7 Tips For Flirting As A Submissive

One of the most common questions I get asked from submissives is, “How do I flirt with dominants!?” And while learning some basic flirting tips (like: be curious and ask questions, give compliments, be honest) can be helpful, when you add D/s into the equation sometimes the rules are a little bit different.

Part of the confusion is that we associate flirtation with assertion—someone comes along, declares interest, and asks for what they want. Those can be seen as dominant traits. But it is absolutely possible for a submissive to do them, and to still come across as submissive and respect the dominant’s authority as a dom.

So, assuming that you’ve already established that you are submissive and the person you’re flirting with is a dominant, here’s some tips. (These are some of the things that would work for me.)

1. Establish whether or not they want to be flirted with.

This might seem obvious, but it’s multi-faceted. You gotta figure out if they are available or not—if their relationship allow for flirtation with other people. It might be as simple as figuring out whether or not they are single, but being partnered doesn’t necessarily mean that they can’t flirt—it just depends on whether their relationship allows for flirtation or not. And you might also see whether their relationship only allows flirting, and not going any farther than that—which may change your opinion on whether or not you want to flirt, depending on what the goal of your flirting is.

Secondly, you have to figure out if they are available or not right now, meaning if the timing is right. If I’m about to teach a workshop, for example, I am way less likely to respond well to flirtation than if I’ve just ended a workshop. How do you know if the timing is okay? Well, you can always ask—”So, is this a good time to flirt with you?” “Got a minute to flirt with me?” “Hey, if this isn’t a good time, could we set aside some time later and flirt maybe?”

2. If they have a submissive already, befriend them.

While you’re asking around about whether they’re available, also ask whether or not they already have a submissive—then, make friends with the sub. Ask if there’s any service you can do, if there’s some interesting talent or skill you can offer, or what other expression of interest would be welcome. If you establish yourself as aware of the hierarchy in the relationship that already exists, you’ll be a lot less threatening to the submissive, and they are way more likely to hook you up with tips and tricks to get the dominant’s attention.

3. Offer to be of service.

“May I ____ for you?”
As a friend of mine put it, “May I ____ for you?” This is where your keen observational skills can give you big points: if you notice some of the things they always do and offer to do it for them, you put yourself in the position of being very helpful. If being observational isn’t your strong point, offer some of your own impressive skills or talents: May I black your boots, may I gift you some peanut butter cookies that I made.

4. Use their title.

Using words that remind you both of the hierarchies that you like to play with can be a big turn-on, which is always a bonus when you’re trying to be flirtatious. Do some observation, and ask around, and see what kind of titles this person likes to use.

But, don’t use their relational titles. Some people have titles that they only use with a particular person, and those can be way too personal and intimate to use with a new person. Then again, some folks have “Daddy” or “Mistress” right there on their name tag or in their Fetlife user name, and everybody refers to them as such.

There’s no hard and clear rule about which titles are relational and which are respectful, so you kind of have to feel it out for yourself. In general, I’d say “Sir” and “Ma’am” are the most widely acceptable, but those are not universally liked by everyone. You can always slip it into a sentence and then ask permission: “I’d love to get your drink, ma’am—may I call you ma’am?” Hopefully, they’ll respond with the thing they would like to be called, if you guess incorrectly.

5. Be willing to be wrong.

Be willing to hear no. Be willing to be corrected if you make assumptions or mistakes. You might call them by a title and they might correct you—that’s okay. Say, “Sorry about that; thank you for the permission to call you sir.” Being corrected means you are worthy of correction, and it’s a good sign.

Putting yourself out there means taking risks, and when you’re the person who is initiating the flirtatious interaction, it’s kind of up to you to put yourself in a vulnerable position first.

6. Ask for what you want.

And be honest! Don’t ask to black their boots if that’s not your thing, don’t ask for them to beat you if you’re not into receiving sensation. Ask for what you actually want.

It’s always okay to ask for something, but it’s important that you are willing to hear any possible answer to your ask.
The context of your ask is important. If you can do that thing right there and then and it’s appropriate, it’s appropriate to offer it or to ask for it. So if you’re at a kink retreat, it is probably appropriate to offer a blow job or request to receive a spanking, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask for those things if you’re out at a bar (unless, you know, being crass and direct is one of your tactics—in which case, it could work! But know that it’s higher risk.)

It’s always okay to ask for something, but it’s important that you are willing to hear any possible answer to your ask. Of course, we want the answer to be an emphatic “yes,” but it isn’t always. If you’re going to get a little crushed if they say no, perhaps pre-plan the ask to have a friend around after who is willing to comfort you or perk you up.

Use your keen powers of observation and assess what kind of person this dominant is: Do they have public scenes at parties, or are they mostly private? Do they flirt and socialize a lot, or do they tend to keep to themself and their close people? Tailoring your asks to what you notice about the dominant makes it more likely for them to say yes.

7. Offer your contact information.

Assuming you are flirting now with the intention of following up for even more later, offer your info: Your Fetlife account, your cell number, your email address—however you want them to get in touch with you. Giving them your contact information gives them the power to follow up or not. Plus, it puts your vulnerability into a sexy framework: the potential to continue the flirtation, and possibly even more.


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Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #188, Valentine & Ember.

The Bootblack Boy (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #1)

Elise is so over these regular play parties. She sits in the corner drinking sparkling water through a straw—no need to muss her lipstick over a drink—and surveys the dungeon. There are a handfull of young kinklings, giddy and drunk on flesh and feasts and possibility; a smattering of couples who haven’t left each others sides, their slightly widened eyes giving away their nervousness under their I’m-cool-I-got-this external demeanor; and a handful of former (and perhaps future) of her own play partners. She starts to regret that she ever let Hannah talk her in to coming. Hannah is right—of course, she always is—that it’s been too long since Elise played, but Elise just isn’t sure if what she wants is out there—or maybe more accurately, how to find it. She is starting to feel old at 35, as if everyone has found someone by now, so nobody’s left to find. Except, of course, her.

Tucked into the corner Hannah is up on the high bootblack chair, wearing her favorite blood red Agent Provocateur matching lingerie set and her stiletto thigh-high leather boots. A bootblack is buzzing around her feet, soaping the leathers, expertly massaging Shay’s feet and calves while cleaning the leather. Elise heads over to tell Hannah goodbye and hit the road. It isn’t even midnight yet, but she’s done.

“Hannah,” she starts, a few strides away, “I—”

The bootblack and Hannah both flick their attention over to Elise. The bootblack pauses, just for a moment, blinking, as if he is caught off guard, then quickly re-focuses on Hannah’s boots.

Elise tries again. “Hannah, I’m going home.”

“What? No, you can’t go yet! They haven’t even done the demo,” Hannah protests. That means, it isn’t even midnight. “Stay until then, at least. Barely anyone is here yet. You never know … ” Hannah flashes that seductive smile full of unspoken promises, and Elise gives in immediately, rationalizing it in her head. Well, someone new could show up. The demo could be really hot.

“Hannah, may I lick your boots, please?” The bootblack boy pauses his work again and waits, without expectation, for Hannah s permission. The boots are sparkling clean, oil and some high-quality polish lined up and waiting obediently on the tray for the next step. The boy stands still, focusing, not nervously fumbling but calm and collected. Even at the feet of one of the most powerful dommes in the room.

“You may,” Hannah answers. Though her tone was clear, Elise could hear underneath it that Hannah was a little bored, too. There really isn’t much notable going on tonight.

Elise’s attention drifts to the bootblack, watching as he takes his time getting into just the right position before he gently places his tongue on her finest leather. His tongue is long, thick. Like it barely fits in his closed mouth. He licks in smooth, elegant strokes, almost deicate, though the boy himself is not. He looks like he could be thrown into walls, wrestled to the ground, torn open until he bled, and he’d only say thank you and beg for more.

He licks one boot: the seam of the leather on her insole, and the line starting at her pinky toe; the textured design of abstract flowers that snakes up her calf; and even the seam at the top of the boot, past her knee, well on to her thigh. Hannah sighs, and Elise can see her hips relax and her legs fall open just a little more.

The boy kisses back down her knee and calf, and begins to lick the other boot.

Elise realizes she is staring. Almost drooling. Fuck, why hadn’t she worn her best boots? Hannah didn’t come with him, she picked him up here, so he’s probably unattached and doing anyone’s leather. How hadn’t she noticed him before? Damn he’s cute: quite a few inches shorter than Elise, probably almost the same height if she took off her towering 4″ heels. Light brown hair, light skin, fine fingers and small hands. He had a thin wisp of facial hair, the kind on teenage boys before they can grow the real thing. Elise hopes he isn’t as young as he looks.

“A little longer,” Elise tells Shay. “I’ll stay for the demo.” She heads back over to the perch on the other side of the room and tries not to keep watching Shay and the bootblack, but mostly fails. He is deft, supple, and Elise craves to be in that chair. Her hands start pulsing in her lap, twitching with ache and desire.

The demo starts at twenty after midnight, because kinksters are never on time. Elise loses sight of the boy by then. Probably off playing with somebody else, probably he’s the one making the grunting yelps from the back room, probably he’s already left the party and Elise won’t see him again. A butch daddy-type and thick-thighed curvy gorgeous femme demonstrate a rough blow job for the whooping crowd, the butch standing up high on the bench, the femme kneeling on it, her lipstick wrecked and drool down the front of her bright thrift-store vintage dress. Elise watches half-heartedly, giving up on the party for the second time. That’s what everybody really wants, right? Some sweet, submissive femme—not the towering domme Elise presented. No wonder she had no dates. Play was easy enough—usually—but that wasn’t really what Elise was looking for. She wanted romance, courtship, love, a partner. A wedding, even. And also a servant, a submissive, a boy who would do his proper worship, and obey all her orders to the best of his ability. Even more so than play, she wanted companionship, wanted someone to walk through life with. She’d played with poly and open relationships, and that’s a possibility, but it isn’t necessarily her preference. She is too possessive for that, she wants to go too deep and too all-out with ownership and vulnerability.

It is a hard thing to date when one’s needs are so specific, especially in a community that usually values different sorts of pairings.

Elise turns to make her way through the crowd and head to the coat check.

“Hey, you’re not leaving, are you?” A voice cuts through the noisy dungeon from someone close to her ear. It’s not Hannah s voice, who else—? She turns, coming face to face with the bootblack boy, the crowd so thick that they are almost touching.

“Yes, I think it’s about time,” she replies, smiling. Unless …

“I’m Morgan,” he offers his hand to shake. She takes it, palm to palm, his hand warm and smaller than hers, nesting nicely into her grip. She doesn’t let go.

“Elise,” she says.

He nods, not meeting her eyes, shyly looking down. “I saw you watching me.” Elise flushes a little—was she so obvious? She usually keeps her hand much closer to her chest. But there is something about this kid, something intriguing and so very hot.

“I was,” she says. “You made quite an impression. I liked how you treated Hannah’s boots.”

He nods slowly. “I liked it too. I love to be useful.” He shifts a little, foot to foot. Someone knocks into Elise from the back and she almost falls into Morgan, but catches herself.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to make sure to introduce myself. I hope I run into you again,” Morgan says.

“I’m not sure I believe in fate,” she says, taking one of her trick cards out of her tiny pocketbook.

“Oh, I do,” says Morgan. “Absolutely.” He smiles and almost looks directly at her, for just a blink,, and Elise sees his eyes sparkle.

“You do, huh,” Elise flicks her arm back and holds the card close, tapping it against her cheek, considering some options. “Then I guess your fate is to call me tomorrow.” She hands him the card, keeping ahold of it, their fingers almost touching. “Not too early, I sleep in on Saturdays,” she adds, setting up a challenge: What would “too early” be to her? 9am? 11am? She lets go of the card.

He swallows, pulling it up to his face to read it in the dim dungeon. Mistress Elise Winter, it reads, with her email address and phone number in embossed blue text on a cream background.

“Yes, uh, Elise. I will. Thank you.”

She leans in close to his ear. “Ma’am will do just fine, Morgan. Thank you for introducing yourself. Goodnight.” Husky, low, sweet. She felt his knees tremble, saw the rumble through his body.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Ma’am,” he whispers back.

She kisses his cheek, and disappears into the crowd.

Reduced to Expletives (Asher & Jesse #3)

Turns out, Jesse is a natural. Topping comes to her like all the skills are downloaded right into her brain, like she is in a kinky version of The Matrix.

“Hey, want to try tying me down to the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy?” Asher texts.

“Why yes, yes I do,” comes the reply immediately.

“How about blindfolding me?”

“How about it?” It goes on like this.

The quarter is almost over, and they walk through the Quad on the way to Psych together nearly every day. Asher whispers into Jesse’s ear. “Maybe I could wear those stockings you like, and you could slice them off of me with a knife—or better yet, rip them with your bare hands.” They’d stayed in bed late, fucking, exploring each other’s skin and taste and touch and eagerness. Jesse could still feel Asher’s pulse and breath and blood pressure synced up to her own.

She tries not to stumble and fall over. Fuck, this girl, this gorgeous creature, and she wants me to do all these fantastic filthy things to her? She feels drunk on gratitude. I Must’ve Done Something Good keeps getting stuck in her head.

“I have a surprise for you later. You’re still coming over after dinner, right?” Asher kisses Jesse’s neck as they approach the building.

“Mmhm, after my shift at the store,” Jesse closes her eyes and tilts her head to expose more of her neck. “Can’t wait,” she whispers, kissing Asher back and sliding her hands around her, along her trench coat. Asher may not be able to wear the fancy femme shoes she wanted to on Seattle’s rainy campus, but goddamn if she wouldn’t have femme rain gear. She even had a white umbrella with ruffles for particularly wet days. Jesse swoons.

*

“Fuck,” Jesse mutters, low and under her breath as Asher emerges from the bedroom in a tight white leather corset, white thigh-high fishnet stockings—the industrial ones with no finished top edge—held up by a simple white garter belt. Her panties, a blush shade of pink, were on top of the garter, a style she’d told Jesse is more British than American, and easier to remove while still keeping the rest of the outfit … intact. Her tits are pushed up and together, making her full figure nearly spill out of the top.

Jesse wants to climb inside her cleavage and snuggle and nuzzle for hours.
“Fuck,” she says again, sliding her arms around Asher’s waist as soon as she is within arm’s reach. “You look … goddamn.”

Asher giggles. “I like reducing you to expletives.” She reaches her arms around Jesse’s neck and switches her thighs, rubbing the stockings together and against Jesse’s jeans. Jesse feels so … clothed. She likes the strength she feels held up against Asher’s vulnerability. Asher kisses her, soft, their mouths at almost the exact same height, but only because Jesse is still wearing her boots.

“You brought the strap-on, right?”

Jesse swallows. “Yes.”

*

Jesse can feel her body getting close. That swelling in her cunt, the way she tightens and tenses every muscle and tendon, legs getting sharp and straight, bending less and moving her body more as a unit, one strong, long piece.

She plunges her strap-on dick in and out. Asher writhes on her back underneath Jesse, legs splayed open, wrists still bound by the rope she’d run beneath the mattress, that cheap baby-blue blindfold with the JetBlue logo on it over her eyes. Her mouth is open, breathing hard, lips and tongue wet. Asher raises her hips to meet Jesse’s and with each thrust, some little gasps escape.

Jesse isn’t sure how long she can stand it. The wetness. The hole. Being inside Asher. The feeling of being enveloped and held, safe, contained. Jesse grips Asher’s hips and digs her knees into the mattress, mouth landing on Asher’s shoulder, sucking as she lets her hips follow that feeling there—just there—that one—that—

And with a few more thrusts, that’s it—she yells out, coming hard, shoving into Asher as she convulses and collapses on top of her.

Asher kisses the parts of Jesse that she can, her neck, her upper arm, letting Jesse move when she’s ready. Jesse reaches down to ease the strap-on slowly from inside Asher and only felt her own wetness. Fuck, what had happened? Her harness was loose and the dick sags … and probably hadn’t been actually inside of Asher for some time now.

“Was it—did this slip—aw, fuck.” Jesse blushes hard, fiddling with the dick, unsticking the leather harness from between her legs.

Asher can see out of one eye, the blindfold now askew. “It’s okay, Jesse—it was so hot to feel you come.”

Jesse starts undoing the rope bindings around Asher’s wrists. She’d pulled the knots tight and it took both hands to work them free. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You could’ve told me!” Jesse whines a little.

“I guess. But I really didn’t want you to stop,” Asher’s voice was low and husky, playful.

“I’ve never … I think that was the first time I’ve been able to. Come, I mean. When strapped on.”

“Mmm, well I loved it. Let’s do it more, okay? I want to feel you filling me up next time.”

“Could you just … make sure to tell me? If it slips out. Maybe you could kind of, beg for it, like I’d slipped out on purpose to tease you?”

“Ooh yeah. Like, ‘No please wait, I want it back, come back inside me, don’t go yet.’?”

Jesse grins. “Yeah, like that.”

“Deal.” Asher nuzzles into Jesse and yawns. “You’re going to wear me out,” she sighs, clearly very pleased with this new idea. Jesse laughs a little, thinking, she’s the one who’s going to wear me out, hoping she can keep up with Asher’s lust and drive.


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

Handling Her (Asher & Jesse #1)

Wait for me after class?

Jesse’s heart pounds. That’s all the note says, but she knows it’s from Asher. Asher, who is deliberately not paying any attention to Jesse, even though Jesse positioned herself on the end of the second row in the lecture hall, on the side closest to where Asher usually passes around the handouts. Asher, whose dress is just a little shorter than is probably appropriate for college, especially for a Teaching Assistant, but whose tight grey pencil-skirt dress, long dark hair pulled up in a bun, red lipstick, and cat-eye glasses are fueling a variety of teacher-student fantasies in the room right now. Asher, who has been biting the insides of her lips thinking about Jesse’s hands, the smoothness of the palms, the skin on her fingers kind of rough, the way they’ll feel in her mouth.

Trying not to squirm, Jesse tries to slide the note into her skinny jeans with nonchalance.

No big deal. I’ll just wait. For Asher. After class.

She tries to focus on the psychology handout that Asher dropped on her desk with the note. Her fingernails were painted a soft shade of pink, the same as the accents on the grey dress. Asher didn’t look at her. The note was a stealth move. Ash’s handwriting is tight and fine cursive—the t and the f are loopy but compact. Her fingers are deft and precise, dropping the note with the handout and moving on to the next desk without another glance.

Jesse barely hears the rest of Ms. Bell’s lecture. She watches the slides and takes notes, but all she can think about is Asher. Asher’s lips when they kissed yesterday. The way she tasted like oranges and cream. Probably that was her lip gloss, otherwise how would her lips have been shimmering? Asher’s hair spread out in the grass under the cherry blossom trees in the quad. How Asher kept smiling and laughing at Jesse’s stupid jokes.

All the students start rustling their books and notebooks and backpacks when the clock gets around to 1:20pm, and Ms. Bell raises her voice over the noise to remind them to read chapter 6 by Thursday. Jesse delays packing up her things—the thick hardback course textbook, her blue spiral notebook with PSYCH 201 written in big sharpie letters on the cover, her Slingshot day planner, a pack of Post-Its of various sizes and colors to use to make notes in the textbook, and her pencil case, which actually only has one pencil in it, for when the professors insist on marking up a text. She slides them one at a time, deliberately, into the brown canvas shoulder bag, shifting around the granola bars (which had fallen to the bottom) so they wouldn’t get smashed. She leaves a pen in the groove on the desk, one of her non-important ones, a blue Bic with a chewed up end.

Asher’s note, she tucks into her Slingshot, where all the important things go.

Jesse goes into the girl’s bathroom across the hall and waits with a few of the other Psych 201 students. They are prattling on about lacrosse and don’t stop talking to each other even when they go into the stalls. Jesse pulls the strap on her bag tight, hangs it on the back of the door when it’s her turn, washes her hands, dries them on her jeans, and goes back out into the hall. A few classmates are left at the end of the hall, but mostly they’re clearing out. Jesse peeks in the door of the classroom. Asher and the other two TAs, including Bryan, who is the TA of Jesse’s section C, are still in there talking to Ms. Bell and gathering the paperwork. The last two students leave the room. Jesse takes a deep breath, and walks in.

“Forgot my pen,” mumbles Jesse when Ms. Bell turns to look at who has entered. Bryan is saying something about grading tests. Jesse returns to the desk she was sitting in and looks around, setting her bag in the chair next to her. She doesn’t look at Asher. She pulls up her jeans and crouches down to look more carefully on the floor.

“I like a girl on her knees,” Asher says suddenly, loudly. Jesse nearly falls over. She stands, and Asher has the blue Bic in her hand, standing right next to the desk. The rest of the room is empty. Jesse is sweating and blushing and maybe has to pee all at once.

Asher laughs. “I’m going to get a snack at By George. Come with.”

“Okay. I, uh, I’d like that.” Jesse stands and shoulders her bag. Asher hands her the pen, leaving her fingers on it so they touch Jesse’s when she reaches out to take it, and leans in to touch her lips to Jesse’s cheek. Jesse puts her sweaty palm on the desk to keep her knees from giving out.

Asher doesn’t carry a bag, just the plain file folder stuffed with paper and the course’s textbook in a pile. She’s tucked a pen and a pencil into the bun on the back of her head. She has a purse slung around one shoulder, but it probably holds little more than a paperback book.

“I’m glad you waited,” Asher knocks Jesse with her hip when they get out of the grassy quad and to the slick bricks of red square. It was raining this morning and the ground still isn’t dry.

“I’m glad you asked me to,” Jesse knocks Asher back. She had the urge to wrap her arms around Asher and kiss her, hard; to push her against the side of the building and hold her arms above her head.

Asher talks a little on the short walk to the cafe; Jesse mostly listens, swallowing down a few words here and there, unsure if they sounded smart enough. Jesse picks out a Sprite when they go through the cafe line, and Asher gets a paper basket of french fries and a root beer. They find a table over by the window, away from the groups of students who have pushed tables together, being rowdy.

Asher puts her tan tray down on the table and before she’s even sat down, she says, “I have to tell you something.”

Jesse’s knee is folded under her on the chair and she’s lowering herself down to sit, but she slows, looking up at Asher, still standing. “Okay?”

“I just …” Asher sucks in a breath, and sits down, then fingers two fries and pops them in her mouth, chewing. Jesse tentatively reaches into her bag for the peanut butter granola bar, still watching Asher, who is staring out the window. Asher fingers the straw in her root beer, taking a few sips, leaving a ring of red lipstick on the straw.

“I like you,” Asher starts, leaving the last word hanging.

Jesse thinks that isn’t the thing she’s trying to say, and waits for Asher to finish. She realizes she’s holding her breath. After a few too many moments of silence, Jesse says quietly, “I like you, too.”

With a quick glance at Jesse, Asher hurries on like she was interrupted. “But I want you to know. I am … I’m pretty kinky. I just have to—. Tell you.”

Jesse gulps. Kinky? Oh. That’s what she was trying to say? … Isn’t everybody kind of kinky?

Asher keeps staring at her fries. “My last girlfriend, we didn’t work out because I wanted things that she, she didn’t. I don’t really want that to happen again,” she says quietly, the pain of that loss still evident. Who knows how long ago that was, or how long they were together. Years? Were they married? What did Asher want to do that the ex didn’t? Could Jesse be that for Asher?

But that’s it. Asher lets out the breath she’s been holding and munches a few more fries. Jesse ponders what Asher has revealed. “That doesn’t … that doesn’t bother me. I mean, okay. I like some of that stuff too, I think. I haven’t … I don’t really know what to do, all the time, but I like to try things.”

Asher gazes a little sideways at Jesse across the table. “Are you … I’m not sure you could handle it. Me.”

Something about how Asher said it made Jesse think she was sad about that, or vulnerable. Like she wanted someone to handle it. Her. And that little glimpse of softness gave Jesse a thrill. She leaned forward just a little, whispered, “Maybe you should try me before you decide,” and snapped open her can of Sprite, which fizzed in response.

Jesse took a swig and Asher’s face relaxed, breathing out hard like a half-laugh and smiling. She regarded Jesse again, in that way of hers that made Jesse feel like Ash’s hazel-gold eyes had x-ray vision. “Alright,” she says, considering. “Maybe I should.”

But maybe I’m wrong! Jesse’s mind suddenly screamed. Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.


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

how suave I really am

“You could come to my house. I have a dress you could borrow for work tomorrow.”

“Uh, I appreciate that, but, ya know, I think your clothes would be too small for me.”

“True.”

“We really need a teleporter. We could go to my place, get my clothes, go back to your place …”

“And get your cock.”

“Oh, I have that on me.” I’d been packing all night.

“You do?!” She grabbed my fly for proof.

“Yeah. You know my motto – I’d rather have a cock and not need it, than need it and not have it.

“Dammit, what were we doing? Now I feel like the whole night’s been wasted.”

“You didn’t want to talk identity politics and buddhist philosophy and BDSM theory? I knew it, you’re just using me for my socks.”

“…”

“I mean sex. Cocks! Fuck.”

Penny laughed. “I’m going to have to start writing for Sugarbutch to show how suave you really are.”