Posts Tagged ‘kissing’

The Three Minute Game

June 8, 2012  |  dirty stories  |  14 Comments

Warning: This story contains some references to Daddy/girl, because that is what we usually call each other while playing. The story before the cut is an explanation and example of the three minute game, something the Body Electric School explores in their workshops, and does not contain the specific Daddy/girl words; the Daddy/girl play is behind the cut.

I returned home from LA, from four days with Rife, and I was ecstatic to see Kristen. She picked me up early, early at the airport on the red eye, and we fell back asleep at home for a few hours, made some lunch, talked about what we’d been doing.

In the afternoon, we returned to the bedroom.

I know when I travel it’s best to come back to her sweet and slow, and even more so when I’ve been off seeing my lover. I was turned on (she felt so good in my arms, under my hands, her feminine curves, her sweet soft skin) and had some ideas, but we needed a way to reconnect playfully, slowly, first.

“Want to play the three minute game?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said brightly, smiling like I’d offered to make her favorite meal for dinner. “But remind me of the rules?”

“Each of us gets a turn, and each turn is three minutes, carefully timed. There are two turns, so—four rounds. The first is, ‘this is what I would like to do to you for my pleasure.’ Then, ‘this is what I would like you to do to me for my pleasure.’”

“Got it.” We’ve played before, but only a few times, and the last time didn’t go so well—she’d asked me for some touch around my chest and we both got uncomfortable and had to stop, but neither of us handled it well. I hoped we wouldn’t do that again.

“You go first,” I said (being a top is useful sometimes).

“Alright … for my pleasure, I would like to sit on your lap, and for you to kiss my face and neck and suck on my nipples.”

“Mmm, I’d love to,” I said. “Take off your shirt.” Part of the point is to respond well—with eagerness, or with suggestions of something else related if you are uncomfortable with what they request.

I shifted up to the head of the bed so I could support my back against the wall, and Kristen curled up over my lap. I set the timer on my phone for three minutes.

At first, I barely made contact. I let her feel my breath and nose and the heat of my skin; I closed my eyes and remembered the contours of her jaw and cheek with the tiny invisible hairs on my face. Then I let my lips touch her, just brushing, gently, gently, as light of a touch as I could manage, as slow as I could tolerate. Feeling her weight on my thighs and the curves of her waist and back and spine in my hand made me want her, but I resisted.

I traced her jaw, cheek, throat with my mouth, kissing now, using the soft insides of my lips, keeping my mouth supple. She made that soft mewling moan that slays me and a shiver ran down my spine. I kept going, working that spot on her neck by her earlobe that she loves, then where her neck and shoulders meet, and down to her collarbone. I kissed along the curves of the tops of her breasts, making my way between the cleft of them, down to one nipple and then the other, sucking them into my mouth, teasing gently with my teeth and tongue, suckling, nibbling.

Just as I was getting into it, drawing her closer to me with my arms around her back, burying my face in her, just as she was starting to drop her head back and thrust her tits forward, the timer went off, and we both laughed.

I shifted my position a little and she sat more on the bed than on my lap. I kissed her lips. She said, “It’s your turn.”

“For my pleasure …” I swallowed. “I would like you to kiss my feet.” We’ve played with this a little. It is only recently that I have admitted how much I like it—to myself and others—enough to actually experiment with the sensation. It makes me nervous to ask for. But that is partly what this game is for, and it’s only three minutes. I can do just about anything for three minutes.

She nodded, looked at me a little coyly, chin down eyes up lips parted, and said, “And suck your toes?”

My breath caught. “Yes,” I think I managed to say. I think it was audible. So nervous. And it’s something that I wanted to feel, so much.

I set the timer again and she slid down the bed on her belly to take my right foot in her hands and deliver a sprinkling of kisses along the top of it. She ran her tongue along the instep, the most sensitive part, and sucked gently with her lips. She tongued the crease between my big toe and second toe before sliding the larger into her mouth.

I groaned. It is so vulnerable and makes me so nervous to give over, to feel her mouth in that way. The sensation is so close to tickling but is ecstatic, and so close to getting my cock sucked but is very different. She worked her mouth over all the crevices she could reach. She sucked and licked, moving her tongue up and down, holding my heel and ankle in her hands.

Then she switched to my other foot.

(It is so hard to write about this! And words like toes and foot seem so inherently unsexy, somehow—but I know the feeling absolutely turns me on. I don’t think I’ve written about it here before. I don’t know if I want to, except that I like to challenge myself to make myself vulnerable, to Kristen and to myself and in this writing project, and this feels very edgy.)

Those three minutes felt like an hour. I lost myself in the sensation, but I didn’t lose my body: moreso the opposite. I felt my whole self down to each toe, where so much stimulation was concentrated. I felt my cock quiver and my nipples harden and my throat go dry as I tried to swallow. I watched her mouth move and lips darken with blood and sensation and she smiled and giggled a little as she showed me what she could do. My eyes rolled back. My wrists went slack. I almost begged for her to stop, almost begged for more. I was overwhelmed and ecstatic and so turned on.

The timer went off and I breathed out, both a sigh of relief and disappointment that it was over. “For your pleasure, what would you like to do to me?” I asked.

She rose to her hands and knees and crawled forward toward me on the bed. “I would like to suck your cock.”

“Mmmm, gladly,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Give me just a minute to put it on.” I slid my jeans and briefs off, tossed my tee shirt into the laundry basket, pulled on my cock and harness from the small jersey bag I tend to keep it in, and returned back to the bed. She crawled over me. I barely had time to restart the timer before she had my cock in her mouth, tongue eager again, her lips soft and sucking me down. It’s a big cock, the Maverick, my favorite one, the one I use only with her.

She’s still warming up, but I want to push her. Read More

Fucking in Public in Liberator Lingerie

November 9, 2009  |  dirty stories, reviews  |  13 Comments

Kristen and I dispute how many times we’ve been to the particular play party that we attended on Halloween. I thought we’d been before at least once, but she thinks it was only one other party in the same space. Perhaps because we also attended a completely different party around the same time (where the rocking chair blow job happened) I am blurring the parties together.

Regardless, we hadn’t fucked in “public” in a long time, and Kristen had the perfect costume for the Halloween play party: this “Secretary” outfit from Liberator.

secretary

Okay, you got me: it’s more lingerie than costume. Really it’s just the cuffs and collar that cross it over that line. Not really sure why it’s a secretary outfit, either; I guess because it has pinstripes on it, it is business-y? Whatever. The lingerie is hot. It arrived in a lovely fancy black box in pink tissue paper, and since Kristen tried it on earlier in the week I’d been looking forward to fucking her in it.

This is only the second Liberator item I’ve been sent to review – the first being the Throe, the moisture-proof blanket Kristen and I use pretty much every time we have sex. Well, every time at my house, anyway; we should get a second for her place, too. I’ve been looking forward to more from their product line, particularly some silk pillowcases to see if something higher quality will do less damage to Kristen’s hair, which is inevitably a tangled mess after thrashing against the sheets for a while. (Those of you with fine, baby-thin hair out there may know this problem. So far there’s no cure except conditioner and a shower. Suggestions?)

Instead of the pillow cases, though, they sent us Kristen’s pick for lingerie, just in time for the Halloween party.

It’s kind of hard to order clothes online, especially lingerie, where it should be very form-fitting and specific to a body’s shape. Liberator lingerie comes in x-small, small, medium, large, x-large, and 2x, and the customer service folks told Kristen that it runs small, so she ordered what she thought would be the closest to her size. She seems pretty happy with the fit, but it was a bit of a gamble; we may try a slightly smaller size next time, but it’s hard to say, that one might be too small. Returns to Liberator have to be pre-approved, probably because they do sell all sorts of products for sexiness and they aren’t about to accept used sheets or used sex furniture, but if it’s because the lingerie was the wrong size I bet they would understand. Be sure to ask, though, if you’re not sure.

We dressed at my place; she slipped into it as I got my harness ready under my black slacks, tee shirt, and button-down. When I announced I was ready, she said she was too, and I thought, really? You’re going to wear that out, without anything on top of it? She zipped her jacket up over it, her very short jacket, coming only to her high waist. The garter is almost a mini-mini-skirt, if you stretch your mind a bit, and we were driving, walking only the few blocks from her apartment to the play party. Plus, it IS Halloween, which is practically Scantily Clad Day, and I’d be with her – it’d be okay. (It did make me feel a bit protective, but also hot, that she was willing to venture out into public wearing so little. And knowing I’d probably fuck her later in the same lovely outfit made it all the better.)

We arrived at the play party a bit late; it was packed and going strong. Someone recognized me upon my entrance (who were you? I could barely hear or see, I apologize) and Kristen and I made the rounds, watching the various scenes in progress already: someone holding onto the bars of the “jail cell,” two pairs of dykes giving/receiving blow jobs, someone on a leash being led around by someone very mistressy, a girl with lovely curves face down being smacked by her top in a cowboy hat. Every once in a while the music would quiet just a little and I’d hear someone screaming or yelling or moaning and go investigate – I do love that it is a safe space to come and be naked, be vulnerable, be exposed, and be hot and sexy.

We didn’t stay long, but we wanted to play at least a little. I like to show her off. I like for others to watch her and see how ridiculously sexy she is when she comes or how good she is at her particular talents, like sucking me off.

I’m not sure how it started; with a kiss, I think (isn’t that always how it starts?). I love the way she kisses, from subtle, supple energy to hard, insistent, demanding. I love how she meets me, pushes me for more, mouth and lips and tongue so sweet and open, lovely, tender. I can’t even explain it without resorting to cliche flower metaphors.

Somewhere in the winding labyrinth of little black nooks and crannies I leaned against the wall, feet apart shoulder blades pressing back, cock already tucked into my slacks when I was in the other room, not a packing cock but a fucking cock so it is straining at my zipper and pulling at my belt already. She presses against me and can feel it, rubs up against it, which makes me groan. She winds her fingers through my hair. Puts her mouth to my neck. I feel myself coming undone, coming thickly into my body and connecting to her, those invisible strings that pull us to each other becoming taut.

She wants to be somewhere more public. I want to be somewhere quieter, we were right under the speaker and I can’t hear her noises, can’t hear her breathing. I lead her into the back room, full of signs that read “BDSM and sex only – no chatting please,” where Crash Pad is playing in the background, and I find a chair. We keep kissing before I sit back into it, just enjoying reconnecting and building the sensuality between us.

To be honest, we hadn’t fucked in a while. A few days, probably. Maybe there was some morning making out in there, some quickies, but no half-day laze in bed like we are used to. We kept disconnecting, we’d traveled and had visitors and then were decompressing from a week of socializing, we weren’t arguing but I was particularly exhausted and not communicating that well or being very attentive. It was a relief to let the world fall away outside and just be with her, just feel her back and shoulders and waist, her ass all round and squeezable in that gorgeous high-waist garter.

We kissed for a long time. Standing, arms wrapped around each other, melting a bit, finding the edges of each other again. Finally I pulled back to say, “there’s a chair behind me. I’m going to get my cock out, you’re going to get on your knees. Got it?”

She nods. I kiss her again, so sweet, savoring her lips, and drop back to the chair behind me as she drops to the floor. It is doubtlessly good whenever she ventures to put her mouth on me, but this time was exquisite, the kissing still reverberating on my mouth, still feeling her tongue and pillowy lips, how is it that after nearly a year it just keeps getting better? (I ask myself this regularly.) She kisses the head of my cock, softly. I feel it jolt through my body. Her tongue running along the corona. I shiver, swelling. She pulls it into her mouth deeper with suction and my eyes roll back in my head, I nearly fall out of my chair.

I love to watch her this way. I let her go on, watching the room watching us a little bit, dykes over by the doorway biting their lips and sucking on their fingers absently, eyes fixed. Enjoying them enjoying the view of her ass, her back curved, leaning forward.

The couple in the far corner leaves and the swing is unused. I pull her mouth off my cock with my hand on her chin and kiss her. Her mouth is wet.

“Let’s go back into the corner.”

I tug on my slacks so they don’t fall down around my ankles, lead the way. I undo my button down and slip it off, set it on the bench next to the wall, by the swing and the table that is suspended by chains from the ceiling. She stands next to me as I drop down to my knees and unhook her garter belt to slide her black panties down her legs, then hook up the belt again.

“The swing?” I ask her. “Or the table?” Both are free. She looks over to the table coyly and we take a few steps over to it, maneuver her up onto it. Kind of hard to do without proper leverage. There was a couple fucking right here as we watched earlier and it’s kind of a thrill to do something similar to what they did. She lays back, grabs the chains for leverage, wraps her legs around my waist as I lube up my cock and slide it in. I work it in and out a little, softly, she’s quiet and not nearly responsive enough. I can’t reach her to kiss her from this ninety-degree angle at which we’re fucking.

I can’t hear her, either. The music is too loud, plus there’s porn playing on the TV behind us, and other people fucking nearby, so any joyful noise, so to speak, could be coming from anywhere. I can’t hear her. I can barely see her, it’s so dark in here, a windowless basement with only bare colored dim light bulbs from the ceiling and the light from the TV. It’s not enough for me to tell what’s going on with her, but I can feel it, something’s not quite right.

“You okay?” “Yeah.” She wants it to be okay. (So do I.) But we can both feel something is off.

We mess around for a little while, I hold her, hold her down, push her ankles onto my shoulders so her legs are up, touch her clit, she gets off once or twice. But her heart’s not in it, and she forces it a little, makes it happen faster than necessary. I suspect she wants to go.

I lean down to wrap around her for a moment and she responds immediately, softens and pulls up into me. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. She nods into my neck. We get up, clean up the area, put our clothes back on, I tuck my shirt in.

It was fun, thrilling to debut her lingerie in public, fun to show her off a little, thrilling to watch her go down on me in front of a room full of people. But it isn’t quite enough. We haven’t had enough connection lately. I need some cuddling and intimacy and kisses all night long, wrapping around each other and sleeping late, making breakfast and laughing and leisurely lazing around on the couch watching reruns of 30 Rock, holding hands. I need some quiet to ourselves, with the world on the outside shut off and put away. I need to catch up on the last week, decompress together, let her know what I thought of the parties and people and fun times and her cooking and all the events we’re sharing. I need things to just slow down so I could catch my breath.

I pack up my cocks, we get our jackets, venture back out into the cold, and walk the few blocks back to her place, where we whisper sweet nothings quietly before falling asleep together.

A Resplendent Image

March 6, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  10 Comments

Some days just the memory of her is enough to drive me wild.

I’ve been holding on to the image of her in my bed last Sunday all week, rolling it over in my mind like I roll my ring on my finger.

We’d already been fucking, all day really. Woke and I couldn’t keep my hands off her, stayed in bed until hunger forced us up after one. Back home and I wanted more. Cradled her, fucked a while, until I wanted to watch.

I’m perhaps more of a voyeur than even I know. And she is such an expert at her own body, I love watching her as her skin flushes, fingers move, hands hover above her own pussy as she shakes, then opens her eyes to look at me: “want me to do it again?”

This time, she was on her back, on my bed. I wished aloud for a spreader bar and then made one, makeshift, from a white-tipped straight black cane and black rope, her ankles as far apart as they could go, she couldn’t close her knees.

Then: clamps on her nipples. Tighter than I expected, but I know she likes the pressure, likes it when I bite hard.

Then: I got a cock out, a big one, the widest I have, I can’t even get my thumb and forefinger all the way around the narrowest part. It is short, so, hard to strap-on. I keep it in my hand as I watch her writhe for one, two orgasms on her own, as she can’t take something that big until she’s warmed up.

I tug at the chain of the nipple clamps, twist them around for more of a pinch. She moans. She likes it.

I watch her come and lube up the cock, slide it in without much resistance, watch her face change, her hips open, as she starts working her clit again right away.

And these are the images that flash in my mind: that thick red cock shoved all the way in; her hands, both, between her legs, upper arms pushing her breasts together as the clamps and chain accent her nipples and swollen aureole; knees up and rocking back and forth, straining against the bar holding her ankles apart.

I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees apart, stroking my cock, still strapped on, watching from slightly above as she writhes and moans.

Then: next to her, my hand working the cock in and out, my mouth at her neck, shoulder.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, as I refuse to close the distance and keep her straining to reach my mouth.

I grin, and slap her instead, three four five six times in rapid succession. She moans, I hit her again. “Or slap me, that’s good too,” she breathes, nearly under her breath, as I continue to make her cheek pinker, and I do, again, and she starts coming, harder, so I slap her a few more times before leaning in to kiss her, until she starts jerking as she comes and nearly knocks me in the nose with her forehead.

“Fuck me, please,” she is unhinged like this and asking for just what she wants, and I love that.

I shift between her legs, the bar holding her ankles apart now behind my knees and I keep some pressure on it so she can strain against it, and slide inside easily, wrap my arms around her, kiss her hard, and we lose ourselves in it, rocking against each other, going deep.

Wait for me on your knees.

January 29, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  25 Comments

I pull her up from the table and cradle her close, her naked body against me, still fully clothed. Kiss her tender and run my hands along her skin. "Now: down." I command. "On your knees." She didn't quite respond quickly enough, still looking at me heavy-lidded and getting her brain to catch up with the sensations in her body. I push on her shoulders. "Down." And she slides to her knees. I take a fistful of her hair. "Put your hands behind your back." She does, eyes shining, blinking. "Wait for me. Be right back."

Read More

The Sexblogger Calendar Party

November 19, 2008  |  miscellany  |  5 Comments

The New York City Sexbloggers Calendar release party is over. Now, five days later, the Twitter-loving on each other is fading, the blog posts are just about exhausted.

There were so many folks in from out of town and it was such a pleasure to meet everyone! I especially want to shout out to Greg & Jason from Njoy – such a pleasure, gentlemen – and the Gay Friday ladies whose company I very much enjoyed. And thanks so much to my friends (A, C, W, J, B).

Here’s a couple write-ups and reflections from the party:

If you haven’t already seen it, my pinup photo from the calendar is featured in Time Out New York online.

What’s that? You haven’t seen it? Is that because you weren’t at the party, and haven’t purchased a calendar? Well you’re in luck – they are not entirely gone. $20 – twenty bucks – and twelve sexbloggers will stare back at you all throughout 2009.

Buy it now through Dacia’s online store at wakingvixen.com!

Actually, a word about the calendar: it’s more than pretty pinup photos (though it is that), it’s more than donation to a good cause (though it is that too) – it’s also a community resource. Nearly 2/3 of the days have blog URLs, sex toy company bargains, or cultural events listed.

Did you get a copy of the Sugarbutch Star Chapbook from me at the party? No? Well, you’re in luck there too, I still have some. They’re $10 each. Email me for more details, or donate $10 via the paypal link over on the sidebar and make a note that it’s for the Chapbook.

A couple of my favorite shots from the party:



Signing a calendar
Photo by Bevin from The FemmeCast: Queer Fat Femme Podcast Guide to Life


Me & Miss December, aka Elizabeth Wood from Sex in the Public Square
(photo by Norman Blake, stolen from Stacie Joy, the talented calendar photographer)

Protected: a potent alchemy

April 28, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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Protected: such a beautiful submissive impulse

April 22, 2008  |  journal entries  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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Sugarbutch Star: Shannon

April 10, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  8 Comments

I know, I know – you never thought this day would come! But it’s true, here it is: the LAST Sugarbutch Star Contest story, from the lovely talented writer Shannon.

I’m still kicking myself for having it take so long, but I ultimately loved this contest, and I’ll be doing another one when this one is completely over (there’s still the voting, the prizes, the announcement of the winner, and, hopefully, a public reading of the winning story!). I learned a lot about the contest, mostly that I bit off much more than I could chew and I need to keep it simpler than I did. I made a lot of extra work for myself taking on the “honorable mention” category (in which you’ll also be able to vote, don’t worry).

Your mission, readers, now, should you choose to accept it, is to review the Sugarbutch Star Contest entries, for tomorrow – Friday, April 11, 2008, a full six+ months after the contest started, and to decide which stories are your very favorites – for you will be the ones who determine the winner.

One more thing: I’m still blogging for RAINN  in April – if you like this work, consider a donation to RAINN & let ‘em know I sent you – add  “GBBMC2008: Mr. Sinclair Sexsmith” in the information box.

And now, without further introduction:


The Photo Shoot

She wants me.

Or, more accurately, I want her, and she’s just starting to notice and respond. To begin to play in her mind with the idea of kissing me. She licks her lips without noticing, watching mine. Tucks her hair behind her ear. Gently blows her bangs out of her eyes.

I’m pinned behind the lens of her camera, which both magnifies me and puts a barrier between us.

But now she keeps letting the camera fall, looking at me bare.

“Shannon,” I whisper. She’s painting the lines of my masculinity with her photographer’s eye. She has her elbow on her hip, camera cocked to the side. She snaps a few at this odd angle as her eye wanders.

The romantic love poem I was reciting by heart – to impress her, and to capture on film – is over. “Shannon.” I say again, moving a step closer to her, out from the grey backdrop, the hooded lights. “Put the camera down.”

Her eyes snap to attention, locked on my face. She moves slow and sets the camera on the nearby chair.

I curl her into my arms in one fluid motion, pull her to me, her back perfectly nestled into my elbow. She breathes in sharply, the weight of her body leaning into me. She brings her hand to my chest, my collarbone, and lowers her eyes, looking at my mouth, my jaw, the stubble on my chin.

She’s waiting. I trail my hand up her back, under her hair, and rest it on her neck. I place my other hand on her hip and push her away from me, bring her to me with the other, hovering her lips next to mine. She breathes in, her lips part, eyes close. I can smell her skin, her hair, her mouth, and I want to taste her.

I watch her struggle to release and resist the urge to lunge, press herself against me. She’s moving toward me with tiny non-movements – her wrist, her thigh – and each time I am amused, aroused.

I am waiting for something.

Shannon doesn’t sense that, and then she does, and her eyes open. She sees me watching her and I grin a little wider. I feel my cheeks pulled and those dimples appear. She makes that little gasp noise in her throat and lets her body go, her head drops, hips press into my hand and she lets me take the weight of her, and that’s it, that’s what it was, so I catch her as she gives in and I lunge.

We kiss. I don’t start slow, but rather cover the full circle of her mouth with mine and pull her to me. She gives in, again. And oh, it is so beautiful.

Our kisses build and become longer, more insistent, more full of gasps. I have the pulse of her throat between my teeth, she pushes my suit coat from my shoulders, whispering, “god oh god oh god,” in this low prayer-like murmur.

“Ohh you’re going to fuck me aren’t you?” she says, one leg slung up around my hip, skirt riding up. “Please tell me you’re going to, please …”

“Yeah.” I say and take her lips back into my mouth. “I’m going to fuck you.”

I pull her other leg around my hip, lifting her off the ground and walking to the wall of windows, then place her into the window well, a convenient height from the floor. She catches my eye, looks momentarily shy, and lays back, spreading her legs.

Thigh high stockings, soft skirt to her knees now pushed up to her hips. Her ankles and calves are delicately curved by her low heeled sandals. I pull her cream-colored, thin panties past her ankles and take her thighs in my hands, the soft soft skin of her, fingertips to her body teasingly slow, pressed against her, mouth to her nipples through her thin white blouse and bra, leaving a damp spot when I moved to her throat.

“God, oh god,” she whispers on the exhale, slow and steady. She feels everything, every move of my teeth and lips, fingertips and hips, she responds so subtly and our bodies are dancing together like a waltz, like a tango, back and forth in the rhythm of our blood pressure pumping, our breath synched.

Her thighs are pressed back and she’s pulling me in with magnetism, a force like gravity and my fingers are on her, swollen and sweet and slick, guiding me with subtle circles of her hips and I follow, I hear what she’s asking through her body and I respond: Touch here, no here. Deeper. Harder against my outer lips. Run your fingers up and down. Skate around my clit, dip your fingers in just a bit, just a little bit so I can feel stretched, two then three, then back to my clit and oh yes, right there, right there …

She tells me everything. I watch her mouth, her eyes, her skin flushed with heat.

“Oh yeah oh yeah, oh god yeah.”

She’s so gorgeous like this, all splayed open, head and neck pressed against the glass pane and knees to the deep walls of the window well. Hands pulling on my wrist, pushing on my chest, looped around my neck – yes, there, oh right there – and I feel her tightening and releasing from somewhere deep and I ache to be inside while she shudders, while she squeezes hard and ripples, beginning at the floor core of her, radiating up and out.

She looks at me when her body has calmed. Stares into me in a new way, eyes clear and shining. She swallows something that has dislodged and made its way to her tongue – a raw spark of energy and self and desire.

We slide to the floor; I shake out my forearm.

She’s quiet, feeling exposed, and pulls her skirt back down. We curl around each other, holding, touching softly, my fingers on her shoulder, in her hair, now a mess of dirty blonde around her head. We lay breathing for a bit, then I start asking about her photography.

“Did you get the shot you wanted?” I ask. She rises to her elbows and looks at me again, as if remembering I am her subject.

“Mmm,” she barely answers, tucking her hair behind her ear and then finding the top button of my Oxford with her slender fingers and pushing it through it’s hole.

I watch. Oh, really. Raise my eyebrows. She says, “Well, I would like to see you in a few more … positions.” She giggles, I laugh. I lay back and let her pull my suspenders, peel my button-down, from my shoulders. She tosses it behind her and rises to her knees, taking off her buttoned blouse, knees apart, skirt loose, in her bra. She regards me with her photographer’s eye again, puts her hands up in L shapes to frame the shot.

I grin, sheepish. Shannon reaches for my slacks; I knock her hand away. “Hey!” I feign protest. “What am I, a piece of meat?” She laughs, grabs at me again, unbuckles my belt, unzips my fly. I swat her hand again and she gives me a look, that look, that femme no-nonsense don’t-fuck-with-me look that makes my cock throb.

I like power. I like that she has some. I can begin to taste what it’ll be like to take it away.

I let her pull out my cock. I twist to reach my jacket, a crumpled heap on the floor, and pull a condom from the inner pocket. She watches me and her lips part, mouth waters – I can see it.

She laughs, tossing her hair, eyes alight. “Is that what you think?” she says, playful, but it’s a sensitive enough old wound that I freeze for a second. Wait, what? Isn’t that – didn’t she want – weren’t we going to -

She laughs again at my flustered face, then crawls toward me, straddling my legs as I sit on the floor, leaning back on my hands. She pushes against my chest until I’m lying all the way against the floor.

“You’re going to have to try a little harder than that,” she teases, laying her body on top of mine, our mouths close. I grin, shift my shoulders, wrap my arms around her naked waist as she keeps her hands by my ears, holding herself up. With a swift sudden motion I flip her onto her back and roll on top of her, carefully switching my hips so my exposed cock is between her legs. I leave my hands on the curve of her hips and begin to feel hungry for her again, palmfulls of skin, stomach exposed, breasts moving gently with her inhales and exhales which are increasing as she lifts her hips up into me, which gets me hard.

I groan a little into her neck, teeth to her collarbone, her shoulders. She begins struggling, pushes against me with her arms, attempts to flip me with her legs. I almost let her think she can as she moves the weight of me around; I’m testing her strength. I swiftly stop her by taking both of her wrists in my hands, pressing them into the floor, grinding my hips against hers.

She stops struggling. I feel the grin on my mouth again. I like how she brings the cockiness out of me.

She smirks at my victory smile. “Well, you are at a distinct advantage, being on top.”

“You were on top a minute ago.”

“Yeah, but … uh …”

“Mmm hmmm.” I shift above her head and hold both of hers with one of mine, bite her chest, the tops of her exposed breasts where my mouth can reach under her bra. She inhales, arching her back and attempting to free her wrists from my grip.

“What am I going to do with you …” I mutter into her skin, my mouth on that spot between her breasts, on her smooth stomach, as far down as I can go without losing the grip on her hands. I press harder against her subtle struggling.

“Oh, oh god,” she starts again as I manage to take one of her nipples into my mouth. I let my other hand travel the length of her body, between her legs, and find that she eagerly opens, and she’s wet.

I get distracted, a growl of want lodged in my throat, and she suddenly manages to slip out of my grip and scurries out from under me. I grab for her leg, then ankle, as I see her nearly escape my reach, and she attempts to shake me off, laughing. I scramble after her, grabbing at whatever I can, her knee, her shoes, and get hold of the fabric of her skirt which, she wriggles out of and off. I catch her thigh with my fingers and squeeze, hard.

She gasps – “Dammit, that’s gonna bruise!” – and steals a playful glance back at me. I grab for her hips, nearly wishing I had nails so she would feel me dig into her, my grip as a barb she was clearly rubbing the wrong way.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going,” I grumble, low and strong, which stops her. My grip on her body pulls both me to her and her to me and we match suddenly, my slacks between her legs, stockings felled below her knees, thighs bare and exposed. I lower my face to hers and take one more fist of hair, pressing her shoulder into the wood floor, pressing my knees up under her thighs which forces hers apart. I watch her face for just a moment as she’s pinned under me, and let her feel it.

I lift myself to my knees and rescue the condom from the floor nearby, tearing it open with my teeth. The plastic gives way easily, and I roll it over my cock, holding it in my hand for a moment, enjoying the feel of the girth, the weight of it in my palm.

She’s only breathing, watching me. My mouth waters and I spit into my palm, rub the length of the shaft. Inadequate lube, but it’s something. She’s bending her knees together and looking bashful, feeling exposed again, but her face is full of lust. Her body writhes a little and she tries to keep still.

I stay kneeling and pull her to me, her thighs over mine so I’m under her hips and her ass is just a little off the floor. I tease her cunt with my fingers, lightly, soft, and watch her face. I’ve already done this once, I have a better idea of how she likes it. Slow, with pressure. Harder here when she presses into my hand. Skating around her lips soft and supple. I slide two fingers inside easily, then three, watching her face as she gasps and smiles, working my fingers in her harder, a little quicker. Her cunt thickens, sweet, and she lets me in.

I slide her swiftly onto my cock, switch my hands to her hips, pulling her against me, thrusting.

“Fuck, oh fuck …”

So beautiful, split open by my cock. Stretching her legs wide to take me deeper. She’s so good.

She brings her palms to the floor above her head to keep from sliding and presses into me deeper, mouth open, hair wild and in her eyes. I increase my pace and she follows me, lets me lead her, and we both build until we’re groaning, yelling out, muscles straining in rhythm, my head bent back, back arched.

“Oh god oh god, oh fuck,” she gasps. “Fuck, fuck!” I’m nearly shouting out too, right along with her, grunts of working my body, hands slipping on her hips from sweat.

I collapse suddenly, pushed to a small peak of a limit, over her, and she pushes me and rolls me onto my back, straddling and sitting on top of me, knees by my thighs. I keep my legs close together and she rocks her hips back and forth, writhing, as I take hold of her shoes, get a grip on the heels and pull her to me. She slides two fingers into her mouth and wets her fingertips, then reaches her hand to her clit and starts moving in small circles, closing her eyes and bending her head back. She brings her other hand to her head and pushes her hair out of her eyes, attempts to tuck it behind her ear but it falls right away, rocking harder, squeezing my cock harder, circling harder, and my hips are bucking fast, meeting hers.

“Oh god oh god, god oh god,” she mutters, a long, soft string of words, hips strong and hard against mine. I let go of her heels and move my hands to her hips again which gives me a better grip on our rhythm, and I take control of the pace, fuck her hard from underneath her, fucking up into her deep and she starts screaming, I feel her entire body contract around me and her back arches, mouth opens, head falls back until her body shudders, stomach contracts hard and she shakes, shoulders bowing, falling forward onto my chest as shockwaves roll through her.

I run my fingers through her hair, down her back, over the contours of her hips for a minute. “Fuck,” I whisper into her hair, “that was so damn hot.”

Her breathing has slowed and she lifts her head to look at me, bashful, aware of herself again. She smiles and kisses me, full of tongue and desire and release, skin flushed and beautiful, just beautiful.

“Where’s your camera?” I say. “I want some shots of you now.”

couple, in b&w

March 18, 2008  |  miscellany  |  3 Comments

butch/femme, heather corinna
butch/femme couple, photo by Heather Corinna
Shannon says it’s her “favorite photo of butch & femme”

I’ve been following Heather Corinna online for quite a few years now – she’s practically infamous for her self-portraits, her personal online journal, her sex-positive educational resources. I still haven’t ever met her – she moved to Seattle just after I moved from Seattle to New York City, and while she knows some of the same folks that I do, our paths have just never quite crossed. Needless to say, though, after following her work for all these years, she still gives me that butterflies-in-my-stomach celebrity feeling – I’d probably be too shy to ever actually have a conversation with her, I’d get all tongue-tied and flustered. Ah, femmes.

will my cock get sucked?

November 20, 2007  |  dirty stories, essays  |  2 Comments

I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.”What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.

We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.

And oh I got that.

She was stunning. I particularly liked her in jeans and a white a-shirt, hair tussled and no makeup, bare feet, when she answered the door, though as soon as I saw her lips slightly pinked and luscious I knew I wanted to kiss her, hoped we’d kiss, before the end of the short few hours we had.

We settled into a borrowed bedroom and she lit candles, turned out the lights, after she brought the three gerbera daisies and bottle of prosecco into the room with us.

We weren’t going to fuck – and this is the second time that this has happened with us, of the two times we’ve met – but fuck if she didn’t make me want. Kisses and her eyes and curly hair and the way her neck bent back when I pulled it and that little southern twang in her voice and her tongue and oh the sounds from her throat.

“I want to learn how to throw you around,” I said.

She laughed. “You have already learned that. Graduated from that school, walked across that stage, picked up the diploma, switched your tassel to the other side.”

I laughed too. “Maybe. Then I want to practice.”

There was a moment when some feeling grew from my cock up through my chest to radiate out through my shoulders into my fingertips and my timing was perfect, fist on wrist with a precise leg twist so she went exactly where I placed her.

And I could’ve devoured her, then.

I wanted to. I felt her hesitation and didn’t push it. Maybe she’d say the same of me, but I was eager, willing. I imagine that was clear.

I brought my cock. I’d showed it off at the tea party beforehand, and was hesitant to keep it on, but wanted to be prepared.

“I certainly didn’t want to seem … presumptuous.” I said. There’s that word again.

“I would’ve been mad if you hadn’t brought it,” she answered.

And, later, she said: “I want to suck your cock.”

I wanted to growl fucken do it then and push her head down, but it wasn’t quite that kind of night. That, though, was what she brought out in me.

“I would like that …” I said weakly, trying not to writhe and moan on the bed.

She has incredibly sensitive lips. Earlier, after she’d admired my various bits of (ahem, carefully groomed) body hair, she’d asked me if I shaved – it puzzled for a second, before I realized she meant my face. “Yeah,” I admitted. “Can’t really feel it now … ” I brought my fingers to my five o’clock shadow, still mostly smooth. She could feel it though. Her mouth is just that sensitive.

(Small sidenote: That’s new for me, really, that my lack of shaving or non-feminine placed body would be a turn-on for a lover. I guess it has to do with the ways I am masculine, which makes sense, if what someone is attracted to in me is (at least in part) my butchness. It’s taken me a while to not feel weird about it though – I was socialized female, shaved for many years, despite my hippie parents objections. Also, having more hair tends to be a sign of testosterone in the body, doesn’t it? I wonder if that’s related to my butch identity, some sort of biological connection? Or maybe I’m just reaching for ways that this butchness came from “inside” and not only adopted as a performative gender-bending practice.)

I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see her again, but I hope our paths will cross sooner than the last time I saw her. She lives in the south, and did tell me that if I am ever in her city and want to get sweaty, I should call her. Likewise, I made sure she knew she always has a booty call in New York.