Unapologetic Need

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My story?”

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

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

Addie nods, taking sips of the wine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about you?” I ask finally.

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

Fisting Practice (Asher & Jesse #2)

When we last left Asher & Jesse, Asher had just revealed her inclination to kink, and Jesse was left pondering: Maybe she wants to throw me down, and, you know, ravage me? Take me? Maybe she wants to do things to me, hit me with, I don’t know, a wooden kitchen spoon, or handcuff me? I could do that. Could I do that? … I think I could do that.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

Asher’s lips still taste like cream and orange. Jesse pushes her hands up over her head and shoved her backward onto the many throw pillows covering Asher’s bed, a soft easy landing. Asher keeps her thighs pressed together. She rubs them against each other, feeling the smoothness where she’d shaved, the softness, the tenderness. Jesse tries to nudge her legs open with her jean-clad knees, still using both hands to hold Asher’s hands onto the pillow. Asher presses back against Jesse, and Jesse could tell Asher would squirm away if she didn’t hold her arms there. Not because she didn’t want it, Jesse kept reminding herself. It’s like what Asher had told her earlier: “If I squirm, it’s because I want more—I want you to hold me down harder.”

Those words echoed as Jesse searches for a way to hold Asher’s hands and open her thighs simultaneously. Asher’s skirt was riding up and Jesse wanted to kiss her thick thighs, bite into the tenderest places, wanted to run her lips along her skin, wanted hands everywhere.

Jesse spies a thin scarf, a decorative slip of fabric, on Asher’s headboard and reaches for it, wrapping it easily around Asher’s wrists as she holds Asher’s body down with her own weight. Asher easily weighed more than she did, she could’ve forced Jesse off of her. She didn’t want to, Jesse kept reminding herself. Jesse doesn’t know much about formal bondage stuff, but she easily secures the scarf to Asher’s headboard.

“Hey—what are you—” Asher pulls at the restraints and her eyes flash, supple and desire and smoldering. She bites at her lip a little and shifts her body under Jesse’s. “Um, what are you going to do with me now?”

“Whatever I want, I think,” Jesse replies softly, tracing her hands with the lightest whisper touches over Asher’s exposed thighs. “God, I want to touch you for hours. Drive you wild. Hear you beg to come. You like to beg, don’t you, Asher? I bet you do.”

Asher whimpers a little. The touches, the words. “Yes,” she breathes.

“Yes what?”

“Yes … sir?” Asher tries.

Jesse actually laughs. It isn’t what she was going for, but she would take it. She even kind of likes it. It makes her feel hot, and in charge, and strong. “I want to hear you say it. You like to beg for your orgasms.”

“I like to beg for my orgasms, sir. I like when someone tells me I can come. When I earn it.”

Jesse drags her fingers over the tops of Asher’s thighs, brushing closer and closer to Asher’s underwear. With each brush she moves Asher’s skirt a little farther up. She can see the smallest strip of solid grey lace.

“And you want me to tell you when you can come.”

“Yes, yes I do. Please Jesse, tell me,” Asher’s voice drops, quiet and smaller, that vulnerable sweetness of revealing something deeply treasured.

“What else do you want?” Jesse asks, palms on Asher’s thighs.

“I want your fingers, I want your touch on me. In me. All of it. Fuck. Fill me up, Jesse—please, I can’t take it, please I want it.”

“You want … my fingers?” Jesse rubs the delicate fabric between her legs.

“Your whole hand, your fist, all the way in me, please!” She stops writhing to catch Jesse’s eye. “Have you … can you?”

Jesse looks a little sheepish. “I haven’t, not exactly … but I can. I know how.” She’d been fisted before, and she’d tried it a variety of times, even getting all five fingers in, but she could never quite get her hand in past her knuckles, the thickest part. Asher, though … Asher had already told her that she was experienced. Maybe she could do it. Jesse hadn’t even touched her cunt yet, but she thought it was possible. Not only because Jesse’s hands were so small and Asher’s body was so much bigger and thicker and more pliable than Jesse’s … but something in the energy, something in how much Asher wanted it and how much Jesse herself wanted it told Jesse that she would fit inside and nestle there, that Asher could press and squirm all she wanted, and that she would.

Jesse dives back in to Asher, and her body, and her responses to Jesse’s touch. Now that Asher’s hands are bound, Jesse can use both of her hands to push her thighs open, pinching them a little, not giving Asher much of a choice. Asher resists and squirms and cries out and finally gives in, opens her legs a little more, just enough for Jesse to cup her holes and for Asher to relax and breathe and sigh and simmer. Jesse teases her on the outside of those grey lace panties. Her lips feel slick already, swollen. Jesse traces the contours and imagines what’s underneath. “Can I … ?”

Asher lifts her hips, and nods. “Uh huh.”

Jesse slides the grey lace down her legs, slowly, and uses her fingertips to trace thin lines up and down her legs. So fucking sexy. Those legs she’s stared at in class, those thighs she’s watched cross when she sits and switch when she walks. Jesse can smell a little bit of Asher’s wetness, just a faint hint of sweet and musk that made Jesse want to dive forward and tongue the source. She trails back up Asher’s legs and pushes between her knees, pressing her knees apart even farther, and looks at her exposed pussy.

It takes restraint, but finally Jesse asks, “Gloves?” When they talked about it earlier, Asher said she wanted to use them. That she kept some on hand, ha ha, just in case.

“In the nightstand. In the bottom,” Asher says. Jesse finds gloves and lube, a big bottle, from the little cupboard in the dark wood bedside table, and snaps one on her right hand with ease. She doesn’t usually use gloves, but she doesn’t mind them. Plus, she read somewhere that it was easier to fist with gloves on, since the lube wouldn’t absorb into her own skin.

Hand covered, she gets back in place between Asher’s knees and gently cups Asher’s cunt again, letting her palm move softly against Asher’s lips. Her tissues are darker than the skin on her thighs, nearly black curly hair all along her cunt and spilling onto her thighs and belly, unashamed and unrestrained. Asher sighs and presses against Jesse’s hand, and Jesse moves her fingers, slick, over the folds and contours of Asher’s cunt. One finger tucked in, to the first joint, just tracing the lines around Asher’s opening, looping around her clit, figure eights and circles.

Asher moans. “More, please more, there, just there—” And Jesse pauses, staysthere, flicks with her fingertip. Asher shifts against the scarf tying her to the headboard and presses her hips up. Fuck, Jesse wants to use her mouth. Patience, patience, go slow, take it easy. There will be other times, if I’m lucky.

Jesse teases and tickles, tips of her fingers fluttering, rolling Asher’s lips between her fingers, pinching just enough for sensation. “God, you’re so good at this,” Asher sighs, breathing hard. “Please, please Jesse …”

“What?” Jesse circles around Asher’s cunt without sliding in, touching the pad of her finger to the opening but not pushing.

Asher moves her hips but can’t make Jesse do it. “Fuck!” she swears. “Just please, go inside, please, I want it!”

Jesse dips her head so Asher can’t see her grin, and offers her finger with a little more pressure. Asher envelops it immediately, pushing down, moaning in relief and pleasure, “Mmmmmm.”

Still, Jesse lets Asher call the shots. She can feel Asher’s pulse, can feel her walls tighten and relax around her, testing the fullness. Then she starts moving her hips a little again, and Jesse moves too, testing the pressure in different places inside, pausing when Asher seems to respond particularly deliciously. It doesn’t take long for Asher to ask for more.

“What do you say, then?”

“Please. Please Jesse, please may I have another finger, two more, please, more, and harder, please! Ohh!” Jesse has another finger in and sliding before Asher is even done pleading. She drips a good dollop of lube onto her fingers where they meet Asher’s cunt and use the friction to work the lube around. It’s slicker now, and easier to slide in and out. Jesse thinks Asher might bust out of the dress entirely, she really should have taken it off of her before they started in on … this, but she was just so eager, they both were.

“Come up here, kiss me,” Asher whispers. Jesse lays her body out over Asher’s and tastes her mouth again, both of them nearly panting, lips tender, practically sparking when they touch. Jesse keeps her fingers sliding inside, one knee between Asher’s, fitting together like sliding a chair under a table. “I like the way you taste,” breathes Asher, lips still touching Jesse’s.

“Please, more Jesse, please.”

She did say she liked to beg. Jesse didn’t know how much she liked hearing Asher beg, but fuck, she knew now.

Jesse slid a third, but just as easily tucked her littlest finger under and slid the fourth in too. Easy where they are all bundled together, but more intense when Jesse gets them in up to her knuckles. Asher contracts around the girth, but then opens. Jesse adds more lube, then settles back on top of Asher, nestled against her breasts and belly, dress still tight over her skin. If the zipper or buttons had been in the front, Jesse would have torn at them until they’d popped. Probably better that they aren’t.

When her knuckles slide in, Asher’s eyes open, mouth opens, cunt opens, and something in her relaxes, Jesse can practically see it unwind and settle. Jesse can’t get her thumb in at this angle, but she can, she knows she can, she can feel the space inside of Asher expand and it just feels so empty, she can tell how good it would feel, how easy it would be to tuck her thumb and curl her fingers and fit.

Jesse slides back down Asher’s body to have a better angle for her wrist, kissing her through her clothes, biting at her breasts through her grey dress, finding her nipple hard and using her teeth so she can really feel it.

“Fuck me, please fuck me, please,” Asher starts saying it like a mantra, like a prayer, coinciding with breath and motion. Jesse pours more lube. More than she needed, probably, but she liked to be safe. The black glove is completely covered, wet and shiny.

They make eye contact. Asher nods, eyes still pleading. “I want it.” Almost a whisper. And Jesse tightens her fingers into an arrow, tucks her thumb, and slides in to the wrist, all the way.

“Ohhh godddd,” Asher groans in release, splaying open even wider, sinking into the throw pillows. Jesse is still for a few moments, until Asher starts moving her hips again, then Jesse moves with her, experimenting with moving her knuckles into Asher’s g-spot and fingers against her cervix.

“Can you—can you reach my wrists, can you untie me? I mean, without taking your hand away,” Asher asks.

Jesse reaches up with her left hand. “Yeah,” she says, and starts untying the bind.

“Do you mind, is it okay if I … help?”

Jesse grinned, stretching her shoulder a little farther to more easily reach. Kind of tricky with just one hand, but the knot wasn’t exactly complicated. She manages to loosen it enough so Asher’s hands slip out. “Mmm I don’t mind at all.”

Asher, shyly, reaches her right hand down her body and to her own cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling Jesse’s whole hand still snug inside. She circles it a moment and then settles her fingers at her clit, pinching and pulling her lips, using a lot of pressure. She even slaps it once, twice, harder than Jesse would have done.

From inside, Jesse can feel her tighten, then soften, and tighten again. Asher gets bolder and starts showing off, looking right into Jesse’s eyes, tongue flicking over her lips, scraping her teeth along them. Her breathing gets heavy and faster, her chest moves up and down as she thrusts with her hips, pressing hard onto Jesse’s hand, fingers rubbing back and forth so quickly, faster, harder, until she contracts so hard she pushes Jesse’s hand out from inside her and practically screams out, yelling, as her body curls and her thighs press together, coming. Jesse leaves her fingers gently touching, just the longest ones still inside to the first knuckle, just so it doesn’t feel like a shocking emptiness. Asher reaches out and wraps her arms around Jesse’s shoulders, and pulls her back on top of her body, holding as her body settles.

Asher giggles and nuzzles into Jesse, sighing. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you!” She can’t quite make words or sentences work yet. Jesse finds it adorable. There is quite a rush in making a girl as put-together as Asher come … undone.

They chat for a little while, that pillow-talk of lovers in whispers and murmurs, breathing each other’s breath and feeling each other’s skin, still electric and sultry. Asher brightens and her brain and body come back into alignment. She wiggles out from under Jesse and props herself up on her elbows, taking Jesse’s hands into hers and marveling at their smoothness, their square fingertips, their lines and patterns, the callouses on her thumb and middle finger, the scar on her knuckles.

Asher gets all squirmy and Jesse catches her looking. “Butch hands,” Asher explains, as if that makes things clearer. Jesse raises her eyebrows. “Or, I mean, genderqueer androgynous masculine-of-center whatever gender word you prefer hands.”

Jesse laughs. “Butch is okay. Seems kind of old school I guess. Mostly people call me a ‘baby butch,’ I don’t like that much.”

“Yeah. You’re not babyish.”

“Mmhm.” Jesse is trying to form the words of a looming question in her brain.

“Something … on your mind?” Asher asks.

“It’s just … um, how do you feel about strap-ons? Or, blow jobs?” Jesse looks down and blushes a little. Asher grins, and dives into her arms, kissing her hard.


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

Quick Anal Interview: Erudite Hayseed

This is the last of the Quick Anal Interviews! Anal Week is coming to a close … just one more thing to go, and it’ll be all done. Thanks so much for reading. This quick anal interview is with Erudite Hayseed, author of Confessions of a Southern-Fried Kinkster.

1. What one tip would you suggest (aside from the obvious: lube, communicate, go slow)?

Tongue work, all day tongue work. Look, the prospect actual anal penetration, be it finger or otherwise, is pretty intimidating. Of course you have to ease into it that’s basic info and all. But the tongue, the actual art of analingus, is like a soft slippery key to a whole new facet of lovemaking. I’ve yet to find a partner that doesnt like it. Sure, one’s who thought it was strange of me to do it ( at first anyway ), but everyone tends to like it. That can lead to more play later. When people say “go slow,” folks have a tendency to think that means the actual act of preparation leading up to the actual fuck. There needs to be more “go slow” in relation to easing your partner into the idea of play.

While I consider anal sex to be a “No surprises” zone for most things ( and any guy who says that he just popped his dick in and went to town is either fulla shit or nursing some bruises around the head and face ), the odd surprise tounge swipe is a great way to get into the swing of things. Heck, sometimes it feels even better than the actual penatrative act, if my Lady is to be believed. But it does relax things, and it definetly shatters some hangups your partner might have.

2. What lube do you recommend?

Boy Butter. It was developed by Eyal Feldman, this brilliant gay businessman who owns and operates his website and who personally worked to create what he figured would be the best anal lubricant on the market. It’s silicone and coconut oil based, washes off with water, and just seems to last so much longer than any other lube I’ve tried ( and I’ve tried extensively ). They even make a desensitizing blend ( good for those who are just starting out or those who are working with a larger size ), water based if you’ve got any sort of silicone allergy. The price is fair, especially for such a groundbreaking idea, and the packaging is just adorable. Seriously, give it a try.

[ Quick note from Sinclair: silicone based lube does NOT go with silicone toys, so DO NOT use it if you’re using butt plugs or strap-on cocks that are silicone. Also, many sex educators are really against desensitizing anal creams, they can be dangerous. ]

3. What position do you find excellent?

Depends on what I’m doing. For rimming, I likefor Lady to basically lay down with her knees under her stomach, kind of sitting on her feet–it gives the best access to everything, the entire themepark of waist-southernly delights. Thats good especially for kinkier fare, and the application of bondage tape and an eager tongue tends to add up to a very, very fun time.

For the actual act of lovemaking, I tend to use a position that is popularly referred to as the “Prone Bone” wherin your partner lays flat on his/her stomach with legs closed. I will warn that this position should only really be used if you know what exactly your partners limits are. My girlfriend likes it rougher than most, with almost no way to get out of her predicament, so that position is just the best. Doggystyle is okay, but I feel like I sacrifice a bit of my actual thrusting power with it, and if we’re doing it, daggone it we’re doing it.

Any bonus perspective, tip, story, or thing that you’d really like to share?

Toys can be an intimidating thing, but if you’re comfortable enough with rocking the whole vibe/dildo set, I have to suggest a butt plug. For one, they come in just about any size, and for two, they are the ultimate in preperation. A good, small buttplug for the first time user is excellent. For one, it’s something you can slide in and not worry about holding, which is a big hurdle for a lot of people, myself included: I dont mind taking the time and all, but just sitting there with a couple of fingers up your partner while she adjusts can get a tad boring. If your partner is especially tight, like mine, it turns into this whole waiting game atmosphere. I’m a decent hand at dirty talk, but I can only keep it up for so long.

Another great benefit is that the butt plug is a good bridge between vaginal and anal sex. Trust me, it makes everything on the pussy end of things much, much more fun. The space that is normally afforded to your invading fingers or cock is filled up, creating a tighter feel and angling whatever you’re doing upwards, which can really up the chances of ( or the intensity of ) a pure penetrative orgasm. If you’re already past the first couple of stages of involving anal play ( discussion and light teasing/fingering ), this is honestly the next step to go.

Thanks so much!