Fucking in Public in Liberator Lingerie

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.

Review: Seven Minutes in Heaven (DVD)

Good Releasing Presents Seven Minutes in Heaven: Coming Out by Courtney Trouble at GoodVibes.comOn Friday, Kristen and I sat down to watch No Fauxxx‘s latest DVD from Reel Queer Productions, Seven Minutes in Heaven: Coming Out. And we decided to “live tweet” our reactions – so we were updating my Twittering account as we were watching.

(When comments are in italics, that’s someone else making a comment directed at me.)

  • watching @nofauxxx’s seven minutes in heaven with kristen. we’ll be live-tweeting our reactions.
  • “hi, I’m carson …” oh yes. we know. #livetweetingporn
  • “she’s cute” – kristen, about joline parton #livetweetingporn
  • mmm we both like the black dress with polkadots. “I’ve got a carson crush.” – kristen #livetweeting porn
  • first scene: nice black gloves & slapping. #livetweetingporn
  • @TeresaIkard: @mrsexsmith @nofauxxx’s Seven Minutes in Heaven was filmed in my flat and I still haven’t seen the hotness. Porn party soon at my house :)
  • @TheresaIkard kicked out of your own apartment! how rude. #livetweetingporn
  • @TeresaIkard: @mrsexsmith I was there but @courtneytrouble is great at respecting performers that some scenes were closed. She takes care of them well!
  • whoa I dig carson’s top. and that redhead is cuuute! #livetweetingporn
  • @audaciaray: @mrsexsmith ok, I love my job, but feel slightly jealous of watching hot queer porn in the middle of the day
  • @audaciaray I have a hunch you’ve had more than your share of watching good queer porn in the middle of the day
  • “who’s that?” (ie: who’s ass is that?) “that’s the redhead.” “ooh, nice.” still into the redhead. also, great music! #livetweetingporn
  • “I want to see her come! I bet it’ll be pretty.” – kristen #livetweetingporn
  • oh, yuck, they’re smoking. definitely a turnoff. #livetweetingporn
  • “I’ll show you my cocks.” – puck goodfellow. hahahah yes please! oohh very nice collection! #livetweetingporn
  • oh damn what harness does puck have?? @courtneytrouble help! #livetweetingporn
  • @courtneytrouble: @mrsexsmith as for puck’s amazing harness, i don’t know where/what it is… maybe its even custom?
  • “oh she’s got a whip now does she? okay … well then … ” – kristen, about carson #livetweetingporn
  • damn who’s that moaning in the background? also, carson is good with the dirty talk & instructions. #livetweetingporn
  • I like carson’s jaguar harness, very hot. “am I doing good?” – puck, aw sweet. #livetweetingporn
  • @courtneytrouble do you have a list of cocks used in this somewhere? can’t quite tell … #livetweetingporn
  • shoot, music swells & can’t hear what they’re saying. love the dirty talk in carson’s scene, kind of hard to find on film! #livetweetingporn
  • “oh my god she’s so hot.” – kristen, about carson. “somebody’s getting off in the other room, a lot!” #livetweetingporn
  • love the blue curtains in the bedroom! & the mirror, pretty. @theresaikard #livetweetingporn
  • carson + joline parton. yes I’ve been waiting for this scene. you can just tell joline is a good submissive/bottom. #livetweetingporn
  • (“hold on, I have to check my work email.” – kristen) #livetweetingporn
  • niiiice pink flush on joline’s ass & cheeks. “look how cute she is!” – kristen #livetweetingporn
  • @jolenestarshine: Watching @mrsexsmith livetweet about 7MiH, and about me especially, is VERY surreal. Thanks for the compliments!!!
  • @jolenestarshine oh! you’re on twitter! now I’m embarrassed. hi. #livetweetingporn
  • gagged (with a washcloth?) … with a lelo in the bathtub … left her boots on … damn. #livetweetingporn
  • “I wouldn’t leave that in my mouth if it were me. but oh I’m not a bottom.” – me #livetweetingporn
  • oh it’s not a washcloth, it’s her panties! (duh) #livetweetingporn
  • are those vampire gloves on tina horn? ow. also, how’d joline get those awesome marks?? #livetweetingporn
  • mmm very nice flogger work, & flogging mini-lesson, by tina horn, I like that inclusion. #livetweetingporn
  • a little truth-or-dare with the whole cast … looks like they’re having fun #livetweetingporn
  • I really like @jolenestarshine’s cute laugh & smile in this truth or dare scene. #livetweetingporn
  • whoa … I think this is about to turn into a gang bang … three cocks out … “this is good.” – kristen #livetweetingporn
  • sarah lee sinful looks HOT with that cock on. #livetweetingporn
  • puck goodfellow is using mr. bendy/silky! VERY NICE. #livetweetingporn
  • “oh this is great!” – kristen “yeah but somebody should put their cock in her mouth … ” – me #livetweetingporn
  • we both got a bit distracted by the finale – “I want to wear a strap on or get fucked by a strap on.” #livetweetingporn

Highlights of the live Tweeting included: Theresa mentioning that the film was filmed in her apartment, discovering that Jolene, the hot redhead Kristen & I kept mentioning, is on Twitter and was reading us as we live-tweeted, and Courtney Trouble‘s comment at the end: “and thats not even the finale!” Oh. Oops. It kind of was the finale for us, we got a bit … um, distracted.

The last scene, though, that we definitely paid attention to, was Carson and Tina Horn. I loved how they got a bit rough and tumble with each other … definitely seemed like two tops goin’ at it.

Can you tell that Carson kind of stole the show?

Photo from CourtneyTrouble.com; see more photos from the 7MiH shoot there
Photo from CourtneyTrouble.com; see more photos from 7MiH

All that running commentary doesn’t really tell you that much about the film, though, does it. Well, here’s the premise:

Reality porn is coming out of the closet in this first ever gonzo queer film. Award-winning director Courtney Trouble invites 7 diverse, fresh-faced performers to a kinky slumber-party for fun and games… only tonight there are no rules, no limits and no bedtime! The amateur cast picks their own partners, their own sex toys and their own ways of getting off. Spin the Bottle inspires an unscripted fuck-fest and first-time fantasies come true during a Truth or Dare strap-on sex scene. With honest video confessions, authentic orgasms and natural bodies, Seven Minutes in Heaven is the real queer deal.

Cast: Carson, Puck Goodfellow, Joline Parton, Sophia, Tina Horn, Sarah Lee Sinful, Jae

And here’s the trailer:

That should tell you all you need to know.

Buy Seven Minutes in Heaven: Coming Out by director Courtney Trouble from Good Vibrations, or through your local feminist, queer, sex-positive sex toy shop. This DVD was provided to Sugarbutch Chronicles directly from Good Vibrations for review purposes.


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Review: Nipple Clamps 101

A while back Kristen decided she’d like to try some different nipple clamps. I had one set, a very basic tweezer set, which she liked to wear but which slipped off fairly easily.

I started looking into other options and whoa there are a lot of different types. I didn’t even know where to begin.

So I approached Eden Fantasys and we picked seven different clamps from their wide selection for me to review, compare, and contrast. Kristen & I have needed about a month to get through all of them, but at this point the winners are clear.

As I go over the clamps I reviewed and some other clamps which are available, you might notice that most of these clamps are made by Spartacus Enterprise. I didn’t choose them on purpose, though I do know that their products are generally very high quality. They make great leather goods, too.

My rule is, if I can’t put the nipple clamp on my finger (usually my pinky finger, as they usually don’t have wide enough opening to get other fingers into), I won’t put it on my nipple. So two of them were unfortunately ruled out right away:

Endurance Clamps by Spartacus
The W-shaped Endurance Clamps are the worst here. They are two overlapping Us, and they meet in the center being held together by tension, as if they do not line up they’ll pop open. Not sure how to describe that exactly. They’re actually very difficult to open! The problem is, the metal that lines up is kind of twisted, and it is so damn painful to even attempt to release the pressure with my finger – my thumb – inside the clamp, I can’t even imagine trying it on a nipple. This would only be for people into EXTREME nipple sensation … and even so, there are others that pinch just as hard that aren’t as poorly made.

Butterfly Clamps by Spartacus
The other pair, also called Endurance Clamps, though they are higher quality, are also way too strong to be used. It just pinches so hard that I can’t bear to keep it on my pinky finger for more than the briefest moment. No way. I didn’t try these on any nipples, my own or Kristen’s.

Next, we’ve got some decent clamps, which work well, but have some flaws.

Tit Clamps by Pipedream
The Tit Clamps by Spartacus have a handsome thick chain and no black plastic caps on the end of the clamps, which makes them shiny and quite nice to look at. I thought they’d be too strong, but actually they’re quite nice. I like how they look and they’re quite comfortable.

butterfly
Butterfly Clamps by Spartacus
The Butterfly Clamps were highly recommended to me from various folks on Twitter when I started asking around about nipple clamps, and from what I’ve read the pinching actually gets tighter when they’re pulled on because of the way they’re constructed. That seems like a great idea! But in actuality, they are big and kind of bulky, not nearly as hot as they seem (though I’ve seen some fetish photographs which use them and they are perfectly lovely … perhaps they’re just too big for Kristen’s rather small breasts and nipples in particular?), and they slip off pretty easily. The tension isn’t quite tight enough and the pads which actually go on the nipple are circular and rather small, so they just don’t quite fit right. Seems like for the right person, these would be great, but they weren’t quite right for me.

Adjustable Clamps by Spartacus
The Spartacus Adjustable Clamps, the square-ish ones, are pretty simple and straightforward. Very adjustable, though a little bit slippery because they don’t get quite as tight as the others. The adjustability means that they’ll fit larger nipples which are very sensitive and don’t need a lot of stimulation, but these wouldn’t be great for smaller nipples that want tons of pinching.

What the hell: Last but not least, I threw in a couple nipple clamps with attachments because I thought they might be fun.

Y Style With Clamp by Spartacus
The first, the Y Style with Clit Clamp by Spartacus, is a basic tweezer nipple clamp with an extra tweezer intended to go down and pinch the wearer’s clit. The basic tweezer without the clit clamp is good for beginner nipples especially, and this is the only type of clamp I had before this big ol’ review try-out. Kristen and I couldn’t really get the clit part to work, it either pinched painfully or it slipped right off. We keep saying we need to practice with this some more, but we already tried twice and were disappointed, so I kind of doubt we’ll go back to it again. I wonder if this other Y-Style with Clit Clamp, which are adjustable and not tweezers, would be easier to use on the clit? I might have to get a set of these to try.

The biggest surprise was the Collar with clamps by Spartacus. Kristen doesn’t like her neck restrained and actually actively dislikes choking in porns, usually, so I knew this would be a bit of a stretch, and that she might not even want to try it, but I asked for it anyway because I think it’s damn hot. I know collaring means lots of things in BDSM scenes, but I was hoping Kristen would be willing to try it once, and from all her love of bondage and restriction I suspected that she would like the feeling of restraint.

And she did. We both liked the ways that the clamps fall and curve under her breasts and create this nice curl of chain, the visual is beautiful. I like to be able to pull on the chain and both pull her neck and her nipples. It’s incredibly hot when she wears it around without a shirt. The collar with clamps is the one we’ve gone back to most often, and it’s introduced the collar to us as an option, and as a potential symbol, something that I didn’t expect at all. We haven’t explored this in too much detail yet, but I can tell we both like it.

The clamps that came with the collar are probably the type I would most recommend – what they call the bull nose type, fully adjustable with a rubber tip to protect the nipple from the metal. These are available in clamps that do not include a collar, too.

There are plenty of other nipple clamps out there, but these cover most of the basic types. If I missed one or two, let me know! I’ll still be on the lookout for types I haven’t tried.

Review: Sugar High Glitter City (DVD)

As of 2/8/16 This product is no longer available at Babeland

Oh, Shar. Oh, Jackie. I’ve already waxed poetical recently about my love for the super hot porn pioneer butch/femme couple behind S.I.R. Productions, but here’s another one for you: their second production, Sugar High Glitter City, from 2001.

Like Hard Love / How to Fuck in High Heels, I watched this over & over. My roommate owned a copy of the VHS I used to watch when she wasn’t home. In fact, the first time I saw it, I’d rented it at Babeland‘s Seattle store (not sure they still do rentals) to watch with my first girlfriend, and when finally we had some time alone in my apartment together, I went to the VCR and popped the tape that was in there out – and suddenly I was holding two copies of it, as my roommate had actually purchased it already. That was weird.

sugarObviously it wasn’t just me but many dykes who were excited about Shar & Jackie’s second release!

Kristen & I sat down to watch this a few weeks ago, and it was even better than Hard Love / How to Fuck in High Heels and better than I’d remembered. The film narration by Honey Lee Cottrell explains that we’re in a different world where sugar is outlawed and sex workers do all sorts of things to get a taste. Then, of course, there are the corrupt cops who shake down the sugar hos for both their sugar and their sex. The outfits are glittery and over the top, lots of makeup and fun really performative costumey items.

Since the whole setting is way over the top anyway, it’s way easier to suspend disbelief and enjoy the occasionally slightly awkward dialogue and scenes, which makes it much easier to get into than Hard Love.

Those who love sugar will especially get a kick out of this film … I don’t love the sexual fetishization of sugar so much because so much of the film treats sugar as a drug (as it basically is), and I don’t think it’s a good idea to sexually fetishize drugs. But I do like it as a play, as a performance of drug culture, as a commentary even on sex & drug desire.

The other thing of note is the fabulous dirty talk from butch Jackie, especially in the beginning scene “Sugar Cop Shakedown.” Kristen turned to me and said, she sounds like YOU to which I responded, actually, I probably sound like her. Where else do you think I learned it?

Worth it.

Pick up Sugar High Glitter City at Babeland, or your local feminist sex toy shop.

What’s On My Mind

You in stockings and a garter, pussy bare, black bra, your lips and eyes darkened. Heels strapped around your ankles that I take off, or maybe not. Black and red silk ropes around your thighs, under your knees, around your ankles, around your wrists. Smooth ropes on the smooth stockings and I love the texture, run my hands all over you. I slip a blindfold over your eyes and kiss you. Smear the lipstick across your cheek and lips. You get still and quiet, waiting.

Your fist in me deep. Hard. The look on your face when you’re between my legs, that awe and desperate look I know I get too. Sweating. My hand on my clit, hard, rubbing hard, getting close until I grab you by the hair and push your mouth down on it, yeah, like that, suck it, don’t slow down, fuck me, until I’m hard and bursting in your mouth and I lift you by the hair again, take my clit in my fingers again to come, hard, around your fist. I wish I could squirt as easily as you do, I would, I would come in your mouth and watch you swallow it.

Your new thigh high boots, your little black dress. I’d like you in an alley, maybe, a dirty one, street-lamp lit and bricked and you’re nervous about the dinginess but you want me, you trust me. I push you up against a wall, slam your shoulders back, bite your neck, suck your tongue. You’re wearing fencenets between your boots and the tight hem of your dress but nothing underneath; I get my fingers between the wide holes and into your tight one, and hold you there, until your knees buckle and your fencenets rip.

You coming in my mouth again. Last time your knees on either side of my head, dipping your pussy into my mouth while I licked and sucked, tongued your hole as deep as I could. “You want to do it?” “Yes.” Your fingers on your clit and I held your hips (how you like it) and watched you squirt all over my face, dripping down my chin and cheeks, into my ears, and I laughed, mouth filled.

Blindfolded, on your hands and knees, mouth stretched open, pussy, ass, holes stretched open farther than you thought they could go and you like it, you like being filled like this, you like taking me in. A gag maybe. Breathing tight around the edges. Touching your smooth skin in easy strokes and thrusting inside you, my mouth by your ear: no, don’t come yet, don’t come yet, let me do it first, don’t do it baby, just take it.

My hips are heavy this morning and I remember the weight and swing of my longest cock between my legs, the swagger of it, the thrill of filling it, the thrill of filling you, that squeeze and tightening and then the ease when we work into our rhythm and press, thrust, push against each other.

I’m biting at my lips, remembering yours, remembering the way you kissed me when I got off in bed earlier this week, we’d woken early to fuck but I hadn’t gotten off, pulled out and rolled beside you, annoyed. “What’s wrong?” “Frustrated. I want to … ” “I know.” So I did it, put my hands on me, slid my cock off and held you tight to me, wanted your body next to mine, the way you kiss me when I am not in charge of the kiss. That mouth of yours.

I am tempted to get out the little digital video camera and set it up in the corner to make a record of how we fuck. Would we be too self-conscious? Would we get into it like we usually do? Would we be loud enough to hear on the recording? I could tell you louder. Louder. Say that again. Say it louder. Say fuck me. Say fuck me, Daddy. Say I want your cock. Say fuck my little pussy. Say it. Say it. Take it. My sweet girl, my lovely little girl, my darling. What would we capture? What would we look like? Will we look back at this in ten years, wonder how we were ever that young, that in love, that passionate? Or will we look like amateurs compared to whatever we’d be doing then? I want to find out.

Follow-up: I’d Like To Fuck Her Ass

Okay, some clarifications:

1) Kristen has made it very clear that she’s game to try anal sex, from the beginning, from the very first conversation. That the idea intrigues her, even. She’s very GGG in bed, and if she expressed that she wasn’t so into something (and there have been things she has said she’s not so into), I’d drop it. I’d never push her to do something she didn’t want to do.

2) We talked about this before and after this post went up, and she was a bit concerned I hadn’t made it clear that she was into it. And, I don’t think I did. Is this clear yet? She has expressed an interest in trying it. But even with both of our expressed interest, we still haven’t quite done it, and I’m not sure why exactly. I thought we’d talked about it various times in depth, but given this post, and the many reader comments, I am realizing we really haven’t delved into it very deeply. I also think my own nervousness is a factor, and the ways that having sex focused on me is really hard for me, which is, ultimately, the main point of this post. Yes, I couched it in other things, because it’s hard to have attention on me, my needs, and my shortcomings. I guess that worked a little too well.

3) Asking for reader contribution here was for two reasons, but NOT as an attempt to convince Kristen that it was a good idea. Not for peer pressure, absolutely not. Not for me to be able to point to and say, “See! Comment #4 says it hurts, but eventually you like it! Just try it!” Hello, no, I don’t do that. The purpose of asking for reader comments was because a) sometimes Kristen feels – and I do too! – very validated seeing her own trepidations and hesitations shared by other people, and I thought that perhaps if someone expressed their own experience with it in a way she identified with, we’d have some starting points to discuss the parts of it that were making her – or both of us – nervous, and b) because I like it when readers express their own experiences. I love encouraging that to happen in the comments on this site, I love reading about it, I love how some people that I know well will write a thesis on a particular topic and share their knowledge and write about their story, sometimes things that they haven’t (or won’t) share on their own blog even. One of my favorite posts lately was the “share some sex thing you’ve done / you wish you’d done / you want to do this summer,” because whoa, I have some kinky readers. Y’all are awesome. Asking you for advice is a big big way to encourage those personal stories of experience, so that is what I did.

4) The comment that said “focus more on her pleasure and less on your cock.” You’re a bit misguided. For one, she is into it. For two, I always, always am focused on her pleasure. I know I have been writing less and less about our personal sex life here, and that’s for lots of reasons, the most of which is that my 9-to-5 job is ending and I don’t have access to my site at work anymore, which means I have a lot less time to work on it. But our sex life continues to be fucking awesome, and I wish I was writing up a story every time. As uh, everybody knows, I am very cock-centric, but that does not mean I am not focused on Kristen’s pleasure – or the pleasure of any girl with which I am sleeping. In fact, I am SO focused on their pleasure, most of the time, that I often bypass my own. This is actually a problem, which is the real point I tried to make in this post, but I think it got buried beneath the anal-anal-anal-make-Kristen-try-anal part that seems to have distracted everyone. And, the point is, there is no shortage whatsoever on Kristen’s pleasure. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for that, unless she wants to jump in and write a guest post, but the girl is spoiled in bed, and she gets what she wants. She doesn’t have to ask for anything twice, any toy she wants I either have or can get for her, and I pay a lot of attention to her detailed reactions and responses, and often can tell if something is uncomfortable before she expresses anything. The issue here is not her pleasure at all: it’s mine. That’s what needs some work, in this relationship, and in my relationships in general.

Review: Lonestar

As of 2/8/16 This product is no longer available at Babeland

I am the biggest fan of Vixskin dildos out there. I should be president of the Vixskin Fan Club. I mean seriously, they are my favorite – well, to be fair, they are kind of everybody’s favorite right now, they are THE MOST realistic feeling cocks on the market. They’re made of this material that is soft and a little bit pliable to the touch, with a firm core, so it is definitely hard enough, but it is silicone, so it is completely sterilizable.

Right there, I’m sold. Any Vixskin cock Babeland offers up, I want to try. (And I have been.)

lonestarHowever, the Lonestar is the first one that I’ve been disappointed in. It’s 6″ long by 1-7/8″ in diameter, a generous girth and just fine length to be sure, but it doesn’t feel like 6″xalmost-2″ when fucking with it.

So here’s what happened. Kristen and I are having a lovely time, making out, my hand between her legs, kissing, feeling each other, having a general romp, when she says, “I want you to tie me up.”

Out come the ropes. Oh it feels nice to have them in place on my footboard again, where they used to live. I was even a bit out of practice – the first thing I did was tie her spread-eagle but all the way taut, with no real room for her to bend her knees or lift her hips. I realized this pretty quickly, I suppose, because uh, if I actually want to get a cock in that girl while she’s tied up, I need a better angle, we both do.

So I loosened the ropes a bit, told her to bend her knees, gave her some extra room.

I couldn’t get a very good thrust going, ever, really. It still slipped out a few times when things got hot & heavy, and I lost the length pretty much every time I pulled out. It’s 6″, plenty long enough for fucking most of the time, I told myself – what’s the problem?

“Maybe it’s the balls,” Kristen said later. Hm, yeah, maybe. It does mean that the insertable length is a bit less. And they’re a bit awkward – they counter-weight the cock down, so it doesn’t have the same kind of upcurve that other cocks (like the Silky/Mr. Bendy!) that are 6″ have.

Then I noticed, when I was snagging the image for this review, that many of the reviews on Babeland mention how it basically points downward, that it doesn’t quite work for many of the reviewers. It’s close – and it seems like it’d be just perfect – but there’s something about the shape of it that doesn’t quite work. Sorry, Lonestar. Better luck next time.

(Don’t worry though – I changed cocks and Kristen and I had quite a good time with her in ropes, being used, being taken, just the way she likes it.)

Lonestar comes in Vanilla, Caramel, and Chocolate VixSkin silicone. Buy it at Babeland or your local feminist sex toy shop.

On Getting Girls Off

There’s something I want to clear up, especially for those folks who have only been reading Sugarbutch for the last eight or so months that Kristen and I have been dating and who have not read the archives.

Kristen gets off really easily. I mean like really easily. You already know this. She can come ten or twenty times in an evening, and then ten or twenty times the next morning. Sometimes I get tired out and she reaches her hands down between her legs, still keeps going, knows she’s got a few more in her. I’ve gotten her off in parks, in cabs, in public, with some words in her ear and my hand on the outside (or inside) of her clothes.

Uh, wait, I’m getting distracted.

Point is, this ability to come often and easily, in my experience, very rare. I know I am writing about it often, and that most of the smut stories I’ve written for the last eight months have involved Kristen, instead of the fictionalized stories I was focusing on more last year, but I am well aware that girls do not usually get off like this.

My ex of four years was pre-orgasmic, and did not come once while we were together. She had what she called “baby orgasms,” and though we had many hours of conversation about what she liked and what we could try, as far as either of us could tell she had never gotten off, ever.

Dating someone pre-orgasmic was completely bizarre to me when we were first puzzling it out. I remember going to my roommate and my best friend at the time, saying, “she has never gotten off! I mean like ever! Never!” and both my roommate AND my best friend responded with, “yeah, so? I, uh, never have either.”

Oh.

Suddenly I felt like I was the weird one, for having masturbated (to orgasm) since I was maybe 12. So I did what I do, I went to the internet, and I read some books, and I asked the folks at Babeland for sex toy ideas, and I watched some Betty Dodson DVDs – I did my research. Turns out something like 4-5% of women are pre-orgasmic or non-orgasmic.

I’m sure not much more than that, if any, get off like Kristen does, so that still leaves another 80% of us somewhere in the middle of those two, getting off sometimes but not always, or getting off with our hands on our own but not with partners, or coming from clitoral stimulation but not from some sort of something inserted inside. Some folks need very specific stimulation in very specific ways. I’ve said in the past that the first time I have sex with someone, I don’t really expect either of us to get off, since we just don’t know each other’s bodies well enough for it yet. It often takes a lot of time, and work, to get the perfect factors in place.

I think I’m a bit more bold now about just flat out asking, “what gets you off?” or asking her to put her fingers on her clit, but I fully recognize that I basically have to re-learn how to get a girl off every time I sleep with someone new. There are some similarities, sure! – thank heavens – but what one person wants might be precisely what is very painful for another.

It is awesome – in the sense that it inspires fucking awe – that Kristen gets off the way she does. I love it. In some ways it’s practically the ideal, for a butch top who wants a femme bottom lover, someone I can just play with and fuck and fill up and get off until she’s begging me to stop, and then I get her off a few more times.

But just because it is an ideal doesn’t mean there aren’t other ideals, or that she’s just had it so easy because that’s the way her body is built – she used to feel incredibly guilty for her interest in sex, her ability to get off, her ability to ejaculate, her own desires. In her words, “I used to only come by myself, but then I learned how to trust people better, and dated non-assholes, and started having the kind of sex I wanted to have.”

Part of my point here is, nobody’s journey to sexual empowerment is easy. Just because Kristen’s or mine or anybody’s appears to be “ideal” doesn’t mean it hasn’t had its problems and complications. In fact, one of the reasons I started Sugarbutch to begin with was because I was not having the kind of sex I wanted, and craved, and I didn’t know how to get it. (Can I just have a moment, a smile, at no longer having that problem? Hell yeah.) But getting the kind of sex that you want means you have to figure out a) what it is you want in the first place, b) how to ask for it, c) how to turn down sex that isn’t it, and d) how to keep it alive and growing. Those are fucking hard challenges, way harder than they sound, and they sound pretty hard.

I’m not attempting to glorify what Kristen’s body is capable of so much as I just want to write and share my sex life, because I love writing about what I did last night and I love how Kristen loves being written about and I love dialoguing with people about making their sex lives better and I love storytelling. I definitely want to be with somebody who really likes sex, but ejaculating and multiple orgasms are not a prerequisite for that.

There are many, many different ways that girls get off, and the ways Kristen does is just one person, just one example. There is nothing wrong with the way her body works, no reason for her to feel ashamed of what it does, just like there’s no reason for you to feel ashamed of what yours does, either. The challenge is to really figure out what it does, what it likes, and be okay with that.

Review: Hard Love & How to Fuck in High Heels (DVD)

As of 2/8/16 This product is no longer available at Babeland

This was absolutely the first butch/femme porn I ever saw, and it blew my mind. I had a VHS version until a few years ago – not sure what happened to it exactly, actually, haven’t seen it since my cross-country move four years ago.

But: it was made in 2000. And I was OBSESSED with it in 2001. So when Babeland offered it up, I jumped, but wondered nervously: would it hold up? Would it be outdated?

Hard Love & How to Fuck in High Heels consists of two different films: Hard Love, which stars Jackie as directed by Shar, and How to Fuck in High Heels, starring Shar and directed by Jackie.

What’s that? “Who are Shar & Jackie?” Oh, right. I talk about them both on a first-name basis as if I know them, but really I don’t. (I did meet Shar once though. She asked me if I was packing. I was. It was hot, and I blushed hard. Did I ever write that story up on Sugarbutch?) They are a queer butch/femme couple, Shar Rednour and Jackie Strano, who I’ve known of since their porn company, S.I.R. Productions, put out both this film and others (such as Sugar High Glitter City – full review of that one coming soon too). I was obsessed with On Our Backs, too, and I vaguely remember them being featured in there at least once or twice. They were a high-profile visibly queer butch/femme couple when I was a babydyke, and I saw them as mentors and roll models, even if I didn’t actually know them.

They’ve now been together 16 years. There was a great article in the The SF Chronicle recently about them and their three kids, which mentioned Sharlene’s Babycakes.


(Photo reprinted without permission from The SF Chronicle)
Okay, back to the review:

Hard Love is not just a porn – it attempts a plot, a pair of former lovers who are still intertwined, and the two others they are now currently fucking. There were a few arguments between the characters – which, though I expected them, I found myself asking my computer, “really? I mean I know this is realistic and all, but can’t I have my porn lesbian-drama-free? Must I deal with lesbionic relationship bullshit? I just want to get off …” yet I found myself invested, identifying with the characters (Jackie especially).

I admire the attempt by S.I.R. productions (which apparently stands for Sex, Indulgence, and Rock ‘n’ Roll) to put together a story, but also find it generally unnecessary, and sometimes distracting.

How to Fuck in High Heels is the shorter, second part of this video, consisting of one of Shar’s performance poetry pieces of the same name. It is smutty, and showcases some great femme wear and cocks and heels, but it isn’t porn the way Hard Love is. I do love it, because it’s Shar, because I’ve seen it a hundred times, because it reminds me of queer performance poetry open mics. But it too is dated, and f I didn’t have the history, the relationship, with S.I.R., I would probably be more critical. Still, in the interest of, ah, the evolution of dyke porn, this is a significant piece. And if you dig hot blonde femmes and strong sexy butches, you’ll love it.

I was thrilled by it when I popped in the DVD and saw the familiar opening scene. You know how some movies are just forever embedded in your consciousness? Yeah, this one is. I studied the sex scenes with Jackie, though I wasn’t certain wy she fascinated me so much. Did I want to do her or be her?

I love the scene when the femme is getting fucked in the kitchen. I love the scene where Jackie’s ex meets up with her boi and does a striptease. I love watching Jackie jerk off while her lover eggs her on with dirty talk. I love Jackie’s enthusiastic jump into the tub to be with her, later.

I loved it, but I hesitated to show it to Kristen. The clothes and hairstyles and shoes were dated. The camera work wasn’t great, either – not compared to the recent high quality dyke porn. I worried she’d be critical of it, and I worried I had too much invested in it, given that it’s imprint is burned on my brain like the burnt in ghostly imprint of text on an old monitor.

Eventually, Kristen and I did sit down to watch it, and her reaction was much as I suspected. We didn’t make it through the first scene, but I insisted we forward it to the dirty talk/jerk off session. “Don’t you want to watch Jackie come?” I enticed, knowing how much she appreciates a butch orgasm. She watched with interest, lips parted. I watched her. Then she insisted we turn it off and go fuck.

I’d say it’s still got it’s charm.

Stay tuned for reviews of Sugar High Glitter City, S.I.R. Production’s 2nd butch/femme porn, and a porn giveaway of both of those DVDs!

You should buy Hard Love and How to Fuck in High Heels at Babeland.

Kristen reviews the Hitachi

Review written by Kristen.

hitachiI’ve been putting off this review for awhile. Sin asked me for a draft and I said, “Five words: nothing compares to Mr. Sexsmith.” Which is true, but there are occasions where I need to get myself off. So as a substitute, I’d say the Hitachi Magic Wand is adequate but not life-changing.

At first I wanted to use it three or four days in a row, to test the theory that it would numb your clit with repeated use. But that test didn’t happen. The electricity in my subleased bedroom didn’t work for a week – seemingly irrelevant to this review, but it reinforces a basic problem with the Hitachi: it’s not as reliable as my hands, which are available and functioning 24 hours a day.

I’d used a Hitachi before, somewhat warily. As you might, um, already know, I come easily – “You just need a stiff breeze,” a friend joked recently. I like that about myself and I don’t want it to change. I don’t want to be so accustomed to high-power humming on my clit that I can’t get off any other way. That said, the two or three times I’d borrowed Sinclair’s – we’re fluid-bonded, people, it’s ok – I kind of liked it. And by that I mean I came in seconds and wanted to keep going.

But actually owning a Hitachi is different, and I worried it would become the guaranteed-get-me-off machine. I want to be able to get off when it really counts, i.e. when Sinclair’s fucking me. So I used it once, when Sin was out of town, and it, um, worked. I used my fingers first, had a quick orgasm, got myself wet so I’d feel the vibration a little better, and went to town. I found that the first couple of orgasms came easily from the low setting, but I thought I’d try the higher setting to see if I could handle it. Some people find the high setting is too intense, but after the first few times I came from the low setting, I wanted more – and I could handle it just fine.

And then I brought it with me on a trip out of town – and didn’t use it. I think I wanted a more prolonged, less intense orgasm than I felt it could give me – I wanted a long, slow build instead of a burst of pleasure. That’s not to say I couldn’t have a massive orgasm from a Hitachi, given the right conditions (long, hot fantasy on an afternoon by myself; Sin using it on me while I’m tied up and can’t protest). But nothing beats my hands for a solid 45-minute jerkoff session.

Buy the Hitachi Magic Wand at Babeland.

Kristen & A Spreader Bar

spreader bar

Kristen, featured here with the spreader bar, Liberator Throe, leather ankle cuffs, and Spartacus leather paddle. You can’t see it in the photo, but her hands are tied together and to my headboard.

Though I know photographs are worth a thousand words, I have one thing to add about the spreader bar: because it does not have attached cuffs, you need hooks (shown here with carabiners) and cuffs (or rope) of your own in order to secure a person to the bar adequately. This also means that she’s not exactly held in place, there is a lot of room for her to move around and does not hold her securely in place. If I bought another spreader bar (which I might, I really do love the immobilization) I would purchase one with cuffs included, so there wasn’t as much wiggle room for the person being tied down.

But certainly that doesn’t mean that it’s not beautiful to feel her strain against the force of being spread open.

Buy the spreader bar and other bondage and kink sex toys through sextoy.com.

Review: Liberator Throe, “a moisture-proof playscape for sex”

libthroeblackI’ve seen the Liberator Throe on various sex blogs in the last year or so, and it’s intriguing, but I had no idea if it would be worth the hefty $80 pricetag. I mean, it’s just a blanket, right? And what if it was all crinkly or plastic-y, that wouldn’t be comfortable to fuck on top of at all.

But thankfully, that is not at all how this “blanket” really is.

The point of this is to protect your sheets, couch, floor, car seats, or wherever, from getting covered in lube and come. If you’re thinking, huh? Why would I need to protect my furniture and sheets from things like that? Then this probably isn’t necessarily for you. But some of us have very messy, juicy sex, or have lovers who ejaculate on a regular basis. And this has meant that I no longer have to worry about the big ol’ wet spot we often leave behind. Instead, we just bundle up the blanket, pull up the covers, curl up together, and toss it in the wash the next day.

I’ve got the Liberator Throe in black microfiber. One side is soft and slightly fuzzy, the other is smooth silk. The Liberator website says this throe is “reversible,” but in my experience if you have the smooth-side-down, it will slip all over the place, which is bad for both a) keeping traction while fucking and b) keeping the various liquids from getting all over everywhere. So I’ve found it isn’t quite as reversible as it claims to be. Also, the fuzzier side doesn’t particularly absorb liquids the way the silk side does. Not sure why – it’s not that liquid goes through the fuzzy side, it doesn’t, but it doesn’t absorb and wick away the liquids the same way. It’s 100% genuine polyester with a nylon “inner moisture barrier,” which really does work.

Kristen & I have been using this when we fuck for the last few months, and I wouldn’t want to be without it, especially with a partner who ejaculates. Though I really love the way she comes and squirts, I’ll be honest, I don’t really like thinking about the ways that it is absorbing into my blankets and mattress, or couch or car seats, and having this down means that that is just not on either of our minds anymore.

Just the other day, Kristen said, “I never thought I was paranoid about ejaculating, but this has really been a relief.”

It’s worth it. In fact, we’re going to order a 2nd one to keep at Kristen’s house.

Details:
Purple, red, black, blue, tan, white tiger, or leopard
Shag or microfiber
5’ x 6’
Machine washable
100% polyester (nylon interior barrier)

Buy it on the Liberator website, or at your local feminist sex toy store.

“Can I come? Please?”

Kristen gets off easily. When we were discussing it last night, she said there’s a point after we’ve been fucking for a bit where she can simply tighten and it happens, so after a while she can basically come on demand. I start murmuring, “do it again, come for me, do it now,” and she does, almost every time.

It’s a bit of a miracle to me, as someone who takes a while to gear up and get off, and as someone who dated someone pre-orgasmic for four years (four years! We weren’t even open, I didn’t make any single person (except me) come in four years, it was torture). I have written about how it’s hard for me to get off around here somewhere.

I love that she comes like that. It is one of the things I crave most about sex: being able to give someone else that feeling of orgasm, of momentary loss of control, of la petite mort. I love the power of that exchange, the way she wants it from me, the way I keep her poised on my fingers or tongue or cock. I have tried to keep track, but I always get distracted, or loose count, or can’t tell when one ends and the next begins, sometimes she just goes and goes. I have asked her to count, telling her I’ll let her out of the ropes after she gets to ten.

Lately, we have been playing more with the torture of waiting, with making her beg for it, with keeping her writhing but not touched until she can’t stand it. She has noticed has orgasms are stronger and bigger the longer she waits, so that made us implement something else new: to make her ask permission before she can come.

This is mostly because I can’t always tell when she gets close, can’t even always tell when she starts coming, sometimes it’s a cry of ecstasy not unlike being bitten hard or fucked well and I can’t tell if she’s close or expressive. So she has to ask.

She waits until she’s so, so close, as if she’s forgotten she has to ask, then forces out the word: “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Please can I?” Gasping.

“Please can you what?” I don’t let up with my fingers thrumming her clit, my cock shoving inside her. I know she’s on the verge.

“Please, can I come!”

“… No.”

Seems I need to remind her that she has to ask if I want it to be ongoing, though, which I think I do. It is easy for both of us to skip over the asking and go right to the coming. And sometimes having one or two orgasms seems to open her up, make her able to take more, deeper, harder. So sometimes perhaps it’s best to let her come a few times before starting to deny her more, to build up to a larger release.

We’ve added this element of asking permission into sex on various occasions in the last few months, but I think it’s worth continuing to explore. I don’t really know how it’ll work yet, but I love the power dynamic of it, love the extra element of control over her body and her orgasm that I get to play with having. Love how she gives that over to me. Love how I can feel like I can sculpt her rise and fall of energy and release – no, not yet, not yet, keep it building, just a little longer, you can hold it in, hold it back, wait, wait … now: let go. This is what I love about being a top, too, at its very best – being able to sculpt someone else’s experience of their body, sensation, release.

Last night, I wanted her to wait until I was coming, until I came, to let herself come, but I couldn’t quite say that, I wasn’t quite confident of my own ability to get off. I wish it was more consistent for me. I can never quite tell when or if it’s going to happen, I can’t seem to make it happen. The factors all seem variable: sometimes I feel disconnected from her and I come anyway, sometimes I feel totally connected and can’t. Sometimes I don’t expect it and it happens, sometimes I do expect it and it happens. Sometimes I don’t try and it surprises me. I came twice on Saturday, that’s rare, but somehow I had the angle, or the harness placement, or the mental turn-on, and it worked.

Someday, that’s what I want. To use her like that, to be oblivious to her pleasure until I get mine. To take what I need.

That feels extremely vulnerable, because it goes against what I’ve been taught – to be respectful and conscious and interactive in our sex lives. But consent in this kind of play can sometimes trump what is “supposed” to happen, and perhaps will move me into new realms, to explore new interactions, to move into new personal realms, weave knowledge into our bones. And oh my god the very idea makes me so incredibly hot.

There is so much to explore here, with her, I still feel we’ve barely scratched the surface. And I just want more, and more, and more.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, when we have sex,” she said last night. “I don’t know if it’ll be sweet and lovely, or some crazy tantric energy release shit, or if I’ll be your little girl, or if it’ll be dirty and kinky.”

We seem to be moving from one into another more and more fluidly these days, able to turn on a dime and make something that was full of dirty talk and name-calling and control and, occasionally, pain, into something sweet and sensual, or into some deep-breathing chakra release. We seem to have a little bit of all of it, all the time, and that is near perfection.

Review: Randy, The New Big Cock

I had to change o-rings for this one. Thick and dense and contoured and completely stiff, unlike the squeezable Bandit that she’d been sucking off minutes before. I like to fuck her with the same cock she’s just blown: the reminder of it in her mouth, the tug of the harness in similar ways. Shoving my fingers down her throat so I can feel how she sucked it. Filling her up.

Except – I wasn’t. Wasn’t filling her. The cock that is perfect for bjs is not perfect for fucking, it doesn’t give that strain of her pussy against me, doesn’t make her gasp and open practically involuntarily.

I wanted something larger.

randySo I reached for Randy, new from one of my favorite sex toy stores and as yet untested. I was unsure I could fuck her with it. It is short, maybe too short; seems like cocks are either fat or long, but both of those together and you get into the novelty and/or gay boy ass toys sections. Toys for pussies seem to be either one or the other. The shorter they are, the harder it is for me to get a comfortable thrust. The other extra-thick cock I have – which is shorter and less thick than Randy – I barely even ever try to fuck with, it’s hard to get the angle right without just popping out of her every time I slide out.

But this girl … we know how to fuck. We have all the angles. I know how to get more space to thrust by holding the backs of her thighs, looping my arm around her shin and pushing her knees to her chest, by putting my elbows to the undersides of her knees.

Cock in my fist I pressed it against her, and it occurred to me for the first time that it might not fit. “You might have to get on top of me,” I warned, “Not sure if this is going to work.” But I felt her open and press against me. “Ohh that feels good, I know you can take it, open up for me, let me in.” She moaned and pressed her thighs open.

I slide inside with caution, feeling her swallow me and close up as I pressed all the way in. She brought her legs around my waist, arms around my shoulders, then up under the pillows, pushing the headboard away to press against me harder. I shouldn’t have been worried; we could fuck with this just fine.

Keeping one hand on the cock so I can feel it in and out, so I can know if it comes out, so I can feel her tight against me, and the other hand with my fingers in her mouth, or palm covering her mouth, “quiet girl, it’s early, don’t wake the neighbors,” or hand gripped on her upper arm or behind her head for leverage, she came two, four, I don’t know how many times. My fingers thrum her clit and she comes again, again.

She started squirming, pressing desperate against me with that hungry desire that means she wants more, wants it harder. Soon enough she started asking for it, too, her whine in my ear, getting rhythmic and repeditive, give it to me give it to me, yeah fuck me deep, fuck me deep, fuck me deep and I fumbled a little. “You sure? You okay? It’s kind of big, I don’t want to hurt you – ”

“No, it’s good, it’s so good, give me more, more baby more.”

Alright, fuck it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been holding back, unsure of driving this new thing. But here she was begging, she’d already come half a dozen times at least, surely she can handle it.

She came again, harder this time, our eyes catching and breath slowing. Then she asked, “Can I get on top?”

Why not. Try out another angle, make sure it’s a thorough review. (Ah the things I do for my work.)

“You might need more lube … ” I reached for the bottle on my nightstand as she lowered onto my cock with a moan. Okay, maybe not.

“I’m … so … wet,” she managed, before starting to rock back and forth and losing her words.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. I lose myself when she’s on top, and I just love to look at her, watch her, feel her, run my hands along her body, let the pleasure between us rise & fall.

She often squirts like this. Something about the angle. I think we could both feel it building in her, and she pulled up and put her hand on her clit while still riding my cock.

“Want me to … ”

“Do it, baby.”

She rears back, hips bucking against me and pussy tightening so hard that she pushes the cock out, before she gasps, moans hard, squirts all over in a wet gush, soaking my harness and my hips and stomach. I can feel it drip down my sides onto the sheets, my nice new sheets. I knew they would get broken in sometime.

“You know, this is why we have a Throe,” I laughed. That blanket has saved my bed on many occasions, we kind of need one for her house too. Makes it much more fun to watch her and make her squirt, takes away that twinge of “oh no my sheets” that does tend to plague me.

I pull her close, kissing her, god I love it when she does that. So hot. “So, seal of approval?” I ask, referring to the cock.

“Oh god yes.”

Purchase Randy (6″ x 2-1/5″, silicone) at Babeland.

A Thousand Kisses

I mentioned that last weekend marked six months that Kristen and I have been together … one of the things I did was to finally finish the lovesong mix that I’ve been working on for a and have felt particularly resistant to doing with her, exactly because of the ways that it is romantic and sometimes intense, but it made sense; we finally gathered enough songs to while. Mixes are one of those courtship things that I have often done too quickly in the past, make a whole CD, and it felt good to compile.

Just to further illustrate my reluctance to make a lovesong mix, the first draft of this CD was called “If Love Was a War, This Is How You Win,” a reference to the Feist song I chose, the lyric is “now I know I’m gonna win the war.” Kristen saw this title over my shoulder and was like, no. You can’t call it that. The second draft was called “Happy Through Rain or Whatever,” another lyrical refernece, this time to the Alice Smith song, and that too she wasn’t thrilled about. A Thousand Kisses, yes, romantic, but also a reference to the Mil Besos song by Patty Griffin.

Also: funny thing about the cover. I spent a few hours working on the image, searching for photos of famous kisses, finally using the Rodin sculpture. I printed everything up and got the CD and cover and insert all together … and was practically gagging with the sweet gross romanticness of it.

So I rebuilt the cover.

1000kisses_splatter

Ahh, so much better. Still a bit romantic, but no longer over the top. Whew.

So here’s the mix!

8tracks.com is a legal way to upload and share music in mixes like this (I found out about them through Bitch Magazine), so here’s the mix in its entirety. The only negative is that after you listen to it once, it has to shuffle the songs, so they’re out of order – and the order does mean something, in fact I spent a lot of time on the order, the precise space between the end of one song and the beginning of the next, so I don’t really love showing you the mix like this, but what can I do, seems like the best way to share music. (If you’ve got other suggestions, let me know.)

Snippets

These are some of the moments I remember, some of the flashes of motion that still play in my mind.

Her arms bound to her chest; fifty feet of rope wrapped around and bound. Then her knees bent up and back and bound to her wrists. Wrapped around again. The way her muscles strained to the edges of the rope. Her eyes when she came, her face open, hips open, straining.

In that sunny summer dress in the park, without panties. I layed out my jacket for her to sit on. My mind racing the whole time we sat in the grass. Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, but I couldn’t, I wanted her lifted against that tree, dress pushed up around her waist, with everybody watching as she screamed while she came over and over.

Her mouth on my cock. That look on her face. Oh so many times. Eyes wide and glancing up at me, filling with tears when I push too hard. My hand on the back of her head. Yeah, suck it, suck it deep. More, baby, take it deeper. Good girl. Slapping it on her tongue. She wants it. Opens her mouth and I shove it in.

The moments I resist, wait, torture her just a little. Tip of my cockhead against her pussy lips, rubbing upagainst her clit, up and down, and she pushes into me, starts wriggling her hips. Oh, you want something? Whatcha trying to do, baby? Slap it against her, she’s wet, I hear it. She starts saying please, please please please, in that voice that undoes me, and of course I slide it in. I can deny her nothing.

All the aftercare pillowtalk when her eyes sparkle and she is flushed, glowing. All that light in her laugh and feather-soft touches make me feel easier, like I make sense. I’ve said it before but she is very easy to love, easy to spend time with, easy to adore, easy to shower with affection.

Camping last weekend and we created our own sanctuary in the small tent, we couldn’t even stand up. The woods are easy for me, no struggle, everything takes less work, though for her it takes a bit more. She is more of a city kid than I am, despite my current reisdence in the one-zero-zero-zero-zero zip codes. We wriggle out of our clothes and I have such a grip on the ground that I can be even deeper inside her, even harder, even faster. Birds and trees and smoky campfire and even the thunderstorms all afternoon, all night, and though I was not exactly relaxed I enjoyed every minute of being with her, and I wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else.

Trying out my Hitatchi before she decided she wanted one of her own, keeping it shoved hard against her cunt, no stop I can’t take anymore she’d say, then come again, and again.

Whispering at her neck, into her ear, you’re mine, you’re mine, and she moans yes, yes, take me however you want, I’m yours, take me how you like it, take me, I’m yours, please, please.

There is so much. The sex memories are running together and sometimes I can’t remember what happened yesterday. It’s been six months, can you believe it? Six months this past weekend since we started dating, and I still can’t get enough of her, still want more of her, still there are so many things to do and explore. Our future continues to expand as we build this deeper, stronger, more solid. I don’t know if we really “took it slow,” we’re both such passionate, intense, emotional people who fall hard and fast, but I kept myself solid, I did not lose myself (did you hear that? I just said I did not lose myself and that’s a big deal), and it’s just so fucking good.

Hogtied.

cnvax-b-hogKristen sits on the edge of the bed. I kneel, take her calves in my hands, shackle the ankle cuffs on her one at a time, then rise and hold out my hand for her wrists.

I love this part. A tiny moment of patience and waiting as I’m not sure if she really will give me her hands, or if I’ll have to take them. After one breath too long, she looks up at me, brings her hands together, and pushes them forward.

“One at a time,” I say, and wrap black rope around one, then the other. Four points of tension, four points of restriction, four points of restraint. She’s ready. I can see it in her eyes, that impulse to struggle, to strain against the edges of what is possible.

I pull her by the dangling rope back onto the bed. Push her down, push her legs open, hold her there, then turn her over.

I love that meditative bell-like sound of metal on metal that belts, cuffs, and leather straps with D rings made into hogties make.

She knows what I’m going to do. I’m nervous, haven’t used this before. I use clips to get the cuffs connected to the hogtie, tie the rope directly. She’s on her stomach. It makes an x over her back that is beautiful, seems like a natural object to put onto her body, contoured to her curves like jewelry. There’s more room in the tie than I expected. I thought her limbs would be pulled taut, but in reality she can move around quite a bit, though at some cost. She gets her hands under her shoulders to lift herself up, can pull her knees under her to get her ass in the air.

(I like that.)

I let her try out the restriction, the limitations. She’s not tied to anything, only to herself, and she’s small, so there’s quite a bit she can do.

After a minute I catch her by the hair. “You’re starting to squirm.” I say, low in her ear.

She breathes out, a tiny voice. “Uh huh.”

I’m still mostly clothed, but my cock is out, hard, stiff from my fly. I kneel behind her, push on her shoulderblades so she’s facedown on the bed again, and tease her pussy with the head of it. “Waiting to get fucked?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m waiting to get fucked. Fuck me, please, please, put your cock in me, baby, ohhh … ” and I do, of course I do, when she asks so pretty like that.

I leave her hogtied for a while, taking her as I want her, telling her to put her ass in the air for me, get up on your knees, head down, face still shoved into the blankets of the bed as I pound her, biting her shoulders, slide in and out, she’s so wet, slamming into her hard, from behind, from above, until we both collapse, my mouth at her ear, at her cheek, at her neck.

Later, I untie her hands and leave her legs bound. Then unhook her ankles and hold her, weave our bodies together, faces nearly touching on the pillow.

Thanks to a particular sex toy store for providing the hogtie, one of their many bondage items. Kristen thanks you, too.

Review: Crash Pad 4 (DVD)

cp4“This is another unmissable installment of the finest feminist lesbian porn series around.”

First, I have to confess, I have completely misplaced the Crash Pad #4 DVD that Blowfish sent me. I keep thinking it’ll show up, but I’ve cleaned my room and I am generally pretty darn organized – I just have no idea where it went.

And then I saw the the announcement that Crash Pad 4 is officially out and available on the Blowfish Blog and thought, aw shit. Better get moving on that review.

So Kristen and I settled in to some blueberry pancakes, logged in to my Crashpadseries.com account, and set to watching each of the episodes individually.

Here’s a scene-by-scene recap, with a couple thoughts:

  1. Brooklyn Flaco and Carson. Both are genderqueer and boyish, though when Carson’s hair comes down she starts looking more feminine and I really liked that (obviously, my bias shows through here). Lots of I-do-you-you-do-me switching (or, your-turn-my-turn sex, as another friend says), using their hands with no cocks or toys. I was getting into it when Brooklyn starts fucking Carson at the end, but then Carson doesn’t really come – or, if she did, it was kind of imperceptible. I was expecting a big finish. Their scene was too quiet – where’s the dirty talk? Where’s the noise? Where’s anything aside from heavy breathing?
  2. Jiz Lee and Dallas. Both genderqueer and boyish, with a big bag of toys to share. They are clearly into each other and having a great time. I think Dallas is freakin hot – especially when she’s toppy – and the whole scene is really playful. Jiz gets fisted [which I believe you can’t show in a DVD, so the online episode is probably a bit more explicit than what you’d see if you purchased it] and squirts, which I always like to see. 
  3. Toppy Sadie Lune and sub Tricksie Treat. They enter into the scene with some roleplay which felt awkward and forced, but I did like how Tricksie submitted, later. We skipped through most of this one, it was awkward and actually kind of hard to watch.
  4. Butch Cash and femmey Stella. Cash is in a button-down and tie (hot!), Stella’s hipster hair was distracting. Stella straps on and fucks Cash for a while, and Kristen’s favorite part was when Stella’s fingers were in Cash and Cash jacks off, and comes hard. It’s actually kind of rare to see a butch getting off in porn, and I have a feeling Kristen will go back to this scene for that part especially. I found myself getting kind of uncomfortable a few times – is that what I look like? I look like that, don’t I? – feeling exposed, but also a little fascinated with the ways that masculinity plays on a female body. The scene closes with doggy-style fucking – this time Cash is strapped on – and Stella comes hard, and hot. I’ll watch this one again.
  5. Top Ex and sub Muscle Beach. MB is very boyish and fucking adorable – I will definitely look her up and watch more scenes. Ex is a badass top, very impressive and clearly very skilled; she’s got this long hippie hair, round body, and nice smile, which made me think she was going to be a sweet and kind of motherly top, but she was a badass daddy type and her confidence and expeirence as a dom were mesmerizing. It seems obvious that she and MB haven’t played together (much? at all?) before, were surprising each other a little bit, but turns out I’m WAY wrong about this – according to their bios on Crashpadseries.com, they are long-time lovers! It’s definitely clear that they had a repor, laughing, playful, having a great time together. Ex does some ropework, some humiliation (ashing her cigarette into MB’s mouth? Ew), and orders some bootlicking … she gets her cock out and Kristen exclaimed, “well, that looks familiar!” Indeed it was the same one I was wearing, occasionally groping, as we’d moved from the kitchen with our pancakes to the bed to watch the final few episodes. I’d watch more with Ex, I think she’s got a few more scenes on Crashpadseries.com if I remember correctly.

Overall: the sex is skilled, the chemistry is hot, the depictions of queerness are real and varied. I will probably watch the butch/femme scene again, but generally this isn’t one of the DVDs I’ll watch over and over. Of course, I have a particular bias toward the butch/femme dichotomy, so generally that’s a prerequisite for scenes that I watch again and again.

One of the questions Kristen and I kept kicking around was, where are all the butch/femme couples in porn? I mean, I know it’s all passe to be pro-labels and into the butch/femme dynamic, but there seem to be a real lack there. There’s a lot of genderqueer folks fucking other genderqueer folks, there’s quite few femmes … but where’s the butch/femme? If you’ve got recommendations, let me know.

While I’m talking about it, here’s a note about Crashpadseries.com: I put off getting an actual membership for a long time – long after I’d seen the DVDs, long after I’d watched the trailers and freebies on the site (over and over and over). I mean, the internet is for porn, right? I have this general philosophy that I just don’t pay for porn on the internet, that I don’t subscribe to websites.

But damn if I wasn’t missing out. Now that I have a full membership, I really wonder what took me so long – and I kick myself a little for not getting the membership sooner.

This is the best porn out there, people. If you’re willing to spend $35 on a DVD like this one – and you should! because it’s amazing – consider spending $35 on a month-long membership to Crashpadseries.com and trying it out. You won’t be disappointed, I guarantee.

blowfish

Happy birthday, Kristen!

Today is Kristen’s 26th birthday! She’s planning a very elaborate 5-course meal for some of her favorite people this weekend (she is quite the top in the kitchen, remember) and I get to play bartender, so I spent some time researching the appropriate wine pairings. The signature cocktail of the evening will be a dirty slut birthday girl gimlet. (It was a dirty dirty dirty martini, but since the cocktail hour is coming after dinner and before dessert, we decided the extra-spicy olives and pickles she likes in her martinis wouldn’t go that well with the almond birthday cake with sherry-lemon buttercream icing. So, gimlet. I’ll share the recipe if it turns out perfectly.)

I’ve got some secret plans for the weekend, too, which definitely includes birthday spankings, gifts, and a few other things …

vettriano
Game On by Jack Vettriano, one of my favorite artists

Happy birthday, baby. I’m so glad I get to celebrate this day with you, and so glad you’re with me. I’ve never had it so good, it just keeps building and building, getting better and better – I know how lucky I am, and I am so grateful. Hope this day is joyous in every way.

Wish her a happy birthday for me, willya? She is a huge part of why the smut writing has been so good lately, after all …

Sublimation

It was the build-up and release from this weekend that has stuck with me well into today’s Monday afternoon.

The way we rock together, slow and sweet, the way the friction between us builds and rises like waves, then cresting and crashing, leaving a perfectly smooth beach full of tiny worlds in its wake.

How I can feel it swell palpably between us. Sometimes it is something I can touch so easily that I feel I can cradle it in my hand, mold it into something new.

And it builds. Oh god it builds. Clinging to each other and we both start holding our breath, crying out, at the same moment, precise sounds from our throats in ecstacy and pleasure, pushing all the way to the edges of our bodies, into each other’s.

Two moments:

The quiet build before she began thrashing under me, arms spread wide like wings, grasping at the edges of the bed, mouth open throat open chest open, until her back curled and she cried ohhh god with such purity that I still feel her syllables reverberating in my chest every time I think of it.

And then coming. Inside her, again on top. (I could have her any way I want and that’s what I want: her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her shoulders, so close to her, so I can feel her mouth.) I loose track of how many times she’s come, can feel myself getting close and shift positions. She can tell I’m close when I start moving my hips like this, faster I think, maybe more shallow but still intense, precise. I’m still not exactly sure what I do to make it happen, but it’s starting to get easier. Every weekend now, though not every day. Challenging when I can start to tell that she’s paying attention and thinks I’m close, I get self-conscious, but when I can tell what she’s feeling and how much she likes what I’m doing and that she’s lost in it all, I can let go too, and that’s what happened on Saturday, she started coming, again, crying out, oh I love the way she sounds, and it was enough, just enough, just what I needed to tip me over the edge and I felt it hit my clit, shake through my pelvis in waves, tumbling through me, through both of us, each time I slid in again, and again, she felt it too, I could feel the pulse of it between us, pure energy, unblocked and unhindered, just flowing, sweeping, rippling, with uninterrupted ease.

Holding Back

I’m restraining myself. Holding back. In so many ways that feel so unnatural, like stopping an object already in motion, changing trajectories when the path is already clearly cut in front of me.

A runner in a crouch waiting for the gun to go off.

A horse behind the racetrack doors, hoofing at the ground.

Even my friends are commenting on it lately. “You’re really restraining yourself here, aren’tcha,” my buddy from Seattle commented last week. He’s not used to seeing the emotions so heavy in me without the extensive expression.

“She’s just … I have such … I think I …” I swallowed, started again. Can’t finish those sentences. “Ilikeherlots.”

He laughed. “I can tell!”

It’s hard, I continued. Scary. Frightening when my body remembers what happened last time these emotions ran through me, what happened the last time I thought I could be with someone, last time I saw the future stretch out in front of me, paths parallel and touching and intertwining. I know how that ends. My brain knows that is still possible and wants it to be possible and aches for it to be possible and pretends like I can operate from a place where I still believe that is possible, but my body stops me cold. No, no, danger, danger. Don’t feel this, don’t like it, don’t fall, don’t.

Especially when my instinct is my chest broken open, heart wide and deep wine red, bursting, fingers spread wide, arms spread wide, head thrown back and laughing, five-points spread, everything aligned.

But part of me thinks, I know better now. I can’t do that, yet.

So instead I say, “I’m holding back. I can feel myself holding back.”

Kristen wrote to me yesterday: “The thought occurred to me that you might not be able to open up to the extent that you want to with me, that I might have to be “heart practice” or something, but that you wouldn’t ever get all the way there.”

But that’s not it. I know I can open up how I want to. I’ve done it before and it feels like my natural instinct here, like I am fighting against it constantly. I can do it. It’s just not time yet for me to unleash what I know I’m capable of, the full expression of the feelings I am already feeling.

I looked yesterday, I have ten emails to her in my drafts folder, from heartsore ramblings about missing her to links that I think she should read to poems I haven’t finished to lists of what I want to do to her. Instead, all I say is, “I’m holding back.”

But what that means is this: desire. I can’t say I want to hold your heart on my tongue, poised, sweet and succulent, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I am catching the first train to your house right after work and I know I’ll have to turn right around and go back home in order to get any actual sleep tonight but I have to, I have to, see you, even just for a few minutes, to see the light behind the blue of your eyes and smell your skin and taste your mouth, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I’m ready, I can hold you, bring it on, so I say I’m holding back.

But I aim for that expression of these feelings. And every week, every month that goes by [we just passed the four months on the 13th, officially the longest since], every weekend of deeper exploration of each other, I get closer. There is a softening around my heart. There is more confidence in my own space, more healing of the old wounds still weaving and seeping.

I can’t not hold back right now. But I’m also moving forward with lightning speed, thick walls cracking and falling into rubble, shaking sometimes with fear but looking it all right in the face, eyes wide open, wide open.

Review: Barcelona Sex Project (DVD)

bsp

The fabulous Blowfish has just released the Barcelona Sex Project, a documentary-style porn which interviews subjects about their lives, their interests, their sexualities, their turn-ons and turn-offs, before filming them (beautifully, in fact) while they masturbate.

Kristen & I watched it a few weeks ago, after the DVD arrived, and I have to say, I was not so impressed. We fast-forwarded through the last few because we lost interest. It is beautifully filmed, and a really interesting idea that gives the viewer much more of an intimate experience with the visual erotic images of this person getting off than most porn does, which is new and interesting. Yet … I guess my main complaint is the lack of diversity represented. ALL five of the people in the film – the guys and the girls – are completely clean-shaven, for example. Everyone is very “ideal” in terms of body size – pretty slim and fairly muscular. There wasn’t much a range of gender representation, either – the girls were girly, the boys were masculine.

I do admit that I fast-forwaded the end, though, so perhaps there was some content that I missed, more queerness or genderqueerness that I didn’t catch because I got a little bored. So maybe there’s more on here than I realize.

It’s beautifully filmed, I do have to say that. The interviews are interesting, the cinematography is sparse and quite beautiful. I like the way the masturbation scenes were filmed, mostly with very minimalist props or furniture, which was visually interesting – and at times stunning. The girls did use some vibrators, but I didn’t see any actual dildos or much kinky stuff. But hey, what about a range of age? Everyone was so young. What about a range of race or ethnicity?

This brings up the question for me, though, which I think about in terms of Sugarbutch a lot – what responsibility do artists have to represent many experiences or a wide range of diversity? I know I have a fairly slim representation of girls on my site, for example, partly because I know what I’m attracted to and I tend to write about my experiences with those girls (who are femme, duh, and bottoms, duh again, and tend to be smaller than I am). I explain that by saying that this is a personal project – so maybe I should look at Barcelona Sex Project the same way? As a personal representation of what the filmmaker would like to see, and not necessarily as a representation of all of Barcelona or all sexualities and genders or all folks who are into sex. Of course, it couldn’t really be a representation of all of those things, there is way too much inside of sexuality & gender to fully represent anything.

Maybe diverse representation of human bodies and sexualities is not a realistic expectation for a DVD … folks like Pink & White do it, but they also have dozens of clips and dozens of models and actors involved in their work, which makes it easier than working with only six.

Interesting things to think about, I suppose. Regardless, it’s quite unlikely that I’ll be watching this again, and I wouldn’t really put it on for jack-off material or in the background to set a mood. Still, it’s beautifully done, and a new interesting concept which combines a lot of intimacy and destigmitization with erotica/porn and masturbation, which I’d like to see more of in general. Perhaps that makes it worth checking out.

erika-lust
Swiped this image from Urban Junkies Barcelona (thanks!)

About the Barcelona Sex Project, new from Blowfish Video:

Barcelona Sex Project is a smart, funny documentary about half a dozen sexy twenty- and thirty-somethings living in Barcelona, Spain. Director Erika Lust is adept at drawing them out, getting them to tell their life stories (including cross-continental moves, divorces, sexual fantasies fulfilled, career dreams and career realities, etc.). While there’s a fair bit of talk about sex, the emphasis isn’t exclusively erotic… until the sex scenes, of course. These are people you’ve gotten to know through their interviews, making it that much more real when they strip off their clothing and masturbate. There are three men and three women, all of them quite beautiful and relaxed when it comes to self-pleasure for your viewing pleasure. Cute, pierced, and tattooed, 20-year-old Silvia is adorable in stripey stockings and oversized headphones, while Brazilian transplant Dunia has a delectable dark and luscious body, and geek-girl Irina enjoys herself with a toy. The boys are all buff, smiling, and well-hung. Stripper Joel is the most theatrical, stroking himself before a full-length mirror and finishing with a cumshot on his own reflection, while the unselfconscious Joni has a sweet session and finishes by spurting on his own belly. It’s a masturbation video with a twist, providing a fascinating look into the psyches of the subjects before you get a look at their more physically intimate moments. Nominated for the 2009 Feminist Porn Awards.

Trailer: QuickTime formatWindows Media Player format. (2008, 112 min.)

Also check out Barcelona Sex Project.com for more information, clips, and photos from the film.

Review: Pearl Cuffs

cuffsAs of 2/8/16 This product is no longer available at Babeland

Kind of like the bow restraints, the pearl cuffs are pretty light bondage restraints from one of my favorite sex toy stores. Unlike the bow restraints, however, the Pearl Cuffs are almost purely decorative – don’t expect to be able to do much bondage with ’em.

Kristen & I spotted these when visiting our local Brooklyn Babeland a month or more ago. We were both pretty skeptical about the quality – not that they aren’t nicely made, but whether they could really withstand any sort of real bondage play. I mean there’s a reason why bondage enthusiasts use really nice rope, ya know? So I jumped at the chance to take a look at them closer, and see how well they hold up.

I wanted to like them, I was excited about their arrival and have been pushing Kristen a little to wear them out as jewelry. We haven’t quite gone to one of those parties lately, where a pair of pearl bondage handcuffs as jewelry would be appropriate, so we’ve pulled them out in my bedroom.

The first time I opened them up to put them on her, the clasp of one of them broke in my hand. We weren’t pulling on them, I wasn’t dragging her around by them, I just opened the clasp to put them on her and it broke.

Drat.

“Maybe it’s a fluke,” I said, hopeful. “I’ll see if we can get replacements so we can really try them.” Sometimes clasps just break! Regardless of the quality of the item!

And I did (because Babeland rules).

Kristen was skeptical, but wanted to like them, too. The replacements showed up and this time we got to rough-and-tumble around a bit with them on her wrists. They’re pretty: delicate and feminine, which I liked quite a bit. A lovely visual to add.

But after not very long, oh, ten minutes or something, we twisted and turned and were getting into it such that pop, the chain on one of the cuffs broke. The actual little circle got pulled too far and unlinked. It was easy enough to fix by re-bending the link to be closed … but I think we both gave up on the cuffs about then.

“They can still be jewelry!” I said, trying to still justify how these cuffs are awesome.

“Yeah, I suppose.” I think she’s over them.

So … the moral of my review here is, if you like these as jewelry, then I say hey, go for it. They’re hot and fun and I can see an evening of watching someone squirm to drink a cocktail with her wrists cuffed together as very hot. But if you want to actually restrain someone, or throw them around when bound, these won’t hold up against much at all.

babeland_easter

Her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

“So,” Kristen said, arms around my neck, looking up from under me, my legs between hers but bent and wrapped around each other, both of us naked, skin to skin, sheened with sweat and still a little bit out of breath. “I guess we figured out what gets you off.”

Not that I – and she – and, let’s be honest, the entire fucking internet – didn’t already know what I like: blow jobs, strapping on, fingering a girl until I make her squirt. But this was different: I came twice in the few recent hours we’d been fucking. Probably mostly thanks to what Kristen was saying.

We’d talked about it the day before. “I want to be used,” she’d said. “Just … fucked with no regard for my pleasure.”

And so I did. And we liked it, a lot, both of us.

“Fuck my hole,” she whispered, “take me, fuck me hard, pound your big cock in me deep. I’m your slutty little girl.”

Just typing that makes my knees go a little weak. Why does that turn me on so goddamn much? Makes my head spin. I feel guilty for it, really, somewhere, just a little, a small piece of me that fears that treating a beautiful, smart, strong woman like that – objectifying, humiliating – is bad and wrong. I know fantasies and role play are so much more complicated than that, that the problematic power play and gender play that we oversexualize for pleasure is just that – oversexualized – in a very specific context, and it doesn’t mean I would ever do those things outside of that context. In fact, the context is what makes them hot at all – the consent – the way she asked for it, explicitly and specifically.

I’ve known this is what deeply gets me off. This isn’t new. I discovered that I could come while strapped on and fucking with Callie, and this is precisely what we used to play with, precisely the language we used, precisely the kind of thing she wanted. I had trouble with it, sometimes, partially because I wasn’t sure I could trust her (go figure) and because of how she demanded it, and that if I didn’t deliver correctly there were consequences.

So this kind of play does open me up in sensitive places, triggers me a little bit, pulls on old wounds of trauma.

I’ve known how much these concepts, this play, turns me on, but I haven’t really brought it up with Kristen before. Well – no, that’s not entirely true. We’ve been building to this, been learning each other and building trust and playing with consent and dirty talk and power play. We’ve been building to this, and it’s of course I wouldn’t have come to her on the first date – or in the first month! The first three months! – and say, I want to take you down like this. I want to fuck you until I get off and disregard what you feel, whether you like it or not. I wouldn’t say that! Even now, I have trouble writing it out – it’s more complicated than that being what I want, what I crave, because while it is, I just can’t get there to do that until I know for certain that my respect and honor for her are in place – and that I know she knows that, too. That I know some of her history and why she craves to be degraded in these ways. I need the trust to be there, and a deeply feminist understanding of sex and power play such that the issues of consent and degradation are clear, understood between us, and ultimately irrelevant to the way we play.

So I didn’t say it first. Honestly, it never occurred to me to this extent – if it had, I might’ve brought it up. We have played with elements of this, but nothing quite so specific or elaborate as we did yesterday. But I so needed that extra little piece of consent, that explicit permission which came from her – so I know I didn’t coerce her into it – that says take me. Overpower me. Use me.

We talked about this a bit recently – I wrote about it – about how hard it was for me to get off and how much she wants – we both want – me to get off more, and one of my major conclusions in exploring that has been that I pay so much attention to her, how she feels, what I can read from her tones and moans and body language, that I forget to pay attention to myself. It’s a strength of mine, to be observant, thoughtful, to pay attention to the person I’m with, I think it makes me a good lover and friend, but it doesn’t always serve me well: I loose myself sometimes, in ways even that I don’t always recognize at the time.

(I wonder how this relates to my history with Callie too, the ways I lost myself so totally and terribly with her. Maybe my getting off (easily) with her wasn’t actually deep connection with myself – or perhaps that’s unfair, since honestly that’s precisely the benefit that I took from that relationship: knowing that I needed to learn to deeply trust myself. But maybe the ways I came with her were about something else. Regardless, whatever connection to myself I began culminating with her was so challenging to keep while dealing with her neuroses and insecurities.)

And that’s precisely what Kristen brought up when we talked about it later: it makes sense that it is a big relief, and release, for me, when I stop doing that. When I no longer put someone else’s needs above my own, and in fact allow myself to override theirs with mine. I never do that, sometimes to my own determent. So being able – and being asked explicitly – to do that sexually is a huge, huge turn-on.

What I’m trying to say is, Kristen & I opened up something deep and wounded and complicated and beautiful and fucking powerful yesterday evening. It brings up guilt, it triggers some old wounds, brings some of my issues of overattentiveness to the surface, and makes me feel so strong and powerful, like the king of the world.

I know you want to know more about what it was we actually were saying, those dirty, filthy things that got me to come inside her twice while strapped on, during a blow job, during a punishment spanking for her being such a dirty girl, during some intense fucking with her ass in my hands and her legs in the air. It’s taken me all day to get through this, unfortunately, so I’ll have to write up the dialogue tonight and get it to you tomorrow.

Did I mention how much I am just totally loving my life? I can’t believe what an amazingly dirty filthy sexy hot freak I’ve found. And? She likes me as much as I like her. Grateful, grateful, grateful.

Review: the Outlaw

outlaw_lg
not actual size. oh no. it’s WAY bigger than this.

Following the Johnny review breakdown precedence, here’s how the Outlaw cock by Vixen Creations from one of my very favorite sex toy stores stacks up.

(Then I’ll tell you a little embarrassing story concerning the Outlaw and a hotel room with Kristen.)

Girth: Hot damn, it’s a big one. 2″ around. Some would say, and have said, that that is the perfect girth. Enough to feel it, not enough to hurt (at least, not much).

Length: Um. Holy shit. This guy is 8 1/2″. It is huge. It does have balls, which you would think might slightly impact the insertable length, but they sit behind the O-ring of a harness and are quite flat, so they don’t actually take away from the otherwise massive length. I expected I’d have trouble driving this thing – but to the contrary, it was easy to fuck with strapped on, maybe partly because I didn’t have to be concerned about it slipping out.

Shape: Balls. A little vein-y but not too much. Realistic. Because it’s Vixskin it is a little more pliable than average, so it doesn’t have any particular permanent curve.

Materials: This is why you’d by this cock over any other 8.5″x2″ monster: made of Vixskin, a special silicone that feels more like cyberskin (realistic, pliable, feels more like flesh) but it is sterilizable. This is great. I nearly only fuck with cocks made from this material, it is hands-down the best.

And now for your bedtime story.

Kristen & I stayed at a lovely hotel overlooking downtown Boston when I was up there to do a performance a few weekends ago. We spent the evening – what else? – fucking, lounging around in the king-sized bed. I’d brought the Outlaw and also Rodeo Rick (as Babeland calls it – aka Maverick), my desert island dick (the one I’d bring with me above all others). We hadn’t used the Outlaw yet, but got it out and were discussing it at various points in the evening, playing with it and marveling at its size, mostly, and in one hilarious moment Kristen picked it up and set it on its base next to the TV, right in the open.

Later, much later, we ordered room service.

(You can already tell where this story is going, huh.)

I remembered to put boxers on, and an a-shirt, after we ordered but before the room service showed up, and Kristen was in bed, though nude, covers pulled up, on her laptop. Harness and cock we were just using were on the bedside table, next to a huge bottle of lube we’d had to buy earlier that day because I’d forgotten mine. Clothes were strewn around the desk where we’d been playing that afternoon. Bondage belt on the bedspread.

The room was a sex den, is what I’m saying.

The room service delivery guy knocked and before I knew it, he was bringing the tray into the room. “Uh – you decent?” I tried to warn Kristen. (I should’ve just taken the tray. Why didn’t I just take the tray?! Butch fail.)

He set it down on the dresser, right next to the TV.

Right next to the most giant fucking Outlaw cock.

I saw a tiny flicker of a smile on his mouth, but all in all he remained very straight-faced and professional. I was impressed. And so embarrassed! (I know, it’s not that big of a deal, but I couldn’t shake the facepalm feeling.)

“We haven’t even used it yet!” I exclaimed, getting back into bed with Kristen and the coffee profiteroles.

“Well,” she looked at me with that twinkle in her eye. “I guess we should.”

Sorry, delivery guy. But at least you’ve got a good story to tell at dinner parties! “Once, I delivered dessert at midnight to these two … lesbians …”

A Resplendent Image

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.

On Butches: Coming Inside

The truth is, it feels embarrassing, really, to come while strapped on and fucking. The amount I have to let go and risk is sometimes too much for my heart to open up.

It isn’t fair to say that she doesn’t have to do the same amount of risk and letting go when I throw her down onto the bed, shove my hand between her legs, push my fingers inside until she’s screaming and thrashing under my forearm holding her down.

But it’s different, isn’t it?

Let’s not say one is harder than the other, it isn’t about hierarchy: only that one is not the same as the other. But, why? Maybe because that’s the way her body is “supposed” to work, biologically it is built to take inside, to be invaded, to tilt the bowl of her pelvis up and open the hinge of her hips back.

I don’t like making generalized statements like that: “women are made to x because biologically, bodies are built like y,” there is so much unfinished in that statement, and there is some sort of deeper, inner sense of gender and self that is discounted because of our binary system of classification under biology.

But there is something, something about the ways that entering inside, being permitted to come inside, being permitted to invade, to be permitted to take and thrust and enter, is not what my body is made to do, so I am on shaky ground, out of synch with what my cells know. There is something so vulnerable about having sex organs (like a silicone cock) outside the body, something so exposing about the ways I get … hungry, desperate for a safe haven, so dependent upon another for fulfillment and satisfaction.

And there is the moment of orgasm: shuddering and losing control momentarily and I don’t even know if my eyes are rolling back and my mouth is lolling open, such a moment of unconsciousness when I usually have such precise purpose when I am on top, fucking her, sliding in and out, rocking against her. I know exactly how this feels and exactly where to put my hands and such confidence in the ways that I am moving. But in that moment I lose that and all I can think of are those guys, those stupid guys in every bad movie where they are completely lost in their own world and the girl is looking up at them with a face like, really? Really. You’re just going to keep going and you can’t even tell that I’m totally disconnected, and that might be my worst fear, that I am alone in those moments of pleasure, so wrapped up in how my dick feels in her pussy that I don’t even know the ways she is not enjoying this.

And then I am spent and small and soft and dribbling and drained.

I know there’s more to it than that. I know.

But there’s a tiny aspect of it that infiltrates my mind when I find myself close, when I feel my cock tighten and balls lift, muscles pinching. I can’t do that, I can’t let go.

Maybe that’s why it has been nearly impossible to come while strapped on with anyone since Callie. It happens, sure, but it is inconsistent and unpredictable, which makes it all the more embarrassing and exposing. Maybe I haven’t trusted enough. Maybe it’s all mental. Maybe I am still terrified to expose myself, now that I see how easily I have lost myself in the recent past. On the inside of every cell wall in me has YOU CAN’T HAVE ME written a hundred times in tiny print. But maybe I need to go in there with a delicate eraser and figure out what pen it was I used, and write something else. Or maybe I need to leave the walls blank and clear so I can see right through them.

Because when I come inside her, and then come back to myself, and to her, like I did on Sunday morning, nearly falling off of the bed, sheets and blankets completely askew, light coming in the slatted blinds behind us, and she looks at me with those blue blue eyes with so much clarity and witness, so much reverence and strength, though there is a part of me that panics, there is also a part of me that has come home.

What we did on Valentine’s Day

We spent the morning fucking, so we didn’t get on the road until after 1pm, nearly 2. “America’s Oldest Winery” was only about a two-hour drive from New York City, and they had a Valentine Special – a chocolate truffle pairing with their 6-wine tasting menu.

It was a surprise, for Kristen.

I prepped for the mini-road-trip as if I was on the West Coast, old habits I suppose. Most drives over there were six or eight hours, or at least four or five, so I am used to gathering games, books to read aloud, mixed roadtrip CDs, snacks not bought at a gas station. (What I’m saying is, I overplanned.)

I’d asked her to wear a short skirt, and lipstick. She added a garter, over-the-knee thin socks, heels. Her lipstick is sticky and bright. I want it to last, and avoid kissing her for the longest short drive I’ve been on in ages (which takes a lot of willpower, let me tell you).

Arriving too late for the tour, we settle easily into the tasting, even befriend the unimpressed gay boy couple next to us. Sparkling whites, whites, reds, then dessert wines – blanc du blanc, a dry and a sweet riesling, pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon, the winery’s signature mariage (my favorite and of course the most expensive), port, sherry. They even let us try a bit of mead. It was a wonderful time.

Kristen is tipsy. I am less so, as I am driving (and many pounds heavier). After buying a half-case and carting it to the car, we strategize: I’d planned to bring us to a local cafe for something to eat.

“You know when I drink there’s only one thing on my mind,” Kristen says, sliding her arms under my leather jacket as we stood next to her car.

“Can I mess up your lipstick yet?” I ask, mouth close to hers.

She gives me that shy, sly look. “I’m not sure I want it all over your mouth.”

I clear my throat. “So. Want to go get lost and … park … somewhere?”

“Yes.” She answers before I even finish my sentence.

I open her door, then go around to the driver’s side and start the car.

I don’t want us to be so lost that we (and by we, I mean I) can’t navigate back, but I want off the main roads. I take a few turns, a few long stretches of houses getting farther and farther apart, until there is a small pull-off and I take it, put the car in park, cut the engine, push my seat back, get my cock out.

(There might’ve been some conversation in there too. I’m cutting to the good parts.)

She leans in to kiss me. lets her heels slide off her stockinged feet, and peels her panties down her legs, leaving them on the floor.

“I want to feel that pretty mouth of yours,” I whisper. I grab the back of her head and our lips nearly touch, but not yet, I can feel the lipstick, slick, just barely.

“Not on your mouth,” she says again, shifting a little in her seat to be further on her knees.

Oh my god. Can I even explain how hot she is in moments like this? Eyes all alive and dancing, mouth thick and lips parted just a tad, I want to feel her everywhere. Suddenly this car seems like a bad idea, why didn’t I get a hotel? Or race back to the city to be in my bed with her?

She lowers her mouth onto my cock slow, torturously slow, just her tongue on the tip of it, running along the underside. Kristen is the best I’ve ever seen, paying soft attention to all the sensitive places, taking her time, swallowing it all only after she gets me good and hard, then getting it so slick with spit and sucking in and out with vigor. I’m groaning unselfconsciously, alone and on our own and not afraid to be loud.

I pull her off me when her lipstick is all gone and bring my mouth to hers. Her lips are thick and soft.

“Oh, goddamn,” I gasp, a little breathless. “You are so good at that. So good at sucking my cock, oh my god.”

She kisses me, hard, and pulls back. “I’m not done yet,” she says in that playful whispery girl tone.

I groan. God. Language barely working in my mind. I kiss her again and take the back of her head into my palm, shove her down. “Do it then.”

She moans a little, surprised, gasping, and picks up right where she left off, cock on the back of her tongue, far. I can feel every sweet slick place in her. I work my fingers under the straps of my harness; my clit is as hard as my cock and I roll it gently, savoring, mimicking the way her mouth goes up and down. She makes it all wet and runs her tongue on the shaft, kisses it.

I try not to thrash around in the driver’s seat, but I let myself be loud. No one around except the occasional approach and disappearance of headlights, but surely they can’t see inside, it’s getting darker and the windows are nearly fogged.

I pull her up by her hair and the back of her head again and kiss her, hard. She’s gasping a little, swallowing the saliva in her mouth. “I want you on top of me,” I say, reaching for her.

“Yes yes yes,” she whispers, like a moan. She shifts in her seat and steps across the gear shift to straddle me, short short skirt revealing the curves of her ass, tall socks still held up with the garters.

I hold my cock still as she guides it in, takes the pace and starts rocking her hips nearly right away. Moaning. Hands on the seat next to my shoulders as mine are on her thighs, around her waist, reaching for her ass, spreading her open wider.

She feels so good like this, wrapped around me.

Something she does when she’s on top of me makes me yell with the intensity: a way she moves her hips which feels so deep, so far inside her. I don’t even know how to explain it in writing, it’s so physical, visceral, sometimes blooming and growing in my core and connecting to hers.

I let the waves of it swell and crest and break, rising back in me strong. Hard to move my hips when I’m under her, but it’s easier if I get a grip on her waist, I can get leverage to thrust against. Pressing up into her I lengthen my legs, squeeze my thighs together, feet reaching all the way behind the car’s pedals to the floor, which feels great, adds an extra surface to push against. She curls around me, spine moving in an S shape, mouth open, her hands on my shoulders, then arms around my neck. Gasping and moaning, oh yeah fuck me deep baby, that’s how I like it, you know how to give it to me, god that feels so good …

(Sounds cliche to write it all in a row like that, but oh she says it so sexy.)

I reach for her and kiss her, hard. We’re both breathing hard and the kiss gives us momentary pause to catch our breaths and calm ourselves. I am nearly laughing with the hum of sensation and connection, and she sighs, breathes, gives a low satisfied mmmm, and leans back, awkwardly at first but then she hits the steering wheel and gets some distance between our bodies, still rubbing against my cock, and puts her fingers on her clit.

She’s close, she’s been close for minutes, maybe she’d even already come once or twice, she’s almost always close in that multiply-orgasmic way (if only one could learn how to do that) and as soon as she starts flicking her clit gently I can feel her body shudder, hips twitch and pussy clench down so tight she nearly pushes me out of her.

I loose track easily of how many times she comes. Sometimes I can tell and it’s big and obvious, sometimes it’s small and I don’t even stop, just keep going, and she comes over and over, no way for me to discern a number.

She leans back onto me and works her hips up and down again, for longer this time, and I thrust up into her and push so hard I nearly scream with the pressure and intensity. I want to feel what it’s like to come inside her. I want to feel her tightening around me, really feel it.

After ten, twenty, thirty? minutes like this, after I grip her hips and pump her up and down on my cock, after she comes again, and again, I wrap my arms around her and we quiet. She nestles into my shoulder and neck and hums that low, satisfied hum as she catches her breath. I trail my fingers along her neck and shoulders and back, hold her close.

“We steamed up the windows completely,” Kristen says. “Hey, I bet there are stars out there! We’re in the country!”

“Want to go look?”

“Yeah!” We get out of the car and I cross over to the passenger side. She’s shivering as soon as she exits the warm interior, it’s chilly out here and pitch black, plus her legs are practically bare, just the socks and garters and still no panties. Her skirt has hiked up a little from all of our fucking and my hands go to her ass, peeking out from under the hem, so cute. It’s too cloudy to see stars. I kiss her instead.

“I want to bend you over something and smack your ass a while when we get home,” I say. “Feel your ass as it gets all warm, then hot, and pink …”

“Yes,” she says, curling into me, kissing me again, “can we do that? Please?”

“You’d like that, huh.”

“Yes, yes.”

Somehow, we went from talking about it, to doing it, and she is bent over the hood of the car. “It’s cold,” she complained.

Yeah, shut up and get hit, I mutter. (She didn’t hear me.)

Cars zip by us. It’s dark but we are right in their headlights. I don’t know what they can see, but I stop smacking and just hold her or palm her ass as they go by, then quickly swat her again when they pass. She’s relaxed, she can take a lot; I let my hand come down again and again until her cheeks get warm under my hand and her knees start to shake. The backs of her thighs are cold to the touch, but I don’t want to let up. I dip my hand between her legs to find her wet, open, and slide my fingers in, fuck her right there, in the open, next to her car just off the road as she’s bent over it.

When she comes, again, god does she ever get worn out?, her knees start to buckle and she starts sinking to the ground against the car. I keep my knee up under her thighs and one arm around her stomach as my hand works inside and against her clit, harder, shoving hard into her, against her, until she’s spent and moaning, breathing hard.

It’s cold, we’re both cold by this point, but blissed out, wrapping ourselves into each other and laughing, smiling, playing. We get back into the car, I get out the hummus, wasabi rice crackers, rosemary crackers, delicious buttery brie, and gruyere that I’d brought and we snack, decide to head back into the city and get dinner when we get there. Someone mentioned Thai food earlier at the wine tasting and so I crave going to Song in Brooklyn.

We’re famished, and eat until satisfied, still buzzing from the good wine and seeing stars from the sex. I slide the driver’s seat forward again, put the car in drive, and make my way back to the highway, returning to New York City.

Gendered Sources of Physical Power: Beauty vs Strength

I don’t know exactly where I first heard it, but somewhere I read once: men want to feel powerful, and women want to feel beautiful.

Now: calm your “oh my god social construction of genderrrrr!” self and let’s start with some further clarification. Women feeling beautiful, in this expression, is also actually a source of power; and men feeling powerful, here, actually means “feeling physically strong.” At least mostly. Agreed?

So really, it’s saying that men want to feel strong, and women want to feel beautiful. These are two – of many – major sources of power based in the physical body.

I know this is a cliche. I probably read it in the context of gender deconstruction and the socialization process of gender. I know this goes along with conventional, normative, often damaging gender role assumptions that value men for their physical strength and women for their physical beauty.

And as much as I am aware that those concepts are socially constructed, I also have seen the ways that they are played out and real for many, many people. So maybe we’ve internalized the values of the culture. This is one of the problems with social constructionism in general – if something is created socially, then in theory it can be uncreated socially, right? But just because something is done socially – rather than biologically, say – doesn’t make it any less real or “authentic” or deeply ingrained in many of us.

And this gendered source of physical power is amplified, I think, in butch/femme culture, where we go inside these roles with purpose to explode them, exploring the socialization and de-essentializing traits said to be inherent in biology. Is it as easy as explaining that we are continuing to internalize the compulsory mutually exclusive gender paradigm? I don’t know, maybe. Certainly that probably accounts for (to pick a completely arbitrary number) 45% of it. But there is something else in there, something deep-seated underneath in me that swoons and grows and stretches its wings and feels so greatly alive when she whispers, “you are so strong, so strong” like she did last night.

And I remembered all the times I gazed in awe at her beauty (every time I see her) and remember the ways she swoons to be seen, femme and whole and holy, and I wondered if I should be saying more about strength and less about her physical attractiveness. Am I just buying into what the culture tells us we should be or say or value?

[ Yet – oh I do tell her I value her other qualities (don’t I? Yes). The depth of her calm understanding and respect feels like such a gift each time I encounter it. I fear it could so easily go the other way, yet she has the connection to the world at her core which means she values others’ experiences. And she’s strong enough in herself to know that my feelings are not about her, and to accept that with grace and clarity. And then there’s her wonderful good moods, her energy, her interest in keeping the spark lit behind her eyes. Her deep ability to feel, to observe, to respond. Her analytic skills, and how she can dissect things into pieces (while still respecting the whole!) and look at how it all fits together. There is much more to her than her beauty, heaven knows I know this. ]

And yet: in the deeply intimate moments, this is what comes out of my mouth: pretty girl, pretty girl. you are so gorgeous. I love the curves of you – here, and here. your skin glows so beautiful in the morning light.

And in that moment last night, when she commented on my strength, my heart swelled and burst like a wave cresting, and the inner cavern of my chest was smooth as a sandy beach, just for a minute, perfectly even, soft, made up of a thousand tiny grains, the breakdown of everywhere I’ve ever been.

I don’t know why it matters so much that I am seen as strong. But it does, it does.

Wait for me on your knees.

Two weeks ago:

I arrived at her place late – I was delayed, but I won’t go into that – but still in time for dinner.

I don’t remember what she wore, what I wore. I remember what she made for dinner: caramelized onion and gruyere tart with roasted broccoli, and peanut butter & chocolate pudding for dessert. (And she made scones in the morning.) I remember her lived-in kitchen, the way she looked at me with passion and want, the way her body felt under my hands again. I remember I brought wine.

She gave me the quick tour of her apartment.

“I want you in every room before the weekend is through,” I said.

“Even the bathroom?”

“… There are ways.”

I started with the kitchen, before dinner was even ready.

*

The next morning:

On her bed, after hours of fucking, in the bright light of midday because her room has no curtains. I study every inch of her.

Inside her, on top of her. Riding the waves of energy between us, sometimes strong and steady, sometimes collapsing to kiss her neck and whisper sweet nothings. Not so much “oh you’re beautiful, you feel so good” as much as “you little slut, you feel my hard cock in you like that?” – though the former is sprinkled into the mix, too.

We come down together from a peak, panting, I’m shivering from my body’s own heat and sweat in contrast to the cool air, and rest against her, still inside.

Her legs around me.

Her arms around my neck.

And she shifted, and suddenly I was coming, right then. Don’t mind the tantric-hippie moment here, but it was all energy, her pelvic bowl opening to catch me, pull me deep inside her. I can still feel how the contractions shook me, eyes rolling back, so sudden – and it started from stillness! – so sweet. Gasping in her ear and shuddering.

We lay wrapped in each other for a while after. Talking touching, fucking more, her insatiable body able to take more, more, more.

And then: “I’d like your fingers in me. Would you do that?”

She nearly froze, as to not disturb whatever was aligned for this delicate moment. “Now?”

“Please. Now.”

We shifted, I took my cock off, she got on her side next to me, hand on my thighs, between my legs. Gentle and sweet and slick.

“I know you said inside,” she whispers, mouth close to mine, “but I want to feel you.”

“Feels good. Don’t stop.” I whisper back.

Slowly: her fingers in me, pressing deep and stretching full, my hand on my clit, calling it my dick in my mind, and keeping my eyes open, watching her, as long as I can, until I come, screaming, hard and big, a release a year in the making, and pull her close against me.

*

Later:

At the dining room table in her living room. She sits on my lap, kisses me. I pull her hair and move my mouth to her neck.

“Ohh yes, yes,” she breathes.

“Mmm, I like it when you say that. Say yes again,” I demand softly, next to her ear. She hears me, and says nothing. She bites her lip and looks right at me, which tells me she’s refusing to say it. Am I pushing her too far? Does she know – she must know – that saying yes is playing with consent, that I am warming her up for saying no. Does she feel pressed? Pressured? I study her face, wait for her to say it for what seems like minutes. “Say it,” I say again, low, with a grip on her hair, desire and dominance building in me. I pull back a little to get enough distance between us so I can hit her. I wonder how fast I’ll have to do it for her to not see it coming. I want her to be surprised.

Underneath her resistance, she’s got that tiny self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She is surprised. A quick, hard smack against her cheek. Then five, six, softer, in rapid succession, warming her up. And another, stronger. Another. Her whole head turns on impact. I don’t stop. Harder. I vary the rhythm and let her have a breath, a quiet moment in between, when she straightens her body and feels the sting.

This is the hardest I’ve slapped her, but I can feel the way she can take it, now, differently. She’s not scared or wincing but open and accepting, drinking in the sensation.

I stop. Pull back a little and watch her recover.

When she can, she whispers, “yes,” hand to her stinging cheek, eyes dark and smoky and submissive, that look, that look, that strong and active giving over that makes my knees weak (and oh I’m glad I’m sitting down).

I kiss her. Smooth her cheek with my fingertips, feel the warmth with my lips. “Good,” I say between kisses. “Good girl.”

“Yes,” she says again with her breathe out, chest shuddering.

I want more.

“Get off me.” I say quickly, pulling away and pushing on her body. “Down. On your knees. Now.”

She does. Slides onto the floor and I unbuckle, unzip, pull my cock out. “That’s right, suck my cock. Oh that’s good. Yeah, that’s so good.”

And she is so good at this. Lips pursed, tongue flicking softly, eyes looking up at me, hand gripping the base of it and sucking hard into her mouth. I take hold of her hair. Pull her up by it and shove my fingers in her mouth. I like how her tongue gets wide and flat. I like the gulping noise she makes when she swallows.

“Up,” I say, and stand, pulling her to her feet. “Take these off.” I tear at her clothes and so does she, pull her shirt over her head and her jeans, socks, undies off, then embrace her briefly for kisses on her swollen mouth. I bend her at the waist, swift, over the dining room table.

I start spanking her, hard. Harder than I usually would without warm-up but she’s warm, the blood rushing through her, veins dilated already, I can see it in the flush of her skin and in the response each time my palm makes contact, landing with a satisfying smack. She’s moaning and squirming off the table, wants her pussy touched. I haven’t even felt how wet she is yet, how have I resisted this long? She’s pushing back against me so hard, her torso is nearly off the table. She lifts herself up and stands, presses back into me, reaches back for me.

“Who said you could get up,” I growl in her ear and bend her over quickly, her palms landing hard on the table to catch her. “Stay there.”

She likes direction. And oh do I like to give it to her. I like it even more when she does what I say.

She stays put. Breathes. I pause, run my hands down her back and thighs, tease her cunt only slightly with my fingers on her soft hair, then bring my arm back and down in a smack right to her cunt and she gasps, winces, sighs. I go slow with taps more than slaps and build up to a couple sweet ones, hand landing just right, her body responding, so smooth and open.

I keep my tongue unlocked throughout. I wish I could recall better now what I was saying. [Kristen, if you remember any particular good phrases, perhaps you could leave a comment, or tell me?] I know she wanted to be called names, so I began a narrative about how much she loves sex, look how wet you are, you like it when I hit you don’t you, slut. Bad girl. You like this, look how wet you are, feel that?

… And by time I got about to there in the talking I couldn’t wait, I had to have her, I was practically growling with lust.

Still unzipped and unbuckled, I pulled my cock out, only to realize: I left the condoms in the bedroom. I try to keep one in my back pocket so I have it at the ready, but I think I hadn’t replaced the one we used earlier.

Mouth next to her ear, bent over her: “I want to fuck you, but you’re going to have to wait,” I sneer a little. Then … yes. Let’s make her wait.

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.”

I walk the ten or so paces to her bedroom slowly, deliberately. Pick up two condoms from the nightstand. I hear her cry out softly. Can feel the desire rising between us, even from the next room. I pause a moment. Feel the dominance rushing through my body like a drug. Quickening my blood pressure, the pump of my heart. I can see her so distinctly in my mind, kneeling. I breathe, put my hand on the wall for support, to gather myself.

I have no idea what I’ll do when I get back to her. Fuck her, eventually. But I want to play first.

She’s waiting so nicely for me. Knees apart, head down. When I approach she looks up at me with such fierce submission my knees go weak: eyes heavy, smoky, dark; mouth and tongue swollen.

Cock at the ready, I press it right to her mouth. “Suck my cock, again, while you’re down there,” I say, and touch her cheek, her forehead as a sweep her hair back, palm the back of her head.

She does. Takes it deep and long with the first stroke in. I start groaning, moaning, pressing into her farther, down her throat. “That’s right, so nice, feels so good,” I’m babbling but I don’t care. I have her tipped backward and she’s left her hands behind her back, I’m throwing her off balance. My hips start thrusting – she gags a little with the depth and breathes hard with her mouth full. I don’t let up, but keep shoving my cock in, down her throat.

I nearly come. Can feel how her mouth and throat would tighten as I pulse and shoot. But I can’t, I can’t quite get there, just not quite enough, so frustrating. I pull out fast and shove my fingers in her mouth before she can notice her mouth is empty, kneel down between her legs and push her back onto the floor, lower my mouth onto and cock into her beautiful body.

I slide in easy. Easy, slick. God I love the way she takes me in. Deep, deeper, I keep her pressed open all the way, laying back, legs spread wide, hands grabbing at my shoulders until I grab her forearms and hold them above her head. Perfect leverage. And I thrust, fuck her hard, burn my knees against the hard dark wood of her living room floor.

Damn, the floor is hard. No give whatsoever. I haven’t fucked her lying on a floor ever – I’ve forgotten how it feels. She can’t squirm as much, she doesn’t slide as much, stays where I put her and the impact is harder, I do like that. But there’s less give-and-take, less sensuous connection, and goddamn my knees are going to be wrecked after this, probably it’s the sheet burn from earlier more than the floor itself, but I’ve got to change positions.

I lose myself in the hard impact of cock against cunt for as many strokes as I can muster before I lift myself up, sit back on my heels, and breathe. She’s vibrating, head lolling side to side.

“Get up,” I say. “Bedroom.”

I change cocks when we get to her bed, and pull the two lengths of rope from my bag. She sits near the pillows and reaches for me as I sit on the edge of the side, and I kiss her but don’t move.

“Look at you, all ready. You really are insatiable, aren’t you. Slut. You can’t get enough cock, can you.”

She moans, drops her head. I bring one hand between her legs and the other keeps stroking my cock. “So wet. What, you want me to fuck you? You want it? look at you, can’t think of anything but sex, but getting filled. Can you.”

I slide two fingers in and watch her face. “You want it, don’t you.”

“Yes,” comes out in a small breath.

I know she does, I can feel it. I want to hear her say it. It turns her (and me) on to hear her talk and I want her to do it more. “Tell me.”

“I want it.”

“You want what?”

“Your cock. I want your cock, please, fuck me, please.”

I lean in to kiss her and take my hand away. “No.”

She whimpers.

I pull out the rope. She hands me her wrists, I secure one, then the other, to the bed frame, fuss about the tightness and my poor knots (I really need some better techniques.) She is writhing. I could fuck through steel, I’m so hard. I can’t make either of us wait any longer and I position myself between her legs, slap her inner thighs to get her to open up. We’re both so smooth and slick and desperate for it, we can’t wait, I can’t stop myself from plunging in, hard as I can, hard as I dare, and fucking, thrusting, pounding into her, kissing her face and neck, hands in her hair, on her chest, pulling her nipples and sliding my arm underneath her to grab at her waist and shoulders.

I’m babbling again. Her name, dirty things, take my cock, slut, you’re so tight, I love to split you open like this, and she comes, twice, three times, I loose track and she doesn’t collapse yet so I keep going, reach between us and slide my fingers along her clit and she gasps, bucks under me, I feel her tighten so hard around my cock that she nearly shoves me out of her and I work to stay inside. She’s holding her breath so I keep my hand and hips steady, hard, and then she shudders, body quaking, and I feel her squirt while I’m still inside, clit quivering under my fingers as she pushes my cock all the way out and lets out the breath she’s been holding, a gasp in for desperate air, and comes hard, shaking.

I watch. Witness. Feel her body quiet, tender and open. Holy, holy. (Holy shit.) Feel her breath as I lay my body against hers, holding tight, touching everywhere.

“Hey,” I say after a minute, lifting my face to see hers.

She sighs and opens her eyes, fingers trailing along my shoulders, on the back of my head. “Hey.”

And we nap the afternoon away, sunlight streaming through the window, though it’s cold outside we’re warm in her room, satiated, spent.

Rocking Chair Blow Job

To our right, on the futon extended down into a bed, there was a spanking scene with a small black paddle. To our left, on another extended futon, a threesome.

Kristen sits in my lap in a low chair that rocks.

“I could do it right here,” she suggested, lowering her eyes a little.

When asked earlier what she wanted to do tonight, she bent one knee a little, her tiny plaid skirt tilting, over-the-knee socks hugging her thighs. “Suck some cock,” she answered.

“Yeah?” I search her face a second but feel my butch cock jump to alert. Her mouth on it. Sucking. Her eyes. Yes. When I took this seat, the same thought had occurred to me.

“Do it.”

I use my hands to push her off of me, not that she needs the encouragement. She kneels between my legs and I unbuckle my belt, unzip my slacks, pull out the cock I’d brought.

“Go on, suck it.”

She does. Swallows the head and presses her lips down the length of the shaft. I shift it, keep my hand wrapped around the base so it is in place over my clit, my little dick.

I can feel it when she sucks.

“Harder,” I say, fisting the hair at the back of her head, pulling but not forcing, adding resistance. She gulps a little and her cheeks go taut as she pulls me into her mouth harder, and I feel it, groan, “Oh yeah, oh fuck yeah.”

She’s good at this. Head bobbing up and down on my lap, I lean back and take in the view, concentrate on the feel of this girl’s lips wrapped around my dick. I can see the whole room, her back is to them; people shifting to watch us and shifting away to watch other scenes. She wanted to be watched. She looks so pretty with my cock in her mouth.

Her knees are splayed a little and I am hard, getting harder. I pull her head off all the way by her hair and shove my fingers into her mouth, two of them, in and out, pressing against her tongue gently, so she can feel it, so I can remember what it’s like to have a dick against a wet tongue.

“Again,” I say, and withdraw my fingers, shove her mouth back down to my cock.

Those little noises, gulping, panting, breathing through her throat, mouth watering and swallowing.

“That’s right baby, suck it.”

I lean back again and my dick swells, puckers when she sucks hard and fast. She keeps it deep in her mouth and pulses and I cry out. Fuck.

I pull her up again and lean forward to kiss her, mouth swollen and red, opening for me as I keep my hand on the back of her head, on her cheek, on her jaw, holding her just where I want her, tongue in her mouth and she sucks that too. I reach my other hand down between her legs and push the thin fabric of her panties aside, enter her easily with two fingers and swirl them over her clit. She gasps.

“I like the way you suck me off,” I say, low, into her ear. “Your mouth feels so good. Oh god you’re so wet,” I trace my fingers along her lips and flick her clit, swollen, thick and sensitive. She moans.

“I want you to stand up, bend over, pull off your panties and hand them to me. Understand?” I pull back and remove my hand and she nods. “Do it then.”

She does. Stands and this chair is so low that her thighs are right in front of my face, that little strip of skin between her socks and her short, short skirt. She pushes black lace undies down over her legs and I help her keep her balance as she steps out of them. I hold out my hand. She gives them to me and I put them in my back pocket.

“Down.” I say, and grab her hips with both hands, moving her back to her knees.

(“Are your knees okay?” “Yes, for another minute.”)

Her thighs splay on the floor between my legs and I’m at a perfect angle to cup her pussy and slide my fingers in, now unhindered, open, exposed. “Damn, you feel so good,” I murmur, hand in her hair again, across the backs of her shoulders, around her waist holding her close and in contrasting leverage to the pressure of my hand between her legs. She moans, gasps, mouth open, blue eyes shining.

I want to fuck her. Want my cock in her, want to feel her come and pulse while I’m inside. I look around. I want her bent over something, want to leave her socks on and push her skirt up over her hips, grab her hair. There’s no free space except a piece of wall. Fine.

I get her up and lead her over there, press against her at the wall. She is so sensitive already and I work my fingers in her easily, hard, fast. “I want you to come for me, here, in front of everyone,” I start whispering into her ear, holding her arms above her head with one hand, pressing her legs apart with my thighs, hand working against her cunt. “Come on, do it for me.”

She does. She comes gasping, shuddering, knees going weak. When her eyes meet mine her face is open, shining. I wrap my arms around her and kiss her, deep and sweet.

A Quick Fuck in a Shadowed Corner

The club is dark enough that no one can tell Kristen is on her knees in front of me. She found a particularly shadowed corner. Her back is to the wall, my hands up against it, trying not to leave my head dipped down to watch her lips close around the shaft of my cock.

Her skirt short pushed up on her thighs. I run my hands through her short hair on the back of her head and straighten out my neck to see a friend approaching me.

“Sinclair! I haven’t seen you in … ” she stops a few feet away and I twist my head, but not my body, keeping my hand on the back of Kristen’s head. She hears my friend and starts hesitating, but I keep my grip firm and catch her eye, just for a second: don’t you stop.

She doesn’t. Swallows me even deeper and brings her hand up to my thigh for leverage. I keep my hand on her jaw so I can feel her open and full. I try not to groan.

“Uh, hi,” I manage to say, looking back to my friend. “Can I find you later?”

Wide-eyed, she chuckles a little, “Sure, man,” and backs off, glancing over her shoulder as she disappears back into the crowd.

“Good girl,” I say, caressing her hair and cheeks with my fingers. She’s taking me deep, looking up every so often, her lips closing around me and sucking. She takes me almost to the base, deep, then slides it out of her mouth and lets her tongue lap all the way down the length of it. My hips are moving, grinding against her gently, I want more, want to pull out and fuck her up against the wall, bend her over the pool table on the other side of the room, I can see other butches with sticks hitting balls across felt in precise angles by the lamp swaying. Everyone going along with their Saturday night, not noticing this dark corner we’ve found.

“I want to fuck you,” I say quietly, fisting her hair for grip. “You get me good and hard, and I will.” She buckles a little, a jolt goes through her body and she ripples, I can feel it. She wants it now, but she’ll have to wait.

She flicks her tongue around the crown, then wide on the underside of the shaft as she takes the head in her mouth again, keeping her mouth open, and I rub it against her tongue with a little shift in my hips. She lets me slide it all the way in, pressing her shoulder against the wall with my shin and holding the back of her head again, filling her mouth up.

Kristen knows how. She’s damn good at this. Sometimes she goes too deep and it gets hard to breathe, she pulls out and gasps, then goes in to swallow me again, deeper, tighter. I feel her throat close around my cock, tongue pulsing, and I thicken in her mouth, hips start tensing and that’s it, I have to have her, here, now.

I pull out fast. Pull her up with my hand still on her jaw, kiss her hard against the wall as I push her skirt up, shove the fabric aside and find her slit. I keep her pinned between my body and the wall.

“Oh please, I want it so bad,” she whispers next to my ear. I keep a tight grip on her shoulders, my forearm against her clavicle, gripping her thighs, my knee bent and under hers, holding her legs apart. “I want your cock in me,” she gasps.

“Damn right you’ll get my cock. After you made me all hard like you did? With that sweet little mouth of yours? You’re going to get it.”

Tiny moans from her mouth. She’s waiting, hands clawing at my shoulders, hips writhing. I find her slit with my fingers and tease her lips. She’s so wet, so wet, I can feel it just on the outside, stickysweet and I can’t stand the wait, it’s making my eyes blur and head spin. I grip my cock in my fist and circle her lips and opening with the head.

She moans, louder.

“Shh,” I say. “Someone could come over here any second. We’re barely concealed.” I should be faster, this should be just three thrusts and it’s over, we’re in public for goodness’ sake, in a room full of people, barely concealed by shadow.

But I’m waiting, again, now. I want to hear her beg. I want her tongue working again with language like it was just working against my cock.

“Oh, baby, I want it so bad,” she breathes in my ear, pressing with everything she’s got against me. “I need you to fuck me, come on, you fuck me so good.”

I keep circling, teasing the open hole of her cunt with my cock, and bring my thumb up to her mouth to circle and tease her mouth the same way. She gasps, gulps, tries to take it into her mouth but I won’t let her.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you right, right here, against this wall, with all these people watching,” I growl low against her neck as I bite, a little too hard, and she gasps, gives in. “You don’t even care that they can see, do you. You need it so bad.”

“Please,” she says, and looks me right in the eyes, that look bordering on desperation, eyes wide and open, lips parted, a hint of a smile and so much wanting. “Please,” she says again, drawing out the vowels, and I give in.

I murmur, “Yes, yes,” soothing, and slide inside her slow, so slow, but strong, and all the way, tip to balls.

The first stroke takes the longest and she’s moaning already, a long low sound that corresponds, and she breathes in when I get to the base, both of us tight, clenched, pulsing. She wants it hard, she wants it fast, and I know just how she likes it, but I’m taking my time, taking every delicious inch, thick, just how I like it.

I can feel her everywhere.

I pull almost all the way out, a little faster, and she gasps. I cover her mouth with mine in more of a controlling move than a kiss, to quiet her a little, but I don’t really care if people hear, or see, anymore. My hands are on her hips and I control how fast she moves against me, she’s writhing, trying to ride me faster, but she can’t, I keep her inches away from me, keep her shoved against the wall, hard, and control the depth and speed.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” I mutter. She squeezes me tight in resistance and desperation, and it gets me so hot, so hard, I start building up faster, harder.

I place my hand over her mouth as she gets louder. I’m groaning too, fucking harder, and I just can’t keep her quiet when we get to this point, I can’t, she starts moaning and gasping and a few heads turn, but we’re oblivious to where we are. People steal glances over to our dark corner, squint, try to make out our figures, shifting their angle a little to get a better view, tapping their friend and nodding over toward us. I’m hoping my pants won’t fall down past my ass any further, hoping her skirt is concealing us a little, her leg up and wrapped around my hip. I can only see the room from my periphery vision, but Kristen has a good view and she wraps her arms around my shoulders and looks out at the room as if for the first time, makes eye contact with someone, just for a second.

She shivers. Runs her fingers through the hair on the back of my head, grips my shoulders.

I can’t stop, I’m working in her harder, again, and again, getting all worked up, and we lose ourselves in it. We forget where we are.

Suddenly she’s close. So close. I can feel it, her legs shake and open in a different way. I wrap my arms around her strong, shove inside her hard, fast, and she’s coming, suddenly, it washes over her without anticipation, just suddenly unleashed, muscles quivering and she’s gasping, trying not to yell, in my ear, clawing at my shoulders. Her cunt grips so hard when she comes I have to work to stay inside, grunting a little, I can feel sweat on my neck and lower back from the physical exertion, and I press hard into her, I don’t let up, and she keeps coming, gasping one more time, surrendering, then releases against me with a long sigh.

We stay wrapped in the bliss of it all for a minute longer when we notice a waiter approaching, doing rounds. Kristen straightens up a bit, smooths her hair, her skirt, I step back and zip.

“You two okay here?” he asks, as he does his drive-by.

Kristen picks up her gin gimlet, catches my eye as she sips on it.

“We’re great,” I say, and swig the rest of the melted ice in my glass of Jameson.

I woke her in the middle of the night

Kristen spent the night in my bed on Saturday, and by five am, after waking up every half-hour or so half-hard and wishing it was morning so I could fuck her again, I give in. Shifting against her, I roll us both from our lazy sleep-embrace to her back, one of my legs between hers, right hand on the soft hair between her legs, fingers on her lips, pressing gently, caressing, opening.

I’d asked her about waking her up to fuck her – I wouldn’t presume to do it without permission. Not only did she agree, the shift in her eyes and near imperceptible movement of her hips betrayed that she would very much like it if I did so.

Her body responds immediately, swelling and cresting, though she can barely open her eyes. My mouth at her ear: “I can’t resist you any longer.”

She moans sleepily, little murmurs, body beginning to writhe, not awake. Little nips with my teeth on her neck, just enough for her to feel, not enough to wake her fully. I like her bodily responses, what her animal brain let her do while most of her cognizant self is still off.

She starts moving her thighs apart, hips circling and pulsing a little, pressing against my hand. She is so responsive. I work my fingers inside, slowly, finding the angle, finding that spot she loves, finding the sweet O of her mouth with mine.

Those small, thin moans every time she breathes get inside me like smoke. No comprehensive sound, just small ohs and mmms as her body moves.

Sweet nothings in her ear as my fingers are slick, in and out of her: “Those little noises you make get me so hard … the way your hips move when I’m thrusting against you … I want my cock in you again …”

She gasps, thickens, swells in response. I don’t let up. My mind is racing and I nearly keep talking, but she’s still practically asleep, barely hears me. I let my fingers trace a V along her lips to her clit, sticky and slick with the wet of her. She gasps, shudders, tenses at the stomach and thighs, pulses and shakes, moans louder.

Again, I flick my fingers over her clit, a little harder, steady, steady. Her arms come up around my neck. I bring my mouth onto hers again, she kisses back this time, deep and hard, and I bite her lip.

I pull away to better focus on her clit which is hard and pulsing under my fingers and she gasps, eyes wide open, wide open, as she comes, shuddering, moaning, gasping.

She wraps herself around me when her body calms, humming in low satisfied tones, her eyelids already heavy, closing again, laying back on the pillow as my hands trace her skin.

I sigh too, shift my weight off of her and she turns with me to snuggle against my shoulder, arms pulled in close to her body between us, mine around her.

We slumber a few more hours. Resting, until I wake around ten and cannot resist any longer, must have her again.

In response to what you want

I would love to watch you dance.

From the way that you fuck I can imagine how your body would move, all sweet s-curves and slow gyrations: there is such precision in your physicality, such openness. I can see the way you’d raise your arms to float at shoulder-height, eyes heavy to the floor or on the bodies around you, so tuned in to the music, the beat, the rhythm. You’re aural that way, I can feel it in the ways you speak with your body, a language all to itself I am just learning to interpret and read under my fingertips like braille, waves of energy rising falling.

There is so much you can tell about the way someone fucks by how they dance, and the way someone dances by how they fuck; but I’ve never seen you dance. Still, I can imagine how your torso slides and arms carry out the movement, how you can pop your hips to accentuate strong moments.

I would try to keep up with you on the dancefloor just as I try to keep up with you when we fuck – you carry me high and I follow your guidance, despite that I am making the choices. It is your body that dictates my choices, your breath, your responses, the precise way you gasp “oh god” and start to shake. In dance it is the same: I take your lead and match your rhythm until we are so synchopated that I can move you, can create variations on a theme and read you well enough to know you’ll follow where I lead.

It’s all energy. Building and releasing, swirling between us.

More literally:

I will sit at a table sipping whiskey while I watch you. Gently finger the shaft of my dick through my slacks and remember the last time I made you move like that.

You take a break, breathless, and come over to sit on my lap, straddle me, your short skirt hiked up, my hands on your thighs, you can feel my cock against you and let yourself grind up and down for a minute, your arms around my neck, mouth on mine.

(Just the thought makes me harden.)

This is maybe when you say “I gotta pee,” or “please baby, fuck me now,” or I say “I need some fresh air,” or “goddamn you,” and I’ve had enough waiting. I take you out back to the alley or to the filthy club bathroom – the men’s room. On your knees on the dirty tile. Cheek against a brick wall as I make you moan.

I’ll whisper things against your jaw, your neck, that make you squirm. Look at you, all ready for me. All wanting. I can take you wherever I want to, just how I want to, can’t I.

I want to hear you breathy in my ear again. Feel your hands grip my shoulders, thighs grip my hips as you cry out, scream, come.

We’re just getting started

I spent the day alone in my room, recovering, remembering.

Her skin in the morning, golden, glowing. Her eyes as they increasingly tired last night. Her hips as they hinged open. The ways I held back, the ways I gave in.

My mental recap is increasingly romantic, but really it is raw desire. How does she do this to me?

I won’t tell you much about this date. There is no scene to report, no interesting beginning-middle-end with links to the toys I used (though I did go through three cocks). I won’t speak of the ways I took her, the ways she opened and clenched tight. The tender places we both touched and from which we backed off (too too fragile). I won’t speak to her mouth, her mouth, her near-perfect mouth and the way she tosses her head back, mouth open, this half-circle arc, when she comes.

I am starting to understand her tells, the signals that her body is poised on the edge of orgasm, the ways I can slow and prolong the explosion. I have felt her come dozens of times now, I have completely lost track. She counted six the last time we were together. Last night, I counted one in the bathroom at the club and one against the door of my apartment before we even got to the bed, then two this morning, despite her swollen cunt and aching hips’ protest. What happened in between was a blur, and clear as the winter blue sky that greeted us when we woke.

She told me this morning (open, open, so open) more of what she’d like. To be hit across the face. My cock in her mouth again. More of what I did the first time, more power, more dominance. And I felt suddenly self-conscious: it’s true, last night, though I was in charge and in control and calling the shots, I took the vanilla route, barely moved out of missionary position once we reached the bed except that one time on her stomach, more fucking and less dominance, out of fascination in the exploration of her body. And she is just so goddamn receptive: everything I did, she told me exactly how it felt, what was working, how to go deeper, with her body and moans and breathing. I couldn’t resist that, couldn’t tear myself away from the simple singular act of getting her off, making her come, hearing bliss escape her lips again.

With someone new it is always a challenge to understand the way they like to be touched, to be taken, what will unravel them at the last minute, so that is what I spent the night learning.

And she never stopped me. That turns me on in ways I cannot describe – that every time I went for her thighs, every time I worked my hand or cock between her legs she was wet, open, wanting. Even if she’d come just moments before – why would I stop when she could do it again right now?

So I allowed myself the indulgence of getting her off, over and over and over again.

But I won’t forget that she wants more power play, more sensation play. I won’t forget she wants to be hit, wants my palm on her face (how could I), wants my cock in her throat.

She’ll learn, too, that struggle brings out the force in me, that she can push me to take more by giving less, now that we both know how she wants to give over. Now that we both trust our impulses to give in. It’s harder to force when there is no resistance. She’ll learn how to play my power as I’ve learned to play her body, like an instrument, like a tool that could be a weapon in the right hands.

We’re just getting started.

“I’m kind of … insatiable.” My First Date with Kristen

I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. Like how when she gasps more she may actually mean more friction – how she has the type of orgasms that means she can squirt.

Which is why I kept going for orgasm number two, three – because I wanted to feel her do it. I suspected she could.

(I was right.)

I hadn’t planned to take her back to my place, but that didn’t stop me from cleaning my room on Saturday before the date. Unlikely is not impossible. And if my room is not presentable, it isn’t even an option. I like to have options.

I could fist her, I think. She opens in a way that makes it seem possible, makes space inside. I would like to throw her around more, too – she’s small, and so receptive. She went where I put her, stayed, made space for me to enter, to take. My favorite kind of bottom, surrendering.

*

At dinner:

She’s wrestling a little with a femme identity. “Femme and feminist sometimes conflict,” she started to explain.

“I understand that. I saw butch and feminist as conflicting when I started figuring this out for myself too. I was a feminist first, and most importantly. And when you take misogyny out of masculinity, what’s left? Societal roles teach us those are one and the same.”

In case it needs reiteration, I firmly believe that femme and feminist can be simultaneously occupied. In fact, in some ways I think intentionally choosing femme is inherently feminist – as I think Leah said at the Femme Conference, femme is a way of making “girl” not hurt. Femininity can be inherently painful under societal hierarchies and rules, and to recreate it in ways that actually buffer the hurt instead of deepen it is so incredibly powerful.

She talked a little about the ways femme is misperceived, especially as an invitation to men. This is definitely a huge difference in the development of the butch and femme identities.

We barely scratched the surface of these conversations.

This was foreplay.

*

After dinner:

Suddenly Kristen stopped walking and back-stepped.

“Did you just lose your shoe?” I laughed.

She gave me a small smile. “Uh, that’s embarrassing.” I held out my hand so she could balance on one foot, slip her high black heel back on.

“Nah, not embarrassing,” I said, hand against her back as we started to walk to the bar again. We’d just come from dinner and needed a darker, more comfortable place to make out. “It happens to me all the time.”

She shot me a questioning look. “Really?!”

“Uh, no. Not really.” Too deadpan. I turned to face her, stopping her from walking forward, took hold of her jacket at the zipper with both hands. “No, sorry, that was trying to be a joke but it really didn’t work.” I pulled her a little closer. Even in heels she was still shorter than me. “Do forgive me …” I held her gaze and pulled her toward me. Immediately the kiss was electrifying. Delicate and wanting, full of desire. I’d barely touched her yet but now wanted my hands on her, on her waist in that secretary pencil skirt, her legs in those seamed black stockings.

*

At the bar.

A gin gimlet for her, another Maker’s on the rocks for me. Chatting. The topic was activism, mostly – educating those around us. I feel increasingly bold, be it the good conversation or the drinks or the chemistry or the ways she opens her eyes to look at me. My hand finds her waist, her back, and her nerves are electric and so receptive, her body curls every time I touch her.

She gasps a little. I keep talking. “Uh, I’m sorry – I’m not hearing a word you’re saying.” She looks at me with her eyes half-lidded. “But keep talking, please.” I pull her toward me and we kiss again, sparking at the mouth, at my fingertips where our bodies connect.

*

In the car on the way to my place.

She’s got her legs in my lap and if she wasn’t wearing full stockings I would already have my fingers in her. Her ankles are small and my thumb and forefinger close around one, then I take her instep in my hand, grip her heel. Run my hands up her legs and don’t stop, cup her cunt with my palm, catch her gaze with mine and she leans forward to kiss me again.

Every time I touch her she lets out a moan, quick, with her breath. “You have to be quiet,” I say, nodding toward the driver. I’ve known dykes who were kicked out of cabs for kissing.

“I’m not quiet,” she tells me earnestly, giving me that under-the-eyelashes shy look.

“I can tell.”

And she’s not. At my place I throw her down onto the bed, hold her down when she tries to get up. Peel off her sweater and skirt, shove my hand in after I’ve pulled her stockings and underwear down to her thighs. She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes. She is so responsive.

It is wonderful to hear.

I don’t know exactly when I pulled out my packing cock – sometime in the beginning – but then switched to my hands when I figured out she comes that way, gspot orgasms, one after another and I love to feel it inside when that happens. Love the way she thickens and shudders, her whole body twisting, so I hold her down, forearm over her chest, my knees holding her thighs open.

I don’t know when it was that I took off my bondage belt and waited for her to slide her wrists through it. I took hold of the loose strap and curled it around my hand for grip, twisted it a little, her arms over her head, on her back again, just so she could resist, just so she could feel the pressure, my other hand between her legs and shoving inside, fast, hard, or slower, massaging and tender, as she thrashed against the pillows again.

Gorgeous.

*

We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.

I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.

She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.

“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.

I grin. So am I.

My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.

Yes, yes, yes.

*

I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. There is so much more I know I could do to her. I barely got to smack her. Barely used force. There was very little restraint or bondage, very little sensation play, and she could take it, I know she could.

We could’ve kept going. Two hours wasn’t quite enough.

What a wonderful feeling to have coming away from a near-perfect date: that raw potential for more, more, more.