Posts Tagged ‘dirty stories’
What’s your relationship with sugarbutch.net and Sinclair?
I’ve been reading you on and off for about four years now. I love your erotic writing and, as a fellow butch, have felt a kindred sense of discovery with you as I’ve come into my own. It’s refreshing to read your perspective as it mirrors some of my own experiences.
PS: I saw that you were attending QI in Hartford. So am I, and fuck, I’d love to suck your cock.
What advice would you give your younger self about sex, gender, or relationships?
—Kat Heatherington — http://yarrowkat.livejournal.com
What one resource has had the most impact on you, and why?
—Kat Heatherington — http://yarrowkat.livejournal.com
Disclaimer: This story includes some Daddy/boy lines and dirty cocksucking. Read it through at your own pleasure.
The first day I get back from the business trip, I call you into my office every hour on the hour for something. Water with ice and lemon. Print these documents and collate. But the requests get more interesting as the day goes by.
“Kneel for ten minutes in the corner.” I point without looking up after you enter the room. I don’t have to explain the parameters of kneeling, as you know the position (butt off your ankles, hands behind your back) and what you’re supposed to do (meditating on the concepts of submission and being owned). You’ve done this before, frequently. I don’t ask you to hold a piece of paper to the wall with your nose (this time).
You leave, and I call you back fifty minutes later. “Under the desk,” I tell you, my jeans already unzipped.
“That’s right. That’s good, baby.” And you choke me down and sputter thank you with big watery helpless eyes. I groan and push your head back down.
“Uh huh. I know you like it. You beg for it an thank me after, little one. But this isn’t for you. Just for me. Daddy needs this. Do it right. That’s good. Fuck. Good boy.” You start swelling up and moaning with each cool sucking breath. I know you want it. I know this is what you’re for, and so do you. I shove it in, feeling myself tighten, that delicious pressure building from deep.
“No boy, not for you. Don’t come, son. You better not. Little slave boy. I need you hard. Don’t fucking do it. Just suck it. I’m almost there. I need you to take a little more for me. Just … a little …” I groan and we feel the tremors move through us both. It would be easy for you to come when I do, but you hold yourself tight and let it pass over and around you.
When I’m done, you’ve swallowed every drop.
Your lips are swollen, throat still contracting and a little raw. You’re hard, but your boxers are dry. Good boy. I grab your package roughly as my breathing evens out. “Good boy. I like you like this. On edge all day. Hard for Daddy. Maybe I’ll let you, later.” I zip up my fly and kiss you, fisting your hair before turning back to my desk. “God, you’re good. Go get me a glass of water.”
And you do. Quickly, quietly, beaming all the way.
Featured image courtesy of Indie Porn Revolution
Before the door is even all the way open, I’m on you, slamming your upper back against the wall in the hallway. I’d been waiting for you. Heard your car outside and keys in the lock. Stayed half-hard all day, waiting for this moment where I could catch you off guard and suddenly, make demands and put forth my needs, use your body.
By way of a welcome home, I growl, “Hey, little boy.”
You whimper and melt into the wall, your knees sinking already, keys still in your hand. I shove you aside and close the door, keeping my forearm across your collarbone. Maybe you try to say hi Daddy, sometimes you do that, you’re supposed to reply audibly to me when I address you, but maybe your mouth says it without any sound behind it, maybe I’m keeping your voice clutched in my fist at your throat right now. You don’t need it. All you need to do is what I make you do.
I take a step back. “Strip.” I say first.
You do. I watch. You hang your jacket and slide your tee shirt over your head. Kick your chucks into the small pile of shoes in the hallway and unbuckle your belt. Click your keys back on to your keychain. The heavyness of the objects in your jeans pockets pull them to the floor without much effort and you let them slide off and step out of them. I stroke my cock, thick and hard already, through my jeans.
When we woke this morning I didn’t get the time I wanted to play with you. Didn’t get to slide inside you and sink into that place where our bodies pull and push in synchronicity, simultaneously out when you’re in, up when you’re down. I don’t understand how it is that we compliment each other so well, but we do. I pulled your hand under the elastic waist of my boxers and made you jerk me off while I whispered stories into your ear, my arm around you, hand gripping your arm or shoulder or whatever I could reach. Jerk it, boy, yeah like that. Harder. Just a little more. That’s just right. But you had to go to work. And I had work to do, too, though my work has less of a clock-in-clock-out factor.
I like missing you. That low pull of longing, of want, is enough to keep me focused and productive when otherwise I might be wallowing. I like wanting you. Always better than having too much and craving space.
I get my most important tasks done and pause through the day to fantasize, just enough to keep me hard but not enough to get off. I want to be wanting when you get here. Maybe the second or third time I do this, the vision forms to take you before you’ve even walked in the door. These scenes come to my mind almost fully formed sometimes, like a film I’m watching rather than something I’m creating. When I wonder what next to do, I just watch and listen for a minute, and it shows up.
You drop your tight white boy briefs next to your jeans and as you’re straightening up, looking at me shy with just a slight shiver in your shoulders, I lock the door behind you and I’m ready. “Down.”
You drop effortlessly, in one fluid movement, and I push your mouth to my zipper before you’re even situated. You lean into my hips and bite at me through my jeans. I lean against the wall and relax forward into your mouth. It’s a relief to have you home. It’s a relief to have your mouth here, wherever I put it. It’s a relief to have that control, a relief to know you’d do it, whatever it is, whatever I told you to do. I don’t need to execute that ability constantly—the knowing that it’s there is relief enough, most of the time.
Except sometimes, when I need to feel you supple and soft, feel you harden when you get it right and fall into the job I set for you to do. Just this. This is all you need to do right now, your mouth your tongue right there, your body relaxed and giving in, giving over, always giving it up to me.
You hum a little through your throat and I feel it vibrate against my cock. I feel the weight of the day, of the work, of the hate mail navigated and the dozens of hustling emails I sent with pleas, draining out of me. I pull up from the earth when I breathe in and try to feel myself empty, ohllowed out, able to be filled. You press the palm of your hand gently against my cunt, just enough for me to feel the pressure. Support, something solid for me to lean into. You catch the head of my cock in your mouth through my jeans and suck just enough for me to swoon. I unbuckle, unzip, pull it out while your hand kneeds my lips swollen and hanging like balls.
You suck me down slow and easy, slide it in, each inch slow until I’m all the way in your throat. “Swallow it down, my good boy, you know how I like it.” The thought of shooting, emptying out right here, pressed deep down into you, makes me shudder. I breathe into it and that rhythm, that rhythm takes me, moves me forward, the rhythm that starts in that bowl in my hips like a quake and starts moving me almost involuntarily, and I slide a little deeper into your throat and you open, open, open.
We writhe and rock and move together for a while. I let the pressure keep building, that pressure that started early this morning before you had to go to work, before we peeled ourselves out of the soft jersey sheets and made coffee and got dressed and were responsible. Or maybe it started when we met, or maybe it started long before we met, maybe it’s just something I have, that craving, that desire for taking and takedown. I watched you go out the door and felt that growl of want, not yet satisfied. What will satisfy me? Even when I get “enough” it isn’t exactly enough, it’s only temporary. I always want more. And you always give more.
“Enough,” I pull out, immediately feeling the lack, the emptiness where I used to feel held. “Hands and knees. Crawl.” I walk to the bedroom and strip, lay out the waterproof sex blanket over the sheet. I almost switch to the bigger cock but decide I want to fuck his ass, so I’ll keep this one on instead.
You’re breathing hard when you get to the doorway. You like crawling. Makes you feel controlled, it’s not something you would do without being ordered to. It makes you tremble and swell. I can see how you are pinkening between your legs.
I pull you up by the chain around your neck (“Up. Come on.”) and onto your stomach on the bed. Your open mouth is against the mattress, biting at the jersey sheet, arms twisted to hold you, ass up, legs splayed open, back curled. You know what’s coming. My thumb against your back hole and you moan and open even further. Your hole is so pretty and shades of rose (sometimes I really understand why erotica stories call it a “rosebud”) and I want to plunge in. I squirt lube right onto your hole, a generous line up my cock, and press . The head is the biggest and thickest, so pronounced on this particular cock, but you push back against me and moan Daddy Daddy and I can do it, we do it together. I go slow even though I want to plunge. I want to feel myself buried to my balls in you. Falling into you. But I restrain, and the tension between what I want and what I do feels palpable. I lean forward, hold my weight off of you while I slide in. Take a bite of your shoulder as my chest melts against yours, still holding my hips up. Slow, slow. Wait. And then you whimper and I feel your skin against the front of my hips and we’re there.
I sink against you. You hold me up.
I’m excited for the anthology and your turn at editing. I’ve read some of your other published pieces and of course this blog so it begs the question: What is YOUR favorite smut to read? Got a favorite anthology? Author?
Oh sure, I have a few thoughts about that.
My Secret Garden by Nancy Friday changed my life and was significantly formative to my sexuality. I hunted down a copy in the last year or so and was pleasantly surprised that her opening introduction is still amazing and relevant, though that’s also kind of sad—it was published in 1973, it is almost forty years old, yet the limitations, stereotypes, and restrictions placed on women are still relevant. I wish I still had my teenage copy with the spine broken at all the best places.
Amazing single-author smut books are hard to come by, so the anthologies are easier to mention. I love Doing it for Daddy edited by Patrick Califia, Back to Basics: A Butch/Femme Anthology edited by Therese Szymanski (especially “The Trick” by Amie M. Evans), and Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino—but those are very specific to my butch/femme and daddy orientations, so they might not be your favorites. I adore the stories “Poster Boy” by Carol Queen and “Dress Leather” (one of my favorite short stories ever, of any genre) by Robin Sweeney in Switch Hitters: Lesbians Write Gay Male Erotica and Gay Men Write Lesbian Erotica, edited by Carol Queen & Lawrence Schimel. The stories “Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney and “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato in Best Lesbian Erotica 1998 edited by Taormino were very formative for me, as I started obsessing over lesbian erotica in the late 90s while I was working up the nerve to leave my boyfriend and come out, and they are cock-centric and butch/femme in a way that made me realize that I still had a lot more to explore.
I’ve also been really into the “sudden sex” stories lately, the super short ones. Often the longer short stories feel like they just drag on to me, especially when I just want to pick something up in order to get off and I’m not leisurely reading. Got a Minute?: 60 Second Erotica edited by Alison Tyler and Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex edited by Alison Tyler are great, and Rachel Kramer Bussel just put one out called Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex (which I have a story in, but the book is good regardless). I’d pick up just about anything Rachel publishes, she has great taste and her anthologies are always well done.
It’s harder for a single author to sustain an entire book, so there aren’t as many of those that I go to when I want inspiration (for writing or for getting off). I am kind of in love with Mr. Benson by John Preston and The Leather Daddy and the Femme by Carol Queen. I have read them both many times. I can’t believe it took me this long to read Mr. Benson.
Cherry by Charlotte Cooper, Breathless by Kitty Tsui, and Macho Sluts or Boy in the Middle by Patrick Califia (or just about anything by Califia, really) are also amazing and worth reading. It’s been a while since I read Cherry but it comes to mind immediately as fun and readable and great.
I also really love Jack Stratton’s stuff at WritingDirty.com, especially What’s in a Name. He’s got an eBook of Writing Dirty volume 1 which I haven’t purchased yet (I should go do that right now), but I’ve read all the pieces on the site (seriously I’m sure I’ve read every single one), so I highly recommend the collection if you’d rather read it on your reader than in a blog-form.
Other things I read online … well, I read a lot of Daddy/girl stories these days. I’ve been quite enjoying the recent Bedtime Stories blog. I still think The Provocateur has some of the best writing ever, but it’s generally more literary and fancy than I turn to when I want to get off. For that, I like the quick and dirty stuff.
And now, what about you all? What are your favorite books of smut? Got any recommendations for things that I perhaps haven’t read? What is your go-to story when you want to get off? What do you love in an erotic story?
Jiz Lee called Kristen to wish her happy birthday, too, and told this little fantasy about running into each other on a crowded train. Not so far off from the last time we had a drink with Jiz …
If you don’t know Jiz Lee’s porn