A Personal History of Best Lesbian Erotica

Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition is out now, and I’m part of the blog tour editor Sacchi Green has organized on it’s behalf. The story of mine that is in this collection, Luscious & Wild, is here on Sugarbutch already, so I thought I’d take you back into the Best Lesbian Erotica series in celebration of it’s 20th.

Personally, I started collecting them in 2001. I fancied myself a lover of smut and a sex-focused person, but frowned at my itty bitty erotica collection at home. So I started frequenting the lesbian erotica section of my favorite used book store, Twice Sold Tales, on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, which was an equally itty bitty shelf near the floor. The ‘Gay and Lesbian’ section towered in the shelves above it, but I was looking for the bottom-shelf stuff. The dirty stuff. I bought every edition I could find, eventually filling in my collection by ordering the few volumes I was missing online, and still order the newest edition the minute it comes out.

The series now spans 20 volumes with as many different guest editors. It can be hard to pick just which ones to read, or where to start. So, here are three of my favorites.

Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

ble98The first one that got me really hooked was Best Lesbian Erotica 1998. The story by Karlyn Lotney (also known as Fairy Butch, if you remember On Our Backs and other late 90s sex/dyke activism) called “Clash of the Titans” remains one of my favorite erotica pieces ever, and blasted open what I thought erotica could be or do. For example, it could be complex emotionally, it could contain activism and politics, it could show switching, it could show vulnerability. Not that I didn’t know that, exactly, I just didn’t … realize it until I read this story, and this whole book. (I wrote about it in this week’s new View From The Top column, titled The First Time I Knew I Was A Top.)

She cut a swath through my flat like Moses parting the Red Sea, and made me feel like a man: all big and dumb and panting. I felt my internal butch cock harden and start its invisible levitation, and the part of my brain that concerns itself with floral arrangements, oranges, and perfect living rooms fell away. Another part took over, the part that found its genesis in my father’s collection of late sixties’ issues of Playboy, benches two-ten, and answers to “Daddy.”
—”Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney, from Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

The other piece that made me speechless (and come) was “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato. That story—that includes a hard femme who jacks off a butch’s strap-on shamelessly while they ride from the bar to the butch’s apartment on a motorcycle—was part of what completely convinced me that I loved strap-on sex.

Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

ble06Best Lesbian Erotica 2006 included the first erotica short story I ever published. I have read that edition over and over, mostly because my story is in it, and it thrilled me to no end to see my name in print. (It’s under my legal name, by the way, not under Sinclair.) 2006 was the year I started Sugarbutch as well, but that actually came after this publication was accepted, and I thought Sugarbutch would be a little private side-project, not become my next big thing.

BLE ’06 also includes a beautiful story by Peggy Munson, and one of my absolute favorites by S. Bear Bergman, called ‘Silver Dollar Afternoon.’

I fall in love with her when anyone asks her why she doesn’t wear her beautiful long hair all the way down and she says, with just a hint of coolness: “A woman’s hair is for her husband,” which makes me remember every time she has unpinned her hair for my delighted eyes and even if I’m not quite a husband I still shiver in my blue jeans without fail.
—Silver Dollar Afternoon by S. Bear Bergman, Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

ble12The 2012 edition is probably my favorite, but that’s because I’m the guest editor and so I got to pick all of the stories. I actually went back to Kathleen Warnock, the series editor then, to request more stories after I read all the picks she’d sent me and I didn’t have as many as we needed. They just weren’t dirty enough—she’d picked me really good stories, with characters and plots and development and such, but I want that AND a really excellent, dirty, kinky sex scene. It is largely butch/femme heavy, but I tried to get a good mix of other character types and pairings in there, too.

The introduction that I wrote for Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 is about why lesbian erotica is valuable activism, and it’s here on Sugarbutch if you’d like to dive into my thoughts on that more.

These books of lesbian erotica are not fluff. They are not nothing. They are not frivolous or useless. For queers coming out and into our own, they are a path.” —From Why Lesbian Erotica is Valuable Activism

And now: Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition

BLEOfTheYear_approvedSince Tristan Taormino left, the series has gone through a few different editor’s hands, and I’m excited that Sacchi is responsible for this one. She’s edited many of my favorite lesbian erotica anthologies.

Thanks to Cleis Press for keeping this series going all these years!

I highly recommend picking up a copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition at your local queer, feminist, women-centric, activist-oriented bookstore, or, only if you must, from Amazon.

Here’s the rest of the blog tour, which features the different authors in the book and our story titles. Click around & follow along!

Feb 10, Sacchi Green, Introduction
Feb 11, Rose de Fer, “Dust”
Feb 12, Louise Blaydon, “Ascension”
Feb 13, Megan McFerren, “The Royalty Underground”
Feb 14, Harper Bliss, “Reunion Tour”
Feb 15, D.L. King, “Hot Blood”
Feb 16, Jean Roberta, “Tears from Heaven”
Feb 17, Sinclair Sexsmith, “Luscious and Wild”
Feb 18, R.G. Emanuelle, “Smorgasbord”
Feb 19, Rose P. Lethe, “A Professional”
Feb 20, Anna Watson, “Easy”
Feb 21, Valerie Alexander, “Grind House”
Feb 22, Annabeth Leong, “Give and Take”
Feb 23, Frankie Grayson, “Mirror Mirror”
Feb 24, Cheyenne Blue, “The Road to Hell”
Feb 25, Emily L. Byrne, “The Further Adventures of Miss Scarlet”
Feb 26, Sossity Chiricuzio, “Make them Shine”
Feb 27, Teresa Noelle Roberts, “Tomato Bondage”

PS: Comment on any of these posts for a chance to win a free copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition. The drawing will be held by February 28th and the winner announced by March 5th.

The Best Queer Sex Blogs

A friend of mine emailed me this week asking for recommendations for other queer erotica online. I emailed her back with some links off the top of my head, but I’ve been pondering this question since then … where ARE all the queer sex bloggers? The ones who write erotica, I mean, not the ones who are writing sex commentary (because there are certainly some of those) or about butch/femme culture (ditto some of those) or who are reviewing toys (also some good ones) or are actual video/photographic porn (yay, but not erotica) or who aren’t writing anymore (there are a few who haven’t updated in years).

Kinkly has a top sex bloggers ranked list, but they don’t specify if they’re queer or not, or what kind of sex blog it is—and most of the ones at the top are sex toy blogs.

So here’s some recommendations of my personal favorite places to go read smutty erotica words written by and about queers. Am I missing anyone? Leave comments with recommendations, please!

1. BD Swain, www.bdswain.com

stare-hard-1

From the micro-stories on her Instagram to the longer works on her blog, BD Swain has written some of my favorite smut ever. Mostly butch/femme, but switchy, and includes some other pairings occasionally.

Excerpt from Stare Hard:

My fingers on her panties, pushing between her lips, feeling the wet lace between her legs. My own wet fingers on my belt buckle. Feeling like there’s no time. Not enough time. For hours, all night, not enough. Her skin is so soft. I stare down at her as I trace the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Sliding my fingers down each leg and back again to her pussy. “Spread your legs wider,” I say, bending over, “Let me smell you.”

Also, if you like BD’s dirty photos, pick up her custom deck of poker cards. So hot.

2. Xan West, xanwest.wordpress.com

ShowYourselftoMe

Mostly they write about writing erotica, and there are not as many actual erotic stories on their site, but there are excerpts from their upcoming novel “Shocking Violet.” Definitely check out his new book Show Yourself To Me (there’s one story from that book on Sugarbutch, called “The Tender Sweet Young Thing”).

Excerpt from A Tease from Shocking Violet:

She laughed. “So you want a free show, hmm? Well let me do it right, then.” And she slowly peeled off her high-necked black cat sweater. Jax stilled, stopped breathing. A couple of thick straps held up a gorgeous neckline. He could see her bare throat, and her arms. All that skin and ink. And her cleavage…damn. Fuck if she didn’t shimmy again for him, all tease and arched back, a wicked grin on her face.

“Don’t forget to breathe, honey,” she drawled.

She was right. He wasn’t fucking breathing. He licked dry lips and tipped his glass to her before taking a swallow of cool water.

3. Words Can Be Sexy, wordscanbesexy.com

queer quickies

Written by non-monogamous, trans, queer femme Olivia Dromen, hir work is incredibly sexy and detailed and well-written and full of genderqueerness. This is a new link for me, so I’m excited to dive into the archives and devour it all.

Excerpt from [Short] Overwhelmed:

“Take off your panties and lay down across my knee.” Zir voice is very calm, as if this is something we do every day.

It isn’t.

Ze pats zir knees with both hands.

4. Kyle, www.butchtastic.net

cropped-KyleBrowngradient

Butch/femme, butch/butch, writings about gender … Kyle has been one of my favorite bloggers since he started Butchtastic.

Excerpt from I Know What You Been Doing:

“I found your magazines, girl. Found your nasty magazines with their sticky pages. I know what you do with those magazines.” My hips are pressing a little harder against your ass. The hand around your waist has dropped a bit lower, my hand now resting on your thigh. My other hand is tightening slightly across your throat. You squirm against me with a groan. ”You like lookin’ at those men with their cocks hangin’ out, don’t you? You look at those dirty pictures and rub your naughty cunt, don’t you?”

“Daddy… I’m sorry… what… what are you going to do to me?” The mixture of anticipation and fear in your voice makes my clit pulse.

5. CW Toklas, cwtoklas.wordpress.com

cwtoklas

CW’s blog is new, starting fall 2015, but there are already excellent pieces up and waiting for readers. I’ll be watching this as it grows.

Excerpt from Moist Denim:

“Good girl,” she whispered into her ear and continued to ravish her mouth.

Beth couldn’t help it. The kiss was all consuming and she began to rock, leaning forward in order to open herself fully and rub her engorged clit on her mistress’s jeans.

6. Trans Fag Sex Journals, transfagssexjournals.blogspot.com

From the description: “two transfags of color living in a big city, exploring safe anonymous play with bio-boys.” This is new to me, and doesn’t have updates since 2014, but the archives are rich and interesting.

Excerpt from the threesome:

we move to my bedroom. i lie back and my regular begins sucking me off. bottom boy drops his cock into my mouth and i blow him. then they switch places i suck my regular’s cock while bottom boy blows me. i grab condoms. my regular moves between my legs and pushes into me. i sit up so i can suck his boy’s cock while he fucks me. this goes on for a while then my regular asks bottom boy if he wants to fuck me. he nods.

7. Rebekah Weatherspoon, www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/blog

Rebekah doesn’t have a lot of stories online, but she has tons of ebooks and they’re fantastic. Her book “At Her Feet” is a Mommy/girl story, and it’s fantastic. She’s also an avid erotica reader and has tons of recommendations of other titles, and also runs WOC in Romance, highlighting romance written by women of color (not queer, but important!).

8. Kiki Delovely, kikidelovely.wordpress.com

Kiki’s work is mostly in erotica anthologies, but she does have some excerpts on her blog.

Excerpt from Yes, Daddy:

“I’m going to have to shove my big, hard cock inside of you and fuck you until you’re screaming out in pain, our guests watching and waiting. After that, I’ll leave you to them, allowing them to do with you as they please.”

“NO, Daddi!” I cry out before I can catch myself. Your free hand lands severely on my ass, harder this time, my body uncontrollably releasing a violent jerk as I swallow the pain.

“You will take your punishment like a good grrl.”

9. Jen Cross, writingourselveswhole.org

Jen has run Writing Ourselves Whole, writing workshops “at the intersection of sex and trauma,” for a decade, and her work is phenomenal. She doesn’t have a lot of her erotic writing online, but she did undertake a masturbation May project, We Can Come Home, a few years back and that is fascinating to read. Her work explores the very complicated intersection of desire and healing, and much of it is explicit.

Excerpt from Opening the Throat:

Today I did it the new way, me in my shower, back bent against the porcelain, shower head switched to massage and held between my legs, the water hot as I can stand it. I say, Good morning, body. This is for us today. I say, thank you. I float into the conversation with my mother, then pull myself back. That was last night, that was another moment, that is not what I’m here for now. Now I’m in the bliss of your mouth (the water is so much easier to make into a mouth than the vibrator — a new development for my fantasy life), maybe we’re at a fancy bathroom at a fancy party and you shift aside my long skirt to find stockings, garter belt — and nothing else. Then you are asking me to sing, and I moan into the white quiet of my bathroom. I get loud, breathe hard, cry out, oh my god oh my god oh my god. This is a new way, too.

10. Jack Stratton, www.writingdirty.com

Jack writes mostly m/f erotica—and some of my very favorite smut of all time—but he also has a variety of gay erotic pieces, which I find complex and interesting. Not exactly a queer erotica writer, but he’s pretty queer, and you might find things you like in his extensive archives.

Excerpt from The Shaving Lesson:

“You just keep watching her finger fuck herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off,” Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

Henry felt the fear mix with a little anger. It felt like Adam was reading his mind and laughing at him.

“I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my cock.”

Two more!

The exciting thing about publishing lists like this on the internet is that they are totally changeable! Just because I didn’t include these two the first time around doesn’t mean they can’t be added. Since I published this list, I’ve been asking around and trying to find even more amazing queer erotica writers who publish their work online. Here’s two more that you gotta check out.

11. Benji Bright, Underwear Tales

Benji-Bright-by-Johnny-Murdoc-1
Benji Bright’s work was recommended to me by Xan West, and I’m very glad to have discovered it. He has many stories in anthologies and, recently, his own short story collection Boy Stories.

From He Doesn’t Want to Call It What It Is:

He doesn’t want to call it what it is. The words nag at him, but it is easy to shake them off when there’s someone else’s tongue pressed hard against him, slavering, and using the mouth to which it’s attached in order to shape filthy words: ‘I’m going to use your hole,’ ‘I’m going to fill you up with my spit and cum,’ ‘I’m going to fuck you like the beast you are.’

12.

Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires

giselle
I adore Giselle Renarde’s work. She is in dozens of anthologies, and has an elaborate page of free smut online at her blog.

From Prude’s Failsafe Advice for Eating Ass:

With a giggle and a growl, Gloria went at my hole like crazy. She licked it up and down, then swirled around in circles. She was forceful about it, too. When she thrust her tongue into my ass, my soul just about jumped from my body. I watched her do it, and still I was in disbelief. If it wasn’t for that slip of latex separating her from me, I’d never have let her do this. I didn’t mind so much, though, knowing she was tasting raspberry and not me.

Gloria made happy noises as she lunged at my ass, fucking me with her tongue. It felt fat inside me, with far more girth than her finger. As she went at me, I reached for my clit and found it engorged, my pussy dripping with juice.

Bonus

  • Also check out the guest post section here on Sugarbutch – mostly the guest posts include the authors I’ve mentioned above, but you still might find something exciting.
  • Someone suggested Archive of Our Own, which is primarily fan fiction but includes quite a bit of queer erotica if you’re willing to dig through the archives.
  • There are a few internet archive sites of erotica that include queer work, like Nifty, which is exclusively LGBT, Literotica, and Lust Stories, but the quality is very hit-and-miss.

There MUST be other gay boy erotica blogs out there, but I don’t know them. I mean there must be other queer erotica blogs in general—please tell me this list is incomplete! Honestly, I have been looking and asking on Twitter & Facebook and this is the best of the best that I can come up with. Who have I missed? Do you write erotica & share it online?

Please let me/us all know in the comments!

Careful. Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

I was distracted. Attempting to finalize a dinner menu while simultaneously shopping for the six course meal on four hours of sleep was making me dizzy. Throw into the mix her flustering flurry of taunting words that kept popping up on the screen of my cell phone, continually drowning out my mile-long grocery list. It was enough to draw my focus away from the task at hand. Yet somehow I was managing, not missing a single ingredient while receiving her praise at my last minute addition of a baked brie. And then this: a simple photo. I wouldn’t have thought that one little pic could stop me dead in my tracks. But it had been quite some time since I had been the recipient of one so compelling. And so I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape.

I clicked on the photo to examine its details. Sunlight tickling at the edge of the notebook, her hand-crafted leather flogger draped dramatically across the page, and braided falls spilling just under the solitary inscribed word: Careful. A vintage Eversharp Skyline fountain pen angled just so as to place appropriate emphasis upon the command. The meticulous composition of the photo elevated it to a true art form.

Careful.

A warning and a demand wrapped up in this seemingly unassuming, simplest of sentences. It echoed in my mind.

Careful.

Precisely the type of caution I was recklessly scattering to the wind with each passing second.

Careful.

The decree that brought me to my knees.

Mouthy little quips had flowed freely from my fingertips up until that moment. And with one little photo, one little word, my hands were silenced into submission. Trust me when I say I behaved myself for the remainder of the day. My ceaseless tasks kept me so busy in the kitchen that when it came time for the dinner party, I hadn’t had time to grow nervous. Sans prompting, she made herself useful, helping clear between courses, chivalrously following me into the kitchen every time I rose.

One of the times we had a few seconds to spare and smiling at the din of laughter coming from the other room, I took advantage of momentary bravery, confessing, “I have a thing for strong hands….” I glanced up ever so briefly to meet her gaze before returning mine to my peep toe pumps. “When you were massaging me last night, your fingers tangled in my hair, your fists punching my shoulders … I couldn’t help but imagine them exploring a couple other places as well.”

“A couple other? Aren’t we a bit … ambitious?” A spark in her eyes.

I was too close to saying something smart. Or even just cheekily placing my palm up against hers in order to make an accurate assessment of my ambitions, knowing full well just how much my body is capable of taking, given the right circumstances. Instead I bit back my grin, remained silent, and twirled around on my heel, letting her come to her own conclusions. Allowing her to do with that information what she would.

After all, she had spent the better part of three days with me gathering information. It seemed as though nothing about me was lost on her watchful eye. She wasn’t exactly the typical butch I usually go for, but energy trumps type every time, and after the second day the energy was dazzling. Her academic researcher skills proved quite useful in other fields as well, having gleaned everything she needed to know to have her way with me. By the third night, I was hers.

* * *

The very tip of her blade kissed the surface my skin, threatening to pierce flesh if I chose to move too quickly or suffered an involuntary spasm. My flesh gave generously under the steel’s unwavering affections until met with the muscle’s resistance.

A catch in my breath.

An almost indistinguishable shift sparked at the air as she dragged its point downward, scraping away at the epidermis.

Before she even brought the blade back up to its point of origin, I knew where this was headed. Breathing into my anticipation, a trickle of cum forged a path down my left lip. My mind finally began to quiet and submit to the impossibility of intellectualizing such primal cravings. At the curved completion of that very first “D” a moan betrayed me. I kept my eyes on her the entire time—when I could manage to keep them open, that is. No need to look down at my thigh to know precisely what was coming—my nerve endings piqued, keenly aware of the shape of each letter that would follow. An all too predictable read, given that the word loitered on my tongue when in her presence, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to form the disyllabic honorific.

She carved her possession into what we both knew was already hers. The visual effect giving rise to a shared desire that threatened to ignite the air between us; the haptic sensation of her staking her claim penetrating me much deeper. When I finally did look down, “DADDY’S” was etched into my inner thigh—a spell had been cast, an alchemical equation set into motion. This changed everything. An erotic act beyond titillating had established the tone for the evening. Her marking me in this way had dropped me down into an abyssal submissive headspace unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Utterly unexpected, I had not readied myself for these emotional depths, had not warmed to the vulnerability about to surface. But there was no turning back.

I needed it too badly and was willing to risk the emotional aftermath that was to flood over me in the days to come. Our interactions were gritty, a little bit wrong. The honorific of Daddy didn’t really belong. It wasn’t exactly hers. It was mine. Not mine to embody but, rather, my fetish, my desire, my greatest weakness. She took on the role, however, with an ease that convinced me otherwise. She was a natural, vacillating between nice Daddy and mean Daddy with a finesse that takes others years to master.

My cunt yielded to her fingers and cock, eventually capitulating to her fist as well with the simplest lines of encouragement. “Daddy needs you to take this for him,” she would coo. “Don’t make me hurt you again.”

Kissing my back with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes—a particular combination of sweetness and cruelty that is the end of me. “That’s my good girl.” Devastating in the most heart-crushing way, I struggled to stay in my body. It was too soon. Far too soon. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t want to get swept away.

Gathering me up in her arms, she whispered into my hair, “Tell Daddy how you’re feeling.”

I couldn’t. Couldn’t go there. Couldn’t give her access. She was to be my Daddy for that one night only and in that short time I learned a new, startling fact about myself. I could no longer do pick-up play with this particular archetype. It left the little girl in me feeling too exposed, too raw. So I used the opportunity to teach that girl a harsh lesson. Employing every last trick in the book, I drew out this Daddy’s most ruthless sadist. Made her beat the lesson down past the hematoma, penetrating every last haematid, so that I’d never forget. So that I’d never fail my babygirl self in this way again.

“I’m going to need you to take ten more of these on each side. Think you can do that for Daddy?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of her stance in my peripheral vision just for a split second before my eyes watered, unfocusing, drifting off to a place where only the sensation of her spankings existed. “Yes, Daddy.”

Her martial arts training was evident not only in her stance and the blows she landed but, perhaps most impressively, in her follow-through. That is where I could truly taste the skill level of her black belt. I could’ve sworn she was striking me with a closed fist, her hands possessed that much power. She bruised her wrist all the way up through her palm with my ass, leaving us both delectably empurpled.

Flipping me over deftly, she began slapping my inner thighs. My body automatically shifted to give her greater access, legs spreading of their own volition. “Such a little harlot. Is that all it takes for you to spread your legs?” I blushed hard, knowing she was right. My mouth could invent some excuse but my body would always relay the truth.

Daddy grew impatient with my arms getting in her way, demanding full access to all parts of me at any given moment. As soon as I thought I had figured out her plan of attack, she’d switch directions to forge a completely different path. My lack of grace combined with her erratic movements meant my appendages were constantly in her direct line of fire.

“Quit fidgeting. Arms behind your back. And stop licking your lips. You’re just trying to be provocative. No one’s lips are that dry.”

That last line really challenged me in stifling a giggle, but I somehow managed to keep it together, delighted to be under her direction. The new position forced my tits to stand even more prominently on display as I gave her the uninterrupted access to my flesh she required. She beat me with only her bare hands that night—punishing enough in their brute force—but the next morning, she brought out her toys. Only the crop with an inflexible leather tab was store-bought. The other six she had made herself.

She began with a simple nylon flogger—the likes of which could be almost soft and sweet enough to take without end. But not with the brand of exertion she put behind it. “I’m going to take out all my hatred for Emily Dickinson on your back,” she quipped, the white falls raining down on the tattoo between my shoulder blades featuring a stanza from the poetess. Then quickly moving onto a dragon tail when it became clear the Belle of Amherst hadn’t been disciplined severely enough for her untold crimes against literature.

“How many is that?”

Silence as I tried to figure out how to wrap my tongue around words … and then numbers. “Seven?”

“That sounded like a question.”

“Seven.” Only slightly more confident, I managed to avoid the higher pitch tell that signaled doubt.

She was looking for an (unnecessary) excuse to extend my punishment—which I won’t deny I longed for but the good girl in me wanted so badly to please her Daddy—and in the end, my answer was correct so she simply carried on with the original twenty she had promised. Whipping me so brutally, so evenly on each side, I could feel myself slipping into boundless subspace.

In my tranced out state, I caught a flash of myself a couple days from then, tears in my eyes as I acknowledged aloud for the first time that my emotions had gotten all tangled up with my abandonment issues. My new Daddy was never meant to have any staying power, but the lingering repercussions of our scene were tangible in my body. They had more of an effect on my soul than I would’ve liked to admit and I was only then coming to terms with the consequences. Shaking my head free of this vision, I re-grounded myself in the present, accepting my fate and taking responsibility into my own hands. I was a big girl. So what if this Daddy couldn’t provide me with the aftercare I needed? I could take care of myself. And to prove it to myself, my brattiest side surfaced, inciting her to beat me harder. I refused to regard myself as an innocent in this scene.

Her divinely thuddy leather flogger, plump with innumerable falls, afforded me an opportunity too tempting to pass up. The instrument composed the most seductive symphony on my shoulders, but despite its impressive soundings it didn’t inflict enough pain to suppress my smart mouth. “I thought you detested Dickinson. Didn’t you want to punish her? This feels more like a reward, a massage of sorts.” I could feel her indignation bubbling up as the thwacks rang increasingly louder with each bit of sass until finally I had to shout to be heard. “…Almost as if you’re making sweet, sweet lesbian love to her … like only her sister-in-law could do.”

That last line sealed the deal and she flung one flogger to the side, taking up a much nastier one in its place. The one with the braided tails from the photo. I had been waiting for this and we had moved far beyond anything even remotely resembling warm-up. She laid into me, holding nothing back, thoroughly delivering the warning she had conveyed in the photo that had interrupted my grocery shopping days prior.

As delicious as it was to finally earn what I had coming to me, getting beat with the strop that came next was, hands down, my favorite. Its sensation was biting and delicious but there was something special about being all too aware of its primary function. Mindful that buried in its leather grain was the energy her knives. Cognizant that while it licked and prickled at my flesh, it had also served to sharpen the same blades that had marked me the previous night.

Sufficiently satisfied by the painstaking beating she had administered but not quite yet done with me, Daddy ordered me to my feet. Holding me the entire way to steady me against vertigo, she lead me into the bathroom in order to make me look in the mirror at what I forced her do to me. I was entranced by the marks just beginning to surface across my flesh. They would bloom and blossom in the days to come—shades of pink, red, and purple, then blues, greens and yellows that eventually faded altogether. But the deeper effects would take longer to wear off. I knew I would carry that scene with me long after my scarring healed over. Until the day I was ready to release it on my own.

Admiring her handiwork, she ordered me to bend over farther still such that the view was then hers alone. A lecherously voyeuristic indulgence, she kept me bent over like that, staring long enough to ensure proper embarrassment on my part. An act of contrition. She was to send me home feeling objectified, as though she had used my body for her pleasures alone. Though we both knew better.

As I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taken aback by my babygirl self blinking wide-eyed back at me—tender, laid bare, and the most contented I had seen her in years. “The coming down is going to hurt,” I warned her with a look. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one to take care of you.”

Mindful of my promise to her from that day forward, I remained steadfast in her protection, always watchful, ever careful.

The Tender Sweet Young Thing, Guest Post by Xan West

Dedicated to the members of the Church of the Movie Musical

As a heads up, this story includes descriptions of gender play, blade play, edge play, pain play, public sex, cocksucking and fisting.

Dax was raised by a second-wave feminist. Ze grew up reading books about girls who did stuff. Ze was pulled out of tap class because they were going to perform “I Love Being a Girl,” and hir mom refused to let Dax participate in something so sexist. Hir mother gave hir a gender-neutral name (to help hir get jobs) and had hir hair cut in a Buster Brown. For most of hir childhood, people were constantly asking, “Is that a boy or a girl?” They still asked that, actually. At least now ze chose hir own haircuts.

Dax didn’t change hir name when ze went on T. What was the point? Dax would work okay, and it’s not like ze wanted to pass as a man anyway. A gender-neutral name suited hir just fine. Guess mom got something right.

When Dax’s boyfriend Mikey got a ‘96 Volvo with a tape deck, Dax gave her some of hir old cassettes. They would drive around listening to tapes Dax had kept from back in the day. Their favorite was a childhood relic, Free to Be You and Me. They listened to it for probably the thousandth time on the way to a regular gathering of fat queers that involved two of Dax’s favorite things: potluck and watching musicals. That’s probably why Mikey was so quick to bring it up, when the pre-movie dinner discussion turned to early kink fantasies. (Which, let’s face it, was rather inevitable at this monthly event, which was now at Xóchi’s house because it was more accessible. No stairs meant that Dax and Mikey could be there, and that Jericho and Rusty came more often, too. Lee loved hosting, so even though it was now at Xóchi’s house and not her own, she was still in charge. Everything always went smoothly when she was in charge.)

“Want to hear one of Dax’s early kink roots?” Mikey asked, teasing.

Of course the group wanted to hear it. Dax was grateful Mikey was going to tell it, because hir migraine meds were making hir a bit loopy, and ze just wanted to watch the room and relax. It was nice to be back. Nobody did potluck like fat activist queers. The briscuit Rebecca brought was the best comfort food ever, especially with Mikey’s flan for dessert, and ze was looking forward to popcorn and Julie Andrews. Hir chair was comfy, the sun wasn’t in hir eyes, and ze was surrounded by kinky queers. Hey, who was that cute femme boy in the corner? Oh, was that Téo, the boy Mikey had been telling hir about?

“Well, I bet some of you know Free to Be You and Me?” Mikey asked.

Lee and Xóchi both nodded. Dax guessed the other folks were a bit too young to know it. Except Jericho, who looked at Rusty and shrugged, clearly having no clue what they were talking about.

Xóchi said, “Oh, wait. I bet it was that football player singing, ‘It’s Alright to Cry.’”

The whole room chuckled. Dax was well-known for being the kind of sadist that got off on tears. When Xóchi started to sing a bit of it, Lee and Mikey joined in. “It’s alright to cry. It might make you feel better!”

Dax was blushing. Ze reminded hirself that ze loved them. They were family. Family got to tease you. And, really, hadn’t ze crooned just that line to Mikey last month in the middle of a particularly brutal caning?

“No, it wasn’t that one, actually,” Mikey said, grinning at Dax. “You remember the one about the tender sweet young thing?”

Lee and Xóchi both shook their heads.

“Well, it’s about this girl who dresses impeccably, and always goes first in line, and gets basically everything she wants, and then she gets caught by a pack of lions.”

“Tigers!” Dax inserted.

“Oh, sorry, baby. Tigers. So they tie her up and sniff her a bit.” Mikey grinned.

“And she says, ‘I am a tender sweet young thing.’” Dax forgot hirself and got into it. “‘I am also a little lady.’” Dax grinned at Lee, who unconsciously began to adjust her shirt so that her considerable cleavage showed to better advantage.

“And she tells the lions to stop licking her,” Mikey inserted, watching Téo. Damn, the boy was so fucking cute. He had perked up, giving the story his full attention, a mixture of recognition and desire on his face. This confirmed it. Téo was the tender sweet young thing she’d had her eye out for.

“Tigers!” Dax insisted.

“That’s twice,” Lee said, holding up two fingers and looking sternly at Mikey over her turquoise cat eye glasses.

Dax continued, “My favorite part is when she says, ‘Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!’”

The whole group cracked up. Except for Téo, who was holding his breath.

“I’ve had a fashion safe word myself,” said Lee, eyes sparkling.

“So what happens to the tender sweet young thing?” asked Téo before he could stop himself.

“The tigers eat her,” said Dax, eying Téo again. Téo did something halfway between a preen and a squirm under Dax’s gaze. It was adorable. How had ze not noticed him before tonight?

“What?” said Xóchi. “How do I not remember this? They eat her?”

“Yep,” Mikey confirmed.

“And the whole story is told by the head tiger,” Dax added, grinning at Xóchi.

Xóchi grinned back, one predator to another, and then launched into a story of her own that involved her father’s knife. Dax hoped that Téo might share one of his own kink roots, but Lee soon ushered them over to the television for the much awaited showing of Victor/Victoria.

Téo couldn’t stop thinking about the tender sweet young thing. He could barely concentrate on Victor/Victoria, which he hadn’t seen before and was totally up his alley. He’d have to get ahold of it and watch it when he could pay attention.

He let himself work it out, as the others watched. It had been a while since he’d bottomed to a white person, and the last time had been a real mistake. That’s why he had been so careful with Rebecca. Their switchy thing was working out okay. But this was a different thing altogether because he kept thinking about being tied up and surrounded by Dax and hir band of tigers. That was serious bottoming, even from a power femme place.

But he’d been thinking about Dax all night, about that gleam in hir eyes as ze looked him over and told him that the tigers ate the tender sweet young thing. Anyone who could hang in this group was probably okay. Xóchi and Mikey clearly trusted hir. Jericho had made a point of saying that they wanted Dax and Mikey at their party next month, and that was a POC-centered space. I mean, they allowed white folks who acted right, but it was different to be invited special.

It’s not like he hadn’t known Dax for a few years; they’d been in that genderqueer showcase together, after all. He’d just never noticed hir in that way before. He’d been crushed out on Mikey for a while, as their friendship had grown, and been looking for a way to let her know he was interested. And it was clear that the scene he had in mind would mean bottoming to her, too. Yeah, he thought it was worth the risk, especially because he didn’t think he’d have to worry much about disability stuff with this group. Damn, this scene hit so many of his buttons in exactly the right way. Oh, was the movie over already?

It turned out that Rebecca was going home with Jericho and Rusty (which no one was surprised by after the kink root she’d shared about being constantly cast as the prince when she ached to be the evil stepmother instead). She had been Téo’s ride. So Dax and Mikey offered to drive the boy home. He had the cutest tempting blush on those fat cheeks of his when he accepted.

Dax made Mikey put on Free to Be You and Me, and ze watched Téo’s face as he listened to the one about the tender sweet young thing. As the girl described herself, Téo couldn’t resist running his hands through his shiny curls, blue sparkles on his nails picking up the dim light in the car. Oh, he was delicious. When Dax heard him gasp at the end when the tigers ate her, ze met Mikey’s eyes with a grin. Then ze asked Téo what he thought.

“I love the part where the tiger has ‘never seen anything quite like it before,’” he said, awe in his voice.

“Me, too,” said Dax.

“And that ‘tender sweet young thing’ is, like, her gender,” Téo continued.

“Told you he was a smart cookie,” Mikey murmured to Dax. She’d been eyeing Téo for some time. He was just her type: wicked smart, great politics around race and disability, and let’s face it—she had a weakness for sassy femme trans guys. And this one had those curls …

Dax grinned at Mikey. “You called that one.” Ze turned to the blushing boy. “So, Téo … are you a tender sweet young thing?”

“Who, me?” he drawled, winking at hir.

“I thought you might be.” Dax smiled into the boy’s eyes. “I can gather up a few tigers for Jericho’s party next week.”

“I have the perfect dress!” Damn, he was lit up like the Empire State Building.

“I can’t wait to see you in it,” Dax purred.

Mikey grinned at Téo. “I can’t wait to muss it up,” she said. She was already imagining it.

“I was hoping you might,” Téo gave Mikey a wicked smile and blew her a kiss.

***

Dax took hir time gathering the tigers. Mikey, of course. It was basically her idea, after all. Jericho surprised Dax by volunteering both themself and their boy Rusty. They might not be there for the whole scene because they were hosting, but they could be there at the beginning. Lee definitely wanted in, and Téo had agreed. Rebecca grinned wickedly and said she’d love to. Xóchi finally stopped chuckling long enough to say she’d do it, and that her girl would help hold space, fetch water, and have lube and snacks ready.

Negotiations went smoothly, and with this many disabled queers, it was a fucking miracle that there were no opposing access needs. Téo had been the one to bring up race, which meant he felt comfortable enough to raise the issue. Dax knew how important that was. They’d worked out the perfect bondage safe word. It was actually going to happen. Dax couldn’t really believe it.

What a band of tigers Dax had found. Lee honored the event in her turquoise tiger-print top, resplendent with matching glasses and cane. She was gleaming with top energy, regally driving her scooter around the party, grey curls streaming. Xóchi kept it simple in black jeans and her favorite boots. She planned to sit for most of the time, so it was actually possible to wear them, and nothing made her feel more powerful than those boots. Jericho’s bald head gleamed, and they were a gorgeous genderfuck mix of cues from dark lipstick to white button-down shirt and leather bowtie over a neon orange slip. The look was finished with knee-high lineman boots, a bootlicker’s dream, reserved solely for their boy as a reward for his silent service tonight. Their boy Rusty was clean and crisp in an A-line shirt and leather pants that showed off what he was packing. He looked delicious and untouchable all at the same time, a clear indicator of stone butchness if Dax ever saw one. Rebecca had laced a white boa around the handlebars of her scooter and slid her midsized curves into the tightest shortest thing in her closet, complete with fishnets, dramatic purple eyes that matched her glasses, and flats because her fibro had been flaring all week and heels were not fucking possible. Mikey wore a classic shirt and tie, her favorite top gear that she used to draw on a bit of Daddy magic for the scene ahead.

They claimed their space. Jericho wanted to use the scene to get the party started, raise the kind of energy they knew would inspire an electric night for everyone. They wanted to do their part to keep Carter Hall solvent, and a hot group scene can make a party. Having an accessible space was so damn rare even in the Bay, and this was a dream of a space, complete with a full-size sling that was actually rated for supersize folks like Téo. That’s exactly where Dax wanted to put the boy … if he ever showed up.

Xóchi’s girl Lina set up the space around the sling, with banquet chairs ready for folks who wanted to get off their scooters and rest or play while sitting; snacks and glucose tablets for the diabetics who needed a food break; and water, gloves, and lube for everyone. Dax took out the tools ze wanted to use and set them on the chair next to the one ze was sitting on. Ze kept it simple: the claws that an ex had made for hir out of metal guitar picks and a wicked pair of scissors to muss up the boy’s dress with. Ze was ready.

Mikey had finished laying out the electric blue rope she’d picked out to match the boy’s nails. She scanned the party. Where was Téo? He knew that Mikey had limited energy and needed to start early. Why wasn’t he here already?

Queers had started to form a circle around the sling, hoping to get a glimpse of some action, which gave Téo a perfect opportunity. He scooted through the crowd, trilling, “Ladies first! Ladies first!” at the top of his lungs. “Hand over a whole mango, please,” he quipped to Dax, turning to wink at Mikey, who chuckled, recognizing the line immediately.

He did have the perfect dress on, Dax marveled. Candy pink with a white collar that showed off his tempting neck and big white buttons down the front. He had on white knee socks and patent leather Mary Janes, and his curls were adorned with pink ribbons that matched his dress. The boy twirled on his scooter in front of them, showing off bulging white briefs, and Dax was mesmerized. Hir tender sweet young thing was packing!

Soon, Mikey had Téo bound to the sling. Could he look more fetching than when trussed up prettily in blue rope? Dax stood between his legs, hir midsize frame insistent against the boy’s cock. Rusty loomed by Téo’s head. Rebecca chose a seat where she could see his face and reach him with her cane. The rest of the tigers started up their scooters, circling slowly. Every few moments, one of them would poke him with their cane. Their grins were menacing, and the whirring of the motors combined into a purring growl that had Téo a bit more nervous than he had expected to be. He tried to watch them circle, but there were just too many of them. And Rusty seemed so damn huge at his head, standing over him, eyeing his curves. Had he actually signed up for this? What had he been thinking?

Dax waited until the boy was distracted, focused on the circling tigers, before ze pulled on hir claws. The metal gleamed, and ze knew it would make pale scratch marks on the boy’s reddish brown skin. Ze breathed into it, pushing into the floor with hir boots, settling deeper into topspace. The claws felt perfect as they traced along the boy’s neckline. He shivered, and Dax smiled down at him, feeling hir inner predator wake up. Oh, this was going to be fun. Ze gripped Téo’s throat and ground hir cock into his. He went still, trying not to move, all his attention on Dax, as Rusty gripped his hair to hold him steady and whispered in his ear. His eyes were saucers, and his lower lip trembled.

Mikey grinned as she watched Dax get things started. This was one of the best plans she’d had in a long time. She rolled up closer as Dax lifted Téo’s dress to run hir claws along the boy’s thighs. Rusty had the boy’s curls in his fist, and that position gave her a perfect opportunity. She nuzzled Téo’s neck, beckoning to Lee and gesturing to his stomach. Lee slid up to the boy and scent-marked his stomach through his dress, purring.

He was surrounded. He didn’t think it would be so easy to think of them as tigers, but they sure felt like it. Lee pressed her nose into his stomach as Mikey sniffed his neck, grazing her teeth along his skin. The ropes helped him sink into helplessness. There was no getting away from this, and that was exactly what he needed. Had Mikey just told Lee he smelled nice?

Mikey stood and met his eyes, running her hand along his curves, teasing into the collar of his dress, as her other hand held Dax’s both to steady herself and, well, because.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it before,” she drawled, letting the awe show in her eyes. “I wonder what it is?”

Téo knew his line. He’d been waiting for it, to claim this gender that fit so right, in front of queers who actually got it. He swallowed around the fear rising in his throat. “I am a tender … ,” he whispered, then stopped. It turned out it was harder to say than he’d thought.

Mikey met his gaze, gripped his face in her paw, and said, “What was that? Old tigers like me need it a bit louder.”

Dax took the opportunity to spread his thighs with hir claws, and Lee bit down on his stomach. Damn. Rebecca came over to hold his hand. That helped. Jericho came over to their boy and laid their hand on his shoulder. Rusty still hadn’t let go of his curls, but that felt grounding now.

“Looks tender,” said Xóchi, who had pulled up on the other side of his stomach with her knife out, and was tracing it along his collarbone, up toward his face.

Fuck, okay, he said to himself. You can’t talk when you aren’t breathing. You can do this. Let it out. It came out in a whimper, which only made Xóchi grin and press the knife deeper into his skin. Lee was nuzzling his stomach again, and Mikey held him captive in her gaze. Why couldn’t he look away? Why was it so damn hard to say?

Mikey’s eyes were warm and firm all at the same time. Her gaze said, Take your time. We are here. We know it’s hard. We’ve got you.

Dax saw the tears start rolling down those gloriously fat cheeks and knew what ze wanted to do. Hell, ze’d been thinking about it ever since ze saw the boy twirl. Ze pushed up the boy’s dress and worked his cock out of his briefs. Lina had a condom ready. (Damn, that girl was good.) Dax loved to suck boys off as they cried. It was such a fabulously twisted move for a top, and nothing tasted better than the power it gave. The boy went very still as ze worked the condom onto his cock. Ze slid hir tongue along the boy’s cock, watching his face. He was so damn sexy with his mascara running like that, a knife to his throat. Dax dug the claws into his thighs and feasted on Téo’s cock as the boy let go and sunk into fear, and helplessness, and sharp recognition.

It was too much, and he couldn’t keep still anymore, couldn’t stand to have Mikey look at him anymore. Not like that. His hands clenched, and his eyes scrunched up, and he was so damn frustrated that the words emerged without any censoring. “I wish you’d stop licking me!”

They all stilled. Xóchi put away her knife. Lee sat up, pulling her face out of his stomach. Dax raised hir head to look at him and smiled. Mikey came up next to hir and rested her head against Dax’s stomach.

“I got this,” Jericho said. “Me and my boy.”

They all moved to the chairs circling the sling, except for Jericho and Rusty.

Jericho said, “All that surface sensation is just too much, isn’t it? You need something deeper to show you how tender you are. I can do that.”

How did Jericho know that? It was scary how right they were. Deeper was exactly what he needed. He nodded helplessly.

Jericho handed their boy a condom and some lube. They picked up Dax’s scissors, getting a nod from hir, and cut off Téo’s briefs before he even registered what was happening. By then, Jericho had almost finished unstrapping Téo’s cock. They gestured to Rusty and moved around Téo, unbuttoning his dress to bare his chest. Téo loved, and hated, being beaten there. It was about the only kind of touch that felt right in that area, and it was so damn intense because, really, when you’re binding so many hours a day, your skin gets fucking sensitive.

Jericho had taken out their braided cat. Téo adored this toy, and was aching to get beaten with it again. Last time, it’d felt like light was bursting out the top of his head.

It was better than he remembered, probably because he needed deep sensation so much. He closed his eyes and let it drive into him. Sublime intensity concentrated where he needed to let go. Jericho was fucking magic. When Rusty slid into his front hole, it felt so easy and solid. Rusty was holding him steady with his cock, anchoring him here in this room so he didn’t float too far.

Mikey saw the shift before it happened. Jericho signaled to their boy, and Rusty started moving, holding the sling steady, and doing all the work himself, so that Jericho would have a clear target. They drove into the boy at both ends, watching him arc and writhe, and waited for him to scream. It was beautiful. They rode the boy together, building him up in spirals, and Jericho stopped beating him just in time to catch his scream in their mouth in a sweetly vicious kiss.

“Tender yet?” Jericho asked, poking Téo’s chest and grinning when he yelped.

“Yeah,” Téo managed to get out between yelps. Jericho motioned to Mikey and Dax.

“I’ve got host duties. Your turn to muss the boy up a bit.” They smiled down at Téo and tousled his curls. “You sure are sweet,” they murmured and, squeezing his shoulder, walked off on their boy’s arm.

Dax picked up the scissors and teased them against the boy’s cheek. Ze was going to enjoy this, and had been fantasizing about it for a long time.

Mikey slid on a glove, lubing it up. She nipped at the boy’s thigh, watching him squirm. She wanted him writhing on her arm, and soon.

Rebecca got her hand in Téo’s curls, and was doing that twisting-pulling thing that felt like sex. Dax snapped the scissors close to his ear, making him jump. Mikey was doing something slithery and twisty in his front hole. Damn, her paw was big. He wanted it inside him so bad, punching into his cervix with those powerful huge arms. Why was she going so damn slow? He was all-over impatient.

That’s when Dax began to cut into his perfect dress. He started to pull at the ropes, glaring at Dax, who seemed to get even bigger and more excited the more he glared. Xóchi and Lee began to pull at the tears Dax was making, and the fabric made a wet, almost breaking sound as they ripped it. Somehow, Téo was sobbing. Rebecca was stroking his hair, gathering him to her breast, and Mikey slid deeper into him and stilled.

Dax met his eyes, and he was held in the demand and witness of someone who got it. Got how helpless he needed to be, and how much he needed to let go, and how tender and new he was inside, and how scary it was to let others know that. Dax placed the scissors on his bare stomach, holding them firmly against him. They were cold and warm at the same time. How was that possible?

Dax reached over and stroked Téo’s cheek, lifting hir fingers to suck off his tears. Ze repeated Mikey’s question. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. I wonder what it is?”

This time, he could say it. “I am a tender sweet young thing.”

Mikey pulsed her hand inside him, and he moaned, repeating it, and getting rewarded by more twisting-pulsing yum that made his thighs quiver.

Lee and Xóchi growled, nuzzling his side. Rebecca stroked his curls, emerging with ribbons that she put in her own hair. He was getting stiff, and he wanted to move, so he said it: “Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!”

They all chuckled and began untying him. Mikey stayed where she was, writhing her fingers inside him. “So, you want to be free for this, eh? That sounds perfect,” she said.

“Oh yes,” he said and used his newly free hands to shift position. He knew if he hit the right spot, oh yes…her hand slurped in, and she grinned at him.

The rest of the tigers began to nuzzle his belly, and neck, and thighs. Mikey went to work in his hole, pulsing, then twisting, still going way too damn slow for him, and he told her so, began to work with her, thrusting on to her fist, telling her to punch him deep inside, he could take it, he wanted it, her fat fist was exactly what he needed. She caught on real fast and began slamming into him just right, and he lost control of his muscles and just let her take over. He was impaled on her huge and perfect fist, and he could feel it build in his chest. Damn…did he really need to cry again?

It seemed that he did, and as he began to sob, five tigers chose their spots and bit. Dax chose his belly, the soft part of him, the place where he was most tender. Rebecca went after his neck, sucking hard on the bite, wanting him to remember her teeth for days to come. Xóchi chose the inside of his arm, and that hurt the fucking worst. Damn, she was evil in the best way. Mikey bit down on the heel of his hand as she came because he felt so damn good spasming around her fist. Lee chose his thigh, and it mixed in with the sex to push him over into a sobbing orgasm that spiraled through him until he was spent. They all bit down and savored the sweetness of him, feeding on his tears, past his pleasure, until they were sated.

They gathered him up and found him a blanket, stroking his curls as he slurped down water, feeding him dried mango and chocolate on the huge round bed that was close by. Dax and Lee had a more substantial snack, being diabetics after all. Xóchi and Rebecca just shared his chocolate, each clutching their scrap of Téo’s dress. Lee admired the ribbons in Rebecca’s hair and stroked her neck, showing her teeth. No one was surprised that they wandered off. Xóchi’s girl was done cleaning and curled up at her feet, head on her boots. Jericho came by with his boy to claim scraps of the dress, kiss Téo’s cheek, and poke his bruises. He could tell he’d made Jericho proud and let that sink in.

After a while, Dax turned to Téo, serious. “You are brave and precious, and a delight to me. Thank you.” Ze gathered him close and twined hir fingers in his curls. Mikey nudged Dax and wrapped them both in her arms, nuzzling Téo and asking if he might like to come home with them. He had been hoping for that, and smiled sweetly, nodding. He was glad he didn’t need to put his armor back on just yet, content to have his tender spots showing for a bit longer.


This guest post is part of Xan West’s blog tour for hir new book Show Yourself To Me, available now from Go Deeper Press. Buy ebook or print copies at Go Deeper Press | Buy the ebook on Amazon

In Show Yourself to Me: Queer Kink Erotica, Xan West introduces us to pretty boys and nervous boys, vulnerable tops and dominant sadists, good girls and fierce girls and scared little girls, mean Daddies and loving Daddies and Daddies that are terrifying in delicious ways.

Submissive queers go to alleys to suck cock, get bent over the bathroom sink by a handsome stranger, choose to face their fears, have their Daddy orchestrate a gang bang in the park, and get their dream gender-play scene—tied to a sling in an accessible dungeon.

Dominants find hope and take risks, fall hard and push edges, get fucked and devour the fear and tears that their sadist hearts desire.

Within these 24 stories, you will meet queers who build community together, who are careful about how they play with power, who care deeply about consent. You will meet trans and genderqueer folks who are hot for each other, who mentor each other, who do the kind of gender play that is only possible with other trans and genderqueer folks.

This is Show Yourself to Me. Get ready for a very wild ride.

The stops on the blog tour:

October 1: Xan West https://xanwest.wordpress.com/
October 2: Book Birthday! Go Deeper Press http://godeeperpress.com/
October 3: Heather Elizabeth https://kinkopedia.wordpress.com/
October 4: Sinclair Sexsmith http://www.sugarbutch.net/
October 5: Hermia Swann http://www.cuntext.com/
October 6: Dilo Keith https://dilokeith.wordpress.com/ and Cecilia Tan http://blog.ceciliatan.com/
October 7: Kinky Brits http://thekinkybrits.com/
October 8: Stella Harris http://stellaharris.net/
October 9: F. Leonora Solomon https://fdotleonora.wordpress.com/
October 10: Tasha Harrison http://tashalharrison.com/
October 11: Benji Bright http://www.theeroticledger.com/
October 12: Tamsin Flowers http://tamsinflowers.com/ and Karida http://submissionandthecity.com/
October 13: Cassandra Perry http://cassandrajperry.com/
October 14: Peep Scoop http://www.peepscoop.com/ and Radical Access Mapping Project https://radicalaccessiblecommunities.wordpress.com/
October 15: Sugar Cunt http://www.sugarcuntwrites.com/
October 16: Emily Byrne http://writeremilylbyrne.blogspot.com/
October 17: Oleander Plume http://poisonpendirtymind.com/
October 18: K. A. Smith https://authorka.wordpress.com/
October 19: Giselle Renarde http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/
October 20: Butchtastic Kyle http://www.butchtastic.net/
October 21: Lisabet Sarai http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/
October 22: Syrens https://syrens.wordpress.com/
October 23: Anna Sky http://www.iamannasky.com/
October 24: Jade A. Waters http://jadeawaters.com/
October 25: Kal Cobalt http://kal-cobalt.squarespace.com/
October 26: Rebekah Weatherspoon http://www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/
October 27: Malin James http://malinjames.com/
October 28: BD Swain http://www.bdswain.com/ and Jillian Boyd http://jillianboydauthor.wordpress.com/
October 29: Kaleigh Trace http://thefuckingfacts.com/
October 30: Kiki DeLovely https://kikidelovely.wordpress.com/
October 31: Xan West https://xanwest.wordpress.com/ and Annabeth Leong http://annabetherotica.com/

Just This Next Thrust (Angie & Fern #4)

Fern saunters down the corridor like she’s window shopping, so casual, so indifferent. She’s in a simple dark grey summer dress that bounces a little when she moves, coming down to her knees, scooping at the neck. She’s carrying a crisp black leather rectangle purse, so small I can’t imagine it holds more than one book. Her black leather boots click against the floor. She looks a little severe, but the way she moves makes it all seem so casual and light. My legs start burning to run to her before she’s through the official security checkpoint, so I hold myself back for as long as I can, then dash into her arms and bury my nose in her neck, inhaling her sweet intoxicating scent, always the same, still after these two years: honeysuckle and leather.

“God, I missed you,” I whisper, not really speaking to her, just needing to say it aloud. She holds me close, arms around my waist as mine are thrown around her neck. I pull back to kiss her and our lips crushing and insistent, urgently nipping with our teeth, tongues exploring and soft.

I sigh, so happy. Things just feel so right when she’s around. “I can’t wait to show you around Indy!” I say. “There are so many fun things—”

“Oh sugar, like I want to see anything except your bedroom this weekend. I have a list of scenes I want to play in,” Fern ruffles my hair and slips her arm around my waist, turning and steering us toward baggage claim. “Sightseeing I can do anytime. You, though …” she turns to me, pulls me hard against her, our lips barely brushing, foreheads touching. “I need you,” she says, and kisses me again, so hard and passionate that I swoon, my knees going weak. She holds me up.

“Take me to your place,” she says.

*

While we wait for the luggage we kiss luxuriously slow, giggling, as if we had all the time in the world, as if we weren’t packing two month’s worth of longing and desire into one weekend, as if we knew where this was going. I wore sheer, wet lipstick that tastes like peaches—the one she loves—and hers is dark, but it doesn’t come off on my mouth. Her hair is too perfect, piled and twisted on top of her head. I can’t wait for it to come down, to lather it with shampoo and conditioner, to brush it out for her before bed like I’ve come to do on every visit.

I drive us quickly back to my place. She keeps her hand on my thigh, pushing up my short skirt, fingertips brushing feather-light against my skin. She kisses my neck and the palm of my right hand. I’m jumping out of my skin by the time we are walking from my apartment building’s small carport through the lobby to the elevator. Fern is so calm, like she is about to walk in to a business meeting she’s running. I am talking like an idiot, babbling on about the end of college, about my roommate (out of town for the weekend, obvs), about what happened when my parents came to visit for graduation, about the internship I had that possibly maybe probably could lead to a job, maybe even in New York.

The elevator is mirrored from the waist up. There are a hundred of us reflected on all angles. I’ve always loved this elevator. Really good selfies in here. As soon as I touch the #7 button to my floor—still yammering on, this time about the super of my building and how nothing is ever fixed—Fern puts a finger to my lips to shush me, gently pushing me against the wall. I whimper, immediately parting my legs for her. She shoves her hand up my skirt brutally, knocking into my pubic bone, as she kicks my legs apart and pushes my hands above my head with her other hand. She cups her palm around my cunt and kisses me, hard this time, biting my lower lip and shoving her tongue into my mouth. “I need you, Angie, I need you,” she mutters, pinching the folders of my cunt with her fingers, causing me to cry out, wince, and start dripping. “So wet already, girl,” she coos. I moan. Damnit. She always knows I can never hide it from her: what I want, what turns me on, what I’m desperate for. She’s so hard to read, but I seem so easy for her.

Fern pushes her fingers past my thin cotton panties and slides two right into me, easy and slick. I gasp, pressing hard against her hand, willing her deeper inside. I want her whole hand, her strap-on, her mouth—I want it all.

I’m just about ready to pull her down on top of me when the elevator stops and the door opens, and we’re on my floor. Fern clears her throat, kisses me once, and slides out of me, slowly and deliberately.

I barely get the key out of the lock before she’s on me again, in the hallway in my own little apartment. “Wait, wait, let me at least close the—” I start, but Fern slams it shut with her boot and gives me this look like I am the most delicious pray and she’s been stalking me for weeks. It makes me want to run, and it makes me want her to catch me.

So I do. I bolt toward the bedroom, dropping my purse and my keys on the floor, things scattering, not caring. Fern is so fast in following me that I can feel the whoosh of air on my legs. She catches me from behind, shoving me down face first onto the bed. I’m going to get it, and I want every bit of it I’ll get.

“I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you, girl,” she growls in my ear while she pushes my skirt and panties aside. She slides her fingers in again, more of them this time, long and pressing right up against that exact spot that always needs more, and I moan into the quilt.

“Please, please,” I beg.

Fern isn’t nice when she gets like this, she’s rabid, a little vicious. I never thought that would turn me on, but now I crave it, being wanted like that, being taken down. She thrusts into me a dozen times, slow then harder and faster, until I’m shuddering and almost ready to come. “Not yet, sugar,” she says, low and syrupy, her face still so close to my ear.

She pulls up and says, “Strip,” and reaches behind her for the zipper on her own dress, sliding it off of her shoulders, revealing her freckles and moles and her lovely breasts as she pulls it down over her arms. I drop my skirt and panties, unbuttoning the silver cap-sleeved blouse I’d picked out especially for her earlier this week. When her dress falls to the floor I see that she has a strap-on beneath her dress, a dark red one that matches her lipstick and fingernail polish precisely, holstered in a red and white striped harness with a small red bow at the top in the center. The dick is so long, and her dress is so tight, that it’s tied down to her thigh with a black hanky.

My breath catches at the sight. Goddamn, she’s so sexy. She unties the dick and tightens the harness.

“On the bed,” she says, and I immediately hop up onto it and lay back, pumping a palm-full of lube from the bottle on my nightstand and rubbing it against my hole. She kneels next to me, twisting my hips so she can slide her tool in to me from behind while I’m still mostly on my back. When she enters me, I grab at the bars of my headboard for support, pushing against her, working my hips against hers, taking it all in, every inch, every thrust she can manage.

“Please more, Fern please, please!”

She fucks me harder. She’s starting to grunt and moan and I reach down to touch my own clit, cunt contracting even harder around her. I rub it fast and furious with my fingers, pushing against the headboard and against her legs. She twists around, lifting one of her feet up, boots still on, and presses it against the side of my head, pushing me down into the bed. I’m held immobile, I have to take it, it’s too much and I almost can’t, but I love it, and I open up to meet every inch of force she dishes out to me.

Harder still. I moan and cry out, begging for more, begging for her to let up, begging for mercy, but she is relentless, and focused on my hole, which is telling her all she needs to know. I breathe and quiet myself, trying to just feel it, just feel every bit of it, just let every cell in my body soak up this pleasure so I can let it seep into my skin over the next months that we’re apart. When are we going to see each other again? We don’t have another visit planned. I can’t think about that now. Just feel it, I tell myself. Just this next thrust. Just this next breath.

I start working my clit with my other hand again, face still pressed to the bed under her boot, and before I know it I come, hard, shuddering and gasping, crying out, pressing my hips into Fern as she thrusts into me.

She moves her boot and collapses next to me. “Fuck!” she declares.

I can barely move, but I nuzzle closer to her, catching my breath. “Uh huh.”

“Ange, you’re so fucking hot,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Mmm. You are,” I say. “Did you come?”

She gives a short laugh. “No, I can’t come like that. I’ll just use your mouth later. Or your hands. Or maybe my hands. Hm, so many options.”

I nod, sleepy. “Whatever you want.” We lay together in the quiet for a little while, skin against skin, hands touching, caressing.

Then, suddenly: “Come on,” she says, getting up off the bed.

“What?”

“Let’s go, I want a cigarette.” Last time she was here, we spent most of the time in my bedroom, the kitchen, and the little roof deck up on the 8th floor. She loves cigars especially. I’ve even gotten good at cigar service, which I learned from folks in the local leather scene at her urging.

I reluctantly oblige, pulling my softest, warmest robe from behind the closet door and slipping it on. She pulls on pajama pants and a tee shirt, and pulls my college sweatshirt from the closet.

I follow her upstairs, still giddy and buzzing. She’s a little antsy. I should probably have offered to get her off right away, she’s still all wound up. But when I get upstairs, I get the feeling something else is going on.

She lights a cigarette, playing with the lighter and staring at the flame, sucking down the smoke. I hate that I find her smoking sexy, but I do. She gets all squinty and intense, and I just want to kiss her and taste it on her mouth. We sit on the patio furniture, knees touching.

“You know I love you,” she leans, reaching over to my hands in my lap. It’s chilly out here; we’re in that gloaming time, when it’s still light but the sun is gone, and it’s not yet twilight. I wrap my robe tighter around my body.

“Of course,” I say, but she keeps going.

“You know I want to be with you. I just haven’t been able to figure out a way to do it, really. But I got some really good news at work recently. I’ve been waiting to tell you, I wanted to say it in person. They’re offering me an international position, which means I’ll be overseas probably 8 months out of the year to start. The company has a villa in France, and another in Italy—that’s where they want me first.”

I swallow. Oh shit. What is she saying?

“And school is done for you, now. I know you want to get your own job and have your own career, and I want you to, I don’t want to be in the way of that. But we have other options, too … ”

And out of nowhere, Fern suddenly has a ring in her hand. A diamond ring, a beautiful one, antique and perfect and catching all the light that the sky has left. I gasp at the sight of it.

“Fern!”

“Angie, you’re everything to me. I want to keep exploring this, and I want you in my life every day, not just sometimes. I want you to come abroad with me. I know it’s a risk, and it will be really different and probably hard, but I want to try. Do you? Will you … marry me?”

I swallow, my mouth is so dry, my eyes are wet. “Yes. Yes baby, yes!”

Fern is relieved, visibly, and lunges forward to hug me. I can barely breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. I take a deep breath and feel better, feeling Fern’s hands on my back, her body and the perfect shape of her next to me, inhaling the scent of her. And—France! Italy! And the ring!

She pulls back to offer the ring, and I offer my finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” she says, kissing me. “My mom said she can’t wait to meet you.”

She slides it on, and it’s a perfect fit.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade. Harness featured in the story is The Betty by Velvet Nest. Cheesy marriage ending brought to you by the Supreme Court marriage equality decision over this past (pride!) weekend.

Tangled (Angie & Fern #2)

Fern’s first kiss makes my knees ache to buckle, my hands flailing to catch the air. Our shades of lipstick blend together and turn into the color of a bruise, all purple and red and plum. It makes me nervous to have color all over my mouth, I never let the edges go so mussed, but I like her imprint on me. Her lips are soft, so soft. She won’t let me put my hands in her hair, which makes me want to even more.

Her tiny leather vest had pins on it, some with dates—2013, 2012, 2011—one with tiny handcuffs, one with tiny stilettos. The back of it is embroidered in red and blue leather with the words “Ms. Formal Leather 2012,” and I puzzle as to what it all means. I hope she’ll keep me around long enough to find out.

She takes me to a wine bar around the corner. By now, I figure she’s smelled the money on me, but either way, she is a better date than James. But she doesn’t blink when the check comes, just slides some elite plastic from her tiny purse and says, “You’re coming home with me now.”

I giggle, dizzy from the burgundy and intoxicated from the sight of her smooth long legs, from the feel of the tips of my fingers dipping between her thighs. She leans in to my neck and sucks, nibbling gently, whispering, “Angie, I can’t wait to taste you,” and I bite my first two fingers to keep from moaning.

She takes my hand, pulls me from the restaurant, and hails a cab, all while keeping her mouth on my neck, her hand fisting my hair and holding my head precisely where she wants me. That pressure is the only thing keeping me standing, otherwise I swear I would be a puddle on the grimy, gum-stained sidewalk.

My thighs stick to the faux-leather back seat of the cab as I slide over so she can get in after me. Fern gives her address and some quick, specific directions, her fingers still tangled at the base of my neck.

Satisfied that the driver is following orders, she leans over to me, turning her shoulders to slide one of her hands between my thighs. I gasp. “What do you like, girl?” She’s whispering right next to my ear.

“I like … I like it when you kiss me,” I struggle with words.

She turns my head with her fist and our lips brush. “What else.”

“I like … rough. I like being thrown around. I like being used.”

Fern nods slowly, her lips exploring mine with each movement.

“I like … being filled up.” I’m pushing my legs open, begging with my hips for her to touch my pussy. I’m sure I’m wet; I feel hot and sticky, pulsing, swollen. She’s grazing the edges of my panties, dragging her her fingernails over my thighs just enough so I can feel it. Just enough to make me want more. I want to cry out. I want to beg.

“Oh, you do huh.”

Fern cups her whole hand over my vulva and lets me press it against her, trying to get my clit against the heel of her palm. “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

She moans a little. “Mmm, I like that.”

My dress is up way past my knees and I’m sure the driver can see whatever he wants in his rear view. My shoulders are thrown back, knees thrown open. I’m at her mercy. I want her fingers, her tongue, anything she would give me. Please, please. I can’t wait. I’ll do anything, everything. She brings one finger up to my mouth and slides it in against my tongue. I close my lips, close my eyes, and suck.

*


I am still bare, lying diagonally on her vast, fluffy bed, when Fern comes out of the shower. The sheets smell like her, the sweetness of some big yellow and white flower that tumbles down onto the ground with abandon, plus a little bit of harsh savory seriousness, along with a hint of down feathers. My entire body buzzes and pulses, and I can still feel her fingers on my hips, my thighs. She emerges with a puff of steam behind her, opening the master bathroom door wide to let it air out. The steam dissipates quickly and barely licks my calves and toes, just a whisper of wet warmth. Fern is wrapped in a thick grey towel that covers her body from above her breasts to her knees, wrapped more than once around her slender frame. Her hair hangs past her shoulders, darker now that it is damp.

She sits down at the vanity next to the picture window and watches me in the mirror while she pumps lotion into her hands and begins rubbing it into her skin. It hits my nose like I’d just driven by an entire field of honeysuckle—so sticky sweet, bright and pungent and enlivening.

I close my eyes, rolling on to my stomach and propping myself up with my elbows, my chin in my hands, and inhale deeply. “Mmm,” I sigh, with the same kind of relaxed eagerness as if I’ve been on a quest and now have found the source.

She smiles at me through the mirror, letting out a quiet laugh. Her voice is hoarse now. “You like?”

“It’s heavenly.” I sigh again.

Her hair is so fine, it is pretty much already dry, but it is tangled and matted from all of our rolling around. She holds up a bottle and a brush and says, “Would you?”

I nod, slipping off of the bed and taking the objects from her hands. I spray the bottle onto her tangles and gently start running the dark red comb through her hair. The teeth are big and wide, the handle is thick. I don’t use combs, only brushes really, the ones with the fine bristles, they smooth my hair the best. This, Fern’s red comb, feels foreign in my hands, but I want to be gentle, don’t want to pull. I spray more of the tonic and some of the knots loosen as I work them with the teeth, starting from the bottom, holding her hair so the pressure of the comb doesn’t pull her scalp.

Her shoulders are landscapes: the contours of the bones, the muscles. My eyes wander to her neck, her clavicle, the top curves of her breasts that are not covered by the grey towel. She continues with her creams and lotions, rubbing one kind in to her elbows, another kind to her knees and thighs, a third on her face.

I concentrate. More sprays from the tonic, more detailed attention to the matted knot that her hair has become—and then this one pulls through and begins to comb clean. There is one more on the other side. She is almost ignoring me, but I feel closer to her than when her whole hand was inside me. And then I feel it: I’m wet again.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

Bath Time (Bean & Mickey #2)

Content Warning: This story contains Daddy/girl dynamics, and shaving play with a razor (but no blood or skin cutting).

“Nooooo! Daddy, I’m scared!”

“Shhhh, hush babygirl. You’re going to make me slip. Now stay still.”

Bean’s arm is around Mickey’s shoulders, her big hand over Mickey’s breast, spilling out between Bean’s fingers. Mickey’s skin is wet and slick from the bath, the bubbles still shimmering and thick, smelling like lavender. The Mamie pink tiles in their bathroom was not a selling point when they moved in to the house, but they serve quite well for scenes like this. The matching thick grey hers & hers towels hang from the towel bar near the door; the cream paint needs touching up but things are generally in good shape. Mickey immediately bought a new shower curtain when they moved in, multi-colored and abstract like a Pollack painting, trying to make the pink tiles more subtle, but it mostly enhances the pink rather than camouflages it. The curtain is bunched up at one end of the tub, pushed aside. So are Mickey’s clothes, the sweet little blue and white skirt and blouse that she thinks make her look like a schoolgirl, the outfit she picked just to show off when Bean got home. It was not her first choice to have a bath instead. She might have stuck out her tongue in protest, for which she received a firm hand on her bottom.

When Bean took out a fresh, sharp razor, Mickey began an even louder protest.

Mickey tried to look away as Bean slid the razor expertly up her shin and calf, but she couldn’t. She could feel the metal—cold, despite being rinsed in her bath water, she could picture exactly how it was going to slice a line of red right through her skin and make her bleed. She doesn’t really like blood. It makes her feel faint, just the idea of bleeding.

“Daddy …” she whines, pleading with the syllables of her favorite word.

“You can do it, girl. Do it for me,” Bean leans over to kiss her babygirl square on the mouth, taking her lip between her teeth and holding it there, then opening her girl’s mouth for her tongue to plunge in. Mickey moans a little—she loves those big, overwhelming kisses. It distracts her long enough to breathe out.

“Good girl. Now stay relaxed, just like that. You wouldn’t want me to nick you,” Bean’s voice is soothing. Mickey shakes her head vigorously and grabs at Bean’s arm, Bean’s grey button-down work shirt rolled up and bunched at the elbow. Mickey’s hands are all wet but the whole front of Bean’s shirt is wet by now, with Mickey leaning against it and the splashing.

Mickey breathes in and tries to relax. Tries to remember her training from yoga, breathe in, relax, breathe out …Her eyes are wide and her breathing is shallow, but controlled. Her ankle is up on the side of the tub and Bean is past her knee now, up to the thigh where she doesn’t have much hair, so there isn’t much to shave. Usually Mickey does this herself. One of Daddy’s many rules is to keep herself shaved and smooth and soft.

Bean cups the bathwater in her hand and pours it over Mickey’s leg, the shaved one, to look for any places she’s missed. After a few more quick swipes, she’s done. “Next,” she tells Mickey, and Mickey, eyes big with her thumb in her mouth, swipes one leg for the other, balancing her ankle on the edge of the tub, and shivers in the cool air.

“Almost done, babygirl …” Bean is focused, methodical, technically precise in her skill. She leaves the shaving cream thick, she takes care around the bones of her ankles, around the tendons behind her knee. She draws the razor up Mickey’s leg in stripes, rinsing the razor, then pulls another stripe. Soon, Mickey’s leg is bare again, bare and tingling with menthol and naked exposure.

Her second leg is quicker; Mickey is more relaxed and more trusting (the thumb sucking helps), she doesn’t squirm as much. “You’re doing so well, babygirl,” Bean coos, and Mickey flushes with delight. She’s being strong, relaxed, doing something scary for her Daddy.

Bean rinses off Mickey’s leg, taking time to soothe every inch with her hand, then rinses the razor again. “Stand up,” Bean says, snaking her arm out from behind Mickey.

“What?”

“Stand up, girl. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Mickey stands carefully, trying not to slip in the lavender bubbles. Her hair is longer and darker from the water, past her shoulders and dripping onto her breasts, her nipples hard. She hugs her arms around her torso and shivers. Her eyes are big and nervous again.

“Turn.”

Mickey turns so she faces the wall, ass toward Bean. A spanking? Now? But she relaxed!

“Bend over.”

Mickey shivers again, though she’s less cold now. Maybe Bean was packing this whole time? She bends from the hips, holding on to the wall behind the tub for support.

Bean immediately begins probing Mickey’s ass, pulling apart her cheeks and running her finger along the velvety outside of Mickey’s tight pink asshole.

Mickey gasps. “Daddy!” Whining again, protesting. But she stays bent over, stays in place.

“We’re going to shave here, too, babygirl,” Bean has the shaving cream ready, balances the razor on the tub’s edge. She dabs cream generously at the small patch of light brown hair surrounding her girl’s delicate hole and rubs it in a little, massaging, getting her used to the touch. Some of the skin is puckered, Bean will have to be cautious. She picks up the razor and gently, gently starts kissing it to Mickey’s tender place, holding her cheeks apart with one hand and pulling the razor expertly swift with the other. Mickey gasps at the touch of it but stays bent over. Her little hole puckers, a wink of contraction, and relaxes. Bean grins.

It doesn’t take very many strokes of the razor before the soap is gone with the hair. There are a few strays that Bean takes out individually, the razor at a different angle, her hands spreading the skin taut.

When Bean is satisfied, she sets the razor on the tub’s edge again and dips her hands with her fingers tight together into the water, and pours handfuls of warm water down Mickey’s ass, rinsing the soap. Two, three times, then Bean pulls Mickey’s cheeks apart again to check on what soap is left. She swirls her thumb around Mickey’s tight hole and the skin feels practically squeaky clean.

Bean holds Mickey’s ass open and leans forward to kiss it. Her tongue swirls around the hole and against the puckering skin. Mickey gasps and purrs, leaning forward a little deeper and pushing her ass back against Bean’s face. “Oooooh,” she sighs. Bean licks, lapping with her tongue wide and soft, warm and wet and wanting. She tastes faintly of soap, and underneath that, of skin. Her tight hole is even more relaxed, opening a little for her daddy’s tongue, pushing faintly against it, urging it in deeper.

“Ohhh god that feels so good,” Mickey moans into the wall, barely loud enough for Bean to hear. Bean moans, the humming vibrating into Mickey’s ass. Bean reaches around to touch Mickey’s cunt and finds it wet, dripping already, her lips thick and puffy. She gets her thumb wet and then flicks Mickey’s clit with it while she plunges her tongue into Mickey’s tight asshole.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Mickey pleads again, this time with lust and a hint of begging behind her syllables.

“Hmm, look at this,” Bean answers, pulling on the short hair on Mickey’s cunt. “We’re not quite done yet, babygirl. Turn around.”

Mickey whimpers, extracting herself from the bent over pose and standing with some difficulty, her pussy thick and waiting. She turns.

“Spread your legs,” Bean orders, soaping up her hand with shaving cream again, applying it generously to the short light brown hair between Mickey’s legs. It tingles Mickey, the menthol cooling her skin, and she shivers again, her arms hugged close, fingers to her lips.

Bean takes her time. The hair here grows thicker than on Mickey’s legs or asshole, and needs some tender attention to get every one. Mickey does sometimes shave or wax on her own, though that is not required. This time, however, Bean wants her completely bare.

Bean works at her like she is an object, moving her hip or thigh with no show of concern for the person attached to it, the razor sliding along the hip crease, her inner thighs. When she starts to get closer and closer to Mickey’s lips and clit and slit, Mickey whimpers a little, shivering again, and Bean adds a little more shaving cream, just to make sure it’s nice and soft and supple. She goes slow, thoroughly.

“You’re doing great, babygirl,” Bean soothes. It’s a little harder with Mickey’s cunt all turned-on and thick, but it also entices Bean to do a good job—and quickly. She wants her mouth back on that girl’s cunt, wants to drink down her juices and suck her fat clit until she screams and claws at the wall to hold her up. She wants to plunge in her fingers and work her orgasm from inside, hooking around that spot until Mickey lets it all go. Bean refocuses, holding Mickey’s lips in one hand and working the razor with the other. She lets her thumb swirl around Mickey’s hole, around Mickey’s clit. Mickey hums a little in response.

“Almost done, baby. Just a little more.” Bean leaves her fingers flicking and playing while she rinses the razor again, then brings it back to get the last stray hairs. She uses her hands as a cup again and rinses the water down Mickey’s cunt, bare and bald, so soft and so smooth. So naked. Exposed to her, just to her own eyes and fingers and mouth. Bean pulls her lips apart with each thumb and nuzzles her mouth into Mickey’s cunt, lapping thick with her tongue and suckling ever so gently on Mickey’s clit.

“Ohhh,” Mickey moans, tangling her hands in Bean’s hair, lifting one of her feet up onto the side of the tub so Bean can get a better mouthful. “Please Daddy, please.” Mickey is close already. Bean slides two thick fingers into her cunt easily, her wetness already plenty of lube. She finds that spot and pulls, pressure behind Mickey’s clit as she sucks it down and flicks it quickly with her tongue. Mickey’s knees are shaking, she’s leaning against the shower wall for support. “Oh god, oh Daddy!” Mickey is close, digging her fingers into Bean’s head and shaking more, stomach rippling, hips bucking. Bean doesn’t let up, keeps her pressure steady and fast. Mickey slaps the wall looking for something to hold on to, pressing against it.

“Fuck! Ohhhh myyy gooood,” she draws the words out long and low as she comes, shaking, pressing hard against Bean, a stream of come flowing from her cunt. Bean opens her mouth to suck it down, some of it dripping down her chin onto her shirt. She keeps her sucking gentle, lapping at Mickey’s cunt until she’s clean and stops shaking. Mickey purrs, eyelids heavy, shoulders shivering.

Bean smiles up at her girl and releases her fingers, her grip on Mickey’s hips. She gets up to fetch one of the big fluffy towels and eases it around Mickey’s shoulders. “All clean, girl.”

Mickey sighs, pulling the towel around her. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Bean pulls the tub stopper and the water starts flowing out. It’s cool by now, almost room temperature.

“Daddy?” Mickey hums, while Bean uses the towel to keep drying Mickey’s skin.

“Yeah, baby,” Bean murmurs.

“Will you fuck me now? Please? Get your big dick out?”

Bean looks up, a little surprised, then runs her hand between Mickey’s legs and feels her cunt still wet, lips still puffy. “My pleasure, babygirl,” she replies, pulling Mickey close, kissing her sweetly, their mouths open. “Let’s go.” Mickey steps out of the tub. Bean is already unbuckling her belt, her jeans. Mickey follows Bean into the bedroom.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

Daddy’s Belt (Bean & Mickey #1)

Content warning: This story contains daddy/girl play, punishment, name calling, humiliation, and some force. The characters in this story are consenting adults who have established this dynamic consensually and purposefully long before the story begins.

Mickey hears the belt before she sees it; that whip and jingle when it pulls free of Daddy’s jeans immediately makes her wet. She struggles against the silk men’s tie that binds her wrists to the metal headboard and tries to pull her hand through. She doesn’t want a spanking, especially not with the belt. Except kind of, a little bit, she does.

“You’re in trouble, babygirl,” Bean sneers from behind her. She’s mad, but is it for-real-mad or play-mad? Probably play-mad. Mickey doesn’t break any rules that actually matter, just the ones that she knows she can bend.

Mickey twists her neck around and switches her hips to get Bean’s attention. Bean is wrapping the belt around her big hand, her nails still have dirt under them from her long day of landscaping. She hasn’t even taken a shower yet. Bean hates not taking a shower right when she gets home. When Bean looks Mickey in the face, that flash of love and care and giddiness and just a little bit of mean sadist, Mickey sticks out her tongue.

Bean blinks, and sets her jaw, lunging forward to grab Mickey’s face in her other hand. “Dirty girl. You deserve it, and you know it. You know what you did.”

“No! No, Daddy!” Mickey struggles and pouts.

“Yes, you do. I try to teach you to be a good girl, but I just get this dirty little slut. You think you can do things like that and I won’t catch you? Huh, girl?” Bean grabs her ankles and twists her onto her stomach, pushing her down onto the bed and pulling up her skirt.

Mickey whimpers a little, then gets mad. “I do it all the time when you’re not home! So there!”

“You do not.”

“I do! I touch my little pussy and make it all wet and swollen.”

“Filthy little cunt,” Bean flexes, opening and closing her fist, and smacks Mickey’s ass with force, but then regains her nice-daddy composure and tries to go with the discipline approach rather than the humiliation, which will only fuel Mickey’s rebellion. “What’s Daddy’s rule about that, huh? Come on, you know the rule. Tell me.” Bean smacks again. Two pink handprint outlines begin to appear.

Mickey whimpers again, but tries to stay defiant. “Your rule is, only Daddy touches me down there.”

“That’s right. Good girl,” Bean soothes Mickey’s ass, starting to turn red from slaps already.

“You’re so mean! You’re the meanest Daddy ever!” Mickey tries to get out of the wrist ties again. Something loosens, and she focuses on slipping out of it even more. Bean keeps smacking her ass but she concentrates.

“No, babygirl, no I’m not. This is for your own good,” Bean pulls on the belt and gets it ready, pushing Mickey’s skirt up her legs. Mickey has quieted. Maybe she’ll calm down and take it.

Mickey knows she has to act fast once she slips away. Her body is small, quick. But she’ll only have a fraction of a second before Bean is on her. She gets both wrists free and stays still, thinking. She can see Bean’s reflection in the chrome of their bed frame, and when Bean pulls back the belt to wind up and hit her, she jumps up and darts for the door of their bedroom.

All it takes is a second. Bean hesitates for just long enough for Mickey to get a head start, skidding across the hardwood on her socks, skirt flying, hair flying, laughing and whooping with glee.

“Damn you, girl!” Bean yells, but she’s smiling and chuckling, her thighs flexing, calculating the time it’ll take Mickey to run from the living room into the kitchen and creeping behind the wall to intercept her. Bean gets quiet, to surprise her. Mickey is still laughing, and giving herself away. She rounds the corner and Bean is there, arms outstretched, catching her as she squirms and wiggles, trying fruitlessly to get out of Bean’s grip. Bean has at least fifty pounds on her, and many inches of height—plus, she’s still wearing her shoes, and can grip the floor without sliding, unlike Mickey, who is practically falling over and has nothing solid to push against. Except Bean.

They wrestle, tussling back and forth as Bean drags Mickey to the nearby couch and holds her down on her stomach, her leg bent and knee digging into Mickey’s shoulder. “Settle, girl!” Bean yells, pulling her hair, getting the belt out again. A few quick smacks to force Mickey’s submission, then longer, fluid, softer strokes to ease her ass to compliance. Mickey is wet. Bean can smell it. She dips her fingers into her babygirl’s tight hole and they come away glistening. She sucks in the taste of her girl, then pulls open her pussy lips as Mickey gasps.

“Mine, that’s mine,” Bean mutters, hitting Mickey’s ass and thighs. Stripes from the belt are starting to welt. Mickey moans, kicking her feet and pounding her fist into the leather of the couch, but she can’t budge anymore. She’s caught. Tears prick her eyes and her ass stings, but she also feels light, weightless, dizzy with lust.

“Please Daddy, please fuck me Daddy,” she coos, two fat tears spilling over as her desire takes over. Bean works her fingers in deeper and Mickey tilts her ass into the air. Bean hits what she can reach with the belt and adds more fingers to fuck her girl’s pussy, her thick calloused fingers working in and out easily with how wet she is.

“Yeah like that, I like that Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

“Is that what you wanted, huh?”

“Yes, yes, I want it!”

“Tell me, girl.”

“I want to come Daddy, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“That’s right, that’s my good girl. Come for your Daddy. Daddy’s the one who makes you come. My sweet girl,” Bean feels Mickey tighten around her fingers, her thighs quaking and pressing against the couch.

“Unnnhhh,” Mickey groans, stretching her arms and legs and pushing hard against Bean as she comes, shuddering, then collapses, spent.

Bean grins, shifting to soothe Mickey’s red ass with her hand and bending to lay herself on top of Mickey, kissing her cheek and shoulder, whispering into her ear what a good girl she is, how Bean knew she could take it, so proud of her babygirl. Mickey sighs, body humming.

“Daddy!” Mickey perks up, words still slow and dreamy.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can we get pizza?”

Bean laughs. “Yes, sure, of course we can. I’ll order while you get cleaned up. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” They shift again and Mickey curls up in Bean’s lap, her hands around Bean’s strong forearm as she traces her freckles. Her eyes are clear, shining when she looks up at Bean. Mickey reaches up to smooth out Bean’s hair, all disheveled from their escapades, and she giggles.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

DJ’s Birthday Gangbang (Kai & DJ #4)

I have always wanted to throw someone a gangbang. And by someone, I mean DJ. Maybe because they’ve thrown a few for me—it’s amazing how easy it became to orchestrate one after we’d been traveling to go to kink conferences for a few years—or maybe because I’ve never seen a gang bang where the person at the center is also the top. I’m not quite sure I can wrap my head around it, even though DJ and I have talked about it a bunch.

This year, for their birthday, I decided: fuck it. Let’s just try. Worst case scenario, all the hotties we know come and it’s an awkward good time.

I’ve invited a dozen people to meet us at the dungeon at IMsL at 8pm on Friday, and DJ thinks they and I are having a scene. I asked them to strap, and I’m bringing their favorite toys to use to fuck me up.

They’ll fuck me last. I mean, they’ll do whatever they want, but I hope to be last, even better if they let me get them off after they’ve gotten their fill of everyone else. I’m packing, for sure, and wearing a crisp white tee shirt I starched just for this. On top of that, my leather shorts, suspenders, and my tall boots. I mean it is a leather event, after all.

International Ms. Leather, IMsL, is one of my—our—favorites. It happens annually in the San Francisco Bay Area. The focus is on leather women, but all kinds of genders attend, and the vast majority is queer. There are dozens of classes with amazing presenters in the day, and evening entertainment while some folks compete for the titles of International Ms. Leather and International Ms. Bootblack. We’ve been attending for the past five years, ever since 2009 when everything blew up and we almost broke up, but it ended up being a huge transformation instead. We’d always been open and slutty, but it took a reconfiguring of our relationship to put kink play in the center of our sex lives. We’ve been going to all kinds of workshops, demos, parties, and munches since then. We really reprioritized what DJ calls ‘preserving the boners,’ and have revalued sex in our partnership (and outside of it). I mean, we didn’t want to break up—but we weren’t having sex, like at all, so something had to shift. I’ve been in relationships like that before, where sex peters out and wanes, and I’d never been able to get it back—but hey, we did! It is possible, I always believed in it, I’d just never actually seen it happen before. It sounds cheesy, but I think we really loved each other enough that we wanted to stay together, so we both made commitments to change and keep growing. Plus, therapy. That was essential.

And events like these weekends are so rejuvenating for us now. It’s like we can shut out the world, dive into the power and strength of our sexual connection, and let the rest of our lives go for the whole long weekend. So blissful. It helps that we know everyone here after going for so long—but I still love meeting the new folks. You could say I have a fetish for showing the newbies the ropes. I figure it’s part of my community service.

I show up in the dungeon at 7:30 to get the perfect spot—the corner where a sling, cross, and a massage table are all nearby. Nobody else is there for the gangbang yet, but they will be soon. I told them to be a little early. My pulse is racing already and I’m nervous but excited to get this going. How will it work? What will we do? Do I really have to sit here and wait, with nothing to do, for twenty minutes?

Thankfully, Tanner walks in carrying a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign and starts looking around for me. “Over here,” I projct my voice to reach them. They nod and head toward me.

“Setting up?” Tanner asks, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, not much to do though really. I mean all the equipment is already here, so. I like this corner. Lots of options.”

We hear a smack and someone yelps from the next room over, the thin hotel walls barely concealing it. But mostly the dungeon spaces are empty. Everyone is probably still in the hospitality suite having drinks.

Tanner agrees with me about the corner, and we tart talking about the details—who is coming, how will it work? I’m getting excited. It’s going to be great. Where is everyone? Where is DJ? They had a playdate a few hours ago and were going to shower and nap before joining us at 8, but it must be almost time.

A few more folks arrive—Tanner’s friend Rachel; one of my occasional playdates, Lee; DJ’s regular fuckbuddy (and sometimes boy) Ayden. We all discuss what we’re going to do, and how our IMsL has been so far. Lee has already been in two other gangbangs today.

“It’s important to have that friend you can rely on to show up for your gangbang,” I grin at Lee.

“It is my pleasure, buddy, all mine,” they respond generously, clapping me on the shoulder.

Ayden and Tanner are doing that flirting dance, nervously watching each other and talking low. Rachel is pretty quiet, as usual, she’s just watching us all and playing with what’s left of her hair. I’ve never seen it this short—she must’ve cut it for IMsL. Practically a boy cut from the back, but the front comes down to her chin and frames her face. It’s very cute. Something about it makes me want to kiss her.

A few other folks arrive, and Tanner and Lee make the rounds in the dungeon to see if there are any stragglers who would want to come join our scene. They come back with a few wide-eyed new kinklings in tow, talking about negotiation skills and what we’re planning in our scene. Mostly, this gangbang will mean that DJ will have an audience for whatever play they want to do, and each of us gets to have a turn with them. I decided to set a timer: 3 minutes each. That’s not a lot of time, but I also kind of expect people to start lining up if they hear that DJ is down here flogging anyone who wants it. We’re all milling about a little, and Ayden and Tanner start making out, Tanner sitting up on the massage table and Ayden between their legs.

And then DJ comes in.

“What! Is this!” They shout, grinning ear to ear, arms held out wide as now more than a dozen queers rush over to them, grinning, offering hugs and kisses.

“Happy birthday!” We all yell. I’m still in the corner, holding a flogger in one hand and my phone in the other. DJ makes their way to me, scooping me into their arms and holding me hard for a deep kiss. I laugh and moan, melting in their arms.

“Happy birthday, Sir,” I say, quiet. “Welcome to your birthday gangbang.”

“What! Oh man, this is the best. Thank you, Kai, and thank YOU …” they raise their eyes to the group, gathered around tightly, eager to get going.

I put on my game face. “Here’s how it works: You get three minutes each, and thirty seconds to negotiate what you’re going to do. I mean, more if you need it, but most of these folks you know.”

DJ nods, eyes shining.

“Tanner is going first. From there, we’ll just keep offering ourselves to you, until you’re done. Good?”

DJ nods vigorously, eager. “Great.”

“And … can I be last?” I ask, a little quieter.

“Absolutely.”

I think their face is going to break from smiling so hard. “Ready Tanner?”

Tanner hops down from the massage table and comes over to DJ, kneeling in front of them. “Ready, Kai. Ready, sir.”

I start my timer. “Go ahead, then!”

DJ leans down and they whisper with Tanner for a moment, then Tanner gets up and pulls their leather chest harness off, and then their tank top, so they are naked from the waist up. They cover the few steps over to the St. Andrew’s cross and DJ follows. DJ selects a flogger from the variety of toys I’d laid out and starts swinging. They’ve been playing together for months now, and DJ so skillfully knows how to warm them up and take them up to the edge, but not push them too far. It’s lovely to watch. Tanner starts breathing hard, I can see their chest heaving, sometimes twisting away from the flogger and crying out when it’s a particularly rough blow. Three minutes isn’t very long, though, and Tanner’s back is just starting to pinken when my timer chimes go off.

“Time!” I declare. “Next?” Rachel is right there next to me, so I snag her by the arm. “You ready?”

Her eyes are playful, sparkling. “Fuck yeah.” DJ directs Tanner back toward me and I catch them, stroke their skin while they purr and hum, eyes open, still anticipating what’s next. Rachel goes right over to DJ and asks, “Can I suck your cock? Please?”

“I would be honored,” DJ says, and unbuckles their belt. When DJ gets it into their hands and adds a condom, Rachel works her mouth on it, kissing and sucking, using her tongue expertly, her inner lips, her fingertips. She makes little noises around it, closes her eyes, swallowing like it’s gourmet dessert. DJ is rapt. We all are.

I almost forget about the timer, so I start it for two minutes and that goes by so quickly. “Lee, want to go next?” I stage-whisper. Lee nods. “Know what you’re going to do?” Lee shakes their head.

“Time,” I call over. Rachel grins and laughs a little, sucking the spit back into her mouth and giving a couple more tugs and kisses on DJ’s dick.

DJ groans. “Fuck, thank you.”

“Lee?”

Lee shyly walks over to DJ as they help Rachel up, and Rachel joins Tanner in the post-sexy blissed out pile. “What do you want to do, DJ? Anything in particular?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Great. Yes please.”

They navigate expertly, getting Lee up on the massage table while Ayden and I grab lube and gloves. DJ has flavored condoms in their pocket and slide a new one over their dick. Ayden pulls up their Utilikilt to reveal nothing underneath—”The way god intended!” they declare—and they start in as soon as I start the clock. They’re comfortable enough together that they just go, without much warm-up: DJ slides in slow and starts to pound. Ayden holds their legs up by the knees.

“More lube!” Someone cheers.

“Yeah, get them!” We’re all crowded around, I can’t quite tell who is talking. Voices overlap as they start cheering DJ on.

By the time it’s my turn, half of the folks have wandered away or started their own scenes nearby, but we still have a few folks still watching.

“Do I need to set a timer?” I ask.

“Not for you, baby,” DJ answers. They’ve lost their shirt by now, skin slick with sweat. I lick some of it and it tastes so good, like DJ but saltier.

“What do you want? What can I do for you?”

They think a moment and then grab my hands. “Fist me,” they say. “Did you bring the Hitachi?”

“Yes.” I go for the toy bag and find the nearest plug. It is close enough so they can be on the massage table and it still reaches.

It takes us no time to set up. DJ is swift and determined, and I am so fucking hard after watching all of that. It’s only been an hour or so, but it was a lot of people, practically every instrument of torture and pleasure that I brought, and a lot of people to wrangle. DJ takes off their boots so they can remove their pants, and leaves their dick on. Their harness is easy enough to get under, and this way they can jerk it while I am inside of them.

They’re so wet. Open. Ready to be filled already. DJ leaves their hand lazily on their dick and works the Hitachi at the base, figuring out how best to feel the intense vibration through the harness, or whether it’ll fit under. They find a good spot and settle, sighing, back into the table. It still takes me a while to work four fingers into them, but once I do, and I add even more lube, the thumb tucks easily and I start to push. They open against me, pressing back, and I slide in. A perfect fit.

They start working their dick faster, and pressing the Hitachi harder, and bucking their hips against my hand, and by the time all of that is in place they don’t last long at all, and they come in a deep grunt and a tense spasm that crunches my hand and starts to push it out, leaving only a few fingers still trailing inside. DJ is panting on the table. They pull me up on top of them, between their legs, my weight on their whole body, and they kiss me soft and sweet. Rachel brings over their water bottle, refilled again. Ayden and Tanner are doing some wrestling scene nearby, laughing and grunting at each other.

“So good, Kai,” DJ is still smiling, blissed out and high.

“I’m so glad,” I say back, hugging them hard. “I want your birthdays to be special.”

“Is there anyone left at IMsL that you haven’t fucked?” Rachel asks, holding the water bottle so DJ can sit up a bit more.

They laugh. “I think there are a few more, yeah. Hey, it’s only Friday, after all!”

I laugh, taking a swig of water. I can feel it go down my throat, cold and sweet.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

Stone Grief (Kai & DJ #3)

By the time I ease two fingers into DJ’s ass, they already have tears streaming down their cheeks, crying in that silent release way that I’ve only seen a handful of times in the years we’ve been together, but that always means something big is going on. I breathe in, slow my fingers down, and wait. Present. Attuning to each of the smallest movements DJ’s body communicates.

“Don’t stop,” they whisper. “Just keep going.”

They make small sips of eye contact, but are mostly having their own experience. Their body shivers, sometimes from their head to their toes, sometimes left to right, rippling like a chill is going through them. I recognize that release, too. They have been so tight, so tense, their body all locked up for months now. I’m so grateful for the request to fuck them tonight. I’d do anything to help them through this.

Their back hole is tight but pliable, and they relax deeper into my hand as I slowly, slowly use my fingers to massage their insides. It feels like I’m unlocking something, that something has been clenched and is now letting go.

I’m completely unaware of the play party going on around us. There are people up on St. Andrew’s crosses, bent over spanking benches, on massage tables, tied to the wall with the eyebolts that are scattered all around this space. We are in the back corner. I snagged the sling as soon as we got here, after we checked in and made it through the socializing space where the cold pizza, nuts, and mixed veggie trays were laid out already for anyone needing a snack after or during their play. DJ is lying back in it comfortably, body completely supported, swaying slightly with the pressure of my hand against their hole. Their legs are up in the sling’s stirrups, permanently hung there for better access.

We could have done this scene at home, but DJ wanted to come here. Not necessarily to be witnessed, though the exhibitionism is something some folks at play parties seek. It is more that they wanted a place to have a big experience, a big release, that was safe and known and comfortable. Plus, they wanted to be in a sling. It’s the best place for them to receive.

DJ isn’t stone, exactly, but kind of stone-ish. I don’t fuck them very often, and almost never strapped on, though they do suck me off sometimes. They don’t have trauma about getting fucked exactly, they just don’t like it very much. It’s not the best way to get them off, I know—it doesn’t turn them on nearly as much as topping, or fucking with their own cock. But I do get to use my hands on them sometimes, especially after we’ve been going for a while and they have fucked everything out of me that they possibly can but are still hungry—that’s when I know it’s time for me to beg to suck them off, and to offer to use my hands if they want me to, which they almost always do. I think it took them a long time to receive while still being in charge.

Like tonight. They’ve been planning this all week—decided what toys we’d bring, packed the bag, made the arrangements, drove us here. They even told me what to wear (jeans and a crisp white tee shirt, often my uniform when we’re out in public anyway, but it was nice to know that they like it). DJ specifically requested a night for release and catharsis, but I probably won’t do any impact play or anything. I suppose we’ll see if they need that or not.

“Keep going,” they whisper again. I move my fingers a little faster and their asshole relaxes around them. They nod, eyes squeezed shut, tears still coming. Their hands grip the chain of the sling and they rock their pelvis a little, swaying the swing. I focus. I keep breathing. I nearly start crying myself with the emotion pouring off of them like heatwaves, I can practically see it. It’s been bottled tight inside of them ever since we got the call that DJ’s aunt, the one who had practically raised them, died suddenly of a stroke.

They are usually pretty good at handling their own emotions. I wouldn’t be with them for this long if they weren’t. But this kind of grief … only people who have gone through it really know what it’s like. My best friend was diagnosed with cancer and died when I was 20 and I lost my shit for a few years after that. It took me a while to even realize what was going on, it just felt like my life was suddenly falling down around me. DJ hasn’t lost anyone this close before, just relatives and occasional community acquaintances. I know it’s their own process and there’s only so much I can do, but I want to support and be helpful when I can. Especially when helping involves adoring their body, which I love to do anyway.

They arch their back in the sling, press their hips further into me. Their body is shuddering, shoulders shaking—maybe they are starting to really cry, those heaving sobs that are rarer still.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. It isn’t about words now, this is just about their body, the emotions stored in their thick muscles, the tenderness of their brown skin. I use my fingertips to caress them, then rest my palm on their chest, their heart. I can feel them crying through my hand. They press against me harder, and I move my two fingers a little more furiously. Their mouth opens, they cry out a little, sadness and grief and release and pleasure all mixing, still squeezing their eyes shut, face scrunching up in frustration and fury.

They find my hand with theirs and squeeze, press against me. I stand a little closer, off to the side, to get a better angle. DJ brings their other hand down to their clit-dick and starts jerking it, not quite sobbing but body heaving, beginning to moan. I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or grief or both. The music pounds and I’m starting to sweat, I can feel it dripping on my neck. It’s good that it’s warm in here, easier to be naked that way, and those of us working hard really get a workout. DJ is still pawing hard at their clit, and their hole grips my fingers and I can barely move, so tight, every muscle in them gets so tight, their hips lifting even further, pressing against me, body twisted and contorted, face all torqued like something is in their mouth that they have to swallow. They fist my hand so hard it hurts.

Until … slowly, slowly, the sobs start to come. Then a wail, long and low. Body heaving. I keel forward to offer my body next to theirs and they gladly accept, wrapping their arms around me, pulling me closer to them, crying into my shirt for a good long while.

I still don’t say anything. I can’t find my words. But really, what is there to say? It’s not about me. It’s what they need. It’s the only thing they need right now, to be able to cry for as long as they need to without someone fussing about them. I don’t need them to feel better, or to stop, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I just feel honored that they want me here, that they let me do this for them. I know sometimes they prefer to release their feelings by themself.

DJ slowly pulls their arms through our tight embrace and wipes their eyes and face and nose on my tee shirt. I laugh a little. “Is that why you wanted me to wear white?”

They smile. “No,” they say, eyes downcast. “I just like it.” They sound small, but when they open their eyes and look at me, finally, softly, they are shining and bright, alive.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

Taking It (Kai & DJ #2)

The boy is in the center of our bedroom, hands chained to the eyebolt in the ceiling, body stretched long. Their eyes are closed and head is hanging, just a little, and their arms are pulling up and out of their shoulders. They aren’t that tall—our chain was barely long enough. I suppose if you didn’t know better, you’d think this was a torture scene.

I guess it is, kind of. I slipped Tanner’s shirt off before we tied them up there, so their round belly and small chest with a smattering of fine light brown fur over them are exposed.

“You’ve done an excellent job today, Tanner,” DJ says, and swings their favorite flogger again, a hard thud against the boy’s body.

“Thank you, sir,” Tanner says, obediently, after they groan. 

“You have been a wonderful houseboy for us,” I add, taking my turn with my own flogger, this one with wide and flat leather tails—some call it a massage flogger. It’s my favorite to be hit with, so I use it whenever I can, when I top.

Tanner lets out a grunt when it collides. “Thank you, Kai.” We can’t decide on an honorific that fits me—sir and ma’am are too binary. So we just use my name. It still feels formal, and respectful.

Tanner is starting to drip with sweat. It rolls down their back and into the waistband of their briefs, tracing the contours of their young, strong muscles. They aren’t toned, but being chubby has it’s strength advantages too. It’s almost always a toss-up to see who wins when we wrestle, even though my upper back and chest and arms are pretty well sculpted, because Tanner has actual wrestling skill. They’re fast, too. Small, about the same height as I am.

Clearly we’ve got the heat up high enough. Tanner’s dark hair is starting to glisten from sweat, proof of their hard work—not just today, doing house chores, but also the hard work of Taking It. Orders, sadistic impulses, rules—you name it, Tanner took it today. This beating is the last of it, probably. Or rather, the last part of Taking It that is for us, and the start of Taking It that is for Tanner. DJ has a plan, I can tell. And I generally find it works best to just go along with DJ’s plans. 

“Go around Tanner and hold them up, will you, Kai?” DJ pauses the flogging to lightly touch Tanner’s back, trailing their fingers over the sensitive exposed skin, still dancing with sensation.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer, draping my flogger over my shoulder. I don’t usually call DJ “Sir,” but when they’re being sir to someone else, I get the urge. I brace my feet and legs, grounded into the floor, and press myself against the front of Tanner’s body. They immediately lean into me and sigh, some of the pressure lifting from their limbs. 

“How you doing?” I say softly, stroking Tanner’s hair. 

“So great,” they reply, words humming and high. “More?” 

I chuckle. “Sure. How about I stay while DJ flogs you for a while?”

Tanner nods, body limp and leaning on mine. 

“Go for it, Sir,” I move my arms out of DJ’s way and focus on being a tree for Tanner.

The boy stiffens when he’s hit, then collapses again; stiffens, collapses, stiffens, collapses. Their breathing catches, evens out, and catches again. I breathe too. 

I peek over Tanner to watch DJ. Their body flexes and heaves, shifting their weight back and forth on their legs, turning at the hips to get more torque into each blow. They are so elegant with a flogger. It looks like an extension of their arm, the energy flowing out and then fraying into the leather, colliding with another and emptying the charge down DJ’s arm, into the flogger, and out through the tails. DJ’s face is all concentration and precision—I’ve seen that look when they work me over, probably hundreds of times before. It makes me blush and rub my thighs together. It turns me on, hard.

Tanner sighs, body releasing, relaxing into me even further. It’s hard on a body to hold itself up and receive a beating at the same time. I readjust my feet to be more stable, so they can take the pressure out of their muscles and bones. They really did do incredibly well today. They showed up precisely on time (after the last time they were late, I would’ve been shocked if they hadn’t), and had clearly been working on the postures we’d wanted them to learn: kneel (when at rest and we are sitting), present (when they have something to ask or request), stand at ease (when chatting), stand at attention (when receiving orders). They even went through them all gracefully in a way that still felt masculine, not feminizing. 

DJ winds up and throws a few more times, hard, the smack of the leather jolting both me and Tanner. I can almost feel the flogging through their body, its impact reverberating through me like bass through a speaker. Tanner cries out and their breath comes in heaves, deep sighs and moans coming up from somewhere low. DJ presses their body up against Tanner from the back, arms reaching around to hold me too, and the three of us synch up in breath, in heartbeat. 

*

The boy is in the center between us, stripped bare, still sweaty, doing an excellent job of being holes for both of our cocks. Mine they are working over with their mouth, tonguing it and keeping their throat open, as DJ’s pushes in and out of their asshole. Don’t worry, we worked it in slow, with lots of lube, the way you’re supposed to. But Tanner was well-stretched and ready for it. They have been practicing with a butt plug in the weeks that we don’t play. 

We’re all piled on the bed, our dark blue comforter and crisp white sheets already torn from the bed and scattered. DJ has ahold of one of the tall, sturdy posts on our four-poster, and I’m entirely on the bed, kneeling up by where the pillows usually are. They’re only half-way on the bed, one foot planted on the floor and the other knee hiked up onto the mattress, perfectly positioned behind Tanner. The lights are dim in here, the walls are a soft suede shade of tan. Our furniture is crowded to two walls in this smallish bedroom, but that’s just so we can have room for the eyebolt and to throw a flogger. We’ve been slowly outfitting this room as our bedroom slash dungeon for a few years now, and I still have dreams of making it even better, but for now, it’s great.

DJ and I are stripped bare too, mostly because clothes just seem to get in the way. Don’t tell them I told you, but DJ loves being naked. They’re rarely clothed beyond boxers when we’re home alone. It is kind of hellish on our heating bill, but it’s well worth the eye candy. 

Each time DJ slides their cock in, the pressure pushes Tanner just enough that their mouth swallows my cock a little deeper. I barely even have to move, just the movement between us is enough. When I get my hips going, Tanner is like a ping-pong ball between us: I push them back to DJ, onto DJ’s cock, and DJ pushes them back to me, onto mine. 

Tanner is moaning and drooling and coming, eyes closed, limbs limp. We’ve been at them for probably an hour like this already. They have moved past the begging and screaming stage into the blissed-out sub-space that is practically non-verbal. They’re just about done. But we’re not. 

DJ reaches for me, catching the hand that’s on Tanner’s back, and pulls me toward them. We can just barely reach each other to kiss. “You’re going to come, Kai,” they whisper, mouth on mine.

I gasp, hips thrusting and contracting automatically when they talk like that. “Yes, Sir,” I manage to sputter. 

“You’re going to thrust that dick of yours into this boy’s little mouth and use it.” 

“Yes, Sir!” Harder now. Tanner chokes a little and opens up their mouth to get more air. 

“You’re going to come while I fuck this boy in the other end.” They thrust harder and I match their rhythm. DJ holds my head with one hand and Tanner’s hip with the other, their hips gyrating like a pop star. Their spine is snake-like, each movement rippling up. They grip my head harder. 

“Ohh, ohhh fuck, god that’s so good,” I keep one hand in Tanner’s hair, not forcing anything but more to feel the movement on my dick from a different angle, and the other hand is reaching for my clit under my harness, getting the angle as close to perfect as I can. I’m so close. 

“Do it for me. Come on.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying, if anything is coming out of my mouth aside from groans and whimpers. Maybe I said thank you or I love you or oh god oh fuck holy good god damn … all I remember is the explosion that started in my pelvis and radiated out, squeezing every drop of resistance from me and opening up every cell in my body. As if all at once, each proton and neutron and electron shivered, shaking off any old dust or residue, and when the haze settled, each one was shining, sparkling anew. 

I can barely hold myself up by my own thighs, they’re still quivering as Tanner looks up at me, one hand on my cock, licking the final drips from it, kissing it as they take their mouth away. DJ is grinning that cocky half-smile that suckered me in to a date with them in the first place, and I swoon and collapse and nearly start to cry with the adoration. 

I fall over sideways, collapsing and starting to laugh, still breathing hard. “Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn you two. I’m surprised I didn’t just have a heart attack. My whole body felt like it just … exploded.” 

DJ wraps around Tanner and they both reach for me. We’re all humming with vibration, pulsing with lust and thrusting.

“God, I love you,” I say, holding eye contact with DJ. 

“I love you,” they say back, soft, their eyes crinkling at the corners, licking their lips and looking at mine like they want to kiss but can’t quite reach me. 

“I love you both!” Tanner bursts. And we all laugh—not because it’s ridiculous, but because it’s so obvious and sweet, and we can all feel it alive in us.

“I love you, too, Tanner,” DJ says. 

“Yeah. Love all around,” I say, and Tanner hoists forward to cuddle against me, and we all rest and talk for a while, before sending Tanner on their way.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Bare Leatherworks floggers.

The Last Night (Asher & Jesse #5)

The envelope from UT Houston stayed hidden in Jesse’s file cabinet for a week before she even had the nerve to tell Asher it had arrived. The other rejection letters from Seattle Pacific University and Seattle University and University of Washington were thinner, only containing one page and a quick ‘thank you for your application,’ a band-aid ripped off clean and swift—but this one from UT was thick. That had to mean something, right? That was a good sign. Jesse wasn’t really even sure she wanted an MFA when she applied, but then when there was more than no chance at all hiding in her very own drawer, she is pretty sure she wants nothing else in the world more.

Except …

“Asher, call me back when you get this. Love you baby.” Jesse leaves a voice mail. Asher is probably still with clients, 6pm on a Tuesday, but it was worth a try before Jesse goes in for her shift at the store.

Would Asher go with her? Would she want to? What if they got married? Is that crazy? What if they broke up? How would sex ever be this good with anyone ever again?

Jesse’s mind raced with stress and change and all the options in the history of options that ever there was. She finally stripped her jeans and boxer briefs off and dropped them next to her bed, pulling her vibrator out from the box on the bookshelf that held her harness, Shilo packing and playing cock, and the nipple clamps that she’d brought from Asher’s house, and she pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets. The bed had a chill underneath the fabric, something that turning up the heat never seems to help, as if the bed had a secret draft that is always letting out warmth. Maybe that’s why they always stay at Asher’s house.

Jesse put a pillow over her forehead and eyes to block the light, wanting to only feel and let her mind think and wander. She turned on the vibrator and touched it to her cunt, using the broad side of it to work the wet out of her and ease her into wanting.

She thought about Asher, whose dresses and layers of skirts and fluff of fabrics make her mouth water and palms sweat. And that one shirt of Asher’s, thin as the skin of dried grass, the one she always wears with extra bright colored bras under so everyone knows it’s on purpose. Jesse thought of that time she’d crawled under the table, dug through the layers of crinoline in Asher’s princess-cut dress, and worked her mouth up Asher’s stockings until she reached the wet between her legs and lapped and lapped until Asher banged on the table and squeezed Jesse’s head with her thighs so hard that Jesse couldn’t hear anything. Jesse was so dizzy with lust and permission, so intoxicated by Asher’s bold shamelessness, so in love. Just the memory made her almost spill over the edge of orgasm, so it only took another minute for Jesse to put the vibrator in exactly the right spot, and come.

After Jesse got off, she fell asleep, dreaming that she was swimming out to an expansive horizon on a perfectly calm sea. Her swimming was easeful, as simple and known to her body as walking, as calm as laying in the grass under dappled sunlight through bright green leaves. She woke refreshed and clear, and put the envelope and looming decision out of her mind, holding instead to the expanse of blue as she squeezed back into her tightest and stretchiest skinny jeans, and headed to work.

Jesse knows she’s not supposed to want Asher to beg her to stay, but she hopes she does. She’s not supposed to want Asher to drop her whole life here and come with her, but she wants that too. Maybe she’s supposed to want to stay, but she doesn’t. She’s been in Seattle her whole life. It’s comfortable, easy, simple. But since Asher, and since the kind of sex she’s been having with Asher, Jesse’s world has been split open—like it was thrown off of something really tall. So why not reassemble it in a new configuration? She hates the dreary rain, hates that she can never quite get warm and always ends up shivering in the dark under clouds splashed orange with city streetlight glow. She wants tropical fruit and thunderstorms and a thriving metropolis. She wants to discover who she’ll be when she’s states away from her narcissistic step-mom who has never quite allowed Jesse to separate, and who still expects “this gay thing” to be a phase. What would happen then? What if Jesse could remake herself from scratch? The idea feels like a betrayal somehow, a secret she shouldn’t reveal for fear of being so shamed she’ll never share herself, even to herself.

“Got your message. Meetings ran late. Still coming over after work?” Asher texts Jesse after her shift starts, so she doesn’t reply until she’s off the floor for her break.

“Sure. Be there around 10, I’m closing.” Jesse texts.

“Bring your dick, I really wanna get fucked hard tonight,” Asher replies right away. Jesse hesitates. She doesn’t have it, will have to go home to pick it up. She isn’t sure she can get it up to fuck, but then again, Asher always seems to be able to inspire her, even after almost a year together. But sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter that Jesse is the one fucking her, that as long as Asher gets fucked, that is the real desire.

When Jesse goes back to her apartment, past where the neighbors doors are always leaking pot smoke, up the stairway with the lamp out and around the dark dark corner where Jesse always holds her breath, slides her key into the lock that always sticks, she grabs the strap-on and the harness, the nipple clamps, and the thick envelope from its hiding place in her file cabinet, and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up, she heads back out into the grey Seattle night.

*

Two hours later, Asher is worn out and giddy with endorphins and Jesse is sleepy but still wet and swollen. Asher works her mouth on Jesse’s clit, sprawled naked between Jesse’s open thighs, sheets and blankets long tossed onto the floor, tangled around the bed. Asher bends her own knees to lift her feet in the air, parting Jesse’s cunt gently with her fingers, and expertly uses the smooth inner parts of her own mouth to suck.

Jesse is having trouble letting go and relaxing, but coaxes herself through it gently in her own head. It’s okay. You’re safe and you can do it. Just focus on how good it feels. It feels so good. Give her direction if you want more or less of something. She’ll listen. It’s okay.

She doesn’t need to change what Asher does, once she can relax. Asher has done this before, not tons, but probably a dozen times in the last year, and enough to get a feel for what Jesse’s body craves and how she likes to be touched and tongued and held. Asher works her mouth, gently sucking, flicking her tongue over Jesse’s clit, tugging and parting and opening. It feels to Jesse like it is taking her a very long time to get off, and she tries not to let her brain yell at her for being so slow, so unresponsive. It’s okay to take a while. This isn’t a race. Nobody’s in a hurry, Asher’s not in a hurry, she tells herself.

When Jesse finally comes, Asher’s arms are underneath Jesse’s thighs, Jesse is pushing her cunt hard into Asher’s mouth, her hands on Asher’s head and tangled in her hair. Asher is sucking and flicking with her tongue and pulling with her fingers. Jesse feels all that tension well up and up and up in her, until her pelvis feels so full of pressure from all sides, inside and outside and all around, until something gives way and it pours open, her whole body shuddering, crying out, gasping, moaning Asher’s name.

Asher softens her touches and rests her head on Jesse’s thigh for a minute, then wipes some of the wet from her mouth and slides up next to Jesse, tucking her head onto Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse kisses her, tasting her own musky sweetness and just some hints of Asher’s orange and cream lip gloss.

“Was that … okay?” Asher asks finally, in a small voice.

“So good,” Jesse moans out the words, limbs still liquidy and soft. “I love how you use your mouth. I love how you hold me so well. Thank you. That was … just right.”

Asher snuggles closer. “Good. I want to do it how you like it.”

“I know,” Jesse yawns, body spent, wrung out, tired from her retail shift and from staying up late last night finishing an essay. She wants to bring up the envelope, the future, what they’re going to do. She wants to ask Asher what she thinks, what she wants, what kind of life she could possibly envision them having together, what her next tattoo is going to be. She wants to hear Asher brainstorm about places they could live or adventures they could take, elaborate meals they would make together for brunch on the weekends, what kind of TV shows they would watch while they were winding down from their jobs and lives and stresses of being queer in the world. She wants to brainstorm herself about poems she’ll write, essays she’ll submit to online magazines that will go viral and say important things, teachers she’ll work with, kinky conferences they could attend together. She wants to do all these things. With Asher. Asher, the girl who lit a fire inside her pelvis and told her exactly where it belonged. Asher, who instigates and entices, with a flip of the hair or the way she turns her knee in or how she spreads her legs. Asher, who isn’t shy, and isn’t afraid of looking at the truth.

“Goodnight,” Asher whispers, and puts out the light, kissing Jesse on the cheek and settling back in. Asher’s thick blanket has magically been pulled up over them both.

Jesse can’t get her mouth to open and her eyes to wake enough to form words, let alone to say them aloud, but she is ready to talk to Asher in the morning. Jesse starts drifting to sleep even as she’s imagining what she’ll do: She’ll get the envelope out, she’ll tell Asher it arrived, they’ll open it. And they’ll figure out what will happen next. Together.


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

Luscious & Wild (Asher & Jesse #4)

“Sexually, I have a fetish about truth telling. I find it profoundly arousing to watch somebody struggle to articulate their desires. One of the things my girlfriend and I say together is that you can have anything you want if you have the courage to ask for it. But having that courage to ask for it, wow! So we set up situations where you can have anything, honey—you just have to be able to ask for it.” —Dorothy Allison, from Writing Below the Belt

Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.

“Oh fuck, oh my god …” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out.

Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Mostly grey, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s Master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capital Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.

But for now, there is only each other, luscious and wild, so eager for the other and so hungry for more.

Now that Jesse has opened up this dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.

When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread eagle, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mhm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”

When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slow, fucking her gently and sweet, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft-fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.

Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.

When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: To be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, to stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too—it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated, and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to overspilling with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request. Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.

Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.

She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things is for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again.

So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.

In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”

Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick. Her mouth is red from sucking.

“How many?”

“Once,” Asher whispers.

“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”

“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just, it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come … at least sometimes,” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses her fingers to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between her fingers, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.

Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”

“How many … times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.

“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”

“Could I come … right now? I don’t … really know,” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”

“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.

“Yes! Oh yes I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”

“Okay, baby, ready? Come … right now.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, pulses her cunt hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.

“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”

“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop …”

“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.

“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”

“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wet dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.

“Three,” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.

“Four! Please four, Jesse please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.

“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.

“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”

“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know … it’s too much, I can’t.”

“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,” but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more,” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.

“I can’t, I can’t Jesse … oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck …” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.

“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you,” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that post-fucking haze-y loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.

Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”

Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”

Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.


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

Daddy’s Good Boy

Content warning: This story contains Daddy/boy play, rough sex, spanking, and some woo about energy. Proceed at your own risk.

Or, The Divine Beast in Me

We’re watching TV and his sweet hand keeps going to my dick. Softly, absently, like it just happens to be where his hand lands, but it gets more intentional as the mystery on the show grows. I feel it jump and shudder involuntarily. Feel my bits start to swell and thicken under the straps of the harness. Feel the harness dig a little tighter into my skin.

The boy can feel the response it elicits. Fingertips grazing the head of his daddy’s prick, just hard enough to feel the contours of the head and the veins that run along the shaft. This one is my favorite, the most realistic, the one I can comfortably pack all day and then easily bust out and play with.

We aren’t talking about it. He’s just absently stroking.

I may have started it by grabbing his wrist and placing it squarely on my package, he may have groaned and buckled a little into me. I watch his throat for when he swallows. He’s salivating. My heat is growing, rising, as he circles his thumb and forefinger around the corona and strokes the underside of the head with gentle tiny quick strokes, pad of the thumb barely touching. My toes curl. I bite the inside of my lip and breathe.

Very slowly, I bring my hand up to the back of his head, palming his neck with a slight grip on his collar, and turn my head so my lips are next to his ear.

“What do you think you’re doing.” It’s not really a question.

He squirms, rubbing his thighs together, doing that curled in thing that he does when he gets turned on and curious and wanting and small. I like him small. It makes me feel big, or maybe, rather, it gives my bigness meaning and value.

“Nothing, Daddy,” he whispers.

“You know what happens when you get me going, boy. You want to get me all hard right now?”

He whimpers.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch this.” I push his neck down with a firm hand and he immediately opens his lips. But I push him past my lap until his hips are over my thighs and his face is in the pillow at the edge of the couch. I reach forward to stop the TV show and leave my mouth close to his ear again, that growl in me coming from down low. “Such a dirty boy. Can’t even keep your hands off of me for one hour.”

“N-no, Daddy, I’m not, I’m a good boy,” he’s still squirming.

“Dirty little slut. You feel how hard you made me? Huh? Can you feel that digging in to you?”

“Yes, Sir!” His hips buck against me, ass in the air as I palm his cheeks through his jeans. They’re loose enough that I work them down past his hips just far enough to expose him.

I swat at his butt with my right hand and hold his neck gently with my left. He buries his face into the pillow. He likes this.

“You like this,” I accuse.

He hesitates. “Daddy, I want to be good.” Honest answer, if slightly deflecting.

“You do, huh. Good boys do just what I say. Are you ready to do what I say?” The fetish of controlled behavior. Still spanking lightly, with the flats of my fingers.

“Yes, Daddy! Yes Sir! Always … always.” He shoots me a look, wondering if I really don’t know he would do anything. Anything. It’s in our contract. It was the line we both jerked off the most over. Sometimes it’s a “thought experiment,” a game we play, to see if we could come up with a thing I would realistically, feasibly ask him for that he would have any good reason not to. So far, we haven’t found any.

“Mmmm. Maybe my dirty little slut is a good boy after all.”

I keep warming up his ass, hitting deeper now, with the heel of my palm instead of the little swats. He prefers this, the deep thud to the surface sting, and he sometimes comes just from me punching his ass. I shake the bones in his pelvis, knocking to wake them up. He moans and settles over my lap. This won’t take long.

We go on like this for a while. Him settling into the spanking, me shifting it up, from swats to thuds to fists to heels of my palm to knuckles popped for added bruising. He starts swelling, his parts swelling and pinkening between his legs, starting to drip. I can see it, smell it. I love how our bodies can wrap around each other in this position, him curling around my thighs,me the base support. I drape my arm over his back, my left elbow to the center of his shoulder blades, arm down his spine, while I hold his ass open with both hands. His asshole puckers and releases.

What is it about those tight, sweet little holes that make me crave the pushing inside? I cannot explain the magic of shoving into resistance so beautifully well that it dissolves. Maybe that’s why I write about it so much, because I wish I could capture it. Wish I could have it in a bottle to recreate whenever I need to be reminded that god exists, that my body and his body and your body are made for pleasure, that we are spiritual beings having a human experience, that we are blessed with these messy sensory overloads of flesh and physical manifestation and that someday, one of these 365 days, we won’t have them anymore. That moment of resistant pushing, force against force until one or the other yields, is what I turn to most when I need to understand how mortal I am, and how immeasurable.

I crave his holes like I crave the ocean, all salt and dissatisfaction until I can actually just breathe the expanse that opens up and swallows the horizon.

I’m hitting harder, entranced and rhythmic, our hips connecting through that energy spark that flows when I stop using my head so much and allow my body to speak. He’s moaning something, oh god or Daddy Daddy, I don’t make it out over the throbbing in my dick. It’s time.

“Up,” I push out from under him and roughly pull his pants down, moving him where I want him, kneeling on the couch, legs spread, shoulders draped on the back of it. He’s breathing deep and his back body fits into the front of mine perfectly, like we were carved in each other’s negative. I pull my shorts low and his hole finds the tip of my cock with a tilt of his hips and with a quick bend to the flexible shaft I slide it in, slow, inch by inch. He takes my weight, holds me up. Everything is poised on the precipice of me and I’m falling. He grips from inside and I cry out. Yes, please, please one of us is whimpering. It might be me. He opens and opens and opens. I didn’t know I could get so far inside with just a few inches of silicone like this.

One hand is at his mouth, fingers at his lips; he sucks with his throat and pulls me down. A vortex at the middle of him, pulling me in from both directions. If I’m filling him this far with my cunt, he fills me at the heart, and as soon as I remember that he’s pouring into me until my chest cracks with a bang and I see fireworks. I bite at his shoulders, hips bucking, the beast in me fucking to extend my temporary impact. To make me last longer.

“Please Daddy, give it to me,” long strings of words are coming out of his mouth. “Fill me up, please Daddy. Come in me, Daddy. That hole is for you, just for you. Give it to me. Use your boy. I’ll take it for you. I’ll empty you out. Fill me up, I’ll open up for you, give it to me, please, please,” still sucking at my fingers while he breathes hard and harder, I feel his lips form the words against my palm. Sweet swollen mouth.

“Squeeze,” I tell him. Fuck I’m close. Poised and I might just stay right here forever. Let this never end, I pray. “Work it out of me, boy. You want that come? Suck it, that’s good. I’ll fill you with it until you’re dripping out of all your holes. That’s right, nice and tight for Daddy … ” I don’t know what I’m saying but I keep going, hole and boy and all mine and good boy and before I know it I can feel all that pressure built up start to peak and tip over, muscles clenched so tight that they stumble and burst. Coming in waves, hips shuddering like a deep tremble, gripping his muscles everywhere my hands can get ahold of, groaning around his flesh in my mouth that I didn’t even realize I was biting.

“Oh, god, oh fuck, baby, my good boy.” I’m babbling again, every muscle shaking, still shuddering from the come, he’s still squeezing every drop from my dick and licking my fingers like he’s cleaning them. His lips are still thick from the swelling.

I nearly collapse on top of him. I notice my thighs are wet, he’s dripping, who knows how many times he’s come. He can be wordless about it when I fuck him like this, with all power and need and little consideration. I want to curl him in my arms and carry him to bed, want to tuck him in and feel him suck my fingers all night.

Pulling out, I shift on the couch to let him off his knees, to bring his thighs together. He snuggles against me, body humming. We touch fingertips and toes, wrap around each other, low laughs and eyes sparkling. Even though I thought it’d be rough and demanding, I get so distracted by the easy way we discover what makes the universe spin every time we collide. I want him more now than I did three years ago, and I feel more whole, more myself. I don’t know what love is or how to keep it, but I know it changes me every time, and it’s the thing I’ve rearranged my life for again and again. It’s the closest I’ve come to an experience with the divine.

Every inch of me feels alive.

* * *

The strap-on featured in this piece is the Shilo by New York Toy Collective. Use the code “SUGARBUTCH” when you check out for $5 off.

“Under the Desk” Featured in eLust #50

Welcome to e[lust] – The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #51? Start with the newly updated rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

This Month’s Top Three Posts

Featured Post (Molly’s Picks)

Readers Choice from Sexbytes

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Carrie’s Story, Slow Surrender, and Other Things I’ve Been Devouring To Distract Myself

So. Yeah.

slowsurrender carriesstory

I’m reading a lot. Light things, but well-written things, because I need something to completely occupy my mind that I don’t have to really think about. I’m journaling most days, but not writing anything worth reading, just a lot of purging. Emotional vomit. Navel-gazing, which I used to sometimes think was a good thing, self-insight, self-reflection, but now seems trite and self-indulgent. I’m waking up and most of the time going to sleep. I’m staying up late and then not being able to wake early. I’m waking early and not being able to get back to sleep. I’m reading reading reading on the subway at the cafe on my breaks when I can’t sleep anytime I need to try to stop thinking all the thoughts that are circling circling circling like predators. Like hawks. Like something big and heavy that you see from far away and it doesn’t look that bad but when they get close your pores start to shake. You start sweating and your pupils dilate. Those kinds of thoughts are still stalking me. All the things I did wrong. All the ways I have doomed myself. All the things that I could’ve changed didn’t change am never going to be able to change. Reminding myself that I am not doomed. Telling myself over and over again that I did the best I could we did the best we could no one is at fault no one is at fault. Sometimes I even believe that. Loss happens. Errors of judgment happen. Perfect storms of chaos happen, all the best movies know how if any one factor in the plot would have slipped out of place, it wouldn’t have happened that way, but that the universe conspired somehow to shatter that rain of misunderstandings and missed connections and opportunities down upon our heads. But I try to remember that sometimes all of creation is conspiring to shower us with blessings too. Could that be true? Could I really believe that people are fundamentally good, at the core? It’s what I say I believe, and most of the time that belief is not tested. This is when I need faith. Hope.

Hope is when you look out the window and you go, ‘It doesn’t look good at all, but I’m going to go beyond what I see to give people visions of what could be.’ —Anna Deavere Smith

I don’t think I can tell the truth yet, because I don’t yet think I know what the truth is. There’s not just one capital-T Truth anyway. There are many truths. My truths and your truths and our truths are perhaps three different truths. I think I’m done believing in objectivity. I don’t think it’s possible. I distrust people who start sentences with, “Objectively speaking …” How can anyone see objectively? Sometimes I can squint and look at things sideways and sometimes, just sometimes, I can take myself out of the way of the experience for a glance, a frame, a whisper of smoke. But usually only long enough to get one thought, one perspective, not long enough to really grasp the three-sixy view.

I don’t know what happens next. I know I keep trying. I know I keep writing and striving and crying on my sister’s couch in the mornings. I know I stare at the tree’s brittle branches scraping against this window in the wind and wondering which will break off and which will make it to bud and which buds will pop open to that baby green spring. Oh right, it’s springtime now, isn’t it. When things long dormant start to wake. When things waiting waiting for this freeze to thaw start to tentatively uncurl and test the air.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. —Anais Nin

It’s such a risk. Everything is, from this cup of coffee to that service I just cancelled to the appointment I made for next week. No one really knows if next week will exist, but now that this week is here, we proved last week that next week existed, and I am trusting that’ll keep happening, until it doesn’t. That’s all I can do, anyway. I think I have some more trust in me, though it’s thin. I’ve been paving the roof of my mouth with it for months. It leaves a coat all sticky like too too sweet honey. Makes me crave mouthwash, some salt water gargle to cut the aversion of the over-sweet. Some crumbs of sourdough bread. Good thing I’m heading west, back to the salt water where the sun sets over the ocean instead of over the land. Somehow, it has always seemed more correct. And in the absence of light, I’ll look east.

Power in the silence. Power in the sound of a lover’s name.

*

Book notes: Excerpt from Carrie’s Story, when her dominant says he’s going to sell her at a slave auction. Cleis calls Carrie the “thinking readers’ submissive.” Cecilia Tan about the Slow Surrender series: “I would call it the “BDSM billionaire” genre, also known as BDSM romance, also known as “If you liked 50 Shades of Grey, you might like this book.” Buy them through my Amazon store and you’ll toss some pennies my way—see the store for more of my erotica recommendations, too.

“Twice the Pleasure: Bisexual Erotica” Has My Butch-on-Fag Story “Right Red Flagging”

twiceSo I don’t usually write “bisexual erotica.” I don’t see my erotica as girl-on-girl or exploratory times with women, my characters are usually anything other than straight-up gay.

So when I saw this call for erotica submissions from Rachel Kramer Bussel, I wondered what it would look like for me to write some bisexual erotica. What would that mean for my main character/narrator voice, for “Sinclair”? What would I write about? Where would my edge be?

I talked it over with rife, months ago, and he had a great idea of a butch who picks up a fag at a fag bar and proceeded to have a one night stand. I wrote it up, and Rachel included it in her new book, Twice the Pleasure: Women’s Bisexual Erotica! It seems like a kind of unlikely place for a butch/fag pickup story, but hey, maybe someone will stumble on that one-of-these-stories-is-not-like-the-other kind of piece and discover something new about themselves, in one way or another.

Twice the Pleasure comes out in April, but you can preorder it now! Rachel is doing a buy-one-get-one book sale for the book, so you can buy this one and get any other book of hers in addition. Here’s an excerpt from my story.

      Right Red Flagging

      Tonight, I see him as soon as I enter the room, eyes adjusting to the dankness that still feels full of cigarette smoke, even though it’s no longer legal to smoke indoors, and he sees me. He’s at the bar sucking on a long neck beer, wearing a snap down worn through cowboy shirt and jeans, and we make eye contact. In gay boy world, that means we may as well have been dating for three years and have just walked into the hotel room after our prom. I order a beer, too, and wait at the curve of the bar.

      He watches me while not looking like he’s watching me. I notice a red hanky in his back right pocket and as he brings the beer up to his mouth for the last swig, I slip off my bar stool and make my way toward the back hallway, the bathrooms, and the door to the back patio. I lean against the wall in a dark patch of the path, thumbs hooked into my belt loops. He follows a moment later, sauntering slowly into the hall and stops, seeing me.

      “Hi,” I say. He grins, a crooked half-smirk that darkens his already deep set eyes. He’s more plump than muscle but still has a good shape, firm and solid.

      “Hi,” he says.

      “So,” I say. He waits. I curl my finger without moving my hand from my hip, and he takes a few steps toward me. I can’t tell who he thinks I am or what he thinks I expect, but he seems willing to find out. When he is just a foot or two from me, and I can smell his sweat and make out the stubble on his chin, I reach out for his upper arm and grip it. “Are you going to kiss me, or what?”

    This book has a lot of other great contributors, whose stories I regularly enjoy, like Lori Selke, Giselle Renarde, and Shanna Germain. I haven’t read it yet, but I suspect it’s a great collection, and I’m looking forward to reading the whole thing.

    The Best Things I Wrote About Sex, Gender, & Relationships in 2012

    Lily at Black Leather Belt is putting together the #SexReader, a new roundup of the best sex blog posts, and the first one is Best of 2012, so I have been looking over the past year.

    I haven’t written as much, here, as I have in the past. I’m kind of sad about that, but that’s just the way 2012 was. My year was shaping up to be the Best Year Ever in January & February when Kristen and I were navigating the brand new openness of our relationship and I was falling in love with Rife, but in March when my dad died, everything got thrown off. I threw myself into traveling for my erotica anthology, Say Please, from April through August, and by the time I got back in August, Kristen had lost her job and I was a wreck. I’ve been working to pick up the pieces since then. Though I’ve continued to see Rife every other month or so, I haven’t written a lot about him here.

    The combination of personal crises and traveling this year has meant that I have spent a whole lot more time in my inbox, and processing my fucking feelings, than I have spent writing.

    Still, there were some notable posts in 2012.

    I started the year by writing weekly love letters to Kristen. I didn’t continue them, but I wrote a couple dozen. From Love Letter #16:

    It’s interesting to actually put the non-monogamy into practice. In some ways it feels like the most secure a relationship could be, that we both know to the core so deeply that our relationship is so good and solid that it’s totally okay for us to explore with other people. At our good moments that’s how it feels, anyway. In our harder moments, it’s a lot of reassurance—for both of us—that what we’re doing isn’t going to fuck up what we have. That is so, so important to me, to keep us safe and to not do anything that might jeopardize the foundation we’re building and the intensity between us and our sexual spark and all of those things, and if ever you feel like I am doing something that jeopardizes that, I want to know and I want to fix it as immediately as possible. I trust that, deeply; I have faith in us and I think we can figure this out. It’s hard, it continues to be hard, but I’m excited about the possibilities this is opening up and I’m glad we are exploring together.

    I came out about opening up our relationship, and dating Rife, and how Kristen and I were dealing with that, in March 2012 with On Opening Up My Relationship With Kristen

    I love you (I told her) and I don’t think this has to or does or will take away from that, from us. … Beyond that, I started asking myself and her: How can I love you well? How can I love you better than I do? How can I continue to make you feel special in our relationship, in ways other than exclusive sex? That is only one way, one fairly arbitrary way. What are the things we both need? How do we ensure that happens well?

    We came up with some agreements about what I would or wouldn’t do with him, how we’d see each other, what kind of contact we’d have, and how my relationship and sexual connection with Kristen would be kept as the highest priority. It took a long time to negotiate that, to try some things and then try other things, and it’s a working document that keeps changing.

    It’s still hard—there is still jealousy and insecurity and uncertainty, but the fighting has basically ceased. There are still complications, and we talk through it. We’ve been negotiating—fairly well, I would say—ever since.

    I also wrote a few posts about Rife, like our adventures at IMsL, in Like a Faggot, published in June 2012:

    “I like your cock in my ass. I like it. Please, Sir, fuck my ass. Please please please.” His pleading cries became whimpers and I groaned, my hips jerking hard against his in response.

    “Good boy,” I muttered as my cock slid in and out. I wrapped my arms around him, held us together, breathing hard, and brought my hand between his legs to his clit again, thrumming it gently, sensitive now. “Mmm, fuck, you feel good. Your ass is nice and tight, feels good on my cock. I like to fill you up. Squeeze me harder, let me feel how tight you are, that’s it, yeah.” He came again, squirting, I could see it darken the blanket as his body thrust forward in contractions.

    “Just a little more. Then I’m going to beat you.” I slid in and he moaned deep. He whimpered and shook, straightening his body upright until I pushed him back onto the table.

    “Take it,” I growled. “Just a little more. Take it like a faggot. You can do it. Come on, dirty boy, I know you like it.” He didn’t stop shaking, barely holding himself up on his legs, and I thrust in again, and again. I rambled on as I worked up a slick sweat. I wanted to wear him out, warm him up before I started beating him. “Do it for me again, faggot. Come on, boy, come on my cock while I fuck you. Do it. Do it for me.”

    Kristen and I had some really good scenes this year, too. The Three Minute Game, June 2012

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

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

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

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

    I groaned.

    Another good Kristen story got really dirty: Dirty Filthy Nasty, September 2012:

    I bring the bottle of lube, twist my legs up onto the bed and get on my knees, grab her thighs with my hands and pull her hips toward me so she’s at an angle. I pump the lube twice—once over the lips of her cunt, once on the head of my dick. I rub it slowly with my hand, showing off a little because I know she likes to watch me jerk off. Her legs are open on either side of my knees. Her cunt is mostly bare, her lips are pink and swollen.

    “Fuck.”

    I grip her inner thighs in my hands and poise my cock with my hips. Taking the cock in my fist, I use the head of my cock to rub the lube along her slit, rubbing it on her cunt, slick and smooth, and then smack her with it a few times, before I slide in. I reach up to her wrists and my hands fit so easily around them, she feels so small. She struggles against me, just a little, pushing back, but I have gravity and more than fifty pounds on her—we both know it’s for show. A request to hold her harder, a request to keep her down. We both shudder as I slide in deeper and put more of my weight down onto her, and she wraps her legs around me, her arms around my shoulders.

    I vow to go slow, I keep repeating in my head, go slow go slow slow down go slow, but she feels so fucking good and she’s so wet and slick and pulsing around me so tight, and I’m so hard and deep, my hips start bucking and I don’t restrain them. She moans. I fuck her harder, reaching down with my right hand to lop my elbow around her calf and pull her knee up, her legs apart.

    “Baby, baby, baby …”

    I wish it was a given that I would fuck her like this until I shoot. I wish it was more consistent, to come inside her, to get off while she writhes.

    There was a femme conference in August, and I wrote some about policing the femme identity and what it’s like to go to an identity-based conference: Are You Femme Enough for the Femme Conference? July 2012

    I think the bottom line is that it’s incredibly complicated to occupy a socially-recognized identity like butch or femme, because while we have stereotypical versions of what those things “should” look like in our minds, we don’t necessarily have the complex deconstructions (and reconstructions) necessary to be able to see that person as butch or femme and all their other pieces of self too. Or, if the person doesn’t quite look like the stereotype, we don’t recognize them as “legitimate.” These queer cultures still see someone, recognizes them as butch or femme or neither, and draws all sorts of conclusions based on that.

    People are probably always going to do this. I don’t mean that in an I-give-up kind of way, just in a this-is-probably-true-and-I-will-have-less-strife-in-my-life-if-I-accept-that kind of way.

    And y’know, fuck that. I mean, I completely understand that that is a challenge and hard and sometimes makes me return home defeated after a night and just kinda cry and whine for a while, I also think part of the work of having these identities is recognizing that we are trying to rise them above stereotypes, and that the cultures we’re in still largely use big fat markers to draw pictures of these identities, not slim exact-shaded pencils. And part of our work, I believe, part of the work of occupying these identities, is uncoupling them from the heteronormative gender roles, and making them big enough and accessible to anyone who feels a resonance with them. They can be liberational, and the benefits of identifying with a gender lineage, a gender heritage, feels so important to me, putting me in a historical context with people who came before me, so I feel less alone in my forging forward. I’m not doing it exactly as they did it, I’m doing it my own way and in the context of my own communities and time and culture, but I am able to remake it and make more room for freedom and consciousness and liberation within it because I am on their shoulders, using the tools they left for me—us—to pick up.

    That is all to say, you are femme enough to attend the femme conference. Or, you know, if you don’t identify as femme but you have some interest in learning more about femme identity and being around femmes and folks who are puzzling through femme identity, you can come too.

    Though by far, the most viewed post was this one: Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue: The Pink Dress, January 2012, which is fiction.

    “Was there something that you wanted? Sir?” She adds the last word in a low, sweet voice and my cock pulses. I drop my hand holding the glass to my side. Extending her arms around my neck, she draws closer to me. I can smell the sticky sweet of her lipstick. I lick my lips. Swallow again. My mouth is dry. I lift my arm, take a swig of the whiskey, and it goes down like a knife. She offers me her lips when I drop the glass again, whispering right up next to mine but not touching. She waits. I kiss her and her mouth is like candy, like being enveloped in silk. My knees go weak again and I lean against the wall to hold myself up. Her lipstick is a smear on my mouth and I don’t care. She leaves a trail of lip prints along my jaw and to the curve of my neck and I don’t care. She is devouring me one kiss at a time and I don’t care. My whole body shudders between her and the wall, held up by both.

    She pulls on my earlobe between her lips before she whispers in my ear, “I would like to suck your cock now.” It’s almost a question, almost asking for permission, she knows that’s usually how it works, but this time it is more of a statement of intent. I notice she doesn’t say “sir” but I don’t care. She’s calling the shots now. She drags her body down mine and her skirt fans out around her legs as she kneels in front of me. She looks up, hands on her thighs, and waits, lips parted a little, lipstick smeared and thick which makes her mouth look even more swollen. I breathe deep, trying to focus. I’m supposed to do something. I manage to set the glass of whiskey down on the side table nearby and unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, pull out my cock. She sits up on her knees to get it lined up with her mouth.

    She holds the tip of my cock right outside of her lips, breathing, looking up at me, before dropping her eyes and extending her tongue, flat and soft, to lap the underside, and brings her lips forward to circle just the head and suck. She lifts her eyes again. I swoon, my head swirling, the bowl of my pelvis full and trying not to spill over. Her tongue plays down the shaft and leisurely flicks every little ridge. Her lips are soft and warm and I can feel every contour, every smooth curve.

    I spent most of the last six months trying to untangle myself from grief. I wrote a little bit about that, like in Grief. Also, Trying to Find My Awesome Place:

    Grief is not singular, it is not linear, it usually doesn’t even feel particularly knowable. It’s a mess, (or as I keep saying) a fog. Something engulfing that chokes and invades my lungs.

    Grief it is not just about this one loss, either: it is about all losses, everywhere, ever, especially the ones I have felt. People keep reminding me of this, and yet I keep feeling surprised when I turn a corner and get sucker-punched by a memory of Cheryl, of an ex, of my fucking dog when I was seven, of every goddamn time I have to say goodbye to Rife, of those looks Kristen gives me when she’s angry and hurt and it’s my fault.

    I know that what I’m feeling isn’t about that, except that it is. I know that what I’m feeling won’t last, except that it is seeping into every pore of me and I know that I am forever changed. (Fuck that sounds so dramatic. Forgive me the drama. It’s what drama was made for: loss, grief, feeling.) But it’s also true: Nothing is the same. It’s taken me months to feel that really sink in. March to August, I might argue. In August, I lost it. Since August, I’ve been trying to get it back. I don’t know how. Kristen doesn’t know how. We are both unsure what to do now, but it’s clear that we can’t quite keep going the way we’ve been going, spiraling down into something awful, me lashing out and angry, so angry. Why am I so angry? I know why I’m so angry. I probably need a punching bag daily.

    We don’t know what to do, but also we kind of do. Or I guess I am starting to.

    When I look back at the year, clearly the things that get the most visitors are the dirty stories. I’d like to write more of those in 2013. I like writing smut. It’s deeply pleasurable. I’d like to write more about Rife and the deep D/s that that relationship is developing. I’d like to write more about power and relationships and codependency and the ways that things can go so wrong. Mostly, I’ve just been waiting to get through these crisis months.

    In this, the darkest time of year, the solstice, the time when we burn the Yule log, I keep thinking about the things I want to leave in the dark, the seeds I want to plant that will start to pop open under the surface in the next few months before pushing through the topsoil, the things that I want to grow.

    I want more emotional resilience.
    I want more self-confidence, less insecurity. To let go and be less controlling.
    I want more radical acceptance of what is in front of me.
    I want to date Kristen again.
    I want to spend more time loving and less time fighting.
    I want more sex. Goddamnit.
    I want less railing, clinging, obsession, torture.
    I want to leave the black hole of depression and grief here in the deep dark.
    I want more love. More lovers. More exploration. More pleasure.

    More pleasure. Yes—if I had to sum up my intentions for 2013, that would be it. More pleasure. Less grief.

    This Week! Best Lesbian Erotica & the Lesbian Sex Mafia in New York City

    I’ll be reading some erotica on Thursday night in the East Village with the Best! Lesbian! Erotica! reading at Drunken! Careening! Writers! that BLE series editor Kathleen Warnock runs.

    And! Also! I’m still on the board of the Lesbian Sex Mafia, and Lee Harrington is teaching an amazing D/s class on Friday night at the GBLT Center. I’ll be running the workshop that night, doing the announcements and getting everyone settled to pay attention to Lee’s brilliance, and taking a lot of notes about D/s. I’ve been thinking a LOT about D/s lately, about protocols and rituals and rules and punishments … still thinking about ways to write about all the things I’ve been learning.

    Meanwhile, here’s the details on the events in New York City Thursday and Friday.

    Best Lesbian Erotica @ Drunken! Careening! Writers!

    KGB Bar
    85 E. 4th St.
    NYC
    7pm FREE

    Rebecca Lynne Fullan
    Sid March
    …and special surprise guests!
    with your hostess, Kathleen Warnock
    copies of BLE ’13 will be available for sale

    Our “special surprise guests” will be Sinclair Sexsmith and Lea DeLaria (eds of the last 2 editions), and they will be reading from their work!

    Rebecca Lynne Fullan is a writer of various stripes, most of them human. She lives, writes, reads, and learns in New York City. This story is for her girlfriend, Charlotte, and written with special gratitude to the BMVCOE, who know about magic. Come visit her here: rebeccalynnefullan.wordpress.com.

    Sid March is the disastrously queer daughter of Neptune, a gifted escape artist, and an excellent party planner. A nomadic being with half a dozen hometowns, Sid writes obsessively when no one is watching as a way to tame her insatiable Wanderlust.

    Best Lesbian Erotica is published by Cleis Press, the largest independent queer publishing company in the United States. Kathleen Warnock is the series editor, and Jewelle Gomez selected and introduced this year’s collection.

    Drunken! Careening! Writers! is a reading series based on the proposition that all readings should be by: 1) Good Writers; 2) Who read their work well; 3) Something in it makes people laugh (nervous laughter counts). And 15 minutes tops.

    Lesbian Sex Mafia presents Beyond Bowed Heads: Rituals for Dominance and Submission with Lee Harrington

    lesbiansexmafia.org

    Rituals are a key part of any D/s relationship, whether we acknowledge them or not. From casual kisses as the door to formal slave poses, ritual objects such as collars to slave contracts, the BDSM world is rife with concepts of ritual- but what is a ritual? What are the levels of ritualistic interaction we have between one another? Let’s look at rituals for day to day life (including how to get out of work or parent space), sacred time, intense connection, erotic play, solidifying relationships, changes within our relationships, and the taboo subject of the devastating loss of a relationship or its natural end. From terminology to developing your own code of ethical interaction, this class covers a bevy of styles and types of interpersonal reactions.

    Where: The LGBT Center, 208 West 13th St. (7th/8th Ave), New York, NY
    Date/Time: Friday December 21, 2012, 8:00-10:00 PM. Our annual workshop at which all genders are welcome.
    Cost: LSM Members: $5/Non Members: $10

    About Lee Harrington

    Lee Harrington is an internationally known spiritual and erotic educator, gender explorer, eclectic artist and award-winning author and editor on human sexuality and sacred experience. He is a nice guy with a disarmingly down to earth approach to the fact that we are each beautifully complex ecosystems, and we deserve to examine the human experience from that lens. He’s been traveling the globe (from Seattle to Sydney, Berlin to Boston), teaching and talking about sexuality, psychology, faith, desire and more, and has no intention to stop any time soon. He has been an academic and an adult film performer, a world class sexual adventurer, an outspoken philosopher, is a kink/bondage expert, and has been blogging about sex and spirituality since 1998.

    His books include “Playing Well With Others: Your Guide to Discovering, Exploring and Negotiating the Kink, Leather and BDSM Communities” (with Mollena Williams), “Sacred Kink: The Eightfold Paths of BDSM and Beyond,” “Shibari You Can Use: Japanese Rope Bondage and Erotic Macramé,” the “Toybag Guide to Age Play,” and “Shed Skins: Journeying in Self-Portraits.” He has also worked as an anthology editor on such projects as “Rope, Bondage, and Power” and “Spirit of Desire: Personal Explorations of Sacred Kink,” while contributing actively to other anthologies, magazines, blogs and collaborations internationally. Check out the trouble Lee has been getting into, as well as his regular podcast, tour schedule, free essays, videos and more over at www.PassionAndSoul.com.

    Your Favorite Sugarbutch Star Smut Story—Vote!

    Once upon a time, I ran a little contest, and the “winner” got a little prize. The real point was to get me inspired to write some smut, but asking readers to pick their favorite was fun, so let’s do that again, now that the Sugarbutch Star Contest #2 is done.

    Which story is your favorite?


    Eileen: HER BEST LINE

    Her place is nearby. It’s why she chose that bar – to interview me before taking me home. She planned the whole thing. Those were here best lines back there. She wants me, and she’s willing to work for it. I like that.

    She locks the door behind us, positioning herself next to me, taking a few steps like it’s a dance and she’s leading so I follow, and then my back is against the door and she’s sighing and flipping her hair and waiting for me to kiss her.

    So I do.

    She tastes like cream. Smooth, just a tiny bit of thickness, mostly ease and softness. She waits for me to guide her. To show her how I like to be kissed. She doesn’t rush in and thrust her tongue, just makes herself warm, wet, open, available.

    I let desire increase slowly. Start soft as I get a grip on her hips, her lower back cradled in my forearm, fingers eagerly pulling at the thin fabric of her dress. She lets it get stronger in me, slides her ankle against my calf as she wraps one leg around mine low. I start growling a little, that ravaging tone that is not quite a moan, but a hunger, building.

    She arches her back, gasps, cries out, leans into me like she’s nuzzling, and starts laughing, delighted. “Fuck,” she says and looks at me, catches my gaze, then gets shy and looks down. She fingers my buckle.

    “Unbuckle your belt?” she says. And I take it back – that’s her best line. … Read more

    Matt: ALL FIVE SENSES

    She glances to where I just was and sees my small stack of books, but she lost track of me. Her eyebrows curl for just a moment, and she glances around the other direction but there’s no one there either. We’re alone – she thinks she’s alone. I hold my breath and try not to move. I know it’s voyeuristic of me, but she is in public. She must know someone could possibly see her. That must be part of the thrill.

    She shifts, knees together, pulls her feet closer to her body, and I catch the sight of her simple white cotton panties between her legs, thin, so thin I can nearly see through them. She pushes her skirt up her thighs just a bit farther and slides her hand into them. The fabric strains.

    Her fingers move slowly and she keeps her eyes on the pages of the book. Clearly a good one, I wonder what she’s reading, if its contents are queer or kinky, if she’s thinking about the taste of sweat and salty skin, the sounds of moans that emerge out of places where bodies collide, the sight of a fist disappearing at the wrist, the sting of an open-palm smack on the ass or cheek or cunt, the scent of desire, like musk, like the ocean, like a fertile ground.

    Her fingers move faster. Hair falls into her eyes and her jaw drops open just a little. (Really, this is really happening?) Her lips pinken, eyelids flutter as her eyes dart across the page. Her strong thighs are quivering a little and I can see if I fucked her she’d want them pressed together, bent deep at the hips. It’s the way her knees want to close but her hand is in the way.

    My hand goes to my zipper. (Should I?) … Read more

    Greg: THE STUDY DATE

    I push her back against the door of the classroom the second she closes it, catching her jaw by surprise, my hand over her mouth. “Is this what you wanted? You want me up against you like this?”

    Corinne’s knees go weak and her eyes widen, looking up at me softly under her short red hair which curled around her chin in a blunt bob, the bangs across her forehead making her look like a model from the thirties. Her ivory blouse is loose and silky against her skin, a bit fallen to one side, showing the edges of a lace camisole.

    I bet she’s already wet.

    “You’ve been trying to get me alone all semester. Did you think I didn’t know what you wanted, when you asked me to study with you after class?” I speak softly against her neck, let her feel my breath, hot, against her skin. … Read more

    Maze: THE GIRL IN THE RED DRESS

    I catch a whiff of her perfume as she walks by. Dizzying, intoxicating. The swish of her skirt. I watch her little toe-heel trot down the aisle. My body acts without my mind and I reach for her. My hand on her hip. Lightly at first, but then she doesn’t pull away and I grab her harder. Both hands and I stand, pull her toward me, her back to me, and she is still. I can’t see her face but I can feel her breath through my hands, she’s holding it. Surprised. Waiting.

    I lift her skirt in the back to reveal her perfect ass. A work of art. A combination of genetics and squats and hundreds of hours at the gym. She knows it. She’s bare under her red dress, no panties, no stockings. Perhaps that’s what she forgot. I can’t resist, I palm the apple of her ass, caress the flesh, spreading her cheeks and opening her slit.

    She lets out her breath, finally, and it comes with a breathy moan, just a little.

    And I’m gone. The slightest noise from her lips and all I can feel is what it’ll be like to be inside her, to feel her body curl around my arm and buck and thrash and grasp as she comes. I’ve got to feel it. Got to make her. … Read more

    blckndblue: THE PINK DRESS

    “Was there something that you wanted? Sir?” She adds the last word in a low, sweet voice and my cock pulses. I drop my hand holding the glass to my side. Extending her arms around my neck, she draws closer to me. I can smell the sticky sweet of her lipstick. I lick my lips. Swallow again. My mouth is dry. I lift my arm, take a swig of the whiskey, and it goes down like a knife. She offers me her lips when I drop the glass again, whispering right up next to mine but not touching. She waits. I kiss her and her mouth is like candy, like being enveloped in silk. My knees go weak again and I lean against the wall to hold myself up. Her lipstick is a smear on my mouth and I don’t care. She leaves a trail of lip prints along my jaw and to the curve of my neck and I don’t care. She is devouring me one kiss at a time and I don’t care. My whole body shudders between her and the wall, held up by both.

    She pulls on my earlobe between her lips before she whispers in my ear, “I would like to suck your cock now.” It’s almost a question, almost asking for permission, she knows that’s usually how it works, but this time it is more of a statement of intent. I notice she doesn’t say “sir” but I don’t care. She’s calling the shots now. She drags her body down mine and her skirt fans out around her legs as she kneels in front of me. She looks up, hands on her thighs, and waits, lips parted a little, lipstick smeared and thick which makes her mouth look even more swollen. I breathe deep, trying to focus. I’m supposed to do something. I manage to set the glass of whiskey down on the side table nearby and unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, pull out my cock. She sits up on her knees to get it lined up with her mouth. … Read more

    Call for Submissions: Erotica for Perversions of Lesbian Lust

    I mentioned that I’ve been webmastering for Madison Young’s newest website, Perversions of Lesbian Lust, and we are looking for lesbian erotica to feature on BOTH the free preview site and in the member’s side.

    Writing Submissions:

    The Feminist Porn Network of Web sites is now accepting written Lesbian and Queer Erotica. Please email Madison Young at [email protected] with submissions for consideration.

    PerversionsofLesbianLust.com – Pulp Lesbian and Queer Fiction Erotica Stories:

    Each piece should be around 1000 words no more than 1500 words. $25 for each piece excepted. Looking for pieces from lesbian and queer identified writers.

    Rights are non-exclusive; submissions are ongoing.

    You can keep up with the new stuff on Madison Young’s Feminist Porn Network by following the new feministpornnetwork.tumblr.com.

    Quick Things for Your Weekend

    A couple notes from around the blog world that you may be interested in. Have a lovely weekend, all. More updates here are in progress.

    BUTCH Voices Conference Requests Blog Links

    BUTCH Voices folks are gearing up for the second bi-annual national conference in August, and they are looking to put a list of queer bloggers in their program, “open to all our Masculine of Center and Queer allies much like the conference“.

    To have your blog listed, DM or @-reply their Twitter account, @BUTCHVoices with your linkand contact information and they will be in touch with you.

    Madison Young Launches “Perversions of Lesbian Lust”

    Madison Young has launched her newest addition to her Feminist Porn Network, Perversions of Lesbian Lust. I’m helping her with the structure of the site and having a lot of fun with it so far.

    Here’s a shot from one of the first galleries, featuring Bettina Doll:

    I suspect you’ll hear more from me about Perversions in the future.

    Review of Boi Meets Girl on Amazon

    I wrote a review of Boi Meets Girl: Brett & Melanie on Amazon for Tony Comstock & Comstock films. I caught a screening of that film at the LGBT Center a few months ago and it was fantastic, as was the Q&A with Tony after. I highly recommend it if you’re a queer porn collector. It’s real and fun and hot, and the interviews with Brett & Melanie are so familiar. It almost felt exposing, but I think that meant that it was incredible effective.

    Taormino’s new anthology Take Me There: Transgender & Genderqueer Erotica

    Tristan Taormino’s latest anthology has been announced, and this time it features transgender and genderqueer smut stories.

    In mainstream media, the erotic identities, sex lives, and fantasies of transgender and genderqueer people are often oversimplified, sensationalized, or invisible. Take Me There is an erotica collection unlike any other that celebrates the pleasure, heat, and diversity of transgender and genderqueer sexualities. The power of seeing and being seen is a central theme in the anthology; it’s not simply about passing or not passing (an idea often explored with transgender characters), but about being acknowledged and desired in a sexual context.

    The book takes you from San Francisco to Israel, from heartache to lust, from stranger sex to a 10 year anniversary, from ballet shoes to butt plug bondage tables, from fumbling teenagers to leatherclad bears, from MTF and FTM—and in between and beyond.

    There is an incredible line-up of writers who have contributed to this anthology, including Kate Bornstein, S. Bear Bergman, Ivan Coyote, Patrick Califia, Julia Serano, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Toni Amato, and many more. I’m really thrilled to have one of my stories included in here. More details on the book are available on Tristan Taormino’s tumblr.

    If you’d like to support this book, the best thing you can do is to pre-order it on Amazon. Amazon bases its in stock copies on the amount of pre-orders, so it would significantly help to make it widely available if you can spare the $11 on the pre-order copy.

    Lesbian Sex Mafia kicks off Leather Pride Week with Laura Antoniou Tonight

    At the LGBT Center, 8pm. She’s teaching Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want:

    “Often, when we try to tell our partners what we like or want, those words are filtered through things like expectations, projection, fear, shame and verbal shortcuts. Play a little card game with Laura and push your flirting talents up a notch! Expand your creativity and verbal skills beyond “I like flogging” or “anything you want” through an interactive game and exercise. Learn how creative communication and courageous risk-taking can make your relationship and play more intimate, satisfying and fun. Say what you mean, and mean what you say – and make it seductive.”

    Where: LGBT Center, 208 West 13th St. (7th/8th Ave)
    When: Friday, June 17, 2011; 8:00-10:00PM (Leather Pride weekend)
    Cost: $5/LSM members, $10/Non members

    Laura Antoniou is the author of the well known Marketplace series of erotic novels. As a presenter, panelist, and keynote speaker, Laura has appeared at dozens of conferences over more than twenty years, both entertaining and delivering an occasional verbal indictment. She has also appeared at colleges and universities, including NYU, Rutgers, Columbia and the University of Washington. Laura lives in Queens, NY with her wife Karen, and happily serves as boy to Kim Attica. Friends have called her all sorts of names. Current favorites being “Renaissance Perv” by Midori, “Good Boy!” by Kim and of course, “best thing that ever happened to me” by Karen.

    Ask Me Anything: My Favorite Smut

    Meredith asked:

    I’m excited for the anthology and your turn at editing. I’ve read some of your other published pieces and of course this blog so it begs the question: What is YOUR favorite smut to read? Got a favorite anthology? Author?

    Oh sure, I have a few thoughts about that.

    My Secret Garden by Nancy Friday changed my life and was significantly formative to my sexuality. I hunted down a copy in the last year or so and was pleasantly surprised that her opening introduction is still amazing and relevant, though that’s also kind of sad—it was published in 1973, it is almost forty years old, yet the limitations, stereotypes, and restrictions placed on women are still relevant. I wish I still had my teenage copy with the spine broken at all the best places.

    Amazing single-author smut books are hard to come by, so the anthologies are easier to mention. I love Doing it for Daddy edited by Patrick Califia, Back to Basics: A Butch/Femme Anthology edited by Therese Szymanski (especially “The Trick” by Amie M. Evans), and Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino—but those are very specific to my butch/femme and daddy orientations, so they might not be your favorites. I adore the stories “Poster Boy” by Carol Queen and “Dress Leather” (one of my favorite short stories ever, of any genre) by Robin Sweeney in Switch Hitters: Lesbians Write Gay Male Erotica and Gay Men Write Lesbian Erotica, edited by Carol Queen & Lawrence Schimel. The stories “Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney and “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato in Best Lesbian Erotica 1998 edited by Taormino were very formative for me, as I started obsessing over lesbian erotica in the late 90s while I was working up the nerve to leave my boyfriend and come out, and they are cock-centric and butch/femme in a way that made me realize that I still had a lot more to explore.

    I’ve also been really into the “sudden sex” stories lately, the super short ones. Often the longer short stories feel like they just drag on to me, especially when I just want to pick something up in order to get off and I’m not leisurely reading. Got a Minute?: 60 Second Erotica edited by Alison Tyler and Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex edited by Alison Tyler are great, and Rachel Kramer Bussel just put one out called Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex (which I have a story in, but the book is good regardless). I’d pick up just about anything Rachel publishes, she has great taste and her anthologies are always well done.

        
        

    It’s harder for a single author to sustain an entire book, so there aren’t as many of those that I go to when I want inspiration (for writing or for getting off). I am kind of in love with Mr. Benson by John Preston and The Leather Daddy and the Femme by Carol Queen. I have read them both many times. I can’t believe it took me this long to read Mr. Benson.

    Cherry by Charlotte Cooper, Breathless by Kitty Tsui, and Macho Sluts or Boy in the Middle by Patrick Califia (or just about anything by Califia, really) are also amazing and worth reading. It’s been a while since I read Cherry but it comes to mind immediately as fun and readable and great.

    I also really love Jack Stratton’s stuff at WritingDirty.com, especially What’s in a Name. He’s got an eBook of Writing Dirty volume 1 which I haven’t purchased yet (I should go do that right now), but I’ve read all the pieces on the site (seriously I’m sure I’ve read every single one), so I highly recommend the collection if you’d rather read it on your reader than in a blog-form.

    Other things I read online … well, I read a lot of Daddy/girl stories these days. I’ve been quite enjoying the recent Bedtime Stories blog. I still think The Provocateur has some of the best writing ever, but it’s generally more literary and fancy than I turn to when I want to get off. For that, I like the quick and dirty stuff.

    Many of these books can be found on my smut bookshelf … and there are more of my favorites in my Amazon A-store.

    And now, what about you all? What are your favorite books of smut? Got any recommendations for things that I perhaps haven’t read? What is your go-to story when you want to get off? What do you love in an erotic story?

    Review: Belladonna’s Strapped Dykes (DVD)


    I’ve had a copy of the 2-DVD set Belladonna’s Strapped Dykes for months, and still haven’t managed to finish it. That’s because it is damn hot. I keep getting distracted! Two whole discs of fucking? How can I last that long?

    Clearly I need a new strategy. I’d like to get an external monitor for my laptop (someday) so I can watch porn while I work, but then again that might be too distracting.

    This set features (pretty famous) porn star Belladonna, who has quite the empire of her own, though I don’t really follow the mainstream porn world so I know very little about her. Turns out she’s quite good at queer sex, and she brings along well-known queer porn favorites Jiz Lee & Syd Blakovich to help out in this film.

    Also stars April Flores (who we are watching in Wednesday night’s porn party!), Bobbi Starr, and Sinn Sage. Aside from April, I’m not familiar with any of those porn actresses but they are quite fun to watch.

    It’s clear everybody here is having a really good time. The fucking is dirty and real, with great noises from all involved—clearly they are enjoying it all. Especially worth checking out are Jiz Lee’s opening scene with Belladonna, which includes some very impressive throat fucking and finger (um, fist) sucking, and Syd Blakovich’s scene with Bobbi Starr which opens the second disc. In fact, the whole second disc features scenes with Syd, so if you’re a fan of her work—and hey why wouldn’t you be? She’s hot and talented and inspiring to watch as a porn performer—I especially recommend this for you.

    Glad it’s in my library.

    Belladonna’s Strapped Dykes DVD was sent to me from Babeland for review. Pick up other sex toys from Babeland, still my favorite feminist, queer, friendly, educational neighborhood sex shop.

    Good Girl, Bad Girl (Part Two)

    WARNING: This story contains Daddy/girl play (and dirty talk). Read Part I.

    Part II.

    She is a bad girl.

    There is very specific protocol if she wants me to fuck her. She is supposed to ask for it, nicely. If she’s embarrassed, she is to sit on my lap and tell me she has a secret.

    She wants it, all the time. She is the first girl I’ve dated seriously who has a higher sex drive than I do.

    I want her to own her desires. To know there’s nothing wrong or shameful about wanting to be fucked, to be opened, to be taken. But sometimes, she can’t. She forgets she’s supposed to ask, and instead drops hints and tries to turn me on, to entice me. Sometimes, this frustrates me. Sometimes, it becomes a game, reminding her she is a bad girl for wanting it and not being able to tell me.

    This is what happens.

    I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. She doesn’t look at me as she finds the place marked by a small piece of paper and starts reading. I’m not paying attention; she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. Her legs stir, she shifts position, pull them underneath her as she inches closer to me.

    I turn a page. She turns her eyes to the pages of her book, moves them along the words, not reading. She’s tried to get my attention all through dinner. Touched her foot to my ankle under the table. Gazed at me, lusty and devourous. Touched my hand and forearm, leaned across the table to display her breasts. Kept her thighs apart. Crossed them, rubbed her legs together.

    She gets frustrated that I’m not paying attention. Starts pouting a little. She sighs, audibly.

    I ignore her.

    We read a while. I’m deeply involved in the middle of this book, and besides, didn’t she just get fucked this morning? I am impatient with this seduction routine, it makes me feel anxious, itchy. And simultaneously, something dark in me growls from down low.

    I finish my tea, put my book down, and get up to brush my teeth. When I emerge, she watches me from the couch, waiting for some cue from me, and almost rolls her eyes when I give her none. She sets her book down on the coffee table a little harder than necessary and gets up to brush her teeth, wash her face, prepare for bed.

    We cross next to each other in the hallway and I slam her up against the wall, face first. She whimpers, gasps. Breathes in.

    “Is this what you wanted?” I grip her arm and twist it behind her, my mouth close to her cheek.

    Sugarbutch Star Chapbooks Are Almost Sold Out—Want One?

    Three summers ago, I started a project called the Sugarbutch Star. Maybe you remember: I asked folks for submissions for story ideas, outlines of erotic encounters with characters, plot, and setting, and then I would write up the story.

    There were a couple reasons I did this. I wanted to deepen my writing, I wanted to continue writing erotic fiction, and I found that I could write variations on a theme that someone else gave me much easier than I could come up with my own scenarios. I was figuring out that that’s the kind of top I was, too—that when someone asked me to do a couple things, like, say, finger them and kiss them for a while, take their clothes off, throw them on the bed and fuck them until they came, that it was no problem for me to follow their requests, with variations and detail, in a way that was toppy and dominant. It was harder for me when I’d sleep with girls (or write characters, even) where anything was an option and I could do whatever I wanted. Sometimes I would freeze up. Not because I didn’t want to do anything, but because there were so many options, where do I even start?

    I didn’t expect it, but these stories helped with that so much. Because the story content was someone else’s fantasy, because it was not from my own brain, even if it lined up with my desires, I didn’t feel guilty or shy about going for it all the way and really bringing all I had to that person’s idea for the erotic scene.

    I didn’t even realize that I did feel shy or guilty about my desires up until doing this project, and once I realized that, it was much easier to notice and breathe through and decide whether I was going to let the guilt or shyness stop me, or not. It changed the way I top. It changed the way I write erotic stories.

    And there were so many good scenarios that I decided to write up five “honorable mention” stories as short-shorts, which was great practice for me, too, because I noticed sometimes that my long stories took so long to finish. In addition, I wrote up five “finalists.” Then, once all ten stories were written and published here on Sugarbutch, I asked readers to vote for their favorite, and the person who submitted that scenario was henceforth known as a Sugarbutch Star.

    So, these are the stories from the first year:

    And I made them into a chapbook. I did two printings of this chapbook, each editions of 100, and I’m not planning to do another printing. I have about a dozen left, and I’m selling them for $10 each which includes shipping anywhere in the US (if you’re outside the US, I may ask you to send a couple more bucks to cover shipping, depending on the cost, but I’m glad to send it to you).

    Want one? Email me, and if you’re in the first 12, I will reserve a copy for you and send you further details (the easiest way for me is to accept payment via Paypal).

    I did the Sugarbutch Star project for a second year, too, and I decided I would only pick five stories as finalists, no matter how good all the submissions were. These were what I finished for the second year:

    I started the fifth story, but never finished it. I still think I might, but maybe it’s time to let that go. (It’s just such a good story! Or it would be, if I could ever finish it.)

    So here it is folks … last call for the Sugarbutch Star Chapbooks.

    Friday Reads: Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica

    In keeping with the tradition I started this summer, featuring a butch or femme book on Fridays to countdown to the Femme Conference and then the Butch Voices regional conferences, I’m going to keep that up and continue featuring books on Fridays.

    I was going to write about The Well Of Loneliness, Gold mentioned it when I wrote up Crybaby Butch last week and I thought, “Of course! Why didn’t I have that on my list?” It’s such a classic butch book. I expected it to be droll and depressing, but when I finally read it (in a british women writers of the ’20s class in college) it was incredible—so engaging, so well written, so articulate in the feelings of this “mannish” woman’s love for another woman. I definitely recommend picking it up, if you haven’t read it.

    But … in light of the ridiculous amount of depressing news this week, let’s not even go there, let’s not mention a book called The Well of Loneliness, let’s not fall down a well of loneliness ourselves. Instead, let’s move on to something much more fun: smut.

    I know I’ve mentioned it here before, but it’s worth revisiting. Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica, edited by Tristan Taormino, is a collection of the best butch/femme stories from the 16 years Taormino was the series editor for Best Lesbian Erotica. There are very few smut books specifically and exclusively with butch/femme content; this is the most recent, and, arguably, the best.

    It is steaming hot.

    “Butch/femme is erotic iconography. Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heals, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s a sexual electricity and power exchange. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.” — from the introduction by Tristan Taormino

    Here’s the description from Cleis Press:

    Does the swagger of a sure-footed butch make you swoon? Do your knees go weak when you see a femme straighten her stockings? A duet between two sorts of women, butch/femme is a potent sexual dynamic. Tristan Taormino chose her favorite butch/femme stories from the Best Lesbian Erotica series, which has sold over 200,000 copies in the 16 years she was editor. And if you think you know what goes in in the bedroom between femmes and butches, these 22 shorts will delight you with erotic surprises. In Joy Parks’s delicious “Sweet Thing,” the new femme librarian in town shows a butch baker a new trick in bed. The stud in “Tag!,” by D. Alexandria, finds her baby girl after a chase in the woods by scent alone. And the girl in a pleated skirt gets exactly what she wants from her Daddy in Peggy Munson’s “The Rock Wall.” Sometimes She Lets Me shows that it’s all about attitude — predicting who will wind up on top isn’t easy in stories by S. Bear Bergman, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Samiya A. Bashir, and many more.

    Includes contributions by Alison L. Smith, Joy Parks, S. Bear Bergman, Amie M. Evans, Samiya A. Bashir, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Kristen Porter, Tara-Michelle Ziniuk, D. Alexandria, Anna Watson, Shannon Cummings, A. Lizbeth Babcock, Sparky, Elaine Miller, Isa Coffey, Skian McGuire, Jera Star, Toni Amato, Peggy Munson, Sandra Lee Golvin, and Sinclair Sexsmith.

    Pick it up at your favorite local independent feminist queer-friendly bookstore (if you want them to stay in business, that is), from Cleis Press directly, from Powell’s books in Portland (hi, #bvpdx!) or, if you must, from Amazon.

    New Book! Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica

    Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch Femme Erotica Edited by Tristan Taormino is due out February 16th, and I have a story in it! (I believe it is The Diner on the Corner, also published in Best Lesbian Erotica 2009.)

    There are very few books exclusively focused on butch/femme erotica—Back to Basics edited by Therese Szymanski is the only one I can think of—and I’m thrilled to see another one come into print. Cannot wait to get my hands on it!

    “Butch/femme is erotic iconography. Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heals, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s a sexual electricity and power exchange. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.” — from the introduction by Tristan Taormino

    From Cleis Press’s page about the new book:

    Does the swagger of a confident butch make you swoon? Do your knees go weak when you see a femme straighten her stockings? In Sometimes She Lets Me, Tristan Taormino chooses her favorite butch/femme stories from the Best Lesbian Erotica series.

    Even if you think you know what goes on in the bedroom between femmes and butches, these 22 stories will delight you with erotic surprises. In Joy Parks’ delicious “Sweet Thing,” the recently arrived town librarian shows a butch baker some new tricks in bed. On a chase through the woods, the stud in “Tag!”, by D. Alexandria, find her baby girl by scent alone. And the girl in a pleated skirt gets exactly what she wants from her Daddy in Peggy Munson’s “The Rock Wall.”

    Includes contributions by Alison L. Smith, Joy Parks, S. Bear Bergman, Amie M. Evans, Samiya A. Bashir, Rosalind Christine Lloyd, Kristen Porter, Tara-Michelle Ziniuk, D. Alexandria, Anna Watson, Shannon Cummings, A. Lizbeth Babcock, Sparky, Elaine Miller, Isa Coffey, Skian McGuire, Jera Star, Toni Amato, Peggy Munson, Sandra Lee Golvin, and Sinclair Sexsmith.

    Tristan Taormino is an award-winning author, columnist, editor, and sex educator. She is the editor of Hot Lesbian Erotica and fourteen editions of Best Lesbian Erotica series as well as the author of The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women. Tristan is a former columnist for the Village Voice and currently has a column in Taboo; her writing has appeared in Velvet ParkVibeSpectator,The Advocate, and more than 15 anthologies. She has been featured in more than 200 publications, including the New York TimesRedbookCosmopolitanGlamourEntertainment WeeklyDetailsNew York magazine, Men’s Health, and Playboy. She has also appeared on CNN, MTV, Oxygen, the Discovery Channel, The Howard Stern Show, Real Sex, The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch, Scarborough Country, and over 50 radio shows. Tristan directed the adult videos the Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, Tristan Taormino’s House of Ass, and the Chemistry series. She lives in upstate New York. Visit Tristan at www.puckerup.com.

    Want to write some smut with me?

    This just in! Stop the presses! Last minute announcement of how to stalk me this week …

    As if I haven’t had enough events this week and last: I was in Northwest Illinois visiting the fine folks at the Students For Sex Against Sexism in Society club at Knox College doing my Fucking with Gender workshop this past weekend, last night I was at Columbia’s Conversio Virium talking to a whole bunch of kinksters about Gendering Power: How to Spice Up Your Role Play, and on Friday I’ll be at Swarthmore College outside of Philadelphia for the Trans Day of Remembrance.

    And now, I’ll be at The Eulenspiegel Society‘s Queer SIG (special interest group) in New York City this Thursday.

    Here’s the details:

    Thursday, November 19, TES Queer SIG Presents: PIY: Porn It Yourself
    Nayland Blake on photography, Blaise on filmed pornography, Sinclair Sexsmith on written smut

    Mainstream porn often just doesn’t cut it when you’re kinky and queer, and that’s why there’s been a long history of people making their own. Join the queer SIG for three half-hour workshops on the pleasures and pitfalls of different kinds of porn production and publishing: filmic, written and photographic and pick up tips on how to represent the sex that’s hot for you.

    Members $4; Non-Members $8 Joria Studios, 260 W 36th, 3rd Floor Doors open at 7:30 pm. Meeting starts at 8 pm.

    It’ll be three different half-hour segments, one on film, one on photography, and one on written smut, with lots of tips about doing it yourself. I’m excited to see both the photography and the film segments, since I do have that nice little Flip video camera that is just begging to be used, and since Kristen is getting a bit more comfortable in front of a camera … in fact, I just ordered a pinup book to play with, and we were just looking at the Pinup Finishing School‘s pin up and hair workshops.

    Want to book me for an event? Check out my profile at Phin Li Bookings, or contact me directly:

    The Study Date

    Here is number 4 of 5 of the 2008 Sugarbutch Star stories! In case you need a reminder of the the Sugarbutch Star contest is reader-submitted outlines of fantasies which I then turn into full-length smut stories. I plan to run the contest again in August. Read up on the past stories at Sugarbutch.net/sugarbutch-star-contest.

    This submission comes from Green-Eyed Girl – yes, the Green-Eyed Girl.

    Sugarbutch Star: Green-Eyed Girl
    THE STUDY DATE

    I push her back against the door of the classroom the second she closes it, catching her jaw by surprise, my hand over her mouth. “Is this what you wanted? You want me up against you like this?”

    Corinne’s knees go weak and her eyes widen, looking up at me softly under her short red hair which curled around her chin in a blunt bob, the bangs across her forehead making her look like a model from the thirties. Her ivory blouse is loose and silky against her skin, a bit fallen to one side, showing the edges of a lace camisole.

    I bet she’s already wet.

    “You’ve been trying to get me alone all semester. Did you think I didn’t know what you wanted, when you asked me to study with you after class?” I speak softly against her neck, let her feel my breath, hot, against her skin.

    Corinne can’t speak. She had been taking up all the air in the room every day in our evening literature class, feisty and talkative, and I’ve finally caught her unprepared. I like the way she keeps glancing at me, then glancing around the room, at the windows, at the door, the small individual desk-chair sets in messy rows, as if she isn’t sure she wants to be here, now that she created this situation.

    “You like the way I feel, don’t you?” I bring my hand to her waist, to the curve of her hip, to the front of her thighs, running it up her belly, to her breasts.

    She gasps. Nods slowly. I let my fingers find the hem of her black pencil skirt and start tugging it up her thighs. She looks surprised and shifts her weight, her heels of her black pumps clicking on the hard classroom floor. She squirms and whimpers a little behind my hand. She’s breathing heavier and I have to let her have her mouth again in a moment.

    “Getting shy now? I thought you knew who you were playing with.” Her skirt is tight and it’s hard to get it to move along her legs with just one hand, I don’t want to rip it or stretch it out, but I’m getting impatient. I push my hand between her thighs and spread my fingers to get her to open them, shove at the fabric. She sucks air in through my fingers, brings one hand to the wrist that is holding her mouth and the other to my shoulder, my chest, almost like she’s pushing me away but she’s not, she’s leaning into me. She wants more.

    She sets her jaw, gets her footing, spreads her legs, locks my eye contact. Getting bolder. Caught off-guard for only a moment, she’s regaining that fierce self-resolve I’ve been fantasizing about for months: how I would unravel it, thread by thread.

    I move my hand up her skirt for a surprise of my own: no panties. Her cunt is not shaven but trimmed, I can feel the soft hairs around her lips before I explore the inner contours with my fingertips. I want to plunge in. I want to catch her between my hand and the wall, feel her from inside, see how she shudders when she comes, if she can stay upright against this wall, right here.

    I let up with my hand over her mouth and feather touch my fingers to her lips, red and full, her mouth gently parted, breath sliding in and out, hot, it’s getting warmer in here, I’m starting to sweat. I can feel it at the nape of my neck, on the small of my back. I’m in my favorite deep red tee shirt and broken-in jeans, but none of the windows are open and it was warm today. Temperatures are rising fast.

    Her tongue is swelling in her mouth. She swallows, watches my face, I can tell my features are getting more shadowy as she’s started giving over. I tease her lips with my fingertips and slide inside her mouth and her cunt at the same moment, two fingers each, she’s wet and warm and strong and tight.

    Shuddering just barely, she leans her shoulders against the wall and tilts her pelvis toward me, an offering.

    You can have me.

    I know.

    Slow and deep, filling every inch as I move inside her. She opens and blooms between my hands, reaching into her as though I could pull some jewel out from her core, as if excavating a mine.

    Show me those precious things you hide inside.

    Corinne swells, clit and tongue; I wet my thumb to thrum against her. I’m holding her up and back with my hands, she’s pressing her weight into me, opening deeper. Her desire rises and I think she’s going to come, she tightens so strong around my fingers and sucks me in deep, I can barely move either hand inside her, but she doesn’t, she gasps, goes limp, releases, leans her head against the wall and opens her mouth, opens her eyes, slides them sideways to look at me. Swallows a few times.

    I slide my fingers out of her beautiful tight body. We both catch our breath.

    I wipe my hands on my jeans and run my fingers through my hair which is falling in my eyes. She rolls her shoulders forward and her knees together shyly, then straightens up, pulls at the hem of her skirt, and takes four swift steps over to the teacher’s desk in front of the chalkboard still covered with notes from our lit class and from the day’s use, ghostly outlines of letters.

    Her hard heels against the floor click, click, click, click, and she balances perfectly on the thin tapered heels, effortless (or so it seems to me) black straps buckling around her ankles. Much too fancy for some night university class. She regains her poise and she is all grace, all pressure and granite.

    Turning to look at me, she shifts her hips side to side as she works her skirt up her thighs and bunches it around her waist, watching my face as I try not to stare, then she turns, and bends over the desk with her elbows on it.
    I don’t make a move. I barely breathe. I let my hungry gaze take in the curve of her ass, her pussy laid out for me, wet and open, her asshole pink, the lines of her shapely legs.

    This girl knows what she wants. I love that.

    She glances back over her shoulder at me hesitantly, a little shyly. I can see her wondering if she’s made a mistake, been too bold, or if I’ll give it to her.

    Of course I will.

    My brown loafers click too, but softer than hers, the leather warn down and smooth. I don’t go slow this time, easily shoving three fingers into her, hard enough to tip her forward farther over the desk. Her mouth opens with a quick “ah!” but she takes it. I grip her hip and slide out easy, slick, she’s so wet, so wet and easy, she guides me in and out, takes it hard, rocks against me.

    In a flash she reaches down between her legs with her left hand and lays deeper onto the desk, breasts against the cool slick top of it. She lets out a moan as she flicks her clit and tightens around my fingers. I slow down, deepen, expand my fingers to fill her more. She gasps, yeah ohhh yeah yeah and I grin. There’s that tongue of hers working again.

    I’ve got her perfectly at hip height and wish I had a cock with me – how was I to know she’d accost me like this? – her ass is luscious and I want to take a bite of her cheek, leave a bruise, wet my fingers and work them into her ass as I plunge my cock into her cunt. Maybe she’ll let me do this again. My free hand travels up, pulls her blouse free of her skirt and finds her nipples, one and then the other, smashing my hand between her and the desk as I keep thrusting and she keeps rubbing her clit, I’m closer to her and can hear her gasping, her hair is falling in her face and she is deliciously disheveled.

    “Oh god oh god,” she mutters. No need to involve him, I want to reply, and bite my tongue thinking this is the most holy thing I’ve done in weeks, I can feel her expanding and enlivening under my fingertips, can feel her chest sweeten and swoon as her heart beats red and strong. The buttons on her blouse are popping open and her skirt is all twisted, her hair swings next to her cheeks and ears, red as the flush on her forehead and between her legs.

    I want to keep her here, poised, open, fine-tuned and sailing over waves of breath and pulse. Here, it is nothing but bliss and beauty and possibility and healing, nothing but filling the cracks and broken-down machines that are our bodies, that run us, both her and I, I’m flooded with it too, she’s spilling out of herself and into me and I catch it, drink it, push myself inside her deeper to spill and capture even more. I love this part, this dance, this exchange, when we are no longer separated, one big electrical circuit, raising energy from our own bodies, flowing through us, picking up speed and momentum and density and purity as it travels between us.

    But of course it doesn’t last. Like all moments of ecstasy, it is short-lived: it spills over and explodes and she comes, hard, gasping and thrusting back against me, pushing her clit so hard I can feel it inside, knees shaking, one of her feet lifting off the floor as she slides her body nearly all the way over the desk.

    Her cries quiet, but I notice they bounce around the bare, hard classroom; I wonder if anyone has heard.

    I’ve pressed hard against her as she collapsed and after a moment I disentangle, breathe, feel my own body attached to my own hand, contain myself again. She hums with pleasure and pushes herself up from the desk, pulls and twists her tight skirt back into place, sits on the desk and crosses her legs to rebutton her blouse and smooth her clothes. Her ankles touch and kiss, shoes barely held onto her slender feet, just a few fine straps and buckles.

    She runs her fingers through her hair, tucks it behind her ear, in a gesture so sweet I stop what I’m doing and reach for her, slide my hands around her waist and she brings her arms around my neck as we kiss, soft and sweet and slow, tender, and I realize we hadn’t done this yet, am I so professional about my fucking that I don’t even kiss anymore? The kissing is the best part. I sigh into it and she grins, I feel her mouth move up at the corners.

    “So,” she says, pulling back arms length from me, eyes sparkling. “No cock?”

    I laugh, a low puff of air. “Caught me a bit unprepared, I guess.”

    “Mmmm.” Corinne doesn’t press it.

    I do. “I’ll bring it Wednesday. We are going to have to, you know, ahem, study, again, before the final on Monday, after all.”

    She’s amused, still grinning. “I’ll be sure to wear a skirt,” she says, and kisses me again.

    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.

    BSB: the creation myth

    Really? I mean, really?

    My story The Creation Myth won the first ever BSB writer’s contest, and I am taking home this fabulous For Your Nymphomation sex toy case which I’ve been coveting ever since Essin’ Em (who has a new URL, by the way) reviewed it a while back. (Also, did you know they also have a rolling suitcase-type of toy trunk? Holy crap, how did I miss this!)

    I’m sure this is not the only source of the concept of a professional submissive, but a few months back I heard about this book The Pleasure’s All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive by Joan Kelly, and that’s what came to mind when I was writing this Jackie character. I just started the book, I’ll let you know how it is.

    A little taste of my short-short story, The Creation Myth:

    “You don’t need to know yet,” she says. “You don’t need it.”

    Flattering, but frustrating. I am convinced her case holds the key to some heretofore untapped topping in me. I play the idea of her correcting my technique as I beat her, guiding me as I fuck her, over and over in my mind when I jack off. I imagine this would entice me and enrage me until I lose control a little, unleash, and let her have my all.

    Until I surrender to my power.

    I’m also particularly fond of the line ““She breaks us like horses,” my friend B whispers loudly after Jackie leaves our table at our usual watering hole. “Ruthless.” “B” is actually the fierce fat femme top Bevin Brandlandingham of The Femme-Cast, and when I submitted the story I had included Bevin’s name and link, though I forgot that the submission was supposed to be anonymous so Catalina (the BSB editor) and I hid her identity.

    Read the whole thing over at BestSexBloggers.com.

    Sugarbutch Star Contest 2008: launch!

    Well, it’s that time again … I’m doing another Sugarbutch Star Contest!

    Here’s the deal:

    • YOU send in the details for an erotica/smut story
    • I pick my FIVE finalists, my favorite scenarios
    • I write up those finalists, one at a time …
    • When they’re all written, readers vote!

    Want to be a star on Sugarbutch? This is whachoo gatta do:

    Come up with a good scenario for me to write out. And I mean good. Read through last year’s, they are elaborate, fun, and hot. The infamous winning entry, The Diner on the Corner, remains one of my favorite smut stories that I’ve ever written

    Include in your scenario outline the characters (who is doing the fucking), the setting (where are we fucking), and the plot (who does what to whom).

    Here’s the Claire Danes example I used last year:

    Characters: Sinclair & Claire Danes. Claire: redhead, petite, great legs. Particularly proud of her pouty mouth, that could be a nice detail somewhere.

    Setting: Central Park & Claire’s apartment. We are both in the park to watch a free concert and catch each other’s eye. Claire approaches Sin, flirting ensues, Claire invites Sin to walk her home.

    Story: Claire is very bold and asks Sin up for a nightcap; proceeds to seduce her with jazz music, fingers in Sin’s hair, a short skirt. When Claire gets Sin to the bedroom she gives Sin a blowjob and then straddles Sin, fucking until they both get off. Claire then ushers Sin out kinda fast and laughs at her attempt to get her number.

    So make it look something like that. The details are key! Especially in the characters, give me some defining clothes they might wear, facial features, hair color, all that, so I can add those details in. But please, make your submission half a page or less.

    EMAIL me this description at: aspiringstud at gmail dot com.

    Prizes are TBA, but will probably include some good smut books, possibly some sex toys, and maybe even a night out on the town with yours truly.

    DEADLINE for entries is Monday, September 1, 2008. Three whole weeks folks …c’mon, give me your best shot.

    (You are definitely welcome to reproduce that image on your own blog, and link back here, to www.sugarbutch.net/sugarbutch-star-contest. And hey, thanks!)

    Sugarbutch Star: WINNER!

    I’m back from Salt Lake City & my short Southwest roadtrip! Lots of catching up to do.  

    By a landslide: the winner of the 2007 Sugarbutch Star Contest is Essin’ Em, who submitted the scenario for the story The Diner on the Corner.

    Congratulations! And thank you, for the fabulous … submission.

    Your prize, darling, consists of the following:

    1. Smut books! A particularly fabulous sex toy store has donated On Our Backs Volume 2 and Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 (in which I have a story).
    2. “I was a Sugarbutch Star” tee shirt!
    3. Chapbook containing all of the Sugarbutch Star stories
    4. Last but not least … a night on the town with me, should you chose to accept it, when you visit this ol’ city next … rest assured, there will be dinner and debauchery.

    Shannon’s story The Photo Shoot was the second favorite, and I’ve got a few little things for her, too …

    1. Copy of Switch Hitters, a book of smut stories where gay men write lesbian erotica and lesbians write gay male erotica – one of my personal favorite collections
    2. Chapbook containing the Sugarbutch Star stories

    Thank you, so much, to all the folks who sent in story outlines, to all the stories I chose to write up: Lady Brett Ashley, birdAvah, Grey, the Femme TopJennifer, Bad bad girl, Madeline, Jefferson. This was a really fun contest, and though it took me way too long to finish up, I think I may just do it again!

    The Photo Shoot

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

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

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

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

    And now, without further introduction:


    The Photo Shoot

    She wants me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I am waiting for something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Oh yeah oh yeah, oh god yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “You were on top a minute ago.”

    “Yeah, but … uh …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Fuck, oh fuck …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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