Lately, I’ve been thinking about rope.

I have tied Penny, spread-eagle, to my bed, and she has said she would not be opposed to doing that again (actually, her words were probably more like, “I didn’t like that at all. I’d hate it if you did it again” because she’s so damn snarky like that).

And, the Body Electric School course on Power, Surrender, & Intimacy is coming up in a couple weeks, and I received the supply list:

1. One (1) length of 40 feet of ½ inch thick soft rope (nylon, polyester, or mixed cotton/nylon)
2. Two (2) lengths of 13-15 feet of ¼ inch thick soft rope
3. Sex toys of any kind that you would like to use are welcome including cuffs, feathers, floggers and spanky toys.

I did PSI years ago - maybe 2002 - and had such revelations (I’m a top? Really? And other people perceive me as butch?) that I’ve been watching for it ever since. You have to complete the Celebrating the Body Erotic - level one - course in Body Electric to do PSI, so all of you who are currently salivating, to you I say, you should’ve done the CBE! (There are CBEs coming up in Seattle and Oakland in 2008, it’s not too late.)

So, I’ve been thinking about rope. And I’m a big fan of Two Knotty Boys, so here ya go - a fun little rope trick for handbinding.

This Sugarbutch Star submission comes from Avah of Designing Intimacy. Thanks Avah!

Fucking a Porn Star

The girl knew how to submit.

Even before Avah had her clothes off, even before they entered the hotel room, there was something, some lowering coyly of her eyes, some demure way she kept fluttering her wrists like dinner napkins, something in the way she would purse and slowly lick her lips that made Avah feel strong. Powerful. Wanted. Something that gave Avah permission to take.

With a girl like this, Avah knew how to dominate.

The girl knew what Avah brought along in her carefully packed bag. They had negotiated the contents cautiously, both clearly able to navigate the world of online NSA personals.

Avah’s ad read “ISO sweet, submissive girl that loves rope and flogging.” The girl was her only decent reply – and she was a redhead.

Once in the hotel room, lights still off, Avah told her to undress – revealing milky white, near translucent skin, thin and hiding nothing – then kneel in front of her. Avah parted her own pussy lips with her fingers, standing before the girl who, stripped nude and kneeling, began lapping and sucking tentatively at first, then eagerly, deeper, suckling, making small mmm noises like she was savoring some satisfying desert.

The night of subtle, easy communication at the bar, and the girl’s sweet eyes looking up at her, mouth full, made Avah so hot, and the girl’s expert tongue and pressure brought Avah surprisingly quickly to a thick state of desire and bliss. Coming in the girl’s mouth easily, Avah rewarded her accordingly: she unzipped her toy bag.

The date moved quickly. Avah took this sweet, submissive girl every way she could think of: bent over the coffee table. Against the wall. Elaborately hog tied on the bed, wrists and ankles pulling each other in separate directions (that was especially lovely). Wrists tied behind her back. Fingers in her cunt, then fist in her cunt, then fingers in her ass. Beautiful.

There was something Avah couldn’t pinpoint about this girl: some familiarity about the way her bones shift when she moves, the way her small, tight muscles pulse and ripple, that look in her eyes each time Avah turns to her, palm open, to bring a new sensation to her body. There was some way she led Avah, with tiny, subtle movements, to know exactly what to do next. So skilled at submitting.

Hours later, the two girls were flushed, skin sheened with sweat, exhausted and still wanting each other. The hotel room is dim with candles and the nighttime city lights filtering through the curtain. The bedspread, sheets, and pillows, have been torn from the bed and discarded on the floor. The couch too has been attacked, pillows strewn about, even knocking over a vase that they both ignored.

Avah’s rope proved to be the favorite accessory of the evening. Wrapped around both of the girl’s wrists, it was now tied to the hotel headboard, immobilizing the girl, face down, stretching her arms long above her head. Her ankles were tied, too, to the feet of the bed, but the rope had enough length that the girl could nearly raise to her hands and knees. Her ass was in the air, increasingly pink.

Raising her hand beyond her shoulder, Avah brought her cupped palm down onto the flesh her ass meets thigh: a delicate sound. The girl’s muscles clenched gently, then release.

Again, and again, Avah slapped and stung the girl’s ass and inner thighs, her hand hitting against her crack, swatting her clit and swollen labia, red and slick and smooth as glass, steady, and then faster, the blows coming closer together until the girl started whimpering and straining at the ropes, inching forward to escape, and Avah let up, soothed her hand over the girl’s reddened skin and cunt, fingers exploring the crevasses of her labia and hood, slow circles, slow lazy circles around her clit, and the girl relaxed again, leaned into it, moaned.

The girl’s back arched, knees and feet straining farther apart.

Avah pulled her flogger from her bag: deerskin. Long. She draped it easily over the girl on the bed and it tickled, massaged, gently caressed her skin.

Until – thud. Avah let it fall using only gravity. Again. Thud. A gentle sound. More like thhh. A shushing noise through the air like a librarian.

The girl arched her head back. It was a request. Four, five swats and Avah had her aim. Eight, nine and Avah had a comfortable build of pressure: each time she brought the leather down it hit a little harder, a little deeper into the muscles.

The girl squirmed and writhed against the bed.

Avah climbed between her knees, on the bed and, erect, brought her flogger down again. Onto her shoulder blades. Onto her sides. Onto her tiny ass. Finding a rhythm. One two thud. One two thud. Gathering the tails together over her shoulder, into the palm of her hand, then back down. Precise. Their breaths matching. Gasping when the tails hit skin, moaning when they leave.

“Oh god,” the girl whispered. “Oh god.” She cringes, cries out.

“You like that?” Avah growls, a little harsh, acutely aware of the ferociousness building in her stomach, under her ribcage, creeping up to her heart and throat and shoulders. She hit harder. Harder. The girl arched her back, nearly collapses on the bed.

“Relax,” Avah said, caressing the girl’s skin with her palm. The girl crushed into the bedspread and brought her arms under her, tensing her entire body briefly before releasing, opening again, looking up at Avah with soft eyes. Her limbs were all sinew and bone and skin, lanky and long, thin. She tilted her head but kept her eyes on Avah, responding to Avah’s soothing touch with arches of her body, breathing in. She relaxed onto the hotel sheets, then took her arms out from their tucked position under her and bent her knees, arms and torso laid out long on the bed, ass to ankles.

“Please, a few more?”

Avah grinned, stepped off the bed behind her to get a larger swing, then tightened her grip on the flogger’s thick handle and let more blows fall onto the girl’s back and ass and thighs, tips of the tails snapping at her skin, not fine enough to leave individual marks but turning her entire backside darker and darker pink, in some places flushed red. She may be bruised tomorrow.

Working her entire body into the blows, Avah swung and hit. Swung and hit. She is a true sadist: she is turned on by the witness of someone else’s pain. She knew her cunt was wet, could feel it between her thighs. The girl moaned and cringed and breathed with each contact. Avah worked up into a wonderful beat, so satisfying, a wrist turn that looked like a baton twirl and a rhythm like timpani, steady and slow, working the flesh and bones of this girl, this gorgeous girl, so willing to give over, so eager to receive.

Avah built up speed and the girl whimpered. Harder, and she yelled, pulled against the ropes, thighs cringing together. Avah gathered her strength and let a last few blows hit.

The girl cried out with the intensity. Screamed, then quieted.

Gently leaning into her, Avah floated her hands above the girl’s skin as she lay still with the aftermath of the flogging, writhing and cringing, body melting and settling back into its former shape. Avah softly began moving her hands, hovering just above the skin, not touching yet and then – until – just a fingertip, just the softest brush of the pads of her fingers over the girl’s smelting skin, red and stinging and sensitive to even the minute changes in the air. Avah set each finger, then her palm, oh so gently, barely even touching, like a paintbrush making the finest softest strokes against the exposed canvass of the girl’s back and ass and thighs.

The girl drew breath in hard with each brush. Arched her back. Strained against the ropes.

The reverberation of every contact rippled through her body like a firework exploding, another touch in another spot would simply further illuminate the smoky leftover of the first, still hanging on her skin.

“You feel amazing,” Avah said, completely caught up in the buzz of energy between them.

The girl whispered something, groaned, into the pillow.

“Uh sorry?” Avah said, both hands on the girl’s hip bones, leaning forward to hear her better.

“Fuck me,” the girl said again, clearly this time, turning her head to the side, red hair falling over her face. “Please, oh god please.”

“Mmm,” Avah agreed, drawing back down the girl’s body to her ass and exposed cunt, two fingers running over her lips and clit, swollen from the long night of sex, from the sensory overload, from the submission.

The girl moaned deliciously with each touch.

Avah grinned and kept her grip on the girl’s hip bones, slid two fingers inside her slick cunt easily. The girl sighed, heavy, and opened deeper. Avah slid out and added another finger, a little tighter with three, the girl inhaled and squirmed a little, so eager, so open.

“Damn, that’s good,” Avah mumbled, fingers sliding in and out easily, thumb on the girl’s hard clit. Avah felt her opening deeper still, pushing back onto Avah’s hand, gripping the rope that held her wrists to the headboard, rocking on her knees. Avah added her fourth finger.

The girl’s clit swelled, g-spot swelled – Avah could feel it from where her hand hit inside, the upper wall thick and juicy and swollen and she fingered it, pressed against it tenderly, pet it with little laps of the pads of her four fingers.

Cries from the girl’s mouth, directly in a line connected to her cunt. Pressure here and she cried out. Pressure there and she gasped. A little harder, a little faster, and her knees shook, thighs pressed apart, ass pressed back, back arched, head bent and her cunt opened to swallow everything, to take it all inside her, hard, to suck Avah’s hand in, to the palm. Then she burst: it started in her cunt and then radiated out in waves, in ripples, thick quakes of bone and muscle and the girl made such delicious low moans, oh-oh-oh god, oh-oh-oh god, and Avah slowed, changed pressure to let up, and the girl folded back into herself, collapsed forward on the bed, and Avah’s fingers slid out as her body calmed.

Avah unties the ropes and they collapse together on the bed, the girl holding Avah close against her, sharing caresses, giggles, as they came down from their bodies’ highs. They lay eye to eye on the pillows.

“You just look so familiar, I can’t shake it,” Avah said. “It’s weird. We haven’t met before, you’re sure?”

The girl grinned. “Well, I told you my name. I figured if you knew my work you’d recognize that.”

Avah, embarrassed, couldn’t remember it. Michelle. Marilyn. Something with an M.

“Madison,” the girl said. “Madison Young.”

“Oh,” said Avah, and then she realized: she’d just fucked a porn star.

I want you to only address me as Sir.

I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.

I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.

I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.

I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.

I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.

I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.

Can you do that for me?

1. Fuck a girl’s ass with a strapon (is it still called pegging if it’s two women, or is pegging unique to a woman strapped on fucking a guy?). I’ve done plenty of ass-play, but somehow the women I’ve been with have never actually been comfortable enough with it for me to be strapped on. I have, however, fucked a guy this way, once upon a time.

2. Stingy toys, like a cane. I’d like to leave some marks. I’ve used a cane before, actually, but I don’t own one, and I’d like to experiment to feel more comfortable with it

3. Receive - and give - a cutting

4. Role-play out in a bar, pretend we don’t know each other and pick each other up. I suppose that has a lot of variations (resistance, convincing).

5. Sex in central park, sex in every girl club in new york city (the bathroom, the back room, the alley, the deserted dancefloor, wherever), sex at work. After hours, in an empty office, wherever. I’ve done that, actually, though not at my current job.

6. Play with knives. And yes, I think I’d like to be the one holding the knife, although that could be negotiable.

7. And, last but not least, recent events have told me that I need to practice my flogging & rope bondage.

Welcome to the community, Colleen and Jake. Even just a few months ago the dyke-run sexblogs were few and far between, but this little empire (car tires & chicken wires) of ours is growing. Have you seen my “Playin’ for My Team” sidebar list recently? Not all of those are exclusively sexblogs, but most of them are. But here’s a funny thing … almost all of these dyke-run sexblogs, though, are from self-defined femmes. Hey, all the better for me, really, but where are the butches?Similarly, I was at the Pervert’s Saloon Tea Party this past Sunday, and it was me, Jefferson, and six other women - Tess, Viviane, Calico, Selina, Rachel, and Lolita. (I missed Madeline, who has been there every other time I’ve been to a tea party, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.) We were interviewed by Craig Collinson of Nobles Gate for his documentary “A Sex Bloggesy” about, um, sexbloggers.

That’s us. Anonymized in the interviewer’s monitor. Photo borrowed from Viviane.There was a question at some point about the imbalance of genders in the room - At one point, Jefferson said (about me), “Well hey, you’re the only man in the room …” This imbalance is in the sexblog community in general, too. We did some speculation as to why this is. The interviewer even brought up the idea that women are not as sexual creatures as men. I think, honestly, he was playing TO the stereotypes intentionally, though he was also asking us to defend/discuss it. I spent much of the interview biting my fist to keep from jumping up on the table and start proselytizing.

And, what is that about, anyway? That it is primarily women who are running sexblogs? Oh, I have some ideas.

1. The mainstream audience for porn is, of course, men, so women are better able to get a handle or corner on the potential marketability of a sexblog.

2. Because of the way patriarchy works (gasp, the P word), men don’t have to examine or question or explore sex in order to figure out how to get pleasure, how to get validation, and how to reconcile their identity as a sexual person, because it’s socially acceptable and, in fact, encouraged, for a man to be sexually explorative. This is still not true for women.

3. Women, as a whole, do tend to be more verbal (whether it’s nature or nurture, we can have that argument another time), and also attach more emotion to sex, probably for biological purposes (and this has been proven by sociobiological scientists, not just stereotypes). Therefore the act of sex is potentially more complicated and problematic for women (?? … I’m brainstorming here, don’t mind my generalities).

4. There has been a lot of work done by women on the gender of femininity in the last forty years (holy smokes, second-wave feminism was forty years ago?) because of the sexual and gender revolutions of the 1960s and 70s. Therefore, many many many of the limitations and constrictions that were previously placed upon women and femininity have been deconstructed and revalued, and, generally, quite successfully I think. This is NOT to say that I think feminism is over, or that we are now in a post-feminist state - only that women and the feminist movement have done a lot of work on the feminine gender, which may actually be leading to how women are able to take control of and elaborate upon their various sexualities via writing on the Internet. However, that work has not been done in the same way by/for masculinity and men. I would argue, in fact, that that is where the next gender revolution needs to come: from and for men, revaluing and deconstructing masculinity and the mandatory tough guise. However, because we are STILL in a patriarchy, and STILL value maleness more than femaleness, men haven’t been forced to do this - yet. I don’t know how I can help fuel this revolution-to-come, but I sure would like to.

5. Hmmm … anything else? (I’m digging this list format. Feels like my ideas are more organized this way.) I’ll keep thinking about this question. So, riddle me this, folks: Why is the sexblog community dominated by women? And why are the queer women sexblogs primarily femme? Where are the gayboy sexblogs, anyway?

So, after the interviewers left, we went back to our regular fabulous Tea Party, catching up with each other, discussing and processing and catching up.Viviane, always the amazing host, made strawberry shortcake and mint juleps, along with watercress & goat cheese tea sandwiches. And delicious tea, of course, both iced and hot. Selina brought beautiful cups & saucers for our tea, Rachel ran out to get the proper milk, and looked gorgeous in her summery dress. Selina had some pretty fantastic heels on that she’d discovered in London, and Tess … well, Tess had heels on too. (Oh I’m such a sucker for stilettos.) Lolita had a beautiful new cutting by Jefferson Sharrin Spector (who wasn’t there, but Lolita gave me her link so I figured I’d include it. I’m kinda jealous, I want a cutting). Calico I met for the first time, who is a newcomer to this scene but is already making quite the impression. And Jefferson, of course, infamous Jefferson, was showing off his rubber ducky boxers by the end of the night.

What else happened at this tea party, you ask?

Well … After the girls said they’d gotten pedicures just so they could wear their fancy shoes, I mentioned that I cut my fingernails just for the party … to which of course Jefferson retorted, “What, did you think you were going to get laid?” … which was the beginning of the shenanigans.

Jefferson told me “what gender is” while we were in the kitchen devilling eggs. To be fair, I thought he was saying “ginger,” because of his cute little southern accent, which prompted me to ask what the hell he was talking about. Although ginger wasn’t actually that out of context considering we’d been discussing ginger butt fucking (apparently called figging?) just shortly before.

It’s true what they’re saying, I did get a little lesson in flogging from Lolita, as did Tess and Selina. I felt out of practice and incredibly embarrassed, actually. Because I am good at flogging. Actually, quite good. And I hated being seen, in front of a roomful of experienced people, of whom I was one of the youngest, as not experienced in something I am good at. It was very frustrating. Really, it made me draw the conclusion that I need to flog more, to be sure to keep my skills fresh. … perhaps I should seek volunteers.

Viviane did a bit of a roundup, Tess wrote about it, and Lolita did too.

One last thing: I really have NO idea what I said on camera, what quotes of mine (if any) will be used. The one thing I did really want to press was how much I believe that our discussions of sex, relationships, and gender in these online communities is actually an act of social change and revolution. That it helps and encourages open communication about pleasure, identity, and of course sex, all of which are still taboo. We’re makin’ history here, we’re paving the way for a more sophisticated, more particular, safer, happier, much improved cultural dealings with sex. And I am oh so grateful to be a part of that, even in the smallest way.

You are face down, ponytail bobbing, wrists and ankles tied to my bedposts, the simple steel I won from my last breakup. Since then, I have fucked five women in this bed. You are the sixth.

Does it matter how I got you here? Whether I wined and dined you, bought you indulgent fruity mixed drinks, a delectable dinner, your body now satiated but wanting other fullness, wanting me to stop fingering my fork spoon knife glass napkin ice cubes and begin placing my hands carefully on your skin.

Or perhaps I simply ordered you over here, sent a car to your apartment and was waiting downstairs when you arrived at mine, paid the driver, removed my dark tie from the tight collar of my baby-blue button down and slipped it over your eyes. Leading you up two flights of stairs without your sense of sight.

No matter. You’ve been here before. Nothing really to see.

I am tempted to rip seams, pop buttons open with force. You know how you bring that out in me.

Instead, I make you wait. Drag the thin fabric of your shirt along your skin, slow as I can. You can’t see, but you can feel me, my breath on you, my hands, my rough thumbs waiting to dig bruises into your upper arms, stomach, hips.

My collection of floggers hang from a swirl of Victorian iron on the wall next to my bed. I choose my favorite: black, thin leather, red deerskin flanks in the center. My name is carved into the handle: z. e. d.

You’re stripped aside form my dark blue schoolboy tie around your eyes. I know it’s not foolproof, other blindfolds are more efficient. I don’t mind the glimpses you steal.

You see me strip down to loose, soft cotton jersey boxers and an a-shirt. Have to have my arms free if I’m going to beat you, after all. My cock pokes through the single button in the boxers. You like it when it does that.

I smell like summer and sweat, and I’ve been drinking tequila again, on the rocks, just a little. You smell sweet. Fresh. Clean like linen. My mouth waters and I imagine my tongue tracing the curves of your lower back, up to your shoulder, the back of your neck.

I stand gazing for too long, and you begin to squirm.

“Be still,” I say, and put one hand on your ass, trace it down to the back of your knee. “I’m going to hit you now.”

You let out a puff of air that is a whimper and a sigh. Your skin tenses and you try to counter by keeping your muscles calm.

“Relax,” I say, “or it’ll just hurt more.”

I want you to count to fifty, but wonder if that’s too many. I like flogging with an end in sight. Otherwise I go into that physiological trance state where I find rhythm and forget to stop.

I begin counting in my head. One – thump. Two – thump. Your muscles begin to open but still wince just before the leather makes contact.

Five – thump.

Six – thump.

The leather makes a small whoosh through the air. I’m being gentle, mostly just a tap, letting gravity pull the tassels to your skin, your ass, your thighs.

Whoosh – ten – thump.

Whoosh – eleven – thump.

I begin to throw a little more arm strength into the flogger and you grunt with an “uh –“ wincing a little stronger.

At fifteen I pause, run my hand, fingers, palm, along your skin. Tender where I’ve hit you hardest. You inhale sharply and arch your back to the touch, like a cat.

“Your skin looks beautiful,” I say. “It’s beginning to pinken, a little, at the edges.” My mouth is at your neck and I kiss you a few times, find you panting, tongue swollen.

“More, darling?” I ask, an offer and a question. You turn your face toward the sound of my voice, bite your lower lip, and nod.

“Oh – yes – please – ” you manage.

You do beg real pretty. I’ll never forget your legs wrapped around me that night I refused to slide inside you until you begged.

You’d said, finally: “Oh baby, your cock is so sweet, so sweet and hard, fill me up with it, baby, shove it in me, please, pump it in me, let me milk it, let me squeeze it hard till you come inside me, oh please I want it – I need it – I wanna be filled up – please put it in, please.”

It was the way your eyes flashed on that last please that did it to me. Finally sent me over desire’s edge to where I had to take you.

Tonight, I’m ready to hold out.

I switch up my rhythm so the flogger first hits my back over my right shoulder, then your back and exposed ass, then I catch it with my left hand. Easier on a Saint Andrew’s Cross than lying down, but I like the way it stings my palm. Plus I can gauge the strength of the blows this way.

Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty.

Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty one.

Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty two.

You’re writhing a bit, whimpering at the blows, occasional head back open-throated gasp when I land somewhere particularly hard.

Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty five.

I decide to go to thirty. Your skin is reddened to how I like it, ripe, your hips are making these nice S-curves and I want to fuck your ass.

I increase not just the muscle power I’m putting behind the flogger but also the velocity. Harder. Faster. You cry out. Twenty seven. You gasp and cry out again. Twenty eight.

I grab your hair, a neat twist in a ponytail, and lift your head slightly, my mouth by your ear. I drag the flogger along your inner thighs.

“Quiet,” I mutter.

You sigh and shudder. “Bully – “ you whisper, not intending for me to hear you.

I want to growl, but instead I push your cheek to the soft sheet and hold you there by the back of your neck, aiming a few blows between your legs.

Leather on labia. My favorite.

You’re whimpering again. I loose count and take five, six quick whaps to your cunt and inner thighs. You are making noises that sound like exquisite agony.

I step out of my boxers, they’re in the way, lube up my cock from the pump on the bedside table and moisten two fingers, then kneel between your thighs and lube your asshole, fingering the crack of your ass. I slide the thumb of my left hand into your slick wet cunt and can feel your clit under my index finger, so I set it there and rock it gently back and forth. The heel of my hand spreads your labia and tilts your pelvis back and up. Serves you to me like a feast.

You moan. The blindfold has slipped over your head and you’re watching me from over your left shoulder.

I slide one finger, then two, into your tight asshole while leaving my other hand still, fingers inside you. You groan a little and press into me a bit harder. Slide those fingers out and I touch the tip of my dick to your tight hole and you swallow it, open to it, and I can feel the muscles stretch and pulse when the head of my cock pops in, the shaft of it sliding easier through the tightest places.

You are still moaning. Sounds from your mouth as you grind back into me and wiggle your hips against mine. You’re almost on your knees and elbows now, hands gripped around the ties that hold you to the headboard. Lower back arched, still a little pink.

I let go of the cupped grip on your cunt and find your hipbones with my palms. Push you from me and pull you back so I don’t have to clench, just you, pulling your ass down onto my cock, feeling the resistance in your tight hole. It’s so good fucking you this way. Thighs and ass clenched, clit rubbing against the base of my cock every time I thrust inside. Easing forward so my thighs hit yours. Working in and out faster, a little, harder, my body an S-curve from knee to stomach, not just in-out but rolling against you. You are open-mouthed screaming into the pillow and asking for more, harder, oh god, fuck me, fuck my ass and I slap against you, once, twice, both of us groaning.

My head rolls back, my back curves, slapping against you harder as my orgasm comes closer, the resistance of your ass offering me tight pressure every time I thrust inside. My hands still hold your hips, your ass, the sitbones of your buttocks as my cunt pulses, cock fucks.

You can feel it in me. “Do it,” you say, “come in my ass, fuck me till you come, do it harder, thrust inside me – “ and I groan, yelling oh god oh god yes, fuck, and shudder against you until I’m spent, throw my arm around your waist and collapse on top of you, kissing your neck, your shoulders.

I breathe heavy as my body calms, then slip out, untie you. You curl next to me, knees and arms between us as we both lay on our sides and I gently finger your wrists, ankles, the places you were bound, and your back, shoulders, ass. Places I hit you. Tender.

“Alright?” I ask. We gaze at each other.

You smile. “Course.” You hold my cheek in your palm and I kiss your thumb. “You?”

“Mmmm.” I manage. Spent. You didn’t come, this time. “I’ll make it up to you in the morning,” I promise, grateful you’ve let me take what I’ve been craving. I’ll give you whatever you want.

You run your fingers through my short boy hair. “Damn right you will,” you say, and pull the covers up over us both.