathe. She’s vibrating, head lolling side to side.

“Get up,” I say. “Bedroom.”

I change cocks when we get to her bed, and pull the two lengths of rope from my bag. She sits near the pillows and reaches for me as I sit on the edge of the side, and I kiss her but don’t move.

“Look at you, all ready. You really are insatiable, aren’t you. Slut. You can’t get enough cock, can you.”

She moans, drops her head. I bring one hand between her legs and the other keeps stroking my cock. “So wet. What, you want me to fuck you? You want it? look at you, can’t think of anything but sex, but getting filled. Can you.”

I slide two fingers in and watch her face. “You want it, don’t you.”

“Yes,” comes out in a small breath.

I know she does, I can feel it. I want to hear her say it. It turns her (and me) on to hear her talk and I want her to do it more. “Tell me.”

“I want it.”

“You want what?”

“Your cock. I want your cock, please, fuck me, please.”

I lean in to kiss her and take my hand away. “No.”

She whimpers.

I pull out the rope. She hands me her wrists, I secure one, then the other, to the bed frame, fuss about the tightness and my poor knots (I really need some better techniques.) She is writhing. I could fuck through steel, I’m so hard. I can’t make either of us wait any longer and I position myself between her legs, slap her inner thighs to get her to open up. We’re both so smooth and slick and desperate for it, we can’t wait, I can’t stop myself from plunging in, hard as I can, hard as I dare, and fucking, thrusting, pounding into her, kissing her face and neck, hands in her hair, on her chest, pulling her nipples and sliding my arm underneath her to grab at her waist and shoulders.

I’m babbling again. Her name, dirty things, take my cock, slut, you’re so tight, I love to split you open like this, and she comes, twice, three times, I loose track and she doesn’t collapse yet so I keep going, reach between us and slide my fingers along her clit and she gasps, bucks under me, I feel her tighten so hard around my cock that she nearly shoves me out of her and I work to stay inside. She’s holding her breath so I keep my hand and hips steady, hard, and then she shudders, body quaking, and I feel her squirt while I’m still inside, clit quivering under my fingers as she pushes my cock all the way out and lets out the breath she’s been holding, a gasp in for desperate air, and comes hard, shaking.

I watch. Witness. Feel her body quiet, tender and open. Holy, holy. (Holy shit.) Feel her breath as I lay my body against hers, holding tight, touching everywhere.

“Hey,” I say after a minute, lifting my face to see hers.

She sighs and opens her eyes, fingers trailing along my shoulders, on the back of my head. “Hey.”

And we nap the afternoon away, sunlight streaming through the window, though it’s cold outside we’re warm in her room, satiated, spent.

Rocking Chair Blow Job

To our right, on the futon extended down into a bed, there was a spanking scene with a small black paddle. To our left, on another extended futon, a threesome.

Kristen sits in my lap in a low chair that rocks.

“I could do it right here,” she suggested, lowering her eyes a little.

When asked earlier what she wanted to do tonight, she bent one knee a little, her tiny plaid skirt tilting, over-the-knee socks hugging her thighs. “Suck some cock,” she answered.

“Yeah?” I search her face a second but feel my butch cock jump to alert. Her mouth on it. Sucking. Her eyes. Yes. When I took this seat, the same thought had occurred to me.

“Do it.”

I use my hands to push her off of me, not that she needs the encouragement. She kneels between my legs and I unbuckle my belt, unzip my slacks, pull out the cock I’d brought.

“Go on, suck it.”

She does. Swallows the head and presses her lips down the length of the shaft. I shift it, keep my hand wrapped around the base so it is in place over my clit, my little dick.

I can feel it when she sucks.

“Harder,” I say, fisting the hair at the back of her head, pulling but not forcing, adding resistance. She gulps a little and her cheeks go taut as she pulls me into her mouth harder, and I feel it, groan, “Oh yeah, oh fuck yeah.”

She’s good at this. Head bobbing up and down on my lap, I lean back and take in the view, concentrate on the feel of this girl’s lips wrapped around my dick. I can see the whole room, her back is to them; people shifting to watch us and shifting away to watch other scenes. She wanted to be watched. She looks so pretty with my cock in her mouth.

Her knees are splayed a little and I am hard, getting harder. I pull her head off all the way by her hair and shove my fingers into her mouth, two of them, in and out, pressing against her tongue gently, so she can feel it, so I can remember what it’s like to have a dick against a wet tongue.

“Again,” I say, and withdraw my fingers, shove her mouth back down to my cock.

Those little noises, gulping, panting, breathing through her throat, mouth watering and swallowing.

“That’s right baby, suck it.”

I lean back again and my dick swells, puckers when she sucks hard and fast. She keeps it deep in her mouth and pulses and I cry out. Fuck.

I pull her up again and lean forward to kiss her, mouth swollen and red, opening for me as I keep my hand on the back of her head, on her cheek, on her jaw, holding her just where I want her, tongue in her mouth and she sucks that too. I reach my other hand down between her legs and push the thin fabric of her panties aside, enter her easily with two fingers and swirl them over her clit. She gasps.

“I like the way you suck me off,” I say, low, into her ear. “Your mouth feels so good. Oh god you’re so wet,” I trace my fingers along her lips and flick her clit, swollen, thick and sensitive. She moans.

“I want you to stand up, bend over, pull off your panties and hand them to me. Understand?” I pull back and remove my hand and she nods. “Do it then.”

She does. Stands and this chair is so low that her thighs are right in front of my face, that little strip of skin between her socks and her short, short skirt. She pushes black lace undies down over her legs and I help her keep her balance as she steps out of them. I hold out my hand. She gives them to me and I put them in my back pocket.

“Down.” I say, and grab her hips with both hands, moving her back to her knees.

(“Are your knees okay?” “Yes, for another minute.”)

Her thighs splay on the floor between my legs and I’m at a perfect angle to cup her pussy and slide my fingers in, now unhindered, open, exposed. “Damn, you feel so good,” I murmur, hand in her hair again, across the backs of her shoulders, around her waist holding her close and in contrasting leverage to the pressure of my hand between her legs. She moans, gasps, mouth open, blue eyes shining.

I want to fuck her. Want my cock in her, want to feel her come and pulse while I’m inside. I look around. I want her bent over something, want to leave her socks on and push her skirt up over her hips, grab her hair. There’s no free space except a piece of wall. Fine.

I get her up and lead her over there, press against her at the wall. She is so sensitive already and I work my fingers in her easily, hard, fast. “I want you to come for me, here, in front of everyone,” I start whispering into her ear, holding her arms above her head with one hand, pressing her legs apart with my thighs, hand working against her cunt. “Come on, do it for me.”

She does. She comes gasping, shuddering, knees going weak. When her eyes meet mine her face is open, shining. I wrap my arms around her and kiss her, deep and sweet.

A Quick Fuck in a Shadowed Corner

The club is dark enough that no one can tell Kristen is on her knees in front of me. She found a particularly shadowed corner. Her back is to the wall, my hands up against it, trying not to leave my head dipped down to watch her lips close around the shaft of my cock.

Her skirt short pushed up on her thighs. I run my hands through her short hair on the back of her head and straighten out my neck to see a friend approaching me.

“Sinclair! I haven’t seen you in … ” she stops a few feet away and I twist my head, but not my body, keeping my hand on the back of Kristen’s head. She hears my friend and starts hesitating, but I keep my grip firm and catch her eye, just for a second: don’t you stop.

She doesn’t. Swallows me even deeper and brings her hand up to my thigh for leverage. I keep my hand on her jaw so I can feel her open and full. I try not to groan.

“Uh, hi,” I manage to say, looking back to my friend. “Can I find you later?”

Wide-eyed, she chuckles a little, “Sure, man,” and backs off, glancing over her shoulder as she disappears back into the crowd.

“Good girl,” I say, caressing her hair and cheeks with my fingers. She’s taking me deep, looking up every so often, her lips closing around me and sucking. She takes me almost to the base, deep, then slides it out of her mouth and lets her tongue lap all the way down the length of it. My hips are moving, grinding against her gently, I want more, want to pull out and fuck her up against the wall, bend her over the pool table on the other side of the room, I can see other butches with sticks hitting balls across felt in precise angles by the lamp swaying. Everyone going along with their Saturday night, not noticing this dark corner we’ve found.

“I want to fuck you,” I say quietly, fisting her hair for grip. “You get me good and hard, and I will.” She buckles a little, a jolt goes through her body and she ripples, I can feel it. She wants it now, but she’ll have to wait.

She flicks her tongue around the crown, then wide on the underside of the shaft as she takes the head in her mouth again, keeping her mouth open, and I rub it against her tongue with a little shift in my hips. She lets me slide it all the way in, pressing her shoulder against the wall with my shin and holding the back of her head again, filling her mouth up.

Kristen knows how. She’s damn good at this. Sometimes she goes too deep and it gets hard to breathe, she pulls out and gasps, then goes in to swallow me again, deeper, tighter. I feel her throat close around my cock, tongue pulsing, and I thicken in her mouth, hips start tensing and that’s it, I have to have her, here, now.

I pull out fast. Pull her up with my hand still on her jaw, kiss her hard against the wall as I push her skirt up, shove the fabric aside and find her slit. I keep her pinned between my body and the wall.

“Oh please, I want it so bad,” she whispers next to my ear. I keep a tight grip on her shoulders, my forearm against her clavicle, gripping her thighs, my knee bent and under hers, holding her legs apart. “I want your cock in me,” she gasps.

“Damn right you’ll get my cock. After you made me all hard like you did? With that sweet little mouth of yours? You’re going to get it.”

Tiny moans from her mouth. She’s waiting, hands clawing at my shoulders, hips writhing. I find her slit with my fingers and tease her lips. She’s so wet, so wet, I can feel it just on the outside, stickysweet and I can’t stand the wait, it’s making my eyes blur and head spin. I grip my cock in my fist and circle her lips and opening with the head.

She moans, louder.

“Shh,” I say. “Someone could come over here any second. We’re barely concealed.” I should be faster, this should be just three thrusts and it’s over, we’re in public for goodness’ sake, in a room full of people, barely concealed by shadow.

But I’m waiting, again, now. I want to hear her beg. I want her tongue working again with language like it was just working against my cock.

“Oh, baby, I want it so bad,” she breathes in my ear, pressing with everything she’s got against me. “I need you to fuck me, come on, you fuck me so good.”

I keep circling, teasing the open hole of her cunt with my cock, and bring my thumb up to her mouth to circle and tease her mouth the same way. She gasps, gulps, tries to take it into her mouth but I won’t let her.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you right, right here, against this wall, with all these people watching,” I growl low against her neck as I bite, a little too hard, and she gasps, gives in. “You don’t even care that they can see, do you. You need it so bad.”

“Please,” she says, and looks me right in the eyes, that look bordering on desperation, eyes wide and open, lips parted, a hint of a smile and so much wanting. “Please,” she says again, drawing out the vowels, and I give in.

I murmur, “Yes, yes,” soothing, and slide inside her slow, so slow, but strong, and all the way, tip to balls.

The first stroke takes the longest and she’s moaning already, a long low sound that corresponds, and she breathes in when I get to the base, both of us tight, clenched, pulsing. She wants it hard, she wants it fast, and I know just how she likes it, but I’m taking my time, taking every delicious inch, thick, just how I like it.

I can feel her everywhere.

I pull almost all the way out, a little faster, and she gasps. I cover her mouth with mine in more of a controlling move than a kiss, to quiet her a little, but I don’t really care if people hear, or see, anymore. My hands are on her hips and I control how fast she moves against me, she’s writhing, trying to ride me faster, but she can’t, I keep her inches away from me, keep her shoved against the wall, hard, and control the depth and speed.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” I mutter. She squeezes me tight in resistance and desperation, and it gets me so hot, so hard, I start building up faster, harder.

I place my hand over her mouth as she gets louder. I’m groaning too, fucking harder, and I just can’t keep her quiet when we get to this point, I can’t, she starts moaning and gasping and a few heads turn, but we’re oblivious to where we are. People steal glances over to our dark corner, squint, try to make out our figures, shifting their angle a little to get a better view, tapping their friend and nodding over toward us. I’m hoping my pants won’t fall down past my ass any further, hoping her skirt is concealing us a little, her leg up and wrapped around my hip. I can only see the room from my periphery vision, but Kristen has a good view and she wraps her arms around my shoulders and looks out at the room as if for the first time, makes eye contact with someone, just for a second.

She shivers. Runs her fingers through the hair on the back of my head, grips my shoulders.

I can’t stop, I’m working in her harder, again, and again, getting all worked up, and we lose ourselves in it. We forget where we are.

Suddenly she’s close. So close. I can feel it, her legs shake and open in a different way. I wrap my arms around her strong, shove inside her hard, fast, and she’s coming, suddenly, it washes over her without anticipation, just suddenly unleashed, muscles quivering and she’s gasping, trying not to yell, in my ear, clawing at my shoulders. Her cunt grips so hard when she comes I have to work to stay inside, grunting a little, I can feel sweat on my neck and lower back from the physical exertion, and I press hard into her, I don’t let up, and she keeps coming, gasping one more time, surrendering, then releases against me with a long sigh.

We stay wrapped in the bliss of it all for a minute longer when we notice a waiter approaching, doing rounds. Kristen straightens up a bit, smooths her hair, her skirt, I step back and zip.

“You two okay here?” he asks, as he does his drive-by.

Kristen picks up her gin gimlet, catches my eye as she sips on it.

“We’re great,” I say, and swig the rest of the melted ice in my glass of Jameson.

I woke her in the middle of the night

Kristen spent the night in my bed on Saturday, and by five am, after waking up every half-hour or so half-hard and wishing it was morning so I could fuck her again, I give in. Shifting against her, I roll us both from our lazy sleep-embrace to her back, one of my legs between hers, right hand on the soft hair between her legs, fingers on her lips, pressing gently, caressing, opening.

I’d asked her about waking her up to fuck her – I wouldn’t presume to do it without permission. Not only did she agree, the shift in her eyes and near imperceptible movement of her hips betrayed that she would very much like it if I did so.

Her body responds immediately, swelling and cresting, though she can barely open her eyes. My mouth at her ear: “I can’t resist you any longer.”

She moans sleepily, little murmurs, body beginning to writhe, not awake. Little nips with my teeth on her neck, just enough for her to feel, not enough to wake her fully. I like her bodily responses, what her animal brain let her do while most of her cognizant self is still off.

She starts moving her thighs apart, hips circling and pulsing a little, pressing against my hand. She is so responsive. I work my fingers inside, slowly, finding the angle, finding that spot she loves, finding the sweet O of her mouth with mine.

Those small, thin moans every time she breathes get inside me like smoke. No comprehensive sound, just small ohs and mmms as her body moves.

Sweet nothings in her ear as my fingers are slick, in and out of her: “Those little noises you make get me so hard … the way your hips move when I’m thrusting against you … I want my cock in you again …”

She gasps, thickens, swells in response. I don’t let up. My mind is racing and I nearly keep talking, but she’s still practically asleep, barely hears me. I let my fingers trace a V along her lips to her clit, sticky and slick with the wet of her. She gasps, shudders, tenses at the stomach and thighs, pulses and shakes, moans louder.

Again, I flick my fingers over her clit, a little harder, steady, steady. Her arms come up around my neck. I bring my mouth onto hers again, she kisses back this time, deep and hard, and I bite her lip.

I pull away to better focus on her clit which is hard and pulsing under my fingers and she gasps, eyes wide open, wide open, as she comes, shuddering, moaning, gasping.

She wraps herself around me when her body calms, humming in low satisfied tones, her eyelids already heavy, closing again, laying back on the pillow as my hands trace her skin.

I sigh too, shift my weight off of her and she turns with me to snuggle against my shoulder, arms pulled in close to her body between us, mine around her.

We slumber a few more hours. Resting, until I wake around ten and cannot resist any longer, must have her again.

In response to what you want

I would love to watch you dance.

From the way that you fuck I can imagine how your body would move, all sweet s-curves and slow gyrations: there is such precision in your physicality, such openness. I can see the way you’d raise your arms to float at shoulder-height, eyes heavy to the floor or on the bodies around you, so tuned in to the music, the beat, the rhythm. You’re aural that way, I can feel it in the ways you speak with your body, a language all to itself I am just learning to interpret and read under my fingertips like braille, waves of energy rising falling.

There is so much you can tell about the way someone fucks by how they dance, and the way someone dances by how they fuck; but I’ve never seen you dance. Still, I can imagine how your torso slides and arms carry out the movement, how you can pop your hips to accentuate strong moments.

I would try to keep up with you on the dancefloor just as I try to keep up with you when we fuck – you carry me high and I follow your guidance, despite that I am making the choices. It is your body that dictates my choices, your breath, your responses, the precise way you gasp “oh god” and start to shake. In dance it is the same: I take your lead and match your rhythm until we are so synchopated that I can move you, can create variations on a theme and read you well enough to know you’ll follow where I lead.

It’s all energy. Building and releasing, swirling between us.

More literally:

I will sit at a table sipping whiskey while I watch you. Gently finger the shaft of my dick through my slacks and remember the last time I made you move like that.

You take a break, breathless, and come over to sit on my lap, straddle me, your short skirt hiked up, my hands on your thighs, you can feel my cock against you and let yourself grind up and down for a minute, your arms around my neck, mouth on mine.

(Just the thought makes me harden.)

This is maybe when you say “I gotta pee,” or “please baby, fuck me now,” or I say “I need some fresh air,” or “goddamn you,” and I’ve had enough waiting. I take you out back to the alley or to the filthy club bathroom – the men’s room. On your knees on the dirty tile. Cheek against a brick wall as I make you moan.

I’ll whisper things against your jaw, your neck, that make you squirm. Look at you, all ready for me. All wanting. I can take you wherever I want to, just how I want to, can’t I.

I want to hear you breathy in my ear again. Feel your hands grip my shoulders, thighs grip my hips as you cry out, scream, come.

We’re just getting started

I spent the day alone in my room, recovering, remembering.

Her skin in the morning, golden, glowing. Her eyes as they increasingly tired last night. Her hips as they hinged open. The ways I held back, the ways I gave in.

My mental recap is increasingly romantic, but really it is raw desire. How does she do this to me?

I won’t tell you much about this date. There is no scene to report, no interesting beginning-middle-end with links to the toys I used (though I did go through three cocks). I won’t speak of the ways I took her, the ways she opened and clenched tight. The tender places we both touched and from which we backed off (too too fragile). I won’t speak to her mouth, her mouth, her near-perfect mouth and the way she tosses her head back, mouth open, this half-circle arc, when she comes.

I am starting to understand her tells, the signals that her body is poised on the edge of orgasm, the ways I can slow and prolong the explosion. I have felt her come dozens of times now, I have completely lost track. She counted six the last time we were together. Last night, I counted one in the bathroom at the club and one against the door of my apartment before we even got to the bed, then two this morning, despite her swollen cunt and aching hips’ protest. What happened in between was a blur, and clear as the winter blue sky that greeted us when we woke.

She told me this morning (open, open, so open) more of what she’d like. To be hit across the face. My cock in her mouth again. More of what I did the first time, more power, more dominance. And I felt suddenly self-conscious: it’s true, last night, though I was in charge and in control and calling the shots, I took the vanilla route, barely moved out of missionary position once we reached the bed except that one time on her stomach, more fucking and less dominance, out of fascination in the exploration of her body. And she is just so goddamn receptive: everything I did, she told me exactly how it felt, what was working, how to go deeper, with her body and moans and breathing. I couldn’t resist that, couldn’t tear myself away from the simple singular act of getting her off, making her come, hearing bliss escape her lips again.

With someone new it is always a challenge to understand the way they like to be touched, to be taken, what will unravel them at the last minute, so that is what I spent the night learning.

And she never stopped me. That turns me on in ways I cannot describe – that every time I went for her thighs, every time I worked my hand or cock between her legs she was wet, open, wanting. Even if she’d come just moments before – why would I stop when she could do it again right now?

So I allowed myself the indulgence of getting her off, over and over and over again.

But I won’t forget that she wants more power play, more sensation play. I won’t forget she wants to be hit, wants my palm on her face (how could I), wants my cock in her throat.

She’ll learn, too, that struggle brings out the force in me, that she can push me to take more by giving less, now that we both know how she wants to give over. Now that we both trust our impulses to give in. It’s harder to force when there is no resistance. She’ll learn how to play my power as I’ve learned to play her body, like an instrument, like a tool that could be a weapon in the right hands.

We’re just getting started.

“I’m kind of … insatiable.” My First Date with Kristen

I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. Like how when she gasps more she may actually mean more friction – how she has the type of orgasms that means she can squirt.

Which is why I kept going for orgasm number two, three – because I wanted to feel her do it. I suspected she could.

(I was right.)

I hadn’t planned to take her back to my place, but that didn’t stop me from cleaning my room on Saturday before the date. Unlikely is not impossible. And if my room is not presentable, it isn’t even an option. I like to have options.

I could fist her, I think. She opens in a way that makes it seem possible, makes space inside. I would like to throw her around more, too – she’s small, and so receptive. She went where I put her, stayed, made space for me to enter, to take. My favorite kind of bottom, surrendering.

*

At dinner:

She’s wrestling a little with a femme identity. “Femme and feminist sometimes conflict,” she started to explain.

“I understand that. I saw butch and feminist as conflicting when I started figuring this out for myself too. I was a feminist first, and most importantly. And when you take misogyny out of masculinity, what’s left? Societal roles teach us those are one and the same.”

In case it needs reiteration, I firmly believe that femme and feminist can be simultaneously occupied. In fact, in some ways I think intentionally choosing femme is inherently feminist – as I think Leah said at the Femme Conference, femme is a way of making “girl” not hurt. Femininity can be inherently painful under societal hierarchies and rules, and to recreate it in ways that actually buffer the hurt instead of deepen it is so incredibly powerful.

She talked a little about the ways femme is misperceived, especially as an invitation to men. This is definitely a huge difference in the development of the butch and femme identities.

We barely scratched the surface of these conversations.

This was foreplay.

*

After dinner:

Suddenly Kristen stopped walking and back-stepped.

“Did you just lose your shoe?” I laughed.

She gave me a small smile. “Uh, that’s embarrassing.” I held out my hand so she could balance on one foot, slip her high black heel back on.

“Nah, not embarrassing,” I said, hand against her back as we started to walk to the bar again. We’d just come from dinner and needed a darker, more comfortable place to make out. “It happens to me all the time.”

She shot me a questioning look. “Really?!”

“Uh, no. Not really.” Too deadpan. I turned to face her, stopping her from walking forward, took hold of her jacket at the zipper with both hands. “No, sorry, that was trying to be a joke but it really didn’t work.” I pulled her a little closer. Even in heels she was still shorter than me. “Do forgive me …” I held her gaze and pulled her toward me. Immediately the kiss was electrifying. Delicate and wanting, full of desire. I’d barely touched her yet but now wanted my hands on her, on her waist in that secretary pencil skirt, her legs in those seamed black stockings.

*

At the bar.

A gin gimlet for her, another Maker’s on the rocks for me. Chatting. The topic was activism, mostly – educating those around us. I feel increasingly bold, be it the good conversation or the drinks or the chemistry or the ways she opens her eyes to look at me. My hand finds her waist, her back, and her nerves are electric and so receptive, her body curls every time I touch her.

She gasps a little. I keep talking. “Uh, I’m sorry – I’m not hearing a word you’re saying.” She looks at me with her eyes half-lidded. “But keep talking, please.” I pull her toward me and we kiss again, sparking at the mouth, at my fingertips where our bodies connect.

*

In the car on the way to my place.

She’s got her legs in my lap and if she wasn’t wearing full stockings I would already have my fingers in her. Her ankles are small and my thumb and forefinger close around one, then I take her instep in my hand, grip her heel. Run my hands up her legs and don’t stop, cup her cunt with my palm, catch her gaze with mine and she leans forward to kiss me again.

Every time I touch her she lets out a moan, quick, with her breath. “You have to be quiet,” I say, nodding toward the driver. I’ve known dykes who were kicked out of cabs for kissing.

“I’m not quiet,” she tells me earnestly, giving me that under-the-eyelashes shy look.

“I can tell.”

And she’s not. At my place I throw her down onto the bed, hold her down when she tries to get up. Peel off her sweater and skirt, shove my hand in after I’ve pulled her stockings and underwear down to her thighs. She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes. She is so responsive.

It is wonderful to hear.

I don’t know exactly when I pulled out my packing cock – sometime in the beginning – but then switched to my hands when I figured out she comes that way, gspot orgasms, one after another and I love to feel it inside when that happens. Love the way she thickens and shudders, her whole body twisting, so I hold her down, forearm over her chest, my knees holding her thighs open.

I don’t know when it was that I took off my bondage belt and waited for her to slide her wrists through it. I took hold of the loose strap and curled it around my hand for grip, twisted it a little, her arms over her head, on her back again, just so she could resist, just so she could feel the pressure, my other hand between her legs and shoving inside, fast, hard, or slower, massaging and tender, as she thrashed against the pillows again.

Gorgeous.

*

We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.

I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.

She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.

“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.

I grin. So am I.

My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.

Yes, yes, yes.

*

I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. There is so much more I know I could do to her. I barely got to smack her. Barely used force. There was very little restraint or bondage, very little sensation play, and she could take it, I know she could.

We could’ve kept going. Two hours wasn’t quite enough.

What a wonderful feeling to have coming away from a near-perfect date: that raw potential for more, more, more.