Thanks to Dacia & BB Rydell for help with edits!

Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue
THE PINK DRESS

Emily emerges from the dressing room slowly, suddenly shy, though I’ve seen her naked in dozens of compromised positions. She fidgets with the dress, her hair, sucks in her stomach, but her eyes are lit up and she’s biting back a playful smile. She wants to wear this dress. Her inner three-year-old princess is aflame. “What do you think?” Emily asks; but the question isn’t really about my preference. She wants me to want it so she has permission to wear it. Then she doesn’t have to want it for herself; she is absolved of her own desires. I want to her to have permission to want anything on her body that she is drawn to, regardless of its gendered implications.

I finger the skirt of the baby pink dress, its satin fabric, abundant for its near-full skirt. She looks amazing in the plunging neckline in a gentle scoop, which shows off her round breasts generously. Sleeveless, it gathers at the waist where a thick white band wraps around, tying in a ribbon at the back. It could have been a bridesmaid’s dress, or a prom dress, or maybe someone’s fancy party dress. She’s been eyeing this dress in the window display, and today was the day it came down. She asked them to set it aside for her.

“So?” She is trying so hard to be patient. The words come out in a rush. “Do you like it?”

I come up behind her as she looks in the full-length mirror barely visible behind racks of gently used clothes. I wrap my arm around her waist, pull her gently back to me as she sighs, then smooths the skirt down.

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, my lips next to her ear. “No question.”

“Really?” She’s not sure I mean it, but she wants me to. “But it’s so … femme.”

“Yeah, it is,” I say.

“But, I’m not femme!” She argues.

“What do you mean? Of course you are,” I say.

“No, I mean …” she struggles for the words. “I’m not high femme. I hate that term. I almost always wear jeans and tee shirts.” We’ve been dating for on and off for a few years. We both have primary partners, but we make time to play and go on dates. When she dresses up, she adds heels and lipstick, rarely anything more. She has some impressive lingerie, but seldom wears dresses. She wears power suits for her professional office work, where she has to keep control and is in charge of a dozen people’s activities on a daily basis. She spends a lot of time looking put together, climbing the corporate ladder, and fighting the male privilege in her office, and she’d rather kick around in something comfortable and durable when she has the option.

“I know that’s what you prefer, and it’s perfect—your ass looks great in jeans,” I counter. “Look, you’re twice the femme most self-identified high femmes are. You’re at home in your body, awake in your skin, not judgmental about your own waistline or anyone else’s. And you have your circle of femme friends without gossip or backstabbing. If that’s not high femme, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, but you have to say that.”

“And I want to. I know the dress is a stretch … but it’s amazing on you. It looks like it was made for you. Doesn’t it?” I ask the passing sales girl. “Doesn’t it look like it was made for her?”

“It is, like, so cut perfectly for your body,” the girl, probably barely twenty, replies. “It makes your curves look even more curvy. It’s practically, like, perfect.”

“Yeah. Perfect,” I echo, and Emily grins at herself in the mirror.

“It is, isn’t it. Yeah. Okay,” she kisses my cheek and zips back into the dressing room, and buys the dress.

*

The date is my idea, and a surprise. I enlist her friend Sam, a gay boy also known as Serena, who does a fierce drag queen act and has every feminizing, over-the-top accessory one would need. We’ve been out drinking and galavanting dozens of nights in the past few years. Sometimes Emily and I go see him perform. Last time, he did a Judy Garland number with an incredible outfit from the forties that made him look like a black and white movie star.

“I could never do that,” Emily must’ve whispered to me five times that night, but the spark in her eyes told me that she wanted to. I knew Sam would love to see Emily all dressed up.

And tonight, with this pink dress, he’s going to help. I enlist Sam because Emily doesn’t have the femme things I need, and I can’t afford to buy them all. I meet Sam around the corner and pick up the fluffy underskirt that’s used to puff out full skirts, called a crinoline.

I knock on Emily’s door, and she throws it open. “I’m here to pick up the dress,” I say, after kissing her hello. She fetches it from her bedroom, still in the thrift store’s lavender-colored paper bag with their logo on it, and hands it to me across the threshold.

“Thank you. Now, you remember what I told you? What’s the plan?”

“First, I’m getting my nails done across the street. Then I’m going to go to Sam’s at 5pm to get my hair and makeup done. Then I’ll come meet you at your place, and bring the bra and panties.” I know she doesn’t wear the white bra and panty set with the lace trim often. I like that she saves it for me.

“What time, at my apartment?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Good. Perfect. Don’t be late,” I add. As if she would be. She shifts her weight from foot to foot very slightly and I can see her ears beginning to flush pink.

I tuck the box with the crinoline under the arm that holds her dress in a shopping bag and draw her to me with the other, smiling as our faces get closer, drinking in her skin and hair and the sweet way her body fits.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl,” I say, and kiss her.

*

At seven twenty-eight, she knocks on my apartment door. I greet her with more kisses and lead her into the bedroom before she sets her purse down. Some of the things are laid out on the bed: the crinoline skirt, white thigh-high stockings, a white garter belt, and her new pink dress, which I had dry cleaned and pressed just this morning. I see her hand flicker slightly as she reaches out and touch the dress, then pulls it back and makes a fist.

“Are you ready for tonight?” I take a seat in the small armchair in the corner of my bedroom and I take a sip of the glass of water I’d poured just before she arrived, with extra ice so she can hear the clink of it in the glass. She nods. I notice Emily picks at her nails, then stop when she realizes she is probably chipping her nail polish. She must be nervous. The icy liquid is cool in my mouth and I feel it run down my throat. Her chestnut hair is mostly a silhouetted shadow, but I can see it is piled on top of her hair in spirals and curls in a way that is much more complicated than she would usually entertain. It reveals the curve of her neck, which swoops into her collarbone and, later, will lead right to her cleavage.

“Did Sam send you with jewelry?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Get it out, and put it on the top of the dresser.” I cleared it in anticipation. She goes to her bag, removes a couple small boxes and a tiny clutch purse, then arranges it all so each are neat and not touching, then goes back to standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking around the room.

“Take off your clothes,” I say. “Slowly. Fold each piece and put them on the bed.” She starts with her v-neck grey fitted girly tee shirt, quickly pulling it over her head. “I said slowly,” I say, and she pauses, moves a little slower. She folds the thin fabric easily and places it on the bed, then steps out of her low, simple black flats. She’s not wearing a bra; she often doesn’t, not encouraging the curve of her breasts to be shown off. Her bare skin glows in the lamplight. She pulls down her tight blue jeans and steps out of them, folding them a little thoughtlessly, but I don’t tell her to slow down again. She slides her plain black cotton underwear down over her legs and adds it to the pile. She fingers the worn grey tee shirt and looks at it longingly, then glances at the lingerie laid out on the bed and moves her hand to touch it, smiling as her fingertips make contact, her face relaxing.

She stands again, naked this time, crosses her arms in front of herself, then drops her arms and holds one wrist with her hand. After a moment she straightens up, and clasps her hands behind her back like she is presenting herself to me, a blank canvas. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, drops her hip, but tries to stay still. She bites her lip.

“Very nice,” I murmur from my corner. I uncross and recross my legs, ankle to knee, and pick up the cane from next to my chair. I can see her nipples, even in the shadows, hard and dark. “Get the bra and panties out of your bag, lay them on the bed.” She does. “Now, get dressed. Start with the garter belt.” She takes a breath and turns to the bed, picking it up and sliding it up her legs, securing it in place.

“Now the stockings,” I say. “And the bra. Leave the panties off, for now.” She dresses quickly, fumbling a little with the clasps and the delicate fabric, sitting on the side of the bed to fasten the stockings to the lace. “Now the petticoat.” She looks at me a little questioning, then realizes I mean the white crinoline skirt, and pulls it in a flourish from the bed to step into it.

“The dress,” I say. She pulls it over her head, evens it over the petticoat, and does her best to tie the white bow behind her back. With the extra layers of under the skirt, the pink dress is even more stunning than it was in the store. “And the jewelry,” I say, as she admires herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. She takes a step closer and puts small two-stone droplet earrings in; they’re delicate, just an inch or so long, hanging just enough to move when she does and sparkle when the light hits them. She reaches for the matching necklace and raises her elbows to buckle the clasp behind her neck. Her fingers tremble and it takes her three tries to hook it correctly.

Emily steps back and looks at her reflection, buzzing, hardly containing the thrill of happiness at her own reflection. Her smile is as big as I’ve ever seen it. She turns her head, then shakes it to see the sparkle of the earrings, tilts her chin down to see her fancy hair-do, fluffs the skirt out to the side, and finally twirls, watching the dress in the mirror and laughing, giddy.

“Come here,” I say. She turns her head to me and takes short, quick steps across the room to where I am sitting next to the window in her stockinged feet. She notices the cane I have been stroking.

“Is that for me?” she asks.

“It’s for your ass. For later.” I set it on the table with my glass and reach out for her waist, pull her on to my lap. “Very nice,” I say, stroking the skin on her arm, the the slick fabric of the top of the dress, brushing my fingers against her breasts and nipples. I offer my mouth for a kiss and she wraps her arms around my neck, opening her mouth, gently kissing back. “You look gorgeous.”

“You really think so?” she bats her eyelashes. She looks like a sunrise, peeking over the horizon, breaking the dark, reaching up into the sky. She still looks like herself—just polished up a little, enhanced, prettied.

“Really. Very much.” We kiss again and I get lost in her lips, her tongue, the way her hands grasp gently at my neck and shoulders. I let my hands trace her stockings, wander up under the many layers under her dress. “Do you like the crinoline?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” she breathes. “Is that what Sam gave you?”

“Yes. On loan.”

“It’s so … pretty.”

“You’re pretty, sweetheart.”

She smiles shyly, kisses me again.

“Did you like getting your nails done, and your hair and make-up done?”

“Yes! It was really fun. More than I thought it would be. I thought it would be weird but it makes me feel fancy. And important. And … ” she lowers her voice, her eyes a little and brings her hands up to straighten my tie, pinch my collar between her fingers. “And I knew I was doing it for you. That you would like it.”

“Mmm. And you did a very good job getting all ready for me.” I find the patch of skin at the top of her stockings, her sweet smooth inner thigh, and rest my hand there gently.

“I like doing what you say.” It lets her mind rest, she’s explained to me, and is a relief to trust enough to follow orders instead of second guessing and being in charge of everything.

“I know. And I have a few more things to do before we go to dinner. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I toss her a questioning look and she corrects herself. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” I take a breath. “I’m going to warm you up for the evening. I want to give you something that will serve as a reminder that this body—” I shift my hand quickly and palm her pussy, making her gasp, then quickly attempt to maintain her composure and keep her eyes open, looking at me, “—this pretty little body of yours is mine to play with tonight.”

She nods, quick, tiny movements of her head, and her eyes flicker with a hint of nervousness.

“Are you worried?”

“No, sir. I know you will take good care of me.”

“That’s right. Good.” I move my hand away and she breathes in, her thighs quiver. I lean in to kiss her again, bring my hands to her waist and then up to cup her chin, neck, the back of her head, careful not to mess up her hair. She relaxes, her mouth softens. She tastes like cream.

“Get up and bend over my lap. I’m going to make some marks on your ass before we go out.”

She delicately places herself over me with more care than usual, though we’ve been in this position many times. She doesn’t want to muss herself. This chair is perfect for over-the-knee spankings, with wide, low arm rests. Her stockinged tiptoes just barely reach the floor. She arches her back automatically, presenting her ass and slit to my right hand.

I caress her neck and shift my arm to cradle her collarbone and begin peeling up the layers of her pretty pink dress and petticoat. The peach of her ass is perfectly framed by her stockings and garter belt, the layers pushed up to her hips. Softly, I bring my hand to her thighs and ass and begin caressing.

“So nice,” I murmur into her ear. I start with some rapid tap-tap-taps with my fingers tight together on the sweet spots on her ass, the ones that make the flesh shake and that makes her muscles relax. She sighs, keeps breathing, keeps filling her lungs and breathing into the increasing sensation. She’s done enough yoga, we’ve played with enough sensation play—she knows how to open.

I keep going with light taps and occasional full-handed gentle swats until I can see a pink flush starting, just a hint. She loves being hit; she snuggles down into it as if I was reading her a bedtime story. I increase my swing, raising my arm higher, and give her a few open-palmed, but not too hard yet. Her skin is fair and it is easy to leave long-lasting marks, easy to bruise and break capillaries on the surface of her skin.

Which is exactly what I want.

I continue, warming up her ass until it is bright and hot, flushed and red, beginning to show some darker parts where it will be easy to leave marks. She moans, sinking into me, humming with pleasure. When we are both warm, when my shoulder feels like it is loose and liquid and easy, I raise my arm high and let fly a few hard wallops, pausing in between, but just for a moment, to let her react. Her body shudders and I feel her tense, then relax, over my lap. I can feel the impact of my hand through her and onto my thighs, can feel her growing heat and intensity. I let my hand down again, and again, allowing gravity to pull me, sucking up the power she’s handing over while I have her upturned and stunned, ready to take more.

I lean down so my mouth is by her ear again. “You are doing so well. Your ass is nice and red and starting to bruise. I’m going to get my cane out now.”

She manages to move her neck slightly, twists her head and looks up at me, and nods just a little. I grip the cane from the side table and it feels hard, solid in my hand. It slices through the air with a hiss and I love the way it extends my arm. The last time we used the cane, she told me every time she sat down, she thought about what I’d done and how I’d used her. That it made her wet to have to act like she could sit normally, when really it was excruciatingly painful. That’s how I want it to be tonight. Something to take away from the terror of being so femme, over the top femme, in public. Something to distract her.

The first hit with the cane is a little off, and not too hard. She gasps but does not squirm. The second is two centimeters toward her thighs and harder. Immediately a light stripe appears. She jumps a little and lets one arm drop, grabbing on to my pant leg, as she lets out her breath in a long thin stream through her teeth. The third, quicker now, is at a different angle, crossing the first two. She sucks air back in and lets out a laugh, bubbling like champagne, thrilling and tickling my nose. Good. She’s warm, dropping into that blurry area past the sharp pain and into sensation.

The next dozen or so are more rapid, in succession, some lighter and some fiercely hard and biting. She takes it well. She gasps and begins squirming, but not away, not off of my lap, just to wriggle and shake off some of the building energy. I fall into a pattern of hard-hard-quick-quick-soft-caress where my eyes glaze and my cock hardens. I can see her slit becoming wet, swollen, as pink as her sweet round ass cheeks.

The striping is beautiful, thin welts rising on bull’s eye circles where my hands bruised her first. I can already see some small places where my handiwork reveals itself.

I lean low against her ear again. “It’s going to hurt for a while when you sit,” I say, as a slide the cane away and bring my hand to her singed bottom. It is so tender and sensitive, like stretched skin over the frame of a drum, reverberating with every touch.

She moans. “Thank you, sir.”

I bring her up onto my lap again to hold her for a minute, her ass already uncomfortable. Sitting at the restaurant is going to be excruciating. I stroke her hair and neck, offer her some water and she takes it. She snuggles against my chest, lets me sooth her, then rocks a little on my lap and I realize she is searching for my cock.

“Looking for something?” I ask.

She falters, remembers herself. “No, sir.”

“Later.”

She nods, tries not to look disappointed.

“I have one more thing for you before we leave. Ready?”

She nods again, brings one hand up to her mouth to bite one finger, a childish gesture of nervousness.

I almost laugh. “Nothing bad, sweet girl. This is a present. A surprise.”

Her eyes light up as she slips off my lap. I go over to the closet where I stashed the bag, then sit on the bed, patting the bedspread next to me. She shuffles slowly over the thin carpet in her stockings, smoothing out the skirt of her dress and walking slowly because her legs are still weak from being bent over my lap and beaten. She brings her hands behind her, to touch her ass, as she walks, and I can tell the muscles are already sore.

I hand her the bag. She gives me a shy smile and pulls the shoe box out of the plain white shopping bag. Her eyes widen. She realizes she only brought the flat black shoes she came in.

“Oh!” She exclaims when she opens the box. They took me a few days to find: the exact pink shade as the dress, with a small strap over the arch of her foot, delicate white trim, and a tall, thin four inch heel. She pulls them both out and pushes the wrapping aside on the bed, holds them flat in her hands, grinning. “May I?”

I slip off the bed to kneel in front of her, holding my hand out. She blushes—adorable—and hands the shoes to me, offers me her foot so I can slide them on, one at a time.

She laughs, and twirls. “I feel like these are fancy shoes from my fairy godmother, and I’m Cinderella!”

“You look amazing,” I say, standing up, and offer my hands to help her stand. It may take a minute to get used to them. I take her in my arms again and she melts into me, offering her mouth for more kisses.

When I pull away I take the delicate white panties still laid out on the bed and offer them to her. “Put these on, we wouldn’t want you getting your dress any more wet than it already is. Freshen up your lipstick and let’s go to dinner. Are you hungry?” Her lipstick is smeared from kissing me, and she hasn’t noticed. It’s probably on my mouth. I quickly wipe my mouth in the bathroom mirror and when I come back in, she’s sitting on the bed to step into her panties, pulling them up over her shoes and stockings, leaving them on the outside, so they can be the first thing that comes off later. She stands and picks up the tiny clutch purse she laid out on the dresser, checking her make-up in the dresser mirror. I slide my suit coat over my shoulders, watching her twist the lipstick up and pucker her lips. She would never do these things on her own, but she is flushed and giddy and thrilled, ready to go.

Emily shifts, sliding her stockings on the black faux-leather seats of my car. She is having a hard time sitting without her ass stinging. She reaches out to the dashboard and car door handle to support herself. Every time she flinches, she looks at me with those pleading, delicious wide brown eyes.

“Something bothering you?” I tease.

She hesitates. “Thank you, sir, for the beating,” she offers finally. I’m darting in and out of lanes of traffic unnecessarily, just so I can feel the closeness of the other cars, pressing on the gears a little too hard. It is turning us both on.

We arrive at the restaurant downtown, pull into the parking lot and park right near the front. She waits while I come around and open her door, then steps aside again as I open the door to the restaurant. As soon as she enters the space she starts fidgeting. She pulls on her skirt, her coat, passes the tiny clutch purse she borrowed from Sam from hand to hand, shifts from foot to foot.

“Sexsmith,” I walk up to the host at the podium. “We have a reservation.”

“One minute,” he responds, and shifts to speak to a server passing by. Emily’s eyes are darting all around the place and she bites her lip. “Relax,” I say at her ear, then louder, “May I take your coat, sweetheart?”

She nods quickly, shifts her arms so I can slide her jacket from her shoulders, revealing the dress. The pink is bright and her jewelry and makeup sparkle, drawing attention from other patrons waiting for their tables, from the host, from the server walking by. They are all wearing black. She is not used to this much attention. Immediately she stiffens, a rise of panic visible in her throat. She struggles not to cross her arms to cover herself. Her shoulders shrink.

I move to the restaurant’s coat closet near the front door and hang hers up, then mine, and slip next to her to take her hand. “You look amazing,” I say gently, and kiss her quickly on the cheek. She lets out a breath and nods, as if reminding herself that no one else thinks she is wearing a costume.

“Mr. Sexsmith? Right this way.” The host plucks two menus from the podium and we follow him toward the back, near the big windows that look out on the street. He pulls out Emily’s chair and she tries to gracefully sit, fans her skirt out, as he pushes it back in for her, already putting her courtly reception of chivalry to good practice tonight. I sit next to her, not across, at the small square table.

“Your server will be right with you.”

Emily picks up the menu and begins to scan it, considering her options. Immediately someone appears to fill our water glasses and floats away; she picks hers up, takes a sip, and leaves a kiss of lipstick behind.

Immediately my dick gets hard. I shift in my seat. I love that trail of kisses her mouth leaves, love the way she works her soft inner lips over me—my hands, fingers, nipples, mouth, cunt—whatever she happens to be suckling. Her cheeks get flushed and she opens her mouth, tongue flat and soft, to look up at me. Then she sucks it all down into the back of her mouth, into her throat, and I feel her open and contract.

“Um, Sinclair?” Emily is trying to get my attention. I’m staring at her mouth, I realize. And stroking my own water glass with my fingertips, up and down. I pull my hand away and put it back into my lap, wipe my sweating palm on my pants.

“What? Yes. Sorry,” I mumble.

She blushes a little, looks down with a half-smile. She can tell I’m watching her. Her hands flutter the menu closed and she releases them to her lap. I slide my hand over to her thigh. She jumps.

“Relax,” I say, close to her ear. “No one can see.”

“How do you know,” she shoots back quietly.

“The tablecloth,” I finger the satin fabric of her skirt, not quite feeling her stockings through the crinoline. My shoulders are starting to ache, ready to take her, and I shift toward her again. I reach for the hem of her dress and can just barely work my hand under it without making it look like I’m obviously reaching. Her stockings are smooth. Her legs are crossed. She uncrosses them, stockings rubbing together briefly, and parts her knees just a little. I can feel her breath on my cheek and her eyelids are getting heavy. I finger the edge of her simple white panties, then move my fingers under the elastic edge and she’s wet. I can feel it.

“You like this,” I accuse.

She breathes, her mouth near my ear. “Yes, sir.”

“What do you like?”

“I like being all dressed up. I like how my ass hurts anytime I shift. I like how you are looking at me like a piece of cake you’re going to devour. I like—oh!”

I circle her clit with my fingers. “Keep going,” I say.

“I like—it’s hard to be in public like this. I feel like everyone is looking at me. I don’t know what they’re thinking. They might think I look silly. But I like it! I feel … polished,” she sighs, mumbling into my neck, struggling to find the words while I touch the slick folds of her pussy under the table. “I thought it would be hard, but it feels good. I guess I like it? I like it,” she says again, with more conviction this time. I slip two fingers up to my knuckle into her hole and she gasps, and repeats herself, and I can’t tell what she’s talking about this time. “I like it.”

“I like it, too,” I whisper back.

The waiter arrives and we attempt to order. We wait for the food to arrive, hands above the table. It takes a painfully long time. I’m worked up after the beating, after her declarations, and I just want to fuck her. To take her, all made up, and make a mess of her. I make futile attempts to savor every exquisite torturous moment of anticipation, but have a hard time concentrating on conversation. I have a hard time not continuing to stare at her mouth. I have a hard time not kicking my chair back and bending her over the table. I have a hard, hard time. I try not to make it obvious that I can only eat about half of my meal. It’s delicious, but I barely taste it. I don’t remember what I order. I try not to seem too eager when the server comes around with the check. After we get our coats, I deliberately fall back and languidly saunter to the door of the restaurant, but by the time I get to the car and my hand is back on the stick shift, my patience is out. Emily turns in her seat, her ass sore, trying to find an angle that hurts less as she watches me dart through traffic again. I can see her chest heave a little when she breathes, and her eyes are smokey, lips swollen.

She snakes her hand over to my lap and finds my cock, and her fingers are soft and lithe through my slacks. Why’d we even go out to dinner? I think to myself. I could have had her hours ago. She’s stopped shifting in her seat; whatever discomfort she was in from her beating earlier seems to be forgotten. Her fingers tap and stroke and I don’t close my eyes but keep them trained on the yellow lines of the road, the other cars, the lights, taking the corners a little too sharply, very much in control.

Until we get to my apartment.

I open the door for her and she walks in first. She gives me a sly, low look like she’s got my number, and I feel my knees weaken. She does, doesn’t she. The insecurities about being dolled-up seems to have drained from her on the drive home. In her stance she appears to have gained an inch or two.

I wait. We both know what’s coming. I feel like a runner at the starting line, energy already moving forward, holding back physically, waiting for the gun to go off. Waiting for the green light. My palms are sweating. My thighs are quivering. I am not sure how long I can hold back.

She saunters to the small table set up as a bar and pours two drinks, a vodka tonic for her and a whiskey for me, neat, no ice. She hands me the glass deliberately and our hands touch, she looks into my eyes with a smoldering glance that cuts me in half. My knees buckle and I stumble back to the wall. She takes a step toward me.

“You okay, there?”

I swallow. “Yes.” I put the glass to my lips but don’t drink. I feel dizzy, intoxicated already.

“Was there something that you wanted? Sir?” She adds the last word in a low, sweet voice and my cock pulses. I drop my hand holding the glass to my side. Extending her arms around my neck, she draws closer to me. I can smell the sticky sweet of her lipstick. I lick my lips. Swallow again. My mouth is dry. I lift my arm, take a swig of the whiskey, and it goes down like a knife. She offers me her lips when I drop the glass again, whispering right up next to mine but not touching. She waits. I kiss her and her mouth is like candy, like being enveloped in silk. My knees go weak again and I lean against the wall to hold myself up. Her lipstick is a smear on my mouth and I don’t care. She leaves a trail of lip prints along my jaw and to the curve of my neck and I don’t care. She is devouring me one kiss at a time and I don’t care. My whole body shudders between her and the wall, held up by both.

She pulls on my earlobe between her lips before she whispers in my ear, “I would like to suck your cock now.” It’s almost a question, almost asking for permission, she knows that’s usually how it works, but this time it is more of a statement of intent. I notice she doesn’t say “sir” but I don’t care. She’s calling the shots now. She drags her body down mine and her skirt fans out around her legs as she kneels in front of me. She looks up, hands on her thighs, and waits, lips parted a little, lipstick smeared and thick which makes her mouth look even more swollen. I breathe deep, trying to focus. I’m supposed to do something. I manage to set the glass of whiskey down on the side table nearby and unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, pull out my cock. She sits up on her knees to get it lined up with her mouth.

She holds the tip of my cock right outside of her lips, breathing, looking up at me, before dropping her eyes and extending her tongue, flat and soft, to lap the underside, and brings her lips forward to circle just the head and suck. She lifts her eyes again. I swoon, my head swirling, the bowl of my pelvis full and trying not to spill over. Her tongue plays down the shaft and leisurely flicks every little ridge. Her lips are soft and warm and I can feel every contour, every smooth curve.

I lean into the wall, close my eyes, muttering, “Fuck, oh fuck.” I can still feel her mouth with every brush even when my eyes are closed. She doesn’t stop. When I open them again she is looking up at me, waiting, mouth poised, and then she swallows down the length of my shaft with one smooth, slow, motion, and holds me in, sliding back out as slow as she possibly can while still pressing the base of the cock against my clit. My whole body shudders, starting at my hips, extending up and down in a shockwave of pleasure.

She starts into that heavy, familiar rhythm of in and out, sliding and slick, in and out, easy and slow. I drop down into it like I was slipping into a hot pool, my body relaxing and releasing with every thrust, my attention sinking lower and lower, out of my head, into my chest, my stomach, my cunt. She wraps her hands around it, her pretty painted nails flicking along the base, curling around, pressing into me, and I rock with her, we rock together, my head bending back, hips pressing forward.

I’m going to lose it.

She grins and extends her tongue, laps and teases my cock as her hand works the shaft, then takes the whole thing in her mouth again, deep down into her throat. She pulls back and swallows the saliva gathering in her mouth, leaves her hand on my cock, still milking it, looking up at me. Her wide brown eyes are dancing, alive, sparkling, her skin shimmering with sweat that looks like glitter, the pink pink dress complimenting the flush of her skin, a little mussed but still beautiful, fancy, making her tongue on my cock look all the more dirty coming from such a good girl image.

I bend down to kiss her, her mouth a smear of lipstick, swollen and wet. My tongue slips inside and she sucks it down, too. I can feel her mouth curling into a grin while we kiss. I groan.

“Baby,” I manage, a little breathless, not sure I can form words. “Fuck.”

“You like that, sir? You like that from your pretty girl?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “And—I want—” I stumble to my knees, catching myself with my arms, pushing back on her and keeping our mouths connected as I bring myself to the floor on top of her.

She twists her legs out from under her and leans back, holding herself up. “What do you want?” My hands find her stockings, find the lacy tops of the thigh highs, find her garter, pull her panties down over her legs, over her shoes. They are wet, soaked through, heavy with liquid and I can smell her scent, a thick musk in my nose as I inhale. I trace my fingertips lightly, so lightly, back up her calves and knees, up her thighs, under the playful crinoline of her skirt, under the sleek layer of her dress, into the creases of her hips, onto her inner thighs.

“You,” I say, pushing her legs open with my chest, lifting her knees a little as I press back into her. She lays back, lets her arms drop to the floor instead of holding herself up. I inhale the scent of her, sweet and salty, her pink lips slick and open. I barely brush my lips against her inner thighs, my eyelashes, my nose, just barely tickling, so, so soft, as light as I can manage, feeling the heat emanating from her. Little ohs escape her lips, little sounds when she exhales, small snippets of pleasure as she opens up wider. She reaches down with her hands and spreads her pussy open, spreads her lips apart, pulls back the hood, and her painted nails look perfect against the pink of her cunt. I start low and slide my tongue ever so gently on the outside of her lips up to her clit, pausing to lower my mouth and suck, letting my spit get her even more wet.

Her cunt is as smooth as her dress and feels like draping silk over my lips. She moans. I repeat myself, light tongue bottom to top, this time probing just a little and suckling again when I get to her clit. Her back arches. Once more and I manage to dip my tongue into her hole and taste how wet she is. Fuck. A shiver runs through me and I notice myself grinding my hips into the carpet, tension building in my own body. She shudders and laces her fingers through my hair, pushing on my head for more pressure against her. I comply eagerly, sucking her lips into my mouth, teasing with my tongue, staying as light as I can. She presses against me more, rocks her hips up to meet my mouth. Her skirt twists around her as she moves and I push it back, its size in the way of me seeing her face.

I use the insides of my lips, the tender soft places, to kiss and caress. I point my tongue and flick it on her clit as fast as I can, and slide it inside as deep as I can. I suck and lick and get her juices all over my mouth. I use my nose and jaw to press against her. Then I bring one hand up and slide two fingers inside, and she tightens, gasps, immediately, I can feel it around my fingers. I gently press into her g-spot and move my fingers oh so slightly, sucking her clit into my mouth and flicking it with my tongue, and she lets go of my head and pounds her hands, pressing up into me so hard her hips come off the floor.

“Fuck—yes—don’t stop—yes—” she manages to gasp. I slide my fingers just a little more, out and then deeper, keeping pressure on her g-spot, while I work my tongue as steadily and fast as I can. She lets out a deep scream and I feel her hips buck against me, shaking, pressing into my mouth and hand as her cunt squeezes tight, vibrating, that ring of muscles clamping down hard on my fingers, her stomach crunching forward as she tenses everything, everything, her thighs, her hands even, her eyes are squeezed shut, and then: she cries out again, gasping, shuddering, her body releasing, relaxing, as she falls back onto the floor. Her body curls as it quiets and she stops pulsing. She pulls me to her, up her body to kiss her, and I wipe my face on the back of my hand as I settle on top of her body and bring my mouth down to hers. She’s supple and soft, joints loose as she wraps her arms around me, muscles quivering.

I hold her a while, scissor my legs around hers and curl my body against her, stroking her hair. She smooths her skirt out of the way between us and nestles into my neck, breathing quietly and deep. She’s still mostly dressed, disheveled, and I want to peel her out of every layer, find her skin, hang each of these perfect items back where they are supposed to go, treat them as precious gifts.

She stirs next to me, kissing me again. “Hey,” she says, looking up as if she’s had an idea. “Would you like a strip tease?”

“Ohhh,” I groan before I can stop myself. “That would be lovely.”

She rises, slowly, and points to the couch. “Sit there,” she says, fetching her iPod from the bag she brought with her earlier and adding it to the speakers on the bookshelf. Madonna’s “Justify My Love” comes on, and I grab my whiskey, not watered down but still raw, the glass sweating under my hand, and sit back on the couch. My cock is still out of my pants and I tuck it back in, but leave my hand on it. She wastes no time and goes right after the zipper on her dress, reaching her arm up behind her to pull it down and looking over her shoulder.

I groan again, long past caring if I’m giving too much away. When she comes over to the couch for a kiss, I catch her face in my hand for just a second, her silky cheek, and look into her eyes with that look, that look, and she knows. She cracks a smile and gets on with the show.

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.

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.

Part II.

She is a bad girl.

There is very specific protocol if she wants me to fuck her. She is supposed to ask for it, nicely. If she’s embarrassed, she is to sit on my lap and tell me she has a secret.

She wants it, all the time. She is the first girl I’ve dated seriously who has a higher sex drive than I do.

I want her to own her desires. To know there’s nothing wrong or shameful about wanting to be fucked, to be opened, to be taken. But sometimes, she can’t. She forgets she’s supposed to ask, and instead drops hints and tries to turn me on, to entice me. Sometimes, this frustrates me. Sometimes, it becomes a game, reminding her she is a bad girl for wanting it and not being able to tell me.

This is what happens.

I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. She doesn’t look at me as she finds the place marked by a small piece of paper and starts reading. I’m not paying attention; she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. Her legs stir, she shifts position, pull them underneath her as she inches closer to me.

I turn a page. She turns her eyes to the pages of her book, moves them along the words, not reading. She’s tried to get my attention all through dinner. Touched her foot to my ankle under the table. Gazed at me, lusty and devourous. Touched my hand and forearm, leaned across the table to display her breasts. Kept her thighs apart. Crossed them, rubbed her legs together.

She gets frustrated that I’m not paying attention. Starts pouting a little. She sighs, audibly.

I ignore her.

We read a while. I’m deeply involved in the middle of this book, and besides, didn’t she just get fucked this morning? I am impatient with this seduction routine, it makes me feel anxious, itchy. And simultaneously, something dark in me growls from down low.

I finish my tea, put my book down, and get up to brush my teeth. When I emerge, she watches me from the couch, waiting for some cue from me, and almost rolls her eyes when I give her none. She sets her book down on the coffee table a little harder than necessary and gets up to brush her teeth, wash her face, prepare for bed.

We cross next to each other in the hallway and I slam her up against the wall, face first. She whimpers, gasps. Breathes in.

“Is this what you wanted?” I grip her arm and twist it behind her, my mouth close to her cheek.

She hesitates. “N-no,” she starts.

I twist a little more. “Isn’t it? You need some attention, pretty girl? Need to get touched, played with?”

“No, no Daddy, I just—”

“You just what.”

“I just … wanted you to kiss me, Daddy. I wanted to be close to you.”

“And?” I wait. She hesitates. “What else?”

“I wanted …”

“You wanted to get fucked, didn’t you.”

Her body pulses and I feel it, pressed tight, caught between my hips and the wall. “Yes,” she whispers.

“You’re supposed to tell me when you want to get fucked.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“You know?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m supposed to tell you my secret. I’m supposed to sit on your lap and tell you I have a secret. I’m supposed to tell you. I’m sorry, Daddy!”

“That’s better.” I stroke her hair. She’s on edge, flinches a little, not sure what to expect. She knows she’s in trouble. “You’re behaving like a bad girl tonight, keeping your legs open and coming on to me. I bet you’re already wet, aren’t you.”

She twitches. She knows she is. I know it too. I bring my other hand down between her legs and push her wet panties aside, slip my finger between her pussy lips. “See?” I whisper next to her ear. “Bad girl.”

“No, Daddy.”

“No? No what?”

“No, I’m a good girl Daddy. I’m good!”

“Oh you are, huh? Do bad girls get all wet like this? Hmm?”

“No, Daddy,” she whimpers.

“No, I didn’t think so. You’re a bad girl tonight. And you know what Daddies do to bad girls?”

She tenses, and heat flushes to her cunt and cheeks. “What?”

I release her from the wall and shove her back toward the bedroom door. “Let’s find out.” She stumbles for a step and then walks forward, twisting her head toward me quickly, then straightening up. “Go,” I say, low and hard.

She turns when she gets into the bedroom, leans a little against our tall bed, keeps her mouth shut. I unbuckle my belt and we both hear the metal against metal clinking sound. I see her chest shudder, mouth water, a Pavlov’s dog response. She breathes out.

I pull the belt from the loops in one fluid motion. “Bend over the bed.”

I see a flash of fear in her eyes; she doesn’t like pain too much, and she doesn’t like the belt. Some nights, I care about that. Not tonight. Tonight she’s going to get used, because I am a Good Daddy and that’s what she wants, even if she doesn’t quite know it yet.

I push her panties down over her thighs. She starts to step out of them but I snarl, “Leave them,” and she quiets. They puddle around her ankles. I start out slow, with sweet little slaps against her ass cheeks, warming her up. She’s on edge, tender and nervous and sensitive, jumping at every touch. I will be gentle, kind of.

“This is what bad girls get,” I hiss in her ear as I start hitting harder.

She whimpers. Breathes in, and her chest heaves.

“You’ve been a bad girl tonight. Haven’t you.” I keep the blows steady, increasing force and speed just a little.

“N-no Daddy, I’m a good girl.” She’s tearing up already. This will be quick.

“You wanted to get fucked tonight, didn’t you, bad girl.”

“Yes.”

I pause, then let my arm wind back and the belt comes down, hard. “Yes what?”

She lets out a wail. “Yes, yes I wanted to get fucked tonight, Daddy.”

“And did you tell me that?”

“No, Daddy.”

“What are you supposed to do, when you want to get fucked, bad girl?”

“To tell you my secret, Daddy. I’m supposed to tell you. That I want to … get fucked.”

“That’s right.” I let the belt drop but keep it in my hand and smooth her ass with my hand. She gulps air, wipes her teary cheeks on the bedspread. “That’s right, bad girl.”

“N-no, Daddy, I’m a good girl.”

“You’ve been bad tonight.”

“No, no Daddy.”

“You’re my bad girl tonight.” I pick up the belt again, let a few more blows fly. Her ass is getting red, I can see it flush even in the dim light of the nightstand lamp. “I get to play with you how I like. Isn’t that how it works.”

She hesitates. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s good, baby. That’s right.” I run my hand along her ass again, dip my finger between her legs. She’s dripping onto her thighs. I lean over her body so she can feel me close to her. “I get to use you how I like. That’s how bad girls get fucked.”

She whimpers, manages to whisper through her tears, “Okay, Daddy.”

“Good. Now, five more, then I’m going to get my cock out.” She’s trying not to cry. Her body tenses at the mention of five more, of any more, hits with the belt. “Count.”

I back off and roll my shoulders to prepare, push the skirt of her dress higher up on her waist. I fling the belt and the edge of it catches her ass, leaving a sharp mark.

She gasps. “One.”

“Good.” I hit her again, a little lighter.

“Two.” She whimpers. “Three.”

She’s squirming. I press her back into the bed. “Four! Daddy!” She can’t take much more.

“You can take it,” I growl in her ear. “One more. For me. Because you’re a bad girl.”

She sobs a little, scrunches up her pretty face. I lift my hand and prepare the belt. “Spread your legs,” I say, and she does, just a little more, after pulling them together for protection.

“That’s my girl,” I soothe, and she relaxes, just a little more. I let the last blow snake from my hand, the whole length of the belt over both cheeks. It wraps a little over her hip, the tip snaps at her skin.

“Five!” she yells into the mattress as another sob escapes. She’s trying to be strong and take it, I can tell, but she’s still scared of the pain. “Shh, shh,” I whisper, bending over her body as I run my hands along her ass, striped hot red. “You okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good.” I stand and let the belt drop to the floor where the heavy buckle clanks against the hardwood. I unbutton, unzip my jeans, pull them down and off, and my briefs, and retrieve my cock, pull the harness on and tighten the buckle. I leave my tee shirt and binder on.

“Stand up,” I say, and she does, turning to face me. “Take your dress off.” She pulls it over her head, tosses it to the floor, shivers as the air touches her skin. “Mmm, nice.” I run my hands along her body, pinching her nipples and cupping her tits, then push her back onto the bed, gently but with force, and she lets me. She breathes in. I knock her legs apart at the knee and she spreads her thighs. I grip my cock in my hand, lube it up from the pump bottle on the nightstand.

“Spread your pussy open for me.”

She brings her fingers down, both hands, and pulls her lips apart so I can see her shiny pink slit split open. I push my cock inside, slick and easy.

She sighs. “Ohh.”

“You like that? See, bad girl, you’ll get fucked when I am good and ready to fuck you. You know how to ask nicely.” I work my cock in and out of her. She pulls her thighs up, rocks her hips back to take it deeper. “And when you ask nicely, you get fucked nicely. But when you forget how to ask, you get used up. You understand?”

She grips the blanket with her fists, opens her eyes to say, “Yes.”

“I get to use you up. Fill up your holes, fuck you and take you how I like. You understand?” I bring two fingers to her mouth and shove them in. She sucks them down immediately and I can feel her cunt tighten. “See how you get all filled up, bad girl. Filled in all your pretty little holes.” I work my hips harder and she bucks against me. She’s close, pressing her thighs up into her stomach to take my cock all the way in. She nods and starts turning her head from side to side, thrashing her body against me and the bed.

She mumbles against my fingers and pushes them out of my mouth to say, “Daddy, can I come? Please?”

I grin at her asking. She’s close, and holding back. “Oh, aren’t you being good, asking me nice and pretty like that.” I keep thrusting inside, harder, and she squirms, whimpers. “Yes baby, go ahead and come.” She moans and thrashes more, slamming her hand down on the bed and arching her back, squeezing so hard that she pushes my cock out and her legs straighten. She comes with a small gush and shudders, stomach squeezing, back arching, until she falls back and her body quiets, and she breathes out.

She catches my eye, reaches up for me. “My sweet Daddy,” she murmurs.

“Dirty little bad girl. Did you like that?”

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you.”

I bring my mouth down to hers again, sweet soft kisses, and she wraps her arms around me.

Part I.

Sometimes, I am a Bad Daddy: I hate it.

I hate it and I want it and I crave it and I hate that I want and crave it, this, this girl, this way that I use her, this way she uses me. Sometimes I resent it. Her, me, my own desires. Why do they run this way? Where did these wounds come from, or are they scars now?

I have to remind myself not to ask myself too many of those questions. That it’s okay to want what I want. That after the flash of feminist guilt, as Karlyn Lotney once wrote, it is quite the handy little fetish.

And it is a fetish, or maybe rather it is many fetishes wrapped up and tied with a big pretty satin red bow. Power. Gender. Age.

I hate it, but I have never loved any play more.

This is what happens.

I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. I don’t watch her as I take another sip of my tea. This is what I practice: Not paying attention. But in not paying attention I still pay attention, I just don’t let her know that I’m paying attention. When I notice I’m focused on her, I try to turn the focus inward. What do I want right now? And I feel something stir.

She inches closer to me. I turn a page. She sighs inaudibly. I turn my eyes to the pages of my book, move them along the words, not reading.

“Daddy?”

I don’t look up, yet. “Yes?”

“Can I …”

“May I.” I correct.

“May I … sit on your lap please?” It comes out in one quick string.

I pull the bookmark out of the back of the book and slide it in between the pages, close the book, set it on the coffee table, look up at her. Her eyes gleam gently. Hopefully. Like she just asked for candy at the grocery store. Her dress is pushed up from how her legs are crossed on the couch and I can see a hint of her inner thigh, and I want my cheek on it, want to bite it, want to feel her squirm and hold her there between my teeth as I leave marks. I breathe in. Keep it under control.

“Yes, sure darling.” With the Good Daddy voice.

She climbs over, sits sideways on my lap, knees bent over my thighs. Wraps her arms around my shoulders and her face buried into my neck and collarbone. Her hair smells faintly of shampoo, clean and bright with a gently fruit-flavored hint. It’s soft and thin and I bring one hand up to the back of her head, play with the gentle curls there.

She settles in and drops one hand to my chest, resting it on my waist. I shift a little, a growl rising in my belly. My arms fold easily around her. I don’t notice the sigh I let out, a low hum, the precursor to the growl.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I like to sit on your lap.” She snuggles a little closer. I can feel a tightness spreading in my groin. I don’t say anything. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Does it feel good?” Her voice drops softer.

“Yes.”

“Does it feel good …” she’s whispering now. “In your pants?”

I stir. My cock stirs, jumps. The growl grows. My arms tingle and tense, a sensation I want to let out with a fist. “Yes.” I whisper too. Our mouths are close.

I am a Bad Daddy. I want my girl to do dirty things; I want to do dirty things to her. I know she’d let me if only I asked, but sometimes the desperation is more fun. The arguing with myself. The attempts at holding myself noble, resisting her sweet girlish body. Feeling dirty for wanting it so much that my palms ache.

“I feel you getting hard, Daddy,” she keeps her head low, shifts her hips to rock against my cock. My eyes roll back, wrists go slack. So soon. Fuck.

“Do you, now.”

“Yes.” She waits. “Can I feel it?”

“You want to?”

“Yes.” Again, a pause. “Please?”


My hands flex. “Please what?”

“Please can—may I touch your cock, Daddy?” She knows how I like to hear it. All the way through, from the ‘please’ to the way she should address me when we play.

I try not to groan audibly. I swallow instead, clear my throat. “Well, since you asked so nice and pretty. Yes, sweet girl, you may.”

She bites her lips and shifts her hips again, reaches down with one hand to grip the hard packer I’d slipped in after dinner. She strokes it through my trousers. She licks her lips unconsciously.

“Daddy,” she presses close to me, hand still stroking, and I feel her small, round breasts against my chest. “It’s too big. It should come out of your pants, Daddy.” Her lips are nearly touching my ear and she knows how I love that. My whole body shudders, relaxes, stomach muscles clench for a moment as I contract and release. I picture her pretty hands with her perfect sparkly red nails wrapped around my cock. I picture her lowering her lipstick-painted mouth toward it. I am a Bad Daddy, and she is so good.

“It’s big and hard in your pants, Daddy. Don’t you want to take it out? It’s too tight under there. Too big. Can I take it out? Daddy, can I?” Her lips are on my neck, earlobe, jaw. I can barely see straight.

I breathe out. “Yes. Yes, you may.”

She slips off my lap and crouches between my knees, staying on her tiptoes on the floor and unbuttons, unzips my pants, pulls the too-big cock from under my briefs and straightens it out, poking from my fly. She wraps one hand around it, then the other. “Mmmm,” she hums a little, smiling, stroking, biting her lower lip then keeping them parted, pressing them together.

Her lips are flushed red.

She watches her fingers stroking my cock for a quick minute, then looks up at me, still crouched. “Daddy …”

I bring one hand down to her jaw line and trace it gently with my thumb. She leans into it a little, eyelids half closed.

“Daddy,” she starts again. “I could put my mouth on it. Don’t you like that? You like it when I do that. And I like to make you feel good. It feels good when I put my mouth on it, Daddy. Can I?”

I stiffen, feel my cock jump. Breathe in. It is so dirty to want this so badly. To hear her beg, to hear her ask over and over at each step of the way. I fight every urge I have to just shove my cock into her mouth, slide it over her tongue, and instead do my best to resist, and the tension keeps my body cocked and loaded.

She flattens her tongue and runs it over the very tip, smiling up at me. “I’m a good girl, Daddy. I know how to make it feel good.”

That breaks me. I breathe out. “Yes, I know you do, sweet girl. Put your mouth on it for me.”

She swallows the spit her mouth is already excessively producing and opens her mouth, and that momentary flash of a pause burns my eyes as if I’d hit pause, her hovering open lips just centimeters away and closing in.

When she drops down, my cock slides in effortlessly, right into the vacant space she’s made for it, and I barely feel it until she’s got the head at the back of her throat and closes her lips around the shaft and pulls up, sucks, lips pushing out as she slides them up and over the ridge, until it pops free.

Mouth open, lips wet, she pauses to say quietly, “I like it in my mouth,” then bends her neck again and takes it deeper, sucking expertly.

I could watch her do this for an hour, two. What is it about this that gets me so hard and hot? I can’t feel it, but I can feel it, every stroke, every graze of her teeth, every swirl of her tongue, as if it was me filling with blood and swelling as she closes her mouth around it, again and again. My hips tighten and knees rotate open, just barely, pushing.

“That feels good,” I manage to mumble, eyes blurry, as I slide my hand into her hair, tangle my fingers into it.

She glows at the slightest praise. “You like that, Daddy? Does it make your cock feel good to be in my mouth?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I like it, Daddy. You can put it in my mouth when it gets big and hard. It feels good. I like to suck on it.”

“You’re getting it all wet.”

“Yes Daddy. My mouth gets wet when I suck on it. Want to see?”

I nod. She swallows a little again, pools the saliva on her tongue, dips her neck down to my cock and slides it deep, far back into her throat. I groan. She leaves it there for as many seconds as she can. When she opens her mouth to slide it out, it glistens slick with the thick spit from her throat. She smiles as it strings from the tip of my cock to her lips. Again, and she leaves even more wet behind. She laps at it with her tongue, moves it around.

I groan again. “Baby, that’s so good, you’re so good at that.”

She rubs her lips together, licks them, swallows. Shifts her legs and raises up to bring her mouth close to mine. I quickly bring my hands to her waist, squeeze the sweet curve of her hips, and bring her body in closer and bring her mouth to mine, kiss her hard. I’m practically panting. She knows it, too.

“I like it. It feels good for me too. See, Daddy?” She raises one knee up next to my thigh on the couch and pulls my hand from her body down between her legs, and I feel her pussy against my hand, swollen and slick, before she slides two of my fingers into her easily.

“Feel that? Sucking on your big cock makes my pussy all wet.” Her mouth is by my ear again. “It’s okay, Daddy. You can put your cock in all my little holes. You like it when we play this game. You can put it in my pussy, too. Want to put it in my pussy now, Daddy? Do you want to?” My fingers go in and out, pausing to rub circles over her clit. “See how wet my pussy is? It’s wet for your cock, Daddy. So it will slide right in and go in and out. It’s just for your cock. Don’t you want it in there? It’s okay, I want you to put it in, I want you to, Daddy …”

She shifts in my lap and knees on either side of my thighs, starts guiding my cock toward her hole. I watch, slip my fingers out, bring my eyes up to her face as she reaches for the shaft to guide it in. “Do it,” I growl low, already thick and pulsing just feeling her slick lips touch the tip. “Slide it in, baby. That’s good. Yeah, like that.” And she does, she slides it right inside, slow, and pushes all the way down until her thighs are pressed against mine.

We both shudder and sigh, and she rests her cheek on my shoulder for a second before clenching her thighs and lifting her body up and off of me until only the tip of my cock is touching her opening, then pressing down and letting her weight rest on me again, clenching, squeezing her thighs together.

My eyes roll back. I breathe in. I can’t stand it.

“I like it, Daddy. I like it going in and out. I like your big cock in my little pussy. Does it feel good, Daddy?”

I move my hands to her hips and hold her steady, start thrusting with my hips. I’m close. She’s got me so close. “So good, you’re such a good girl, baby, my good girl.” My lips can barely form words. She kisses me, sucks my tongue into her mouth, wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight with her thighs and cunt.

“Do it more, Daddy. Do it harder. Please? Please put it in my pussy. Please, harder, Daddy, please, please …” She knows I’m close from the way my hips are shuddering, faster now, more of a shake than a thrust. She keeps her lips next to my ear. “Do it, Daddy, come in my pussy, make your cock come in my pussy Daddy, please, come Daddy, come Daddy …” And I do, I thrust harder up inside her and my groans and grunts turn into yelling, fuck, yeah, fuck, body pulsing, gushing, until I feel every drop squeezed out of me, and I collapse back, head rolling gently, eyes closed, as she kisses my neck and rocks gently against me.

I breathe out. Open my eyes. Smooth her hair, run my hand along the side of her body. “My good girl.”

She grins and brings her mouth down to mine again, sweet soft kisses, and I wrap my arms around her.

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.

They continued playing on the bed. Stripped off their clothes. I wasn’t exactly sure of my move … should I join? That would feel a little bit like forcing myself into the situation. Plus, I was really enjoying watching. I am usually so much closer to Kristen when she gets aroused, watching her skin flush while my hands are already on her body, and watching someone else do it was interesting, both puzzling and a thrill. They were adorible together, both eager, passionate in their kissing and handfulls of thigh and ass and tits.

I tried to be casual as I got out my favorite cock, slid off my jeans, still watching them kissing, touching, fucking, on the bed. I stood against the wall, one hand on my cock, and watched as Kristen lay back on the pillows, one hand gripping the bars of the black headboard as she opened her thighs and pushed against Gabrielle’s hand, inside of her as Gabrielle knelt between her knees.

I moved to sit on the edge of the bed up near the headboard, next to Kristen. Gabrielle’s whole hand was inside of her, disappearing at the wrist. I reached for the lube and offered it to Gabrielle. She noticed my cock, ready, and laughed. Kristen noticed it too, and reached for it with her hands, stroking it while I lowered my mouth and kissed her. We managed a whispery check in: “You okay?” “So great,” and she told me she wanted my cock in her mouth.

Gabrielle pulled out and Kristen shifted forward onto her knees, still on the bed. My bed is on risers, which makes the side of it at an almost perfect hip-height. I stood beside it as Kristen eagerly swallowed the length of me, sucking eagerly, mouth wet and wanting, making those little gulping sounds as she swallows and sucks. Her back arched high as she was on her hands and knees low, low enough to get to my cock at hip-level as I stood at the side, her knees apart, exposing her pussy to Gabrielle, who was behind her now, gripping her ass with both hands, smacking it a little, rubbing, until finally lowering her mouth down to Kristen’s pussy.

Kristen moaned. She is one of those people who is not so good at the famous 69 position, for example, because she gets too distracted by what’s happening to her pussy to concentrate on what’s in front of her mouth. I also know, however, that sometimes she doesn’t have to concentrate on her mouth—I can just slide my cock in and out and use it like another hole to fuck. And so I did. Slid it in and out, gripped the back of her head gently to use to pump my hips, and Kristen went even more limp, relaxing, her body opening.

It didn’t take long before she was shaking and crying out, muffled behind her full mouth, pressing her body back against Gabrielle and sputtering as she came. I lifted her mouth up to mine and she sat up high on her knees, kissing me.

“Get down,” I told her. She shifted, knees still shaky, off of the bed so she stood next to it with me. I kissed her again and then quickly turned her around and bent her over the side of it, pressing her back with my hand and opening up her pussy with my other hand, guiding my cock in, so wet and easy, and started fucking her.

Gabrielle was on the other side of the bed, watching. A nice show for our guest.

I started slow with a few strokes to get my cock nice and wet, then went for it, thrusting hard, not stopping, not too fast yet but hard, deeper, listening to her cry out, hands grasping for the bed, gripping the sheets and thrashing as I speed up, thicker and hard, moving the bed inches across the hardwood floor. I took a firm hold on her hips, then brought one hand around to her clit and she exploded, coming hard, squirting all over the side of the bed, down my legs, onto the floor.

Shaky, we disentangled and she climbed back up onto the bed where Gabrielle was waiting. I wiped down my legs quickly as they kissed again, curled up with each other a little.

What happened next is a little bit of a blur. Gabrielle relaxed a little, by which I mean she relaxed out of her toppy-ness and let us both touch her a little more. I kissed Gabrielle, unhooked her bra, pulled off her panties as she lay on the bed next to Kristen. She seemed a little self-conscious, but I loved the sight of the curves of her, her small round belly, her thighs, her tits, a little larger than Kristen’s but still close to the same size, both of them smaller than me but not exactly skinny. Enough flesh to grab on to, enough to grip, enough so that there is padding between us and I am not worried about being too heavy and accidentally doing some damage. I worry enough about damage as it is; I want to fuck a girl who, I can tell, can hold her own.

After I took Gabrielle’s last pieces of clothing off, she layed back on the bed next to Kristen again and they kissed, touched each other, as I worked my fingers in Gabrielle’s cunt, softly at first, just exploring, to see if she wanted to be touched, then harder and deeper as she opened up and spread her legs, breathing heavier and still kissing Kristen. She gasped a little as I worked in two fingers, then three. Kristen started writhing in response to Gabrielle: flushed, hips pushing against my hand. Kristen moaned, rubbing her thighs together and pressing closer to Gabrielle, stealing glances at me, which I took as an invitation and brought my left hand up to Kristen, too, finding her wet, happy to get touched again. Fingers in both of them, working in and out, slowly, easily, as Gabrielle gasped and they kept kissing, hands on each other everywhere, tongues in and out of each other’s mouths.

“I think I want her to fuck me,” Gabrielle finally said to Kristen.

“Oh?” Kristen asked back. “She is pretty good at that. I recommend it.”

(This is the kind of banter we’d had all night.)

“That’s how it seems!”

“You could ask for it.”

“How?”

(You guys, I’m sitting right here. Also, holy shit. )

“You could say … I want your cock. Or you could say, please fuck me. Or you could say, would you pretty please put that cock in my pussy?”

Gabrielle finally turns to me. I was barely holding myself up on my knees and have leaned back against the footboard of the bed. “Would you please … fuck me?” she asks.

I try to maintain my cool. “Uh, yes, of course.”

“Would you use a different one? That one is too … much.”

“Sure.” I was thinking I’d change cocks regardless, not so smart to share toys. I swapped out the harness and cock for a slightly smaller cock and rubber harness (easier to clean). Went over to the side of the bed Gabrielle was on and kissed her again, pulled her against me, ran my hands along her body to get used to touching her. Kristen watched. Gabrielle put one hand to my cock and looked at it, then looked up at me, and I pushed her back and pressed open her thighs, slid inside her easily.

“Go slow,” she urged. She doesn’t get penetrated too often. Usually a top, I’d found out. It makes more sense why she was seducing Kristen, then, and why I was a little confused earlier. But she was the kind of top who liked to get fucked after topping, she said. Made for the best orgasms that way.

I went slow. Gabrielle turned and embraced Kristen again, kissing more, hands on each other’s bodies, breasts, skin, as I knelt and grabbed Gabrielle’s inner thighs, pulled us together and apart as I worked inside of her. Lubed up my thumb and touched her clit.

“Fuck,” she moaned, still kissing Kristen. I guessed I had the right spot. I don’t know her body, I can’t quite tell. Soft, but a little faster, I kept going. “Fuck, fuck,” she breathed, faster, swearing, “Oh god oh god oh,” as I flicked my fingers against her clit and my hips against her, until she yelled a string of fuck fuck fuck fuck! and let go of Kristen to grip the headboard, pushing against me, harder, laughing and flushed, skin pink with a thin layer of sweat.

“I come and you just keep going,” she breathed. She didn’t seem to mind, and was not pushing me away, but rather keeping me right there, rocking against me, her hips working in rhythm with mine. I laughed, and let up.

Kristen was starry eyed, looking a little like someone had just thrown her a surprise birthday party, thrilled and thrown off. I detangled from Gabrielle and went over to the side of the bed where Kristen was and we three held each other, stroking our skin, laughing for a little while, until Gabrielle decided it was time to get going. We called a cab for her, walked her to the front door at 4am, and called it a night.

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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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 …

“I woke up with my cock all hard,” I say, low, into her ear. She stirs. My fingers find her cunt, her soft skin and folds, and caress sweetly. She convulses the moment I slip my fingers in. “That’s what I wanted, yeah,” I continue to murmur. “That tight little hole, oh you feel so good.”

“Ohhh Daddy … ” she breathes, grasping onto my a-shirt. She tightens and I can feel she’s close already. “I don’t want to come yet, wait,” she says, eyes open, and I back off, still touching but lighter, slower, more time between strokes, more space.

“I don’t know what it was that woke me up this way,” I keep whispering, “Maybe your little dress with nothing underneath. I want to play with you today.” I try to let it build, we kiss, I touch her clit and wrap my other arm around her, hold her wrist in my hand, bite her lips.

“Yes Daddy, please Daddy.”

“You want to play some games with me, pretty girl? Like take my cock out and touch it? Let me put it in you?”

“I like it, Daddy, I like it inside me.”

“Me too baby, and look how hard you get me, dirty girl, just thinking about you gets me all hard. We have to get up, though, we don’t have time to play now, and I’m going to be all hard for you all day, all hard for this pretty cunt, your tight little pussy. We need some time to play later, promise?”

“I promise, I promise,” whimpering now, she’s close.

“Oh my sweet girl, you feel so good,” I add another finger, thrust hard inside her, “That’s what I wanted, I wanted to feel you come for me, fill you up …” and she does, she comes in a gasp, that muscular tightening that curls her body, contracting from her stomach to her fingertips, and then she releases, settles back down next to me, kisses me sweet.

“We can’t stay sleeping all morning, we have things to do, remember.” I say.

“Yeah … just another minute here.” And we curl around each other before we have to face the day.

–

Later, we’re back in bed, it’s dark, both tired from all that was accomplished in the short time between sunrise and sunset. We didn’t get a chance to play. I still want to.

I pull her close. “You got a lot of attention today,” I whisper. “What with the morning, the four or five or seven times you came.”

“Maybe it’s your turn?” she asks.

I bring her hand down underneath my boxers and she softly swirls her fingers around my cunt, exploring. I’m on my back, knees bent, one up in the air and the other under her thigh. She takes her time, shifts closer to me, lightly touching all over my lips, working her way up to my clit, teasing, drawing circles, slow and sweet. It’s been a while since she used her fingers like this. She doesn’t usually go so slowly or softly, and it’s lovely.

She slides a finger inside, two, and I’m wet, it’s easy and feels lovely. She curls her fingers and I like the tug on my g-spot. I bring my own hand down and while she’s still got two fingers inside I touch my clit, surprised at how wet she’s got me, slick and easy and swollen, and I come easily, easier than usual, back arching, mouth open. Kristen kisses me, my neck, my chin, my cheeks, settles on top of me and wraps her arms around me for a minute before shifting next to me, pulling the blankets up.

I’m a little dazed. “I still want … more … ”

She knows what I mean. “Let’s make some time.” It’s a challenge to have enough time to be able to go deep in the ways that we both like to explore, but we both make it happen. And it is so worth it.

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.

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.