Our story continues with our hero and heroine already in the midst of fucking in a hotel room near the Seattle airport. Read part one and part two.
For logistical sake, Miss DD reminded me that she didn’t actually take the spreader bar off until after she’d fucked me on all fours on the bed for a while.
She also had her hand in my ass, I’m pretty sure, while I was on my knees in front of her, while she was fucking me. Fingers, I mean; not her whole hand.
I forget how much I like double pentration. That feeling of being filled.
By then, I was practically insatiable. She had me by the hips, had my ass in her hands, in range of her slaps, my shoulders and arms stinging and sensitive to where she’d bitten me raw. Everything was sensation. I lost my sense of myself and only reacted to her touches, thrusts.
We detangled, she paused and removed the bar, and I dared walk to the bathroom, laughing at the look of myself with wrist and ankle cuffs, amused and deeply appreciative. It takes a lot for someone to get me into these. I can’t believe how uncomplex she makes it all seem; the minute I heard her laugh when she opened that hotel door, I was comfortable, comforted.
I came back to the hotel bed, pillows pulled onto the floor, white bedspread messy.
“Let’s have you bent over the edge of that bed, there,” she nodded to the side, near the wall, snapping another condom on her hard, huge cock, re-gloving her hand (one of them) over her makeup case that doubled as her domme kit.
(I too have one of those; of course, it is a black and orange toolbox. Oh we make quite the pair.)
I bent. Fiddled with my harness, she had losened it and the strap between my legs was completely unhooked now, cock lose and hanging a little awkwardly.
I stretched my arms in front of me, face down in the bedspread, and she lubed up her cock, slowly entered me, again, from behind, drew a finger into my ass – oh – and then a smallish plug.
“Don’t push this out,” she ordered, cock still sliding in me. I was dizzy, felt out of control of my body. If I’d been able to think about it any further I would’ve felt opened, vulnerable, exposed, but I could barely think, could only feel that distinct filling up embrace.
I am out of practice; the plug slipped out easily. I became aware enough of my muscles to clench, which made my cunt burn and throb.
“Better. Now keep it there,” she threatened, taking hold of my hips and fucking me harder.
She braced one boot behind her, on the wall, for better leverage.
I stretched my hands over my head, mouth gnawing at the bedspread. She had me at just the right angle and I was close to coming from her cock alone, a way in which I never come.
She felt it. “Put your hand on your clit.”
I did, but couldn’t get the right spot, the right release. I had no precision with my hand, felt like some big paw and all I could do was thrust against it.
I came nearly twice this way – I built up high to a thick peak, but without the precision of orgasm. Still, some sort of muscle clench and release.
She turned me onto my back and told me she wanted to see me come, wanted to feel me come around her cock, told me to do it, told me to remember my sweet revenge of topping her. It was all a blur, a fog, completely slowed down and every moment, every sensation happening at the same time.
I yelled out, screamed strings of obscenities, as I am prone to doing. She stood, my legs off the bed, then layed her body over mine as I came closer and closer, built up into a thick peak of sensation that gripped me in waves, moved through me. We both collapsed, wrapped up in each other for a sweet second, giggling and breathing heavy, moaning, still getting hold of my own body.
And, suddenly – “Roomservice!” – at the door.
I shit you not, the timing was that perfect.
I felt like hiding. Stripped, spent, and exposed, she scrambled for her slip – which she had removed to reveal amazing lingerie! black lace bra, garter! how could I not have mentioned that yet? – and answered the door.
She kept herself together beautifully and set down the roomservice she’d ordered, then scrambled back into bed, laughing.
“I can’t believe that just happened!”
She put her arms around me, still on my back, and we laughed and grinned and I turned her over so I was on top and touched her skin, the curves of her hips, realized I had barely touched her body this whole time, barely felt her skin, and desire welled up thick in me to watch the way she would open, give in, give over.
“Put your cock back on,” she said. I did. “On the bed, on your back.” And she straddled over me, lowered her small tight body onto my cock and bent her head back, touched her clit.
God, oh god.
I was close to coming again, the way she rocked her hips back and forth, the curve of her neck exposed and vulnerable, one hand behind her as she knelt and rocked and slid against my cock. Oh it was gorgeous to watch. I thrust my hips in rhythm with hers. Brought mine up to meet her, pulled back, pressed.
She warned me she was close. Asked if it was okay – of course – and came, hard, let loose and ejaculated, my belly suddenly warm and wet with such a gush of liquid, and she shuddered, convulsed, collapsed.
My grey silk tie was soaked, practically ruined.
We kissed, held each other. I felt close to her, so close, under her skin, in all the creases of her.
But we were out of time. I had a flight to Alaska to catch. She rushed me into the shower, thankfully, and had a portabella burger waiting for me when I got out, the roomservice she’d ordered, complete with the most delicious wedge-fries I’ve ever had. That burger was about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, let me tell you – there is nothing like food after your body is desperately fucked. I don’t even like mushrooms, but this was so luscious, perfect, flavorful. We split it in half and shared it, kissed, chatted on the bed as we gathered up our things, got dressed. She had a slice of chocolate cake, too, and we ate some of it with the rest of the strawberries, then, reluctantly, left the sanctity of our hotel room, and checked out.
She drove me back to the airport, dropped me off at departures.
“So, you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? The kids and I will miss you!” she joked. We kissed, and I teared up.
There’s something here. Something magic, something already under my skin. I didn’t beg to see her on the return trip, but I prayed she would want to.
I got back on a plane, headed off to see my family for the holidays, thinking of her, writing about her, the whole way.
It was not small. Mid-range, maybe; definitely bigger than the average dildo. Thicker and longer than many of my cocks, though not bigger than my largest. Long, too; a good eight inches at least. A light tan color very similar to her skin tone, and mine.
My hands clipped together in cuffs behind my back, I couldn’t grip it, couldn’t feel it in my fist and wanted to, but I also knew I’d be reaching for her, grabbing at her hips and sweet girl curves if let me free. I ached for her.
I sucked the head, tongued the shaft. I was out of practice, but not altogether bad.
“Look up at me,” she said, and took a photograph.
She kept her hands in my hair, on my shoulders, fingering my jawline. She felt the stubble I’d let grow, that I usually shave. I swallowed her cock, closed my eyes, hands straining against the leather cuffs. Took as much as I could down my throat. Watched her garter and thighs peeking from under the lace hem of her slip.
Sucked and swallowed and closed my lips over her cock as she held it, pressed into me.
“I think it’s time for you to be out of those clothes,” she said eventually, and pulled her cock from my mouth, let me up, and unhooked my wrists, but left the cuffs on. I pulled off my white button down, white tee shirt, boots, socks, jeans, briefs. “Leave the tie on,” she said. “And the cock.” I left my sports bra on too, and sat on the bed, kissing her again.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t play with these,” she said, sliding her hand against my breasts.
I was already breathless from her kisses. Sensitive, wound up tight. “That’s true, I didn’t.” She pinched my nipples, hard. I cried out, tried not to.
She kissed my cheeks, my neck. “I like this,” she said, kissing my chin where the stubble grew. “Oh, I like this a lot.” Fingers, tongue, lips – everywhere.
She attached ankle cuffs as I sat on the edge of the bed, slightly loose. Leather, soft and fur-lined. “Let’s have you on the bed,” she said. “On your back.”
I shivered, my skin tingling, and slid onto the bed.
“Put your hands on your cock,” she said. I did. “Grip it. Keep hold of it. I don’t want you to let go of your cock, do you understand?”
She hooked my ankles to the spreader she’d brought using clips, which gave me a little extra room to manouver. Really, if I tried, I could close my thighs, but my knees were still separated a bit. I liked the range it had. I couldn’t see it well, but I could feel it, and when she stepped away from the bed I pulled against it to see what I could and couldn’t do.
She slid on top of me, kissed me. Bit my shoulderblades, my sholders, my upper arms, then harder, harder, until I was writhing and she was biting hard, leaving marks, leaving deep bruises. The sharp pain jolted me into my body, jolted me right to the edges of my skin and I felt everything, felt every nerve in my body, felt my feet pulling against the leather. I make the kinds of noises that people make in sync with my breath, noise coming out whenever I breathe in or out. Gasping. I tried not to be too loud when I cried out.
It hurt. Oh, I liked it.
“You never told me you like pain this much,” she whispered in my ear, pinching my nipples. “You are the perfect combination of boy and girl,” she whispered as she palmed my breasts, bit my shoulder.
I felt exposed. “Really?”
She nodded, looked into my eyes. “Really.” And brought her cock to my mouth again. Straddled my chest and dipped it against my tongue. That position makes me nervous. I opened my mouth for it. Sucked. Lips swollen, red, tongue hot.
I tried to keep my hands on my cock. I wanted to reach for her, tear through her skin and silk lingerie. “I want to rip these stockings off you,” I said, cheek against her thigh when she withdrew from my mouth.
“Do you? Aww. Why don’t you kiss them,” she said, leaning to one side and offering me her thigh. “Only the part that’s covered. Not the skin,” she ordered. I kissed, brought my lips to the silky thin fabric, kissed and drew my tongue along the tight ring around her thigh where the stocking was held up by her garter. I could feel the tiny little ridges with my tongue and lips, the crosshaired pattern slightly rough against my mouth. I wanted my teeth tearing through it.
She moaned, and said, “enough.” She kissed me, worked her way down my body and paused for just a second too long at my cock with her mouth open just above it. My body shuddered and I ached, just ached to feel her lips close around it.
“Not this time,” she said, and slid off the bed, pushing the spreader bar up.
“Hold that there,” she said, and put it into my hands. I let go of my cock, bobbing from my pubic bone, and gripped the bar. My right leg was pulled up, knee bent, left leg higher, thigh pushed against my stomach by the bar, foot in the air, uneven.
“Stay here. Don’t move.” She moved around the room. I couldn’t see her, but she slid a condom on, grabbed my camera, and took another photograph. “You look gorgeous. So fucken hot,” she said, and touched my clit with something cold, so cold, I thought it was fingers full of lube but it just kept getting colder, and I didn’t connect it until she slid the glass dildo inside me, began working it in and out. My labia piercing conducted the temperature and hurt, ached, as though it was being pinched extremely hard.
I gasped, moaned, writhed on the bed, tried to keep my dick in my hand. Turned my head and yelled into the pillow. She shushed me, and repositioned to fuck me, loosened my g-string style harness so she could reach my cunt and slid inside slow.
“Don’t let go of that bar,” she threatened. I gripped it tight, felt my cock throbbing and pushing against my hand. “You feel that against your belly?” she said, low, next to my ear. “You feel your cock, all hard, between us?”
“Yes,” I breathed. I loved how she kept my cock in play, despite that I was not fucking her with it. Boyish. And god, she’s such a skilled top.
She fucked me like this for a while, legs spread and lifted, hips and ass curved up from the bed, my hands gripping the bar as she lowered herself onto me, cock thrusting. I saw red. Eyes rolling back. Gasping into her shoulder, sucking.
We kissed, kept our faces close. Smiled and giggled and gasped and rocked our bodies together. Eventually, she pulled away, slid back down my body, unhooked the spreader bar, and turned me over.
She smacked my ass, my shoulderblades, even the bottoms of my feet. Bit my shoulders again. I wished I could see her, watch her hips move. I was completely lost in the sensation. “I forgot I get your ass, too,” she mumbled at some point. Sure you did.
“Get up on your knees.”
She gave me her fingers first, then lubed up her cock and began fucking me from behind, entering slowly. My head was practically on the bed, holding myself up with my shoulders because my hands were between my legs, I couldn’t let go of my cock, which was fucken hard and thick and I felt it was going to pop in my hands. I kept it against my clit, kept my fingers circling the head, I love how that feels, the ridge of it against my thumb. Boyish. Masculine.
“You keeping hold of that cock of yours?”
“Yes,” I gasped into the pillow, pushing my hips back into her to get her to slide in deeper. She had her hands on my hips, pulled me back to her. I began whimpering, gasping louder into the pillows.
I don’t know how long we were like this. A long time. My sense of time in that hotel room was limited, having been told that I was not supposed to look at a clock and that she would be the timekeeper. She had full control of this situation, this scene, this interaction between us, and I gave in to her.
“I promise to go along with whatever your blog audience wants,” she wrote.
Our ongoing flirtation is continuing, and last night, I realized I would actually be in Seattle again this weekend, but only for a three-hour layover on my way to Alaska, where I was born & raised, where my parents still live, for the holidays.
Three hours is just about the perfect amount of time.
She wrote: “I would get a hotel room on international boulevard, pick you up, take you to the hotel, drop you off in time to go thru security, say hi to your sister, and you’d get on the plane. Maybe I’d feed you. Maybe not. You would be required to: 1) show up packing, 2) tell me how hot i am in my skirt, 3) beg me to be availableon the 29th [the return layover], 4) bite my shoulder while you’re unhooking my garter belt.”
“Those are not very high demands,” I wrote. “Anything else?”
“What are yours?”
“I was going to say garter belt, and packing of course, but you covered those. I don’t know what else. I’m awfully curious about you. I feel like many things could be on the table that I wouldn’t usually seek out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you seem to be a bit of a top. We’ve discussed that before.”
“I’m a solid top. That is true. I get off on that. And I’m a sick bottom … it all depends. What if I sent you back in the security line, stretched out, sore, chapped lips and unsatisfied?”
“Ohh, fucking hell. That’d be … frustrating. To say the least.”
“Well, if I only had 3 hours with you I’d take advantage of what I wanted.”
“Though if I behaved extra well, it may increase my chances of seeing you on the return trip, yes?”
“I have high standards, but I suspect you are eager to please … I’d love to tie you up, get on top of you, use you for what I wanted, and stick you back in line.”
“I’d be eager to take you down. It’d be hard to resist taking control. That’d be a tough inner battle.”
“We could flip a coin? We could: 1. arm wrestle, 2. trade layovers, 3. ask for a blog vote …”
The idea of bottoming to her is increasingly appealing, I must say. There is something about her that makes me want to get on my knees … and I have never actually sucked femme cock.
“Maybe it’s time for you to open some new doors,” she concluded.
For my vote, I think I want her to top me on the trip up, and then I’ll get to have my revenge on the way back.
“I’m a bit of an exhibitionist,” she wrote. “Okay, I’m a big one. Ask your readers. I promise to go along with whatever they want.”
So … what should I do with this girl? What should she do with me?
Oh hey there.
I'm Sinclair Sexsmith, the kinky queer butch top behind this site. I'm an erotic educator, coach, and writer who studies literature, erotic embodiment, kink, BDSM, leather, and queer, trans, and feminist theory. I prefer the pronouns they and them.