The Night Everything Changed (Lauren & Beck #1)

Beck waits for Lauren outside of Chez Panisse in Berkeley, leaning up against the brick wall, posing herself deliberately while trying to look casual. One foot back on the wall, knee bent; leaning on one shoulder, hand in the pocket; crouching down with her back resting against the wall—none of them felt quite right. Beck fiddles with a Bic pen, the back of which is nearly destroyed from chewing on it. At least it isn’t a cigarette. Lauren hates it when Beck smokes.

Fancy rich Berkeley people mill about, waiting for their reservation to be called. The night air is warm, the breeze still a little cool; it hasn’t rained in weeks and everything is dry and dusty. Everything is well taken care of on this block, but just one block in any direction and things get a lot more brown and crisp.

When Lauren emerges, she is long and limber and worked up from her shift, talking a mile a minute, kissing Beck so quickly she misses Beck’s skin and only touches air. Beck always picks up Lauren on Thursday nights, since she works from home on Friday. It’s become their date night, an unspoken agreement that they’ll spend the night together. They have a lot of unspoken agreements.

“The duck tonight was outta control,” Lauren is saying as Beck opens the door of her green VW Jetta and Lauren steps in. Her bare legs rub up against each other for a moment as she’s shifting and pulling her long legs in to the car, and Beck’s mouth waters. Lauren is wearing the black ballet flats with the little white bows, and Beck loves how she always kicks them off the second she gets home—”Who needs shoes? Shoes are for people who don’t like their feet to touch the ground. Me, I’m a realist.”

Beck is nodding, listening, interjecting little murmurs of interest as she drives through Berkeley up to her house in the Oakland hills, a modest little thing financed the first year she landed that exec position at Yelp. Beck lives alone. Beck likes to live alone. Lauren’s apartment in Berkeley is cramped but sweet, and they almost never stay there. Beck is pretty sure Lauren’s roommate Ricky hates her.

“And she didn’t even listen to me!” Lauren is saying. “It could have all been avoided if she’d just paid attention when I told her the plan for the evening.” She’s talking about the other host at Chez Panisse, a hetero woman, Christy, who just discovered Burning Man and won’t stop talking about it. Beck and Lauren went out to dinner with Christy and her “partner” Ben once, but spent the entire evening criticizing the food and never said one thing that was interesting. It was a good choice of restaurant though, Beck had to give them that—but she won’t put herself in that situation again, even though Christy has queried.

Lauren always needs half an hour to talk through what happened at work after her shift is over. Beck takes the long way, winding up Snake Road and up Skyline Boulevard, enjoying the view of the sparkling lights of San Francisco, Treasure Island, the Oakland shipyard, and the Bay Bridge.

Suddenly, Lauren says, “Pull over,” right into Beck’s ear. Her hands are on Beck’s thigh in that provocative way that tells Beck that she is about to dig into her jeans and she damn well better be wearing a cock. Lauren’s skirt is short and tight and her legs are tanned, her thighs thick. Beck licks her lips and eyes her girl as they slow to a pull-out overlooking the Bay. Beck hasn’t gotten a word in, doesn’t even know how to say what she needs to say. She’s been waiting to pick up Lauren ever since she left work at 5 o’clock, and the combination of lust and trust is making her hands ache to pull Lauren close and inhale her lavender shampoo smell. But talking can wait.

Lauren lunges at Beck’s fly before Beck even has the chance to put her car in park, pulling out Beck’s packing cock and taking it into her mouth. Lauren’s curls tumble out over Beck’s lap and Beck holds them back so she can see Lauren’s pretty lips. Her kisses are full-lipped and luxurious, soft and supple. Beck can’t feel anything through her cock, and she thinks it’s stupid when dykes pretend that they can, but she loves how Lauren looks when she wraps her lips around it and licks with her tongue. Beck comes pretty easily anyway, so a little extra distance between her premature orgasms is always nice.

Beck runs her hand down along Lauren’s back, over her ribs and the sides of her body, over her hips, pushing her hand between Lauren’s legs to reach her cunt. This is what Lauren likes: being fingered until she comes while Beck’s cock is in her mouth. This is what Beck likes: the weight of Lauren on her lap, the feel of her curls when Beck fists them, the feeling of her palm disappearing inside Lauren’s cunt, and fucking Lauren’s ass bent over the bed when they get back home. Plus, whatever gourmet midnight snack Lauren makes is always the perfect blend of sweet and umami. The curling up together and sleeping is the hardest part, but Beck is getting used to it, letting her messy self be seen.

It isn’t going to take long. Lauren’s hips are rocking already and she’s working her hand up and down on Beck’s cock. Beck could come at any moment. She feels numb. Her thighs are squeezing together and Lauren’s cunt is squeezing at the same pulse, her fingers caught inside and shaking. Something is happening, but Beck isn’t sure what, it doesn’t usually feel like this. This feels hard, dangerous, like she’s going to cry out and pee and come all at once, and something is going to happen, it’s going to make something happen, like her body is going to come apart at the seams and slowly disintegrate.

Against her palms, Lauren’s thighs are quivering. Beck wants her mouth on them, wants her mouth on Lauren’s cunt, wants to drink her down and make her come over and over, sucking her clit so swollen. The thought of it sends Beck’s own cunt contracting and coming, and she pushes her hips up against Lauren harder, her clit spasming in sharp jolts of electricity as she bites her lip, hard, harder than she means to. Her body bursts and vibrates, the numbness seeping away and leaving more spasms of pain, release, confusion. Why does it have to feel like this. Beck wants to ignore it, push it down, but she can’t, it bubbles up, and pretty soon she’s crying—tears leaking from her eyes, gulping for air, the messy gross crying that Beck would never let herself do in front of anyone else.

Lauren is in her lap before Beck even notices it, curled up between Beck’s body and the steering wheel, and the weight of Lauren feels comforting. Lauren is kissing her face, nuzzling into her neck. Beck can’t form words yet. Lauren knows better than to ask, or to demand, explanation. She just sits still, she just holds.

“My mom called earlier,” Beck breathes out, not even sure she can say the words. She can hear her mother’s voice again, so clear, ringing like a bell: “Rebecca, Mallory died last night.” They had been waiting for it, of course; it was inevitable, the doctors had said. It had been looming. She’d hung on longer than anyone expected. Beck had already traveled out to Connecticut twice to say goodbye.

Lauren is looking at Beck expectingly, her expression softening as she sees how much struggle is in Beck’s eyes. Beck takes another breath, and manages to say, “It’s Mallory. She’s gone.”

“Oh,” Lauren gasps. Her fingers lace through Beck’s, and she lays her head on Beck’s chest. Beck lowers her face to kiss the top of Laurens head, and inhales the scent of her lavender shampoo.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

Dirty Filthy Nasty

This story contains Daddy/girl language, rough sex, and lots of body fluids. This has been your trigger warning.

“Will you pause it for a minute? I have to pee.”

Kristen gets up from the couch and I grab for the remote, hitting pause on the second porn flick we turned on tonight. We’d shared a bottle of wine. I knew she was bleeding, since earlier in the first film, unimpressed by one of the girl’s one-finger banging techniques, I shoved three into her to illustrate that cunts can take more.

Well, maybe not all cunts. But hers, obviously.

She was wet, and moaned a little, making a little mewl of protest when I slipped them out. My fingers came away with just a little blood and I wiped them on her leg.

Ask Me Anything! No Really

I’m starting to write a new column on SexIs Magazine, this time it’s an advice column called Mr. Sexsmith Says. The first one came out today, about stone identity and butches, and they’ll be published every other week.

I have a pretty decent stack of index cards from my workshops, as well as some unanswered questions from emails and from the Ask Me Anything Sugarbutch anniversary thread, so I already do have a lot of fodder for this new column.

However! I still get questions pretty frequently, and now that I have a place to put them, I invite you to ask me about things you’d like to know. No seriously, ask away. I can’t promise to answer all of them—I have no idea if I’ll get two or two hundred, so you know, I’ll have to do some experimenting here—but I will do my best.

So now there’s a sugarbutch.net/ask-me-anything URL, and a place specifically to submit questions. Please feel free to ask away.

From Not Stone to Stone-ish

I’m finally getting around to the Ask Me Anything questions from Sugarbutch’s 4th anniversary. I hope to get through them all, though it might take a little bit of time!

My question: How do you relate or not relate to stone identity? To what extent do you ID/not ID as stone and how do you feel about that? Maybe you’ve written about this here before and I missed it … I’ve had a big process going from not stone to stone-ish to stone, and I’m curious about how other butches feel. —Bond

I haven’t written much about this, I don’t think. I don’t identify as stone, but I do identify as stone-ish. I’ve never been all the way stone, but I do remember on my first date with Kristen I said, “I’m basically stone,” as I was trying to describe the ways that I was a top and wanted to be in charge perhaps ninety percent of the time. I’d told this to other lovers on other first dates, but it didn’t always make sense to the other person, and I was trying to put it out there stronger and more specifically this time, lay everything out clearly as early as possible in hopes that she’d get it.

(She did, she does.)

But that is really new in my history—I’ve dated girls even in the past four years that I’ve been running Sugarbutch that were tops, or toppy, and to whom I bottomed. My first long-term relationship with my ex-boyfriend of five years was kinky, in a kind of entry-level kink way (light bondage, light percussion) and we experimented with some switching, but mostly I was bottoming to him. As our relationship drew on, we started taking some classes on kinky sex (at places like Babeland) and I started learning more and more about topping. It wasn’t until I got out of that relationship entirely and had a series of revelations that I started realizing I was more of a top than bottom, and that perhaps I’d never really been submissive as much as bottoming.

I’m mentioning all this because stone is tied to topping, for me, because I’m not stone so much as I’m a top. I’m not opposed to being touched or penetrated, and I don’t have strong emotional reactions to those things, as I know some other stone folks that I’ve talked to do. (I don’t think that’s the only way to be stone, but in my experience stone often goes along with a gender dysphoria and a disagreement of gender between body and mind.) As I’ve been dating (and chronicling my dating here), I started getting more and more specific about who it was I wanted to date, especially in terms of identity keywords like bottom and submissive, and I did start describing myself as stone or stone-ish to girls I was flirting with or on first dates. I wanted to see what their reaction was, what their relationship to stone was, and whether or not they knew what to do with that. More than one girl seemed to understand and then behaved differently in bed, which was not what I wanted.

There is a relief that comes along with not being touched (very much), though. It means I don’t have to try so hard, I don’t have to worry about whether or not I’m going to get off ‘that way’, whatever way she’s touching me, it means I don’t have to be in that particular position of surrender when I often (at least nine times out of ten) do not want to be. I much prefer getting off while strapped on and fucking … and yes, I suppose that does have something to do with gender, that I prefer my orgasms to be related to my cock and not necessarily while being penetrated.

I don’t always prefer to get off that way—I was just writing about masturbation and My Ultimate Masturbation Toys, one of which is that genius Pure Wand, which is just the right size and shape for me. And sometimes, especially it seems right before I start my period, I crave getting fucked, sometimes hard. That tends to be when I ask to be fisted. I don’t do that often, maybe three times in the last year and a half relationship with Kristen, but when I have, I think they have all been around that time of my cycle.

But generally, when I’m with someone else, when I’m with Kristen, I want to get off through fucking, through my cock. I want to be dominant, in some way, using some sort of physical strength that tightens my muscles and makes the getting off all the more intense. I want to be using my gender fetish, which I don’t ever fuck without, anymore. I want there to be a gender component and a power component, with me in particular places on those spectrums, and usually, that involves me strapped on, on top.

That doesn’t quite make me stone, at least not the way I understand it. But there’s something useful in the language of stone that helps get across that top identity, that dominant identity, and that butch identity, so I have relied on stone in the past to help me make all those identities come together.

What about you? Do you identify as stone? Stone-ish? Not stone? Why or why not? What’s your relationship to the identity of stone? What do you define it as, what do you think it means?