Five Blow Jobs on the Me & My Boi blog tour

Sacchi Green’s new erotica anthology Me & My Boi is finally out! It’s been multiple years in the making, and it includes one of my favorite stories (about rife), Five Blow Jobs.

The first part goes like this:

I.

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

The book is particularly special to me because there’s so little butch-centered erotica out there, and this is one of the rare ones. I believe it’s not exclusively butch/butch erotica, but includes masculine-of-center identities of all kinds, whether they use the word ‘butch’ or ‘boi’ or don’t use labels at all.

As Sacchi writes, in the introduction:

This book is a celebration of all things boi, butch, masculine-of-center, in those who include lesbian as a part of their identities. These are stories of people we love, and people we are, who put their own personal spins on the gender spectrum. Bois who like girls, bois who like bois, bois who like both; those who don’t label themselves boi or butch at all but can’t stand to wear a skirt; screw-the-binary free spirits of many flavors. Cool bois, hot bois, swaggering bois, shy bois, leather bois, flannel bois, butch daddies, and the femmes and mommas and tops and bottoms and even girls next door who wouldn’t have them any other way.

The anthology includes a lot of my favorite queer erotica writers with new works … I can’t wait to read the entire thing!

Blog Tour

June 12—Sacchi Green—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 13—Annabeth Leong—http://annabethleong.blogspot.com
June 14—Anna Watson— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 15—Sinclair Sexsmith—www.sugarbutch.net
June 16—Jove Belle— https://jovebelle.com/
June 17—Tamsin Flowers— www.tamsinflowers.com
June 18—Victoria Villasenor— https://breywillows.com
June 19—J, Caladine—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20—Victoria Janssen— http://victoriajanssen.com
June 21—Dena Hankins—  http://denahankins.net/my-summer-of-boi/
June 22—D. Orchid— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 23—Pavini Moray— https://emancipatingsexuality.com/
June 24—Melissa Mayhew— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 25—Jen Cross— http://writingourselveswhole.org
June 26—Kyle Jones— www.butchtastic.net
June 27—Gigi Frost— www.facebook.com/gigifrost
June 28—Aimee Hermann— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 29—Sommer Marsden—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 30—Axa Lee—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
July 1— Kathleen Bradean— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

Oh and also, there’s a BOOK GIVEAWAY

Anyone who comments on any of the posts will be entered in a drawing for one free copy of the anthology. You can comment on more than one post and be entered more than once. The winner will be announced and notified by July 5, if not sooner.

Pick up Me & My Boi from your local feminist queer radical bookstore, directly from Cleis Press, or, if you must, from Amazon.

A Personal History of Best Lesbian Erotica

Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition is out now, and I’m part of the blog tour editor Sacchi Green has organized on it’s behalf. The story of mine that is in this collection, Luscious & Wild, is here on Sugarbutch already, so I thought I’d take you back into the Best Lesbian Erotica series in celebration of it’s 20th.

Personally, I started collecting them in 2001. I fancied myself a lover of smut and a sex-focused person, but frowned at my itty bitty erotica collection at home. So I started frequenting the lesbian erotica section of my favorite used book store, Twice Sold Tales, on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, which was an equally itty bitty shelf near the floor. The ‘Gay and Lesbian’ section towered in the shelves above it, but I was looking for the bottom-shelf stuff. The dirty stuff. I bought every edition I could find, eventually filling in my collection by ordering the few volumes I was missing online, and still order the newest edition the minute it comes out.

The series now spans 20 volumes with as many different guest editors. It can be hard to pick just which ones to read, or where to start. So, here are three of my favorites.

Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

ble98The first one that got me really hooked was Best Lesbian Erotica 1998. The story by Karlyn Lotney (also known as Fairy Butch, if you remember On Our Backs and other late 90s sex/dyke activism) called “Clash of the Titans” remains one of my favorite erotica pieces ever, and blasted open what I thought erotica could be or do. For example, it could be complex emotionally, it could contain activism and politics, it could show switching, it could show vulnerability. Not that I didn’t know that, exactly, I just didn’t … realize it until I read this story, and this whole book. (I wrote about it in this week’s new View From The Top column, titled The First Time I Knew I Was A Top.)

She cut a swath through my flat like Moses parting the Red Sea, and made me feel like a man: all big and dumb and panting. I felt my internal butch cock harden and start its invisible levitation, and the part of my brain that concerns itself with floral arrangements, oranges, and perfect living rooms fell away. Another part took over, the part that found its genesis in my father’s collection of late sixties’ issues of Playboy, benches two-ten, and answers to “Daddy.”
—”Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney, from Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

The other piece that made me speechless (and come) was “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato. That story—that includes a hard femme who jacks off a butch’s strap-on shamelessly while they ride from the bar to the butch’s apartment on a motorcycle—was part of what completely convinced me that I loved strap-on sex.

Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

ble06Best Lesbian Erotica 2006 included the first erotica short story I ever published. I have read that edition over and over, mostly because my story is in it, and it thrilled me to no end to see my name in print. (It’s under my legal name, by the way, not under Sinclair.) 2006 was the year I started Sugarbutch as well, but that actually came after this publication was accepted, and I thought Sugarbutch would be a little private side-project, not become my next big thing.

BLE ’06 also includes a beautiful story by Peggy Munson, and one of my absolute favorites by S. Bear Bergman, called ‘Silver Dollar Afternoon.’

I fall in love with her when anyone asks her why she doesn’t wear her beautiful long hair all the way down and she says, with just a hint of coolness: “A woman’s hair is for her husband,” which makes me remember every time she has unpinned her hair for my delighted eyes and even if I’m not quite a husband I still shiver in my blue jeans without fail.
—Silver Dollar Afternoon by S. Bear Bergman, Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

ble12The 2012 edition is probably my favorite, but that’s because I’m the guest editor and so I got to pick all of the stories. I actually went back to Kathleen Warnock, the series editor then, to request more stories after I read all the picks she’d sent me and I didn’t have as many as we needed. They just weren’t dirty enough—she’d picked me really good stories, with characters and plots and development and such, but I want that AND a really excellent, dirty, kinky sex scene. It is largely butch/femme heavy, but I tried to get a good mix of other character types and pairings in there, too.

The introduction that I wrote for Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 is about why lesbian erotica is valuable activism, and it’s here on Sugarbutch if you’d like to dive into my thoughts on that more.

These books of lesbian erotica are not fluff. They are not nothing. They are not frivolous or useless. For queers coming out and into our own, they are a path.” —From Why Lesbian Erotica is Valuable Activism

And now: Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition

BLEOfTheYear_approvedSince Tristan Taormino left, the series has gone through a few different editor’s hands, and I’m excited that Sacchi is responsible for this one. She’s edited many of my favorite lesbian erotica anthologies.

Thanks to Cleis Press for keeping this series going all these years!

I highly recommend picking up a copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition at your local queer, feminist, women-centric, activist-oriented bookstore, or, only if you must, from Amazon.

Here’s the rest of the blog tour, which features the different authors in the book and our story titles. Click around & follow along!

Feb 10, Sacchi Green, Introduction
Feb 11, Rose de Fer, “Dust”
Feb 12, Louise Blaydon, “Ascension”
Feb 13, Megan McFerren, “The Royalty Underground”
Feb 14, Harper Bliss, “Reunion Tour”
Feb 15, D.L. King, “Hot Blood”
Feb 16, Jean Roberta, “Tears from Heaven”
Feb 17, Sinclair Sexsmith, “Luscious and Wild”
Feb 18, R.G. Emanuelle, “Smorgasbord”
Feb 19, Rose P. Lethe, “A Professional”
Feb 20, Anna Watson, “Easy”
Feb 21, Valerie Alexander, “Grind House”
Feb 22, Annabeth Leong, “Give and Take”
Feb 23, Frankie Grayson, “Mirror Mirror”
Feb 24, Cheyenne Blue, “The Road to Hell”
Feb 25, Emily L. Byrne, “The Further Adventures of Miss Scarlet”
Feb 26, Sossity Chiricuzio, “Make them Shine”
Feb 27, Teresa Noelle Roberts, “Tomato Bondage”

PS: Comment on any of these posts for a chance to win a free copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition. The drawing will be held by February 28th and the winner announced by March 5th.

A toy to do with as I please.

Another excerpt from the NaNoWriMo “novel”, the draft of which I completed this morning! I wouldn’t say the novel is actually done, but it’s 50,000 words strong and ready for revision. This is the beginning of chapter 6, Master Jack Harrison’s second date with Sidra (after they’ve been texting and emailing dirty things for a week).

Sidra is sitting on the steps, shivering a little in a too-short skirt and a long wool winter coat, when I walk up to my apartment building after I park the car. Her heels are high and poised carefully on the steps below her, feet apart, while her knees are together. She’s cute. Desperately so. I can’t believe she came all this way. What a good girl, asking for what she wanted. I’m salivating already.

I walk straight past her, getting my key out and unlocking the front door. She stands. “Come,” I say, a simple, clear command. I hold the door and she walks through it. She blinks at me when she walks by me, catching my eye, but she doesn’t say anything. “Go ahead; up.” I say as we reach the stairs. She looks slightly down and sideways, giving me a flash of her coyness, before she starts up the stairs. Her skirt is so short that I can see the tops of her stockings, which stop at her thighs, and the way her ass switches. She’s not wearing any underwear. I can see everything, the pink of her exposed. That must’ve been very cold, out there, waiting for me.

I just watch. I could watch this all day, her legs, the way her thighs rub together, how she criss-crosses her heels just the tiniest bit. The angles. I get my smart phone out and take a couple of photos, discreetly. I adjust my dick in my jeans, getting hard already. I want to fuck this girl.

But I want to hold the line I’m trying to draw, the line of a hard, strict master, even more.
She pauses at the top of the third floor, and I slide my arm around her waist and guide her down the hallway. The walk to the end seems excruciatingly slow and has never felt this far away. She leans into me, just enough that I can feel it, and I turn to inhale the scent of her hair: clean and floral, with the faintest hint of sweetness. The purple is growing on me. Somehow, it looks so elegant on her. “It’s good to see you,” I say quietly.

The key in the lock won’t turn, and I might burst and break it down if I can’t get it open momentarily. I breathe. Concentrate. Focus. This isn’t going to get any easier; in fact, it’ll only get harder as I get more turned on. Hold the line.

I take her coat when we walk in and immediately point to the floor. “Down.”

She obeys, dropping to her knees like she’s done it a thousand times for me, like she already knows the hardness of my floors and she doesn’t have to calculate how much to let gravity take her weight and how much to resist against it. It’s beautiful, seamless. Her eyes are down, hands behind her back. Her shirt is a small, tight tee shirt, white and simple, almost school girl-ish, but a little more grown up. Her black skirt fans out around her thighs, toes of her heels tapping the floor.

“Good,” I say, and turn to hang up our coats. “Wait there.” I put our coats away, place my keys in the dish by the door, pour us both glasses of water, and fuss with a few other things on the counter before I come back to Sidra. She’s still on the floor, breathing hard, the anticipation of waiting making her even more turned on and ready. Her purple hair hangs in her face, which is still lowered, focused; she’s playing in some internal landscape of submission, focused on her inner senses, not her knees (which are probably killing her by now) or her discomfort.

I step up right next to her, my boots clicking against the hardwood. “Come with me,” I say. She looks up at me and nods, unfolding her hands. I turn toward the dungeon, not watching her rise, letting her stretch and get the kinks out without my gaze on her.

I set the glasses down on the table next to the door. The moment we are both inside, I close the door and turn to press her up against it. Hard. My hand at her throat, hips grinding against her, my other hand holding both of hers above her head in one smooth motion. My mouth close to hers. She gasps, half closing her eyes, lips pursed and almost panting. She’s caught, like prey in a trap, like a fly in a web. I smile at the familiar current of dominance and power that come over me. She melts a little against the door, against me, her hips pushing back against mine, squirming a little, but not to escape so much as to feel the resistance back against her. I hold her firm.

“What did you expect to happen tonight, girl? Did you expect to come over and get fucked, get worked over? Did you think I would spank you for touching yourself, scold you like a naughty schoolgirl? Did you think this outfit would work on me?”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to speak, but doesn’t, and closes it. My hand is still at her throat, though not pressing with any real pressure; just holding it there, reminding her that I can.

“If you want to be mine, you’re going to have to do what I say. Are you ready to show me what you can do?”

She nods.

“Are you ready to be mine?”

She swallows, I can feel it against the palm of my hand. So vulnerable, the throat. So open. She nods again. “Please,” she whispers.

“Please, what?”

“Please, do what you want with me. I will obey you. Sir.” Her eyes are still almost closed, lips pink, cheeks flushing. My feet are planted firm and I trace my hand down her sternum, past her belly, down between her legs, and I hold her cunt in my hand through her skirt.

“Looks like you are eagerly ready for me,” I say, feeling the heat even through the black fabric of the skirt.

“Yes, yes, I am. So ready,” Sidra assures me.

“This could be just for tonight, Sidra; do not misunderstand me. I’m not promising you are mine forever. Just for tonight.”

“I understand.”

I can feel each time she inhales and exhales in her throat. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating, to hold her breath in my hand, to squeeze it just a little. I lean in closer to her, inhale her scent, smell the longing and desire building in her. My shoulders relax. My mind goes so perfectly clear. “I’ve been wanting this too, you know. Someone to play with, to use. A toy to do with as I please.”

Unapologetic Need

This is an excerpt from the story/novel I’ve been working on all month, still untitled, which is an M/s novel following Master Jack Harrison as he’s searching for the woman submissive/slave of his dreams, and begins dating two women. This is the first scene with one of them, Addie.

I come in my pants despite myself. Sticky against the seam of my jeans, I try to collect myself before Addie notices, before she asks questions, before she thinks herself responsible for such an anomaly. I pause, on guard as if I’m unsure if a predator is waiting around the corner, frozen, but she doesn’t seem to notice. My orgasms often arrive without much fanfare or demand for acknowledgment, so I suppose I have learned to make them gently small and inconspicuous. I breathe with the clarity of someone recently wrung out, recently spent, recently thrilled by the capacity of my own body, and I turn my attention back to Addie. She’s still sucking away at my nipple, her hand against the thin, wispy hairs of my chest, coming through it with her fingers as her cunt throbs under my hand. I continue working my fingers inside her, three now and we’re getting to the thick of my hand, I wonder if she can take any more.

She seems to read my mind. “More,” she whispers, moving her mouth just far enough from my chest that she can form the word. The way she sucks is sweet, so sweet, and I relax into the curl of her spine around my chest, my left arm curved against her back as my right hand works inside her.

I didn’t mean to come. I don’t usually. But her mouth is expert, working against my nipple like she’s pulling milk from it, like she’s suckling me dry, and though I have rare interest in my nipples being touched, let alone sucked, she gets to me and my dick gets hard, I rub myself against my jeans at just the right angle such that it barely takes anything, I come easily, I make a wet spot on the crotch of my jeans and have to compose myself.

“Addie … goddamn, girl,” I mutter as her cunt swallows another finger of mine, the fourth now, pushing up against her hole where the wide of my hand is too much, unsure if I’ll ever be able to get more than this exactly right here inside, but very glad to be feeling every inch of her that I am currently. She is stocky and square and not full of a lot of curve, but her body is solid and sweet and I cannot get enough of her. I feel ravenous, my mouth waters, I want to swallow her, I ache to be inside her. That shouldn’t happen so quickly, but what can I say, it does, it is. It has barely been hours. I want … something. I want, I ache, I crave. How glorious it is to have such desires, to have such an appetite.

I like being hungry even more than I like being satisfied.

It isn’t the way she is working what we usually think of as one’s lips—the pillowy, slightly redder color of skin precisely around the mouth—so much as how she is working the soft, soft inner tissues of her mouth, those just above and below her lips. She isn’t pursuing so much as devouring my chest, and I can feel her hunger, too, her sense of ravenousness, her desire becoming an aching need. I want to fulfill it. I want something even bigger that will produce even more that I can shove in to her mouth. Perhaps that is precisely the appeal of a blow job to the point of choking: passing the point of ravenous desire and moving on to the point of being so over fed that they literally can’t take any more. I crave rough blow jobs the same way I crave mascara running down a girl’s face and telling her what she can or cannot eat. Not because I care about what she eats (honestly I kind of don’t) but because I want to control every single thing that gets inserted into her body. I want that level of decision. I want her to give herself over to me, and I want her to want to.

This time, she does not choke. She suckles gently and sweetly and more vulnerably than I would have otherwise let someone do, but she asked. She begged, really. Requested nicely as she simultaneously toyed with the hair on my chest and I could not say no. No, that is not true—I could say no, but I suddenly didn’t want to. I have known Addie for such a short time, and yet I am already breaking my own rules to feel her tongue, to feel her suck. This is not going to go well.

“Please, something in my mouth, please can I suck, please.”

I crave the way she begs as much as I crave anything else. Something about the unapologetic need. Something about the ways that I wish I could have that need of my own so openly, so purely, so exposed. I admire my submissives. I wish I could receive, could beg, could strip myself bare, as often as they do.

Four fingers might be as much as I get inside her. She is wet, lube pouring from my hand as she tightens and squeezes it out of her hole, hand working in and out of her as slowly as I can. I’m in no rush. I would have her stay here for a long, long time, if I had my way. Her cunt is tight but open, sometimes the muscles balloon and open even wider, a request for more, for my hand, for another date when we can relax again, differently, and maybe she will really be able to take it. All the way. In to the wrist, up the forearm, to the elbow. I don’t want to plow past the resistance of her muscles, but I do, I want to force myself in, to push her too far, for her to be sore tomorrow. I don’t. I can’t, not yet. Maybe someday.

I think she was surprised when I offered my nipple. Perhaps she was expecting my finger, my dick—something less vulnerable, less feminine. But I wanted to feel her mouth. I wanted to feel her mouth, and truthfully that was the best way to do it. The sweetness of having her curled up against my chest is something I would not have expected to desire or permit, but somehow it all came together and now I can’t get enough.

“Is it okay, can I ….” Suddenly, Addie is shy. Reaching her hand down toward her cunt, she looks up at me with big brown eyes, mouth still poised, talking despite her lips and tongue being full of me.

“Do it.” More of a command than permission. I thrill at the shudder that goes through her body at my words. She starts rubbing her clit in pretty little circles and it doesn’t take long before she’s pulsing, I can feel it from the inside. I work my fingers deeper, a little harder against her upper wall, in small circles around her cervix. She contracts, releases, tenses and holds; I can tell she’s close. She’s sucking a little harder, holding her mouth open, tongue working against my nipple. I won’t come again, I tell myself, I won’t, I won’t. But honestly, she could make me. If I just permitted myself, I’m certain it could happen easily.

I want inside her. I want to feel it when she comes. I don’t just mean my hands, I mean my dick, my hips thrusting against her, feeling us moving in rhythm, maybe we could even come together.

She starts whimpering. Convulsing. I can’t wait to feel her come.

She’s so tight, tightening to the point of bursting open, and that’s when I know she is coming, right now, right as my fingers work against the ringed muscles of her cunt and her mouth opens hungrily and she pushes her legs apart, thighs shaking.

“Mmmmmm,” she moans, humming low and long against my chest, eyes fluttering closed as she collapses in that post-orgasm release. I let my hand slowly go still and hold it against her cunt, running my other palm against the fine, sweet skin of her back and shoulders, everything I can reach as she curls and rubs against me.

She stays quiet and soft against me for a few long minutes, breathing and twirling her fingers through the hair on my chest, tracing the curves of my muscles, writing secret messages with one fingertip.

When she stirs, finally raising her eyes to my face and smiling, I drop my chin down to get my lips against hers and kiss her deeply. “Okay?” I ask.

She nods, kissing me back gently, her mouth supple and sweet. “Yes … thank you.”

I smile back. She feels so easy, so comfortable here in my arms, like she’s been here for a long time and my body has conformed to her shape. She sighs happily, snuggling against me a little more before she slides out of my embrace and off of the bed.

“Master Harrison, sir,” Addie drops to her knees, averting her eyes, though stealing glances up at me to punctuate her words. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap. “Please, would you permit me, sir … could I please lick your boots, to express my appreciation?”

I shiver, a thrill of dominance and devotion and lust down my spine. It makes me breathless, leaves my chest constricted and a little confused, unsure if I deserve this, unsure if she is playing, unsure if she is really feeling what she is expressing. I’m not sure what to do with my hands, my arms, my body, even now, as she’s kneeling and looking down, and it makes me feel unprepared, like I am not ready for a ‘real’ submissive, whatever that is. But the thrill of her below me is addictive, and at the same time clicks into a piece of me that has been aching to be satisfied.

“You may,” I say, sitting up on the bed, then perching myself on the edge of it, boots firmly planted on the floor. I hadn’t meant to leave them on, really, but it just happened when we got going and I didn’t want to stop to remove them.

She poises herself precisely and bends at the hips, knees widening as she bends, opening her mouth to stretch her tongue as far as it will go. She licks with wide, broad strokes, eager, as if she hadn’t just been sucking for an hour but instead was famished and only the leather of my boot would satiate her. I don’t usually permit my boots to be licked. I’m too particular. Too picky about precisely how someone does it. They never quite get all the right places, but instead focus on the toe or whatever is easy for them to reach. Me, I want the insole, the heel, the top of the foot, the toes, all to be paid attention to. To neglect any of those is to neglect to do a thorough job, or perhaps worse—that attention is not being paid.

There is something so vulnerable about having my boots licked. I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps it’s that this part of me that is so important and integral is finally getting some attention, this part that is usually just for working, for walking and running, the part of me that is the first line of defense against the ground. It feels like it is finally being acknowledged, finally being recognized as some valuable, sensual part, and that much spotlight is uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because my feet just happen to be an incredibly strong erogenous zone for me; for whatever reason, I’m just wired that way. Receiving touch and that much pleasure always feels vulnerable to me, especially with a woman I’ve just met. It catches me off-guard, makes me wonder what other things about her will catch me off-guard. I comfort myself through control and precision and predictability … perhaps that is why I like power exchange relationships so much, though they are not a guarantee for those things, as much as I would like them to be. Like any relationships, life is complex and interesting and ever-changing, and nothing is certain, even when you agree it will be. Perhaps that too is why I like power exchange, because the intimacy and vulnerability makes things even more loaded and intense, and the ability to hold control and precision and predictability in this particular configuration will be revealed quickly.

Plus, I get to see her on her knees, bending, opening her mouth, working her jaw around something too-big and watching her struggle.

Addie keeps her hands behind her back as if they are tied, which makes her struggle just a little more with control, her abs and back working hard to keep her body in the place she wants it. In the place I want it.

Whatever the reason, boot licking makes me high, and hard. It sends electric shivers up my legs, up my spine, shooting out my fingertips, out of every hair on my head. Intense and sudden and full of zaps of energy. Even through the leather—perhaps especially through the leather—the sensation is clear, honed, focused.

I close my eyes for a moment and everything else falls away, all I feel is the way her tongue and lips work against the leather against my foot. She moves her hands to rub my ankle and calf with her palms, working even more tension out of my muscles. It’s almost more than I can bear. I want to kick her, to topple her over, to press my boot into her chest. Patience, patience. We’ll get there.

The sensation washes over me, the tension drains from me, and my dick gets harder. This girl, goddamn. I drink in everything I can, every kiss from her lips, every touch of her tongue to my leather. She sinks into me, in through the skin of the leather boots, in through the skin of my feet. I feel spent, wrung out, when she gently retracts her mouth and puts both of her hands on my boots, looking up at me to grin.

“Girl, get up here,” I reach forward for her hair, her honey-colored hair just past her shoulders, thin and wispy and straight, but more than enough to get my fist around and pull. She inhales and rises, teetering to her feet and falling against me as I pull her. She is small, curvy, light-skinned, even whiter than I am. Shorter than me by more than a few inches. Master X would laugh at me; I have such a body type, this plump round body on a compact frame. I don’t rule people out based on their frame, but somehow the chemistry I feel is very much related to a particular type. I have dated people with all kinds of body types—tall, slender, model types with the longest legs; heavyset girls whose weight it feels even more amazing to move around when they are bigger than me; even a few athletes, with ropy muscles and hardened bodies. It’s not intentional, on my part, but I’ve never had a long term partnership with somebody other than this petite and plump kind of body. Something satisfies me about the curviness of Addie’s body, the compactness; she’s in shape, pays attention to how her body feels to her, and does physical things, but that isn’t her singular focus in life, and she likes to eat, too. Or at least, that’s my guess about her body. My projections, I suppose. I don’t actually know her body like that yet.

She giggles as I pull her on to me and kiss her deeply, her mouth all warm from working over the leather. She settles her head on the nook of my chest and neck and sighs. “Thank you, sir,” she says. “For letting me kiss your boots.”

“You don’t have to thank me. But, uh, you’re welcome. You did a good job.” I stroke her hair. She straddles my hips, naked, her cunt hot against my zipper. “Are you hungry? How about I make us a snack.”

She nods. “Sir, if you don’t mind, may I … would it be alright if I showered?”

I consider. Not a usual request exactly, but she is sweaty and covered in come, so I can understand how she’d be more comfortable. “Sure, I don’t mind. I don’t mind you dirty and smelling like sex, either.”

Addie giggles. We stir, sitting up together, and she gives me one more sweet look of submission, her hair falling into her face, before she kisses me one more time and hops up out of my lap. I stand, catching my balance for a moment before walking to the hallway linen closet and fetching a washcloth and big, fluffy towel—both dark grey—for her to use. She is fussing in her bag and pulls out a brush, starts running it through her hair. “It gets so tangled,” she says, and I can see how there’s a mat at the back of her head. “With hair this fine.”

I nod, watching her. I set the towel down on the dresser next to her and nod to the door that connects the two bedrooms. “That’s the bathroom there. I’m going to make a snack. Is there anything you don’t or can’t eat?”

She shakes her head. “No sir, I eat everything. I don’t eat much meat, but I do eat it sometimes.”

I nod. “Take your time, please. Feel free to use any of the soaps or things that are in there, if you like. Not that you probably want to smell like me. But there’s some plain things in there, too.”

She smiles at the thought of using boy shampoo, coming out of the shower smelling like musk and forest or whatever it is girls think that boys smell like. I head to the kitchen and make up a cheese plate, pulling things out of the fridge and cupboards: some gluten-free crackers that are mostly made of seeds and nuts; a granny smith apple, which I cut into small slivers; and two different cheeses, a manchego and some plain old cheddar that I brought back from a trip to a local dairy last week when I was up in the north bay. Classic and delicious. I arrange it all on a bamboo cutting board haphazardly and grab a cheese knife and two small plates, a couple of napkins. No need to be fancy about it. I open a bottle of a big, bold Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley and pour myself a taste in a glass. That feels indulgent—the bottle was more than $40 and not one of my everyday drinking wines, but this isn’t just every day. Plus, a glass of really good wine is I suppose my replacement for a cigarette, which is perhaps what I really want, though I no longer partake. I bring the bottle of wine, the cheese board, and the dishes, and go back for the glass of wine. I swallow the taste of wine and it blooms in my mouth like fruit bursting, with hints of chocolate and ash. Bringing my glass, empty, and another empty glass into the living room, I go back again for two glasses of water, and finally collapse on the couch.

It’s a little bit chilly in here, fall in San Francisco being what it is, and I button a few of my shirt buttons back up. It is tight against my belly, and the buttons pull at the fabric just a little, though the shirt fit perfectly this morning. Seems like I always get a little more relaxed by the end of the day. I hear the shower going still and ponder stepping in there with her, soaping up her skin, washing her hair for her. But I can’t, not yet. Maybe someday.

I wonder what her passions are, what she wants to change about her life, what she loves about her life. Who has she been in love with? What kind of birthday cake is her favorite? What does she eat for comfort food? Which authors does she read—because of course she must be a reader, I hope; what’s that John Waters quote: “If you go home with someone and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” But what does she like to read? What does she read for fun, where are her favorite sections of a bookstore or a library to get lost in, what books were formative for her? I want to know so many things about her. I have barely begun to know her. I know she likes whiskey flights, since that’s what she was drinking when I saw her at the bar tonight. I know she can dance—at least the kind of random exciting movements to the hip hop and top 40 that were playing in the bar—and that when songs she likes come on, she urgently feels the need to move. I know at least two of her friends seem nice, who was it who was there with her? Vivian, if I remember right, who was the one who said, “Yeah, she’s available,” with that sparkle in her eyes, when I went up to talk to her as she was ordering another round of drinks. I ordered the same whiskey flight she had and sipped through it, watching her out of the corner of my eye while Dawn and Michael held up the conversation about the latest politics in the Pleasure Society. They want me to get more involved. I’m not sure I want to bother. But meanwhile, the bar had a fundraiser for the current Mr. SF Bootblack, and we figured we would go lend our support. Or at least our drinking money.

When we got to talking, the chemistry was immediate. She was bold and flirtatious and touched my arm and averted her eyes and told silly jokes that made me laugh despite myself, but she got serious when she asked what I was doing later tonight, and when she could see me again.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said. “I’m a … I tend toward the dominant side of things. I’m not sure we’d be a match.”

She looked at me a little puzzled. “Oh I know, Harrison. I know who you are. What makes you think I’m not submissive? Am I being too bold for a proper submissive?” She rolls her eyes, but places her hand on my arm and strokes, just a little. “Your misperceptions about me aren’t actually my problem.”

I’m taken aback. “Oh, is that how it is,” I tease, trying to buy myself some time.

“Indeed it is, sir,” Addie says softly, but also seriously.

“I suppose my misperceptions are your problem, if they get in the way of what you want.” I move a little closer to her and her body responds brilliantly, opening.

“Who says they’re in the way?” she challenges.

I try to backtrack. “So you’re submissive.”

She nods. “I think I know what you’ve been looking for,” she whispers, before she leans in to offer her mouth for a kiss. I take it. It would be rude not to. And besides, I want to. I have had this craving to kiss her since I saw her swirling her hips on the other side of the bar.

It’s not that I thought we wouldn’t be compatible, exactly, I just didn’t want to get my hopes up. At least, I figured it would be a fun one-night stand with a beautiful girl. Maybe we’d find some things in common. Maybe she’d be interested in a few of the things I’m interested in. I’m not sure what she meant when she said she knows what I’ve been looking for, but it was intriguing, I’ll admit. We talked a little more, and when I was ready to pull her into the men’s room for some play, I decided to take her home. Unexpected, even unprecedented. But hey. Maybe it’s the new me. Maybe it’s time for me to make some bolder, more impulsive choices.

By the time Addie gets out of the shower and joins me, I have an idea of at least twenty questions I want to ask. She is wearing my robe, probably the one that was on the back of the bathroom door. “This is so sweet!” she says, piling cheese and crackers and a few slices of apple into one hand and picking up the water glass with the other, then sitting down on the couch eagerly, pulling her legs up underneath her.

“Um, that’s what plates are for,” I say, handing one to her. “Do you want wine?”

“Ohh, yes please,” she answers, setting down her water and popping a slice of apple into her mouth. “Mmm this is heavenly. So perfect.”

I hand her the glass of Cabernet and sit down on the couch next to her, our knees touching.

She grins at me and chews. “So, Harrison,” she says, swallowing. “What do you do, anyway? What’s your story?”

“My story?”

“Yes, that’s right. I mean, what makes you tick. And how’d you get this great apartment? Did you grow up here? What are you passionate about, I mean really passionate?” She waits, chewing crackers and cheese, clearly expecting me to answer.

I swallow more wine and ponder how to answer her, fingering the rim of the glass. I don’t want to say too much, and I want to ask her these kinds of things. But I want to open up. Maybe she’ll be more open with me, if I do. “The apartment, I inherited from a friend. Took over his lease when he left for grad school on the east coast. I guess technically he still rents it, his name is on the lease, but I’ve been here for about five years. Rent controlled; I mean, what can you do? I had to take it.”

Addie nods, taking sips of the wine.

“I went to UC Berkeley, that’s what brought me here. I grew up in Oregon, near Portland, but pretty much out in the woods. I miss the evergreen forests sometimes, but I like it here. I have roots down now, it’d be so hard to move.” I chew an apple slice and keep going, not elaborating too much on the answers but still answering her questions, trying to satisfy her curiosity. “I’m … between jobs right now. I’ve been working in the tech world for a while, I was most recently at a start-up that was sold and my stock options have … bought me a little bit of time to figure out what I want to do next. I’ve been thinking, maybe something with wine.” I swirl the cabernet in the glass. It’s one of my favorites. Addie is taking big mouthfuls of it at a time, clearly thirsty and enjoying it, but not exactly savoring it. I wonder what she knows about wine, what kind of wine she likes. She might not exactly be impressed with this one, even though she kind of should be. If she liked big Napa cabs, anyway. “I’m not sure exactly, but I want to learn more about it. I’m not sure I want to go back to sitting at a computer all day. I was always better at schmoozing with people, in the tech world, anyway—selling them on a project, convincing them they needed to go in on it, to give us money. That was mostly my role.”

She nods, eyes sparkling, following along with my story. I uncross my legs and shift, self-conscious under her gaze.

“What am I passionate about … that’s a good question. Food, maybe. I love cooking, love entertaining. Love making something new or discovering a new way to enjoy something. I really get a lot out of something being deeply pleasurable. It feels a little indulgent, so I suppose it’s not always healthy. But in general, I like indulgence. I like going to the Kabuki spa in Japantown, have you been there?” Addie shakes her head, but stays quiet, encouraging me to continue. “It’s pretty stunning. There’s an all-men’s night, I like to go to that one; it’s clothing optional. The co-ed nights are clothed. It feels indulgent,” I continue, “But I find such deep relaxation and rest in things like that. Maybe that’s what I’m really passionate about: indulgence. Hedonism. Getting … what I want.”

“Maybe,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Do you always get what you want?”

I consider this. “I kind of do, yeah. I guess that has to do with … privilege. I can expect that I can have what I’m after, that there aren’t a lot of barriers in the way, denying me access. Plus, I can … get away with things. I’m not necessarily proud of that, but I can. I always was a good kid, so that helped.”

“And now, is it your pretty face?” Addie asks, probing.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” I take another sip of wine and savor the flavor, and eat a bit more of the cheese and apple. I don’t want to talk about this. What if she asks me what I’ve gotten away with? I don’t want to reveal so much. I don’t have to tell her, just because she asks. I can stop talking. How did she get me talking so much? I look over to her, and she’s smiling and sipping wine, as if it’s totally normal for her to be asking probing questions to someone she’s just met. And fucked.

I shift on the couch, adjusting to angle my body toward hers a little more. I lower my hand to touch her arm gently. She smiles, tilts her head toward me. I sip more wine. The silence grows between us, but it’s not uncomfortable exactly. It’s just a breath, a small break, a moment of quietude, in and out.

“What about you?” I ask finally.

“What about me?”

“I mean, what are you passionate about? What do you do, what’s your work in the world? What’s your story? What makes you tick?” I could keep going, but I wait for her to answer.

She smiles, considering her response, a mischievous smile on her lips that spreads to her eyes and makes them sparkle. “Oh no, I think that’s enough about me for one night.” She drains the rest of her wine and sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. “I’m going to go get dressed. Will you drive me home?”

She’s not staying? No. Of course not. She has things to do, a job, a life to get back to. Maybe this was just a one-night stand for her. Maybe there won’t even be a next time. “Of course,” I say, and stand.

Image via Javier Kohen on Flickr, used with a Creative Commons license.

The Best Queer Sex Blogs

A friend of mine emailed me this week asking for recommendations for other queer erotica online. I emailed her back with some links off the top of my head, but I’ve been pondering this question since then … where ARE all the queer sex bloggers? The ones who write erotica, I mean, not the ones who are writing sex commentary (because there are certainly some of those) or about butch/femme culture (ditto some of those) or who are reviewing toys (also some good ones) or are actual video/photographic porn (yay, but not erotica) or who aren’t writing anymore (there are a few who haven’t updated in years).

Kinkly has a top sex bloggers ranked list, but they don’t specify if they’re queer or not, or what kind of sex blog it is—and most of the ones at the top are sex toy blogs.

So here’s some recommendations of my personal favorite places to go read smutty erotica words written by and about queers. Am I missing anyone? Leave comments with recommendations, please!

1. BD Swain, www.bdswain.com

stare-hard-1

From the micro-stories on her Instagram to the longer works on her blog, BD Swain has written some of my favorite smut ever. Mostly butch/femme, but switchy, and includes some other pairings occasionally.

Excerpt from Stare Hard:

My fingers on her panties, pushing between her lips, feeling the wet lace between her legs. My own wet fingers on my belt buckle. Feeling like there’s no time. Not enough time. For hours, all night, not enough. Her skin is so soft. I stare down at her as I trace the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Sliding my fingers down each leg and back again to her pussy. “Spread your legs wider,” I say, bending over, “Let me smell you.”

Also, if you like BD’s dirty photos, pick up her custom deck of poker cards. So hot.

2. Xan West, xanwest.wordpress.com

ShowYourselftoMe

Mostly they write about writing erotica, and there are not as many actual erotic stories on their site, but there are excerpts from their upcoming novel “Shocking Violet.” Definitely check out his new book Show Yourself To Me (there’s one story from that book on Sugarbutch, called “The Tender Sweet Young Thing”).

Excerpt from A Tease from Shocking Violet:

She laughed. “So you want a free show, hmm? Well let me do it right, then.” And she slowly peeled off her high-necked black cat sweater. Jax stilled, stopped breathing. A couple of thick straps held up a gorgeous neckline. He could see her bare throat, and her arms. All that skin and ink. And her cleavage…damn. Fuck if she didn’t shimmy again for him, all tease and arched back, a wicked grin on her face.

“Don’t forget to breathe, honey,” she drawled.

She was right. He wasn’t fucking breathing. He licked dry lips and tipped his glass to her before taking a swallow of cool water.

3. Words Can Be Sexy, wordscanbesexy.com

queer quickies

Written by non-monogamous, trans, queer femme Olivia Dromen, hir work is incredibly sexy and detailed and well-written and full of genderqueerness. This is a new link for me, so I’m excited to dive into the archives and devour it all.

Excerpt from [Short] Overwhelmed:

“Take off your panties and lay down across my knee.” Zir voice is very calm, as if this is something we do every day.

It isn’t.

Ze pats zir knees with both hands.

4. Kyle, www.butchtastic.net

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Butch/femme, butch/butch, writings about gender … Kyle has been one of my favorite bloggers since he started Butchtastic.

Excerpt from I Know What You Been Doing:

“I found your magazines, girl. Found your nasty magazines with their sticky pages. I know what you do with those magazines.” My hips are pressing a little harder against your ass. The hand around your waist has dropped a bit lower, my hand now resting on your thigh. My other hand is tightening slightly across your throat. You squirm against me with a groan. ”You like lookin’ at those men with their cocks hangin’ out, don’t you? You look at those dirty pictures and rub your naughty cunt, don’t you?”

“Daddy… I’m sorry… what… what are you going to do to me?” The mixture of anticipation and fear in your voice makes my clit pulse.

5. CW Toklas, cwtoklas.wordpress.com

cwtoklas

CW’s blog is new, starting fall 2015, but there are already excellent pieces up and waiting for readers. I’ll be watching this as it grows.

Excerpt from Moist Denim:

“Good girl,” she whispered into her ear and continued to ravish her mouth.

Beth couldn’t help it. The kiss was all consuming and she began to rock, leaning forward in order to open herself fully and rub her engorged clit on her mistress’s jeans.

6. Trans Fag Sex Journals, transfagssexjournals.blogspot.com

From the description: “two transfags of color living in a big city, exploring safe anonymous play with bio-boys.” This is new to me, and doesn’t have updates since 2014, but the archives are rich and interesting.

Excerpt from the threesome:

we move to my bedroom. i lie back and my regular begins sucking me off. bottom boy drops his cock into my mouth and i blow him. then they switch places i suck my regular’s cock while bottom boy blows me. i grab condoms. my regular moves between my legs and pushes into me. i sit up so i can suck his boy’s cock while he fucks me. this goes on for a while then my regular asks bottom boy if he wants to fuck me. he nods.

7. Rebekah Weatherspoon, www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/blog

Rebekah doesn’t have a lot of stories online, but she has tons of ebooks and they’re fantastic. Her book “At Her Feet” is a Mommy/girl story, and it’s fantastic. She’s also an avid erotica reader and has tons of recommendations of other titles, and also runs WOC in Romance, highlighting romance written by women of color (not queer, but important!).

8. Kiki Delovely, kikidelovely.wordpress.com

Kiki’s work is mostly in erotica anthologies, but she does have some excerpts on her blog.

Excerpt from Yes, Daddy:

“I’m going to have to shove my big, hard cock inside of you and fuck you until you’re screaming out in pain, our guests watching and waiting. After that, I’ll leave you to them, allowing them to do with you as they please.”

“NO, Daddi!” I cry out before I can catch myself. Your free hand lands severely on my ass, harder this time, my body uncontrollably releasing a violent jerk as I swallow the pain.

“You will take your punishment like a good grrl.”

9. Jen Cross, writingourselveswhole.org

Jen has run Writing Ourselves Whole, writing workshops “at the intersection of sex and trauma,” for a decade, and her work is phenomenal. She doesn’t have a lot of her erotic writing online, but she did undertake a masturbation May project, We Can Come Home, a few years back and that is fascinating to read. Her work explores the very complicated intersection of desire and healing, and much of it is explicit.

Excerpt from Opening the Throat:

Today I did it the new way, me in my shower, back bent against the porcelain, shower head switched to massage and held between my legs, the water hot as I can stand it. I say, Good morning, body. This is for us today. I say, thank you. I float into the conversation with my mother, then pull myself back. That was last night, that was another moment, that is not what I’m here for now. Now I’m in the bliss of your mouth (the water is so much easier to make into a mouth than the vibrator — a new development for my fantasy life), maybe we’re at a fancy bathroom at a fancy party and you shift aside my long skirt to find stockings, garter belt — and nothing else. Then you are asking me to sing, and I moan into the white quiet of my bathroom. I get loud, breathe hard, cry out, oh my god oh my god oh my god. This is a new way, too.

10. Jack Stratton, www.writingdirty.com

Jack writes mostly m/f erotica—and some of my very favorite smut of all time—but he also has a variety of gay erotic pieces, which I find complex and interesting. Not exactly a queer erotica writer, but he’s pretty queer, and you might find things you like in his extensive archives.

Excerpt from The Shaving Lesson:

“You just keep watching her finger fuck herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off,” Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

Henry felt the fear mix with a little anger. It felt like Adam was reading his mind and laughing at him.

“I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my cock.”

Two more!

The exciting thing about publishing lists like this on the internet is that they are totally changeable! Just because I didn’t include these two the first time around doesn’t mean they can’t be added. Since I published this list, I’ve been asking around and trying to find even more amazing queer erotica writers who publish their work online. Here’s two more that you gotta check out.

11. Benji Bright, Underwear Tales

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Benji Bright’s work was recommended to me by Xan West, and I’m very glad to have discovered it. He has many stories in anthologies and, recently, his own short story collection Boy Stories.

From He Doesn’t Want to Call It What It Is:

He doesn’t want to call it what it is. The words nag at him, but it is easy to shake them off when there’s someone else’s tongue pressed hard against him, slavering, and using the mouth to which it’s attached in order to shape filthy words: ‘I’m going to use your hole,’ ‘I’m going to fill you up with my spit and cum,’ ‘I’m going to fuck you like the beast you are.’

12.

Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires

giselle
I adore Giselle Renarde’s work. She is in dozens of anthologies, and has an elaborate page of free smut online at her blog.

From Prude’s Failsafe Advice for Eating Ass:

With a giggle and a growl, Gloria went at my hole like crazy. She licked it up and down, then swirled around in circles. She was forceful about it, too. When she thrust her tongue into my ass, my soul just about jumped from my body. I watched her do it, and still I was in disbelief. If it wasn’t for that slip of latex separating her from me, I’d never have let her do this. I didn’t mind so much, though, knowing she was tasting raspberry and not me.

Gloria made happy noises as she lunged at my ass, fucking me with her tongue. It felt fat inside me, with far more girth than her finger. As she went at me, I reached for my clit and found it engorged, my pussy dripping with juice.

Bonus

  • Also check out the guest post section here on Sugarbutch – mostly the guest posts include the authors I’ve mentioned above, but you still might find something exciting.
  • Someone suggested Archive of Our Own, which is primarily fan fiction but includes quite a bit of queer erotica if you’re willing to dig through the archives.
  • There are a few internet archive sites of erotica that include queer work, like Nifty, which is exclusively LGBT, Literotica, and Lust Stories, but the quality is very hit-and-miss.

There MUST be other gay boy erotica blogs out there, but I don’t know them. I mean there must be other queer erotica blogs in general—please tell me this list is incomplete! Honestly, I have been looking and asking on Twitter & Facebook and this is the best of the best that I can come up with. Who have I missed? Do you write erotica & share it online?

Please let me/us all know in the comments!

Careful. Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

I was distracted. Attempting to finalize a dinner menu while simultaneously shopping for the six course meal on four hours of sleep was making me dizzy. Throw into the mix her flustering flurry of taunting words that kept popping up on the screen of my cell phone, continually drowning out my mile-long grocery list. It was enough to draw my focus away from the task at hand. Yet somehow I was managing, not missing a single ingredient while receiving her praise at my last minute addition of a baked brie. And then this: a simple photo. I wouldn’t have thought that one little pic could stop me dead in my tracks. But it had been quite some time since I had been the recipient of one so compelling. And so I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape.

I clicked on the photo to examine its details. Sunlight tickling at the edge of the notebook, her hand-crafted leather flogger draped dramatically across the page, and braided falls spilling just under the solitary inscribed word: Careful. A vintage Eversharp Skyline fountain pen angled just so as to place appropriate emphasis upon the command. The meticulous composition of the photo elevated it to a true art form.

Careful.

A warning and a demand wrapped up in this seemingly unassuming, simplest of sentences. It echoed in my mind.

Careful.

Precisely the type of caution I was recklessly scattering to the wind with each passing second.

Careful.

The decree that brought me to my knees.

Mouthy little quips had flowed freely from my fingertips up until that moment. And with one little photo, one little word, my hands were silenced into submission. Trust me when I say I behaved myself for the remainder of the day. My ceaseless tasks kept me so busy in the kitchen that when it came time for the dinner party, I hadn’t had time to grow nervous. Sans prompting, she made herself useful, helping clear between courses, chivalrously following me into the kitchen every time I rose.

One of the times we had a few seconds to spare and smiling at the din of laughter coming from the other room, I took advantage of momentary bravery, confessing, “I have a thing for strong hands….” I glanced up ever so briefly to meet her gaze before returning mine to my peep toe pumps. “When you were massaging me last night, your fingers tangled in my hair, your fists punching my shoulders … I couldn’t help but imagine them exploring a couple other places as well.”

“A couple other? Aren’t we a bit … ambitious?” A spark in her eyes.

I was too close to saying something smart. Or even just cheekily placing my palm up against hers in order to make an accurate assessment of my ambitions, knowing full well just how much my body is capable of taking, given the right circumstances. Instead I bit back my grin, remained silent, and twirled around on my heel, letting her come to her own conclusions. Allowing her to do with that information what she would.

After all, she had spent the better part of three days with me gathering information. It seemed as though nothing about me was lost on her watchful eye. She wasn’t exactly the typical butch I usually go for, but energy trumps type every time, and after the second day the energy was dazzling. Her academic researcher skills proved quite useful in other fields as well, having gleaned everything she needed to know to have her way with me. By the third night, I was hers.

* * *

The very tip of her blade kissed the surface my skin, threatening to pierce flesh if I chose to move too quickly or suffered an involuntary spasm. My flesh gave generously under the steel’s unwavering affections until met with the muscle’s resistance.

A catch in my breath.

An almost indistinguishable shift sparked at the air as she dragged its point downward, scraping away at the epidermis.

Before she even brought the blade back up to its point of origin, I knew where this was headed. Breathing into my anticipation, a trickle of cum forged a path down my left lip. My mind finally began to quiet and submit to the impossibility of intellectualizing such primal cravings. At the curved completion of that very first “D” a moan betrayed me. I kept my eyes on her the entire time—when I could manage to keep them open, that is. No need to look down at my thigh to know precisely what was coming—my nerve endings piqued, keenly aware of the shape of each letter that would follow. An all too predictable read, given that the word loitered on my tongue when in her presence, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to form the disyllabic honorific.

She carved her possession into what we both knew was already hers. The visual effect giving rise to a shared desire that threatened to ignite the air between us; the haptic sensation of her staking her claim penetrating me much deeper. When I finally did look down, “DADDY’S” was etched into my inner thigh—a spell had been cast, an alchemical equation set into motion. This changed everything. An erotic act beyond titillating had established the tone for the evening. Her marking me in this way had dropped me down into an abyssal submissive headspace unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Utterly unexpected, I had not readied myself for these emotional depths, had not warmed to the vulnerability about to surface. But there was no turning back.

I needed it too badly and was willing to risk the emotional aftermath that was to flood over me in the days to come. Our interactions were gritty, a little bit wrong. The honorific of Daddy didn’t really belong. It wasn’t exactly hers. It was mine. Not mine to embody but, rather, my fetish, my desire, my greatest weakness. She took on the role, however, with an ease that convinced me otherwise. She was a natural, vacillating between nice Daddy and mean Daddy with a finesse that takes others years to master.

My cunt yielded to her fingers and cock, eventually capitulating to her fist as well with the simplest lines of encouragement. “Daddy needs you to take this for him,” she would coo. “Don’t make me hurt you again.”

Kissing my back with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes—a particular combination of sweetness and cruelty that is the end of me. “That’s my good girl.” Devastating in the most heart-crushing way, I struggled to stay in my body. It was too soon. Far too soon. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t want to get swept away.

Gathering me up in her arms, she whispered into my hair, “Tell Daddy how you’re feeling.”

I couldn’t. Couldn’t go there. Couldn’t give her access. She was to be my Daddy for that one night only and in that short time I learned a new, startling fact about myself. I could no longer do pick-up play with this particular archetype. It left the little girl in me feeling too exposed, too raw. So I used the opportunity to teach that girl a harsh lesson. Employing every last trick in the book, I drew out this Daddy’s most ruthless sadist. Made her beat the lesson down past the hematoma, penetrating every last haematid, so that I’d never forget. So that I’d never fail my babygirl self in this way again.

“I’m going to need you to take ten more of these on each side. Think you can do that for Daddy?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of her stance in my peripheral vision just for a split second before my eyes watered, unfocusing, drifting off to a place where only the sensation of her spankings existed. “Yes, Daddy.”

Her martial arts training was evident not only in her stance and the blows she landed but, perhaps most impressively, in her follow-through. That is where I could truly taste the skill level of her black belt. I could’ve sworn she was striking me with a closed fist, her hands possessed that much power. She bruised her wrist all the way up through her palm with my ass, leaving us both delectably empurpled.

Flipping me over deftly, she began slapping my inner thighs. My body automatically shifted to give her greater access, legs spreading of their own volition. “Such a little harlot. Is that all it takes for you to spread your legs?” I blushed hard, knowing she was right. My mouth could invent some excuse but my body would always relay the truth.

Daddy grew impatient with my arms getting in her way, demanding full access to all parts of me at any given moment. As soon as I thought I had figured out her plan of attack, she’d switch directions to forge a completely different path. My lack of grace combined with her erratic movements meant my appendages were constantly in her direct line of fire.

“Quit fidgeting. Arms behind your back. And stop licking your lips. You’re just trying to be provocative. No one’s lips are that dry.”

That last line really challenged me in stifling a giggle, but I somehow managed to keep it together, delighted to be under her direction. The new position forced my tits to stand even more prominently on display as I gave her the uninterrupted access to my flesh she required. She beat me with only her bare hands that night—punishing enough in their brute force—but the next morning, she brought out her toys. Only the crop with an inflexible leather tab was store-bought. The other six she had made herself.

She began with a simple nylon flogger—the likes of which could be almost soft and sweet enough to take without end. But not with the brand of exertion she put behind it. “I’m going to take out all my hatred for Emily Dickinson on your back,” she quipped, the white falls raining down on the tattoo between my shoulder blades featuring a stanza from the poetess. Then quickly moving onto a dragon tail when it became clear the Belle of Amherst hadn’t been disciplined severely enough for her untold crimes against literature.

“How many is that?”

Silence as I tried to figure out how to wrap my tongue around words … and then numbers. “Seven?”

“That sounded like a question.”

“Seven.” Only slightly more confident, I managed to avoid the higher pitch tell that signaled doubt.

She was looking for an (unnecessary) excuse to extend my punishment—which I won’t deny I longed for but the good girl in me wanted so badly to please her Daddy—and in the end, my answer was correct so she simply carried on with the original twenty she had promised. Whipping me so brutally, so evenly on each side, I could feel myself slipping into boundless subspace.

In my tranced out state, I caught a flash of myself a couple days from then, tears in my eyes as I acknowledged aloud for the first time that my emotions had gotten all tangled up with my abandonment issues. My new Daddy was never meant to have any staying power, but the lingering repercussions of our scene were tangible in my body. They had more of an effect on my soul than I would’ve liked to admit and I was only then coming to terms with the consequences. Shaking my head free of this vision, I re-grounded myself in the present, accepting my fate and taking responsibility into my own hands. I was a big girl. So what if this Daddy couldn’t provide me with the aftercare I needed? I could take care of myself. And to prove it to myself, my brattiest side surfaced, inciting her to beat me harder. I refused to regard myself as an innocent in this scene.

Her divinely thuddy leather flogger, plump with innumerable falls, afforded me an opportunity too tempting to pass up. The instrument composed the most seductive symphony on my shoulders, but despite its impressive soundings it didn’t inflict enough pain to suppress my smart mouth. “I thought you detested Dickinson. Didn’t you want to punish her? This feels more like a reward, a massage of sorts.” I could feel her indignation bubbling up as the thwacks rang increasingly louder with each bit of sass until finally I had to shout to be heard. “…Almost as if you’re making sweet, sweet lesbian love to her … like only her sister-in-law could do.”

That last line sealed the deal and she flung one flogger to the side, taking up a much nastier one in its place. The one with the braided tails from the photo. I had been waiting for this and we had moved far beyond anything even remotely resembling warm-up. She laid into me, holding nothing back, thoroughly delivering the warning she had conveyed in the photo that had interrupted my grocery shopping days prior.

As delicious as it was to finally earn what I had coming to me, getting beat with the strop that came next was, hands down, my favorite. Its sensation was biting and delicious but there was something special about being all too aware of its primary function. Mindful that buried in its leather grain was the energy her knives. Cognizant that while it licked and prickled at my flesh, it had also served to sharpen the same blades that had marked me the previous night.

Sufficiently satisfied by the painstaking beating she had administered but not quite yet done with me, Daddy ordered me to my feet. Holding me the entire way to steady me against vertigo, she lead me into the bathroom in order to make me look in the mirror at what I forced her do to me. I was entranced by the marks just beginning to surface across my flesh. They would bloom and blossom in the days to come—shades of pink, red, and purple, then blues, greens and yellows that eventually faded altogether. But the deeper effects would take longer to wear off. I knew I would carry that scene with me long after my scarring healed over. Until the day I was ready to release it on my own.

Admiring her handiwork, she ordered me to bend over farther still such that the view was then hers alone. A lecherously voyeuristic indulgence, she kept me bent over like that, staring long enough to ensure proper embarrassment on my part. An act of contrition. She was to send me home feeling objectified, as though she had used my body for her pleasures alone. Though we both knew better.

As I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taken aback by my babygirl self blinking wide-eyed back at me—tender, laid bare, and the most contented I had seen her in years. “The coming down is going to hurt,” I warned her with a look. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one to take care of you.”

Mindful of my promise to her from that day forward, I remained steadfast in her protection, always watchful, ever careful.

The Tender Sweet Young Thing, Guest Post by Xan West

Dedicated to the members of the Church of the Movie Musical

As a heads up, this story includes descriptions of gender play, blade play, edge play, pain play, public sex, cocksucking and fisting.

Dax was raised by a second-wave feminist. Ze grew up reading books about girls who did stuff. Ze was pulled out of tap class because they were going to perform “I Love Being a Girl,” and hir mom refused to let Dax participate in something so sexist. Hir mother gave hir a gender-neutral name (to help hir get jobs) and had hir hair cut in a Buster Brown. For most of hir childhood, people were constantly asking, “Is that a boy or a girl?” They still asked that, actually. At least now ze chose hir own haircuts.

Dax didn’t change hir name when ze went on T. What was the point? Dax would work okay, and it’s not like ze wanted to pass as a man anyway. A gender-neutral name suited hir just fine. Guess mom got something right.

When Dax’s boyfriend Mikey got a ‘96 Volvo with a tape deck, Dax gave her some of hir old cassettes. They would drive around listening to tapes Dax had kept from back in the day. Their favorite was a childhood relic, Free to Be You and Me. They listened to it for probably the thousandth time on the way to a regular gathering of fat queers that involved two of Dax’s favorite things: potluck and watching musicals. That’s probably why Mikey was so quick to bring it up, when the pre-movie dinner discussion turned to early kink fantasies. (Which, let’s face it, was rather inevitable at this monthly event, which was now at Xóchi’s house because it was more accessible. No stairs meant that Dax and Mikey could be there, and that Jericho and Rusty came more often, too. Lee loved hosting, so even though it was now at Xóchi’s house and not her own, she was still in charge. Everything always went smoothly when she was in charge.)

“Want to hear one of Dax’s early kink roots?” Mikey asked, teasing.

Of course the group wanted to hear it. Dax was grateful Mikey was going to tell it, because hir migraine meds were making hir a bit loopy, and ze just wanted to watch the room and relax. It was nice to be back. Nobody did potluck like fat activist queers. The briscuit Rebecca brought was the best comfort food ever, especially with Mikey’s flan for dessert, and ze was looking forward to popcorn and Julie Andrews. Hir chair was comfy, the sun wasn’t in hir eyes, and ze was surrounded by kinky queers. Hey, who was that cute femme boy in the corner? Oh, was that Téo, the boy Mikey had been telling hir about?

“Well, I bet some of you know Free to Be You and Me?” Mikey asked.

Lee and Xóchi both nodded. Dax guessed the other folks were a bit too young to know it. Except Jericho, who looked at Rusty and shrugged, clearly having no clue what they were talking about.

Xóchi said, “Oh, wait. I bet it was that football player singing, ‘It’s Alright to Cry.’”

The whole room chuckled. Dax was well-known for being the kind of sadist that got off on tears. When Xóchi started to sing a bit of it, Lee and Mikey joined in. “It’s alright to cry. It might make you feel better!”

Dax was blushing. Ze reminded hirself that ze loved them. They were family. Family got to tease you. And, really, hadn’t ze crooned just that line to Mikey last month in the middle of a particularly brutal caning?

“No, it wasn’t that one, actually,” Mikey said, grinning at Dax. “You remember the one about the tender sweet young thing?”

Lee and Xóchi both shook their heads.

“Well, it’s about this girl who dresses impeccably, and always goes first in line, and gets basically everything she wants, and then she gets caught by a pack of lions.”

“Tigers!” Dax inserted.

“Oh, sorry, baby. Tigers. So they tie her up and sniff her a bit.” Mikey grinned.

“And she says, ‘I am a tender sweet young thing.’” Dax forgot hirself and got into it. “‘I am also a little lady.’” Dax grinned at Lee, who unconsciously began to adjust her shirt so that her considerable cleavage showed to better advantage.

“And she tells the lions to stop licking her,” Mikey inserted, watching Téo. Damn, the boy was so fucking cute. He had perked up, giving the story his full attention, a mixture of recognition and desire on his face. This confirmed it. Téo was the tender sweet young thing she’d had her eye out for.

“Tigers!” Dax insisted.

“That’s twice,” Lee said, holding up two fingers and looking sternly at Mikey over her turquoise cat eye glasses.

Dax continued, “My favorite part is when she says, ‘Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!’”

The whole group cracked up. Except for Téo, who was holding his breath.

“I’ve had a fashion safe word myself,” said Lee, eyes sparkling.

“So what happens to the tender sweet young thing?” asked Téo before he could stop himself.

“The tigers eat her,” said Dax, eying Téo again. Téo did something halfway between a preen and a squirm under Dax’s gaze. It was adorable. How had ze not noticed him before tonight?

“What?” said Xóchi. “How do I not remember this? They eat her?”

“Yep,” Mikey confirmed.

“And the whole story is told by the head tiger,” Dax added, grinning at Xóchi.

Xóchi grinned back, one predator to another, and then launched into a story of her own that involved her father’s knife. Dax hoped that Téo might share one of his own kink roots, but Lee soon ushered them over to the television for the much awaited showing of Victor/Victoria.

Téo couldn’t stop thinking about the tender sweet young thing. He could barely concentrate on Victor/Victoria, which he hadn’t seen before and was totally up his alley. He’d have to get ahold of it and watch it when he could pay attention.

He let himself work it out, as the others watched. It had been a while since he’d bottomed to a white person, and the last time had been a real mistake. That’s why he had been so careful with Rebecca. Their switchy thing was working out okay. But this was a different thing altogether because he kept thinking about being tied up and surrounded by Dax and hir band of tigers. That was serious bottoming, even from a power femme place.

But he’d been thinking about Dax all night, about that gleam in hir eyes as ze looked him over and told him that the tigers ate the tender sweet young thing. Anyone who could hang in this group was probably okay. Xóchi and Mikey clearly trusted hir. Jericho had made a point of saying that they wanted Dax and Mikey at their party next month, and that was a POC-centered space. I mean, they allowed white folks who acted right, but it was different to be invited special.

It’s not like he hadn’t known Dax for a few years; they’d been in that genderqueer showcase together, after all. He’d just never noticed hir in that way before. He’d been crushed out on Mikey for a while, as their friendship had grown, and been looking for a way to let her know he was interested. And it was clear that the scene he had in mind would mean bottoming to her, too. Yeah, he thought it was worth the risk, especially because he didn’t think he’d have to worry much about disability stuff with this group. Damn, this scene hit so many of his buttons in exactly the right way. Oh, was the movie over already?

It turned out that Rebecca was going home with Jericho and Rusty (which no one was surprised by after the kink root she’d shared about being constantly cast as the prince when she ached to be the evil stepmother instead). She had been Téo’s ride. So Dax and Mikey offered to drive the boy home. He had the cutest tempting blush on those fat cheeks of his when he accepted.

Dax made Mikey put on Free to Be You and Me, and ze watched Téo’s face as he listened to the one about the tender sweet young thing. As the girl described herself, Téo couldn’t resist running his hands through his shiny curls, blue sparkles on his nails picking up the dim light in the car. Oh, he was delicious. When Dax heard him gasp at the end when the tigers ate her, ze met Mikey’s eyes with a grin. Then ze asked Téo what he thought.

“I love the part where the tiger has ‘never seen anything quite like it before,’” he said, awe in his voice.

“Me, too,” said Dax.

“And that ‘tender sweet young thing’ is, like, her gender,” Téo continued.

“Told you he was a smart cookie,” Mikey murmured to Dax. She’d been eyeing Téo for some time. He was just her type: wicked smart, great politics around race and disability, and let’s face it—she had a weakness for sassy femme trans guys. And this one had those curls …

Dax grinned at Mikey. “You called that one.” Ze turned to the blushing boy. “So, Téo … are you a tender sweet young thing?”

“Who, me?” he drawled, winking at hir.

“I thought you might be.” Dax smiled into the boy’s eyes. “I can gather up a few tigers for Jericho’s party next week.”

“I have the perfect dress!” Damn, he was lit up like the Empire State Building.

“I can’t wait to see you in it,” Dax purred.

Mikey grinned at Téo. “I can’t wait to muss it up,” she said. She was already imagining it.

“I was hoping you might,” Téo gave Mikey a wicked smile and blew her a kiss.

***

Dax took hir time gathering the tigers. Mikey, of course. It was basically her idea, after all. Jericho surprised Dax by volunteering both themself and their boy Rusty. They might not be there for the whole scene because they were hosting, but they could be there at the beginning. Lee definitely wanted in, and Téo had agreed. Rebecca grinned wickedly and said she’d love to. Xóchi finally stopped chuckling long enough to say she’d do it, and that her girl would help hold space, fetch water, and have lube and snacks ready.

Negotiations went smoothly, and with this many disabled queers, it was a fucking miracle that there were no opposing access needs. Téo had been the one to bring up race, which meant he felt comfortable enough to raise the issue. Dax knew how important that was. They’d worked out the perfect bondage safe word. It was actually going to happen. Dax couldn’t really believe it.

What a band of tigers Dax had found. Lee honored the event in her turquoise tiger-print top, resplendent with matching glasses and cane. She was gleaming with top energy, regally driving her scooter around the party, grey curls streaming. Xóchi kept it simple in black jeans and her favorite boots. She planned to sit for most of the time, so it was actually possible to wear them, and nothing made her feel more powerful than those boots. Jericho’s bald head gleamed, and they were a gorgeous genderfuck mix of cues from dark lipstick to white button-down shirt and leather bowtie over a neon orange slip. The look was finished with knee-high lineman boots, a bootlicker’s dream, reserved solely for their boy as a reward for his silent service tonight. Their boy Rusty was clean and crisp in an A-line shirt and leather pants that showed off what he was packing. He looked delicious and untouchable all at the same time, a clear indicator of stone butchness if Dax ever saw one. Rebecca had laced a white boa around the handlebars of her scooter and slid her midsized curves into the tightest shortest thing in her closet, complete with fishnets, dramatic purple eyes that matched her glasses, and flats because her fibro had been flaring all week and heels were not fucking possible. Mikey wore a classic shirt and tie, her favorite top gear that she used to draw on a bit of Daddy magic for the scene ahead.

They claimed their space. Jericho wanted to use the scene to get the party started, raise the kind of energy they knew would inspire an electric night for everyone. They wanted to do their part to keep Carter Hall solvent, and a hot group scene can make a party. Having an accessible space was so damn rare even in the Bay, and this was a dream of a space, complete with a full-size sling that was actually rated for supersize folks like Téo. That’s exactly where Dax wanted to put the boy … if he ever showed up.

Xóchi’s girl Lina set up the space around the sling, with banquet chairs ready for folks who wanted to get off their scooters and rest or play while sitting; snacks and glucose tablets for the diabetics who needed a food break; and water, gloves, and lube for everyone. Dax took out the tools ze wanted to use and set them on the chair next to the one ze was sitting on. Ze kept it simple: the claws that an ex had made for hir out of metal guitar picks and a wicked pair of scissors to muss up the boy’s dress with. Ze was ready.

Mikey had finished laying out the electric blue rope she’d picked out to match the boy’s nails. She scanned the party. Where was Téo? He knew that Mikey had limited energy and needed to start early. Why wasn’t he here already?

Queers had started to form a circle around the sling, hoping to get a glimpse of some action, which gave Téo a perfect opportunity. He scooted through the crowd, trilling, “Ladies first! Ladies first!” at the top of his lungs. “Hand over a whole mango, please,” he quipped to Dax, turning to wink at Mikey, who chuckled, recognizing the line immediately.

He did have the perfect dress on, Dax marveled. Candy pink with a white collar that showed off his tempting neck and big white buttons down the front. He had on white knee socks and patent leather Mary Janes, and his curls were adorned with pink ribbons that matched his dress. The boy twirled on his scooter in front of them, showing off bulging white briefs, and Dax was mesmerized. Hir tender sweet young thing was packing!

Soon, Mikey had Téo bound to the sling. Could he look more fetching than when trussed up prettily in blue rope? Dax stood between his legs, hir midsize frame insistent against the boy’s cock. Rusty loomed by Téo’s head. Rebecca chose a seat where she could see his face and reach him with her cane. The rest of the tigers started up their scooters, circling slowly. Every few moments, one of them would poke him with their cane. Their grins were menacing, and the whirring of the motors combined into a purring growl that had Téo a bit more nervous than he had expected to be. He tried to watch them circle, but there were just too many of them. And Rusty seemed so damn huge at his head, standing over him, eyeing his curves. Had he actually signed up for this? What had he been thinking?

Dax waited until the boy was distracted, focused on the circling tigers, before ze pulled on hir claws. The metal gleamed, and ze knew it would make pale scratch marks on the boy’s reddish brown skin. Ze breathed into it, pushing into the floor with hir boots, settling deeper into topspace. The claws felt perfect as they traced along the boy’s neckline. He shivered, and Dax smiled down at him, feeling hir inner predator wake up. Oh, this was going to be fun. Ze gripped Téo’s throat and ground hir cock into his. He went still, trying not to move, all his attention on Dax, as Rusty gripped his hair to hold him steady and whispered in his ear. His eyes were saucers, and his lower lip trembled.

Mikey grinned as she watched Dax get things started. This was one of the best plans she’d had in a long time. She rolled up closer as Dax lifted Téo’s dress to run hir claws along the boy’s thighs. Rusty had the boy’s curls in his fist, and that position gave her a perfect opportunity. She nuzzled Téo’s neck, beckoning to Lee and gesturing to his stomach. Lee slid up to the boy and scent-marked his stomach through his dress, purring.

He was surrounded. He didn’t think it would be so easy to think of them as tigers, but they sure felt like it. Lee pressed her nose into his stomach as Mikey sniffed his neck, grazing her teeth along his skin. The ropes helped him sink into helplessness. There was no getting away from this, and that was exactly what he needed. Had Mikey just told Lee he smelled nice?

Mikey stood and met his eyes, running her hand along his curves, teasing into the collar of his dress, as her other hand held Dax’s both to steady herself and, well, because.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it before,” she drawled, letting the awe show in her eyes. “I wonder what it is?”

Téo knew his line. He’d been waiting for it, to claim this gender that fit so right, in front of queers who actually got it. He swallowed around the fear rising in his throat. “I am a tender … ,” he whispered, then stopped. It turned out it was harder to say than he’d thought.

Mikey met his gaze, gripped his face in her paw, and said, “What was that? Old tigers like me need it a bit louder.”

Dax took the opportunity to spread his thighs with hir claws, and Lee bit down on his stomach. Damn. Rebecca came over to hold his hand. That helped. Jericho came over to their boy and laid their hand on his shoulder. Rusty still hadn’t let go of his curls, but that felt grounding now.

“Looks tender,” said Xóchi, who had pulled up on the other side of his stomach with her knife out, and was tracing it along his collarbone, up toward his face.

Fuck, okay, he said to himself. You can’t talk when you aren’t breathing. You can do this. Let it out. It came out in a whimper, which only made Xóchi grin and press the knife deeper into his skin. Lee was nuzzling his stomach again, and Mikey held him captive in her gaze. Why couldn’t he look away? Why was it so damn hard to say?

Mikey’s eyes were warm and firm all at the same time. Her gaze said, Take your time. We are here. We know it’s hard. We’ve got you.

Dax saw the tears start rolling down those gloriously fat cheeks and knew what ze wanted to do. Hell, ze’d been thinking about it ever since ze saw the boy twirl. Ze pushed up the boy’s dress and worked his cock out of his briefs. Lina had a condom ready. (Damn, that girl was good.) Dax loved to suck boys off as they cried. It was such a fabulously twisted move for a top, and nothing tasted better than the power it gave. The boy went very still as ze worked the condom onto his cock. Ze slid hir tongue along the boy’s cock, watching his face. He was so damn sexy with his mascara running like that, a knife to his throat. Dax dug the claws into his thighs and feasted on Téo’s cock as the boy let go and sunk into fear, and helplessness, and sharp recognition.

It was too much, and he couldn’t keep still anymore, couldn’t stand to have Mikey look at him anymore. Not like that. His hands clenched, and his eyes scrunched up, and he was so damn frustrated that the words emerged without any censoring. “I wish you’d stop licking me!”

They all stilled. Xóchi put away her knife. Lee sat up, pulling her face out of his stomach. Dax raised hir head to look at him and smiled. Mikey came up next to hir and rested her head against Dax’s stomach.

“I got this,” Jericho said. “Me and my boy.”

They all moved to the chairs circling the sling, except for Jericho and Rusty.

Jericho said, “All that surface sensation is just too much, isn’t it? You need something deeper to show you how tender you are. I can do that.”

How did Jericho know that? It was scary how right they were. Deeper was exactly what he needed. He nodded helplessly.

Jericho handed their boy a condom and some lube. They picked up Dax’s scissors, getting a nod from hir, and cut off Téo’s briefs before he even registered what was happening. By then, Jericho had almost finished unstrapping Téo’s cock. They gestured to Rusty and moved around Téo, unbuttoning his dress to bare his chest. Téo loved, and hated, being beaten there. It was about the only kind of touch that felt right in that area, and it was so damn intense because, really, when you’re binding so many hours a day, your skin gets fucking sensitive.

Jericho had taken out their braided cat. Téo adored this toy, and was aching to get beaten with it again. Last time, it’d felt like light was bursting out the top of his head.

It was better than he remembered, probably because he needed deep sensation so much. He closed his eyes and let it drive into him. Sublime intensity concentrated where he needed to let go. Jericho was fucking magic. When Rusty slid into his front hole, it felt so easy and solid. Rusty was holding him steady with his cock, anchoring him here in this room so he didn’t float too far.

Mikey saw the shift before it happened. Jericho signaled to their boy, and Rusty started moving, holding the sling steady, and doing all the work himself, so that Jericho would have a clear target. They drove into the boy at both ends, watching him arc and writhe, and waited for him to scream. It was beautiful. They rode the boy together, building him up in spirals, and Jericho stopped beating him just in time to catch his scream in their mouth in a sweetly vicious kiss.

“Tender yet?” Jericho asked, poking Téo’s chest and grinning when he yelped.

“Yeah,” Téo managed to get out between yelps. Jericho motioned to Mikey and Dax.

“I’ve got host duties. Your turn to muss the boy up a bit.” They smiled down at Téo and tousled his curls. “You sure are sweet,” they murmured and, squeezing his shoulder, walked off on their boy’s arm.

Dax picked up the scissors and teased them against the boy’s cheek. Ze was going to enjoy this, and had been fantasizing about it for a long time.

Mikey slid on a glove, lubing it up. She nipped at the boy’s thigh, watching him squirm. She wanted him writhing on her arm, and soon.

Rebecca got her hand in Téo’s curls, and was doing that twisting-pulling thing that felt like sex. Dax snapped the scissors close to his ear, making him jump. Mikey was doing something slithery and twisty in his front hole. Damn, her paw was big. He wanted it inside him so bad, punching into his cervix with those powerful huge arms. Why was she going so damn slow? He was all-over impatient.

That’s when Dax began to cut into his perfect dress. He started to pull at the ropes, glaring at Dax, who seemed to get even bigger and more excited the more he glared. Xóchi and Lee began to pull at the tears Dax was making, and the fabric made a wet, almost breaking sound as they ripped it. Somehow, Téo was sobbing. Rebecca was stroking his hair, gathering him to her breast, and Mikey slid deeper into him and stilled.

Dax met his eyes, and he was held in the demand and witness of someone who got it. Got how helpless he needed to be, and how much he needed to let go, and how tender and new he was inside, and how scary it was to let others know that. Dax placed the scissors on his bare stomach, holding them firmly against him. They were cold and warm at the same time. How was that possible?

Dax reached over and stroked Téo’s cheek, lifting hir fingers to suck off his tears. Ze repeated Mikey’s question. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. I wonder what it is?”

This time, he could say it. “I am a tender sweet young thing.”

Mikey pulsed her hand inside him, and he moaned, repeating it, and getting rewarded by more twisting-pulsing yum that made his thighs quiver.

Lee and Xóchi growled, nuzzling his side. Rebecca stroked his curls, emerging with ribbons that she put in her own hair. He was getting stiff, and he wanted to move, so he said it: “Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!”

They all chuckled and began untying him. Mikey stayed where she was, writhing her fingers inside him. “So, you want to be free for this, eh? That sounds perfect,” she said.

“Oh yes,” he said and used his newly free hands to shift position. He knew if he hit the right spot, oh yes…her hand slurped in, and she grinned at him.

The rest of the tigers began to nuzzle his belly, and neck, and thighs. Mikey went to work in his hole, pulsing, then twisting, still going way too damn slow for him, and he told her so, began to work with her, thrusting on to her fist, telling her to punch him deep inside, he could take it, he wanted it, her fat fist was exactly what he needed. She caught on real fast and began slamming into him just right, and he lost control of his muscles and just let her take over. He was impaled on her huge and perfect fist, and he could feel it build in his chest. Damn…did he really need to cry again?

It seemed that he did, and as he began to sob, five tigers chose their spots and bit. Dax chose his belly, the soft part of him, the place where he was most tender. Rebecca went after his neck, sucking hard on the bite, wanting him to remember her teeth for days to come. Xóchi chose the inside of his arm, and that hurt the fucking worst. Damn, she was evil in the best way. Mikey bit down on the heel of his hand as she came because he felt so damn good spasming around her fist. Lee chose his thigh, and it mixed in with the sex to push him over into a sobbing orgasm that spiraled through him until he was spent. They all bit down and savored the sweetness of him, feeding on his tears, past his pleasure, until they were sated.

They gathered him up and found him a blanket, stroking his curls as he slurped down water, feeding him dried mango and chocolate on the huge round bed that was close by. Dax and Lee had a more substantial snack, being diabetics after all. Xóchi and Rebecca just shared his chocolate, each clutching their scrap of Téo’s dress. Lee admired the ribbons in Rebecca’s hair and stroked her neck, showing her teeth. No one was surprised that they wandered off. Xóchi’s girl was done cleaning and curled up at her feet, head on her boots. Jericho came by with his boy to claim scraps of the dress, kiss Téo’s cheek, and poke his bruises. He could tell he’d made Jericho proud and let that sink in.

After a while, Dax turned to Téo, serious. “You are brave and precious, and a delight to me. Thank you.” Ze gathered him close and twined hir fingers in his curls. Mikey nudged Dax and wrapped them both in her arms, nuzzling Téo and asking if he might like to come home with them. He had been hoping for that, and smiled sweetly, nodding. He was glad he didn’t need to put his armor back on just yet, content to have his tender spots showing for a bit longer.


This guest post is part of Xan West’s blog tour for hir new book Show Yourself To Me, available now from Go Deeper Press. Buy ebook or print copies at Go Deeper Press | Buy the ebook on Amazon

In Show Yourself to Me: Queer Kink Erotica, Xan West introduces us to pretty boys and nervous boys, vulnerable tops and dominant sadists, good girls and fierce girls and scared little girls, mean Daddies and loving Daddies and Daddies that are terrifying in delicious ways.

Submissive queers go to alleys to suck cock, get bent over the bathroom sink by a handsome stranger, choose to face their fears, have their Daddy orchestrate a gang bang in the park, and get their dream gender-play scene—tied to a sling in an accessible dungeon.

Dominants find hope and take risks, fall hard and push edges, get fucked and devour the fear and tears that their sadist hearts desire.

Within these 24 stories, you will meet queers who build community together, who are careful about how they play with power, who care deeply about consent. You will meet trans and genderqueer folks who are hot for each other, who mentor each other, who do the kind of gender play that is only possible with other trans and genderqueer folks.

This is Show Yourself to Me. Get ready for a very wild ride.

The stops on the blog tour:

October 1: Xan West https://xanwest.wordpress.com/
October 2: Book Birthday! Go Deeper Press http://godeeperpress.com/
October 3: Heather Elizabeth https://kinkopedia.wordpress.com/
October 4: Sinclair Sexsmith http://www.sugarbutch.net/
October 5: Hermia Swann http://www.cuntext.com/
October 6: Dilo Keith https://dilokeith.wordpress.com/ and Cecilia Tan http://blog.ceciliatan.com/
October 7: Kinky Brits http://thekinkybrits.com/
October 8: Stella Harris http://stellaharris.net/
October 9: F. Leonora Solomon https://fdotleonora.wordpress.com/
October 10: Tasha Harrison http://tashalharrison.com/
October 11: Benji Bright http://www.theeroticledger.com/
October 12: Tamsin Flowers http://tamsinflowers.com/ and Karida http://submissionandthecity.com/
October 13: Cassandra Perry http://cassandrajperry.com/
October 14: Peep Scoop http://www.peepscoop.com/ and Radical Access Mapping Project https://radicalaccessiblecommunities.wordpress.com/
October 15: Sugar Cunt http://www.sugarcuntwrites.com/
October 16: Emily Byrne http://writeremilylbyrne.blogspot.com/
October 17: Oleander Plume http://poisonpendirtymind.com/
October 18: K. A. Smith https://authorka.wordpress.com/
October 19: Giselle Renarde http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/
October 20: Butchtastic Kyle http://www.butchtastic.net/
October 21: Lisabet Sarai http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/
October 22: Syrens https://syrens.wordpress.com/
October 23: Anna Sky http://www.iamannasky.com/
October 24: Jade A. Waters http://jadeawaters.com/
October 25: Kal Cobalt http://kal-cobalt.squarespace.com/
October 26: Rebekah Weatherspoon http://www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/
October 27: Malin James http://malinjames.com/
October 28: BD Swain http://www.bdswain.com/ and Jillian Boyd http://jillianboydauthor.wordpress.com/
October 29: Kaleigh Trace http://thefuckingfacts.com/
October 30: Kiki DeLovely https://kikidelovely.wordpress.com/
October 31: Xan West https://xanwest.wordpress.com/ and Annabeth Leong http://annabetherotica.com/

Little Liar, Guest Post by Rebekah Weatherspoon

I need routine. It grounds me, keeps me sane, keeps me from going off on the teenagers I work in my other life. So I’ll tell you about my day, how things go when I’m with Daddy.

11:07am

Hours before, Daddy pulled me out of my bed, the cedar box at the foot of her CalKing. It’s comfy and cozy, the refreshing rich wood lined with a soft mattress and linens and pillows. There are plenty of holes that let me breathe just fine. I was afraid of my bed at first, but I like it now. It gives me a place to get away. It gives me a quiet dark place to think about Daddy. She always lets me sleep in. Her day starts early and we both know how cranky I am before ten a.m., but every morning she opens my box and helps me half asleep under the soft sheets where she spends the night. Sometimes I wake up a bit, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I remember the way Daddy touches me before she slips out the door.

Like this morning, I don’t want to wake up. I’m wrapped around my teddy bear, cozy in my bed. Daddy had me up late the night before fucking in the backyard so I went to sleep all worn out. Still when she opens the lid, it’s like my pussy isn’t done with her. Like we left some unfinished business in the grass by the pool. My body wakes up even though my mind doesn’t and I wiggle my way onto her comforter. She says something to me like “Good morning”, or “Good girl”. There’s a “good” in their somewhere as I flop against the pillow.

She touches me all over. My shoulder, my tummy, my breasts. I like it and I don’t tell her to stop. So when she rubs my pussy I might be sleeping, but I squirm a little and a little more until her fingers are inside me. Daddy has to leave. Gym, shower, juice bar, contracts, meeting, meeting, but she wants me as much I want her, so she fingers my pussy, letting me mumble away in my half sleep as I ride her hand until I come. That orgasm puts me right back to sleep. Or maybe I know Daddy is just teasing and doesn’t really want me to wake up because when I start talking that early in the morning, my mouth is smart and Daddy doesn’t have time to punish me.

But at little after 11:06 I do wake up. It’s the drone of the lawnmower, the rhythmic hum that blends into my dreams and makes me think I should do something weird like fly a helicopter. I take my time getting up, but when I do it’s into Daddy’s massive shower. Daddy takes care of my grooming so I just have to get myself nice and clean before I eat a healthy breakfast. I watch my figure, but I know how to balance waffles with fruit exercise and Daddy has the fanciest waffle maker. I have waffles and fruit and then three hours of daytime TV.

I don’t have any chores except cooking dinner, but Daddy has S, her housekeeper and the gardner, George. S stocked the fridge with everything I needed for the day including the chicken I’ll make for Daddy tonight, so I can watch all the junk TV I want while Daddy’s away.

2:00pm

I hit the pool. The hedges behind Daddy’s are high, but there’s a woman next door. She works from home and there’s this little spot where the trees part and she can see right into Daddy’s yard. When she works from home, most days she watches me. Like today she watches me as I work on my tan lines and play with my pussy. I told Daddy that the woman watches me. Daddy doesn’t mind. She might even invite her over sometime so she can get a load of me up close. We’ll both tease her, Daddy says, but it hasn’t happened. yet. I send a few texts. My friends are at work. They don’t get summers off. I get a few messages back, but soon I doze.

4:30pm

There’s chicken to bake and potatoes to prepare. I blast my music as loud as I want. S stops by for a bit after she’s spent the morning with her sick mum. She checks the mail and the gardener’s work, does some dusting, and makes Daddy’s bed. But the house is usually so clean so she doesn’t have to stay too long. She finds me as I’m dicing carrots. S checks my pussy just to make sure I’m wet. My nipples too for good measure.

She tells me to watch the chicken and not too dry it out. She tells me to turn down the music just in case Daddy calls. I need to hear the phone. And she tell me to put my toys back in my box before Daddy comes home. And I get a lecture about sunscreen. She likes my tan lines almost as much as Daddy doesn’t, but cancer isn’t cute and she doesn’t want me to get a sunburn.

S doesn’t want to play. She has her own fun with her own pets, but she’s a dirty old lady so she she checks me one more time, her hand gripping my pussy hard until my juices make a little squeaking noise as they slip between her fingers. I tell her she’s dirty and I don’t like it. I tell her to stop, but she knows I don’t mean it by the way I hold still. I like being teased this way. A slap on the ass and she’s gone.

6:30pm
I sneak a glass of wine. I hope Daddy doesn’t find out.

6:45pm

A text from Daddy. She’ll be home at her regular time. Dinner’s done and left to warm so I cover myself in this almond scented oil that Daddy loves and pull on these thigh high athletic socks with pink stripes that Daddy is obsessed with. Then I climb back in my box for a bit to wait for Daddy.

7:15pm

I’m playing games on my phone in the dark, but I hear Daddy. She doesn’t announce herself, I can hear her making her way to the bedroom. The front door shuts. Keys on the counter. I can’t hear her put down her bag, but I know she leaves in the kitchen right next to the counter. She’s checking to see if dinner is ready. Daddy likes to know before hand where or not she needs to punish me. But dinner is ready and I’ve been a good girl. Daddy opens my box. She’s adjusted the light in the bedroom so I can look at her gorgeous face without having to squint.

Still so handsome. Gray hair, almost pure white styled back away from her face. Brown eyes and full lips. Her dress shirt sleeves are already rolled up. I love her arms. I love her muscles.

“Hi,” she says.

I hide my face against my teddy before I look at her again. “Hi Daddy.”

“Were you a good girl today?”

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Pick out a toy and let’s have dinner.” Daddy’s so strong she reaches down and helps me out of my box. We walk over to her toy chest, where we keep all our straps and dildos and paddles and whips and the gags I asked so nicely for.

I look at the dildos laid out all nice and clean. I like to get them dirty for S and tease her when she has to clean them. I joke that she licks them when I’m not looking. Daddy laughs and tell me to cut it out.

“I want you to pick, Daddy,” I say before I shove my thumb in my mouth.

“You do, do you? Let’s go with Big Blue then.” Blue is the widest toy we have. I like to choke on it, and make my pussy hurt. Daddy grabs it for me and we go to the dining room. I get on the table while Daddy makes herself a plate and gets herself a drink. I get on the table and Daddy sits down with her food between my legs. When she takes the first bite that’s when I start. I sit up on my knees and suck the big blue cock in my hands. I suck it deep, push it down my throat until I gag. I pull it out and let saliva dribble down my chin. Daddy doesn’t like it when I swallow.

I do it again, drooling all over my chest. I use the big blue tip to spread my spit around my nipples. Daddy likes that.

“Is your cunt hungry, baby?” Daddy asks.

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then you should feed it.”

I stay on my knees, but slide Big Blue between my legs. I sit it on. Daddy likes the way I whimper. It hurts so much, but I’m so wet and it feels so good.

“Make it feel better,” I tell Daddy.

“Not while I’m eating, baby. You have to make yourself feel good.”

I bounce up and down, taking the ache, grateful the table’s so study. Daddy scoops up her wine before it spills over.

I’m close to coming, but I want to give Daddy the show she deserves. I slide to my ass and open my legs real wide. Daddy sits back and takes another sip. I’m going to be sore in the morning, but I don’t care. I fuck myself with Big Blue, harder and harder, until my cum dribbles all over the table and squirts on Daddy’s plate. I’m not done so I do it again and again. I know how Daddy likes it so I don’t make her wait too long before I crawl back to my knees and lick up the mess that I’ve made.

Daddy’s pleased, but there’s a look on her face. “Did you get into the wine?”

Daddy knows I’m a liar so I don’t tell the truth, I just keep licking at the slick table top. “No, Daddy. I don’t like wine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s yucky.”

“You sure about that? Come here baby.”

I move off the table as Daddy pushes back her chair and then I straddle her lap. She doesn’t pack to work, but some time while she was making her play she put on a strap and cock. I slide myself along the ridges in her slacks. But Daddy shakes her head.

“No, baby. You lied to me.”

“I swear, Daddy. I didn’t.”

She tips her glass and pours a few dribbles of the cool white wine over my nipples and then she cleans me up with her mouth. I whimper and moan and grind myself along the hidden ridges between my legs. “Only good girls get Daddy’s cock,” she whispers in my ear.

I pull back and drive myself against her lap even harder as I look her in the eye. “What do bad girls get, Daddy?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #176, Indigo Bleu and Viceroy.

Moving In (Lauren & Beck #3)

“Please Beck, please put it in, please,” Lauren says, pushing her hips back to encourage the tip of Beck’s strap-on cock to slide inside of her. She’s on her knees, hands gripping the headboard of the bed for support. Beck has Lauren’s hair tight in her fist like reigns and a bridle.

Beck grins. She wants it excruciatingly slow. She wants it to last. She wants to savor this rare moment, this time when Lauren actually asked her to strap on and fuck her. Please Beck, will you fuck me with your cock? Lauren doesn’t usually ask for more than fingers. Beck’s hips are quivering.

They have been working all weekend, moving all of Lauren’s worldly possessions from her small apartment in Berkeley up to Beck’s house in the Oakland hills. Luckily, they had a lot of help: Lauren’s roommate, a few of her friends from work, plus Beck’s gaggle of friends who follow her around anywhere. Mostly big, burly butches who like to be useful—they had the heavy furniture moved in practically before Lauren even got out of the car. Fast and furious.

The move has been a long time coming. Beck has been wracked with anxiety these past few weeks, as the August 1st moving date got closer and closer and the reality of no longer living alone started setting in. They spent fewer nights together, savoring their own rooms and own space. Lauren finished packing early, the bulk of her objects being kitchen gear and clothes, and relatively easy to pack away. She even had the audacity to suggest that they rent the moving van a week early and just go for it—but Beck quickly stomped out that idea.

After three years together, the topic of moving in together came up frequently, but Beck became adept at changing or skirting the subject, deflecting or, eventually, out-right saying no. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” Beck used to say. “I just need my space to be the way I want it to be. I know we spend most of our nights together. But those one or two nights we don’t spend together are important for me to have.”

“I understand,” Lauren says. And she did. But she also wanted their books mingling on the same bookshelf, she missed her good set of knives whenever she was cooking at Beck’s house. Which was practically every day.

But things changed in the six months since Mallory died. Beck softened, somehow; everything about her is a little more raw, a little more exposed, a little less together and buttoned-up. Even her fucking has become more raw, more full of tears and growl. They weren’t that close, not since Beck moved to the opposite coast, but as soon as Mallory got sick, Beck almost moved back. Mallory was the one who told her no, who told her to live her life out in San Francisco the way she wanted to. They were practically the only family each other had, so the loss has turned Beck’s life upside down in the weeks since.

Now, Lauren’s fancy memory foam mattress is on the bed frame that Beck inherited from Mallory, a family heirloom of dark carved wood. It is practically the only thing that is put together in the whole house, with Lauren’s boxes and a few pieces of furniture haphazardly placed all over Beck’s usually neat and tidy home. Beck can feel the chaos of moving, even though it wasn’t her who moved; the suspension of security in order to become something new, something bigger than what she was before. This has been a year of letting go, of letting things happen, of accepting the gifts that the universe is offering, of learning how to ground and comfort herself.

And Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Such a beauty, how lucky Beck is to have her as a partner, as a friend, as a lover. She has been supportive, in her own way—which is not always the way that Beck wants her to be, but is a way, and ultimately, it works. Whenever Beck straps on, she wants to pour herself into Lauren and swing around inside until she’s wrung out. She knows those tight muscles of Lauren’s so well with her fingers, her tongue; she can envision them around this temporary fake cock, is starting to feel what it’s like to thrust inside of a girl and feel her clench.

Beck enters her slow, so slow. Lauren breathes in, breathes out. Beck closes her eyes, holding on to Lauren’s hips with both hands. She applies more lube and slows down even more.

Lauren is on her stomach, legs squeezed together, Beck’s thighs on the outside, thrusting in still so slow. Lauren is moaning into the sheets, hair falling in her face, hands clenching. She flexes her feet, her toes are curling. She tries to get Beck in even deeper by moving her hips. Beck responds slow and they are dancing, meeting each other’s rhythms, tension building.

“Please fuck me, please, do it harder, please baby, please,” Lauren says. Half of them are into the pillow and she’s drooling and Beck can barely tell what she’s saying, but she thrusts in a little harder now, a little faster, picking up speed as her own pleasure builds. She has these micro-orgasms, spasms that clench and release, every couple of thrusts, but she wants to go after the big one, too, wants to feel herself emptied into Lauren’s beautiful slit.

Beck holds on and focuses on the tip, just the tip of her cock, where it touches Lauren inside, where they meet and merge. Lauren is gasping and pressing back into her and it makes Beck crazy, it makes her hips tremor and thrust, it opens up new wanting in her pelvis like a bowl of milk. “Fuck, Lauren—fuck!” Beck starts to say as she comes, shaking and pressing harder inside, spilling out and deep into her.

“Baby, baby,” Beck murmurs into Lauren’s hair as her thrusting slows.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more Beck, just a little more—” Lauren works her hand down under her body and touches her clit, moaning out and thrusting her hips back again. Beck adjusts the strap-on so it’s a little higher, not so directly against her cunt anymore, and starts thrusting again. A little bit higher this time. “Yes, there—there—”

Only a few more thrusts, and Lauren is done. Flying and coming and screaming into the pillows, her own hand furiously touching her cunt as Beck smoothly slides inside at just the right angle. Her whole body tenses, so tight and hard, every muscle and joint contracted, even holding her breath, until she lets it go, releases everything, breathes out with a huge sigh, and inhales sweet new air. She moans, her body still jerking a little from the electricity running through it. Each breath gives her a little more spaciousness, a little more relaxation. Beck is still inside, and Lauren shifts her hips to ease her out.

“Was that what you wanted?” Beck asks, after Lauren has curled on her side and Beck is smoothing her hair back from her face.

“Yes, oh god yes,” Lauren says, kissing Beck lusciously with thick lips and fervor.

“Mmm, I’m glad.”

They’re quiet for a minute, gazing and touching, bodies still sensitive and heightened.

“Baby?” Beck starts.

“Hmm?”

“Can we unpack now?”

Lauren laughs. “Is that going to bug you basically until it’s done?”

Beck looks a little sheepish. “Yes.”

Lauren ruffles her hair. “I know. Yeah, let’s start. How about with the kitchen!”

Beck nods, starting to peel herself off of the bed to face her chaotic house. “It will make it easier to make dinner later.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lauren started, digging into a box for her silky robe, the blue one that goes to her mid-thigh. “Ricky is bringing over dinner later. He found some new Ethiopian place he says we have to try.”

Beck’s mouth waters. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they started talking about food. “Sounds great.” She grins, pulling on her boxers with the Superman S and not even caring that her clothes are strewn all over. It’ll come back together, soon, she tells herself. It won’t be the same as it was before, but it’ll be better. They’ll be stronger individually for being with each other. I’m ready, she thinks, as she watches Lauren’s ass in the thin robe as she walks out of the bedroom, lifting her hair out from the neck of the robe and letting it cascade down her back. This is it.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Pancakes (Lauren & Beck #2)

Beck wakes up slow, taking minutes to open her eyes, shifting her spine and hips as she snuggles closer under the smooth, soft comforter. It’s already bright outside, and if the fog has already burned off that means it’s after 9am already. Beck isn’t surprised they slept in, more like pleased—she never used to allow herself that luxury, even on a weekend. She snakes her arm over to find Lauren, but no one is there; Lauren’s half of the bed is empty. That is enough to wake Beck fully, and she throws off the covers, pulls on boxers, and goes out into Lauren’s kitchen.

The smell tells her where Lauren is before she sees her: pancakes. Beck’s favorite, and Lauren’s specialty. Beck breathes in, inhaling that luxurious smell of butter and sugar, the tangy tinge of fruit. Even her senses seem more sensitive, everything feels more intense. Lauren is balancing pans at the stove: a small cast-iron skillet full of berries, a flat griddle in the center, a metal spatula in one hand. She’s wearing a simple long chef’s apron, and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

“Where’d you go,” Beck mumbles, still sleepy, tongue thick and well-used from last night’s escapades. She comes up behind Lauren and slips her arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Lauren grins, turning her head to kiss Beck as well as she can reach. “Preparing your favorites,” she says.

“It smells amazing.”

“It’s almost done. I was just thinking about creative ways to wake you up. I can’t believe you slept so late.”

“Me either. Thanks for wearing me out last night.”

Another grin. “My pleasure.”

Beck’s cunt is still sore. It was the first time she’s taken Lauren’s fist all the way, to the hilt of her wrist, thick and all-consuming. Lauren’s hands aren’t small, but that isn’t it: Beck isn’t usually willing to open. Again, it goes through Beck’s mind: everything has changed. She pushes back tears, tries to stop her mind from going into that downward spiral that leaves her in bed watching sitcoms all day.

They eat in Beck’s messy dining room, clearing the paperwork to one side of the table and laying out the fruit compote, yogurt, maple syrup, and steaming pile of pancakes on their side. Beck is famished, but it’s so deliciously indulgent to be eating pancakes on a Wednesday morning that she savors bite after bite after bite like it’s the first one. She licks maple syrup from her fingers and doesn’t even care that that is messy and improper.

Lauren watches her eat with a little sadness in her eyes, finally asking, “How are you feeling?”

Beck sighs a little. Inevitable. “Good. I’m … okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know.” Another bite. At least eating is a good excuse not to talk. She chews quietly.

“Can I … help, somehow?”

Beck shrugs, spooning compote onto another pancake. “Not really. Look, baby—” Beck puts her spoon down, reaches over for Lauren’s hand, warm and comforting. “There’s just nothing to do. I’m hungry, that’s a good sign, right?”

Lauren nods a little. “Yeah. I just … worry. You know.”

“I know.”

Beck has one more pancake, just one more, she promises herself, and finishes off the coffee with coconut cream from her favorite mug. It’s perfect, it could not be more perfect. She beams at Lauren, thrilled and grateful. This is how it happens these days: the emotional roller coaster has ecstasy in the highs and despair in the lows. The ups and downs can make Beck feel nauseous, they happen so fast.

Lauren starts clearing dishes and Beck helps, carrying plates to the kitchen, overlooking last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. She doesn’t even care about that anymore. Everything has changed. When Beck comes back in, Lauren is wiping the table with a sponge. There’s a fat drip of maple syrup right in the center of the table that she misses, and something stirs in Beck. A new hunger, more hunger, that insatiable hunger that can never be satisfied. Breakfast is barely just complete, but it isn’t about food. It’s about consumption, about devouring, about fingernails ripping into flesh and the crying out that throats make when they are gasping for air.

Beck comes up behind Lauren and circles her neck with her hand, pushing her chest first down onto the table. Lauren gasps, bare breasts crushing against the table. “You missed a spot,” she hisses in Lauren’s ear. Lauren’s forehead is almost touching the dot of syrup. Beck points, and immediately Lauren opens her mouth to try to lick the table clean, but she can’t quite reach, so scoots further onto the table. Her feet no longer touch the floor, her hips are on the table now. As Lauren’s tongue touches the sticky-sweet drip, Beck stands between her legs, parting her cheeks, taking handfuls of her juicy ass and thighs. Lauren’s slit is pink, still swollen from so much fucking last night, thick. Her pubic hair is dark and groomed, but still a little wild, a little unruly.

It doesn’t take Beck much time at all to get her mouth positioned, and she sucks Lauren’s folds onto her tongue, soft and sharp, sweet and succulent. Lauren gasps, tender in all her private places. Beck is devourous. She sucks and opens Lauren’s legs wider, holds her hips, wraps her arms around her thighs. She doesn’t use her fingers inside, just her tongue, as deep as she can get, desperate to fill Lauren up. Lauren tastes like salt and brine and sweet milk, like promise and desire itself.

“Oh god, oh god,” Lauren moans, pushing herself back toward Beck’s eager mouth. Beck laps and sucks, flicks with her tongue on just the right places, makes it hard and long for others. Beck could do this for hours. Time is irrelevant. They don’t have anywhere to be, only here, right now, doing this kind of worship, this kind of reverence. Those other things can’t possibly matter more than this.

When Lauren finally comes, she gushes hard into Beck’s mouth and down her chin, dripping onto her chest, though Beck swallows mouthfuls eagerly. Lauren trembles, finally releasing her grip on the table’s edge, letting the tension drain out of her legs. She turns as Beck rises from her crouched position on the floor. Beck pets her hair, Lauren’s tangled mess of curls, as Lauren hums, still vibrating from orgasm.

Lauren raises her head a little, an invitation for a kiss. Beck leans down close and their lips touch softly. Lauren sees the sparks still in Beck’s eyes.

“More?” Lauren asks.

Beck nods.

“Bedroom?”

Beck nods again, offering her hand. “Let’s go.” Lauren takes it, and lets herself be led down the hall.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Just This Next Thrust (Angie & Fern #4)

Fern saunters down the corridor like she’s window shopping, so casual, so indifferent. She’s in a simple dark grey summer dress that bounces a little when she moves, coming down to her knees, scooping at the neck. She’s carrying a crisp black leather rectangle purse, so small I can’t imagine it holds more than one book. Her black leather boots click against the floor. She looks a little severe, but the way she moves makes it all seem so casual and light. My legs start burning to run to her before she’s through the official security checkpoint, so I hold myself back for as long as I can, then dash into her arms and bury my nose in her neck, inhaling her sweet intoxicating scent, always the same, still after these two years: honeysuckle and leather.

“God, I missed you,” I whisper, not really speaking to her, just needing to say it aloud. She holds me close, arms around my waist as mine are thrown around her neck. I pull back to kiss her and our lips crushing and insistent, urgently nipping with our teeth, tongues exploring and soft.

I sigh, so happy. Things just feel so right when she’s around. “I can’t wait to show you around Indy!” I say. “There are so many fun things—”

“Oh sugar, like I want to see anything except your bedroom this weekend. I have a list of scenes I want to play in,” Fern ruffles my hair and slips her arm around my waist, turning and steering us toward baggage claim. “Sightseeing I can do anytime. You, though …” she turns to me, pulls me hard against her, our lips barely brushing, foreheads touching. “I need you,” she says, and kisses me again, so hard and passionate that I swoon, my knees going weak. She holds me up.

“Take me to your place,” she says.

*

While we wait for the luggage we kiss luxuriously slow, giggling, as if we had all the time in the world, as if we weren’t packing two month’s worth of longing and desire into one weekend, as if we knew where this was going. I wore sheer, wet lipstick that tastes like peaches—the one she loves—and hers is dark, but it doesn’t come off on my mouth. Her hair is too perfect, piled and twisted on top of her head. I can’t wait for it to come down, to lather it with shampoo and conditioner, to brush it out for her before bed like I’ve come to do on every visit.

I drive us quickly back to my place. She keeps her hand on my thigh, pushing up my short skirt, fingertips brushing feather-light against my skin. She kisses my neck and the palm of my right hand. I’m jumping out of my skin by the time we are walking from my apartment building’s small carport through the lobby to the elevator. Fern is so calm, like she is about to walk in to a business meeting she’s running. I am talking like an idiot, babbling on about the end of college, about my roommate (out of town for the weekend, obvs), about what happened when my parents came to visit for graduation, about the internship I had that possibly maybe probably could lead to a job, maybe even in New York.

The elevator is mirrored from the waist up. There are a hundred of us reflected on all angles. I’ve always loved this elevator. Really good selfies in here. As soon as I touch the #7 button to my floor—still yammering on, this time about the super of my building and how nothing is ever fixed—Fern puts a finger to my lips to shush me, gently pushing me against the wall. I whimper, immediately parting my legs for her. She shoves her hand up my skirt brutally, knocking into my pubic bone, as she kicks my legs apart and pushes my hands above my head with her other hand. She cups her palm around my cunt and kisses me, hard this time, biting my lower lip and shoving her tongue into my mouth. “I need you, Angie, I need you,” she mutters, pinching the folders of my cunt with her fingers, causing me to cry out, wince, and start dripping. “So wet already, girl,” she coos. I moan. Damnit. She always knows I can never hide it from her: what I want, what turns me on, what I’m desperate for. She’s so hard to read, but I seem so easy for her.

Fern pushes her fingers past my thin cotton panties and slides two right into me, easy and slick. I gasp, pressing hard against her hand, willing her deeper inside. I want her whole hand, her strap-on, her mouth—I want it all.

I’m just about ready to pull her down on top of me when the elevator stops and the door opens, and we’re on my floor. Fern clears her throat, kisses me once, and slides out of me, slowly and deliberately.

I barely get the key out of the lock before she’s on me again, in the hallway in my own little apartment. “Wait, wait, let me at least close the—” I start, but Fern slams it shut with her boot and gives me this look like I am the most delicious pray and she’s been stalking me for weeks. It makes me want to run, and it makes me want her to catch me.

So I do. I bolt toward the bedroom, dropping my purse and my keys on the floor, things scattering, not caring. Fern is so fast in following me that I can feel the whoosh of air on my legs. She catches me from behind, shoving me down face first onto the bed. I’m going to get it, and I want every bit of it I’ll get.

“I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you, girl,” she growls in my ear while she pushes my skirt and panties aside. She slides her fingers in again, more of them this time, long and pressing right up against that exact spot that always needs more, and I moan into the quilt.

“Please, please,” I beg.

Fern isn’t nice when she gets like this, she’s rabid, a little vicious. I never thought that would turn me on, but now I crave it, being wanted like that, being taken down. She thrusts into me a dozen times, slow then harder and faster, until I’m shuddering and almost ready to come. “Not yet, sugar,” she says, low and syrupy, her face still so close to my ear.

She pulls up and says, “Strip,” and reaches behind her for the zipper on her own dress, sliding it off of her shoulders, revealing her freckles and moles and her lovely breasts as she pulls it down over her arms. I drop my skirt and panties, unbuttoning the silver cap-sleeved blouse I’d picked out especially for her earlier this week. When her dress falls to the floor I see that she has a strap-on beneath her dress, a dark red one that matches her lipstick and fingernail polish precisely, holstered in a red and white striped harness with a small red bow at the top in the center. The dick is so long, and her dress is so tight, that it’s tied down to her thigh with a black hanky.

My breath catches at the sight. Goddamn, she’s so sexy. She unties the dick and tightens the harness.

“On the bed,” she says, and I immediately hop up onto it and lay back, pumping a palm-full of lube from the bottle on my nightstand and rubbing it against my hole. She kneels next to me, twisting my hips so she can slide her tool in to me from behind while I’m still mostly on my back. When she enters me, I grab at the bars of my headboard for support, pushing against her, working my hips against hers, taking it all in, every inch, every thrust she can manage.

“Please more, Fern please, please!”

She fucks me harder. She’s starting to grunt and moan and I reach down to touch my own clit, cunt contracting even harder around her. I rub it fast and furious with my fingers, pushing against the headboard and against her legs. She twists around, lifting one of her feet up, boots still on, and presses it against the side of my head, pushing me down into the bed. I’m held immobile, I have to take it, it’s too much and I almost can’t, but I love it, and I open up to meet every inch of force she dishes out to me.

Harder still. I moan and cry out, begging for more, begging for her to let up, begging for mercy, but she is relentless, and focused on my hole, which is telling her all she needs to know. I breathe and quiet myself, trying to just feel it, just feel every bit of it, just let every cell in my body soak up this pleasure so I can let it seep into my skin over the next months that we’re apart. When are we going to see each other again? We don’t have another visit planned. I can’t think about that now. Just feel it, I tell myself. Just this next thrust. Just this next breath.

I start working my clit with my other hand again, face still pressed to the bed under her boot, and before I know it I come, hard, shuddering and gasping, crying out, pressing my hips into Fern as she thrusts into me.

She moves her boot and collapses next to me. “Fuck!” she declares.

I can barely move, but I nuzzle closer to her, catching my breath. “Uh huh.”

“Ange, you’re so fucking hot,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Mmm. You are,” I say. “Did you come?”

She gives a short laugh. “No, I can’t come like that. I’ll just use your mouth later. Or your hands. Or maybe my hands. Hm, so many options.”

I nod, sleepy. “Whatever you want.” We lay together in the quiet for a little while, skin against skin, hands touching, caressing.

Then, suddenly: “Come on,” she says, getting up off the bed.

“What?”

“Let’s go, I want a cigarette.” Last time she was here, we spent most of the time in my bedroom, the kitchen, and the little roof deck up on the 8th floor. She loves cigars especially. I’ve even gotten good at cigar service, which I learned from folks in the local leather scene at her urging.

I reluctantly oblige, pulling my softest, warmest robe from behind the closet door and slipping it on. She pulls on pajama pants and a tee shirt, and pulls my college sweatshirt from the closet.

I follow her upstairs, still giddy and buzzing. She’s a little antsy. I should probably have offered to get her off right away, she’s still all wound up. But when I get upstairs, I get the feeling something else is going on.

She lights a cigarette, playing with the lighter and staring at the flame, sucking down the smoke. I hate that I find her smoking sexy, but I do. She gets all squinty and intense, and I just want to kiss her and taste it on her mouth. We sit on the patio furniture, knees touching.

“You know I love you,” she leans, reaching over to my hands in my lap. It’s chilly out here; we’re in that gloaming time, when it’s still light but the sun is gone, and it’s not yet twilight. I wrap my robe tighter around my body.

“Of course,” I say, but she keeps going.

“You know I want to be with you. I just haven’t been able to figure out a way to do it, really. But I got some really good news at work recently. I’ve been waiting to tell you, I wanted to say it in person. They’re offering me an international position, which means I’ll be overseas probably 8 months out of the year to start. The company has a villa in France, and another in Italy—that’s where they want me first.”

I swallow. Oh shit. What is she saying?

“And school is done for you, now. I know you want to get your own job and have your own career, and I want you to, I don’t want to be in the way of that. But we have other options, too … ”

And out of nowhere, Fern suddenly has a ring in her hand. A diamond ring, a beautiful one, antique and perfect and catching all the light that the sky has left. I gasp at the sight of it.

“Fern!”

“Angie, you’re everything to me. I want to keep exploring this, and I want you in my life every day, not just sometimes. I want you to come abroad with me. I know it’s a risk, and it will be really different and probably hard, but I want to try. Do you? Will you … marry me?”

I swallow, my mouth is so dry, my eyes are wet. “Yes. Yes baby, yes!”

Fern is relieved, visibly, and lunges forward to hug me. I can barely breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. I take a deep breath and feel better, feeling Fern’s hands on my back, her body and the perfect shape of her next to me, inhaling the scent of her. And—France! Italy! And the ring!

She pulls back to offer the ring, and I offer my finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” she says, kissing me. “My mom said she can’t wait to meet you.”

She slides it on, and it’s a perfect fit.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade. Harness featured in the story is The Betty by Velvet Nest. Cheesy marriage ending brought to you by the Supreme Court marriage equality decision over this past (pride!) weekend.

Morning After (Angie & Fern #3)

“Good morning, baby,” I whisper, kissing Fern’s neck as I spoon her from behind. She mumbles something sleepy into the pillow and presses her hips back into me. Her skin is so smooth, I can feel the bone of her hip under my hand and it feels strong, thick, capable.

Even though my body is calibrated to an earlier time zone, I always wake up before Fern. She’s kind of a night owl—she’d sleep until noon if it wasn’t for me. She’s been keeping me up late, but I still can’t sleep much past nine.

I stretch my toes and circle my ankles in her big bed; the cotton sheets caress my legs. Our bodies are touching, still nude after last night’s play time, and I hear her sigh just a little and nestle deeper into the covers. It still smells like sex in here, like her come and my come and our sweat all mingled together. And under it all, that honeysuckle smell, but just a hint of it, not too sweet. The leather of her furniture balances it out, too—that dark, pungent smell of oils and skin. I know I keep going on about her sheets, but—my god, her sheets! I’ve never felt sheets this good. I really have to ask her where she gets them, what makes them so perfect. I feel like I’m in water, they’re so smooth and soft. Her hair is tangled behind her and tickles my nose as I nuzzle into her neck, trying unsuccessfully to wake her. Lying down, we fit together so well: my breasts against her back, her butt against my hips. We just fit.

I shift my body around and manage to turn her hips so she’s lying flat back on the bed, and then I start kissing my way down her body. First her clavicle, the tops of her breasts, then her nipples, where I pause to suck so, so slowly and gently, so soft that she won’t even wake up, just feel something pleasant and keep dreaming. Her nipple gets hard in my mouth, they are long when they get hard and it feels like sucking a clit. I purse my lips and work my mouth around it, barely touching, just enough to keep it in my mouth. I suck the other gently into my mouth, roll it around on my tongue. Then I kiss her stomach, her hip bones, while I slide down further under the covers and my feet and calves dangle off the edge of the bed. I kiss at the crease of her hip, where her thigh meets her torso, that delicate tendon. I latch my mouth onto that, too, and suck again, just enough to get my mouth wet and salivating, enough to get her relaxed and opening her legs even more.

Fern sighs, her hips and shoulders open, eyes still closed. She might be more awake now, but she isn’t showing it. Either she’s faking or she’s still dozing.

I can smell her cunt now, the sharp sweetness and salt of her juices, and I loop my hands around the backs of her thighs. I explore every inch of her cunt with my lips, my cheeks, my nose, brushing as lightly as I possibly can, breathing warm air and inhaling in her scent. The sun is starting to come in through her bedroom window and I take a moment and just look at her, too. Her labia are asymmetrical and pink, her curls are blonde and fine. She looks a little swollen, a little turned on. Her outer lips are thickening, her clit is just barely visible when I gently, gently use my hand to spread her lips apart.

She tenses, pushing her hips up toward me, and I open my mouth to meet her, letting it rest on her cunt, nuzzling my chin a little more so she can feel me against her. My own pussy throbs, I can feel it getting wet and longing to be touched.

I use the wide of my tongue to lap at her softly, with the full width of me but without much pressure. Lots of softness, sweetness. She tastes delicious, I want to lap her up. Who would’ve thought I would like the taste of pussy so much. But after just a few days, I’m craving it, moaning and gulping it down like it’s my last and favorite meal.

With the tip of my tongue, I start tracing the contours of her cunt, the crevasses and divots. But not hard, not jabby—just the softest tip of it, gently against her tenderest places. She shifts again, a little “mmmmm” coming out of her like a half-sigh, half-moan, her arms opening up on either side of her. I like the noises she makes. She’s so relaxed, open. I take this as a good side and keep working my tongue against her, focusing a little more on her clit, but making wide circles around everything.

As I start gently pushing my tongue against her hole, she stirs even more, and when I get up to suckling on her clit, taking it between my lips and working it up and down like a tiny cock, she gasps and sits up halfway.

“Girl! What do you think you’re … doing, ohhh …”

I giggle, but also don’t want to stop. I stretch my tongue and talk between lapping at her clit with the tip of it. “Oh, I thought you said—” Lap lap lap. “That it was okay?” Flick flick. “I can stop—” Lap lap lap. “You know, if you want me to.” Suck, lap, flick.

She collapses back on the pillows and moves her hand into my hair, holding my head where it is. “Don’t you dare move. God that’s good.”

Fern is wide awake now, and so am I. I use every trick I know, all the things I know I like on me, and when she moans or presses even harder into me, I keep at it. She pushes my head down harder and I use more pressure, then she pulls up on my ears and I use less. I follow her lead. She guides me. I suck on her clit like it is dessert and I will eat every single drop of it.

When she comes, she thrashes and stomps the bed with her feet, bent-kneed and flailing. She cries out in big gulps of air, holding my face down against her hard, my tongue working as hard and fast as I can make it go. I can barely breathe. She holds me there, her hands fisting my hair, and I lighten my touch and offer long, slow licks until she is ready to let me go.

She’s breathing hard, body thrumming with blood and pulse and aliveness, when she pulls me up against her and holds me close. I fit perfectly against her, curling up and tucking my legs under me. She wraps her arms around me and we both sigh, giddy with pleasure.

“Angie, goddamn … I … wasn’t expecting that,” Fern finally manages to say.

“It’s my pleasure. Truly,” I say, kissing her neck.

She pulls me even closer and tilts her head to kiss me, her lips soft, mouth opening against mine. I probably still have her salty sweet taste in my mouth.

“My turn,” she declares, and turns out from under me so fast I barely even notice what’s happening until she’s between my legs, on top of me, and holding my thighs open with her knees. I gasp and moan, feeling exposed.

Please, I think. “Please,” I whisper.

She has a sparkle in her eye, and she begins kissing my neck, holding the palm of her hand against my cunt as she travels down my body.

*

Still sex-hazed and loopy, I stand in Fern’s flower-printed robe in the kitchen flipping banana pancakes. She had a craving, and the Bisquick, so we went for it. Fern is unusually quiet, setting the table and pouring coffee, orange juice, water, and getting plates out. She tossed on a white teddy, this short little slip of a dress with spaghetti straps and lace trim, and when she bends it shows off a matching white thong. Note to self, buy better lingerie.

I bring the serving plate over to the small breakfast nook in her apartment’s kitchen, bright and white with lace-edged curtains over the lower half of the windows. The white tile is bright and clean, the floor is immaculate. Either she doesn’t spend much time in here, or she has a housecleaner. My money is on the latter.

I eat two pancakes with yogurt and cut strawberries and maple syrup before I notice that Fern hasn’t said a word. I put down my knife and fork. “Fern?”

She doesn’t look up, but keeps staring at her pancakes, moving the fruit around with her fork. “Yeah.”

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“It’s just … Oh, god, Angie, we just have to start being honest here. Okay?” She kind of pauses, glancing up at me, but hurries on. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I mean, you’re going back to school in wherever the fuck you’re from—”

“Indianapolis,” I offer.

“—Wherever. And I live here. I mean, we can’t really do this. So we may as well just call it good. Don’t get me wrong, I like you. But there’s no future here.”

I try to breathe in but suddenly my body doesn’t work that way. Call it good? We can’t do this? I feel dizzy. I try to speak. “What … what do you mean?”

“I mean, how many more days are you here? Two? This is silly. I’m being silly, thinking we can make something of this. You should go. I mean, you should finish your breakfast, but then you should go.”

“I should … go?” I can’t keep up. She’s talking too fast. I thought … but I wanted …

“I just can’t see a way. You still have school. I’m not moving there. I don’t do long distance. We may as well rip the band-aid off now,” Fern mumbles, and I can feel that she is trying to convince herself, too.

“But, there have to be options—”

“There’s no way, Ange,” her voice is soft and betrays her sadness. She really has feelings for me. I stand up and go over to her, tentatively touch her shoulder. She reaches for me roughly, her arms around my waist and her head against my chest. Fern looks up at me and I see her eyes are wet and wide, bare and open. She’s not quite crying, but not far from it. She buries her head against me.

“There has to be,” I say softly, holding her close, and at that moment, I make a vow to myself to make it work.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

Tangled (Angie & Fern #2)

Fern’s first kiss makes my knees ache to buckle, my hands flailing to catch the air. Our shades of lipstick blend together and turn into the color of a bruise, all purple and red and plum. It makes me nervous to have color all over my mouth, I never let the edges go so mussed, but I like her imprint on me. Her lips are soft, so soft. She won’t let me put my hands in her hair, which makes me want to even more.

Her tiny leather vest had pins on it, some with dates—2013, 2012, 2011—one with tiny handcuffs, one with tiny stilettos. The back of it is embroidered in red and blue leather with the words “Ms. Formal Leather 2012,” and I puzzle as to what it all means. I hope she’ll keep me around long enough to find out.

She takes me to a wine bar around the corner. By now, I figure she’s smelled the money on me, but either way, she is a better date than James. But she doesn’t blink when the check comes, just slides some elite plastic from her tiny purse and says, “You’re coming home with me now.”

I giggle, dizzy from the burgundy and intoxicated from the sight of her smooth long legs, from the feel of the tips of my fingers dipping between her thighs. She leans in to my neck and sucks, nibbling gently, whispering, “Angie, I can’t wait to taste you,” and I bite my first two fingers to keep from moaning.

She takes my hand, pulls me from the restaurant, and hails a cab, all while keeping her mouth on my neck, her hand fisting my hair and holding my head precisely where she wants me. That pressure is the only thing keeping me standing, otherwise I swear I would be a puddle on the grimy, gum-stained sidewalk.

My thighs stick to the faux-leather back seat of the cab as I slide over so she can get in after me. Fern gives her address and some quick, specific directions, her fingers still tangled at the base of my neck.

Satisfied that the driver is following orders, she leans over to me, turning her shoulders to slide one of her hands between my thighs. I gasp. “What do you like, girl?” She’s whispering right next to my ear.

“I like … I like it when you kiss me,” I struggle with words.

She turns my head with her fist and our lips brush. “What else.”

“I like … rough. I like being thrown around. I like being used.”

Fern nods slowly, her lips exploring mine with each movement.

“I like … being filled up.” I’m pushing my legs open, begging with my hips for her to touch my pussy. I’m sure I’m wet; I feel hot and sticky, pulsing, swollen. She’s grazing the edges of my panties, dragging her her fingernails over my thighs just enough so I can feel it. Just enough to make me want more. I want to cry out. I want to beg.

“Oh, you do huh.”

Fern cups her whole hand over my vulva and lets me press it against her, trying to get my clit against the heel of her palm. “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

She moans a little. “Mmm, I like that.”

My dress is up way past my knees and I’m sure the driver can see whatever he wants in his rear view. My shoulders are thrown back, knees thrown open. I’m at her mercy. I want her fingers, her tongue, anything she would give me. Please, please. I can’t wait. I’ll do anything, everything. She brings one finger up to my mouth and slides it in against my tongue. I close my lips, close my eyes, and suck.

*


I am still bare, lying diagonally on her vast, fluffy bed, when Fern comes out of the shower. The sheets smell like her, the sweetness of some big yellow and white flower that tumbles down onto the ground with abandon, plus a little bit of harsh savory seriousness, along with a hint of down feathers. My entire body buzzes and pulses, and I can still feel her fingers on my hips, my thighs. She emerges with a puff of steam behind her, opening the master bathroom door wide to let it air out. The steam dissipates quickly and barely licks my calves and toes, just a whisper of wet warmth. Fern is wrapped in a thick grey towel that covers her body from above her breasts to her knees, wrapped more than once around her slender frame. Her hair hangs past her shoulders, darker now that it is damp.

She sits down at the vanity next to the picture window and watches me in the mirror while she pumps lotion into her hands and begins rubbing it into her skin. It hits my nose like I’d just driven by an entire field of honeysuckle—so sticky sweet, bright and pungent and enlivening.

I close my eyes, rolling on to my stomach and propping myself up with my elbows, my chin in my hands, and inhale deeply. “Mmm,” I sigh, with the same kind of relaxed eagerness as if I’ve been on a quest and now have found the source.

She smiles at me through the mirror, letting out a quiet laugh. Her voice is hoarse now. “You like?”

“It’s heavenly.” I sigh again.

Her hair is so fine, it is pretty much already dry, but it is tangled and matted from all of our rolling around. She holds up a bottle and a brush and says, “Would you?”

I nod, slipping off of the bed and taking the objects from her hands. I spray the bottle onto her tangles and gently start running the dark red comb through her hair. The teeth are big and wide, the handle is thick. I don’t use combs, only brushes really, the ones with the fine bristles, they smooth my hair the best. This, Fern’s red comb, feels foreign in my hands, but I want to be gentle, don’t want to pull. I spray more of the tonic and some of the knots loosen as I work them with the teeth, starting from the bottom, holding her hair so the pressure of the comb doesn’t pull her scalp.

Her shoulders are landscapes: the contours of the bones, the muscles. My eyes wander to her neck, her clavicle, the top curves of her breasts that are not covered by the grey towel. She continues with her creams and lotions, rubbing one kind in to her elbows, another kind to her knees and thighs, a third on her face.

I concentrate. More sprays from the tonic, more detailed attention to the matted knot that her hair has become—and then this one pulls through and begins to comb clean. There is one more on the other side. She is almost ignoring me, but I feel closer to her than when her whole hand was inside me. And then I feel it: I’m wet again.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

Calibrate, Guest Post by Jen Cross

This is how it was between them: leaded with need, full throttle, every night.

It didn’t matter who they were outside of the apartment. It didn’t matter how the world saw them. It didn’t matter: the misconstruals, the misreadings, the misunderstandings, the harassment, the rage. It didn’t matter that it often seemed as though no one could see them but one another.

They saw one another, and that was what really mattered.

Daphne placed the call, every afternoon at three, right when her boss stepped out for his afternoon constitutional – which actually amounted to making a rounds of the department and harassing the rest of the secretaries for awhile, giving Daphne a break.

At ten to three, Gage knew to step away from whatever machine she’d been underneath, wipe as much grease from her hands as she could, and stand nearish the phone. Every one of her coworkers at the shop knew what she was waiting for, and they didn’t quite understand why she pretended not to be waiting for her girlfriend’s call. The guys raised eyebrows at one another, but no one talked any shit. Gage had been at the shop longer than anyone, was the first woman the boss had ever hired back almost twenty years before; she had slowly but surely trained the boys how to deal when she was around: “No sexist bullshit,” she’d explain to a new hire, clapping him or her on the shoulder while showing them around the place. “I don’t wanna hear about any gash or pussy or tail or ass you got last night, got it? None of the other guys do, either. You talk about your women with respect, or don’t talk about ’em at all, got it?”

It didn’t matter to Gage that plenty of the guys wanted to hear about the pussy and the gash. She was all right with them resenting her for that. Fuck them. If she had to walk through the walls of hostility just to get to work every day, they could fucking well hold their tongues to avoid the shop getting sued for creating a hostile work environment.

Exactly at three, the oil-stained phone rang. Gage wiped damp palms on her coveralls and picked up the line.

“Stoney’s Auto.”

“Gage?” Daphne’s voice sounded like warm honey that’d been poured over shards of broken glass in the back alley behind some biker bar.

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Always, baby.”

“You got something for me when we get home?”

It never failed. Gage had to swallow hard just to be able to answer. All these years, and still she went immediately rigid at the sound of a woman—her woman—asking for what she wanted. Gage dropped her voice a shade, deepening it the way she knew Daphne liked, and trying to keep a little something private from the guys trying not to look like they’re listening in. “You want something when we get home?”

“Yeah.” A little whimper at the end.

“You gonna tell me about it.”

“Yeah.” A little sharper whimper.

“How’m I gonna calibrate?”

“Bring it all.”

Gage’s heart ached. She knew from this that Daphne had had a particularly hard day; maybe the boss had tried to feel her up again during the staff meeting, or maybe he’d offered up his only-very-thinly-veiled reminder that if she’d only go home with him, he would happily promote her up to management.

“I got it ready.”

“Ok.”

They hung up. One of the guys across the floor, Samuel, Gage’s oldest buddy at the shop, made eye contact with Gage as she hung up. Gage nodded a little slowly. Samuel gave a small smile and a shrug. Gage shrugged back. “Yeah,” she said. Then she went home, mind spinning with what was to come.

Daphne got home before Gage nearly every evening. Most nights she tore off her office drag—button-down shirt and pencil skirt, “nude” nylon stockings, low black pumps—off as soon as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Gage since their four-month anniversary. She’d let her long auburn hair down from its tight bun and wrap herself in one of the many peignoirs she’d collected over the years. Most nights she’d have a bath drawn and dinner started by the time Gage walked in the back door.

“Go clean up,” she’d say to her love, eyeing with hunger Gage’s thick shoulders and broad, filthy hands. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She’d let the satin robe fall, accidentally, from one smooth shoulder as Gage walked past her, which she’d trained Gage never to leave unsuckled, and so, most nights, she had to boil a pot of water to reheat the tub by the time Gage made it from the kitchen into to the bathroom. Most nights, Daphne was the one who’d sit down to their shared dinner oilstained.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw them, what anyone else read into the roles each played. What mattered was how each of them ached, specifically, for what and who and how the other was.

On this night, Daphne did not take off her clothes. She did not start dinner. She didn’t even remove her red plaid trench coat. She didn’t get past the kitchen. She fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the ones with the metal frame backs and the plastic covered seats that came with the ’50s-era linoleum kitchen set they’d found at an estate sale not long after moving in together. She didn’t cry, not again. Everything in her was numb.

Gage found Daphne this way when she arrived home a half-hour later. The evening sun had already given way to shadow, so Daphne was just a silhouette when Gage walked in their back door. There were no lights, none of the music Daphne always had going, no aromas of arroz con pollo or fried plantain or feijoada. Just the stinging scent of lemon cleanser and Daphne’s sorrow.

Gage didn’t speak. After kicking off her work boots, she knelt in front of Daphne. Gently, she removed Daphne’s coat, then let down her hair. She listened to Daphne’s body, the shallow intake of breath. She listened to what needed to happen first.

Gage took both of Daphne’s hands in her own then stood, pulling Daphne to standing with her. She slung a dirty arm around Daphne’s somehow still pristine white work shirt, and led her into the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, Gage began to unbutton Daphne’s shirt.

“No.” Daphne still had not met Gage’s eyes. “Leave them on.”

Gage hardened. It was going to be like this, then. She took a box from next to the bed, and as she went into the bathroom, she said over her shoulder, “Take your nylons off. Leave them on the floor.”

When Gage returned to the bedroom, Daphne had done as she’d been asked. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, far away. Gage collected her woman up in her arms, eased them both back onto the bed, then lifted herself up, reached down, and inched Daphne’s skirt up over those thick hips. She unbuttoned her fly, took out her cock, lubed it up and slipped into Daphne’s cunt.

It was then that Daphne started to cry. She fitted herself to Gage’s body—legs wrapped hard around thighs, arms clenched to Gage’s well-muscled back, fingernails digging in hard. She wept in big, fat sobs, burying her face in Gage’s chest as Gage buried herself in Daphne. Gage knew what to do. She found her rhythm, their rhythm, and kept steady as Daphne’s sorrow brewed and boiled over. It took awhile. She never knew how long it would take on nights like these. Give it to me, she thought. Give me what no one else can see.

The shift was immediate, when it came. Her gasping sobs shifted to gasps raw and thick with hunger. “Yes,” Daphne whimpered. “Yes. Like that, baby.” And Gage knew she could let go. She dropped her hands from where they’d been cradling Daphne’s head and shoulders, grabbed her woman’s hips, and drove herself home. “Yes,” she answered, panting. “Like this.” Daphne’s face wet, her body sore, her heartache subsiding. Yes, she thought, as she had every night for seventeen years. Yes, girl, please. Like this.

Bath Time (Bean & Mickey #2)

Content Warning: This story contains Daddy/girl dynamics, and shaving play with a razor (but no blood or skin cutting).

“Nooooo! Daddy, I’m scared!”

“Shhhh, hush babygirl. You’re going to make me slip. Now stay still.”

Bean’s arm is around Mickey’s shoulders, her big hand over Mickey’s breast, spilling out between Bean’s fingers. Mickey’s skin is wet and slick from the bath, the bubbles still shimmering and thick, smelling like lavender. The Mamie pink tiles in their bathroom was not a selling point when they moved in to the house, but they serve quite well for scenes like this. The matching thick grey hers & hers towels hang from the towel bar near the door; the cream paint needs touching up but things are generally in good shape. Mickey immediately bought a new shower curtain when they moved in, multi-colored and abstract like a Pollack painting, trying to make the pink tiles more subtle, but it mostly enhances the pink rather than camouflages it. The curtain is bunched up at one end of the tub, pushed aside. So are Mickey’s clothes, the sweet little blue and white skirt and blouse that she thinks make her look like a schoolgirl, the outfit she picked just to show off when Bean got home. It was not her first choice to have a bath instead. She might have stuck out her tongue in protest, for which she received a firm hand on her bottom.

When Bean took out a fresh, sharp razor, Mickey began an even louder protest.

Mickey tried to look away as Bean slid the razor expertly up her shin and calf, but she couldn’t. She could feel the metal—cold, despite being rinsed in her bath water, she could picture exactly how it was going to slice a line of red right through her skin and make her bleed. She doesn’t really like blood. It makes her feel faint, just the idea of bleeding.

“Daddy …” she whines, pleading with the syllables of her favorite word.

“You can do it, girl. Do it for me,” Bean leans over to kiss her babygirl square on the mouth, taking her lip between her teeth and holding it there, then opening her girl’s mouth for her tongue to plunge in. Mickey moans a little—she loves those big, overwhelming kisses. It distracts her long enough to breathe out.

“Good girl. Now stay relaxed, just like that. You wouldn’t want me to nick you,” Bean’s voice is soothing. Mickey shakes her head vigorously and grabs at Bean’s arm, Bean’s grey button-down work shirt rolled up and bunched at the elbow. Mickey’s hands are all wet but the whole front of Bean’s shirt is wet by now, with Mickey leaning against it and the splashing.

Mickey breathes in and tries to relax. Tries to remember her training from yoga, breathe in, relax, breathe out …Her eyes are wide and her breathing is shallow, but controlled. Her ankle is up on the side of the tub and Bean is past her knee now, up to the thigh where she doesn’t have much hair, so there isn’t much to shave. Usually Mickey does this herself. One of Daddy’s many rules is to keep herself shaved and smooth and soft.

Bean cups the bathwater in her hand and pours it over Mickey’s leg, the shaved one, to look for any places she’s missed. After a few more quick swipes, she’s done. “Next,” she tells Mickey, and Mickey, eyes big with her thumb in her mouth, swipes one leg for the other, balancing her ankle on the edge of the tub, and shivers in the cool air.

“Almost done, babygirl …” Bean is focused, methodical, technically precise in her skill. She leaves the shaving cream thick, she takes care around the bones of her ankles, around the tendons behind her knee. She draws the razor up Mickey’s leg in stripes, rinsing the razor, then pulls another stripe. Soon, Mickey’s leg is bare again, bare and tingling with menthol and naked exposure.

Her second leg is quicker; Mickey is more relaxed and more trusting (the thumb sucking helps), she doesn’t squirm as much. “You’re doing so well, babygirl,” Bean coos, and Mickey flushes with delight. She’s being strong, relaxed, doing something scary for her Daddy.

Bean rinses off Mickey’s leg, taking time to soothe every inch with her hand, then rinses the razor again. “Stand up,” Bean says, snaking her arm out from behind Mickey.

“What?”

“Stand up, girl. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Mickey stands carefully, trying not to slip in the lavender bubbles. Her hair is longer and darker from the water, past her shoulders and dripping onto her breasts, her nipples hard. She hugs her arms around her torso and shivers. Her eyes are big and nervous again.

“Turn.”

Mickey turns so she faces the wall, ass toward Bean. A spanking? Now? But she relaxed!

“Bend over.”

Mickey shivers again, though she’s less cold now. Maybe Bean was packing this whole time? She bends from the hips, holding on to the wall behind the tub for support.

Bean immediately begins probing Mickey’s ass, pulling apart her cheeks and running her finger along the velvety outside of Mickey’s tight pink asshole.

Mickey gasps. “Daddy!” Whining again, protesting. But she stays bent over, stays in place.

“We’re going to shave here, too, babygirl,” Bean has the shaving cream ready, balances the razor on the tub’s edge. She dabs cream generously at the small patch of light brown hair surrounding her girl’s delicate hole and rubs it in a little, massaging, getting her used to the touch. Some of the skin is puckered, Bean will have to be cautious. She picks up the razor and gently, gently starts kissing it to Mickey’s tender place, holding her cheeks apart with one hand and pulling the razor expertly swift with the other. Mickey gasps at the touch of it but stays bent over. Her little hole puckers, a wink of contraction, and relaxes. Bean grins.

It doesn’t take very many strokes of the razor before the soap is gone with the hair. There are a few strays that Bean takes out individually, the razor at a different angle, her hands spreading the skin taut.

When Bean is satisfied, she sets the razor on the tub’s edge again and dips her hands with her fingers tight together into the water, and pours handfuls of warm water down Mickey’s ass, rinsing the soap. Two, three times, then Bean pulls Mickey’s cheeks apart again to check on what soap is left. She swirls her thumb around Mickey’s tight hole and the skin feels practically squeaky clean.

Bean holds Mickey’s ass open and leans forward to kiss it. Her tongue swirls around the hole and against the puckering skin. Mickey gasps and purrs, leaning forward a little deeper and pushing her ass back against Bean’s face. “Oooooh,” she sighs. Bean licks, lapping with her tongue wide and soft, warm and wet and wanting. She tastes faintly of soap, and underneath that, of skin. Her tight hole is even more relaxed, opening a little for her daddy’s tongue, pushing faintly against it, urging it in deeper.

“Ohhh god that feels so good,” Mickey moans into the wall, barely loud enough for Bean to hear. Bean moans, the humming vibrating into Mickey’s ass. Bean reaches around to touch Mickey’s cunt and finds it wet, dripping already, her lips thick and puffy. She gets her thumb wet and then flicks Mickey’s clit with it while she plunges her tongue into Mickey’s tight asshole.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Mickey pleads again, this time with lust and a hint of begging behind her syllables.

“Hmm, look at this,” Bean answers, pulling on the short hair on Mickey’s cunt. “We’re not quite done yet, babygirl. Turn around.”

Mickey whimpers, extracting herself from the bent over pose and standing with some difficulty, her pussy thick and waiting. She turns.

“Spread your legs,” Bean orders, soaping up her hand with shaving cream again, applying it generously to the short light brown hair between Mickey’s legs. It tingles Mickey, the menthol cooling her skin, and she shivers again, her arms hugged close, fingers to her lips.

Bean takes her time. The hair here grows thicker than on Mickey’s legs or asshole, and needs some tender attention to get every one. Mickey does sometimes shave or wax on her own, though that is not required. This time, however, Bean wants her completely bare.

Bean works at her like she is an object, moving her hip or thigh with no show of concern for the person attached to it, the razor sliding along the hip crease, her inner thighs. When she starts to get closer and closer to Mickey’s lips and clit and slit, Mickey whimpers a little, shivering again, and Bean adds a little more shaving cream, just to make sure it’s nice and soft and supple. She goes slow, thoroughly.

“You’re doing great, babygirl,” Bean soothes. It’s a little harder with Mickey’s cunt all turned-on and thick, but it also entices Bean to do a good job—and quickly. She wants her mouth back on that girl’s cunt, wants to drink down her juices and suck her fat clit until she screams and claws at the wall to hold her up. She wants to plunge in her fingers and work her orgasm from inside, hooking around that spot until Mickey lets it all go. Bean refocuses, holding Mickey’s lips in one hand and working the razor with the other. She lets her thumb swirl around Mickey’s hole, around Mickey’s clit. Mickey hums a little in response.

“Almost done, baby. Just a little more.” Bean leaves her fingers flicking and playing while she rinses the razor again, then brings it back to get the last stray hairs. She uses her hands as a cup again and rinses the water down Mickey’s cunt, bare and bald, so soft and so smooth. So naked. Exposed to her, just to her own eyes and fingers and mouth. Bean pulls her lips apart with each thumb and nuzzles her mouth into Mickey’s cunt, lapping thick with her tongue and suckling ever so gently on Mickey’s clit.

“Ohhh,” Mickey moans, tangling her hands in Bean’s hair, lifting one of her feet up onto the side of the tub so Bean can get a better mouthful. “Please Daddy, please.” Mickey is close already. Bean slides two thick fingers into her cunt easily, her wetness already plenty of lube. She finds that spot and pulls, pressure behind Mickey’s clit as she sucks it down and flicks it quickly with her tongue. Mickey’s knees are shaking, she’s leaning against the shower wall for support. “Oh god, oh Daddy!” Mickey is close, digging her fingers into Bean’s head and shaking more, stomach rippling, hips bucking. Bean doesn’t let up, keeps her pressure steady and fast. Mickey slaps the wall looking for something to hold on to, pressing against it.

“Fuck! Ohhhh myyy gooood,” she draws the words out long and low as she comes, shaking, pressing hard against Bean, a stream of come flowing from her cunt. Bean opens her mouth to suck it down, some of it dripping down her chin onto her shirt. She keeps her sucking gentle, lapping at Mickey’s cunt until she’s clean and stops shaking. Mickey purrs, eyelids heavy, shoulders shivering.

Bean smiles up at her girl and releases her fingers, her grip on Mickey’s hips. She gets up to fetch one of the big fluffy towels and eases it around Mickey’s shoulders. “All clean, girl.”

Mickey sighs, pulling the towel around her. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Bean pulls the tub stopper and the water starts flowing out. It’s cool by now, almost room temperature.

“Daddy?” Mickey hums, while Bean uses the towel to keep drying Mickey’s skin.

“Yeah, baby,” Bean murmurs.

“Will you fuck me now? Please? Get your big dick out?”

Bean looks up, a little surprised, then runs her hand between Mickey’s legs and feels her cunt still wet, lips still puffy. “My pleasure, babygirl,” she replies, pulling Mickey close, kissing her sweetly, their mouths open. “Let’s go.” Mickey steps out of the tub. Bean is already unbuckling her belt, her jeans. Mickey follows Bean into the bedroom.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

Daddy’s Belt (Bean & Mickey #1)

Content warning: This story contains daddy/girl play, punishment, name calling, humiliation, and some force. The characters in this story are consenting adults who have established this dynamic consensually and purposefully long before the story begins.

Mickey hears the belt before she sees it; that whip and jingle when it pulls free of Daddy’s jeans immediately makes her wet. She struggles against the silk men’s tie that binds her wrists to the metal headboard and tries to pull her hand through. She doesn’t want a spanking, especially not with the belt. Except kind of, a little bit, she does.

“You’re in trouble, babygirl,” Bean sneers from behind her. She’s mad, but is it for-real-mad or play-mad? Probably play-mad. Mickey doesn’t break any rules that actually matter, just the ones that she knows she can bend.

Mickey twists her neck around and switches her hips to get Bean’s attention. Bean is wrapping the belt around her big hand, her nails still have dirt under them from her long day of landscaping. She hasn’t even taken a shower yet. Bean hates not taking a shower right when she gets home. When Bean looks Mickey in the face, that flash of love and care and giddiness and just a little bit of mean sadist, Mickey sticks out her tongue.

Bean blinks, and sets her jaw, lunging forward to grab Mickey’s face in her other hand. “Dirty girl. You deserve it, and you know it. You know what you did.”

“No! No, Daddy!” Mickey struggles and pouts.

“Yes, you do. I try to teach you to be a good girl, but I just get this dirty little slut. You think you can do things like that and I won’t catch you? Huh, girl?” Bean grabs her ankles and twists her onto her stomach, pushing her down onto the bed and pulling up her skirt.

Mickey whimpers a little, then gets mad. “I do it all the time when you’re not home! So there!”

“You do not.”

“I do! I touch my little pussy and make it all wet and swollen.”

“Filthy little cunt,” Bean flexes, opening and closing her fist, and smacks Mickey’s ass with force, but then regains her nice-daddy composure and tries to go with the discipline approach rather than the humiliation, which will only fuel Mickey’s rebellion. “What’s Daddy’s rule about that, huh? Come on, you know the rule. Tell me.” Bean smacks again. Two pink handprint outlines begin to appear.

Mickey whimpers again, but tries to stay defiant. “Your rule is, only Daddy touches me down there.”

“That’s right. Good girl,” Bean soothes Mickey’s ass, starting to turn red from slaps already.

“You’re so mean! You’re the meanest Daddy ever!” Mickey tries to get out of the wrist ties again. Something loosens, and she focuses on slipping out of it even more. Bean keeps smacking her ass but she concentrates.

“No, babygirl, no I’m not. This is for your own good,” Bean pulls on the belt and gets it ready, pushing Mickey’s skirt up her legs. Mickey has quieted. Maybe she’ll calm down and take it.

Mickey knows she has to act fast once she slips away. Her body is small, quick. But she’ll only have a fraction of a second before Bean is on her. She gets both wrists free and stays still, thinking. She can see Bean’s reflection in the chrome of their bed frame, and when Bean pulls back the belt to wind up and hit her, she jumps up and darts for the door of their bedroom.

All it takes is a second. Bean hesitates for just long enough for Mickey to get a head start, skidding across the hardwood on her socks, skirt flying, hair flying, laughing and whooping with glee.

“Damn you, girl!” Bean yells, but she’s smiling and chuckling, her thighs flexing, calculating the time it’ll take Mickey to run from the living room into the kitchen and creeping behind the wall to intercept her. Bean gets quiet, to surprise her. Mickey is still laughing, and giving herself away. She rounds the corner and Bean is there, arms outstretched, catching her as she squirms and wiggles, trying fruitlessly to get out of Bean’s grip. Bean has at least fifty pounds on her, and many inches of height—plus, she’s still wearing her shoes, and can grip the floor without sliding, unlike Mickey, who is practically falling over and has nothing solid to push against. Except Bean.

They wrestle, tussling back and forth as Bean drags Mickey to the nearby couch and holds her down on her stomach, her leg bent and knee digging into Mickey’s shoulder. “Settle, girl!” Bean yells, pulling her hair, getting the belt out again. A few quick smacks to force Mickey’s submission, then longer, fluid, softer strokes to ease her ass to compliance. Mickey is wet. Bean can smell it. She dips her fingers into her babygirl’s tight hole and they come away glistening. She sucks in the taste of her girl, then pulls open her pussy lips as Mickey gasps.

“Mine, that’s mine,” Bean mutters, hitting Mickey’s ass and thighs. Stripes from the belt are starting to welt. Mickey moans, kicking her feet and pounding her fist into the leather of the couch, but she can’t budge anymore. She’s caught. Tears prick her eyes and her ass stings, but she also feels light, weightless, dizzy with lust.

“Please Daddy, please fuck me Daddy,” she coos, two fat tears spilling over as her desire takes over. Bean works her fingers in deeper and Mickey tilts her ass into the air. Bean hits what she can reach with the belt and adds more fingers to fuck her girl’s pussy, her thick calloused fingers working in and out easily with how wet she is.

“Yeah like that, I like that Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

“Is that what you wanted, huh?”

“Yes, yes, I want it!”

“Tell me, girl.”

“I want to come Daddy, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“That’s right, that’s my good girl. Come for your Daddy. Daddy’s the one who makes you come. My sweet girl,” Bean feels Mickey tighten around her fingers, her thighs quaking and pressing against the couch.

“Unnnhhh,” Mickey groans, stretching her arms and legs and pushing hard against Bean as she comes, shuddering, then collapses, spent.

Bean grins, shifting to soothe Mickey’s red ass with her hand and bending to lay herself on top of Mickey, kissing her cheek and shoulder, whispering into her ear what a good girl she is, how Bean knew she could take it, so proud of her babygirl. Mickey sighs, body humming.

“Daddy!” Mickey perks up, words still slow and dreamy.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can we get pizza?”

Bean laughs. “Yes, sure, of course we can. I’ll order while you get cleaned up. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” They shift again and Mickey curls up in Bean’s lap, her hands around Bean’s strong forearm as she traces her freckles. Her eyes are clear, shining when she looks up at Bean. Mickey reaches up to smooth out Bean’s hair, all disheveled from their escapades, and she giggles.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

Getting Grown, Guest Post by BD Swain

BD Swain is a butch dyke who enjoys writing queer smut – not just because it’s fun, but because sex and pushing my sexual expression is what makes me feel most alive. I am turned on by trust and by pushing the boundaries of it. Follow me @redswain on twitter; @bdswain on instagram, bdswain.com.

“You expect me to suck this tiny cock? Your little girlfriends might like the size of this thing. Maybe. But look at me. Do you see me?” She grabbed my face, “You think this is good enough for me? I’m grown.”

I was shaking. I was lying on her couch, posed as if I’d just been thrown. My body splayed out like a belly up crab. My back tensed, I craned my neck to lift my head as high as I could. My hand floated in the air above my belt, half unbuckled. I was scrambling with my feet, pushing myself up on the cushions, kicking with my legs in a panic.

Let me go back. Start over. I need to tell this right.

I was a baby. I’d lived all my life in Tulsa, a rich kid with a Daddy in oil like everyone else I knew and I hated it more than anyone. I took my dad’s hair trimmer to the bathroom one day and walked out with a buzz cut that was never discussed at the family table. You don’t fuck up the family situation where I come from and if you do, you suffer in silence. Some families might have beat the shit out of me, mine just never spoke to me again. Fine by me. San Francisco. I knew where to go.

I want to tell you this story right, but I don’t need to go through every detail. Listen, I had fucked girls. I was good looking. I was cocky. Girls let me finger them after school behind the bleachers. I played the bad boy with the good heart I’d seen in all the movies. I was sweet with my soft cheeks and worn out jeans. We fucked in the back of our trucks and out on the rocks when we went camping. We took blankets and cases of beer out to the swimming holes. I played the boy for any girl who wanted. I was the boy who never asked for anything but to make you come. The boy who gave and gave and gave. The boy for a night when there wasn’t another boy, a real boy with a hard dick and demands. But that was the boy I wanted to be, who I thought I was.

I got to San Francisco and learned how to be butch. I was demanding and cocky, pushing a girls face down between my legs. Watching her lips curl around the tip of my cock. Wrapping my fingers in her curls to shove her deeper onto my hard-on. No one had a real name here and one girl took to calling me Tulsa. It felt good. I was where I wanted to be. A butch with femmes all around me in short skirts and low cut tops with their heels or their sexy boots. I liked the lipstick stains on my undershirts.

I thought all femmes were like this. Waiting for me to grab them. Watching my ass as I played a round of pool. I liked the back and forth of it. Sitting on the barstool with my back to the bar and a beer resting just inside my thigh, my thumb and finger loosely gripping the bottle’s neck, watching a girl walk slow in front me to the bathroom and back out again with her eye on me and her lipstick touched up. This was our dance. She would slide up to the bar next to me and I’d turn to listen as she ordered a cocktail. I could put my money on the bar and pick up her tab. She would smile and thank me. A lady and a gentleman; it was routine but not boring. Predictable in a way I had always hoped. We’d go back to her place. She’d suck me. I’d bend her over and fuck her. She’d come. I’d leave.

This woman I met, I thought she was that same girl. I’d been living here a few years. I had my own bedroom. I made a little money bussing tables and a little more selling drugs. I dated girls for a couple months before they caught me cheating on them and screamed and cried and told me what I dick I was. And I was. I wasn’t sure what else to be. I thought that was the whole point really. Isn’t that what everyone expects? This was the set up when I met her. This is what I knew. Nothing.

The first thing that threw me off was how we met. I was bussing tables. I hated the work. Everyone yelled at me at that job. I was always in someone’s way or worried that I was going to drop something. I felt like I was covered in other people’s food the whole time. I couldn’t wait to run home and shower after work but even then I couldn’t get the stink of deep fryer grease out of my skin. So I didn’t feel sexy when I caught her looking at me. I felt uncomfortable. Caught scavenging in the headlights. She looked so hot, too. I hated being seen like this but I knew that look she gave me and it still made me flush hot. I weakly strutted around after I caught her look, too tired to really make much of myself but feeling cocky as hell anyway. I didn’t look back again, but I felt her staring at me as I made my way through tables.

She caught my eye on her way out the door and I smiled to myself, sure she’d left her number for me on the table. I saw a small, folded piece of paper and slipped it into my pocket smiling. I didn’t look at it until I unlocked my bicycle to head home. I stared down at the paper like an idiot. “You should have asked,” was all it said. “Fuck,” I spat out, punching myself in the thigh. I felt so stupid. This woman didn’t look anything like the girls I’d picked up in bars. It sounds dumb, but the description that ran through my head was that she looked tall and clean. Those were the words that came to mind when I saw her. I wanted her. I wasn’t good enough for her. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined bringing her into my dingy little room with the dirty, dank bathroom down the hall. I shook my head. I knew that wouldn’t do. I shouldn’t even try. But hell, I caught myself looking for her everywhere after that. After several days with no luck, I realized this was a woman who wouldn’t be seen in my usual haunts. Not regularly, at least. I decided to expand my territory without a clue as to where I should start. I tried the new wine bar and the coffee place with the line down the block. I felt crazy for even trying. I was out of my league.

It was three weeks later that I was locking my bike in the Castro when I looked up and saw her. She was alone, walking towards me but looking across the street at something. She looked stunning. She shone bright in the sun, standing out from all the jeans and leather in a cream-colored pencil skirt and jacket with a sheer beige top and matching heels. I sucked in my breath and stepped into her path, “Hey,” I said. The woman looked at me up and down, appraising me, clearly considering the goods in front of her. “I’m Tulsa,” I said with a smile and held my hand out to her. She stared for a minute and shaded her eyes from the sun before answering, “No. No you’re not. You have a real name, I’m sure.” I hesitated, not knowing where to go from here. “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. I jumped at a second chance, “Let me buy you a drink.” She looked down at my boots. “No,” she said, “not a bar. I don’t think so. But why don’t I make you a drink at my place.” She walked past me briskly, clearly intending for me to follow, and I obliged. We walked a few blocks in silence until she glanced over her shoulder at me and walked up a few steps to her door, turning her key in the lock without giving me another look.

My mind was racing. I’m always prepared for a date, for fucking, a cock in my pants. I’d been caught off guard here, but maybe that’s not what this was. Or maybe she had a cock I could use. I pictured her falling to her knees with her fingers on my belt. I pictured her bent over a creamy white sofa or a nice coffee table. Maybe in the dining room or leaning over the kitchen counters. I pictured her legs sliding apart as she begged me to fuck her. I felt more and more cocky with each image, each step into her place.

“What do you drink?” she asked me, walking towards a small bar in the living room. “I’ll take a beer,” I yelled out, a little too loudly. “I don’t have beer,” she said, amused, “I’ll pour you a whiskey. Do you take ice?” I nodded before realizing she wasn’t looking at me. “Uh huh,” I grunted, “Yeah, ice.” I tried to shake the nerves creeping up on me. Whatever, I thought. She wants me to fuck her. I swirled the whiskey around in the glass and took a deep sip before opening my mouth to say something, but she cut me off. “I don’t think there’s much to say, do you?” she said with a slight laugh. I smiled at her. I belted the rest of my drink and set the glass down as I swaggered over to her, grabbing the back of her head to kiss her. In my mind, everything was playing out a few steps ahead. I eyed the couch and started to lead her over to it.

Her kiss was cold, sterile. I didn’t understand where I was going wrong. I grabbed her hand and pulled it down between my legs. That’s when everything shifted out from under me. She shoved me backwards onto the couch and got down on her knees. I leaned back, pulling my hands behind my head, ready for something familiar but the look on her face stopped my smile. “Do you want something, little boy? Were you going to ask nicely or just shove my face in your crotch like you grabbed my hand? Didn’t anyone ever teach you good manners?” she seemed to grow larger in front of me. She shoved my boots, spreading my legs wide and grabbed my dick through my jeans. Or what would have been my dick. I felt her fingers grabbing and feeling around through my jeans.

She looked at me, mocking with a false puzzled look on her face. I could feel my cheeks turn red and hot. I stared back at her as long as I could but had to turn away. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you had something for me here?” My insides burned. “Didn’t you just grab my hand and put it on your dick?” she went on, “I got the feeling you wanted to shove my face down there. Is that right? You want to show me?” She slowly brought her gaze to my belt and nodded her head at me. My hands moved, without thinking, to my belt. She grabbed me hard between my legs, “You’re so small, I can’t even feel you.” She punched my clit through my jeans several times.

Now we’re back where we started. The beginning of my story. The moment when everything shifted. “You expect me to suck this tiny cock?” she started to berate me. I felt sick. I wanted to disappear, run out the door and never look back, but I also wanted to play this out. What the fuck was going on? I’d lost my script and it turned me on.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, unbuckling my belt and tugging my jeans down my thighs. She pushed my chest, sending me back against the couch again and grabbed me through the front of my briefs at the same time. I yelled out, more surprised than in pain. She kneaded me, starting to coo, her face held near mine, “Where did it go, big boy?” I froze like a frightened animal. She snarled in my ear, “Where’s that big cock you wanted to show me? Did you lose it somewhere?” I shuddered, my whole body convulsed, I could smell my own sweat as my instincts jumped from point to point. Did I want this or was I just stuck? I was scrambling to figure it all out. Then she pet the side of my head and cradled me in her arms for a moment, “It’s okay. We’re going to find a way to have fun anyway, aren’t we?” she whispered in my ear and I stopped shivering. I knew. My body told me what I wanted. Every muscle relaxed for a split second before tensing again. She punched my clit again and again, “I just don’t think we’re going to find it, baby,” she said, “but don’t worry, I don’t think that’s what you’re really here for anyway.”

She ran her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes and let her pet me. I’d never been pet. I’d never allowed it. I had always acted so tough, unfeeling, never could let my guard down but somehow it was gone. “Please,” I said and I felt hot tears well up in my eyes. I squeezed my eyes and gulped down all this emotion about to pour out of me. “I know how to take care of you, baby boy,” she said, her voice teasing between soothing and sadistic.

She ran her hand under the collar of my shirt and over my small, hard tits. “Are you hiding something from me, boy?” she said. Her posture changed. She stood up tall over me and took off her jacket. She spoke to me as she unbuttoned her blouse, “Let’s cut the shit.” She slapped me hard. The impact made my clit jump. I looked up at her with a suckling mouth, wanting more. She looked at me hard and laughed, tracing her finger around my lips. I wanted her finger in my mouth, but she tugged my shirt out of my jeans instead. Her nails circled around my nipples, tracing little lines until she squeezed me hard, making me gasp.

I heard myself speak. “Thank you,” I said, my voice hollow and lost. I was so far away, so outside of myself. It was perfect. She was perfect. “Thank you,” I said again and she punched my chest, knocking the wind out of me. “Thank you,” I repeated. It was all I could say for a long time as she punched and slapped me, poked and prodded. I didn’t stop saying it until she returned to my mouth and stuck her fingers inside me. I sucked my cheeks in, my tongue curling around her knuckles, sliding along the ridge between her fingers. “At least you know how to suck, don’t you?” she said, petting my head. I nodded with her fingers held soft, but firm in my mouth.

“You didn’t need to pretend you had a big dick for me” she said, “I think you know better now, don’t you?” She slid her fingers out of my mouth, dragging them down my belly, into my briefs, feeling my swollen clit in her fingers. “You’re so tiny,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. I know what you really want.” She looked at her hand in my pants, “Here. Hold this for me,” she said and shoved my own hand between my legs. I circled my throbbing clit while she stepped out of the room for a minute, coming back in only her bra with a large cock strapped on.

I winced. I don’t get fucked. I didn’t get fucked. I didn’t know who the hell I was anymore but it didn’t matter. I turned over and shoved my ass in the air towards her. She laughed. A beautiful, rich, caramel laugh that made my spine melt. “Oh, you’re too easy,” she said. I felt her dick press against my ass, “I get to choose what hole I fuck you in,” she said. I wanted to ask her to fuck my ass, but I only nodded. I was ashamed of my own pussy but nothing mattered anymore. She knew who I was, not me. I needed her to show me.

Her fingers slid, one by one, under the elastic band of my briefs. She tugged them down slowly, letting me feel her dick press harder and harder against me. I heard the lube, her hand, the ritual. Something that had been mine, but not like this. Everything was turned around and new. “Thank you,” I whispered, inaudible. She held my hips and slid her cock against my ass, between my legs. She held it in her hands and teased my holes. I didn’t care what happened, I just wanted her to use me.

“You’re a sweet little boy,” she whispered, “Have you ever been used?” I shook my head, “No, ma’am,” I answered, Tulsa coming out strong in my accent. “Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “No,” I repeated, “There was no one before you.” She moaned, “That’s so good, baby. That’s just right.” She shoved her prick into my cunt and it hurt. It hurt but I wanted her deeper inside me. My hands reached behind me, grasping. “Yes,” she comforted, “I’m right here.” She was pumping me hard and my face kept hitting the back of the couch. My skin felt raw. My lip started to bleed. I instinctively pulled my shirt into my mouth to keep from dripping blood on her furniture. “Thank you,” I cried. Over and over again, I said it, “Thank you.”

“Grab your little dick,” she demanded, “Jerk yourself off while I fuck your hole.”

I obeyed.

I came, doubled over, with my legs shaking so hard she had to hold me and ease me back onto the couch. I was her pet. She told me so. And it was true.

Satiated (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #3)

Content warning: mommy/boy play, breast and nipple play

Elise wakes slowly, her body a little stiff in places that were stretched and thrust and pounded and tightened last night, still nude under her silky sheets. The boy is still asleep, face relaxed, breathing light next to her, his butt snuggles up into the crook of her hips, his body curls and folds nearly in half. A faint cloudy morning light shines behind the lightweight curtains.

She doesn’t quite want to wake him, but she can feel a stirring in her cunt for more. When will she get enough of him? It would be so easy to take him, now, thrust her fingers into his hole, strap her favorite cock on and enter him again and again until she was spent. He is hers now, she has that kind of overarching permission to take him whenever she wants him—in fact, he likes it even more that way, when she uses him unapologetically, when she demands her own pleasure from his body. That is what gets him off the most.

Shifting, she pulls her arm out from under morgan where it is starting to cramp, slides it under his neck where it has more room, and wraps her arms around him. He moves too, sighing softly and turning to face her, sleepily nuzzling against her armpit and breast and the crook of her shoulder.

“Mama,” he murmurs, soft consonants and long vowels, kissing wherever his mouth has landed. He’s very close to her nipple and she wants him to suck for a while. “G’morning.”

She kisses his forehead. “Morning, my sweet boy.”

He sighs again, snuggling closer. His mouth is doing that suckling thing already, the leftover of how he grinds his teeth at night, and she shifts against him again, turning her body so she is a little more on her back. His hands are already tucked up next to his chin and he catches her breast in his hands, feeling the nipple against his lips before he opens his mouth to suck.

Soft, so soft at first, just the slightest pressure from his mouth. Just the hardness of her against the softness of him, just the way she grows thick against him, just the way he opens soft under her. And then more pressure, and more, how he urges her deeper, how he starts to swallow. She thinks about milk coming out and down his throat, she thinks about it filling his mouth and spilling down his chin. His hands squeeze a little too, almost unconsciously, like a kitten kneading. Her cunt is hot and starting to swell.

“That’s good, baby. So nice. I like how you do that,” she says quietly, the hand under his neck smoothing his hair, touching his cheek. She can feel his jaw and lips contracting under her fingers. She can feel the want of him sucking it out of her. Sometimes he uses his tongue, but mostly he just sucks. A little harder now, and she squirms, rubbing her legs together.

“You get mama all wet, boy,” she murmurs, so soft she is barely audible, but her lips are close to his ear and he can hear. He moans a little in response. They are in a sweet bubble here, wrapped around each other, his legs around hers, rubbing his hips against her. Her right knee is bent, lifted a little and draped open to the side, pressure building in her pelvis.

He keeps sucking, mouth fully open and hungry now, sucking down as much of her as he can hold. Little sounds from the suction and the skin, little murmurs from his throat. She slides her hand down her body and cups her cunt with it, feeling how her lips are swollen already, her opening slick and needy. She circles her hole with two fingers and brings them up to her clit when they are wet.

“Ohhh god,” she moans, arching her back and sliding her legs against his, just centimeters of movement but enough to feel their bodies pressed against each other, enough to feel the friction and heat building. Her hand tangled in his short hair. Mine, she tells herself. Mine mine mine.

Her clit is hard and hot and he is still sucking like a good boy, like a hungry sweet boy who will devour everything she pours into him, like he is oblivious to how it turns her on and just needs something in his mouth. He paws at her gently, holds her breast in his hands to get the angle right, works his jaw to swallow. Elise flicks at her cunt harder, faster. She’s close, she’s always close when he is like this. Feeling the hole of his mouth open up to pull it out of her is so different than using any of his holes to shove inside. Somehow equal and opposite, somehow the thing that lets her relax, receive, be taken, be used—but still be in charge. Feeding her boy, filling him up with her milk.

“Good boy, my good boy,” she murmurs, working her hand faster, that way that only she can do.

“Ummm,” he moans a little, rubbing against her, sucking harder now, so hard it almost hurts, she almost pulls away, but it’s good, he needs it, and she does.

Her clit pulses under her fingers, cunt contracting and thick with want. She’s close, and she holds his head with more pressure, feeling her stomach contracting as she pulses, her nipple hard, sore, so sensitive, her clit hard, it’s almost too much, almost too much—. Until it isn’t, and she’s coming, her mouth open and gasping, eyes squeezed shut, lifting her shoulders a little off of the bed as all of her focus pours into her clit and her nipple, the nipple in his mouth as her boy still softly laps.

She shudders—once, twice, four times—wringing the orgasm from her body, and kisses his forehead. He sucks deep a few more times, as if cleaning off her nipple, as if tidying up the mess he made. “Mama,” he sighs happily, cheek against her chest, raising his face to be kissed. She brings her mouth down and sighs back on the bed, zings of aliveness running through her.

“Baby,” she replies. Hollowed, satiated, awake.

DJ’s Birthday Gangbang (Kai & DJ #4)

I have always wanted to throw someone a gangbang. And by someone, I mean DJ. Maybe because they’ve thrown a few for me—it’s amazing how easy it became to orchestrate one after we’d been traveling to go to kink conferences for a few years—or maybe because I’ve never seen a gang bang where the person at the center is also the top. I’m not quite sure I can wrap my head around it, even though DJ and I have talked about it a bunch.

This year, for their birthday, I decided: fuck it. Let’s just try. Worst case scenario, all the hotties we know come and it’s an awkward good time.

I’ve invited a dozen people to meet us at the dungeon at IMsL at 8pm on Friday, and DJ thinks they and I are having a scene. I asked them to strap, and I’m bringing their favorite toys to use to fuck me up.

They’ll fuck me last. I mean, they’ll do whatever they want, but I hope to be last, even better if they let me get them off after they’ve gotten their fill of everyone else. I’m packing, for sure, and wearing a crisp white tee shirt I starched just for this. On top of that, my leather shorts, suspenders, and my tall boots. I mean it is a leather event, after all.

International Ms. Leather, IMsL, is one of my—our—favorites. It happens annually in the San Francisco Bay Area. The focus is on leather women, but all kinds of genders attend, and the vast majority is queer. There are dozens of classes with amazing presenters in the day, and evening entertainment while some folks compete for the titles of International Ms. Leather and International Ms. Bootblack. We’ve been attending for the past five years, ever since 2009 when everything blew up and we almost broke up, but it ended up being a huge transformation instead. We’d always been open and slutty, but it took a reconfiguring of our relationship to put kink play in the center of our sex lives. We’ve been going to all kinds of workshops, demos, parties, and munches since then. We really reprioritized what DJ calls ‘preserving the boners,’ and have revalued sex in our partnership (and outside of it). I mean, we didn’t want to break up—but we weren’t having sex, like at all, so something had to shift. I’ve been in relationships like that before, where sex peters out and wanes, and I’d never been able to get it back—but hey, we did! It is possible, I always believed in it, I’d just never actually seen it happen before. It sounds cheesy, but I think we really loved each other enough that we wanted to stay together, so we both made commitments to change and keep growing. Plus, therapy. That was essential.

And events like these weekends are so rejuvenating for us now. It’s like we can shut out the world, dive into the power and strength of our sexual connection, and let the rest of our lives go for the whole long weekend. So blissful. It helps that we know everyone here after going for so long—but I still love meeting the new folks. You could say I have a fetish for showing the newbies the ropes. I figure it’s part of my community service.

I show up in the dungeon at 7:30 to get the perfect spot—the corner where a sling, cross, and a massage table are all nearby. Nobody else is there for the gangbang yet, but they will be soon. I told them to be a little early. My pulse is racing already and I’m nervous but excited to get this going. How will it work? What will we do? Do I really have to sit here and wait, with nothing to do, for twenty minutes?

Thankfully, Tanner walks in carrying a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign and starts looking around for me. “Over here,” I projct my voice to reach them. They nod and head toward me.

“Setting up?” Tanner asks, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, not much to do though really. I mean all the equipment is already here, so. I like this corner. Lots of options.”

We hear a smack and someone yelps from the next room over, the thin hotel walls barely concealing it. But mostly the dungeon spaces are empty. Everyone is probably still in the hospitality suite having drinks.

Tanner agrees with me about the corner, and we tart talking about the details—who is coming, how will it work? I’m getting excited. It’s going to be great. Where is everyone? Where is DJ? They had a playdate a few hours ago and were going to shower and nap before joining us at 8, but it must be almost time.

A few more folks arrive—Tanner’s friend Rachel; one of my occasional playdates, Lee; DJ’s regular fuckbuddy (and sometimes boy) Ayden. We all discuss what we’re going to do, and how our IMsL has been so far. Lee has already been in two other gangbangs today.

“It’s important to have that friend you can rely on to show up for your gangbang,” I grin at Lee.

“It is my pleasure, buddy, all mine,” they respond generously, clapping me on the shoulder.

Ayden and Tanner are doing that flirting dance, nervously watching each other and talking low. Rachel is pretty quiet, as usual, she’s just watching us all and playing with what’s left of her hair. I’ve never seen it this short—she must’ve cut it for IMsL. Practically a boy cut from the back, but the front comes down to her chin and frames her face. It’s very cute. Something about it makes me want to kiss her.

A few other folks arrive, and Tanner and Lee make the rounds in the dungeon to see if there are any stragglers who would want to come join our scene. They come back with a few wide-eyed new kinklings in tow, talking about negotiation skills and what we’re planning in our scene. Mostly, this gangbang will mean that DJ will have an audience for whatever play they want to do, and each of us gets to have a turn with them. I decided to set a timer: 3 minutes each. That’s not a lot of time, but I also kind of expect people to start lining up if they hear that DJ is down here flogging anyone who wants it. We’re all milling about a little, and Ayden and Tanner start making out, Tanner sitting up on the massage table and Ayden between their legs.

And then DJ comes in.

“What! Is this!” They shout, grinning ear to ear, arms held out wide as now more than a dozen queers rush over to them, grinning, offering hugs and kisses.

“Happy birthday!” We all yell. I’m still in the corner, holding a flogger in one hand and my phone in the other. DJ makes their way to me, scooping me into their arms and holding me hard for a deep kiss. I laugh and moan, melting in their arms.

“Happy birthday, Sir,” I say, quiet. “Welcome to your birthday gangbang.”

“What! Oh man, this is the best. Thank you, Kai, and thank YOU …” they raise their eyes to the group, gathered around tightly, eager to get going.

I put on my game face. “Here’s how it works: You get three minutes each, and thirty seconds to negotiate what you’re going to do. I mean, more if you need it, but most of these folks you know.”

DJ nods, eyes shining.

“Tanner is going first. From there, we’ll just keep offering ourselves to you, until you’re done. Good?”

DJ nods vigorously, eager. “Great.”

“And … can I be last?” I ask, a little quieter.

“Absolutely.”

I think their face is going to break from smiling so hard. “Ready Tanner?”

Tanner hops down from the massage table and comes over to DJ, kneeling in front of them. “Ready, Kai. Ready, sir.”

I start my timer. “Go ahead, then!”

DJ leans down and they whisper with Tanner for a moment, then Tanner gets up and pulls their leather chest harness off, and then their tank top, so they are naked from the waist up. They cover the few steps over to the St. Andrew’s cross and DJ follows. DJ selects a flogger from the variety of toys I’d laid out and starts swinging. They’ve been playing together for months now, and DJ so skillfully knows how to warm them up and take them up to the edge, but not push them too far. It’s lovely to watch. Tanner starts breathing hard, I can see their chest heaving, sometimes twisting away from the flogger and crying out when it’s a particularly rough blow. Three minutes isn’t very long, though, and Tanner’s back is just starting to pinken when my timer chimes go off.

“Time!” I declare. “Next?” Rachel is right there next to me, so I snag her by the arm. “You ready?”

Her eyes are playful, sparkling. “Fuck yeah.” DJ directs Tanner back toward me and I catch them, stroke their skin while they purr and hum, eyes open, still anticipating what’s next. Rachel goes right over to DJ and asks, “Can I suck your cock? Please?”

“I would be honored,” DJ says, and unbuckles their belt. When DJ gets it into their hands and adds a condom, Rachel works her mouth on it, kissing and sucking, using her tongue expertly, her inner lips, her fingertips. She makes little noises around it, closes her eyes, swallowing like it’s gourmet dessert. DJ is rapt. We all are.

I almost forget about the timer, so I start it for two minutes and that goes by so quickly. “Lee, want to go next?” I stage-whisper. Lee nods. “Know what you’re going to do?” Lee shakes their head.

“Time,” I call over. Rachel grins and laughs a little, sucking the spit back into her mouth and giving a couple more tugs and kisses on DJ’s dick.

DJ groans. “Fuck, thank you.”

“Lee?”

Lee shyly walks over to DJ as they help Rachel up, and Rachel joins Tanner in the post-sexy blissed out pile. “What do you want to do, DJ? Anything in particular?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Great. Yes please.”

They navigate expertly, getting Lee up on the massage table while Ayden and I grab lube and gloves. DJ has flavored condoms in their pocket and slide a new one over their dick. Ayden pulls up their Utilikilt to reveal nothing underneath—”The way god intended!” they declare—and they start in as soon as I start the clock. They’re comfortable enough together that they just go, without much warm-up: DJ slides in slow and starts to pound. Ayden holds their legs up by the knees.

“More lube!” Someone cheers.

“Yeah, get them!” We’re all crowded around, I can’t quite tell who is talking. Voices overlap as they start cheering DJ on.

By the time it’s my turn, half of the folks have wandered away or started their own scenes nearby, but we still have a few folks still watching.

“Do I need to set a timer?” I ask.

“Not for you, baby,” DJ answers. They’ve lost their shirt by now, skin slick with sweat. I lick some of it and it tastes so good, like DJ but saltier.

“What do you want? What can I do for you?”

They think a moment and then grab my hands. “Fist me,” they say. “Did you bring the Hitachi?”

“Yes.” I go for the toy bag and find the nearest plug. It is close enough so they can be on the massage table and it still reaches.

It takes us no time to set up. DJ is swift and determined, and I am so fucking hard after watching all of that. It’s only been an hour or so, but it was a lot of people, practically every instrument of torture and pleasure that I brought, and a lot of people to wrangle. DJ takes off their boots so they can remove their pants, and leaves their dick on. Their harness is easy enough to get under, and this way they can jerk it while I am inside of them.

They’re so wet. Open. Ready to be filled already. DJ leaves their hand lazily on their dick and works the Hitachi at the base, figuring out how best to feel the intense vibration through the harness, or whether it’ll fit under. They find a good spot and settle, sighing, back into the table. It still takes me a while to work four fingers into them, but once I do, and I add even more lube, the thumb tucks easily and I start to push. They open against me, pressing back, and I slide in. A perfect fit.

They start working their dick faster, and pressing the Hitachi harder, and bucking their hips against my hand, and by the time all of that is in place they don’t last long at all, and they come in a deep grunt and a tense spasm that crunches my hand and starts to push it out, leaving only a few fingers still trailing inside. DJ is panting on the table. They pull me up on top of them, between their legs, my weight on their whole body, and they kiss me soft and sweet. Rachel brings over their water bottle, refilled again. Ayden and Tanner are doing some wrestling scene nearby, laughing and grunting at each other.

“So good, Kai,” DJ is still smiling, blissed out and high.

“I’m so glad,” I say back, hugging them hard. “I want your birthdays to be special.”

“Is there anyone left at IMsL that you haven’t fucked?” Rachel asks, holding the water bottle so DJ can sit up a bit more.

They laugh. “I think there are a few more, yeah. Hey, it’s only Friday, after all!”

I laugh, taking a swig of water. I can feel it go down my throat, cold and sweet.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

Stone Grief (Kai & DJ #3)

By the time I ease two fingers into DJ’s ass, they already have tears streaming down their cheeks, crying in that silent release way that I’ve only seen a handful of times in the years we’ve been together, but that always means something big is going on. I breathe in, slow my fingers down, and wait. Present. Attuning to each of the smallest movements DJ’s body communicates.

“Don’t stop,” they whisper. “Just keep going.”

They make small sips of eye contact, but are mostly having their own experience. Their body shivers, sometimes from their head to their toes, sometimes left to right, rippling like a chill is going through them. I recognize that release, too. They have been so tight, so tense, their body all locked up for months now. I’m so grateful for the request to fuck them tonight. I’d do anything to help them through this.

Their back hole is tight but pliable, and they relax deeper into my hand as I slowly, slowly use my fingers to massage their insides. It feels like I’m unlocking something, that something has been clenched and is now letting go.

I’m completely unaware of the play party going on around us. There are people up on St. Andrew’s crosses, bent over spanking benches, on massage tables, tied to the wall with the eyebolts that are scattered all around this space. We are in the back corner. I snagged the sling as soon as we got here, after we checked in and made it through the socializing space where the cold pizza, nuts, and mixed veggie trays were laid out already for anyone needing a snack after or during their play. DJ is lying back in it comfortably, body completely supported, swaying slightly with the pressure of my hand against their hole. Their legs are up in the sling’s stirrups, permanently hung there for better access.

We could have done this scene at home, but DJ wanted to come here. Not necessarily to be witnessed, though the exhibitionism is something some folks at play parties seek. It is more that they wanted a place to have a big experience, a big release, that was safe and known and comfortable. Plus, they wanted to be in a sling. It’s the best place for them to receive.

DJ isn’t stone, exactly, but kind of stone-ish. I don’t fuck them very often, and almost never strapped on, though they do suck me off sometimes. They don’t have trauma about getting fucked exactly, they just don’t like it very much. It’s not the best way to get them off, I know—it doesn’t turn them on nearly as much as topping, or fucking with their own cock. But I do get to use my hands on them sometimes, especially after we’ve been going for a while and they have fucked everything out of me that they possibly can but are still hungry—that’s when I know it’s time for me to beg to suck them off, and to offer to use my hands if they want me to, which they almost always do. I think it took them a long time to receive while still being in charge.

Like tonight. They’ve been planning this all week—decided what toys we’d bring, packed the bag, made the arrangements, drove us here. They even told me what to wear (jeans and a crisp white tee shirt, often my uniform when we’re out in public anyway, but it was nice to know that they like it). DJ specifically requested a night for release and catharsis, but I probably won’t do any impact play or anything. I suppose we’ll see if they need that or not.

“Keep going,” they whisper again. I move my fingers a little faster and their asshole relaxes around them. They nod, eyes squeezed shut, tears still coming. Their hands grip the chain of the sling and they rock their pelvis a little, swaying the swing. I focus. I keep breathing. I nearly start crying myself with the emotion pouring off of them like heatwaves, I can practically see it. It’s been bottled tight inside of them ever since we got the call that DJ’s aunt, the one who had practically raised them, died suddenly of a stroke.

They are usually pretty good at handling their own emotions. I wouldn’t be with them for this long if they weren’t. But this kind of grief … only people who have gone through it really know what it’s like. My best friend was diagnosed with cancer and died when I was 20 and I lost my shit for a few years after that. It took me a while to even realize what was going on, it just felt like my life was suddenly falling down around me. DJ hasn’t lost anyone this close before, just relatives and occasional community acquaintances. I know it’s their own process and there’s only so much I can do, but I want to support and be helpful when I can. Especially when helping involves adoring their body, which I love to do anyway.

They arch their back in the sling, press their hips further into me. Their body is shuddering, shoulders shaking—maybe they are starting to really cry, those heaving sobs that are rarer still.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. It isn’t about words now, this is just about their body, the emotions stored in their thick muscles, the tenderness of their brown skin. I use my fingertips to caress them, then rest my palm on their chest, their heart. I can feel them crying through my hand. They press against me harder, and I move my two fingers a little more furiously. Their mouth opens, they cry out a little, sadness and grief and release and pleasure all mixing, still squeezing their eyes shut, face scrunching up in frustration and fury.

They find my hand with theirs and squeeze, press against me. I stand a little closer, off to the side, to get a better angle. DJ brings their other hand down to their clit-dick and starts jerking it, not quite sobbing but body heaving, beginning to moan. I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or grief or both. The music pounds and I’m starting to sweat, I can feel it dripping on my neck. It’s good that it’s warm in here, easier to be naked that way, and those of us working hard really get a workout. DJ is still pawing hard at their clit, and their hole grips my fingers and I can barely move, so tight, every muscle in them gets so tight, their hips lifting even further, pressing against me, body twisted and contorted, face all torqued like something is in their mouth that they have to swallow. They fist my hand so hard it hurts.

Until … slowly, slowly, the sobs start to come. Then a wail, long and low. Body heaving. I keel forward to offer my body next to theirs and they gladly accept, wrapping their arms around me, pulling me closer to them, crying into my shirt for a good long while.

I still don’t say anything. I can’t find my words. But really, what is there to say? It’s not about me. It’s what they need. It’s the only thing they need right now, to be able to cry for as long as they need to without someone fussing about them. I don’t need them to feel better, or to stop, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I just feel honored that they want me here, that they let me do this for them. I know sometimes they prefer to release their feelings by themself.

DJ slowly pulls their arms through our tight embrace and wipes their eyes and face and nose on my tee shirt. I laugh a little. “Is that why you wanted me to wear white?”

They smile. “No,” they say, eyes downcast. “I just like it.” They sound small, but when they open their eyes and look at me, finally, softly, they are shining and bright, alive.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

Taking It (Kai & DJ #2)

The boy is in the center of our bedroom, hands chained to the eyebolt in the ceiling, body stretched long. Their eyes are closed and head is hanging, just a little, and their arms are pulling up and out of their shoulders. They aren’t that tall—our chain was barely long enough. I suppose if you didn’t know better, you’d think this was a torture scene.

I guess it is, kind of. I slipped Tanner’s shirt off before we tied them up there, so their round belly and small chest with a smattering of fine light brown fur over them are exposed.

“You’ve done an excellent job today, Tanner,” DJ says, and swings their favorite flogger again, a hard thud against the boy’s body.

“Thank you, sir,” Tanner says, obediently, after they groan. 

“You have been a wonderful houseboy for us,” I add, taking my turn with my own flogger, this one with wide and flat leather tails—some call it a massage flogger. It’s my favorite to be hit with, so I use it whenever I can, when I top.

Tanner lets out a grunt when it collides. “Thank you, Kai.” We can’t decide on an honorific that fits me—sir and ma’am are too binary. So we just use my name. It still feels formal, and respectful.

Tanner is starting to drip with sweat. It rolls down their back and into the waistband of their briefs, tracing the contours of their young, strong muscles. They aren’t toned, but being chubby has it’s strength advantages too. It’s almost always a toss-up to see who wins when we wrestle, even though my upper back and chest and arms are pretty well sculpted, because Tanner has actual wrestling skill. They’re fast, too. Small, about the same height as I am.

Clearly we’ve got the heat up high enough. Tanner’s dark hair is starting to glisten from sweat, proof of their hard work—not just today, doing house chores, but also the hard work of Taking It. Orders, sadistic impulses, rules—you name it, Tanner took it today. This beating is the last of it, probably. Or rather, the last part of Taking It that is for us, and the start of Taking It that is for Tanner. DJ has a plan, I can tell. And I generally find it works best to just go along with DJ’s plans. 

“Go around Tanner and hold them up, will you, Kai?” DJ pauses the flogging to lightly touch Tanner’s back, trailing their fingers over the sensitive exposed skin, still dancing with sensation.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer, draping my flogger over my shoulder. I don’t usually call DJ “Sir,” but when they’re being sir to someone else, I get the urge. I brace my feet and legs, grounded into the floor, and press myself against the front of Tanner’s body. They immediately lean into me and sigh, some of the pressure lifting from their limbs. 

“How you doing?” I say softly, stroking Tanner’s hair. 

“So great,” they reply, words humming and high. “More?” 

I chuckle. “Sure. How about I stay while DJ flogs you for a while?”

Tanner nods, body limp and leaning on mine. 

“Go for it, Sir,” I move my arms out of DJ’s way and focus on being a tree for Tanner.

The boy stiffens when he’s hit, then collapses again; stiffens, collapses, stiffens, collapses. Their breathing catches, evens out, and catches again. I breathe too. 

I peek over Tanner to watch DJ. Their body flexes and heaves, shifting their weight back and forth on their legs, turning at the hips to get more torque into each blow. They are so elegant with a flogger. It looks like an extension of their arm, the energy flowing out and then fraying into the leather, colliding with another and emptying the charge down DJ’s arm, into the flogger, and out through the tails. DJ’s face is all concentration and precision—I’ve seen that look when they work me over, probably hundreds of times before. It makes me blush and rub my thighs together. It turns me on, hard.

Tanner sighs, body releasing, relaxing into me even further. It’s hard on a body to hold itself up and receive a beating at the same time. I readjust my feet to be more stable, so they can take the pressure out of their muscles and bones. They really did do incredibly well today. They showed up precisely on time (after the last time they were late, I would’ve been shocked if they hadn’t), and had clearly been working on the postures we’d wanted them to learn: kneel (when at rest and we are sitting), present (when they have something to ask or request), stand at ease (when chatting), stand at attention (when receiving orders). They even went through them all gracefully in a way that still felt masculine, not feminizing. 

DJ winds up and throws a few more times, hard, the smack of the leather jolting both me and Tanner. I can almost feel the flogging through their body, its impact reverberating through me like bass through a speaker. Tanner cries out and their breath comes in heaves, deep sighs and moans coming up from somewhere low. DJ presses their body up against Tanner from the back, arms reaching around to hold me too, and the three of us synch up in breath, in heartbeat. 

*

The boy is in the center between us, stripped bare, still sweaty, doing an excellent job of being holes for both of our cocks. Mine they are working over with their mouth, tonguing it and keeping their throat open, as DJ’s pushes in and out of their asshole. Don’t worry, we worked it in slow, with lots of lube, the way you’re supposed to. But Tanner was well-stretched and ready for it. They have been practicing with a butt plug in the weeks that we don’t play. 

We’re all piled on the bed, our dark blue comforter and crisp white sheets already torn from the bed and scattered. DJ has ahold of one of the tall, sturdy posts on our four-poster, and I’m entirely on the bed, kneeling up by where the pillows usually are. They’re only half-way on the bed, one foot planted on the floor and the other knee hiked up onto the mattress, perfectly positioned behind Tanner. The lights are dim in here, the walls are a soft suede shade of tan. Our furniture is crowded to two walls in this smallish bedroom, but that’s just so we can have room for the eyebolt and to throw a flogger. We’ve been slowly outfitting this room as our bedroom slash dungeon for a few years now, and I still have dreams of making it even better, but for now, it’s great.

DJ and I are stripped bare too, mostly because clothes just seem to get in the way. Don’t tell them I told you, but DJ loves being naked. They’re rarely clothed beyond boxers when we’re home alone. It is kind of hellish on our heating bill, but it’s well worth the eye candy. 

Each time DJ slides their cock in, the pressure pushes Tanner just enough that their mouth swallows my cock a little deeper. I barely even have to move, just the movement between us is enough. When I get my hips going, Tanner is like a ping-pong ball between us: I push them back to DJ, onto DJ’s cock, and DJ pushes them back to me, onto mine. 

Tanner is moaning and drooling and coming, eyes closed, limbs limp. We’ve been at them for probably an hour like this already. They have moved past the begging and screaming stage into the blissed-out sub-space that is practically non-verbal. They’re just about done. But we’re not. 

DJ reaches for me, catching the hand that’s on Tanner’s back, and pulls me toward them. We can just barely reach each other to kiss. “You’re going to come, Kai,” they whisper, mouth on mine.

I gasp, hips thrusting and contracting automatically when they talk like that. “Yes, Sir,” I manage to sputter. 

“You’re going to thrust that dick of yours into this boy’s little mouth and use it.” 

“Yes, Sir!” Harder now. Tanner chokes a little and opens up their mouth to get more air. 

“You’re going to come while I fuck this boy in the other end.” They thrust harder and I match their rhythm. DJ holds my head with one hand and Tanner’s hip with the other, their hips gyrating like a pop star. Their spine is snake-like, each movement rippling up. They grip my head harder. 

“Ohh, ohhh fuck, god that’s so good,” I keep one hand in Tanner’s hair, not forcing anything but more to feel the movement on my dick from a different angle, and the other hand is reaching for my clit under my harness, getting the angle as close to perfect as I can. I’m so close. 

“Do it for me. Come on.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying, if anything is coming out of my mouth aside from groans and whimpers. Maybe I said thank you or I love you or oh god oh fuck holy good god damn … all I remember is the explosion that started in my pelvis and radiated out, squeezing every drop of resistance from me and opening up every cell in my body. As if all at once, each proton and neutron and electron shivered, shaking off any old dust or residue, and when the haze settled, each one was shining, sparkling anew. 

I can barely hold myself up by my own thighs, they’re still quivering as Tanner looks up at me, one hand on my cock, licking the final drips from it, kissing it as they take their mouth away. DJ is grinning that cocky half-smile that suckered me in to a date with them in the first place, and I swoon and collapse and nearly start to cry with the adoration. 

I fall over sideways, collapsing and starting to laugh, still breathing hard. “Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn you two. I’m surprised I didn’t just have a heart attack. My whole body felt like it just … exploded.” 

DJ wraps around Tanner and they both reach for me. We’re all humming with vibration, pulsing with lust and thrusting.

“God, I love you,” I say, holding eye contact with DJ. 

“I love you,” they say back, soft, their eyes crinkling at the corners, licking their lips and looking at mine like they want to kiss but can’t quite reach me. 

“I love you both!” Tanner bursts. And we all laugh—not because it’s ridiculous, but because it’s so obvious and sweet, and we can all feel it alive in us.

“I love you, too, Tanner,” DJ says. 

“Yeah. Love all around,” I say, and Tanner hoists forward to cuddle against me, and we all rest and talk for a while, before sending Tanner on their way.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Bare Leatherworks floggers.

Cruising in the Woods (Kai & DJ #1)

I’m supposed to find DJ, but I’m not exactly in a hurry to get out of this sea of hard dicks. I’d know their favorite strap-on anywhere, and it is definitely not yet in my line of sight. Not that I can see anything. It’s pitch black, almost midnight by now, and this particular part of Ramblewood is so secluded that the moon is the brightest light source.

Someone is up against that tree. I can only see their outline: they’re big, wearing a baseball cap, flannel, jeans, boots. They growl, “C’mere, then,” when I get close enough. A little more polite than actually grabbing me. I drop to my knees and start unbuckling their belt. They swat my hands away and do it themself. Their dick is thick and short, black silicone from what I can tell. I condom it quickly, the thin plastic stretching, taking a little extra effort. Worth it to keep my mouth clean. I try not to gag on the cherry flavor—one of my poly arrangements is using only flavored condoms with others. It keeps the encounters feeling more like play. Not that I’m worried—DJ and I have been together for 8 years, I am too eagerly devoted to them to think of it as much else. This kind of thing? It really is just play.

I open my mouth to lick and suck. I can’t get it very far down, but it’s not very long. I stretch my lips, try to open at the hinge of my jaw. I suspect this is that butch I saw at the needle play demo earlier, in the front row, taking notes. But I could be wrong. Almost impossible to tell in this dark. They’re big, girthy and heavy-set, and their cock matches, short and fat. It’s so hot when they match. Sometimes the pipsqueak fags have these huge strap-ons that they have no idea how to drive, and they don’t match their frames at all. This guy knows what they’re doing.

They seem like they’re having a hell of a time, grunting and starting to hump at my mouth like a teenager. They resist using their hands, though I can tell they aren’t sure where to put them, so they end up hugging the tree.

I use my hands to twist and jerk them off, and to press in harder to their bits underneath. “You gonna spew?” I ask, mouth still touching. “I’ll take it. I’ll suck it down.” I doubt they’ll really come, but it gives us an excuse to be done. I reach one hand down my loose jeans to finger my clit-dick, hard and throbbing. I slick my fingers with my own juices and slide them easily over my swollen junk, eager to drink down this big guy’s come and keep going. Who knows how many more before I find DJ.

Mister Girth brings both hands to their chest and tweaks at their nipples, face twisted into that delicious little death: eyes squeezed shut, mouth gasping for something to gnaw. I can only see it when they turn just right and the moonlight through the one opening in the trees pours in. They shudder and grunt a few last times, leaning hard into the tree to be held up.

“Thanks,” they mutter, as I stand and fish my hand out of my pants. I’m hard as stone and can’t wait to get off. DJ, where are you?

“My pleasure. Gotta go,” I answer, and turn into the woods.

I barely get ten steps before I see my next cock. I mean, trick. I mean, notch in my bedpost. They’re sitting on a stump, elbows on knees. I see them before they see me. They’re watching the dark, totally still, something deep churning behind the quiet. I know they’ll taste like ash and smoke. My mouth waters.

I snap a twig on my next step and their head snaps up, and they see me. I advance slowly. We make eye contact and they don’t break it. Their eyes are shadows but I can still feel them locked into mine. In this dark I can barely register colors, everything looks blown out, black and white.

And that’s how our negotiations are, too. Simple, one-word consents. None of us would do it like this in the dungeon that’s just on the other side of the pond, but we all have enough trust and acceptance of risk to keep going here.

I kneel again, still keeping my eyes on their face. They are already unbuckling. My ankles are starting to hurt and I think there’s something—a pine cone? Hopefully not a rock—under my left knee. I tighten my quads and pull up in my pelvis, imagining myself long. My swimming skills are useful in the strangest places.

“Behind your back,” they say when I reach for their jeans. Their voice is low and harsh, edgy. Immediately I slide my hands behind my back, grasping the wrists, thursting my chest forward. I want anything, though I’m smarter than to offer that aloud. They take their dick out and start to jerk it. It’s long and almost slim, just a couple fingers. I’d guess it’s a Leo.

They start talking: “If I had it my way, I’d leave you there until I shot all over your chest. Would you like that, boy?” They’re guessing at my gender, but they aren’t far off.

“Yes, sir,” I swallow.

“And we’d leave you a sticky mess. You’d get covered in come.”

I moan. I fucking love dirty talk. “Yes, yes please…”

“No begging. Just wait right there. I’ll stuff up that mouth if you don’t shut it,” they take a breath and jerk a little faster. “I don’t know why I should let you touch my dick, anyway. You don’t deserve it. All you get is my come. You’re lucky to even get that.”

I moan, involuntarily, and try to swallow it back.

“Quiet,” they growl. “Or I’ll send you on your way. Just need your obedience right now, that’s all, just do as I tell you and you can have my come … ohhh,” they start shuddering, holding their breath and then letting it out in a long puff of air. We both breathe hard. I might have come in my jeans, my thighs feel all wet and sticky. I wait. I listen to the night, I can hear grunts and someone moaning, “fuck fuck fuck,” off in the distance. Could it be—no, not DJ, it’s not their voice exactly, though hard to tell.

“Okay, get out of here. Go on,” the contemplative queer on the stump packs away their dick and stands, looking ready to call it a night. “That’s it for me, I’m spent. Thanks,” they toss back to me as they head out of the woods, back the way I came.

I pass the “fuck fuck fuck” couple, who are full-on fucking, one bent over in front of the other, pants around their ankles, body quaking with each thrust. Who knows what hole they’re using, or even what holes they have. I can’t tell either of their genders.

I’m practically ready to give up on finding DJ when I turn a bend in the path and there they are. Laying back on a log, some young thing’s mouth on their dick. I freeze like prey—maybe they can’t see me if I’m still—my eyes still riveted, locked on their bodies joint movement. Fuck, they’re so sexy. I can tell by the way they’re doing half-crunches, their stomach rippling and contracting, that they’re close. I reach for my clit-dick through my jeans and press. The pressure building is starting to hurt, to ache between my legs. I know just how they come with their dick sliding in and out of a hole, especially a mouth. I love seeing it from afar. Their hand is behind their head and everything is contracting at their core, and pretty soon everything will start exploding out and they’ll probably gush everywhere. I wonder if that kid is using their hand too. Could be, too dark to tell.

DJ starts coming in a hushed whisper, rushing words from their mouth: “Don’t stop right there fuck yeah fuck yeah,” and I swallow a moan in my own throat. Fuck I love them.

They seem all shy after, not making much eye contact, timid. They pack up and sit up on the log, and the kid offers a peck on the cheek before setting down the path. When they brush by me, they mutter, “Hey,” but don’t look at me, a big grin on their face. It’s Tanner, I realize—a very service-oriented boy we know from back home in Denver.

“Hey, sexy,” I call quietly, as I approach.

“Kai! Baby, I was wondering when you’d come,” they hop up and grab for me, arms sliding around my waist as I reach around their neck and kiss them. They’re only a few inches taller, but it’s enough that I’m the one who is always reaching up. “You still hard?” They grab for my crotch. I packed something small, just enough, a pissing packer with a hole in the center—which feels great to be sucked off through.

I groan in response. “Yes. Very hard.”

“You didn’t get sucked yet?”

“No … I was kind of waiting for you.”

DJ grins. “That’s so sweet. You didn’t have to wait.” They unbuckle, unzip my jeans and slide their hand down. I’m so wet, so swollen. I nearly come right then.

“Please, your mouth, please,” I manage. DJ drops to their knees and take out my small packing dick, and softly takes it onto their tongue before adding their throat muscles and sucking.

My body ripples, I’m so sensitive, I’m not even sure I can stand to be touched. But it feels so good when it’s soft, and just right. I palm their shaved head, finger their ears and the contours of their skull. My feet are planted and I can feel myself so close, DJ’s mouth is so wet, lips big and soft, wrapped around me and sucking and I can feel it in my clit-dick, oh god.

“Oh god, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—” I shudder and groan, pressing out, feeling some come drip out of me and down my thighs.

DJ looks up at me, grinning. “You’re so hot.”

I blush a little, weak in the knees, so open.

“You hungry?” They ask.

“Starved!”

“I bet midnight snack is on.”

“Best thing I’ve heard all night! Well, maybe second best. You weren’t very loud, but I loved hearing you come.”

Now DJ blushes, a little bashful. “Aw, you heard me?”

“Heard and saw.”

“Aww… now I’m embarrassed. I didn’t get to see you.”

I grin and hug them close, nuzzling into their neck and chest at that spot where I fit so well. “Next time,” I say, and we walk out of the woods together.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Vixen Creations Leo, Buy it at Babeland; Vixen Randy, Sugarbutch review; The Number One pissing packer, get it on Etsy.

Luscious & Wild (Asher & Jesse #4)

“Sexually, I have a fetish about truth telling. I find it profoundly arousing to watch somebody struggle to articulate their desires. One of the things my girlfriend and I say together is that you can have anything you want if you have the courage to ask for it. But having that courage to ask for it, wow! So we set up situations where you can have anything, honey—you just have to be able to ask for it.” —Dorothy Allison, from Writing Below the Belt

Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.

“Oh fuck, oh my god …” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out.

Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Mostly grey, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s Master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capital Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.

But for now, there is only each other, luscious and wild, so eager for the other and so hungry for more.

Now that Jesse has opened up this dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.

When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread eagle, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mhm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”

When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slow, fucking her gently and sweet, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft-fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.

Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.

When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: To be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, to stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too—it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated, and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to overspilling with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request. Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.

Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.

She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things is for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again.

So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.

In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”

Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick. Her mouth is red from sucking.

“How many?”

“Once,” Asher whispers.

“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”

“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just, it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come … at least sometimes,” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses her fingers to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between her fingers, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.

Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”

“How many … times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.

“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”

“Could I come … right now? I don’t … really know,” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”

“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.

“Yes! Oh yes I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”

“Okay, baby, ready? Come … right now.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, pulses her cunt hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.

“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”

“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop …”

“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.

“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”

“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wet dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.

“Three,” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.

“Four! Please four, Jesse please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.

“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.

“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”

“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know … it’s too much, I can’t.”

“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,” but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more,” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.

“I can’t, I can’t Jesse … oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck …” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.

“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you,” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that post-fucking haze-y loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.

Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”

Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”

Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Do rough sex fantasies compromise your sex-positive ethics?

This new essay is also the introduction to my new book, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, available September 15th. Preorder it on Smashwords now!

I firmly believe that there is nothing wrong with my personal rough sex fantasies, nor is there anything wrong with your dirtiest fantasies. I believe that because I trust that you and I are adults who understand that fantasy is different from reality, and while we may think one thing to get ourselves off, we probably conduct our sex lives slightly differently.

Erotic stories are fantasies, yes, but they can be more than just that—they can show us a piece of the path, and encourage our erotic selves to blossom. So what’s my responsibility as an erotica writer to make the stories that I write down ethical and responsible?

I am both a sex educator and a smut writer, and sometimes those worlds seem to conflict. For example, in the BDSM and sex education worlds, educators and advanced practitioners stress consent in play scenes. And not just consent—we stress enthusiastic consent, not just an absence of “no” but a ready joyous abundance of informed and eager “yes.” We also stress safer sex practices, barriers, knowing your status, and sexual health and wellness. We stress responsible scenes, and warn about playing while intoxicated.

In some of my erotic fiction stories, these practices that are deeply held values in my personal life aren’t readily apparent. That’s because my stories are fantasies—you know, the things you close your eyes and think about when you’re getting off all by yourself, not necessarily (though perhaps sometimes!) the things you do with lovers. The characters in my stories sometimes don’t negotiate or have a conversation about safer sex, not because things like safer sex or negotiation are unimportant, but because the main purpose of the story is to turn you, the reader, on.

Frequently, in the sexuality education communities and conversations, we talk about how porn and erotica are different from sex education. I discourage people from learning how to give or receive a blow job from porn videos, for example, where deep throating and playing with ejaculate are overly common. (See Cindy Gallop’s online project Make Love, Not Porn for a variety of other examples of the difference.) Similarly, I discourage people from learning about power dynamics from Laura Antoniou’s book The Marketplace (though I happen to love the whole series), and would never suggest recreating a scene from 50 Shades of Grey (don’t even get me started). Both of these books are worlds away from the people who pursue and practice power dynamics, ownership, dominance, and submission in their personal relationships.

But the fantasies? We, as readers, love devouring them. We love the fantasies even more than we love the reality. The reality is messy, with STI scares and condoms breaking. The fantasies are escapist, sensual, and by definition not real.

I think when we start coming into our own sexually, when we start realizing that there’s more to sex than what our completely antiquated and puritanical sex education system taught us as kids, we start familiarizing ourselves with some of the most basic topics in sex positive communities. We learn about consent, agency, negotiations, communication, and safer sex. When we don’t see that reflected in the erotica or porn that we are consuming, sometimes it can seem like the erotica or porn fantasy is discouraging that kind of sex positive responsibility.

I am explaining all of this to you because I don’t want my erotic fantasies to discourage you from being responsible in reality.

I know that the educational workshops I teach encourage sex positive responsibility. But in my erotica? That issue becomes a little more nuanced and complicated, because of the aspects of art and fantasy. For example, I am aware that there are some points in the Sweet & Rough collection of stories where characters protest or resist or drink a lot of whiskey. I think there is nothing wrong with playing with resistance and force, consensually and carefully, but I also think that requires a lot of negotiation, a lot of trust, and safewords, in order to be done responsibly in the real world. That part of the story often isn’t revealed. Like the porn scene that cuts out the part where the fluffer comes on stage and someone else adds more lube, the erotic story often excludes the getting-to-know-you, the subtle body language communication, the character’s histories with each other, and what they have negotiated “off screen.”

I deeply believe that the personal is political and that being transparent about one’s life is a spiritual path. Since writing Sweet & Rough, I have shifted some of my erotica writing to be much more consciously inclusive of things like negotiations and safer sex. Most definitely because that stuff is hot, but also because I want to show more of the reality and less of the fantasy.

However, those things are frequently excluded from Sweet & Rough. And here’s why: These stories are collaborations. Most of the stories in this collection were written and published on Sugarbutch between 2007-2009. Many of them came out of the “Sugarbutch Star Contest” where readers sent in some basics about a scene (who, where, what the characters did) and I wrote up the story.

It was a huge period of growth for my writing, and I pushed myself hard to write the fantasies that were outlined for me. Sometimes, they were much more forceful than I’d usually write, although they more closely resembled my own private fantasies. I am aware of my access to privilege and unconscious entitlement as a masculine person and as a dominant, and it is important for me to stay conscious in my sex play, especially when it comes to gender or power dynamics.

Often, my early drafts of these stories included a lot of internal processing and negotiations, but the fantasies of my collaborators challenged me. I remember when writing “The Houseboy’s Rebellion” (which is a b-side story included on the USB version of Sweet & Rough), when the collaborator read the draft of it, she said, “No way. Make my character more mean. Take out all this negotiation. Just take me.”

Because of how strong the service top in me is, and because I liked it, I followed her desire. And I believe that story—and others, when I received similar feedback—are stronger for it.

The stories in Sweet & Rough are fantasies. I know fantasy erotic writing still greatly influences our real sexualities, and I don’t dismiss that connection. But these fictions are not necessarily models of sexual responsibility. Some of it is “problematic,” and I wouldn’t claim otherwise—but they still have so much value, and can jump-start our erotic engines or show us how much more can be incorporated into our erotic lives.

I encourage you to continue practicing being a responsible, ethical, sex-positive kinkster who operates from integrity. And I encourage you to read erotica stories that are edgy, full of force and lust, from authors whose ethics you trust, and to believe that the responsibilities are filled in behind the scenes, just off the page, stripped out so you can enjoy even more of the sweet sex and rough play that gets you going and gets you off.

Sweet & RoughYou have just read the introduction to my new book of erotica short stories, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut. It is all ready to go and will be released on Monday, September 15th! Preorder your copy on Smashwords, or if you are attending the Catalyst Conference in LA this weekend, I’ll have special pre-release copies on a USB drive (which will have a special, USB-only b-side story included!)

The Girl in the Red Dress (Excerpt from Sex Still Spoken Here)

This story is included in the forthcoming collection Sex Still Spoken Here, the Erotic Reading Circle anthology.

At first I’m trying to ignore her. I have my latest review book, Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica; I have my iPod on to some soothing lofi mix Muse made for me; I have lube in my pocket for a quick jerk-off session before we arrive in New York. I need all the sanctuary and release I can get before returning to that hyper-stimulating city.

But she’s making a big show of her many bags, heavy, designer luggage, and she – being tiny petite thing – seems unable to slip them all into the overhead luggage rack.

The only other person in this car is a man in the back who has been snoring since I got on. I think about telling her to just leave her suitcases on the seat next to her, but her jaw is set, her sensuous mouth twisted in a sneer, and as she begins to climb onto the train seat to reach the rack better, I sigh and, reluctantly, get up to help her.

“Please. Let me,” I say, sliding behind her and putting my hand on her waist to guide her out of the way, then taking the heavy suitcase out of her struggling grip and nudge it onto the metal rack easily. She’s got a great ass in those tight jeans. Her eyes are wide, then she drags her gaze along my arm to my face. I watch her watch me. She looks like Penelope Cruz, all dark hair and big pools of dark liquid eyes.

“Um,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I answer, a bit dismissively, now offering my hand so she can get down. The train doors buzz and are about to close, we’ll be in motion shortly. I pick up her other bags and one by one put them up into the rack above her seat. She takes off her thin white sweater and sets it with her handbag next to her, and watches me.

I groan a little with the weight of the last one. She notices. “Thanks again,” she says, and I detect a slight accent, French maybe, though she looks Spanish. Her words are a little airy, already pulling Vogue Milan out of her purse and turning her attention to it, a tiny sideways glance at me to see if I’m still standing next to her, waiting for my good-dog biscuit.

I retreat back to my aisle seat. We are facing each other, opposite sides of the train. She is absorbed in her magazine. I put my feet up and crack open my book, start reading through the bondage stories. She takes out a compact and lipstick and fusses with her mouth, repainting, touching her fingertips to the edges of her lips, then wipes microscopic flecks with a tissue. I don’t watch her, but she periodically sweeps her eyes over to me. I rest my hand on my neat little package as I read through the story by Toni Amato, “A Girl Like That:”

She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me. Coming on all hip and cool and all into sex, rubbing some part of herself all up against me every chance she gets. I’m not saying all the things my people taught me about women are so great, but I’ll tell you what, where I come from, that kind of girl is called a cock teaser.

It’s like there’s this small thing, like those stars they talk about, those White Dwarves, sitting deep and low in my belly, and this girl comes along, doing her number, and that son of a bitch just goes nova.

She makes the worst part of me want to do the best it knows how to teach her a thing or two about fucking.

I’m stroking my cock unconsciously through my jeans when I notice someone looming next to me, and it’s her, she’s returning from the bathroom with a clutch in her hand, I didn’t even notice her get up. The girl smiles, almost, and pushes past as though I am taking up the entire aisle, or maybe to show off her gorgeous ass in those tight, tight jeans.

The train lurches and opens its sleepy doors, the man in the back of our train car is moving at half-speed and makes his way off the train.

We’re alone.

She notices too. She’s looking out the window but keeps stealing glances at me. The conductor comes through and says nothing to either of us, just takes the small pieces of paper on our seats, the remnants of our tickets.

I go back to my book. I finger the bottle of lube in my pocket and think this would be a good time to go rub one out, then get absorbed in a story about a dyke cop who is passing as male in a straight club, picks up a girl and takes her, handcuffed, out to her truck. I nearly reach my hand into my pants.

“Um, excuse me?”

She’s standing, still in her seat but leaning forward over the seat in front of her, facing me, ass tipped to the side, front of her button down revealing creamy skin, long dark hair swinging. She smiles when I look up, flashes me an intentional smirky pose that she has practiced in the mirror – her seduction look. “Would you help, I have to … I need … something from that bag.” She glances up at it.

I put my book down and tug at my jeans to cover my hard-on. Clear my throat. “Sure.”

I get up and move toward her. She kneels and reaches for it, her back to the aisle as I come up behind her and reach up.

“This one?” My mouth is close to her ear.

“No, not – yes, that one,” she says as I touch the smaller suitcase. She reaches up to help me, bending slightly forward, as we both ease the weight of her bag down onto the seat. And I swear she rubs right against me, pushing back, just a little. Maybe I’m imagining it. Yeah, sure Sinclair; you just happen to have a boner and this girl offers up her ass on a silver platter.

I back off. Return to my seat. Again.

“Um, thanks!” she calls.

I toss a half-smile over my shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” She pulls a bundle of fabric out of her bag and I don’t watch. I don’t pay attention. I can’t see it. I shouldn’t be watching, but I am. It is slinky and red. She finds a few other bits and tucks her hair behind her ear, gathers an armful of clothing, makes her way toward me, down the aisle, to the bathroom at the back of the car.

She’s in there a while. I try to concentrate on my book, to not wonder what she is doing, what she’s slipping into, who she’s meeting when she gets off the train, not to imagine being that somebody so filled with lust and permission that I’d fuck her right on the platform, couldn’t even control myself long enough to wait until we went to dinner, drinks, a show, whatever it is she’s dressing up for. My breath is quickening and my hands are starting to do that aching thing where they are pulsing with grip, wanting to hold push grab press punch slap.

She makes her way back to her seat like the aisle is a runway, like she’s coming in for a landing. Each step deliberately placed. Legs precisely angled and separated and her gait is sharp, strong. Her red dress swings from her hips, past her thighs, to her knees. A few bracelets jangle from one arm, simple and slim. She’s pulled her hair up high on her head, into some sort of ponytail, then twisted around itself in a beautiful knot.

I watch her as she closes the distance to her own seat. I don’t drool. I am not drooling. I try not to drool at the sight of her ankles, her calves, the hints of the backs of her knees as her dress swings. I wipe my mouth. Her ankles cross just slightly, which makes her hips curl and switch like a figure eight. Like a come-hither finger.

I swallow. Breathe in. And quickly open my book, flustered, and turn it to the page I was reading as she slides onto the train seat and I snap out of my spell.

Of course – of course – I am too zealous and the book slides out of my hand, skittering out into the aisle. I take a sharp breath in and some spit goes down the wrong way, I start to choke, cough, loudly, as I jump up to retrieve the book.

Oh good lord. I get ahold of myself. Straighten up, book in hand. Clear my throat. I don’t look at her. I can’t see her. I am sure I am five shades of crimson and I steal a glance her direction, she’s covering her mouth, that perfect smirky smile, eyes dancing, looking away from me. Obviously she saw everything.

Fuck.

I resettle. Book in lap, adequate breath in lungs. I sneer to myself. Re-open the erotica. Do you have to be so obvious? I yell at myself in my head. You dumbass. Real smooth, Sexsmith.

She’s going through her open case next to her, I can see her arms moving but can’t see what she’s doing. Then suddenly she’s up, out of the seat and back in the aisle, pads down toward me as if she forgot something.

I catch a whiff of her perfume as she walks by. Dizzying, intoxicating. The swish of her skirt. I watch her little toe-heel trot down the aisle. My body acts without my mind and I reach for her. My hand on her hip. Lightly at first, but then she doesn’t pull away and I grab her harder. Both hands and I stand, pull her toward me, her back to me, and she is still. I can’t see her face but I can feel her breath through my hands, she’s holding it. Surprised. Waiting.

I lift her skirt in the back to reveal her perfect ass. A work of art. A combination of genetics and squats and hundreds of hours at the gym. She knows it. She’s bare under her red dress, no panties, no stockings. Perhaps that’s what she forgot. I can’t resist, I palm the apple of her ass, caress the flesh, spreading her cheeks and opening her slit.

She lets out her breath, finally, and it comes with a breathy moan, just a little.

And I’m gone. The slightest noise from her lips and all I can feel is what it’ll be like to be inside her, to feel her body curl around my arm and buck and thrash and grasp as she comes. I’ve got to feel it. Got to make her.

I press against her back. Her neck is bare, hair up, and my mouth is just at the corner of her jaw, below her ear. I reach around her and pin her arms to her sides, pressing her back to lean against me, and she arches, thrusts her hips up, feels the cock behind my fly. She lets her head lean back against me, lets me take her weight.

“Bend over.” Right next to her ear. Barely audible …

***


This is the beginning of my story, “The Girl in the Red Dress,” that is in Sex Still Spoken Here, the Erotic Reading Circle anthology.

Co-edited by Jen Cross, Carol Queen, and Amy Butcher, this erotica anthology is one of a kind as it is not only a collection of erotica stories, but also a how-to guide, detailing how to begin and run your own erotic reading circle, with stories learned from San Francisco’s own erotic reading circle which meets monthly at the Center for Sex and Culture since 2006.

I’m thrilled to have a piece included! And very excited for the anthology. To get your copy and support the book and the 27 authors who have contributed pieces, donate to the Sex Still Spoken Here Indiegogo campaign.

But wait—that’s not all!

Ever wish I would write you a custom story, maybe about you and your partner, or about someone you fantasize about, or about a particular act?

SSSH is running a referral contest right now, and one of the prizes is a custom story from me. (Jen Cross is also writing a custom story!)

(Sidenote: I am currently the top referral, and while it’s fun to write my own stories, it’d be more fun to write yours. I don’t offer custom smut very often—I hope it goes to someone who wants it!)

Click over to Indiegogo to preorder your copy and support this amazing project!

Daddy’s Good Boy

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

Or, The Divine Beast in Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing, Daddy,” he whispers.

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

He whimpers.

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

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

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

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

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

“You like this,” I accuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every inch of me feels alive.

* * *

The strap-on featured in this piece is the Shilo by New York Toy Collective. Use the code “SUGARBUTCH” when you check out for $5 off.

The hottest parts of the hottest parts of the stories: The Big Book of Orgasms

If you’re a fan of reading erotica—and chances are high that you are, if you’re following Sugarbutch—you probably know Rachel Kramer Bussel‘s work. She’s one of the most prolific erotica editors and writers currently curating and creating dirty books and stories for us to read and explore, and I’m a huge fan of her work.

She’s included stories of mine in a variety of her anthologies, and I’m in a brand new book of hers called The Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories which also features many of my favorite queer erotica writers, including BD Swain and Xan West.

The Big Book of Orgasms joins a few other “big book” anthologies of short-short dirty stories, including Girl Fever and Gotta Have It and Frenzy (the latter two I have stories in), and they continue to be some of my most favorite anthologies. They’re so easy to read. It’s like the “good parts” version of other erotica anthologies, where in this one, the writers only have a couple of pages to give you the point of the story, which is usually the hottest part of the story.

The hottest part of the story isn’t always the orgasm part (very often the tease is what does it for me, for example), but it’s definitely one of the hottest parts. So basically what I’m saying is, this book is the hottest parts of the hottest parts of stories. Amazing.

So next week, on Wednesday November 6th, I’ll be reading at the Polk Street Good Vibrations toy store in San Francisco, along with a handful of other contributors to the book, to celebrate the release of The Big Book of Orgasms!

Details:

bigbookThe Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories (Cleis Press) is editor Rachel Kramer Bussel’s latest and greatest erotica anthology. This climactic collection of pansexual short shorts are perfect for bedtime reading to a lover or on your own. Whether getting off from exhibitionism, voyeurism, hot wax, dirty talk or a very special pair of blue jeans, the characters in The Big Book of Orgasms go all out for the Big O. From vanilla to kinky, and everything in between, there’s something for all erotic readers here. At this special reading, Bussel will be joined by contributors Lily K. Cho, Malin James, Crystal Jordan, Donna George Storey, B.D. Swain, Virgie Tovar, Sinclair Sexsmith, Jade A. Waters and Xan West for an evening of steamy stories that’s sure to leave you hot and bothered.

FREE!
Time: 6:30 – 7:30pm
Where: Good Vibrations Polk Street Good Vibrations Polk St. store 1620 Polk Street (at Sacramento Street), San Francisco, CA 94109
http://events.goodvibes.com
https://fetlife.com/events/201391
https://www.facebook.com/events/186231794893318/

… The only problem is, I’m not entirely sure what to read. This book includes a story about Kristen, and traditionally, at book release parties, it’s customary to read the story that is included in the book. But I don’t think I can read a story about how good she is at sex and how much I loved fucking her, in public, right now. Maybe someday I can, maybe it’ll feel like fiction again, or like my own writing, but right now it just feels like ouch.

So what do I read?

Options are … well … I could read a different piece, something about rife or something more fictional. I could read someone else’s story from the book. I could write to Rachel and ask her what she recommends. I’m not sure what the best option is, for this one.

Suggestions?

And while you’re at it, if you’re in or nearby to San Francisco, why don’t you come see me read, and get a copy of the book signed by some of the amazing contributors? It’s been a while since I’ve had an erotica reading, I’m looking forward to it.

A Dirty Excerpt from Carrie’s Story [Blog Tour]

carriesstoryToday is my day on the Carrie’s Story blog tour. I devoured this book in the beginning of March as some escapist fiction, hoping for something easy to read that was easy enough to digest without a lot of deep thinking. And while it is easy to read and easy to digest, it isn’t without it’s deep thoughts. Carrie has very little experience with kink and submission at the beginning of the book, but by the end she is an auctioned slave, having gone through trainings from her (temporary) master and trainings from the Madame of the slave auction herself.

I love the little moments where Carrie submits, not because she is comfortable being taken by this person or that person, but because she trusts the woman who created the entire system. And by submitting to the system, she is submitting to that woman in particular. It’s a beautiful explanation of how M/s is larger than D/s, and how M/s is not about individual interactions.

I’ve been more and more interested in M/s theory lately. I’ve got a lot of thoughts about how D/s and M/s are different, and I’d love to write about that more soon here—mostly I’m still chewing on the differences and formulating thoughts. I’ve read through Raven Kaldera and Joshua Tenpenny’s book, Dear Raven and Joshua: Questions and Answers About Master/Slave Relationships, which is amazing and which I may turn around and re-read from the beginning right away. It’s long and detailed, well-organized and easy to read in a Q&A format. Unfortunately (and fortunately) it’s been teaching me a ton of things that I’ve been doing wrong … but I’ll leave that thought for the moment and share you some more details about Carrie’s Story. I highly recommend the read.

Excerpt from Carrie’s Story

Day one had begun with the very chic fortyish woman holding me tightly by the nipple and telling me, “We will all want to use you during these trials, but first, we will want to know how obedient you are, how much self-discipline you have. You are accustomed to being in restraints?”

“Yes, Madame Roget,” I said.

They all laughed a little at this, and she told me that they didn’t believe in that sort of thing for these trials. “We would not mar the woodwork of this pretty room with any of those little hooks and eyes, I think you call them. You will do everything we command, and you will be beaten, and bear it beautifully, without any collars or cuffs, without being tied or held in any way.”

I gulped. “Yes, Madame Roget,” I agreed, though I was terrified at the thought of not being tied down while being beaten. Too bad we couldn’t rig up something using all the hardware hanging off the jacket of her Chanel suit.

Quel jour. I had no idea if I could really do it, and I wasn’t perfect by any means. Twice, that I can remember, and maybe more times than that, my hands flew up to my breasts to protect them. This was at least one of the “technical” things Jonathan hadn’t thought of. He, of course, loved to think of crafty ways to embed hooks and eyes all over his house and so, stupidly, hadn’t realized that the rest of the world might not. I think what got me through it was that I was so pissed at him for not considering that this might happen, and so determined to best the situation in spite of him. Thanks a lot, coach, I remember thinking, seeing him out of the corner of my eye, over there on his delicate little chair. I thought of that creep who brought those terrified little four-foot-eight-inch American gymnasts to the Olympics, to be entirely outclassed by the Russians and Romanians.

That day ended very abruptly, or at least I thought so. I was on my knees in the center of the room, having just thanked the board, one by one, and very sweetly and clearly, though in a bit of a choked voice, for a brisk beating they’d just administered to my breasts and thighs. (Oh, and in French—we switched to French for the afternoons.) And, no, they didn’t hold up any cards with little numbers on them to rate my performance. They hardly acknowledged me at all, in fact, but Madame Roget turned to Jonathan and curtly said, “Bring her around tomorrow at ten, and we’ll continue.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Jonathan replied, getting to his feet and hurrying to help me up. “I will. Thank you all.” He spoke like the well-brought-up little boy he must have been once. And I realized that part of the entertainment, for him, and maybe for me as well, was that he was on trial too.

When we got back to the hotel room, he grabbed me, and, very uncharacteristically, pushed me onto the bed practically into a backward somersault, pulled up my skirt, and started fucking me. My shoes went flying, and I felt a garter unsnap painfully against my thigh. Against my cunt, my belly, my legs, I felt his pants zipper and a million buttons and buckles digging into me. It was silly, clumsy, uncomfortable, but I understood. It was what I needed, too. The long, horny, ritualistic day of trials, subtleties, pain, performing, and politesse had gotten to both of us, and what we both wanted was mindless, exhausting, low-tech vanilla fucking. In and out. Bang bang bang. Friction. I closed my eyes and came a lot, moving however I pleased and making lots of noise and trying to forget that there were such things as rules or form or sensibility.

Still, you don’t forget a year of slave training just like that, so a long while after, when I had recovered enough, I crawled to the foot of the bed and knelt there at attention (although I was unsure what to do about the skirt that was still up around my waist and the stockings down around my ankles). Jonathan looked at me for a while. Then he frowned, sighed, and finally said, “Oh hell, Carrie, I don’t think I can maintain any rules tonight, not after watching those pros do it all day. Let’s just take showers and zone out. Are you hungry? Want to do room service?”

Which was how we passed the next three evenings. We’d come back from the trials, pull off our clothes, fuck real hard, and then eat. During some break in the second day trials, Jonathan had gone out, found an English-language bookstore, and scooped up a shopping bag full of mysteries and sci fi. We weren’t following rules anymore, which meant we could say anything we wanted. But we were afraid of saying wrong or embarrassing things to each other. At least I was. So the books kept us busy during those weird, wired, exhausted, polite, and oddly companionable evenings. We’d dive into them, every so often one or the other of us finishing one, maybe briefly recommending it, or tossing it across the room, proclaiming it a “turkey, guessed it halfway through, don’t bother.”

On the fourth evening, the rock ’n’ roll/cyberpunk story I was racing through reminded me of thrash music and I thought of my Primus T-shirt, packed up with my stuff at Stuart’s. I decided that if I passed the trials I’d tell Jonathan he could have it as a good-bye present. Thanks for the memo- ries, I guess, and for the strange intimacy, even if we’d only had about four real conversations in the space of a year and a half. Good-bye, and thanks, also, for finding me a job that was not just a job but an adventure. So long, accomplice, collaborator, coconspirator.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Jonathan went to get it. There were two European guys in suits and short squared-off haircuts, looking like the cops in La Femme Nikita. They were from the auction committee, though, and they were here to tell us—well, Jonathan, really—that I’d passed the trials. I could hear that much anyway, though the one of them who was doing the talking, the only one who knew English I think, was speaking very softly. I heard Jonathan tell him, “I’ll fax them the papers within an hour. And I’ll get her for you now.”

I hadn’t known they came for you in the middle of the night. And I don’t know if Jonathan had either. He walked over to me—I was sprawled on the bed in a hotel bathrobe and a pair of his socks—and pulled me to my feet. “You’re in,” he said, “and you’re not allowed to speak anymore.” So much for the T-shirt idea. Or for even a so long. “Take off your clothes,” he continued in an expressionless voice. “You’ll go with these gentlemen.”

They were standing by the door watching without much interest. I felt a little sorry for them; this had to be the dullest master/slave scene they’d ever barged in on. I pulled off the socks and robe, folded my glasses on top of the open book, and walked over to them. They produced a pair of high heels and a trench coat and helped me into them. Then, silently, they hustled me out of the room and shut the door behind them.

 * * *

From Cleis Press: 

Carrie’s Story is regarded as one of the finest erotic novels ever written—smart, devastatingly sexy, and, at times, shocking. In this new era of “BDSM romance,” à la Fifty Shades of Grey, the whips and cuffs are out of the closet and “château porn” has given way to mommy porn. Carrie’s Story remains at the head of the class. Imagine The Story of O starring a Berkeley Ph.D. in comparative literature who moonlights as a bike messenger, has a penchant for irony, and loves self-analysis as much as anal pleasures. Set in both San Francisco and the more château-friendly Napa Valley, Weatherfield’s deliciously decadent novel takes you on a sexually-explicit journey into a netherworld of slave auctions, training regimes, and enticing “ponies” (people) preening for dressage competitions. Desire runs rampant in this story of uncompromising mastery and irrevocable submission.  

Molly Weatherfield, the pen name of Pam Rosenthal, is also the author of Safe Word, the sequel to Carrie’s Story. A prolific romance and erotica writer, she has penned many sexy, literate, historical novels. She lives in San Francisco. You can find Molly on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/MollyWeatherfield and on Twitter at @PamRosenthal (https://twitter.com/PamRosenthal).

Blog Tour Schedule

March 24 – Shanna Germain
March 25 – Lelaine
March 26 – Alison Tyler
March 27 – Romance After Dark
March 28 – Romance Junkies and Amos Lassen
March 29 – Sinclair Sexsmith
April 1 – Rachel Kramer Bussel
April 2 – Kissin Blue Karen
April 3 – Dana Wright
April 4 – Erin O’Riodan
April 5 – Lindsay Avalon
April 6 – Laura Antoniou
April 7 – DL King

Carrie’s Story, Slow Surrender, and Other Things I’ve Been Devouring To Distract Myself

So. Yeah.

slowsurrender carriesstory

I’m reading a lot. Light things, but well-written things, because I need something to completely occupy my mind that I don’t have to really think about. I’m journaling most days, but not writing anything worth reading, just a lot of purging. Emotional vomit. Navel-gazing, which I used to sometimes think was a good thing, self-insight, self-reflection, but now seems trite and self-indulgent. I’m waking up and most of the time going to sleep. I’m staying up late and then not being able to wake early. I’m waking early and not being able to get back to sleep. I’m reading reading reading on the subway at the cafe on my breaks when I can’t sleep anytime I need to try to stop thinking all the thoughts that are circling circling circling like predators. Like hawks. Like something big and heavy that you see from far away and it doesn’t look that bad but when they get close your pores start to shake. You start sweating and your pupils dilate. Those kinds of thoughts are still stalking me. All the things I did wrong. All the ways I have doomed myself. All the things that I could’ve changed didn’t change am never going to be able to change. Reminding myself that I am not doomed. Telling myself over and over again that I did the best I could we did the best we could no one is at fault no one is at fault. Sometimes I even believe that. Loss happens. Errors of judgment happen. Perfect storms of chaos happen, all the best movies know how if any one factor in the plot would have slipped out of place, it wouldn’t have happened that way, but that the universe conspired somehow to shatter that rain of misunderstandings and missed connections and opportunities down upon our heads. But I try to remember that sometimes all of creation is conspiring to shower us with blessings too. Could that be true? Could I really believe that people are fundamentally good, at the core? It’s what I say I believe, and most of the time that belief is not tested. This is when I need faith. Hope.

Hope is when you look out the window and you go, ‘It doesn’t look good at all, but I’m going to go beyond what I see to give people visions of what could be.’ —Anna Deavere Smith

I don’t think I can tell the truth yet, because I don’t yet think I know what the truth is. There’s not just one capital-T Truth anyway. There are many truths. My truths and your truths and our truths are perhaps three different truths. I think I’m done believing in objectivity. I don’t think it’s possible. I distrust people who start sentences with, “Objectively speaking …” How can anyone see objectively? Sometimes I can squint and look at things sideways and sometimes, just sometimes, I can take myself out of the way of the experience for a glance, a frame, a whisper of smoke. But usually only long enough to get one thought, one perspective, not long enough to really grasp the three-sixy view.

I don’t know what happens next. I know I keep trying. I know I keep writing and striving and crying on my sister’s couch in the mornings. I know I stare at the tree’s brittle branches scraping against this window in the wind and wondering which will break off and which will make it to bud and which buds will pop open to that baby green spring. Oh right, it’s springtime now, isn’t it. When things long dormant start to wake. When things waiting waiting for this freeze to thaw start to tentatively uncurl and test the air.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. —Anais Nin

It’s such a risk. Everything is, from this cup of coffee to that service I just cancelled to the appointment I made for next week. No one really knows if next week will exist, but now that this week is here, we proved last week that next week existed, and I am trusting that’ll keep happening, until it doesn’t. That’s all I can do, anyway. I think I have some more trust in me, though it’s thin. I’ve been paving the roof of my mouth with it for months. It leaves a coat all sticky like too too sweet honey. Makes me crave mouthwash, some salt water gargle to cut the aversion of the over-sweet. Some crumbs of sourdough bread. Good thing I’m heading west, back to the salt water where the sun sets over the ocean instead of over the land. Somehow, it has always seemed more correct. And in the absence of light, I’ll look east.

Power in the silence. Power in the sound of a lover’s name.

*

Book notes: Excerpt from Carrie’s Story, when her dominant says he’s going to sell her at a slave auction. Cleis calls Carrie the “thinking readers’ submissive.” Cecilia Tan about the Slow Surrender series: “I would call it the “BDSM billionaire” genre, also known as BDSM romance, also known as “If you liked 50 Shades of Grey, you might like this book.” Buy them through my Amazon store and you’ll toss some pennies my way—see the store for more of my erotica recommendations, too.

Review: Leather Ever After edited by Sassafras Lowrey (book)

leather-ever-aftercover1I’m back in Texas, visiting Rife, and we have had a great time reading Leather Ever After aloud to each other in the hammock.

Once upon a time, in a dungeon far, far away the kinkiest writers in the land were summoned to pervert beloved fairy tales with tales of dominance, submission, bondage and surrender. In these stories twisted princesses take control of submissive princes, witches play with power and fairy tales come to life in our homes and dungeons …

In Leather Ever After, celebrated queer author Sassafras Lowrey brings together some of the most beloved leather writers in an enchanting collection published by Ravenous Romance with a foreword by Laura Antoniou! Leather Ever After is Learn more about about Leather Ever After at LeatherEverAfter.wordpress.com and to get more information about Sassafras and hir work visit www.SassafrasLowrey.com.

It’s a star-packed anthology: the forward was written by Laura Antoniou (if you haven’t read The Marketplace series, I highly recommend them!), and also features stories by Lee Harrington, Miel Rose, DL King, Ali Oh, Raven Kaldera, Sossity Chiricuzio, Mollena Williams, and of course the anthology’s editor.

My favorites have been the ones set with modern language—Lee Harrington’s piece was unexpected and fantastic. I won’t ruin it by telling you which story it is, there’s kind of a slow reveal toward the end as the clues start adding up, but I loved the leather twist on it. It’s been much fun to read and discuss and get turned on and talk about fantasy and fairy tales.

Pick up Leather Ever After on Amazon or order it from your local awesome bookstore.

“Twice the Pleasure: Bisexual Erotica” Has My Butch-on-Fag Story “Right Red Flagging”

twiceSo I don’t usually write “bisexual erotica.” I don’t see my erotica as girl-on-girl or exploratory times with women, my characters are usually anything other than straight-up gay.

So when I saw this call for erotica submissions from Rachel Kramer Bussel, I wondered what it would look like for me to write some bisexual erotica. What would that mean for my main character/narrator voice, for “Sinclair”? What would I write about? Where would my edge be?

I talked it over with rife, months ago, and he had a great idea of a butch who picks up a fag at a fag bar and proceeded to have a one night stand. I wrote it up, and Rachel included it in her new book, Twice the Pleasure: Women’s Bisexual Erotica! It seems like a kind of unlikely place for a butch/fag pickup story, but hey, maybe someone will stumble on that one-of-these-stories-is-not-like-the-other kind of piece and discover something new about themselves, in one way or another.

Twice the Pleasure comes out in April, but you can preorder it now! Rachel is doing a buy-one-get-one book sale for the book, so you can buy this one and get any other book of hers in addition. Here’s an excerpt from my story.

      Right Red Flagging

      Tonight, I see him as soon as I enter the room, eyes adjusting to the dankness that still feels full of cigarette smoke, even though it’s no longer legal to smoke indoors, and he sees me. He’s at the bar sucking on a long neck beer, wearing a snap down worn through cowboy shirt and jeans, and we make eye contact. In gay boy world, that means we may as well have been dating for three years and have just walked into the hotel room after our prom. I order a beer, too, and wait at the curve of the bar.

      He watches me while not looking like he’s watching me. I notice a red hanky in his back right pocket and as he brings the beer up to his mouth for the last swig, I slip off my bar stool and make my way toward the back hallway, the bathrooms, and the door to the back patio. I lean against the wall in a dark patch of the path, thumbs hooked into my belt loops. He follows a moment later, sauntering slowly into the hall and stops, seeing me.

      “Hi,” I say. He grins, a crooked half-smirk that darkens his already deep set eyes. He’s more plump than muscle but still has a good shape, firm and solid.

      “Hi,” he says.

      “So,” I say. He waits. I curl my finger without moving my hand from my hip, and he takes a few steps toward me. I can’t tell who he thinks I am or what he thinks I expect, but he seems willing to find out. When he is just a foot or two from me, and I can smell his sweat and make out the stubble on his chin, I reach out for his upper arm and grip it. “Are you going to kiss me, or what?”

    This book has a lot of other great contributors, whose stories I regularly enjoy, like Lori Selke, Giselle Renarde, and Shanna Germain. I haven’t read it yet, but I suspect it’s a great collection, and I’m looking forward to reading the whole thing.

    Photos from the Dirty Queer Sex Tour: Dallas

    I’ve gone all over the country in the past year to promote the anthology I edited, Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica. In November, Kristen and I were in Dallas for Thanksgiving and Lillith Grey helped me to produce an incredible lineup at Ver Les.

    Amy Price took photographs, and they are pretty amazing. It was quite a rockstar lineup and it was in fact so successful that Lillith has decided to create an ongoing erotica series! Check out Panty Raid on Facebook for more details.

    The Dirty Queer Sex Tour: Dallas Edition featured live music by Ashely Boucher, and erotica readings by Lillith Grey, Kasson Marroquin, Cheyenne Cartwright, Artemis Rose, Morgan la Fae, and CD Kirven.

    Thanks so much to everyone who was there last night, to Lillith and all the readers, for making it an excellent celebration. I still aim to do a couple more Say Please readings in 2013, and I hope to have a new book project with Cleis press soon, so certainly you can expect more of me in your city in the future.

    This Week! Best Lesbian Erotica & the Lesbian Sex Mafia in New York City

    I’ll be reading some erotica on Thursday night in the East Village with the Best! Lesbian! Erotica! reading at Drunken! Careening! Writers! that BLE series editor Kathleen Warnock runs.

    And! Also! I’m still on the board of the Lesbian Sex Mafia, and Lee Harrington is teaching an amazing D/s class on Friday night at the GBLT Center. I’ll be running the workshop that night, doing the announcements and getting everyone settled to pay attention to Lee’s brilliance, and taking a lot of notes about D/s. I’ve been thinking a LOT about D/s lately, about protocols and rituals and rules and punishments … still thinking about ways to write about all the things I’ve been learning.

    Meanwhile, here’s the details on the events in New York City Thursday and Friday.

    Best Lesbian Erotica @ Drunken! Careening! Writers!

    KGB Bar
    85 E. 4th St.
    NYC
    7pm FREE

    Rebecca Lynne Fullan
    Sid March
    …and special surprise guests!
    with your hostess, Kathleen Warnock
    copies of BLE ’13 will be available for sale

    Our “special surprise guests” will be Sinclair Sexsmith and Lea DeLaria (eds of the last 2 editions), and they will be reading from their work!

    Rebecca Lynne Fullan is a writer of various stripes, most of them human. She lives, writes, reads, and learns in New York City. This story is for her girlfriend, Charlotte, and written with special gratitude to the BMVCOE, who know about magic. Come visit her here: rebeccalynnefullan.wordpress.com.

    Sid March is the disastrously queer daughter of Neptune, a gifted escape artist, and an excellent party planner. A nomadic being with half a dozen hometowns, Sid writes obsessively when no one is watching as a way to tame her insatiable Wanderlust.

    Best Lesbian Erotica is published by Cleis Press, the largest independent queer publishing company in the United States. Kathleen Warnock is the series editor, and Jewelle Gomez selected and introduced this year’s collection.

    Drunken! Careening! Writers! is a reading series based on the proposition that all readings should be by: 1) Good Writers; 2) Who read their work well; 3) Something in it makes people laugh (nervous laughter counts). And 15 minutes tops.

    Lesbian Sex Mafia presents Beyond Bowed Heads: Rituals for Dominance and Submission with Lee Harrington

    lesbiansexmafia.org

    Rituals are a key part of any D/s relationship, whether we acknowledge them or not. From casual kisses as the door to formal slave poses, ritual objects such as collars to slave contracts, the BDSM world is rife with concepts of ritual- but what is a ritual? What are the levels of ritualistic interaction we have between one another? Let’s look at rituals for day to day life (including how to get out of work or parent space), sacred time, intense connection, erotic play, solidifying relationships, changes within our relationships, and the taboo subject of the devastating loss of a relationship or its natural end. From terminology to developing your own code of ethical interaction, this class covers a bevy of styles and types of interpersonal reactions.

    Where: The LGBT Center, 208 West 13th St. (7th/8th Ave), New York, NY
    Date/Time: Friday December 21, 2012, 8:00-10:00 PM. Our annual workshop at which all genders are welcome.
    Cost: LSM Members: $5/Non Members: $10

    About Lee Harrington

    Lee Harrington is an internationally known spiritual and erotic educator, gender explorer, eclectic artist and award-winning author and editor on human sexuality and sacred experience. He is a nice guy with a disarmingly down to earth approach to the fact that we are each beautifully complex ecosystems, and we deserve to examine the human experience from that lens. He’s been traveling the globe (from Seattle to Sydney, Berlin to Boston), teaching and talking about sexuality, psychology, faith, desire and more, and has no intention to stop any time soon. He has been an academic and an adult film performer, a world class sexual adventurer, an outspoken philosopher, is a kink/bondage expert, and has been blogging about sex and spirituality since 1998.

    His books include “Playing Well With Others: Your Guide to Discovering, Exploring and Negotiating the Kink, Leather and BDSM Communities” (with Mollena Williams), “Sacred Kink: The Eightfold Paths of BDSM and Beyond,” “Shibari You Can Use: Japanese Rope Bondage and Erotic Macramé,” the “Toybag Guide to Age Play,” and “Shed Skins: Journeying in Self-Portraits.” He has also worked as an anthology editor on such projects as “Rope, Bondage, and Power” and “Spirit of Desire: Personal Explorations of Sacred Kink,” while contributing actively to other anthologies, magazines, blogs and collaborations internationally. Check out the trouble Lee has been getting into, as well as his regular podcast, tour schedule, free essays, videos and more over at www.PassionAndSoul.com.

    A Good Workout (Excerpt)

    I’ve got an erotica story in a new anthology, Girls Who Score: Hot Lesbian Erotica edited by Ily Goyanes, and I’m taking part in the book’s blog tour at girlswhoscore.com today.

    My story is called “A Good Workout,” and it’s one of the first butch-on-butch erotica stories I’ve ever written. Despite my #gymbunny hash tag on Twitter, I’m not much of an athlete, and never have been. But a few things came to mind when I started thinking about the scenarios that I’d possibly find myself in that would be sexy and somewhat athletic: the locker room at the gym, other butches in that locker room and the way we don’t really acknowledge each other even though we have some gender solidarity in a mainstream women’s space, and the lesbian story from My Secret Garden edited by Nancy Friday that I read fifteen years ago about an anonymous encounter in a steam room.

    I wanted the characters to be taken with each other in a mirroring kind of way, seeing themselves reflected in each other’s body. They have a few moments of gender solidarity, not quite acknowledging each other but still recognizing that they both go through odd gender pinprick encounters with the women in the locker room on a regular basis. And then, what happens in the steam room … it isn’t so much about overwhelming desire in each other with romantic interest, but about curiosity, almost like the commonality of same sex encounters that many straight people experience as pre-teens and teenagers.

    Here’s an excerpt from “A Good Workout.”

      I grin. I breathe and feel my feet on the floor, get my bearings and don’t waste time. I slide down from the upper bench and you are on the edge of your seat, I easily grab your waist and flip you around, your ass against me, my arms around you, one hand pushed between your legs and the other twisting those pink nipples. As my fingers find you wet and open you bring my other hand up to your mouth and suck two of them down, tongue swollen, lips wet. I keep my grip around you as I plunge two fingers inside you deep and you groan again, that same release that all those pull-ups had you uttering, the same instinct to buckle and pulse overtaking you. I pull my fingers out slick with your juices and find your clit, start jacking you off, the shaft of it hard and swollen under my fingers, throbbing with my touch.

      You quicken under me.

      I pull you back against me and our bodies slide against each other, your back against my large chest, my nipples still hard, my stomach against your lower back, your ass against my pelvis. If I had a cock it’d be in your ass right now, and as soon as I think that I can feel it, and you press back against me as if opening up, squirming, and I keep my grip as I reach around you to jack you off. You aren’t easy to get off, I can feel it, that barrier between us, but I can feel how you like to be taken, how you like to be a boy under my touch, how you like to bend over and give it up for me, because that’s how I like it, too.

      Our bodies are talking to each other without our heads getting in the way. Our cocks are hard and thrusting, and I am thrusting, and you are thrusting into my palm. Your hand pushing my fingers deeper into your mouth though it is open and you’re breathing around it, I feel your breath cooler than the air. My arms are dripping with sweat and steam, I can feel it rolling down my skin.

    It was fun to use second person for the other character, I don’t usually do that in my stories but I like how it reads, I think it’s a bit more intimate.

    There’s quite a bit more about the other stories in the book over at girlswhoscore.com, and the blog tour is continuing through the end of August, so keep your eyes open for even more excerpts and writings. Pick up the book on Amazon.com or at your local independent queer-friendly bookstore.

    The Harder She Comes edited by DL King (Book)

    I’m part of the virtual blog tour for The Harder She Comes edited by DL King which just came out from Cleis Press. It’s a butch/femme anthology specifically, which to my knowledge is the first one released since Sometimes She Lets Me, also from Cleis. There aren’t very many butch/femme erotica anthologies out there (is Back To Basics the only other one?), and this adds an excellent new addition to one of my favorite little teeny subgenres.

    Here’s the description of the book:

    What is it about a pretty girl in a tight skirt bent over to adjust her stockings? Or that hotter-than-hot butch, swaggering into the bar like she owns it, eyes undressing every pretty girl in the place? Some butches worship at the altar of their femmes fatale and many little girls have a need to serve their big, strong daddies. In The Harder She Comes, we meet girls salivating at the sight of well-filled and packed jeans and bois dreaming of having a beautiful girl’s red lipstick smeared across their mouths. D. L. King has curated a singular set of stories filled with sexy sirens luring unsuspecting butches to their demise on the rocky shores of love and hot, confident women in silk and lace during the day who will do anything to serve their daddies’ needs at night. The Harder She Comes is great writing with characters that will stay with the reader for a long, long time —sometimes sweet, always sexy, often romantic, and more than a little dangerous.

    I would love to tell you what I thought about each individual story, but sadly I have no time to put that together. I’m at a training all weekend and writing this while I should be sleeping. So please accept my apologies, and here’s an excerpt from my piece in the book, a story called Good Girl, Bad Girl.

    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.

    There are a lot of Daddy/girl stories in this book in particular … the original title was Daddy’s Little Girl so it drew a particular, um, flavor. So if that’s your particular flavor, you’ll find plenty of it in this collection. It’s definitely worth picking up.

    Here’s the rest of the blog tour, check it out:
    May 1  D. L. King  http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com/
    May 2  Anna Watson  http://dlkingerotica.blogspot.com
    May 3  Evan Mora  http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/
    May 4  River Light  http://sapphicplanet.com/blogtour_sapphicplanet.php
    May 5  Sinclair Sexsmith  http://www.sugarbutch.net/
    May 6  Crystal Barela  http://kathleenbradean.blogspot.com/
    May 7  CS Clark  http://bethwylde.wordpress.com/
    May 8  Valerie Alexander  http://pomofreakshow.com/
    May 9  Andrea Dale   http://lulalisbon.wordpress.com/
    May 10  Beth Wylde  http://adrianakraft.com/blog/
    May 11  Kathleen Bradean  http://cyvarwydd.blogspot.com/
    May 12  Teresa Noelle Roberts  http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/
    May 13  Shanna Germain  http://lantoniou.blogspot.com/
    May 14  Charlotte Dare  http://madeofwords.com/posts/
    May 15  Rachel Kramer Bussel  http://lustylady.blogspot.com/

    Pick up The Harder She Comes edited by DL King at your local feminist queer bookstore, or over on Amazon.

    Say Please! April Blog Tour & Reviewers Needed

    A big ol’ box of Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica edited by ME and published by Cleis Press has arrived on my doorstep! I am so thrilled to hold this book in my hands and pet it and flip through it, after more than a year of working on it behind the scenes, on my computer, alone, jerking off in bed with the manuscript I mean uh, editing and copy editing and re-editing.

    And now … comes the exciting part! The birthing it into the world part! The part where I figure out how to get it into your hands and on your nightstands and between your boxspring and mattress and on your kinky bookshelves. So I’ve got a few things up my sleeve, including six inches a virtual blog book tour and some extra copies for reviewers.

    The official promo blurb:

    Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica is a fiction anthology edited by Sinclair Sexsmith, to be published by Cleis Press in April 2012. It is available for pre-order at Amazon and will be available for the Kindle and Nook. Email lesbianbdsmerotica at gmail.com if you have any questions; to request a review copy, email Brenda Knight at bknight at cleispress.com. For more information about Say Pleaes series, visit saypleasebook.wordpress.com.

    Item the first! Reviewers needed for Amazon

    Apparently, book sales on Amazon set the standard for many other buyers these days, and reviews on Amazon (even clicking “like” on Amazon) make a big difference in possible sales. So I’ve got 20 copies of the book to give to folks who are willing to write a review on Amazon. To do this, you must: have an Amazon.com account you’ve made a purchase from, have a US mailing address, promise to review it by April 31st and actually follow through. Will send one to the first 20 people to request it. Email lesbianbdsmerotica at gmail.com with “Amazon” in the subject line, your mailing address. I’ve got more than enough Amazon volunteers! Thank you!

    Item the Second! Blog Tour

    In April, surrounding the book’s official April 10th release date, I’ll be conducting a virtual blog tour for the book! That means: If you are a blogger, and you’d like a copy of the book to review on your blog on a particular day of the tour, I’ll send you one in exchange for your participation. To participate, you agree to post on your corresponding day; posts can be your thoughts about the book, an excerpt, or an interview with me or another contributor. Email lesbianbdsmerotica at gmail.com with “Blog tour” in the subject line, and include a link to your blog and any pertinent information about the site you run. Deadline is March 31st, but I will fill it as I go, so please email me asap.

    Item the Third! Preorder the Book!

    If you do plan to buy it, as with all books, pre-ordering them has a dual impact on the book’s sales, meaning your sale counts not just for one book, but means that the bookseller your purchasing from will stock extra copies. All sales are great, but pre-orders are extra special, a heads up as a way to support your favorite authors.

    Item the Fourth! In Person Tour in Boston, Seattle, San Francisco, NYC, and More to Come (So To Speak)

    I am trying to get all over the place to read from this book … I still hope to visit Durham, Chicago, and Portland, and possibly Philadelphia and DC. If you’re a coordinator or event producer in any of those places, or in a different place!, and you’d like to help me with a reading, I’d love that. Get in touch.

    Here are the current planned dates:

    April 1 5pm, San Francisco at GV (with Salacious)
    April 13 7pm, NYC at Bluestockings
    April 22, Boston at a bar (with The Femme Show)
    May 2, Seattle at Babeland
    November 29, Toronto TBA (Facebook invite to come)

    Item the Last! Get the Word Out, Buy a Copy, Let me Know What You Think!

    I am beside myself with curiosity about how this book will be received. What do you think of it? What is your favorite story? Which lines stand out? Which authors were particularly impressive, whether you’ve read them before or will seek them out to read again? What themes did you love (or hate)? What did you wish there was more of? I would love feedback about this. After all, it’s the first anthology that is wholly mine, cover to cover, and I would love to do more of these in the future (hope hope).

    I hope you’ll find a way to get in touch and tell me your thoughts, I am so very curious.

    Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica is Coming To Your Town … Spring Tour 2012

    It’s happening! Say Please readings and bookings have begun. So far, I have two dates:

    April 12 – New York City at Bluestockings
    April 22 – Boston, venue TBA

    And a few more in progress, to be scheduled ASAP:
    March 27 or April 1 – San Francisco
    May 1/2 – Portland
    May 3/7 – Seattle

    I still don’t have dates for these, but I want to make it here in April/May:
    Chicago
    Durham, NC
    Atlanta

    If you’re interested in reading or helping me to create a reading in your city, please let me know ASAP! The easiest way for me to ensure that I can make it (especially to those three cities I have yet to book) is to get a gig at a college which can actually pay me. If you’ve got any contacts in these cities, please let me know.

    The Pink Dress

    Do y’all remember the Sugarbutch Star stories? It was a series where readers sent in a scenario and I wrote up the story. This is the last of the 5 stories from the 2008 “contest,” the others being Eileen, Matt, Green-Eyed Girl, and Maze. This story idea comes from blkndblue.

    Warning: This story is long, about 18 pages. Click the “read more” at the end to read the final scene (it’s worth it, promise). I figure it’s a good way to kick off a (happy, sexy) new year.

    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.

    “Sinclair Sexsmith presents a cornucopia of lesbian kink …” Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica Book Cover, Due Date, & Table of Contents

    I’m thrilled to announce the table of contents and cover for my upcoming (and very first!) anthology, Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica, coming in April 2012 from Cleis Press.

    The description, via Amazon:

    Sinclair Sexsmith presents a cornucopia of lesbian kink — tantalizing tales rich in variety and saucy details of girls put in their place — and held there firmly. A girly-girl reaps a sweet punishment for refusing to mess up her oh-so-pink lipstick and a well-equipped top takes charge. Whether readers dream of surrendering to a lover or of taking control, Say Please offers plenty of erotic inspiration and gives readers exactly what they want!

    In “The Cruelest Kind,” Kiki Delovely’s naughty narrator gets her just desserts from her butch girlfriend with some fierce back alley bondage while D.L. King’s domme makes her submissive strip before un unseen audience, binds her to a bench, and gives her a good strapping in “A Public Spectacle.” Anna Watson’ bored housewife gets more than she bargains for in “The Keys” when she follows a lesbian animal trainer out to a queer bar and anything goes in Xan West’s sexy “Strong” when a transgender butch and genderqueer sub engage in some very tough love.

    And here are the contents. I am SO thrilled to have so many pieces by amazing writers. Seriously, these are some of the best of the best, I can’t wait to see the whole thing all together.

    Introduction by Sinclair Sexsmith

    Baseball Cap by Miriam Perez
    First Ride by Wendi Kali
    A Slap in the Face by Rachel Kramer Bussel
    Housewife by Gigi Frost
    Call Me Sir by BB Rydell
    All of Me by Amelia Thornton
    Taking Direction by Vie La Guerre
    Black Hanky by Sassafras Lowrey
    Spanking Booth by Dusty Horn
    The Cruelest Kind by Kiki Delovely
    Going the Distance by Elaine Miller
    She Spoiled Me by Shawna Elizabeth
    Gentleman Caller by Sossity Chiricuzio
    Three Weeks and Two Days by Meridith Guy
    Counting Love by August InFlux
    Purge by Marie See
    A Public Spectacle by DL King
    The Keys by Anna Watson
    Coming of Age by Dilo Keith
    Not Without Permission by Sinclair Sexsmith
    Feathers Have Weight by Alysia Angel
    Strong by Xan West
    Unworthy As I Am by Elizabeth Thorne

    I’ve created a Twitter account for Say Please, a Facebook page, and a Twitter list to follow the authors, so you can keep up with all of us if you’d like. There is nothing at all at the book’s wordpress site yet, but there will be.

    Keep an eye out for a blog tour, book release party in New York, review copies, and readings around the country, including (but hopefully not limited to) New York City, Seattle, Portland, Durham, and Boston.

    I am so excited about this!

    Call for Submissions: Erotica for Perversions of Lesbian Lust

    I mentioned that I’ve been webmastering for Madison Young’s newest website, Perversions of Lesbian Lust, and we are looking for lesbian erotica to feature on BOTH the free preview site and in the member’s side.

    Writing Submissions:

    The Feminist Porn Network of Web sites is now accepting written Lesbian and Queer Erotica. Please email Madison Young at [email protected] with submissions for consideration.

    PerversionsofLesbianLust.com – Pulp Lesbian and Queer Fiction Erotica Stories:

    Each piece should be around 1000 words no more than 1500 words. $25 for each piece excepted. Looking for pieces from lesbian and queer identified writers.

    Rights are non-exclusive; submissions are ongoing.

    You can keep up with the new stuff on Madison Young’s Feminist Porn Network by following the new feministpornnetwork.tumblr.com.

    Quick Things for Your Weekend

    A couple notes from around the blog world that you may be interested in. Have a lovely weekend, all. More updates here are in progress.

    BUTCH Voices Conference Requests Blog Links

    BUTCH Voices folks are gearing up for the second bi-annual national conference in August, and they are looking to put a list of queer bloggers in their program, “open to all our Masculine of Center and Queer allies much like the conference“.

    To have your blog listed, DM or @-reply their Twitter account, @BUTCHVoices with your linkand contact information and they will be in touch with you.

    Madison Young Launches “Perversions of Lesbian Lust”

    Madison Young has launched her newest addition to her Feminist Porn Network, Perversions of Lesbian Lust. I’m helping her with the structure of the site and having a lot of fun with it so far.

    Here’s a shot from one of the first galleries, featuring Bettina Doll:

    I suspect you’ll hear more from me about Perversions in the future.

    Review of Boi Meets Girl on Amazon

    I wrote a review of Boi Meets Girl: Brett & Melanie on Amazon for Tony Comstock & Comstock films. I caught a screening of that film at the LGBT Center a few months ago and it was fantastic, as was the Q&A with Tony after. I highly recommend it if you’re a queer porn collector. It’s real and fun and hot, and the interviews with Brett & Melanie are so familiar. It almost felt exposing, but I think that meant that it was incredible effective.

    Taormino’s new anthology Take Me There: Transgender & Genderqueer Erotica

    Tristan Taormino’s latest anthology has been announced, and this time it features transgender and genderqueer smut stories.

    In mainstream media, the erotic identities, sex lives, and fantasies of transgender and genderqueer people are often oversimplified, sensationalized, or invisible. Take Me There is an erotica collection unlike any other that celebrates the pleasure, heat, and diversity of transgender and genderqueer sexualities. The power of seeing and being seen is a central theme in the anthology; it’s not simply about passing or not passing (an idea often explored with transgender characters), but about being acknowledged and desired in a sexual context.

    The book takes you from San Francisco to Israel, from heartache to lust, from stranger sex to a 10 year anniversary, from ballet shoes to butt plug bondage tables, from fumbling teenagers to leatherclad bears, from MTF and FTM—and in between and beyond.

    There is an incredible line-up of writers who have contributed to this anthology, including Kate Bornstein, S. Bear Bergman, Ivan Coyote, Patrick Califia, Julia Serano, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Toni Amato, and many more. I’m really thrilled to have one of my stories included in here. More details on the book are available on Tristan Taormino’s tumblr.

    If you’d like to support this book, the best thing you can do is to pre-order it on Amazon. Amazon bases its in stock copies on the amount of pre-orders, so it would significantly help to make it widely available if you can spare the $11 on the pre-order copy.

    Lesbian Sex Mafia kicks off Leather Pride Week with Laura Antoniou Tonight

    At the LGBT Center, 8pm. She’s teaching Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want:

    “Often, when we try to tell our partners what we like or want, those words are filtered through things like expectations, projection, fear, shame and verbal shortcuts. Play a little card game with Laura and push your flirting talents up a notch! Expand your creativity and verbal skills beyond “I like flogging” or “anything you want” through an interactive game and exercise. Learn how creative communication and courageous risk-taking can make your relationship and play more intimate, satisfying and fun. Say what you mean, and mean what you say – and make it seductive.”

    Where: LGBT Center, 208 West 13th St. (7th/8th Ave)
    When: Friday, June 17, 2011; 8:00-10:00PM (Leather Pride weekend)
    Cost: $5/LSM members, $10/Non members

    Laura Antoniou is the author of the well known Marketplace series of erotic novels. As a presenter, panelist, and keynote speaker, Laura has appeared at dozens of conferences over more than twenty years, both entertaining and delivering an occasional verbal indictment. She has also appeared at colleges and universities, including NYU, Rutgers, Columbia and the University of Washington. Laura lives in Queens, NY with her wife Karen, and happily serves as boy to Kim Attica. Friends have called her all sorts of names. Current favorites being “Renaissance Perv” by Midori, “Good Boy!” by Kim and of course, “best thing that ever happened to me” by Karen.

    Friday Reads: Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

    I had the pleasure of reading at Kathleen Warnock‘s New York City literary series Drunken! Careening! Writers! on Thursday night in celebration of the new release from Cleis Press, Best Lesbian Erotica 2011, in which I have a story.

    Kiki DeLovely, Xan West, Charlotte Dare, D.L. King, Theda Hudson, and I all read excerpts from our pieces included in this year’s book, and Kathleen read from her introduction (and was her all-around amazing hostess self).

    It was a blast of an event. It’s become a little bit of a holiday tradition, since BLE always comes out around this time of year and Kathleen has hosted the official New York City kickoff for quite a while, for as long as I’ve been in New York anyway. Kathleen always jokes, “Pick one up for grandma. Perfect gift.”

    It’s my favorite erotica series. The quality is always amazing, and the 2011 edition is no exception. I think Kathleen said there are contributors from six different countries this year! I had to mention it in my recent Cliterotica: Lesbian Erotica Roundup for Lambda Literary Foundation, regardless that I have a story in there it’s an incredible anthology.

    Here’s the description:

    Edited by Kathleen Warnock, Selected and introduced by Lea DeLaria. In Best Lesbian Erotica 2011, women find love and lust in all the right places – kitchens, cars, dance clubs, dungeons, and even a flowerbed. This year’s guest judge is the anything-but-shy Lea DeLaria, the multi-talented writer, stand-up comic, singer, and actor. She has selected work from some of the best-known writers of lesbian erotic fiction as well as debuts of startling new talents. A 1958 Mercury Park Lane rides like a sexual time machine in D.L. King’s “Walk Like a Man.” In Betty Blue’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights,” a lost boi encounters a firespirit on a romantic celestial plane. In Kiki DeLovely’s “The Third Kiss,” a woman discovers it’s not a good idea to tell your crush your dreams about her – unless you want them to come true.

    And remember, there’s a 20% discount on orders by December 31st. Or you can always pick it up from Amazon if you must.

    Friday Reads: Sex, Gender, & Erotica By Cleis Press

    October and November have kind of gotten away from me, with three conferences and four college gigs and an erotic retreat and travel to three states and a new workshop, and oh yeah that whole new butch project thing. So I haven’t really been keeping up with the “Friday Reads” series I was trying to start, but I’ll just pick up where I left off, how about that.

    Good timing, too, because Cleis Press, one of my favorite publishers, is having a winter holiday special: 20% off everything in stock!

    We would like to extend a special invitation to Cleis Press & Viva Editions friends, family and colleagues to take advantage of our 2010 Gratitude and Giving holiday special. This is our way of saying we’re incredibly grateful for your enthusiasm, talent and support! From now until December 31st, we offer you and your network (your friends, family, coworkers, colleagues and neighbors) a 20% discount on all titles. Enter special offer code GG on your web order to receive your discount.

    Here’s the fine print: Order as many or as few books as you like. Order as many times as you like. Offer good on any book in stock at time of ordering. Order through our web sites to receive discount. Must enter special offer code GG to receive discount. Cannot be combined with any other offer.

    So hey, I have some recommendations for books you can pick up, if you don’t already have ’em. And who knows, maybe somebody on your holiday gift list would like some books too, hmm?

    Books Which Include My Work:

    Many of these aren’t explicitly queer, but the sex is delicious and sensuous and sweet and brilliant, the power dynamics are amazing, the writing is impeccable. So file these under Classics You Should Read:

    And last but not least, here’s some notable Queer Titles that I’m not in, but that I’ve read and are excellent:

    I know you could probably just order all of these on Amazon, but the publisher and authors benefit greatly when you get ’em from the source. All of these I highly recommend belong in your personal library.

    Head over to Cleis Press’s website and browse through their dozens of other titles. If you like reading about sex and gender, chances are you’ll find a book or two you’ve been coveting over there.

    Sugarbutch Star Chapbooks Are Almost Sold Out—Want One?

    Three summers ago, I started a project called the Sugarbutch Star. Maybe you remember: I asked folks for submissions for story ideas, outlines of erotic encounters with characters, plot, and setting, and then I would write up the story.

    There were a couple reasons I did this. I wanted to deepen my writing, I wanted to continue writing erotic fiction, and I found that I could write variations on a theme that someone else gave me much easier than I could come up with my own scenarios. I was figuring out that that’s the kind of top I was, too—that when someone asked me to do a couple things, like, say, finger them and kiss them for a while, take their clothes off, throw them on the bed and fuck them until they came, that it was no problem for me to follow their requests, with variations and detail, in a way that was toppy and dominant. It was harder for me when I’d sleep with girls (or write characters, even) where anything was an option and I could do whatever I wanted. Sometimes I would freeze up. Not because I didn’t want to do anything, but because there were so many options, where do I even start?

    I didn’t expect it, but these stories helped with that so much. Because the story content was someone else’s fantasy, because it was not from my own brain, even if it lined up with my desires, I didn’t feel guilty or shy about going for it all the way and really bringing all I had to that person’s idea for the erotic scene.

    I didn’t even realize that I did feel shy or guilty about my desires up until doing this project, and once I realized that, it was much easier to notice and breathe through and decide whether I was going to let the guilt or shyness stop me, or not. It changed the way I top. It changed the way I write erotic stories.

    And there were so many good scenarios that I decided to write up five “honorable mention” stories as short-shorts, which was great practice for me, too, because I noticed sometimes that my long stories took so long to finish. In addition, I wrote up five “finalists.” Then, once all ten stories were written and published here on Sugarbutch, I asked readers to vote for their favorite, and the person who submitted that scenario was henceforth known as a Sugarbutch Star.

    So, these are the stories from the first year:

    And I made them into a chapbook. I did two printings of this chapbook, each editions of 100, and I’m not planning to do another printing. I have about a dozen left, and I’m selling them for $10 each which includes shipping anywhere in the US (if you’re outside the US, I may ask you to send a couple more bucks to cover shipping, depending on the cost, but I’m glad to send it to you).

    Want one? Email me, and if you’re in the first 12, I will reserve a copy for you and send you further details (the easiest way for me is to accept payment via Paypal).

    I did the Sugarbutch Star project for a second year, too, and I decided I would only pick five stories as finalists, no matter how good all the submissions were. These were what I finished for the second year:

    I started the fifth story, but never finished it. I still think I might, but maybe it’s time to let that go. (It’s just such a good story! Or it would be, if I could ever finish it.)

    So here it is folks … last call for the Sugarbutch Star Chapbooks.

    Friday Reads: Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica

    In keeping with the tradition I started this summer, featuring a butch or femme book on Fridays to countdown to the Femme Conference and then the Butch Voices regional conferences, I’m going to keep that up and continue featuring books on Fridays.

    I was going to write about The Well Of Loneliness, Gold mentioned it when I wrote up Crybaby Butch last week and I thought, “Of course! Why didn’t I have that on my list?” It’s such a classic butch book. I expected it to be droll and depressing, but when I finally read it (in a british women writers of the ’20s class in college) it was incredible—so engaging, so well written, so articulate in the feelings of this “mannish” woman’s love for another woman. I definitely recommend picking it up, if you haven’t read it.

    But … in light of the ridiculous amount of depressing news this week, let’s not even go there, let’s not mention a book called The Well of Loneliness, let’s not fall down a well of loneliness ourselves. Instead, let’s move on to something much more fun: smut.

    I know I’ve mentioned it here before, but it’s worth revisiting. Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica, edited by Tristan Taormino, is a collection of the best butch/femme stories from the 16 years Taormino was the series editor for Best Lesbian Erotica. There are very few smut books specifically and exclusively with butch/femme content; this is the most recent, and, arguably, the best.

    It is steaming hot.

    “Butch/femme is erotic iconography. Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heals, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s a sexual electricity and power exchange. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.” — from the introduction by Tristan Taormino

    Here’s the description from Cleis Press:

    Does the swagger of a sure-footed butch make you swoon? Do your knees go weak when you see a femme straighten her stockings? A duet between two sorts of women, butch/femme is a potent sexual dynamic. Tristan Taormino chose her favorite butch/femme stories from the Best Lesbian Erotica series, which has sold over 200,000 copies in the 16 years she was editor. And if you think you know what goes in in the bedroom between femmes and butches, these 22 shorts will delight you with erotic surprises. In Joy Parks’s delicious “Sweet Thing,” the new femme librarian in town shows a butch baker a new trick in bed. The stud in “Tag!,” by D. Alexandria, finds her baby girl after a chase in the woods by scent alone. And the girl in a pleated skirt gets exactly what she wants from her Daddy in Peggy Munson’s “The Rock Wall.” Sometimes She Lets Me shows that it’s all about attitude — predicting who will wind up on top isn’t easy in stories by S. Bear Bergman, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Samiya A. Bashir, and many more.

    Includes contributions by Alison L. Smith, Joy Parks, S. Bear Bergman, Amie M. Evans, Samiya A. Bashir, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Kristen Porter, Tara-Michelle Ziniuk, D. Alexandria, Anna Watson, Shannon Cummings, A. Lizbeth Babcock, Sparky, Elaine Miller, Isa Coffey, Skian McGuire, Jera Star, Toni Amato, Peggy Munson, Sandra Lee Golvin, and Sinclair Sexsmith.

    Pick it up at your favorite local independent feminist queer-friendly bookstore (if you want them to stay in business, that is), from Cleis Press directly, from Powell’s books in Portland (hi, #bvpdx!) or, if you must, from Amazon.

    August is Heat Wave / Erotica at Sideshow

    Don’t forget! Just one week from today, Sideshow in New York City will feature a lovely erotica night.

    Sideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival
    Hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith
    August 10 @ The Phoenix, 447 East 13th Street @ Avenue A
    East Village, New York City
    Doors, 7:30pm. Reading, 8pm.
    Free! But we’ll pass the hat for donations to the readers
    @sideshowseries
    RSVP on Facebook!

    August’s theme is HEAT WAVE EROTICA, starring:
    Tamiko Beyer (Drunken Boat)
    Rachel Kramer Bussel (In The Flesh)
    Mildred Dred Gerestant (OUTMusic Spirit Award)
    Kit Yan (Mr. Transman 2010)
    Read more about the readers.

    Sideshow’s Erotica Show is August 10th

    And it’s going to be delicious. I can tell already. Mark your calendars! And see the whole schedule over on queerliterarycarnival.com.

    Sideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival
    Hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith
    August 10 @ The Phoenix, 447 East 13th Street @ Avenue A
    East Village, New York City
    Doors, 7:30pm. Reading, 8pm.
    Free!
    @sideshowseries

    August’s theme is HEAT WAVE EROTICA, starring:
    Tamiko Beyer (Drunken Boat)
    Rachel Kramer Bussel (In The Flesh)
    Mildred Dred Gerestant (OUTMusic Spirit Award)
    Kit Yan (Mr. Transman 2010)

    RSVP on Facebook!

    About the performers …

    Giveaway! Lesbian Cowboys Erotica

    Thanks to Cleis Press and Lambda Literary Foundation, I ended up with two copies of Lesbian Cowboys: Erotic Adventures by Sacchi Green and Rakelle Valencia. My overabundance is your gain, however, so let’s have a giveaway.

    Take a look at my review of Lesbian Cowboys if you’d like to see the kind of thing you might expect in this book of erotica … it’s good. Quite good really. Definitely a lot of role play, a lot of gender play, a lot of hot sexy smut based in other time periods. Really worth reading.

    To win: leave a comment on this post with your favorite role play scenario, or one thing that’s hot about cowboys (the dyke kind, or another kind, whatever), or the last time you went out west, or something else entirely.

    If you’re out of the United States, I may ask you to send me a few bucks for shipping if it’s way expensive to mail it to you. Otherwise, it’ll be on my dime.

    I’ll close the comments on Friday to give everyone a chance to chime in. Just make sure you leave a valid email address where I can contact you!

    Review: Lesbian Cowboys (Book)

    “‘Cowboy’ is a calling, a vocation, not a gender,” starts the book Lesbian Cowboys: Erotic Adventures by Sacchi Green and Rakelle Valencia, published by Cleis Press. And the first review of it I saw online (which now of course I can’t find) said, “This book has nothing to do with gender.”

    But of course, I have to disagree. It has everything to do with gender.

    I know what they both mean, though—they mean men and women, they mean cowboy does not necessarily mean a cisgender man. But this collection of erotica is full of genderqueer cowboys, dykes, crossdressers, even possibly a trans guy, though the characters in these stories never identify themselves as such, partly because some of the stories are period and set in a time when this language didn’t exist. Possibly also because the authors, or even the characters themselves, do not have this kind of language.

    None of the stories came across as particularly smart about gender theory or politics or identity, but all of them have specific life experience of what it’s like to be different, masculine and a “woman” in a man’s world and a man’s profession, or feminine and a woman in a man’s profession. There are femmes and butches, women who pass and those who don’t want to, women who feel the need to prove themselves capable despite their gender, trans male characters who go by he and him as his chosen pronoun, even a leather “phallus” strap-on in a scene in a brothel.

    I am quite fond of “The Hired Hand” by Delilah Devlin, which is sexy and tense, about a woman who comes looking for work at a ranch and proves she is just as capable as any man would be. In many of the stories, I like the tough American accents, vaguely southern but also just western, I like the descriptions of the landscapes and rodeo circuits, the mountains and connection to the land.

    It’s a lovely collection, and if you like gender play (and butches or masculine women) in general, there aren’t a lot of lesbian erotica collections exploring those dynamics, and this is definitely one of them.

    And, as an exciting side note, this collection won the 2010 Lambda Literary Award in the Lesbian Erotica category!

    Pick up Lesbian Cowboys: Erotic Adventures by Sacchi Green and Rakelle Valencia directly through Cleis Press, the publisher, or through your local independent bookstore.