Do rough sex fantasies compromise your sex-positive ethics?

This new essay is also the introduction to my new book, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, available September 15th. Preorder it on Smashwords now!

I firmly believe that there is nothing wrong with my personal rough sex fantasies, nor is there anything wrong with your dirtiest fantasies. I believe that because I trust that you and I are adults who understand that fantasy is different from reality, and while we may think one thing to get ourselves off, we probably conduct our sex lives slightly differently.

Erotic stories are fantasies, yes, but they can be more than just that—they can show us a piece of the path, and encourage our erotic selves to blossom. So what’s my responsibility as an erotica writer to make the stories that I write down ethical and responsible?

I am both a sex educator and a smut writer, and sometimes those worlds seem to conflict. For example, in the BDSM and sex education worlds, educators and advanced practitioners stress consent in play scenes. And not just consent—we stress enthusiastic consent, not just an absence of “no” but a ready joyous abundance of informed and eager “yes.” We also stress safer sex practices, barriers, knowing your status, and sexual health and wellness. We stress responsible scenes, and warn about playing while intoxicated.

In some of my erotic fiction stories, these practices that are deeply held values in my personal life aren’t readily apparent. That’s because my stories are fantasies—you know, the things you close your eyes and think about when you’re getting off all by yourself, not necessarily (though perhaps sometimes!) the things you do with lovers. The characters in my stories sometimes don’t negotiate or have a conversation about safer sex, not because things like safer sex or negotiation are unimportant, but because the main purpose of the story is to turn you, the reader, on.

Frequently, in the sexuality education communities and conversations, we talk about how porn and erotica are different from sex education. I discourage people from learning how to give or receive a blow job from porn videos, for example, where deep throating and playing with ejaculate are overly common. (See Cindy Gallop’s online project Make Love, Not Porn for a variety of other examples of the difference.) Similarly, I discourage people from learning about power dynamics from Laura Antoniou’s book The Marketplace (though I happen to love the whole series), and would never suggest recreating a scene from 50 Shades of Grey (don’t even get me started). Both of these books are worlds away from the people who pursue and practice power dynamics, ownership, dominance, and submission in their personal relationships.

But the fantasies? We, as readers, love devouring them. We love the fantasies even more than we love the reality. The reality is messy, with STI scares and condoms breaking. The fantasies are escapist, sensual, and by definition not real.

I think when we start coming into our own sexually, when we start realizing that there’s more to sex than what our completely antiquated and puritanical sex education system taught us as kids, we start familiarizing ourselves with some of the most basic topics in sex positive communities. We learn about consent, agency, negotiations, communication, and safer sex. When we don’t see that reflected in the erotica or porn that we are consuming, sometimes it can seem like the erotica or porn fantasy is discouraging that kind of sex positive responsibility.

I am explaining all of this to you because I don’t want my erotic fantasies to discourage you from being responsible in reality.

I know that the educational workshops I teach encourage sex positive responsibility. But in my erotica? That issue becomes a little more nuanced and complicated, because of the aspects of art and fantasy. For example, I am aware that there are some points in the Sweet & Rough collection of stories where characters protest or resist or drink a lot of whiskey. I think there is nothing wrong with playing with resistance and force, consensually and carefully, but I also think that requires a lot of negotiation, a lot of trust, and safewords, in order to be done responsibly in the real world. That part of the story often isn’t revealed. Like the porn scene that cuts out the part where the fluffer comes on stage and someone else adds more lube, the erotic story often excludes the getting-to-know-you, the subtle body language communication, the character’s histories with each other, and what they have negotiated “off screen.”

I deeply believe that the personal is political and that being transparent about one’s life is a spiritual path. Since writing Sweet & Rough, I have shifted some of my erotica writing to be much more consciously inclusive of things like negotiations and safer sex. Most definitely because that stuff is hot, but also because I want to show more of the reality and less of the fantasy.

However, those things are frequently excluded from Sweet & Rough. And here’s why: These stories are collaborations. Most of the stories in this collection were written and published on Sugarbutch between 2007-2009. Many of them came out of the “Sugarbutch Star Contest” where readers sent in some basics about a scene (who, where, what the characters did) and I wrote up the story.

It was a huge period of growth for my writing, and I pushed myself hard to write the fantasies that were outlined for me. Sometimes, they were much more forceful than I’d usually write, although they more closely resembled my own private fantasies. I am aware of my access to privilege and unconscious entitlement as a masculine person and as a dominant, and it is important for me to stay conscious in my sex play, especially when it comes to gender or power dynamics.

Often, my early drafts of these stories included a lot of internal processing and negotiations, but the fantasies of my collaborators challenged me. I remember when writing “The Houseboy’s Rebellion” (which is a b-side story included on the USB version of Sweet & Rough), when the collaborator read the draft of it, she said, “No way. Make my character more mean. Take out all this negotiation. Just take me.”

Because of how strong the service top in me is, and because I liked it, I followed her desire. And I believe that story—and others, when I received similar feedback—are stronger for it.

The stories in Sweet & Rough are fantasies. I know fantasy erotic writing still greatly influences our real sexualities, and I don’t dismiss that connection. But these fictions are not necessarily models of sexual responsibility. Some of it is “problematic,” and I wouldn’t claim otherwise—but they still have so much value, and can jump-start our erotic engines or show us how much more can be incorporated into our erotic lives.

I encourage you to continue practicing being a responsible, ethical, sex-positive kinkster who operates from integrity. And I encourage you to read erotica stories that are edgy, full of force and lust, from authors whose ethics you trust, and to believe that the responsibilities are filled in behind the scenes, just off the page, stripped out so you can enjoy even more of the sweet sex and rough play that gets you going and gets you off.

Sweet & RoughYou have just read the introduction to my new book of erotica short stories, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut. It is all ready to go and will be released on Monday, September 15th! Preorder your copy on Smashwords, or if you are attending the Catalyst Conference in LA this weekend, I’ll have special pre-release copies on a USB drive (which will have a special, USB-only b-side story included!)

Sugarbutch Star Winner: blacknblu, The Pink Dress

Alright it’s official, we have a winner:

Congratulations, blckndblue! Thank you for the premise behind the story The Pink Dress. Over 100 people voted, and your story was their favorite, by a narrow margin.

“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

And now, to announce your prize …

  • “Sugarbutch Star” pin
  • Copy of the Sugarbutch Star collection ebook (due out Summer 2012!)
  • A story of your choice recorded by me for your listening pleasure
  • … And since I’m aiming to be in your city this spring, I hope we can make a date to have a drink

Thanks to everyone who voted and read the stories.

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

The Pink Dress

Do y’all remember the Sugarbutch Star stories? It was a series where readers sent in a scenario and I wrote up the story. This is the last of the 5 stories from the 2008 “contest,” the others being Eileen, Matt, Green-Eyed Girl, and Maze. This story idea comes from blkndblue.

Warning: This story is long, about 18 pages. Click the “read more” at the end to read the final scene (it’s worth it, promise). I figure it’s a good way to kick off a (happy, sexy) new year.

Thanks to Dacia & BB Rydell for help with edits!

Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue
THE PINK DRESS

Emily emerges from the dressing room slowly, suddenly shy, though I’ve seen her naked in dozens of compromised positions. She fidgets with the dress, her hair, sucks in her stomach, but her eyes are lit up and she’s biting back a playful smile. She wants to wear this dress. Her inner three-year-old princess is aflame. “What do you think?” Emily asks; but the question isn’t really about my preference. She wants me to want it so she has permission to wear it. Then she doesn’t have to want it for herself; she is absolved of her own desires. I want to her to have permission to want anything on her body that she is drawn to, regardless of its gendered implications.

I finger the skirt of the baby pink dress, its satin fabric, abundant for its near-full skirt. She looks amazing in the plunging neckline in a gentle scoop, which shows off her round breasts generously. Sleeveless, it gathers at the waist where a thick white band wraps around, tying in a ribbon at the back. It could have been a bridesmaid’s dress, or a prom dress, or maybe someone’s fancy party dress. She’s been eyeing this dress in the window display, and today was the day it came down. She asked them to set it aside for her.

“So?” She is trying so hard to be patient. The words come out in a rush. “Do you like it?”

I come up behind her as she looks in the full-length mirror barely visible behind racks of gently used clothes. I wrap my arm around her waist, pull her gently back to me as she sighs, then smooths the skirt down.

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, my lips next to her ear. “No question.”

“Really?” She’s not sure I mean it, but she wants me to. “But it’s so … femme.”

“Yeah, it is,” I say.

“But, I’m not femme!” She argues.

“What do you mean? Of course you are,” I say.

“No, I mean …” she struggles for the words. “I’m not high femme. I hate that term. I almost always wear jeans and tee shirts.” We’ve been dating for on and off for a few years. We both have primary partners, but we make time to play and go on dates. When she dresses up, she adds heels and lipstick, rarely anything more. She has some impressive lingerie, but seldom wears dresses. She wears power suits for her professional office work, where she has to keep control and is in charge of a dozen people’s activities on a daily basis. She spends a lot of time looking put together, climbing the corporate ladder, and fighting the male privilege in her office, and she’d rather kick around in something comfortable and durable when she has the option.

“I know that’s what you prefer, and it’s perfect—your ass looks great in jeans,” I counter. “Look, you’re twice the femme most self-identified high femmes are. You’re at home in your body, awake in your skin, not judgmental about your own waistline or anyone else’s. And you have your circle of femme friends without gossip or backstabbing. If that’s not high femme, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, but you have to say that.”

“And I want to. I know the dress is a stretch … but it’s amazing on you. It looks like it was made for you. Doesn’t it?” I ask the passing sales girl. “Doesn’t it look like it was made for her?”

“It is, like, so cut perfectly for your body,” the girl, probably barely twenty, replies. “It makes your curves look even more curvy. It’s practically, like, perfect.”

“Yeah. Perfect,” I echo, and Emily grins at herself in the mirror.

“It is, isn’t it. Yeah. Okay,” she kisses my cheek and zips back into the dressing room, and buys the dress.

*

The date is my idea, and a surprise. I enlist her friend Sam, a gay boy also known as Serena, who does a fierce drag queen act and has every feminizing, over-the-top accessory one would need. We’ve been out drinking and galavanting dozens of nights in the past few years. Sometimes Emily and I go see him perform. Last time, he did a Judy Garland number with an incredible outfit from the forties that made him look like a black and white movie star.

“I could never do that,” Emily must’ve whispered to me five times that night, but the spark in her eyes told me that she wanted to. I knew Sam would love to see Emily all dressed up.

And tonight, with this pink dress, he’s going to help. I enlist Sam because Emily doesn’t have the femme things I need, and I can’t afford to buy them all. I meet Sam around the corner and pick up the fluffy underskirt that’s used to puff out full skirts, called a crinoline.

I knock on Emily’s door, and she throws it open. “I’m here to pick up the dress,” I say, after kissing her hello. She fetches it from her bedroom, still in the thrift store’s lavender-colored paper bag with their logo on it, and hands it to me across the threshold.

“Thank you. Now, you remember what I told you? What’s the plan?”

“First, I’m getting my nails done across the street. Then I’m going to go to Sam’s at 5pm to get my hair and makeup done. Then I’ll come meet you at your place, and bring the bra and panties.” I know she doesn’t wear the white bra and panty set with the lace trim often. I like that she saves it for me.

“What time, at my apartment?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Good. Perfect. Don’t be late,” I add. As if she would be. She shifts her weight from foot to foot very slightly and I can see her ears beginning to flush pink.

I tuck the box with the crinoline under the arm that holds her dress in a shopping bag and draw her to me with the other, smiling as our faces get closer, drinking in her skin and hair and the sweet way her body fits.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl,” I say, and kiss her.

*

At seven twenty-eight, she knocks on my apartment door. I greet her with more kisses and lead her into the bedroom before she sets her purse down. Some of the things are laid out on the bed: the crinoline skirt, white thigh-high stockings, a white garter belt, and her new pink dress, which I had dry cleaned and pressed just this morning. I see her hand flicker slightly as she reaches out and touch the dress, then pulls it back and makes a fist.

“Are you ready for tonight?” I take a seat in the small armchair in the corner of my bedroom and I take a sip of the glass of water I’d poured just before she arrived, with extra ice so she can hear the clink of it in the glass. She nods. I notice Emily picks at her nails, then stop when she realizes she is probably chipping her nail polish. She must be nervous. The icy liquid is cool in my mouth and I feel it run down my throat. Her chestnut hair is mostly a silhouetted shadow, but I can see it is piled on top of her hair in spirals and curls in a way that is much more complicated than she would usually entertain. It reveals the curve of her neck, which swoops into her collarbone and, later, will lead right to her cleavage.

“Did Sam send you with jewelry?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Get it out, and put it on the top of the dresser.” I cleared it in anticipation. She goes to her bag, removes a couple small boxes and a tiny clutch purse, then arranges it all so each are neat and not touching, then goes back to standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking around the room.

“Take off your clothes,” I say. “Slowly. Fold each piece and put them on the bed.” She starts with her v-neck grey fitted girly tee shirt, quickly pulling it over her head. “I said slowly,” I say, and she pauses, moves a little slower. She folds the thin fabric easily and places it on the bed, then steps out of her low, simple black flats. She’s not wearing a bra; she often doesn’t, not encouraging the curve of her breasts to be shown off. Her bare skin glows in the lamplight. She pulls down her tight blue jeans and steps out of them, folding them a little thoughtlessly, but I don’t tell her to slow down again. She slides her plain black cotton underwear down over her legs and adds it to the pile. She fingers the worn grey tee shirt and looks at it longingly, then glances at the lingerie laid out on the bed and moves her hand to touch it, smiling as her fingertips make contact, her face relaxing.

She stands again, naked this time, crosses her arms in front of herself, then drops her arms and holds one wrist with her hand. After a moment she straightens up, and clasps her hands behind her back like she is presenting herself to me, a blank canvas. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, drops her hip, but tries to stay still. She bites her lip.

“Very nice,” I murmur from my corner. I uncross and recross my legs, ankle to knee, and pick up the cane from next to my chair. I can see her nipples, even in the shadows, hard and dark. “Get the bra and panties out of your bag, lay them on the bed.” She does. “Now, get dressed. Start with the garter belt.” She takes a breath and turns to the bed, picking it up and sliding it up her legs, securing it in place.

“Now the stockings,” I say. “And the bra. Leave the panties off, for now.” She dresses quickly, fumbling a little with the clasps and the delicate fabric, sitting on the side of the bed to fasten the stockings to the lace. “Now the petticoat.” She looks at me a little questioning, then realizes I mean the white crinoline skirt, and pulls it in a flourish from the bed to step into it.

“The dress,” I say. She pulls it over her head, evens it over the petticoat, and does her best to tie the white bow behind her back. With the extra layers of under the skirt, the pink dress is even more stunning than it was in the store. “And the jewelry,” I say, as she admires herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. She takes a step closer and puts small two-stone droplet earrings in; they’re delicate, just an inch or so long, hanging just enough to move when she does and sparkle when the light hits them. She reaches for the matching necklace and raises her elbows to buckle the clasp behind her neck. Her fingers tremble and it takes her three tries to hook it correctly.

Emily steps back and looks at her reflection, buzzing, hardly containing the thrill of happiness at her own reflection. Her smile is as big as I’ve ever seen it. She turns her head, then shakes it to see the sparkle of the earrings, tilts her chin down to see her fancy hair-do, fluffs the skirt out to the side, and finally twirls, watching the dress in the mirror and laughing, giddy.

“Come here,” I say. She turns her head to me and takes short, quick steps across the room to where I am sitting next to the window in her stockinged feet. She notices the cane I have been stroking.

“Is that for me?” she asks.

“It’s for your ass. For later.” I set it on the table with my glass and reach out for her waist, pull her on to my lap. “Very nice,” I say, stroking the skin on her arm, the the slick fabric of the top of the dress, brushing my fingers against her breasts and nipples. I offer my mouth for a kiss and she wraps her arms around my neck, opening her mouth, gently kissing back. “You look gorgeous.”

“You really think so?” she bats her eyelashes. She looks like a sunrise, peeking over the horizon, breaking the dark, reaching up into the sky. She still looks like herself—just polished up a little, enhanced, prettied.

“Really. Very much.” We kiss again and I get lost in her lips, her tongue, the way her hands grasp gently at my neck and shoulders. I let my hands trace her stockings, wander up under the many layers under her dress. “Do you like the crinoline?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” she breathes. “Is that what Sam gave you?”

“Yes. On loan.”

“It’s so … pretty.”

“You’re pretty, sweetheart.”

She smiles shyly, kisses me again.

“Did you like getting your nails done, and your hair and make-up done?”

“Yes! It was really fun. More than I thought it would be. I thought it would be weird but it makes me feel fancy. And important. And … ” she lowers her voice, her eyes a little and brings her hands up to straighten my tie, pinch my collar between her fingers. “And I knew I was doing it for you. That you would like it.”

“Mmm. And you did a very good job getting all ready for me.” I find the patch of skin at the top of her stockings, her sweet smooth inner thigh, and rest my hand there gently.

“I like doing what you say.” It lets her mind rest, she’s explained to me, and is a relief to trust enough to follow orders instead of second guessing and being in charge of everything.

“I know. And I have a few more things to do before we go to dinner. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I toss her a questioning look and she corrects herself. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” I take a breath. “I’m going to warm you up for the evening. I want to give you something that will serve as a reminder that this body—” I shift my hand quickly and palm her pussy, making her gasp, then quickly attempt to maintain her composure and keep her eyes open, looking at me, “—this pretty little body of yours is mine to play with tonight.”

She nods, quick, tiny movements of her head, and her eyes flicker with a hint of nervousness.

“Are you worried?”

“No, sir. I know you will take good care of me.”

“That’s right. Good.” I move my hand away and she breathes in, her thighs quiver. I lean in to kiss her again, bring my hands to her waist and then up to cup her chin, neck, the back of her head, careful not to mess up her hair. She relaxes, her mouth softens. She tastes like cream.

“Get up and bend over my lap. I’m going to make some marks on your ass before we go out.”

She delicately places herself over me with more care than usual, though we’ve been in this position many times. She doesn’t want to muss herself. This chair is perfect for over-the-knee spankings, with wide, low arm rests. Her stockinged tiptoes just barely reach the floor. She arches her back automatically, presenting her ass and slit to my right hand.

I caress her neck and shift my arm to cradle her collarbone and begin peeling up the layers of her pretty pink dress and petticoat. The peach of her ass is perfectly framed by her stockings and garter belt, the layers pushed up to her hips. Softly, I bring my hand to her thighs and ass and begin caressing.

“So nice,” I murmur into her ear. I start with some rapid tap-tap-taps with my fingers tight together on the sweet spots on her ass, the ones that make the flesh shake and that makes her muscles relax. She sighs, keeps breathing, keeps filling her lungs and breathing into the increasing sensation. She’s done enough yoga, we’ve played with enough sensation play—she knows how to open.

I keep going with light taps and occasional full-handed gentle swats until I can see a pink flush starting, just a hint. She loves being hit; she snuggles down into it as if I was reading her a bedtime story. I increase my swing, raising my arm higher, and give her a few open-palmed, but not too hard yet. Her skin is fair and it is easy to leave long-lasting marks, easy to bruise and break capillaries on the surface of her skin.

Which is exactly what I want.

I continue, warming up her ass until it is bright and hot, flushed and red, beginning to show some darker parts where it will be easy to leave marks. She moans, sinking into me, humming with pleasure. When we are both warm, when my shoulder feels like it is loose and liquid and easy, I raise my arm high and let fly a few hard wallops, pausing in between, but just for a moment, to let her react. Her body shudders and I feel her tense, then relax, over my lap. I can feel the impact of my hand through her and onto my thighs, can feel her growing heat and intensity. I let my hand down again, and again, allowing gravity to pull me, sucking up the power she’s handing over while I have her upturned and stunned, ready to take more.

I lean down so my mouth is by her ear again. “You are doing so well. Your ass is nice and red and starting to bruise. I’m going to get my cane out now.”

She manages to move her neck slightly, twists her head and looks up at me, and nods just a little. I grip the cane from the side table and it feels hard, solid in my hand. It slices through the air with a hiss and I love the way it extends my arm. The last time we used the cane, she told me every time she sat down, she thought about what I’d done and how I’d used her. That it made her wet to have to act like she could sit normally, when really it was excruciatingly painful. That’s how I want it to be tonight. Something to take away from the terror of being so femme, over the top femme, in public. Something to distract her.

The first hit with the cane is a little off, and not too hard. She gasps but does not squirm. The second is two centimeters toward her thighs and harder. Immediately a light stripe appears. She jumps a little and lets one arm drop, grabbing on to my pant leg, as she lets out her breath in a long thin stream through her teeth. The third, quicker now, is at a different angle, crossing the first two. She sucks air back in and lets out a laugh, bubbling like champagne, thrilling and tickling my nose. Good. She’s warm, dropping into that blurry area past the sharp pain and into sensation.

The next dozen or so are more rapid, in succession, some lighter and some fiercely hard and biting. She takes it well. She gasps and begins squirming, but not away, not off of my lap, just to wriggle and shake off some of the building energy. I fall into a pattern of hard-hard-quick-quick-soft-caress where my eyes glaze and my cock hardens. I can see her slit becoming wet, swollen, as pink as her sweet round ass cheeks.

The striping is beautiful, thin welts rising on bull’s eye circles where my hands bruised her first. I can already see some small places where my handiwork reveals itself.

I lean low against her ear again. “It’s going to hurt for a while when you sit,” I say, as a slide the cane away and bring my hand to her singed bottom. It is so tender and sensitive, like stretched skin over the frame of a drum, reverberating with every touch.

She moans. “Thank you, sir.”

I bring her up onto my lap again to hold her for a minute, her ass already uncomfortable. Sitting at the restaurant is going to be excruciating. I stroke her hair and neck, offer her some water and she takes it. She snuggles against my chest, lets me sooth her, then rocks a little on my lap and I realize she is searching for my cock.

“Looking for something?” I ask.

She falters, remembers herself. “No, sir.”

“Later.”

She nods, tries not to look disappointed.

“I have one more thing for you before we leave. Ready?”

She nods again, brings one hand up to her mouth to bite one finger, a childish gesture of nervousness.

I almost laugh. “Nothing bad, sweet girl. This is a present. A surprise.”

Her eyes light up as she slips off my lap. I go over to the closet where I stashed the bag, then sit on the bed, patting the bedspread next to me. She shuffles slowly over the thin carpet in her stockings, smoothing out the skirt of her dress and walking slowly because her legs are still weak from being bent over my lap and beaten. She brings her hands behind her, to touch her ass, as she walks, and I can tell the muscles are already sore.

I hand her the bag. She gives me a shy smile and pulls the shoe box out of the plain white shopping bag. Her eyes widen. She realizes she only brought the flat black shoes she came in.

“Oh!” She exclaims when she opens the box. They took me a few days to find: the exact pink shade as the dress, with a small strap over the arch of her foot, delicate white trim, and a tall, thin four inch heel. She pulls them both out and pushes the wrapping aside on the bed, holds them flat in her hands, grinning. “May I?”

I slip off the bed to kneel in front of her, holding my hand out. She blushes—adorable—and hands the shoes to me, offers me her foot so I can slide them on, one at a time.

She laughs, and twirls. “I feel like these are fancy shoes from my fairy godmother, and I’m Cinderella!”

“You look amazing,” I say, standing up, and offer my hands to help her stand. It may take a minute to get used to them. I take her in my arms again and she melts into me, offering her mouth for more kisses.

When I pull away I take the delicate white panties still laid out on the bed and offer them to her. “Put these on, we wouldn’t want you getting your dress any more wet than it already is. Freshen up your lipstick and let’s go to dinner. Are you hungry?” Her lipstick is smeared from kissing me, and she hasn’t noticed. It’s probably on my mouth. I quickly wipe my mouth in the bathroom mirror and when I come back in, she’s sitting on the bed to step into her panties, pulling them up over her shoes and stockings, leaving them on the outside, so they can be the first thing that comes off later. She stands and picks up the tiny clutch purse she laid out on the dresser, checking her make-up in the dresser mirror. I slide my suit coat over my shoulders, watching her twist the lipstick up and pucker her lips. She would never do these things on her own, but she is flushed and giddy and thrilled, ready to go.

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.

Sugarbutch Star (smut) Chapbooks – $10

Buy a Sugarbutch Star Chapbook!

I’ve reprinted the Sugarbutch Star chapbooks from 2007! I know, I know, the 2008 contest isn’t done yet (SBC fans who are familiar with the archives, or the most popular posts which are in the sidebar, will know exactly what I’m talking about. You newbies might have to go familiarize yourself with the contest, which was, at one point, a slight claim-to-fame in the Sugarbutch Empire.)

I have one more story to go in the 2008 contest – I’m only writing up five this year – and it’s about halfway done, but I’ve been distracted by the transition to not working and my column at Carnal Nation and this Evolving Masculinity series and freelance and keeping my life going.

Speaking of which: if anyone out there has an extra copy of the Adobe Creative Suite with print design software (Illustrator, Photoshop, Indesign) for Mac, I would be so incredibly grateful for a trade. I can exchange design work (print, web, blog headers – did you see the one I did for Radical Doula?, blog design, social media consultation, blog organization, flyers, programs, posters, postcards, chapbook layout), or I can write you some smut, or I can come up with a miscellany package of sex toys and books and lube. I’m sure I can come up with something worthwhile, that you’d like, is what I’m saying. Please get in touch!

I’m trying to make a freelance writer’s and designer’s life happen, but I’m also looking for part-time steady work. I think about 20 hours a week would be great for me, then I can concentrate on Sugarbutch the rest of the time. (Just throwing that out to the Universe, thanks.)

That means: if you’d like to support Sugarbutch, this is a great way to do it. Amanda Palmer wrote a great piece recently on her blog called “why I am not afraid to take your money,” which talks about why artists NEED to ask for money and consumers of art (that would be YOU) need to support artists if you want us to continue doing what we do. artists need to make money to eat and to continue to make art, remember? And if this work can’t support me to be able to pay rent, bills, eat, and occasionally take a cute girl out for dinner, I can’t work on this site full-time. Isn’t this site more fun when I’m writing every day? Don’t you maybe possibly have $20 you can throw me? Or the cost of a whiskey (Jameson rocks)? Consider buying me a (virtual) drink. Or a coffee, $5. There’s a paypal link over in the sidebar.

There are a few other ways to support this site, too: 1. Click through the advertisements. Those clicks are recorded and advertisers are more likely to re-up their contracts with me! 2. Use the links on this site to buy products through my affiliates, and I get a small kickback from that purchase. 3. Click through and read my artists on Carnal Nation, where I get paid for traffic. 4. Buy the Chapbook! (More about that below.) 5. Donate directly to me, and I’ll gladly send you a love note in return.

Okay. About the chapbook:

So. You remember 2007’s Sugarbutch Star contest? The one where I wrote up a baker’s dozen stories, including the famous winning story The Diner on the Corner, based on scenarios that readers submitted. This chapbook compiles all 13 stories in one place, and is much easier to shove under your mattress than your laptop or printed out pages from this website. Plus, the pages are specially water- and stain-resistant, so you can come all over them and it won’t get damaged (uh, just kidding).

You know how hard it is to bring your laptop or computer to bed with you, and jerk off? This chapbook makes that a whooooole lot easier. Portable! Fits under your mattress or in your nightstand!

Tell me what you want


Couple different options for the chapbook – $10 will get you a book by itself, $20 and I’ll customize it for you. $50 is the Fancy Chapbook Package, which includes a nice gift of a book or a sex toy, and $100 is the I <3 Sinclair Package, where my package might just love you back. That’s the one where I show up with a boom box over my head and profess my love outside your window. No, not really. That would be creepy and stalkerish. BUT I will include a signed chapbook, a book or a sex toy, and something custom and fabulous yet to be determined.

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.

All Five Senses (Part 2)

When we last left our hero, she was checking her fly in a library after a femme got off right in front of her. “That should’ve been the end of that. / But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite Thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”” Catch up on Part One if you need a refresher.

I turn. It’s her. Of course it’s her. How did we end up at the same place? She’s three inches shorter than me and wearing heels. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly weather and I notice her lipstick, remember watching her redden her mouth. Does she know I watched her? Does she know me? Did she see me that whole time?

She’s looking at me, but she can’t be. I don’t know her. I glance to my left and right and nearly do that stupid pointing to my chest and mouthing me? when she giggles a little, and takes a step toward me, outstretches her hand. “I’m Juliet.”

I clear my throat and take her hand. “Sinclair.” I try not to look flustered.

“I usually do this kind of thing in the other order, but hey, I give you points for originality,” Juliet says, eyes shining, and shimmies by me to the counter to pay for her take-out and mine, leaving me aghast. I recover a moment too slowly and say, “No, please, let me …” fumbling with my wallet, but she’s waving her hand at me dismissively and shoots me a look over her shoulder that says back the fuck off, I got this and I do.

I’d planned on taking my curry home but she carts our two trays to an empty table and sets them both down, gets up to fetch silverware, and glances at me expectantly. I can’t find my voice and sit across from her, stunned, as she folds her napkin in her lap, arranges her food, and takes a few bites.

“So what’re your books for? For fun? Or are you doing research?” She reaches for her water and shoots me a smile.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. She’s so damn articulate, and speaks quickly, boldly, which catches me off guard. I pick up my fork and mix my curry and rice on my plate – not really date food, so strong and long-lasting in the body, but – is this exactly a date? Not really. I still can’t form the words to answer her question. What was her question again? I take a bite of the red curry and it explodes in my mouth: at first it’s just hot but then the subtle layers of the curry hit my palette and I taste sweet coconut milk, basil, bay leaves. Strong and bold. My lips tingle with the heat of the spice. I take a sip of water and look up at Juliet; she’s chewing slowly, waiting for me to say something. I swallow.

“I was looking for evidence of butch/femme roles in antiquity cultures,” I start, finally comprehending what she’d asked me.

She nods, takes another bite of her curry, green, and listens as I tell the story of the play I saw a few months back, the Oedipus Cycle in full, and how it struck me that women’s roles may have varied more than represented in the typical Greek canonical texts. I’m not an antiquity scholar – at all – but I do study gender, so I got inspired to re-read some of the most famous works with an eye toward gender theory.

We chat on and on. The conversation is fantastic; a perfect combination of asking questions, answering, and listening to each other. She is new to New York and moved her to be with a girl; the move promptly broke them up. Meanwhile she’s working in a bank, she wants to go to business school, she loves Thai food, she’s 28, born and raised in Minneapolis.

She starts to tell me her femme story as I am finishing my curry. My mouth is aflame and this is the best conversation I’ve had in months, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be charmed by a pretty girl’s first date version of her life story, such a fascinating character study falls into place.

We’re done eating, but she’s still telling her femme story. It’s like a coming out story – we all have one, we all have the struggle to understand and then the eventual development and acceptance of our own sexual and gender orientations. I’m actively listening, watching her eyes dance, watching her lips and teeth, her hands as she illustrates her points with gesticulation.

She takes her lipstick out of her bag and uncaps it, twists it up and paints her mouth subtly, softly. A gesture I remember well and which stirs something in me.

I take advantage of her momentary pause in the story. I want to hear more about her life. I lean in toward her on my elbows and catch her eye, give her a hard stare. “Can I walk you home?”

She stops, considers, and puts her lipstick away. “That’d be great,” she says, holding my gaze a moment longer, then begins to gather her things. “Now? Shall we?”

I nod, stand and put on my coat, grab my satchel, clear off our plastic trays and take-out containers. Not exactly a smooth date … but the sight of those thin white cotton panties under her grey skirt keeps flashing in my mind and I want to feel her, want to fuck her, want my hands under her skirt, up her thighs, on her tits.

Her apartment, it turns out, is not far from my favorite curry place. We walk the few long blocks slowly, strolling, savoring each other’s company. She takes my elbow, submissive, but leads the way, keeping close to me with an occasional dip of her head into my neck and shoulder as she keeps telling the story of herself, sweet, so sweet, and unselfconscious.

At her stoop we’re still talking. I’m opening up a little about my gender, my history, my character. I’m in storytelling mode, all melodrama and timing, and she’s watching my face, sitting on her very New York stoop as I have one foot up on the low stair, telling her how I came to be where I’m at. Her eyes are sparkling, hands together in her lap.

We laugh. It’s one of those perfect conversations where I’m charming with awkward real moments without trying. I don’t want this date to end.

Neither does she. “Coming up?” she asks, as if we’re already lovers, standing and slowly stepping up the stairs, looking back over her shoulder as she opens her purse for keys.

I grin, and follow her in.

The moment she closes the door behind me she gives me a look that tells me exactly what I need to know: she’s done chatting. I take my jacket off and she steps next to me to take it, then tosses it onto the hallway chair and presses me swiftly against the wall, her arms next to my head.

I smile, hands reflexively going to her hips. “Oh, is that what you think.” It’s not a question. We haven’t even kissed yet. Our mouths are nearly touching. She grinds up against me, my thighs between hers, and I can tell she knows I’m packing.

“Who packs to the library?” she asks, softly, in my ear, hot breath on my neck.

I shrug, a little sheepish, exposed. “Me,” I say, and get a grip around her waist to quickly switch places with her, press her up against the wall, and lower my mouth onto hers.

The first kiss: oh it gives away so much. The way she tastes, the way she sounds when she breathes, whether she keeps her eyes open, what sounds she makes, whether she claws at me with her hands or wraps her legs around me or feather-touches my face. All the senses activated, heightened. Such sensation. Plus: the power she keeps is all revealed. Will she let me take, let me lead, let me control? Give over her strength while she begs and submits?

Juliet’s kisses are insistent, fierce, fiery. I let her lead a while and get a sense of her style, then stop her quick to push my thighs between hers and press my forearm to her breastbone against the wall. She nearly growls, lets out a low hummed breath, and allows herself to be restrained, enjoys the feeling of restriction.

“When did you know I was packing?” I say, my mouth close to hers.

“When you walked through the reference section.”

I consider the timeline: before I hit Classics. Just after I walked in. She brings her mouth to mine and lets me work through this in my mind. That means she followed me to Classics. That means she put on that little show on purpose. Does she know I saw her? Probably. I grin, amused. If she didn’t know I was there, she secretly hoped I was.

I’ll take it either way.

She watches my face as I work through this and knows she’s been found out, knows I saw her. She waits for me to get it, then a smirky little self-satisfied smile plays over her lips, like something is very funny, like the joke’s on me, and I get the strong urge to slap her, bring my palm to her cheek fast and wipe that smirk from her face, watch her gasp and look back to me wide-eyed.

I don’t. I don’t even know her, I wouldn’t want to be rude. But when I do know her, I will, and she’ll like it.

“Really.” I say, chewing my tongue and decidedly not slapping her. “So that little show you put on – ”

“Oh, you mean with the … lipstick?” She takes one of my hands in both of hers and brings my index finger to her mouth, making an O of her perfect lips and sliding it in. I feel the soft soft smoothness of her inner lips, the rough scrape of her teeth, the sweetness of her tongue, warm, damp, and then I feel her suck and my eyes roll back in my head.

I groan, audibly (dammit). Goddamn.

She smiles with my fingertip between her teeth, closes her lips, and sucks deep again. She knows now: knows how to have me if she decides she wants to. Knows I like my dick sucked, I’m that kind of guy, knows she can make me weak and take me down with the sweet spot on her tongue.

I can’t really take it; I grab her hair. Hard, harder than I mean to but she’s got me all worked up already, and I bring my mouth to hers, forceful, and her lips are so supple, sweet, mouth in that tiny O, she lets out the softest muffled gasp and melts a little against the wall, against me.

All Five Senses (Part 1)

Did you forget about the Sugarbutch Star Contest? I didn’t – not that you could tell, since the last story was in October. I’ve been working on this one since I finished Maze. Here’s part one – part two will come later this week.

Sugarbutch Star: Matt
ALL FIVE SENSES

It started in the Brooklyn library, the back row, the classics section; the air so thick with ink and brittle paper and crumbling paste. I pick up a worn leather copy of Antigone, its cover so oiled down with decades of fingers and hands opening, turning its pages, breaking its spine. So soft it feels like suede.

I sit on the industrial carpet and flip it open, easily absorbed: Nothing painful is there, nothing fraught with ruin, no shame, no dishonor, that I have not seen in thy woes and mine.

When I look up, a few minutes later, there she is: sitting on the floor in a row I can hardly see, at first she is only visible by her bare legs on the dirty carpet, seated like I am on the floor, knees all bent, one tucked under her gray skirt which is a small mess of cover for her thighs. I slowly shift my body further into the aisle. Her back is to me, and she holds up a mirror in front of her – I catch glimpses of her face reflected. The dark nerdy frames of her glasses, the line of her jaw, her chin, then her mouth.

She takes out a tube of lipstick, twirls it erect, and paints the perfect outline of her lips. Slow, real slow. She presses them together and presses them forward in a kiss, makes an O with her mouth and touches just the tip of her finger to the edge.

I hold my breath.

I find my hand brought up to my face without really noticing. Pads of my fingers against the butch stubble on my chin, I didn’t shave this morning, I didn’t think I’d need to, and now the tiny hairs are strong as teeth and my fingertips are burned with the day-old five o’clock shadow. I watch the soft smooth pillow of her lips over her shoulder in the mirror. I imagine smearing that lipstick across her cheek with my thumb, hard enough that the trail of red would feel like it was made without paint.

Carpeting scratching at the palms of my hand, I’m leaning so far forward that if I was in a movie, this is the moment I would knock over a pile of books and she’d look up at the crash. Instead, I feel a tickle in my nose and the ink and paper and dust smell is suddenly amplified. I scurry back to my small stack of collected books and satchel, but I don’t get to my handkerchief in time, and I let out a strong sudden sneeze.

“Bless you,” I hear, softly, from across the aisle. I can hear each letter in her words. I imagine the way her red mouth looks forming the shapes of the sounds.

I swallow, blow my nose gently, mumble, “Thanks.” I don’t look back over to her, but go back to the library stacks, sifting through the Dewey decimal numbers on the spines, fingering the worn covers, the different textures, letting my fingers stroke the books as I take a few steps and follow the books around the corner.

Soon I’m in the next aisle from her. I can see right through it and I try to justify that I’m here looking for books, classics, something to support a recent article’s thesis that there were some butch/femme roles for women in ancient Greece and Rome. The library is so quiet, I can hear when she shifts on the floor, still reading, now with her back to the stacks of books and both feet on the floor, knees bent and separated, short skirt sliding up her thighs.

I’m going to get caught, I know it.

But it is as if hands are pressing on my shoulders and I sink lower, eyes wide, praying my knees won’t creak or pop as I crouch, strain my eyes to get a look at her thighs. I quickly grab a big picture book out of the stack to flip through, to cover up my voyeurism.

She’s pinching her dark brown hair that is falling over her shoulder between thumb and forefinger, swirling her fingers around it, twisting. I see her eyes darting across the page of the book she’s holding in her other hand, the cover against her thighs. I can’t tell what the book is, but it looks modern, it does not live in the dust of the classics section, it is paperback and skinny.

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 voyeristic 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?) Hard packing today, as I often do on weekends, just for me, to feel the weight and bulk between my legs, the strain of the seam of my jeans. No one has to know, no one usually does; just a private, personal experience between me and my cock. I run my finger down the shaft of it, through my jeans, remember its girth as I watch her bite her lip, hand still moving slow and vigorous between her legs. I thumb the head, the little ridge, catch it in the instep of my hand between thumb and forefinger. I get enough of a grip to press it back into my clit and start pulsing against it.

I feel a stab of guilt and fight the impulse to unbuckle, unzip. Nearly unbearable. I can barely breathe.

She’s getting lost in the sensations, spreading from her pelvis to her thighs and belly and down and up. Her breathing is getting faster, hand is faster between her legs, fingers working her clit, I can see through the thin white cotton through the stacks of books. She leans her head back and closes her eyes entirely, lets the book start to slip from her lap as her thighs squeeze and close and she presses her hips forward. I have a perfect visualization of how her back would arch if she was on her stomach on my bed, ass in the air, thighs and knees strong together, my own hand buried in her cunt.

I stroke my own cock harder and feel my breath quicken to match hers. She’s gasping as she breathes in, I can hear her. I watch her hips buck, face flushing, as she comes in a quiet flourish, calm and sudden, eyes closed, head bent back. She brings her fingers to her lips and sucks, then opens her eyes, looking straight forward for the first time, right at me.

Panic. Does she see me? She glances right back down to her book as her eyelids flutter and adjusts her skirt and glasses, gives herself a minute to catch her breath, picks up her book and purse, and, slightly wobbly on her feet, leaves the classics section.

I let out a breath, lean back against the stacks, take my hand out of my pants, zip up, and head toward the checkout.

It’s nearly dark outside by the time I gather all my things and make it through the line. I finger the spines of the books and flip my wallet in the palm of my hand, remembering my cock just minutes before, thinking of this girl and her strong legs, swift fingers.

That should’ve been the end of that.

But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”

… continue reading Part Two of All Five Senses.

The Girl in the Red Dress

The Girl in the Red Dress

At first I’m trying to ignore her. I have my latest review book, Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica; I have my iPod on to some soothing lofi mix Muse made for me; I have lube in my pocket for a quick jerk-off session before we arrive in New York. I need all the sanctuary and release I can get before returning to that hyper-stimulating city.

But she’s making a big show of her many bags, heavy, designer luggage, and she – being tiny petite thing – seems unable to slip them all into the overhead luggage rack.

The only other person in this car is a man in the back who has been snoring since I got on. I think about telling her to just leave her suitcases on the seat next to her, but her jaw is set, her sensuous mouth twisted in a sneer, and as she begins to climb onto the train seat to reach the rack better, I sigh and, reluctantly, get up to help her.

“Please. Let me,” I say, sliding behind her and putting my hand on her waist to guide her out of the way, then taking the heavy suitcase out of her struggling grip and nudge it onto the metal rack easily. She’s got a great ass in those tight jeans. Her eyes are wide, then she drags her gaze along my arm to my face. I watch her watch me. She looks like Penelope Cruz, all dark hair and big pools of dark liquid eyes.

“Um,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I answer, a bit dismissively, now offering my hand so she can get down. The train doors buzz and are about to close, we’ll be in motion shortly. I pick up her other bags and one by one put them up into the rack above her seat. She takes off her thin white sweater and sets it with her handbag next to her, and watches me.

I groan a little with the weight of the last one. She notices. “Thanks again,” she says, and I detect a slight accent, French maybe, though she looks Spanish. Her words are a little airy, already pulling Vogue Milan out of her purse and turning her attention to it, a tiny sideways glance at me to see if I’m still standing next to her, waiting for my good-dog biscuit.

I retreat back to my aisle seat. We are facing each other, opposite sides of the train. She is absorbed in her magazine. I put my feet up and crack open my book, start reading through the bondage stories. She takes out a compact and lipstick and fusses with her mouth, repainting, touching her fingertips to the edges of her lips, then wipes microscopic flecks with a tissue. I don’t watch her, but she periodically sweeps her eyes over to me. I rest my hand on my neat little package as I read through the story by Toni Amato, “A Girl Like That:”

She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me. Coming on all hip and cool and all into sex, rubbing some part of herself all up against me every chance she gets. I’m not saying all the things my people taught me about women are so great, but I’ll tell you what, where I come from, that kind of girl is called a cock teaser.

It’s like there’s this small thing, like those stars they talk about, those White Dwarves, sitting deep and low in my belly, and this girl comes along, doing her number, and that son of a bitch just goes nova.

She makes the worst part of me want to do the best it knows how to teach her a thing or two about fucking.

I’m stroking my cock unconsciously through my jeans when I notice someone looming next to me, and it’s her, she’s returning from the bathroom with a clutch in her hand, I didn’t even notice her get up. The girl smiles, almost, and pushes past as though I am taking up the entire aisle, or maybe to show off her gorgeous ass in those tight, tight jeans.

The train lurches and opens its sleepy doors, the man in the back of our train car is moving at half-speed and makes his way off the train.

We’re alone.

She notices too. She’s looking out the window but keeps stealing glances at me. The conductor comes through and says nothing to either of us, just takes the small pieces of paper on our seats, the remnants of our tickets.

I go back to my book. I finger the bottle of lube in my pocket and think this would be a good time to go rub one out, then get absorbed in a story about a dyke cop who is passing as male in a straight club, picks up a girl and takes her, handcuffed, out to her truck. I nearly reach my hand into my pants.

“Um, excuse me?”

She’s standing, still in her seat but leaning forward over the seat in front of her, facing me, ass tipped to the side, front of her button down revealing creamy skin, long dark hair swinging. She smiles when I look up, flashes me an intentional smirky pose that she has practiced in the mirror – her seduction look. “Would you help, I have to … I need … something from that bag.” She glances up at it.

I put my book down and tug at my jeans to cover my hard-on. Clear my throat. “Sure.”

I get up and move toward her. She kneels and reaches for it, her back to the aisle as I come up behind her and reach up.

“This one?” My mouth is close to her ear.

“No, not – yes, that one,” she says as I touch the smaller suitcase. She reaches up to help me, bending slightly forward, as we both ease the weight of her bag down onto the seat. And I swear she rubs right against me, pushing back, just a little. Maybe I’m imagining it. Yeah, sure Sinclair; you just happen to have a boner and this girl offers up her ass on a silver platter.

I back off. Return to my seat. Again.

“Um, thanks!” she calls.

I toss a half-smile over my shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” She pulls a bundle of fabric out of her bag and I don’t watch. I don’t pay attention. I can’t see it. I shouldn’t be watching, but I am. It is slinky and red. She finds a few other bits and tucks her hair behind her ear, gathers an armful of clothing, makes her way toward me, down the aisle, to the bathroom at the back of the car.

She’s in there a while. I try to concentrate on my book, to not wonder what she is doing, what she’s slipping into, who she’s meeting when she gets off the train, not to imagine being that somebody so filled with lust and permission that I’d fuck her right on the platform, couldn’t even control myself long enough to wait until we went to dinner, drinks, a show, whatever it is she’s dressing up for. My breath is quickening and my hands are starting to do that aching thing where they are pulsing with grip, wanting to hold push grab press punch slap.

She makes her way back to her seat like the aisle is a runway, like she’s coming in for a landing. Each step deliberately placed. Legs precisely angled and separated and her gait is sharp, strong. Her red dress swings from her hips, past her thighs, to her knees. A few bracelets jangle from one arm, simple and slim. She’s pulled her hair up high on her head, into some sort of ponytail, then twisted around itself in a beautiful knot.

I watch her as she closes the distance to her own seat. I don’t drool. I am not drooling. I try not to drool at the sight of her ankles, her calves, the hints of the backs of her knees as her dress swings. I wipe my mouth. Her ankles cross just slightly, which makes her hips curl and switch like a figure eight. Like a come-hither finger.

I swallow. Breathe in. And quickly open my book, flustered, and turn it to the page I was reading as she slides onto the train seat and I snap out of my spell.

Of course – of course – I am too zealous and the book slides out of my hand, skittering out into the aisle. I take a sharp breath in and some spit goes down the wrong way, I start to choke, cough, loudly, as I jump up to retrieve the book.

Oh good lord. I get ahold of myself. Straighten up, book in hand. Clear my throat. I don’t look at her. I can’t see her. I am sure I am five shades of crimson and I steal a glance her direction, she’s covering her mouth, that perfect smirky smile, eyes dancing, looking away from me. Obviously she saw everything.

Fuck.

I resettle. Book in lap, adequate breath in lungs. I sneer to myself. Re-open the erotica. Do you have to be so obvious? I yell at myself in my head. You dumbass. Real smooth, Sexsmith.

She’s going through her open case next to her, I can see her arms moving but can’t see what she’s doing. Then suddenly she’s up, out of the seat and back in the aisle, pads down toward me as if she forgot something.

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.

I press against her back. Her neck is bare, hair up, and my mouth is just at the corner of her jaw, below her ear. I reach around her and pin her arms to her sides, pressing her back to lean against me, and she arches, thrusts her hips up, feels the cock behind my fly. She lets her head lean back against me, lets me take her weight.

“Bend over.” Right next to her ear. Barely audible.

I release her from her hold. She turns her head just a bit and her face is quizzical, open, lustful, a tad resistant. I run my hand up under her dress firmly, continue to drag it up her back, then press, hard, on her shoulder blades, bending her over the train seat in front of her.

“I said bend over.”

Faster now. Unbuckle and unzip. The dress pushed up to her waist, one hand on her lower back to keep her hips tipped up to me. Her asshole is dark pink, a burst between her cheeks, perfectly smooth, and her ass is perfectly round, my thighs are already quivering and hips pulsing, so ready to fuck.

I grab one of the condoms I always keep tucked into the inner pocket of my bag. Roll it on. Spit into my palm, and again, lube up my cock. Spit again at my two fingers and shove them at her hole.

I hear her gasp – “ah” – just once – and she glances back over her shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. I push on her upper back again.

“Head down.”

Her body shudders at my voice and gives in. A ripple of submission through her backbone and I feel to my toes the way it makes every hair on my body stand up, clench, awaken.

Cockhead at her asshole, I enter her easily, so smooth. So tight. The resistance of her ass is just more friction and tension between us and I want to tear into her. Split her apart. Harder now. Faster and she’s taking it so well, “so good baby,” I whisper to myself, fuck it’s so good. She keeps her legs strong and pushes back against me. It’s not enough lube and I remember the bottle in my pocket and laugh to myself. What kind of pervert am I to carry lube on the train?

I pull out and squirt it right on my dick, smear it, and ease back into her.

Oh yeah, give me that ass. Give it to me.

The girl in the red dress has her arms braced against the seats, bracelets jangling. We hit a rhythmic sliding stride and she brings her forearm down in front of her, leans forward, brings her other hand between her legs. Immediately I feel her knees weaken and press together, back arch and spine curl and oh it’s beautiful. I bring my hand up her spine to her shoulder blades, then her neck, take a handful of hair and keep her steady. She pulls against me, not to get away, but to heighten sensation. Struggling has such varying degrees. She doesn’t want out, she wants more.

I take grips on her hip and hair. Slam against her hard, pull out slow. Slick where my cock is fat inside her, swelling and eager. Resistance and tension. She tips even further forward onto the seat until she’s held up by it, lifted at the waist, hand furious between her legs, thighs pressed so hard together, on her tiptoes straining up and tipping forward more, further, until she lets one foot come up off the floor and bend at the knee, toes curling.

She is starting to let go, really let go, become undone at the seams, and she can’t keep the tension in her muscles so she stops resisting my hand in her hair, my palm against the flesh of her ass, holding her cheeks apart, fingers gripping her hipbone. But I don’t let go, I just hold her stronger, tighter, take her a little deeper as she opens, opens deeper, opens hard, and every hinge in her body loosens, I feel it from inside pulse and ripple and again, and again, until she is gasping, chest heaving, crying out, gasping for air. And I ease up, slide in slow, press hard and sweet against her as orgasm fades, shudders, and her body rebuilds itself anew.

I pull out and let her rest. We are quiet a moment. I release my hand from her mess of hair and caress her neck gently, let my hand drape across her hips and thighs, even find her hand, wet and warm from her own liquid, touch her fingertips gently.

Her breathing calms. She sighs, once. Reaches up to brush her hair from her face and I stand, tuck my cock, zip up, run my fingers through my perfectly messy hair to assess the damage.

She stays where she is, leaning for support over the bench seat. I pull the skirt of her dress down over her hips with a shit-eating grin on my face and smack her ass once, a little harder than I meant to, but playful, and she gasps and tenses, then stands. Her makeup is smeared. Her face is still open and sweet from the release but it changes as she watches me. I gather my book and pocket bottle of lube and put them back in my bag, pick up my jacket and slide my arms into the sleeves.

She’s still watching. Eyes wide. Breathing.

“We’re here,” I say. The train is slowing and I can just make out the tunnels of Penn Station as we arrive in New York City. She blinks. Opens her mouth to say something.

I grin. Lord she’s cute. I kiss her cheek as I slip by her and remove her heavy suitcases from the overhead racks. I notice strappy black high heel shoes at her seat and my mouth waters.

Heaving the last of the bags down, I turn to her again. She’s still by my seat, now empty, one finger in her mouth, looking a little shy. I smile and nod, once, a goodbye-take-care-have-a-nice-night gesture, and turn to the door as the train comes to a full stop.

“Um!” she calls after me. I look back. “Thank you?”

I give her a long glance from her ankles up to her legs to her hips and belly and breasts, the disheveled red dress, hair tumbling from its neat design on her head. She’s stunning, really. Delicious.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, and step off the train.

Her Best Line

This is the first Sugarbutch Star 2008 story, the submission is from Eileen at A Place to Draw Blood Laughing.

Her Best Line

I’ve heard the New York City subway referred to as a “hotbed of sin,” and it’s true, New York has the most attractive people with their most attractive fashion at any given moment.

Tonight, I’m on my way to meet the guys, play some pool, drink more whiskey, share weekend conquest stories. Jesse’s got the night off and will join us later.

She gets on at 9th Street, I notice her immediately. Petite, dark hair, gold glowing skin, big dark eyes, a thin swingy white wrap dress tied at her hip, simple white sandals with a small kitten heel and four straps over her ankles. She sits across from me and doesn’t notice me, she’s absorbed in Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

She’s gorgeous. She crosses and uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. She’s got this smoky eye makeup on that makes her dark brown eyes even bigger, liquid and pooling and I haven’t seen her lower her lids and look up under her lashes, but I’d like to.

I wonder if she’s queer. Then I wonder if that matters. Sure it does – it’s more fun to sleep with a girl who knows how to treat a butch in bed. We’re strange creatures, to some, after all. I think what I often think when I see a gorgeous leggy girl, reading some intellectual book, in barely enough clothing: if she’s queer, man, all is right with the world. I keep an eye on her, watching her movements, the way she brings a fingertip to her mouth and laughs to herself, the way her eyes dart, how her palm flips as she turns pages. She leaves her legs uncrossed once and turns her ankle in slightly, an unconscious but slightly submission that makes my hands ache.

I turn up my iPod, attempting to stop staring. She slips me a tiny bit of eye contact, just a sip, and a sideways smile that says she’s known I was there all along.

Damnit.

I shift unconsciously, take my leg down from the seat in front of me and cross my legs, sit up straight. My cock shifted wrong in that maneuver and now it is digging into my inner thigh, but I can’t adjust it – how tacky to go poking at my junk when she’s watching. I can’t shift my position again yet either or she’ll know I am adjusting myself for her gaze. I’m starting to wince from the way the cock is pressing into me, dull pain that may be making a bruise. That’ll be attractive.

I try to look casual and stare out the window as the subway takes the Manhattan bridge into the city. She turns pages, crosses her legs again. I reach into my pocket and finger one of my cards with only my name and cell number, black text on a simple white background. Classic. Minimal. I don’t need adornment. Except maybe her.

At Broadway/Lafayette I adjust my cock – finally, finally – as she shifts and other passengers block our view of each other, then I move to stand above her, holding onto the rail. She doesn’t look up. The train pulls into the station and I place my card in her book. She looks up, startled, and I get that amazing view of her eyes, the one I was waiting for, peering under her long dark lashes, open and big and I could get lost in the way they shimmer. She sees me and blinks.

“In case you want to call me,” I say, then step off the train.

I’ve stopped sweating by the time I get to the bar. My cell rings while I order my first Jameson rocks.

“Hello?”

“Well, if it isn’t Sinclair Sexsmith.”

No caller ID. Could it be her? I gulp. Does she know me? It must be her. So soon? “Yes, who’s this?”

“Jane,” she says. “On the D train. I thought I saw you notice me.”

“… You were impossible to miss.”

I can almost hear her blush. “Are you busy tonight?” she says.

“Out with friends at the moment, but I could be free later,” I say.

“Good. Come out to the bar at 24th and 10th. 10pm. Alright?”

“… Alright.” Why would I argue?

*

The bar is nearly empty, low lights and a few single patrons at the dark counter, quiet. Some low music is coming from somewhere, soft and subtle and electronic. The bartender is polishing pint glasses and laughing low with a woman in red, candles reflected in the glass as she polishes.

“Hey,” I say as I approach the bar, making eye contact with the bartender. “Can I get a Jameson rocks?”

She nods, but continues to wipe the glasses. I shoot her a puzzled look. She nods again – a gesture this time, I catch it, she’s directing me to look behind me.

I turn and she’s there. Jane. Same white wrap dress, same long legs and strappy sandals, same gorgeous dark eyes. She’s sipping a martini. A smile on her face like she’s amused. She has a second glass on her table: whiskey. On the rocks. Ready for me.

I take one, two, deliberate steps to her table. Place both my palms on it and lean over her, still standing, so she has to look up at me.

I tip my chin to the drink. “That for me?”

She swallows, holding back a smile like she’s the cat who got the canary, and nods. Almost nervous, but she’s covering it well. She’s so sexy with her tiny little movements, fingertips on the glass, looking at me shyly from the side. I don’t believe she’s queer. No, that’s not it – I don’t believe she’s the kind of femme who primarily sleeps with women. Yet. She picked me up, sure, but I’m beginning to fear I’m her experiment. Maybe she’s just a fan – but then again, so what? So maybe she knows what I like – am I being taken by the ways femme can undo me? Am I so preoccupied by her smooth legs (oh my hands on her ankles running up to her knees), her big eyes (looking up like she could swallow me), that I become willing? I’m a sucker sometimes. I’m skeptical. This girl clearly knows how to wield her power.

I keep eye contact for just a flicker, say “thank you,” sit down, and take a sip.

*

“I changed it,” she’s saying. “It’s my middle name, really. My grandmother’s. My mom is a second-waver, gave me one of those gender neutral names I always hated. But I never was a girly girl until I started dating butches.”

She leans in, as if telling me a secret. My second Jameson is melted ice and she’s halfway through her second martini. “I grew up a tomboy, I have three brothers. I mean, I was the bully on the playground! I begged my parents to let me play T-ball and little league like my brothers did. I was the only girl in the league, for a while. Others came after me. My first girlfriend in high school, we met on my softball team. I know, so gay.”

We laugh. I knock the ice around in my glass. High school girlfriend. Duly noted.

“I used to dress up for dances and stuff and get made fun of so much. ‘Hey, I thought you were gay!’ So I put my dresses away. Tried to fit into the lesbian uniform.” Jane shrugged, fingering the speared olives in her glass, leaned back again. “But, Sin, seriously – once I finally took my real gender out of the closet, it’s been adolescence all over again. New desires, new awakenings. I feel like a teenager.” The tip of her toes brush against my ankle.

“Is that so.” I lean in, catch her gaze; her eyes are alight.

“’Femme is knowing what you’re doing,’” she says, looking down into her drink, then giving me a penetrating stare. “Isn’t that how you say it?”

She’s quoting me. It’s hot. She gulps the martini, the liquid too much for her mouth, and chokes a little, sputters, then smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. My cock stirs.

“C’mon,” she says, and gets up.

*

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.

I do, swiftly, pulling the button open, popping the fly, taking my cock out as she kneels, knees wide and pelvis tilted like she’s already on top of me and easing down on something big.

She takes me in her mouth tentatively at first, just the head, wraps one hand around it, gauging the length. Can she swallow it all? She’s thinking. She laps her tongue, runs her lips down the shaft, then draws a breath and swallows me whole. It’s too much for her mouth and she makes a little gulping sound, choking a little. Her smoky eyes water and she looks up at me, keeping it in her mouth. I fight the urge to thrust in again. I can feel the tight O of her throat clenching and she tries to get hold of her gag reflex, then pulls her mouth off and puts her hand back. She rocks her pelvis a little as she sucks, the pretty white fabric of her dress between her knees is falling open and I want my fingers there, want to hear her gasp and oh and yes.

Goddamn she feels good.

She keeps hold of my cock at the base, keeps it pressed against me so I can feel everything. She works it good, pressure and speed and oh god I’m going to burst in her mouth. My hands in her hair, on the back of her head. Her gorgeous smoky eyes are smudged and she looks even more beautiful.

I love it when they start to dishevel. Makes me want to tangle her hair, pull at her dress, smear what’s left of her lipstick.

*

“Fuck me,” she whispers, a command, a request, a desperate need, as she pulls me on top of her on the bed and wraps her legs around the backs of my thighs. I drag my palm from her knee up under her dress and push it aside, tear at the tie and it falls away in one neat cascade of fabric. She nuzzles into my neck again, arms around my shoulders as she sucks my earlobe into her mouth and flicks it with her tongue.

I groan. Fuck. Exposing her skin I take her all in, tracing my gaze along her body, her curvy waist and small soft belly, round breasts, small but thick, a handful, cherry nipples and no bra. I catch one in my mouth and encircle the other with my hand. She arches her back, sighs a little, taking a breath in and leaning back, her mouth open, eyes closed, hands at my shoulders, gasping.

I lift up to kiss her. Her mouth supple again and she’s eager, open. I’m hard and a little fierce, desire honed and sharpened and ready. Her noises are muffled by my mouth.

I bring my hand to the back of her neck and take hold of a fistful of hair. A gamble with some girls, but Jane wants to be taken, I can feel it. She responds immediately, like a cat does to a stroke of its back, arching and curling into the touch of a hand. Eyes closed, she’s taking it in. A gasp and she’s still, waiting. I keep my grip. I drag my other fingers down the side of her body, gently, and her nerves are increased from the immobility. She shivers but does not squirm. Waiting.

My hand at her stomach, on top of her thigh, pushing her legs open. I smile. I’m smug in these moments, I can almost start laughing from the waves of power and dominance and pleasure. Go ahead, try me. Go ahead, give in. I’ll take you, I’ll catch you. I’ll make you. Come.

I cup her pussy with my hand and drag my fingers along her lips from on top of her sweet smooth panties, I can feel the outline and she’s swollen. She unhinges her hips and spreads them wide, but I need them together so I can slide her panties off. I twist and pull and toss them aside, pull her up by the wrists so I can push the dress from her shoulders, expose her fully.

My mouth on her clavicle, her skin sweet and smooth.

“Please,” she whispers, airy, her breath hot. “Please.”

I nearly laugh aloud, nearly chuckle, something strong moving deep in me, grinning and restraining myself. I push her gently back down, grab at my cock with my hand.

She reaches for it, lifts her head and shoulders and her stomach flexes. She licks her lips, looks at me. My eyes are on my cock, pushing at my jeans, peeling back the split around the zipper so it doesn’t obstruct. It’s a silicone cock, just boiled, and doesn’t need a condom. I find her cunt with two fingers, my thumb along the shaft, and she’s wet, eyes begging for it, waiting, mouth open, jaw tight, one hand behind her on the bed, grabbing at the blankets and waiting for me, breathing in, trying not to growl or scream or hit me, trying not to roll right off the bed and run with all the energy buzzing under her skin right now.

“So sweet,” I murmur, tip of my cock touching her cunt. “So, so sweet.”

She’s tight, I can feel her contract, thick, around me as I slide in. Slowly, slowly. I get to the base and extend my torso, she’s watching me and I capture her mouth in a kiss as I slide out. Softly, softly. She adjusts her hips. We are quiet. Sounds of breath and bodies. Her brown eyes are smokier than ever, big and open with flecks of gold that catch the light and I swear I can see myself reflected as she gives me the shyest smile.

“Oh – oh – fuck,” under her breath, she leans her head back and her neck is long, stretched, as I pull out quicker, slam back inside. “More –” she gasps, “more.” Right in my ear, a whisper. I shudder, work in her faster.

“Goddamn,” I mutter, a little breathless, my dick swelling and I can feel how she tightens. Her legs around my waist now. Pressing hard against me with resistance, friction.

She bites my shoulder. Claws into my upper back with her hands and I take a sharp breath in, like a splash of cold water, a sudden sharp sensation.

And it’s there again, that urge to laugh, to chuckle low as I regain my breath and control. I take hold of her hair again, position my arm across her chest so I’m holding her down and lift myself to my knees, legs apart and slid under her hips. I get the angle just right. Low and tight. A little room to wiggle and the strap of my harness is hitting my clit just right.

This goddamn girl is going to make me come.

She can feel the shift in me and her eyes widen, gaining a look of intensity, concentration, focus. So much effort, so much work, to let someone in, to trust a stranger to hold you up, even your dirty, dark, private places. I want to. I want to be able to catch her, I feel she’s falling into some other space and her stomach contracts, she clenches everything as I thrust in, and again, and again, until finally it is precisely right, that one perfect spot and pressure and we are both unraveled, bursting, shaking at the seams, simultaneously, all at once, then shuddering, shaking, gasping, reveling in each other’s bodies, and in our own.

“So,” Jane says after a moment, low murmurs in her throat, happy sounds of quiet satisfaction, satiation, saturation. “Indian or Thai?”

“Thai,” I say. My hand traces lazy circles on her hip, over her skin, delicate as lace.

She kisses me, soft again, supple and deep, and gets up to make the call. She doesn’t ask me what I want. She pulls on a robe that barely covers her ass and winks at me as she leaves the room. I tuck my cock into my pants and tidy my perfectly messy hair.

She returns to the bedroom with another whiskey rocks and a glass of white wine, replaces the phone on the nightstand and opens the curtain on her bedroom window, revealing a sliding glass door. She opens it and gestures to me; I follow. It is a lovely view of 10th avenue, a dozen floors up, and we watch the traffic. I marvel at the quiet when I am just above the city.

The quiet is a little long and I should say something. I open my mouth.

“So, Sinclair,” says Jane. “Where are you from?”

I grin, and take a sip of the whiskey, so smooth, and the mouthful goes down easy.

Sinclair on Bedroom Radio

I was privileged to be interviewed by Ellie over at Lumpesse.com for her Bedroom Radio podcast and our discussion went up just last night. Download episode #21 and hear us chat about gender, sexuality, butch breasts, and all sorts of things. (I was sipping on James all through the interview, so in my head I got less and less coherent by the end of the discussion. I haven’t listened to it yet, we’ll see how much that came through.)

Ellie’s podcast is pretty darn great, if you aren’t listening to it; she often reviews toys on her podcast by, ahem, trying them out. And she’s super smart about sex and gender.

Oh, and I read an excerpt from The Diner on the Corner, the winning Sugarbutch Star submission last year during the interview too.

You know the deadline’s coming up, right? September 1st is Monday. I have quite a few submissions so far – get ’em in soon, I’m already attached to a few of them.

Sugarbutch Star 2007 chapbook!

The Sugarbutch Star chapbook is DONE! I picked up the first fifty copies yesterday, and they will be making their debut at the Femme Conference this weekend. I’ll have copies available online soon.

The 2008 contest is officially underway … I received the very first submission already. I’m reading them as they come in, and as much as I want to say that I’ll be impartial and evaluate them all once I get to the end of the submission period, I find myself already getting attached to ideas that people are throwing out there. Submit your stories sooner rather than later, is what I’m saying.

I’m leaving for Chicago for the Femme Conference in a few hours, so posts will be on hold until I get back on Monday.

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!)

August’s masthead: combating lesbian bed death

August’s masthead is up. Late, I know. I’ve got some more elaborate ideas for photos that I really want to feature, which go with particular quotes, so I kept putting off updating the masthead thinking that I’ll actually take those photos, but now it’s been a week and I just dug through some old shots. This one was actually taken while I was in Mexico with Datedyke, and shows off the cufflinks Colleen gave me.

I’ve still go to finish “What happened in July,” too – that’s coming. This weekend, probably.

I was just this morning on my commute into the city thinking about my former relationship, the one I was in when I started Sugarbutch. We were together four years, and over the last two we had sex five times. Seriously, I started counting. And I, well, I have a little bit of a sex drive.

So one of the reasons I started writing erotica was to have a release for all the sexual energy and frustration I was feeling. And to continue my writing practice, in general. Go figure, there’s actually a lot of craft that goes in to writing erotica – character, dialogue, rise & fall of action.

I used to always get stuck at the part where the characters are having sex, going all hot & heavy, and then they’re just about ready to orgasm and have the whole scene end. I’d get so stuck there. Finally, Jesse James and I were talking one day, and she said, “well yeah, of course that’s the hard part, because you never really know how somebody comes until they do it, do ya?”

Reminds me of that scene in Amelie where she thinks “How many couples are having an orgasm right now?” And there’s a great montage of climaxes. [Can anybody find that clip on Youtube?] Here’s the clip (thanks Sun! I couldn’t access youtube from work). Each one is different.

I’ve been working on finishing this Sugarbutch Star chapbook lately, I’m getting it ready to be handed out at the Femme Conference next weekend, and I’ve also been thinking about how this used to be a major goal of mine – writing smut to get people off. Specifically, to get lesbians off. Even more specifically, to get lesbians to go fuck their girlfriends and to talk to their girlfriends about sex and to get more of what they actually want out of their sex lives. Sometimes I think Lesbian Bed Death perpetuates the prudish idea that women can – or want to – transcend those silly sexual relations and have some sort of deep, meaningful emotional connection, that that’s all that “really” matters.

Well duh, deep connection is important, but sex is important too. I gues that’s one of the differences between male & female sexualities, though, is that for women it does actually seem to be a case of “use it or loose it,” where the more we have sex, the more we want to have sex – as opposed to men, who while many have fluxuations in their sex drive, still tend to have sex drives independently of however much sex they are or aren’t having. I’m sure this isn’t true for all men or all women, but it tends to be true in many cases. (Y’all know of any sources on this? I’ve looked for articles but haven’t located any yet.)

What I’m trying to say is:

1. Still, one of the highest compliments folks can pay me about my smut writing is that they had to go get off after reading it, but also, that it made them want to go play with their partner or girlfriend or random first date or stranger or whomever. I love getting those emails or comments, thank you for that. Let’s make lesbians in future generations ask, “what is this ‘lesbian bed death’? Lesbians didn’t like having sex? They weren’t the most highly sexual creatures on the planet? I don’t get it!”

and 2 … Got ideas for stories you’ve always wanted me to write? The Sugarbutch Star contest is launching again. More details to come.

swag

For all you RSS readers out there, you probably didn’t notice the new animated gif in the sidebar with the Sugarbutch Chronicles swag prominently displayed.

Get  femmes, I butches, and the Sugarbutch Chronicles logo on mugs, hats, tee-shirts, sweatshirts, undies … all sorts. There’s also a few shirts that have “sugar” on the front and “butch” on the back (I like those).

And, of course, there’s some Sugarbutch Star merch as well … including some little one-inch buttons with a star, those are perhaps my favorites. I ordered some for the Sugarbutch Star contest finalists, and I custom-made a shirt for the winner, too. I’m planning to do another contest starting in August.

I’ve got some plans for a few more slogans I want to put up, too, but haven’t finished the designs yet. If you have particular requests, let me know and I’ll consider it!

Couple more things:

I updated the Community page; if you run a blog about sex, gender, or relationships, or queer politics, or gender activism, or if you comment often here, and I am not listing you, please do let me know and I’ll add your link. I don’t keep up with that list very frequently, mostly I’m using the Google RSS reader to share new and interesting sites and articles from around the web (that’s over in the left-hand sidebar).

Someone left a comment recently looking for a tux for a girl in New York City. Cookie writes:

My lady and I are getting married at the end of next year and I’m having an awfully hard time finding a tux to wear. I’m a curvy girl that would like a tux cut for a woman that will fit those curves. Do you know of any queer-friendly places in NYC to buy/have one made?

Any suggestions?

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.”

prepare yourselves

I know you’re starting to not believe me about this Sugarbutch Star Contest coming to a close and all, but I really am going to post the last and final piece soon. And after I do that, voting will commence right away … so review your options, pick your favorites, know who you’re going to vote for.

Here’s the options. 

Here’s how it works: Readers submitted an erotic scenario, detailing plot, setting, and characters. I picked my favorites and wrote them into erotic stories, readers will vote on their single favorite. Prizes TBA. The contest ran from July 17th to August 7th, and I got 54 (!) submissions.

Here are the submissions I chose to write up:

Finalists:

Shanna (part one, part two): The Diner on the Corner

“You have to be quiet,” I say. “We’re not alone.”

“We almost are,” she breathes, closing her eyes and tilting her head so I can get to her neck. My fingers run lazy circles around her clit and inner lips, slick already. I dip two fingers inside and feel her muscles pulsing. Slide them in & out while she begins to pant. I circle her clit again, flick it gently and feel her body contract and respond.

“Anybody could walk in at any second,” I say. “Anybody could see my hand under your skirt, if they looked for just a second.” She shivers and presses her thighs open, presses her cunt against my hand, grips my forearm in one hand. I’m working her clit a little harder, a little faster, and her breathing is coming heavier, her body is tense. She’s trying to keep her face still.

Lady Brett Ashley: Threesome and a Purple Tie

“Tell her to get on her knees,” I say to Eli.

“Get on your knees,” Eli says, unbuttoning and sliding her jeans off, pulling the harness on.

Brett sinks. She brings her hands behind her back and I put my hands in her hair, then move one to my fly and cock. I finger her lips, pretty mouth, and she takes two of my fingers between her teeth, sucks them onto her tongue. Soft.

Actions become blurred. My cock. Brett’s jeans pulled off and on the ground. Eli fingering Brett while she sucks me, the lovely noises from her throat as she tries not to come, not yet. Eli clearly knows what to do and doesn’t let up, Brett arches her back like a cat and nearly hangs from my legs, gripping my thighs with her hands as she sucks my cock, pulling on my jeans until they come down with my briefs and she slides two fingers under my favorite harness to find my clit. She works it like a cock, strokes it and rolls it gently between her fingers. I groan, hips buck. Lord.

bird : The Hitchhiker

“Tight little pussy,” Jack murmured, one hand on her ass, spreading her cheeks. “Feels so good to open you with my big cock.”

Jack thrust harder, grunting. “Aw yeah, aw god yeah.” Alice gasped with each hard thrust, impaled, in a bit of pain but also exquisite sensation, hips pressing apart, back arching deeper, mouth open and gasping. She lifted one foot up onto the three piled bags of garden dirt in the corner of the truck and spread her legs for Jack.

“You like that, don’t you. Dirty girl. You’ve been waiting for someone like me to come along and fuck you right, haven’t you. Haven’t you.” Jack thrust harder, slower, then sharp.

“Yes, oh god, Jack, fuck me,” Alice moaned. Jack slid one arm around her waist and twisted, pulled out and shoved her onto the fertilizer, dropping her on her ass harshly and she reached down to catch herself with her hands, her legs slightly tangled in the fabric of her tiny shorts.

Avah : Fucking a Porn Star

The girl whispered something, groaned, into the pillow.

“Uh sorry?” Avah said, both hands on the girl’s hip bones, leaning forward to hear her better.

“Fuck me,” the girl said again, clearly this time, turning her head to the side, red hair falling over her face. “Please, oh god please.”

“Mmm,” Avah agreed, drawing back down the girl’s body to her ass and exposed cunt, two fingers running over her lips and clit, swollen from the long night of sex, from the sensory overload, from the submission.

The girl moaned deliciously with each touch.

Avah grinned and kept her grip on the girl’s hip bones, slid two fingers inside her slick cunt easily. The girl sighed, heavy, and opened deeper. Avah slid out and added another finger, a little tighter with three, the girl inhaled and squirmed a little, so eager, so open.

Shannon

TBA

Honorable mention:

Grey: Charcoal Portrait in the Art Studio

I drop my charcoal. My fingers are blackened with it. Her lips are at my ear: “Which curves are you still missing?” She takes my hand, sets it on her hip. “This one?” On her stomach. “This?” On her thigh. “Here?”

I swallow the hesitation in my throat.

“Come on,” she says. “You can do better than that.” And I can.

The Femme Top: Untitled

I can feel everything. Every breath every movement every inch where my skin is bound with leather. Wrists, ankles. I can hear my heart beat. Can see my chest moving up and down, the skin thin and flushed. I swallow. Focus on the ceiling; you are kneeling, strapping on. Hand on the thick of it, slick with lube. I am exposed. Open to you and you want me here, this way.

Jennifer: The Popsicle in the Library

“You know there’s no food allowed in the library,” I growl in her ear, pressing her stomach against the concrete stairwell wall. I’m speaking quietly but it still echoes.

“Unh,” she groans, not able to form words, mouth open.

“Not very polite of you, breaking the rules like that.” I lift her dress and shove my hands under the edge of her panties. She’s wet.

“Oh, you like this, do you? You’re enjoying this?” I flick my fingers over her cunt, then pull my hand away. She wimpers, echoing in the stairwell.

Bad Bad Girl: The Straight Girl at the Dyke Bar

” … we’re going to do this my way.”

I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent. She whimpered, back curving. I held her body at the precise angle and distance that I wanted, and she went limp in my arms, gave over, arms and shoulders falling back, on her toes.

Pulling away, I grinned. Took a step back. Kept my eyes on her, touched my lower lip with my thumb and felt that stirring in my stomach, that desire, that power.

Madeline: Her Mouth on My Cock

That’s all I really wanted, all night long, in those moments when we touched fingertips and knees sitting next to each other, the one time when I took her slender body into the circle of my arms and wrapped around her, cock tight against her and she could feel it, surely she could, moved her thigh against me and pulled her face away from the nuzzle of the nape of my neck to give me those eyes, those eyes, those pretty eyes and my hand at the back of her neck where her hair is short and thin, delicate, dancing when she shakes her head or laughs which of course she does all night, mouth wide and open, lips pulled over teeth and oh I want to remember what that feels like …

Jefferson: Cross-Country Girl Adventures

“I can’t relax,” he says again, going over to the bars that separate our cell from hers. She lifts her head and sighs.

“Fine,” she says, rising and walking toward him. I hear them both moving but keep my eyes shut. “Unzip.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

She glances back at her boyfriend, in the cell adjoining hers, passed out cold. “This offer’s gonna expire,” she says.

Jefferson unzips and meets the black bars with his bony hips, cock poking through.

Which is your favorite?

Cross-Country Girl Adventures

This is an honorable mention Sugarbutch Star submission from Jefferson. I have to include his original submission with the story here, because he’s a wonderful writer, and it sets the scene.

You and I have been driving all day. We decide to wash off the road with a few bourbons, and stop at the next neon sign. We park well away from a long row of Harleys and head inside.

Hours later, we are feeling no pain. A very cute blonde has been flirting with us for a long time. She keeps asking us where we’re from, how we know each other, and so on. She’s fascinated by us. We’re fascinated by her bee-sting lips, her cut-off denims and her long, tan legs. She situates herself between us; you fondle her thighs as I finger her crooked teeth.

None of this sits well with her boyfriend. He watches, glowering by the jukebox at a table covered by empty long necks.

Much of what happens next is a blur.

We wind up in a local jail. You and I share a cell. Beyond the bars to one side is the blonde; beyond the bars to the other side is the boyfriend.

The only light is the moon from a single barred window.

Cross-Country Girl Adventures

Jefferson is pacing.

“Sit down,” I say. “Can’t you just calm down?” I have enough bourbon in me to keep me horizontal for days. The coil-spring mattress is the most uncomfortable thing on which my back has ever laid, and I won’t get up for anything, not even if the door to this jail cell was open.

Jefferson, too, has had bourbon. More than I have, in fact. “I can’t relax,” he says.

“You’re giving me a fucking headache,” the blonde in the next cell says, a little too loud. She’s sitting against the wall. We learned somewhere around the third drink that her name is Ella May.

“I can’t relax,” he says again, going over to the bars that separate our cell from hers. She lifts her head and sighs.

“Fine,” she says, rising and walking toward him. I hear them both moving but keep my eyes shut. “Unzip.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

She glances back at her boyfriend, in the cell adjoining hers, passed out cold. “This offer’s gonna expire,” she says.

Jefferson unzips and meets the black bars with his bony hips, cock poking through.

“Might as well make this a good story,” she says, and licks the tip before guzzling the length of his dick down her throat.

His shoulders drop immediately and he leans against the bars, groaning. Relaxing into familiar territory. I peek through one eye and can’t see her through him, but can see her knees and bobbing elbows as she licks and sucks. He leans back into it. She makes a little mmm noise and brings her hand to her cut-off jean shorts, back pocket ripped out where her boyfriend had hold of her earlier tonight.

I can’t see her hand go inside her jeans, but by the way her elbow is moving, she has clearly taken hold of her clit and is working it. My internal butch cock awake and hard. My head pounds, but I find enough clarity to sit up.

I want to feel her cunt when she comes.

As soon as Jefferson and I entered the highway biker bar I noticed her, but it wasn’t until she pulled me onto the small space of empty floor near the pool table for a dance that I wanted to fuck her. A girl like her would usually be too straight for me – I like ‘em queer. But then she moved her hips against me, drew her long leg up mine, dipped her back low when I led it and didn’t pull away when I held her close. She responded so easily to my gentle, subtle suggestions of movement and twirl.

They say you know exactly how someone will be in bed based on how they dance. That, in my experience, tends to be true. And if it is true of Ella, she is bold, eager, receptive, subtle, and hungry.

I watch her suck Jefferson for a moment longer before I stagger over to the jail bars. I keep an eye on the passed-out boyfriend and watch the muscles in Ella’s jaw clench and move. Jefferson barely notices me, he is finally unwinding, forgetting his surroundings.

I crouch next to him. Ella watches me approach, approves with her eyes, soft, pushes her own shorts down on her hip bones to reveal a tiny patch of fine, soft light hair on her mound, downy, which seems even more blonde because of her tan skin.

She keeps his cock in her mouth. Expertly works it in and out. He wants to increase depth and speed but she isn’t letting him. One hand on his cock, she reaches for my hand and brings it in between her legs. I awkwardly sit sideways next to the bars and slide my hand inside her shorts. She isn’t wearing any panties.

Her skin is so soft, supple. She’s totally shaved except for that tiny patch, and my fingers explore her tight outer lips, all muscle, strong, and thin inner lips, so smooth and slick, luscious. Her cunt is dripping, sticky already. She likes sucking cock. She rocks a little against my fingers and I slide two inside her; she moans a little, muffled, and her eyes roll back as she gulps and sucks, one hand still twisting around Jefferson’s cock, one hand on my wrist.

My angle is awful, up underneath both of them, wrist upturned and restricted by her jean shorts. But she feels so damn good, she’s gripping my fingers with her cunt, forearm with her hand, I can’t exactly move. As I work my fingers in her, my thumb on her clit, she takes Jefferson deeper, faster, into her mouth and this gets him hotter, thrusting what little he can against the cell bars. He’s got a grip with both hands, leaning his head and torso back, hips pressing forward.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants under his breath. Ella moans into his cock, throaty. She glances at me, then up at Jefferson, back at me – a look that clearly says, he’s going to come. I bring my twi fingers to her clit and swirl. Watch her face for her reaction: she closes her eyes reluctantly, opens her mouth wide as Jefferson still pounds into it. Muffled noises in her throat like she’s swallowing. She is swallowing. Her clit swells and she rocks her pelvis against my hand.

Jefferson pops first. His panting stops and he holds his breath in, for just a second, then “uggghhh,” groans on an exhale, thrusts hard a few times, lets go of his grip and bangs his fist against the bars.

“Mmmm,” Ella licks and sucks, using the flat warm of her tongue to lap his cock with a few wide strokes, then she lets out a cry – “Ah!” – falls forward, lets go of Jefferson’s hips to bring one hand to the bars, holding herself up, cheek pressed against the gritty cell bars, gasping, her cunt contracting on my hand and she cries out.

“Fuck yes! Fuck yes! Please do it, do it harder, fuck, fuck!” her voice gets shrill and she starts whimpering as she rocks back and forth on my arm, the wrist of it feels like it’s about to snap, then she lets out a scream and I’m surprised whatever glass is nearby is not breaking, then I realize there is no glass, we’re in jail.

“What the fuck,” I hear, a grumble, low and mean, from the shadows back behind Ella. It’s the boyfriend. Awake. Witnessing.

Jefferson starts laughing, intently watching Ella’s orgasm and me, sprawled on the floor, but he’s stepped back and zipped, cleverly removing himself from incrimination. If only I was a little femmier, he’d think it was hot. It’s only because I’m so damn butch that he thinks I am a threat.

Ella lets the orgasm drain from her and gains enough movement to come to her hands and knees. “Just stop,” she scolds as she would a dog or child. “Knock it off.”

“Ella – baby – what the fuck!” he slams his palm against the bars as I scramble to my feet, attempt to steady myself. I am suddenly drunk again. I can smell Ella’s pussy on my fingers when I straighten my shirt, and notice that they’re all sticky. I want to lick them, suck them clean, just to spite him. But these bars will only separate us temporarily.

“Mr. Johnson!” A police officer calls, shoes clicking with his approach down the concrete hallway. He walks past us and continues to the far cell. “Turns out, you have a few outstanding blemishes on your record. As in, more than two, you little punk. Tricking and evading an officer. Doing 125 in a 50. Driving with a suspended license. Leaving the scene of an accident, a crime,” he’s reading out of a folder, face up against the bars. “Did you think that wouldn’t catch up with you?”

The boyfriend’s eyes get a little wild, wide, and he shrinks back from the bars, sneering.

“Mr. Jefferson! Mr. Sexsmith!” He turns to us. I don’t correct him on my gender. “You’re free to go, boys. Don’t you be getting in any more trouble. I expect I won’t hear see your faces in here again, ever.”

He unlocks the cell door. Jefferson steps through eagerly and blows a kiss to Ella.

“That was fucking hot, Ella,” I say, walking toward her briefly, holding onto the bars. “Thanks.”

She smiles and nods her head, once, a dismissive gesture. “Have fun on your cross-country girl adventures,” she says. “Tell that one to stop getting you in trouble.”

I laugh, and join Jefferson, already halfway down the hallway.

He claps me on the back. “There’s a motel just up there,” he says when we get to the door, gesturing down the parking lot that looks over some desolate road. “What say we get some rest before we hit another state. I think I can finally sleep.”

I yawn. “Yeah, me too,” I say, slinging my arm around his shoulder. “Man, what a night.”

Fucking a Porn Star

This Sugarbutch Star submission comes from Avah of Designing Intimacy. Thanks Avah!

Fucking a Porn Star

The girl knew how to submit.

Even before Avah had her clothes off, even before they entered the hotel room, there was something, some lowering coyly of her eyes, some demure way she kept fluttering her wrists like dinner napkins, something in the way she would purse and slowly lick her lips that made Avah feel strong. Powerful. Wanted. Something that gave Avah permission to take.

With a girl like this, Avah knew how to dominate.

The girl knew what Avah brought along in her carefully packed bag. They had negotiated the contents cautiously, both clearly able to navigate the world of online NSA personals.

Avah’s ad read “ISO sweet, submissive girl that loves rope and flogging.” The girl was her only decent reply – and she was a redhead.

Once in the hotel room, lights still off, Avah told her to undress – revealing milky white, near translucent skin, thin and hiding nothing – then kneel in front of her. Avah parted her own pussy lips with her fingers, standing before the girl who, stripped nude and kneeling, began lapping and sucking tentatively at first, then eagerly, deeper, suckling, making small mmm noises like she was savoring some satisfying desert.

The night of subtle, easy communication at the bar, and the girl’s sweet eyes looking up at her, mouth full, made Avah so hot, and the girl’s expert tongue and pressure brought Avah surprisingly quickly to a thick state of desire and bliss. Coming in the girl’s mouth easily, Avah rewarded her accordingly: she unzipped her toy bag.

The date moved quickly. Avah took this sweet, submissive girl every way she could think of: bent over the coffee table. Against the wall. Elaborately hog tied on the bed, wrists and ankles pulling each other in separate directions (that was especially lovely). Wrists tied behind her back. Fingers in her cunt, then fist in her cunt, then fingers in her ass. Beautiful.

There was something Avah couldn’t pinpoint about this girl: some familiarity about the way her bones shift when she moves, the way her small, tight muscles pulse and ripple, that look in her eyes each time Avah turns to her, palm open, to bring a new sensation to her body. There was some way she led Avah, with tiny, subtle movements, to know exactly what to do next. So skilled at submitting.

Hours later, the two girls were flushed, skin sheened with sweat, exhausted and still wanting each other. The hotel room is dim with candles and the nighttime city lights filtering through the curtain. The bedspread, sheets, and pillows, have been torn from the bed and discarded on the floor. The couch too has been attacked, pillows strewn about, even knocking over a vase that they both ignored.

Avah’s rope proved to be the favorite accessory of the evening. Wrapped around both of the girl’s wrists, it was now tied to the hotel headboard, immobilizing the girl, face down, stretching her arms long above her head. Her ankles were tied, too, to the feet of the bed, but the rope had enough length that the girl could nearly raise to her hands and knees. Her ass was in the air, increasingly pink.

Raising her hand beyond her shoulder, Avah brought her cupped palm down onto the flesh her ass meets thigh: a delicate sound. The girl’s muscles clenched gently, then release.

Again, and again, Avah slapped and stung the girl’s ass and inner thighs, her hand hitting against her crack, swatting her clit and swollen labia, red and slick and smooth as glass, steady, and then faster, the blows coming closer together until the girl started whimpering and straining at the ropes, inching forward to escape, and Avah let up, soothed her hand over the girl’s reddened skin and cunt, fingers exploring the crevasses of her labia and hood, slow circles, slow lazy circles around her clit, and the girl relaxed again, leaned into it, moaned.

The girl’s back arched, knees and feet straining farther apart.

Avah pulled her flogger from her bag: deerskin. Long. She draped it easily over the girl on the bed and it tickled, massaged, gently caressed her skin.

Until – thud. Avah let it fall using only gravity. Again. Thud. A gentle sound. More like thhh. A shushing noise through the air like a librarian.

The girl arched her head back. It was a request. Four, five swats and Avah had her aim. Eight, nine and Avah had a comfortable build of pressure: each time she brought the leather down it hit a little harder, a little deeper into the muscles.

The girl squirmed and writhed against the bed.

Avah climbed between her knees, on the bed and, erect, brought her flogger down again. Onto her shoulder blades. Onto her sides. Onto her tiny ass. Finding a rhythm. One two thud. One two thud. Gathering the tails together over her shoulder, into the palm of her hand, then back down. Precise. Their breaths matching. Gasping when the tails hit skin, moaning when they leave.

“Oh god,” the girl whispered. “Oh god.” She cringes, cries out.

“You like that?” Avah growls, a little harsh, acutely aware of the ferociousness building in her stomach, under her ribcage, creeping up to her heart and throat and shoulders. She hit harder. Harder. The girl arched her back, nearly collapses on the bed.

“Relax,” Avah said, caressing the girl’s skin with her palm. The girl crushed into the bedspread and brought her arms under her, tensing her entire body briefly before releasing, opening again, looking up at Avah with soft eyes. Her limbs were all sinew and bone and skin, lanky and long, thin. She tilted her head but kept her eyes on Avah, responding to Avah’s soothing touch with arches of her body, breathing in. She relaxed onto the hotel sheets, then took her arms out from their tucked position under her and bent her knees, arms and torso laid out long on the bed, ass to ankles.

“Please, a few more?”

Avah grinned, stepped off the bed behind her to get a larger swing, then tightened her grip on the flogger’s thick handle and let more blows fall onto the girl’s back and ass and thighs, tips of the tails snapping at her skin, not fine enough to leave individual marks but turning her entire backside darker and darker pink, in some places flushed red. She may be bruised tomorrow.

Working her entire body into the blows, Avah swung and hit. Swung and hit. She is a true sadist: she is turned on by the witness of someone else’s pain. She knew her cunt was wet, could feel it between her thighs. The girl moaned and cringed and breathed with each contact. Avah worked up into a wonderful beat, so satisfying, a wrist turn that looked like a baton twirl and a rhythm like timpani, steady and slow, working the flesh and bones of this girl, this gorgeous girl, so willing to give over, so eager to receive.

Avah built up speed and the girl whimpered. Harder, and she yelled, pulled against the ropes, thighs cringing together. Avah gathered her strength and let a last few blows hit.

The girl cried out with the intensity. Screamed, then quieted.

Gently leaning into her, Avah floated her hands above the girl’s skin as she lay still with the aftermath of the flogging, writhing and cringing, body melting and settling back into its former shape. Avah softly began moving her hands, hovering just above the skin, not touching yet and then – until – just a fingertip, just the softest brush of the pads of her fingers over the girl’s smelting skin, red and stinging and sensitive to even the minute changes in the air. Avah set each finger, then her palm, oh so gently, barely even touching, like a paintbrush making the finest softest strokes against the exposed canvass of the girl’s back and ass and thighs.

The girl drew breath in hard with each brush. Arched her back. Strained against the ropes.

The reverberation of every contact rippled through her body like a firework exploding, another touch in another spot would simply further illuminate the smoky leftover of the first, still hanging on her skin.

“You feel amazing,” Avah said, completely caught up in the buzz of energy between them.

The girl whispered something, groaned, into the pillow.

“Uh sorry?” Avah said, both hands on the girl’s hip bones, leaning forward to hear her better.

Fuck me,” the girl said again, clearly this time, turning her head to the side, red hair falling over her face. “Please, oh god please.”

“Mmm,” Avah agreed, drawing back down the girl’s body to her ass and exposed cunt, two fingers running over her lips and clit, swollen from the long night of sex, from the sensory overload, from the submission.

The girl moaned deliciously with each touch.

Avah grinned and kept her grip on the girl’s hip bones, slid two fingers inside her slick cunt easily. The girl sighed, heavy, and opened deeper. Avah slid out and added another finger, a little tighter with three, the girl inhaled and squirmed a little, so eager, so open.

“Damn, that’s good,” Avah mumbled, fingers sliding in and out easily, thumb on the girl’s hard clit. Avah felt her opening deeper still, pushing back onto Avah’s hand, gripping the rope that held her wrists to the headboard, rocking on her knees. Avah added her fourth finger.

The girl’s clit swelled, g-spot swelled – Avah could feel it from where her hand hit inside, the upper wall thick and juicy and swollen and she fingered it, pressed against it tenderly, pet it with little laps of the pads of her four fingers.

Cries from the girl’s mouth, directly in a line connected to her cunt. Pressure here and she cried out. Pressure there and she gasped. A little harder, a little faster, and her knees shook, thighs pressed apart, ass pressed back, back arched, head bent and her cunt opened to swallow everything, to take it all inside her, hard, to suck Avah’s hand in, to the palm. Then she burst: it started in her cunt and then radiated out in waves, in ripples, thick quakes of bone and muscle and the girl made such delicious low moans, oh-oh-oh god, oh-oh-oh god, and Avah slowed, changed pressure to let up, and the girl folded back into herself, collapsed forward on the bed, and Avah’s fingers slid out as her body calmed.

Avah unties the ropes and they collapse together on the bed, the girl holding Avah close against her, sharing caresses, giggles, as they came down from their bodies’ highs. They lay eye to eye on the pillows.

“You just look so familiar, I can’t shake it,” Avah said. “It’s weird. We haven’t met before, you’re sure?”

The girl grinned. “Well, I told you my name. I figured if you knew my work you’d recognize that.”

Avah, embarrassed, couldn’t remember it. Michelle. Marilyn. Something with an M.

“Madison,” the girl said. “Madison Young.”

“Oh,” said Avah, and then she realized: she’d just fucked a porn star.

Her Mouth on My Cock

Madeline was the very first Sugarbutch Star, I could argue, when she made a lovely appearance in the post let go, just let go in October 2006. This honorable mention submission comes from her.

Her Mouth on My Cock

That’s all I really wanted, all night long, in those moments when we touched fingertips and knees sitting next to each other, the one time when I took her slender body into the circle of my arms and wrapped around her, cock tight against her and she could feel it, surely she could, moved her thigh against me and pulled her face away from the nuzzle of the nape of my neck to give me those eyes, those eyes, those pretty eyes and my hand at the back of her neck where her hair is short and thin, delicate, dancing when she shakes her head or laughs which of course she does all night, mouth wide and open, lips pulled over teeth and oh I want to remember what that feels like, a girl on her knees, this girl, this girl on her knees in front of me with that tongue, that suckling throat of hers and she is so good at it, she has turned cocksucking into an art and somehow mine seems that much more real when a girl like this, a girl like her, who treats it as real, she doesn’t care it is silicone, doesn’t care I can’t really feel it, not really, because she knows how I can feel it in my mind, knows that I know how it feels behind her teeth and it’s Debbie Does Dallas and Deep Throat as if her g-spot is at the roof of her mouth, as if she can actually orgasm from my cock, my blue plastic cock, in just the right spot and she’s moaning, god, she’s moaning and her vocal chords vibrate and I can feel it all the way through to my clit and the slick lips of my own cunt, buried, burrowed for a moment underneath this, this way my sex becomes outside my body, this way I become exposed and vulnerable and tender, revealing something of me, unpacking it all, taking it outside and asking to be seen, to be looked at, asking her to acknowledge my inability to do this for myself, to really have this body, to have this real cock, I am without, am not enough on my own, but I want to be this so badly I can create it in my mind, I can create it on my body, I can move within genders and beyond my own birth-assigned limitations to explore whatever it is I want to feel, and right now I want to feel my cock down her throat, I want to come in her mouth and feel her suck me dry, feel her suck the juice from me, shoot into her open throat and she takes me deeper, all the way to the base and her hands on my hips and ass to steady us both and I can barely stand up, my knees are buckling, hips bucking, she’s looking up at me with those eyes again, those eyes, those pretty eyes, and I can hear her plead let go, let go like I’ve heard her say before, and she’s so good at this, so fucking good, that I do, I do, I thrust against her, inside her, within her, and I am shriveled, rendered useless, spent.

I whimper; whisper, Madeline, Madeline, Madeline, again and again, and she wraps her arms around me, says shhh into the nape of my neck, and holds me close.

The “Straight Girl” at the Dyke Bar

I know, I’m extremely late on this. I’m attempting to breathe some new life into the end of the Sugarbutch Star contest, so I can finally end it and hold a poll for the reader’s favorite!

This honorable mention submission comes from Bad Bad Girl … thank you. (Featured in Sugasm #102 in the top three!) 

The Straight Girl at the Dyke Bar

I was out back, in the alley behind the dive dyke bar, when she found me. Busted through the door with a fruity indulgent mixed drink in her hand and I feared for her balance.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought I saw you come this way.”

I was puzzled. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flashed and she let the back door close on its hinge with a bang. “Yes,” she said. “Clearly.”

I took one last drag of my American Spirit and flicked the butt into the dumpster. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she slurred, just a little. “I’m trying to seduce you.” She was right next to me, my height, but she kept her eyes low and looked up at me with submission. My internal butch cock stirred.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Yeah.” She stepped closer and bit her lips, looking at mine.

“Are you here with friends? Maybe they should take you home.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not ready to go home.”

“You’re drunk,” I said again.

“Not so drunk that I don’t know what I want,” she snapped. “Only drunk enough that I can go after it.”

She inched closer to me. My mouth watered. I wanted my hands on the curves of her waist, her hips, her ribcage. I struggled to keep control. “What are you doing … here?” I almost said in a gay bar.

She sneered. “I know, I’m the only straight girl. I usually am. Well. Whatever.” Her tone changed. “I know how this sex thing works,” she purred, palm of her hand against my crotch where my cock was hard, straining against my zipper. The pressure of her fingers felt exquisite.

I knocked her hand away. “Hey.”

She withdrew and then slowly moved her fingers up my arm, felt the muscles, tendons. Circled her fingers around my wrist. “Come on,” she whispered. “I saw you watching me.”

Her neck was dangerously close to my mouth and I could smell her, sweet and thick. I wanted a mouthful of her perfume. Teeth on her skin. My hands moved – practically involuntarily – to the curves she laid out for me, the precise placement of her body next to mine inviting my touches.

She tilted her face toward mine. Half-closed her eyes. I didn’t even know her name. My friends were still inside, probably waiting for me. It was getting late. The alley was filthy. She smelled so delicious. The desire between us was pooling and tangible.

Her body was small, my hands with fingers spread covered her back. I brought them up under her hair, pulled her toward me, took hold of the back of her skull and neck. She leaned into me.

“Okay,” I said, watching her face as our lips barely brushed while I spoke. “But we’re going to do this my way.”

I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent. She whimpered, back curving. I held her body at the precise angle and distance that I wanted, and she went limp in my arms, gave over, arms and shoulders falling back, on her toes.

Pulling away, I grinned. Took a step back. Kept my eyes on her, touched my lower lip with my thumb and felt that stirring in my stomach, that desire, that power. Her eyes got a little frightened and she attempted to keep her tough look, but it was a mask I would unpeel.

I closed the distance between us. Traced my fingers down her left arm until I reached her hand, still holding that delicate glass of fruity alcohol, and took it from her, tossed it hard, overhand, arm flexing, at the blank space where the building met the concrete in the alley. It shattered brilliantly, a cascade of glass, the sound filling the narrow space between the buildings.

She watched my arm, the glass, the crash. We turned our eyes back to each other, hers open, mouth open, small of her back arched. Her mouth watered and she moved her jaw, I could see it. Subtle. She wanted to lunge for me. Good girl, she stayed still.

Hardening my glance, I moved toward her, thick, keeping distance between us, and she stumbled back, her low heels catching on the uneven pavement, thrusting her hands out behind her but I kept her eyes, kept two fingers on her waist and led her back, back, until she was against the dumpster. She swallowed. It was wider at the top than the bottom, slanting out; she cowered under it a little.

I lifted my chin, once. “Hold that.”

She did. Lifted her arms to grip the edge of the dumpster. Made a face. “It feels gross.”

“Mmm.” You’re getting fucked in an alley behind a dive bar. What do you expect? I thrust my hand between her legs. She wore a tight skirt – I pulled at it, shoved it up her thighs to expose her. Pulled tight against the lacy fabric of her panties and pressed two fingers inside. Smooth. She inhaled, moaned.

“So wet,” I said, mouth against her cheek. She kept hold of the edge with her hands, arms raised. My body perpendicular to hers, cock against her hip. I worked my fingers inside, slick and slow and deep, thumb on her clit, on that spot below her clit, my hand gripping her pubic bone.

She moaned, knees weakening, hips dipping down to take in more of me. I added a third finger. “You know how to get fucked, don’t you.”

Mouth gaping, she breathed heavily, turning her head and biting her lower lip. I could feel my fingers working a good spot inside her and she was increasingly sensitive, reactive to my pressing and curling, thumb flicking a little lighter and faster on her clit. Her thighs shook and she lifted one leg off the ground, bent her knee, pressed her legs apart and against me, body shaking, pressed against me, until she gasped hard and I felt the ring of muscles grip my fingers, grip hard, her clit fat and sensitive and pressing against my thumb, throbbing, until she shuddered hard, bucked her hips, began to lose her balance and leaned against me, gasping, little moans coming from her throat.

She looked up at me, arms around my neck now. “I don’t usually come so fast,” she said, a little apologetically.

I shook my head, don’t worry about it. “I’m not done with you yet.” I didn’t wait, but took her wrists in my hands and put them back up onto the dumpster’s edge, then twisted her body so she faced away from me, pulled her skirt up over her ass, and unzipped my fly. Pulled my cock out. Sheathed it quickly with a condom from my back pocket.

With one hand I pushed aside her panties, slightly stretched now anyway; with the other I pressed her ass apart, then guided my cock into her wet hole. Stretched her lips as I pumped in and out, smooth slow long strokes, hips in circles, working the cock against my clit as much as inside her.

My release built easily in me after the way she came and it didn’t take long for me to grip her hips like handles and begin pounding, shifting my feet to stabilize my movement, muscles in my thighs hard and contracted, groaning and grunting with the physical effort of it all. She pressed hard with her hands against the disgusting dumpster, arching her back and pushed against me, receiving me as I fucked harder, hard, pulling almost all the way out and then slickly entering her again, the length of my cock, pressed tight against her ass and hips in rocking little thrusts, until I found that sweet spot and my clit contracts and I see myself exploding in her, which made me come harder, muscles thick and shuddering, gasping, slowing my pace against her until I came to stillness and peeled myself off her back.

She watched me over her shoulder, all eyes and hair, desire still in her face, painted over her cheeks, then rose and straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair. I tucked my cock back into my briefs and zipped my jeans.

She smiled at me, then started giggling, then laughing hard, full-bodied from her stomach, eyes sparkling. I was amused, and puzzled. “What’s so funny?”

“So,” she giggled, wrapping her arms around my neck and tossing her hair, “you’re awfully cute. Come here often? Can I buy you a drink?”

I laughed, pulled myself out of her embrace. “Sure. Why not.” I stepped up the three low rickety back stairs and opened the back door to the bar, let her step in first. Jukebox tunes and pool cues and women’s laughter spilled out.

I saw a few of my buddies at a table in the corner, they watched me come back in with my hand on the back of the girl. They made faces and gestures and raised their eyebrows. I shushed them with a look, turned my attention back to her.

“I, uh, I didn’t get your name,” I said.

“That’s cause I didn’t say,” she answered, hips switching as she dodged through the crowd and stepped up to the bar and immediately had the bartender’s attention. She ordered, glancing at me sideways: “Jameson rocks, for Sinclair.”

The Hitchhiker

Thanks to bird for this Sugarbutch Star scenario submission. I’ve been working on this for a few weeks now, it proved harder than I expected because I was determined to not ever use gendered pronouns for the driver. Worth a try, though now I know better than to do that again.This story was featured on Fleshbot‘s sex blog roundup. Thanks Jefferson!

The Hitchhiker

“Get in,” the driver said, after flipping the dial on the stereo of the small blue pickup truck, quieting Big Black’s “He’s a Whore.”

Alice leaned her elbows on the window, made her legs into an A frame, tipped her ass to one side, and flipped her wheat-colored hair over her shoulder. She took a long look at the driver, the blond fauxhawk, messy overalls, lean defined arms in a life-partner beater, dark tribal tattoos peeking out from the collarbone. A dark, worn-in cowboy hat sat on the passenger’s seat. The driver flashed a nice smile. Simple, a little mischievous.

The scent of grass and sod wafted from the back of the truck. Alice spied power tools, a lawnmower, some rakes and shovels secured to the racks in the back. She gripped the handle, opened the door, and slid onto the vinyl bench seat, taking the cowboy hat into one hand and easily sliding it over the crown of her head.

“My friends call me Jack.”

“I’m Alice.” She slid her eyes sideways to watch Jack maneuver the stick shift as the pickup pulled back onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Where you heading?” Alice asked.

Jack watched as she adjusted her long legs and ran one ankle against the opposite calf. “Wherever.” South on the PCH was good enough for now. Alice wanted to end up in the city somewhere, it didn’t matter where. Cliffs and beach rolled by their windows. This was as good of a direction as any.

The cab smelled like grass, too. Grass and dirt, but in a clean, organic earthy kind of way. “You been working in the sun all day?” Alice asked, tossing the hat onto the dash, then flipping her hair again and strategically placing her elbow over the back of the bench seat between them. Her fingers were dangerously close to the overall buckles. The skin beneath was tan, a little pinkish.

“Yep.”

“It was nice today. Not too hot for August.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re a gardener?”

Jack downshifted through a tight curve and held the clutch in a moment too long. “Landscape architect.” Pressure on the engine.

“Of course. You enjoy that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Alice let her fingers drift onto the muscles of Jack’s upper arm. Soft skin. “You look like you’re good at it.” She let herself picture Jack shoveling, digging, big bags of fertilizer slung over these broad shoulders, squinting in the sun.

Jack didn’t answer, just smiled softly, looking out at the road. The silence was comfortable. Alice lifted her small satchel bag from her shoulder. “Do you smoke?” she asked.

“No.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Go right ahead.” Such a gentleman. She rolled the window down a crack, lit an unfiltered Lucky Strike from a soft pack. Only a few more left. The small cylinder felt good between her fingers, on her lips. She slipped her slender tan feet out of her white beach sandals and brought them up onto the seat, exposing her creamy caramel inner thighs. They rode in silence as Alice smoked, Big Black still soft on the stereo. Jack watched her from a sideways glance, one hand on the stick shift, palm starting to sweat. Alice’s tank top exposed her toned navel and hip bones peeking out from the top of her tiny jean shorts. She brought the cigarette to her lips deliberately.

Jack took a breath, still not looking at her. “I like the way you do that.”

“Yeah?” Alice leaned against the door, moved one leg further up onto the seat between them. “I like the way you drive.”

The corners of Jack’s mouth curled. “Thanks, darlin’.” Her toes shuffled toward the exposed side of the overalls, the thin, thin fabric of the undershirt. Jack shifted in place, thighs adjusting.

Alice watched, considering Jack’s hard body, the sweet smell of sweat and physicality. She flicked her cigarette out the truck window and rolled the window back up, pulled her knees up underneath her, leaned in close to Jack’s ear.

“Any interest in a fuck?”

“Uh,” Jack’s eyes flashed. Alice already had her hand on the bulge in the crotch of Jack’s overalls.

“I’d like to see what you’ve got under there.” Jack unsnapped the shoulder buckles. Alice pulled a thick, marble-blue colored strap-on from soft gray Calvin Klein briefs. Bigger around than her hand would fit. She milked it with her fingers. Jack’s eyes never left the road.

“Looks good,” said Alice. “Big and hard already.”

“Gave me quite the boner, you on side of the road like that.”

“Oh yeah? Little ol’ me?”

“Soon as I saw those legs, I wanted them wrapped around me.” Alice bobbed her hand in Jack’s lap, dipping her face nearer to the cock. Small murmurs coming from her mouth. Jack left one hand on the wheel and didn’t slow down, hugging the curves of the road with precision. Her lips grazed the head. Licked it like an ice cream cone with her long tongue. Sucked it into her mouth while she left her hand pushing into the base of the silicone.

Jack groaned. “Damn, you’re good at that.”

Alice smiled and sucked. Swirled her tongue. Worked the head against the ridge at the back of her mouth. Applied pressure.

Jack moaned again, deep, from the gut, hips thrusting a little. Heavy foot on the gas pedal, not slowing, eyes on the road. Jack took a blind curve around a cliff, suddenly swerved into the dirt pull-off overlooking the beach, and cut the engine. Alice didn’t stop, head bobbing on the blue cock. Jack leaned back, feet on the floor, hips lifting, hands gripping the steering wheel and then the ceiling of the cab. Pressing against the truck at every angle to get the cock farther down Alice’s throat.

“Fuck.” Jack shuddered, bringing a hand to Alice’s long hair and pulling her off of the cock. She wiped saliva off her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes wide, lips swollen.

“Come with me.” Jack threw open the door to the cab and half-guided, half-dragged Alice out of the driver’s side door. The sun hit them both, insistent and thick on its fall into the ocean. Jack pulled the tailgate down and hopped into the back of the truck with one quick leap, then leaned and offered a hand to Alice. Barefoot, she climbed in.

Not much room with all the tools. The lawnmower was covered in flecks of grass and a dark petroleum lubricant for its rusty engine, and sat next to a red gas can, a strong pungent smell. Dirt under Alice’s bare feet. She made her way up to the cab of the truck and pressed her stomach to it, lifted one leg at the knee and stared out into the beach and setting sun. Waves lapping. Pretty much deserted this far out of the city. A sporty two-door car zipped past, then it was quiet again.

Jack let go of the overalls and they fell. Alice had her hands on the waist of her shorts, twisted around to face Jack. “You’re gonna fuck me with that big thing of yours, aren’t you?”

Jack’s mouth watered. “Yes.”

“Do it then.” She bent over the cab of the truck, slithered the shorts down over her ass and left them at her knees, creamy tan beach skin exposed, cunt exposed, neck twisted to watch Jack approaching.

Jack slid the cock into her in a swift gasp, stretching her taut. Alice lifted onto her tiptoes to tilt her pelvis, curve her back. Jack took hold of her hips and thrust, hard, and again, and again, thick inside her.

“Tight little pussy,” Jack murmured, one hand on her ass, spreading her cheeks. “Feels so good to open you with my big cock.”

Jack thrust harder, grunting. “Aw yeah, aw god yeah.” Alice gasped with each hard thrust, impaled, in a bit of pain but also exquisite sensation, hips pressing apart, back arching deeper, mouth open and gasping. She lifted one foot up onto the three piled bags of garden dirt in the corner of the truck and spread her legs for Jack.

“You like that, don’t you. Dirty girl. You’ve been waiting for someone like me to come along and fuck you right, haven’t you. Haven’t you.” Jack thrust harder, slower, then sharp.

“Yes, oh god, Jack, fuck me,” Alice moaned. Jack slid one arm around her waist and twisted, pulled out and shoved her onto the fertilizer, dropping her on her ass harshly and she reached down to catch herself with her hands, her legs slightly tangled in the fabric of her tiny shorts.

Alice reached up and gripped the bar of the lawnmower next to her, lifting her feet off the ground, legs together, balancing on her ass. Jack slid the shorts down her tanned, slender legs and stepped between them, squatting, pushing her knees back against her chest, their faces inches apart.

Her big blue eyes were wide open.

Jack slid the cock insider her eager cunt again and tried to keep looking at Alice, tried not to miss a minute of this, sun and surf behind Alice’s head, California traffic zooming by on the PCH, Alice’s face flushed, neck arched, hands gripping, pulling, steadying. The lawnmower shook as Jack thrust and thrust, harder, gaining speed, getting faster.

“Your pussy feels so good,” Jack mumbled. “So tight around my cock. Squeeze me, oh god yeah just like that, feels so good, feels so fucken good.”

“Oh yeah, fuck me,” Alice breathed. “Come inside me, oh yeah, you can do that, can’t you, big boy? Fuck me hard until you come inside. I’ll pump that come from your cock with my tight pussy. You like that? You can feel that, can’t you, Jack?”

Jack bucked against Alice, tight and hard, shoving into her over and over until Jack came, swearing, and softened, slowed. Alice caressed the back of Jack’s head, the short short hairs and longer ‘hawk in the middle, until tentatively Jack met her eyes and stood.

“Strip.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“We’re going in.” Jack nodded toward the beach and lifted the A-shirt up and off, revealing toned chest muscles, the swirls of dark tribal tattoos, California brown skin. Hopping out of the truck, Jack jogged toward the cliff’s edge and found a path down, through the beach grass and lines of rocks against the road. Another car zipped past, an old sedan, then the sound faded around the corner of the PCH.

Alice followed reluctantly, watching as Jack awkwardly stripped off the CK briefs while attempting to run in the sand toward the water. Alice nearly laughed. She let her body pick up speed while gravity pulled her down the path of the cliff’s edge and broke into a run when she hit the sand. Her shorts were still in the back of the pickup somewhere, legs bare, feet bare, only her cut off tank top remained, and she pulled it over her head, dropped it near an obvious large boulder.

Jack splashed into the water, tossed the words over his shoulder: “Come on!”

Alice hovered near the edge of the surf, ankle deep in lolling waves and wet sand, kicking at the water. She watched Jack immerse and surface, strapped blue cock and leather harness wet and becoming looser around Jack’s hips, hands running through the wet ‘hawk falling in both eyes, and Alice dove into the surf, slid through the water, cool and soothing against the heat of the day. She surfaced and couldn’t see Jack, then let her body float, weightless, on the rolling waves, until something abruptly pulled her under.

She opened her mouth with a startled “oh!” and then it was full of salt water. Her arms and legs flailed as she struggled back to the surface, gasping at the air.

Jack was smiling, stifling laughter, next to her.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?”

Jack’s laughter stopped suddenly and changed to a falsely serious playful face. Alice closed the distance between them quickly and, smirking, grabbed for the strapon, pulled hard, forced Jack under the water, both of them struggling, Jack grabbing onto Alice for support as they were both pulled deeper under the water.

They detangled, emerged, gasping and laughing. Jack lunged for Alice in a taildive, took hold of her waist, lifted her legs. She leaned back into the water as Jack found her clit, slid fingers inside, held her hips up.

“Ohh, that’s good,” she crooned. “Oh god. Damn. That’s perfect … oh fuck, your fingers inside me feels so good. I can’t – I want –” she had no leverage. She could feel the sandy ocean floor with her toes, but wanted her ankles up on Jack’s broad shoulders.

Jack pulled-pushed her further toward shore, half walking, half swimming, bodies touching everywhere, Alice being pushed backward as Jack walked along the sand, holding each other’s eyes and bodies up in the water, Jack’s cock bobbing against her leg. She bit her lip to keep from sucking her tongue in her mouth, remembering how that blue cock tasted and felt.

The ocean rocked around them, then she hit sand with her butt first, soft, sand, ground, then Alice was laid out as the wave receded, kissing, nude, Jack’s hands between her legs, greedy, pushing her thighs apart, thick fingers entering her and she gasped.

“I think it’s time you came for me,” Jack whispered gruffly, mouth rough on her cheek, pressing Alice against the sand, pushing her legs apart. “Come on, pretty girl, open up that cunt for me, squeeze my fingers. You feel me deep inside you?”

Alice gasped, body balanced on every sensation. Heels in the air, thighs pressed back against the wet sand. Jack worked her clit with expert precision, slow circles, a slick thrumming, and another wave broke at their feet.

“I’m gonna make you come so hard,” Jack breathed into her neck, fingers moving harder, faster, between her legs, pulsing over her clit. “You’re going to come just for me, just for me, pretty girl. Feel my fingers workin’ your pussy? You’re gonna do it for me, aren’t you? Let go, pretty girl, just let it all go, and come for me, come on girl, fuck yeah, do it.”

Alice, gasping, toes curling, swollen cunt pressed hard against Jack’s hand, felt her muscles tighten and vibrate, swell and then explode, thick and fast and deep, Jack’s fingers thrusting, pressing hard against her hard clit, as her stomach contracted and body shook. She screamed a string of profanities and gripped Jack’s wrists, clawed at the muscles of Jack’s shoulders. She moaned and yelled, eyes open and suddenly aware of the darkening sky, the bright stars beginning to be visible outside of the city, twilight fading fast to blackness.

Jack touched her thighs and stomach for a minute as her body calmed. Alice became suddenly aware of her wet feet, bare body, cool breeze coming from over the ocean, the sound of the water, waves still tickling her calves and knees, cooler than the air and soothing.

“I, uh,” Jack stammered, suddenly shy again. “Guess we should get back on the road.”

Alice nodded. She wanted another Lucky Strike, was beginning to feel chilly. And she wanted to blow Jack behind the wheel again.

Jack offered her a hand up and they both brushed sand from their bare skin. Alice watched the toned muscles of Jack’s chest and arms, the dark curly tattoos. Jack began making his way in the sand, and Alice stood for a moment, watching the shimmering reflection of the rising new moon in the surface of the water, listening to the crash and rush and whoosh of the waves, when she saw something break the surface, a fin, and another, then a tail, the dramatic swoop of the back arch of a dolphin.

“Jack!” Alice called. “Did you see those dolphins?”

Jack turned and looked, then laughed. “That’s so gay.”

Alice smiled, then couldn’t help but giggle. She turned away from the water and watched Jack’s firm ass and thighs moving along the path ahead of her, wondering how long Jack would resist before she could get fucked again.

The Popsicle in the Library

Sugarbutch Star honorable mention submission from Jennifer

Popsicle in the Library

“You know there’s no food allowed in the library,” I growl in her ear, pressing her stomach against the concrete stairwell wall. I’m speaking quietly but it still echoes.

“Unh,” she groans, not able to form words, mouth open.

“Not very polite of you, breaking the rules like that.” I lift her dress and shove my hands under the edge of her panties. She’s wet.

“Oh, you like this, do you? You’re enjoying this?” I flick my fingers over her cunt, then pull my hand away. She wimpers, echoing in the stairwell.

“You want something to suck on, girl, you take this,” and I let up on the pressure against her. She peels her cheek away from the concrete. I take my hand from her hair and unzip my fly, pull out my packing cock, bend it straight. “Go on, suck it.”

She drops to her knees, lips red from the cherry popsicle she’d been sucking lewdly when I walked up to her. And here I’d thought we’d had a study date. Her legs were all long in the windowsill, summery dress light and airy and when she moved her knees I could see the thin cream fabric covering her pussy, the outline of her lips, plump, thick.

She offered the sweet, bright red popsicle to me. “Want some?” Eyes all sly and sparkly, playful smile on her mouth.

I shook my head no. Crossed my arms over my chest. Raised one eybrow and nod for her to continue.

She does. Slides the whole thing into her mouth and cherry juice gets on her chin.

And now she sucks me just like she was working that sticky treat, sucking it like she could pull the juice from me too, like she could use the muscles in her cheeks to draw the cum from me and swallow it all.

Fuck. I want her to make me shoot in her mouth like that. Oh I wish I could.

I groan. “Enough.” I say and pull her to her feet. I don’t take her panties off, just lift her dress and finger the fleshy parts of her ass with my hand, then give it a good smack.

Not too hard. I cup my palm a little bit and it echoes perfectly, which makes the slight sting more impressive because it sounds so loud. I smack again. She cries out a little. Again, harder, and she yelps, I hear it floors away. My cock is still out and I shove it into her. Hard. Slide it in all the way. She whimpers, presses her hands into the concrete, the side of her face, presses her ass into me, spreads her legs.

She actually shouts, my thrusts pounding the noise out of her.

“Quiet.” I say, harsh, in her ear.

She is still wimpering. Trying to be quiet and she whispers, “I’m gonna spew if you keep fucking me like that.”

“Oh yeah? You’re a messy one, eh? Bring it on, bitch. Come on, come for me.” My mouth at her ear and my hands on her hips, head of my cock hitting her g-spot, I can feel it, and she comes hard, wet, dripping, soaking my cock, her thighs, the floor, my shoes. Her body shudders but that’s not all I can get out of her and I pull out and twist her around before she’s regained her composure, slide my fingers in, slide my hand in, reach up and inside her and I can feel the spots to press and I do.

I growl, “Do it again,” and she shakes her head no but she’s gasping, legs wide and on her tiptoes on the wet floor. She grabs for my wrist to pull me back, embarrasment in her eyes and she can feel her own cum dripping down her legs, but I don’t let up.

I take hold of her hair with my other hand and pull her head back, press my mouth to her jaw saying, “Come on, I’m gonna make you. You’re going to come just for me. Fuck yeah, do it. I’m gonna make you, fuck yeah, fuck yeah.”

And she wraps her arms around my neck and comes, and comes, and comes.

Her Mouth on My Cock

This is an honorable mention Sugarbutch Star submission from the femme top. And yes I know I never posted about our second date … consider it on the way.

I can feel everything. Every breath every movement every inch where my skin is bound with leather. Wrists, ankles. I can hear my heart beat. Can see my chest moving up and down, the skin thin and flushed. I swallow. Focus on the ceiling; you are kneeling, strapping on. Hand on the thick of it, slick with lube. I am exposed. Open to you and you want me here, this way.

My hips are cramping, pulled back like this. Even my underarms are exposed. I don’t want to struggle but my body can’t stop. A twist of my wrist and my ankle is pulled up further, I feel it in my thigh. Everything is connected.

I don’t want to want it like I do. Don’t want to need, to crave to be filled when I’m like this. To be reduced to something empty, inadequate, unwhole.

Make me whole.

Make me scream.

You have your eyes on me and I blink back tears. You slap my cunt. I cringe, cry out. I don’t want to say please. I don’t want to need the sting of your fingers which are wet now, from me. I don’t want you to know how much I crave: touch me again. Twist the bar so I can’t keep struggling, and make me feel. Make me feel even the places I refuse to let you in. Make me.

Your eyes are shining wet like your cock. Your hand is on it. I want to be closed to you but you have me open, unlocked already and spilling my secrets. I need to hide my every imperfection. Need to hide my want. You can have me. My body is all nerve endings and convulses at every touch: your hands on the backs of my thighs. No need to open me further, this is all there is, this is all there is. Take me so I can only ever be taken by you. Take me so I wake inside myself screaming your name. Take me to where I feel again, where I feel anything, all of it, open, receptive, receiving, submitting.

You can have me. I give in, I give in.

It is agonizingly slow, a steady slide, all the way in, tip to base, and I can feel it, feel it, feel it, all the way up to the back of my throat, and I loosen, lose my grip, lose myself, but you keep hold of me, and I am only a vessel, something to hold you, cradle you, something to take it in, to receive, and I become only energy, light, lightning, and I am made whole.

Charcoal Portrait in the Art Studio

This is an honorable mention from the Sugarbutch Star contest, from Grey. Written from her perspective. I plan to post a few more honorable mentions as well – I am attempting to keep them short, little snippets of a scene rather than the entire build-up and tear-down that I usually include in my stories. I’m doing this to challenge myself and my writing, but it’s also because there were so many great submissions, but I don’t have time to write them all for the contest, unfortunately.

Charcoal Portrait in the Art Studio

There is only the light scratching of my charcoal on paper. Thick and cream, deckled edges on plyboard. Held in my lap. An indication of shadow here. Of hip, of thigh.

She’s posing for me, only a black tie around her neck, black leather harness around her hips, black strap-on eagerly poised. She’s draped on the white studio couch. She’s calm and steady. She’s watching me.

A flick of my wrist and a line for her jaw, her left breast. The angles of her come to life. I recreate her. She lets me.

I fill in details. Impressions of her, sultry, on paper, fall around me like winter is coming. I tear off another sheet and she is moving toward me, all eyes and hips, that cocky swagger.

I drop my charcoal. My fingers are blackened with it. Her lips are at my ear: “Which curves are you still missing?” She takes my hand, sets it on her hip. “This one?” On her stomach. “This?” On her thigh. “Here?”

I swallow the hesitation in my throat.

“Come on,” she says. “You can do better than that.” And I can.

She shows me. Her tongue sketches curves and I am recreated by her from the inside when she slides.

Her lips are charcoal, and my skin is perfect paper.

Threesome & A Purple Tie

Thanks to Lady Brett Ashley for this submission, the second of the five finalists in the Sugarbtuch Star contest.

Threesome and a Purple Tie

Brett reaches up with one hand and peels off my purple tie, her blindfold, sticky against her forehead. Her mouth is full of her girlfriend’s cock. I watch her hesitate momentarily until she wiggles her hips a little, which is my acknowledgement. If her girlfriend is in her mouth, I must be the one fucking her from behind.

I hadn’t expected the evening to go this way. I had hoped to take Brett back to my place, sure, but as soon as her handsome and clearly doting soft butch girlfriend showed up as I easily fingered Brett’s jean-clad knee, I altered my evening expectations.

“Oh, you’re … spoken for,” I said, frowning, exaggerating my disappointment in order to hide it. “Too bad. Unless … I don’t suppose you’d want to share?” I look to the girlfriend. Eli. She sizes me up, then looks at Brett. Brett’s eyes sparkle and she gets this cheeky half-smile. I think Eli’s about to punch me, and they’ll have a fun night of what-if sex, then I think Brett might ditch Eli by the way she’s already devouring me with these smoldering looks, then I think Eli left Brett alone for just this reason: to find a third. I consider making a joke to Brett about feeling used, how I’d been on my very best charming pick-up behavior, but decide against it.

“Yeah, alright,” Eli shifts her weight, digs her hands into her pockets, also with a slight half-smile. She has nice arms: strong, defined muscles under her white tee shirt. She’s more girly than I am, but still more boyish than Brett, who is what I’d call subtle femme. May take a second glance, but it’s there.

Brett caught my eye as soon as I walked into the club. Nice ass, graceful legs. Pretty eyes behind her thick, long curly hair. Cute glasses that enhance the curves of her jaw and cheeks. I took the barstool next to hers and watched her laugh before I said hello.

I drain what’s left of my melted ice and Jameson. Their hotel is on the corner.

I untie my purple silk tie in the elevator. “Kiss her,” I say to Eli. She’s not sure she wants to take orders from me, but she wants to kiss Brett and she’s glad I didn’t move in to kiss her myself. Brett is curled against the corner of the elevator, watching us both interacting. She sometimes raises a finger to her mouth as if to bite her nail.

Eli carefully places each hand on the elevator wall behind Brett and leans in to kiss her. Brett watches me, still unslipping my tie, carefully undoing the knots, mouth moving against Eli, eyes open. I undo the top button of my silver shirt and hold one side of the tie in each hand.

And so it began.

The elevator doors open, I step through and wait for them to lead the way. A cute couple, attractive. Brett has a great ass.

Eli slides her keycard in and the trio of us enters the bland hotel room. Two beds, small table with an ice bucket and glasses, a chair that is a cheap knock-off of something comfortable. Their suitcases are on one bed. The other is perfectly made.

I toss the tie to Eli. “Care to blindfold her?” Brett turns to me, eyes wide, still quiet. Eli smiles and tosses it back to me. “You do it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s smiling but also challenging me. I don’t understand this game yet.

I take two steps to Brett, who has saught protection from a wall again. I take her glasses and set them on the bed with the open suitcases. Her hair falls in her face, chin tipped down. Curls everywhere. I want handfuls of it. Fistfuls and to use it as rope, as something by which to pull her. It is long, past her shoulders. It would splay out everywhere. I finger her jaw, her cheekbone.

We have a moment. Eye contact, connecting. “Can I kiss you?” I ask. I’m asking her if she’s okay with this. She’s stealing sipping glances at me, looking down at my hands on her waist, looking back up, body language telling me she loves it, is just a little shy, but she likes to be told what to do.

She nods. Murmurs please or yes or okay or maybe just mmm. Her body goes soft against me and her hands find my waist, then lower back, then fingers dig into my shoulders as I kiss her. I like the way Brett lets go, trusts, lets me push her by my energy and intention. She picks up on the subtleties fast.

I draw her thin tee shirt over her head, a mess of dark curls spilling out. Eli Is at her back now, unhooking her bra, hands on her skin, her stomach, her shoulders, kissing her neck, rolling her nipples between her fingers and Brett leans back into her, one arm up, hand in Eli’s short cropped hair.

Topless, I slide my wide purple tie over Brett’s eyes, tie it behind her head.

Eli has her strapon in one fist and the vinyl harness dangles from her hand.

“You may not be able to tell who is doing what,” Eli says, still at Brett’s neck, watching me as I unbutton the rest of my silver shirt, slipping it off of my shoulders. “But I’ll be here the whole time,” she promises, still holding Brett close. I’m already strapped, she needs a minute to prep. I take Eli’s hand from Brett’s shoulder and we both step back, stand and watch Brett reaching for us by listening to where we are moving. I keep Eli’s hand a moment and kiss her fingers, suck her first finger onto my tongue, flick it with my tongue ring.

“Butch on butch,” she says, laughing, her eyes soft, “that’s practically faggotry.”

“Best kind of faggotry, in my opinion,” I say, and lightly wap the ass of her jeans as I step back to Brett.

“Tell her to get on her knees,” I say to Eli.

“Get on your knees,” Eli says, unbuttoning and sliding her jeans off, pulling the harness on.

Brett sinks. She brings her hands behind her back and I put my hands in her hair, then move one to my fly and cock. I finger her lips, pretty mouth, and she takes two of my fingers between her teeth, sucks them onto her tongue. Soft.

Actions become blurred. My cock. Brett’s jeans pulled off and on the ground. Eli fingering Brett while she sucks me, the lovely noises from her throat as she tries not to come, not yet. Eli clearly knows what to do and doesn’t let up, Brett arches her back like a cat and nearly hangs from my legs, gripping my thighs with her hands as she sucks my cock, pulling on my jeans until they come down with my briefs and she slides two fingers under my favorite harness to find my clit. She works it like a cock, strokes it and rolls it gently between her fingers. I groan, hips buck. Lord.

Eli’s got one hand on her left hip, still working her right hand between Brett’s legs.

Brett starts shuddering and panting and she’s going to come, I don’t know if I should pull out of her mouth or stay. She stops sucking but keeps leaning forward into my cock, breathing heavy around it, big gasps of air mouth open and I let her work herself against it, and she does, god she does, until she’s writhing and rocking against me, my hips and cock, against Eli and her hands, shuddering, convulsing at the stomach in small pulses of muscle and breath and she groans, hard, gasps for air, whimpers a little, and is still.

Eli holds her hips for a minute, letting her rest in her crumpled state on the beige hotel carpet, then twirls her finger at me, meaning time to switch.

My mouth waters.

Eli still doesn’t have her cock on. Her harness is loose but won’t fall off her hips; she’s stripped her white tee shirt and jeans. I remove my jeans and watch as Eli guides Brett from the floor onto the bed, onto her back, Brett’s knees hanging off the end, legs parted but together, thighs pressing.

Kneeling on the bed, Eli slowly draws one knee to either side of Brett’s shoulders, then lowers her cunt gently down over Brett’s mouth. I realize my jeans are stuck at my ankles and try to tear my eyes away long enough to pull them all the way off.

Eli has hold of the wall-mounted headboard and her head is thrown back a little, spine already arching, body moving eagerly. Brett’s knees are contracting off the bed and she runs one foot over the other, up her calf. She has hold of Eli’s thigh and her body is curling off the bed like a wet piece of paper.

I leave my a-shirt on and move to the foot of the bed, touch Brett’s knees, caress her thighs, her calves as much as I can reach, her hipbones, the gentle hair over her pussy, her labia, swollen and sensitive. I ease her left knee off the bed into the grip of my elbow and step closer, use my right knee to press her legs open. She’s slick, wet and supple, muscles pliable, she lets me move her where I want her. Her hands reach for me a second then back to Eli’s lower back and thighs. Eli is quietly moaning.

I feel her cunt with two fingers and slide in slow to get the angle, feel how deep she is. My packing cock isn’t huge but it is enough. She is slick and smooth and she parts her thighs a little farther, offering herself a little more.

I let my fingers wander over her labia and clit as the head of my dick finds her opening and slides in. A little too fast and she gasps. Her whole body responds, she groans, a sound that starts deep in her belly, somewhere my cock is hitting. Her sounds are muffled vibrations against Eli’s cunt.

Eli is working harder against Brett, increasingly faster, pressing her hips down into Brett’s face, balancing herself against the headboard and wall. She is practically on all fours, kneeling, working her clit in Brett’s mouth.

I match Eli’s rhythm and pace and speed. Slow strokes in and out, then faster, shallow. Sometimes a little rotation, a side-to-side motion. I copy her precisely.

They are both moaning. I tighten my grip on Brett’s hips and find a sweet spot, start thrusting harder. I hear Eli’s orgasm building, she’s gasping now and moaning in longer drawn-out sounds. Eli’s whole body begins to shiver and I barely notice, I am occupied, Brett has her legs wrapped around my waist and she’s puling me in, hard and deep.

Eli swings one leg over and half slides off the bed. Her legs are a little weak.

“Turn,” Eli says, pushing at Brett from the side. Brett turns to her stomach. Eli grabs her cock from the foot of the other bed as I don’t wait, but slide right back in, tip to balls, and begin fucking Brett again like I never stopped. She has one knee on the bed, one leg over the edge, toes on the floor, pelvis tilted up and back to take me in. Her hands are grabbing fistfuls of blankets and peeling the sheets from the bed. Her hair falls in a mess of curls around her head, only slightly restrained by my purple tie still around her forehead.

My head leans back, shoulders back, holding onto Brett’s hips, sometimes the flesh of her ass, round and a nice handful. Eli slides back onto the bed, sits with her back against the headboard and pulls Brett to her, sliding her cock Brett’s mouth.

I’m close to coming and feel pressure building, the muscles contracting with new force and urgency, when Brett lifts her hand off the bed and removes the blindfold. I see Eli smile at her, hands in her hair, then look at me. We lock eyes for just a moment, until Brett presses her hips back and wiggles against me, and the sensation is overwhelming, throwing me off balance and sounds escape my throat with every exhale until I’m pounding, pumping hard against her and Brett is gasping into Eli’s cock, muffled, and it all builds, hard, until I swear I can feel her cunt contracting around my cock, squeezing, and I explode inside her, coming hard, rocking against her, shaking.

My lower back is wet with sweat and I stagger a little, knees weak, joints not holding me up, and both Brett and Eli are looking at me, biting back grins, giggling, ecstatic. I swallow embarrassment and clear my throat, which makes them laugh more. I laugh too. We’re all a bit high. I lay myself down next to Brett, awkwardly, not able to quite be all the way on the bed but the support feels good, and I’m breathing hard, still catching my breath.

Eli laces her fingers through Brett’s and kisses her. “That was fun,” she says between kisses. “Sharing you. So … when is it not rude to kick her out?”

I laugh, ruffle Brett’s hair, kiss her, kiss Eli gently on the lips, cupping her chin, then pull on my jeans. I can take a hint.

active surrender

I spent much of yesterday going over the Sugarbutch Star entires (again & again, some of them) and I am still just overwhelmed, in awe, in amazement at how revealing, detailed, and fucken hot they are. I’m humbled and surprised at how much perfect strangers would share and reveal and ask for and exchange.Years ago, around 1998, I met a girl through the anonymous journal I was keeping, and she used to photocopy parts of her journal and mail them to me when she found our writings matched up – she felt like what I was revealing was so intimate that she wanted to reciprocate.

And I think this contest opened up that exchange for many of the folks who read this place. I put a lot of personal, emotional, complex details about my life up here, not just the sex but the emotions, my psyche, my very makeup, which is partly why readers do feel safe and comfortable revealing things to me. You all know more about me than most of my friends, you have an understanding of how my mind and inner world works in ways that nearly no one in my “real world” life does.

But. Even still. I am a little shocked and definitely humbled. Thank you, for all you’ve revealed. Thank you for trusting me with your stories. Thank you for writing them.

Many of the stories I received are from very submissive girls, wanting to be taken in various ways, and I am continually surprised at how much some people (women especially) want to play with the line between submission and degredation. I can play with it, I have and probably will again – but it makes me nervous, and cautious. I worry about the emotional and psychological effects, especially on impressionable young women. Maybe this is my feminist-hippie background coming through, believing that every person is valuable, good, whole, worthy.

It got me thinking, though, about submission. I think there is a big difference between submission/surrender and degredation. I think there are ways – hundreds of ways – to be submissive, to surrender in a scene, without fundamentally losing your own value.

I was taught, by the D/s BDSM community that raised my kinkster self, that the bottom is always the one in real control. That the top may be inflicting the pain or sensation, may be the one holding the knife or the flogger or the end of the rope, but the bottom is who is dictating the next move, the depth of the cut, the strength of the paddle, the moment of release.

Honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I wouldn’t want to top someone I didn’t think was on equal grounds, I wouldn’t want to top someone who couldn’t hold their own up against me in just about every way. I need active bottoming, active submission, active surrender.

If you want to know more about this stuff, I suggest reading The Topping Book and The Bottoming Book. Go to the Body Electric workshop Power, Surrender & Intimacy.

I guess I’m trying to encourage lots of examination here. I want to know the whys behind the degredation, the whys behind the unworthiness. When I witness it, on other sex blogs or in erotica or writings or submissions or comments or lovers or friends or porn or anywhere, I feel skeptical, and sad. Sex and BDSM and D/s and power and surrender can be tools to discover and rebuild and enhance and create a better self, a stronger self, a more open and loving and conscious self. But they can also follow unhealthy, dangerous old pre-determined pathways.

Don’t get me wrong, please – there were lots of submissive/bottom submissions to the Sugarbutch Star contest and most of them seemed fucken solid. Just a few in particular felt dangerously degrading, perhaps only because I didn’t have the backstory, didn’t have the context. But it made me wonder all the same. Made me want to cradle and protect, to hold and comfort, before I would bust out my cock and paddle and fist and fuck into the night.

sugarbutch entries, just in case

I “officially” emailed ALL of the folks who submitted Sugarbutch Star entries today. If you did not hear from me, and you did submit something, then I probably didn’t get it. I had some trouble with that aspiringstud(at)gmail.com address, as in, apparently, it doesn’t work.Also, a friend told me today that she submitted two entries but I never received the second one. So please, if you haven’t heard from me, send your entry again. This time send it to aspiringstud(at)gmail.com.

And thanks! Can’t wait to keep writing these out.

** UPDATE: I figured out what was wrong with aspiringstud and it works now. I came across TWELVE more entries and that brings the total to 54 … holy smokes. I have no idea what to do with myself, I’m surprised and sa little shocked and totally turned on by all the amazing details and sex and fucken hot femme seduction that some of you have written to me. Oh my my … I am going to the gym now. Need a cold shower.

The Diner on the Corner (Part Two)

The first official Sugarbutch Star entry, submitted by Essin’ Em. Part one is here.

“Your turn,” she says, crossing the diner floor. Her heels click against the hard linoleum and I watch her ankles as she walks. Her calves, her knees. She keeps her legs tight together, criss-crossing like a model. My mouth waters.

She stops at the counter and raises her arm, guiding me back behind the bar as if we’re on the dance floor. I grin and nearly flush, a little embarrassed, flustered to be somewhere I’m not supposed to be, seeing the clutter of dishes, rags, coffee mugs, silverware, napkins, salt and pepper shakers, ketchup and Tabasco bottles. And, of course, the gleaming, polished silver milkshake machine.

I slide behind the counter and she spins on a stool, crossing her legs at the ankle. She leans over, spilling out of her dress. I lick my lips, run my thumb over them, position myself behind the bar. I grip the handle of the milkshake machine and run my hand over it, stroking.

“So,” I say. “Can I get you something?” I’m having trouble keeping my face straight. It feels a little silly, but it’s also hot. What will she do? Let me fuck her, here, really?

Shanna purses her lips. “What do you have back there?” she leans over the counter and shifts her hips, then reaches for my belt.

I grab her wrist and hold it for a moment, surprising her. I bring her hand to the package behind my fly and make her feel my hard on. She oooohs a little, still in a character, and lifts her ass onto the counter, swings her legs over it, opening her knees. She grabs my tie and pulls me to her, kissing me hard, running her fingers along the short hairs on the back of my head, wrapping her legs around my waist.

“I want … ” I say between kisses, “I want you, I want you to … suck me. Would you do that?”

She nods yes and closes her eyes, just for a second, tips her chin down, and slides off the counter. She kisses me again and, palm flat against my cock, fingers on my fly, she unbuckles my belt, unzips, and pulls out my packing strap-on. Swiftly. Expertly.

She kisses me while she does this, hard, kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my jawline, my neck, net to my collar, and she sinks to her knees.

The tip of my cock touches her lips and it feels tender, sensitive. As though I can feel her, sucking it into her mouth, working her tongue down the shaft. This is the thrill of the borrowed cock, the filling of it, the way it becomes mine. It is hitting my clit perfectly and her mouth, oh god, her mouth feels exquisite. I want to release into her – want to grab her hair and work her against me, down her throat.

I hold onto the counter instead. The metal edge cuts into my palm. She works her tongue on the underside of the head of my cock and my hips buck, pelvis tightens. I tip my head back, hips forward.

“God,” I groan, aware that it is what would give this whole thing away, should someone walk in the door. My expressions. I keep one eye toward the door but my eyelids keep closing. God her mouth feels fantastic.

Shanna looks up at me, eyes wide and shining, cheeks taut, hands on the thighs of my black slacks. I want her, want to fuck her. I look around – where? – we can’t have much time, but I already feel close to coming. She sees me glancing around, my stance has changed.

I groan as she sucks me hard, particularly deep, and pull my cock from her mouth. “Wait,” I say, “somewhere … else.” I offer my hand and she takes it, rises off her knees back onto her feet.

I have a perfect sightline into the kitchen, and notice the huge walk-in freezer right behind the doorway. There may be people back there, a line cook, a busser, but they wouldn’t notice us. We could sneak right in. Shanna sees where I’m looking and waits for me to take a step.

Tiptoeing, almost, once I move she follows and we reach the door in a few quick strides. My cock bobs from my fly. I pull on its industrial handle, somewhat thick in my hand and satisfying to grip. I let her go in first.

She turns to face me and brings her shoulders up. “Brrrr.” The air is cloudy and it burns my throat a little to inhale.

I survey the situation. A few boxes, milk crates, stacked up in the corner, filled with some heavy containers, jars, lidded plastic. Some of the boxes have been peeled open, others are still wrapped and sealed. Shanna’s face reads skepticism.

I sit perched on the edge of the crates and boxes and say, “Come here.”

She frowns a little. “What, here? I’m not sure – ”

“Oh, hell yes.” I stand, take a step toward her, reach out and wrap my arm around her waist. She fits well against me this way. Her arms go up around my neck somewhat instinctively.

“But – ” she says, a little too sweetly, batting her lashes at me. She has control of every detail.

“Mmmhmm.” I lift her skirt and she gasps at the cold air, it contracts her thighs a little. I take her left knee to the crook of my elbow, and bend my legs to get underneath her, gripping my cock in my fist, sliding inside her slowly but easily. She moans and it is a lovely sound. She’s not holding back, begins working her hips against mine, thrusting and circling in s-curves, figure eights. She hooks her foot behind my back and I lean, balancing the weight of our bodies, taking a few steps backward again to lean against the boxes for support. Perfect. Perfect – my shoulders lean and my hips thrust freely, deeper and a little harder, my cock already so hard and her lips are on me, on my neck again, I can see my breath hanging in the air as I exhale, hard, groaning every time she presses against me, and she kisses me, lips full on mine, tongue softly fierce, mouth open, open.

My hands are on her hips. Pressing against her hard. I can feel every place our bodies collide, the heat in such stark contrast to the frigid air. She arches her back and presses me deep, I thrust harder and loose myself in the rhythm, hard, and again, again, against her as my muscles contract, face tenses, pelvis thighs ass tense, hard, harder … and then shuddering release, still thrusting and vibrating against her, getting softer, slower, coming down.

I hold onto her and breathe into her neck, her hair, for a moment. We kiss, giggle, weave that sex haze, gather ourselves.

Shanna exits the freezer first and returns to our table, and I follow. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket and the bell on the door jingles, the waitress tosses her cigarette into the street after she’s opened the door and then turns to see me tossing a few bills onto the table.

I pick my fedora up from the table and set it onto my head, run my fingertip over the rim, and slide my wallet back into my pocket. Shanna has one knee on the vinyl booth and takes another mouthful of vanilla milkshake.

“C’mon, doll,” I say, offering my hand. She takes it and the sound of the milkshake glass on the table echoes. “Let’s blow this joint.”

She laughs. I’m being a bit ridiculous. Ah well, why not? I circle my arm around her waist, wink over my shoulder at the waitress, and we walk out of the diner on the corner.

The Diner on the Corner (Part One)

It’s officially over, and I’ve got 42 submissions. I will be posting my top picks weekly through the beginning of September, and then I’ll open the polls for reader’s votes on your very favorite.Without further delay, here is the first Sugarbutch Star submission from Essin’ Em.

The Diner on the Corner

As soon as we walk into the diner on the corner, I visualize fucking Shanna on the counter. Or behind the counter, or against to the counter, hell, I don’t care – but I am certain the curve of the metal edge, the barstools, and that old-fashioned silver milkshake machine would go perfectly with her rockabilly-femme style.

This is our first date. She picked me up at the dyke bar last weekend while letting me think I was picking her up, and me being enamored with her immaculate femininity – the tattoos on her shoulders, the shade of the pink her nails were painted, the faint flowery scent I wanted to lean into her neck to inhale, the low-cut dress and perfectly curved cleavage, the vibrant hair with streaks of dark purple and red – I didn’t notice until halfway through the evening that, though I thought I was warming her up to ask for her number, she was secretly rolling her eyes, thinking, get on with it already. She had control of every detail, but let me think I did.

Tonight, I’ve picked everything out precisely. Black button-down shirt, my favorite sleek red tie, black slacks, solid black freshly-polished shiny wingtips. Plain, simple black fedora on top. Because it may rain tonight.

And because she likes them.

We meet at the movie theatre. She looks incredible: four-inch heels with small straps over the arch of her foot, a little buckle on the side; dark hair down over her shoulders and touching her neck; wearing stockings and a fifties dress that comes just above her knees, slightly flared and layered skirt, low-cut, again, showing off the lovely curves of her breasts. I don’t stare. Don’t stare, I tell myself. You’re being an asshole. I try not to stare. Talk to her face, not her tits.

“I like your … hat,” she giggles, dark eyes lowered, looking up at me through those lashes, slyly, shyly, from the side, that glance of submission.

I don’t blush, but my cheeks get a little warm. “Thanks.” I rarely wear hats. I love the way they look, love the tough butchness they play into, but I get self-conscious about what it’s doing to my perfectly messy hair – my singular vanity. As soon as we get to our seats, I balance the fedora on my knee and run my fingers through my hair to see how it’s holding up. (A little smashed. I try not to care.)

I don’t remember the film. Something about music, Dublin, and falling in love. I remember thinking that there should be more sex in it. And that I forget how crowded and bright movie theatres are here in New York City – I miss being able to mess around in the darkest back row.

I do remember the way she laughed, the way she got teary once or twice, the way she kept stealing glances at me. Her hand on my thigh and the – oops – accidental brush against the bulge in my pants. The way her lips circled and sucked the straw in her soda slow.

After the film, we walk to the corner twenty-four hour diner. I slide into the booth and she slides in next to me, stockings on vinyl. Her left thigh touches my right and I feel the brush of her leg against my slacks.

There are a few other diners scattered at tables, but it’s late. One old man gumming through chicken fingers and reading the newspaper, and one table of teenagers blowing straw wrappers and eating fries off each other’s plates. The waitress comes over and I order a vanilla milkshake and a slice of apple pie, heated. “We’ll share,” I tell them both.

We chit-chat. I toy with the sugar packets and crunch ice cubes from my water glass. She eases her leg over my thigh which catches my breath, stirs my cock. I gently put my hand on her knee and let myself finger the thin, silky fabric of her stockings. She’s still chatting as if nothing is happening. She liked the film, she’s saying. The male lead was cute and sweet in a butch sort of way. “Do you think men can be butch?” she asks me.

My fingers are crushed against her thigh, seeking her creamy skin. I try to pull my consciousness from between her legs to say something intelligent.

“Well, I think that’s complicated,” I start. “Because … while I think the gender identities of butch – and femme, too – are inherently queer by definition, I also notice some men with a particularly female flavor of masculinity that is closer to butch than any other word or description …”

“Yeah!” she has an eager and excited edge to her voice, and presses her leg further into my lap, twisting her torso a little to look more directly at me, opening her thighs. “I know what you mean – but if men begin to have a butch identity, does that invalidate it for the women who have to fight so hard to claim it?”

The layers of her dress are pushing up her thighs and I can feel the edge of her stocking under my fingers, lace and elastic, the line of ribbon up her thigh to her hip: a garter belt. I brush my fingers against the rough edge and press them into her inner thigh, just a little. I wonder how far she’ll let me go.

I want to find out how far she’ll let me go.

The teenagers clear out and the diner quiets. She leaves her hands on the table, but parts her lips. She’s looking at me, gazing at my mouth; I bite my tongue and feel it swollen.

Shanna leans in slightly, slowly, ever so subtly, tilting her head without realizing it as my grip on her thigh strengthens. Neither of us notices we do this, we only notice the space between our bodies crackling electrically.

I find the crease of her hip with my fingers, that line where her thighs meet her pelvis.

Her mouth gets closer to mine, inches away. I can feel her breath. She doesn’t move any closer but is begging me with her whole body to make a move. To kiss her. To keep moving my fingers up her skirt. She lets me think it’s all my idea. She is shifting, something is happening in her body and mind, an intentional submission, an offering up of her mouth and cunt and hungry body. We can both feel it, but it is nearly imperceptible.

“You want … this okay?” I whisper, fingers getting bolder, brushing against her cunt, the swollen outer labia. I can feel the air between our mouths stirring. The movement of my lips makes them touch hers, briefly, softly. I can nearly see the swirls of her breath, hot and heavy.

She bites her lip at the touch, nods, without moving her head. Submits a little deeper with explicit permission.

“One vanilla milkshake –” the waitress clears her throat and sets it down in front of Shanna, who jumps, but I stay exactly where I am, smiling, amused, then turn my head slow without moving my hand.

“One apple pie,” the waitress sets the small white plate in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a fork with my left hand, my right still between her thighs.

The waitress raises her eyebrows. “You two okay here?”

“Yep.” I say. Shanna’s cheeks are hot and flushed. She examines the milkshake, stealing a glance at me. My fingers are quiet but persistent, still on the soft of her cunt.

The waitress raises her eyebrows at me again and – I can’t quite tell, but – I think she winks. She’s cute, the waitress. Dyed black hair, thick tattoo of a faery on her left bicep, those chunky black glasses. She’s the only one working, but it’s dead in here, so after a round she goes back to reading her book at the counter. She’s not paying us any attention.

I twist and shift in the booth and adjust so I can flatten the palm of my hand against her cunt, slowly, cupping it. She’s not wearing panties. She knew she could have me. She’s controlling every detail.

She inhales and can’t look at me, tongues her lip gently. “Are you … will you …” she begins, but can’t finish. She wants me to kiss her. I want to ravage her. Thrust her up against the vinyl. Want her hands gripping at the sides of the booth as she comes against my hand.

I grin, that sly cocky grin that says I know what she’s asking, I know what she wants, and I’m taking my own damn time giving it to her. She knows she’ll get it from me, so my only power here is how and when she’ll get it. She offers me her neck and I take it, leaning in, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, exposed in her low-cut dress. “You have to be quiet,” I say. “We’re not alone.”

“We almost are,” she breathes, closing her eyes and tilting her head so I can get to her neck. My fingers run lazy circles around her clit and inner lips, slick already. I dip two fingers inside and feel her muscles pulsing. Slide them in & out while she begins to pant. I circle her clit again, flick it gently and feel her body contract and respond.

“Anybody could walk in at any second,” I say. “Anybody could see my hand under your skirt, if they looked for just a second.” She shivers and presses her thighs open, presses her cunt against my hand, grips my forearm in one hand. I’m working her clit a little harder, a little faster, and her breathing is coming heavier, her body is tense. She’s trying to keep her face still.

“You haven’t even touched that shake,” I say, nodding toward it. She shoots me a look that like she wants to tear me apart with her eyes and attempts to move the tall milkshake glass toward her with one hand. She still wants me to kiss her and I am not letting up with my fingers on her cunt, on her clit, swirling, flicking against the hood, finding that sweet spot where her pelvis tenses and her limbs go limp.

Shanna’s eyes don’t leave my face as she opens her mouth for the straw and sucks the milkshake into her mouth. Cold. I can see it hit her tongue and explode in creamy sweetness, her eyes roll a little and her pussy responds, presses harder into my hand. She takes another sip and I work two fingers against her clit.

She bends her head back – just a little, just the slightest bit, she wants to be able to throw it back and scream but she can’t, she’s in a diner, my hand against her, fingers circling, working, flicking, pressing, and her whole body shudders and she grips my forearm in her fist, gasps a little, just a little, and her thighs contract to grip my wrist and she comes, with no sound at all, her body absorbing the noise she wants to make and I don’t let up, don’t let up at all, until – she gasps, inhales deeply, and pulls on my hand to back off.

I grin and watch her face. She’s trying to keep her features together and make it not look like she’s just come. Trying to regain her composure. She looks at me a little shyly and embarrassed, unsure how loud she was, how obvious, and she glances around quickly but there’s no one in the diner anymore, the few patrons have all left. It’s just us, and the waitress at the counter.

“Holy. Shit.” Shanna says softly, still breathing hard. I still have that stupid grin on my face, that power top grin.

I lean in and kiss her, gently, soft, on the lips. Her mouth is cold and creamy, tastes of vanilla. Sweet. She’s a fantastic kisser, all supple and slow. We kiss for a moment and I pull away, still smiling, and she tilts her chin down and looks up at me through her lashes.

“Want some pie?” I ask. I gather a bite on my fork and she nods, I slip it between her lips.

“Oh,” she says, chewing, warm apples and cinnamon on her tongue. “It’s good. Want some shake?” I take a few sips. It’s partly melted now.

The waitress comes over as we are giggling, a little high. “Would you two mind – ?” She starts. “I’m out of smokes. I’m just gonna run to the corner, be right back.”

“Sure,” I say. The waitress nods, gives us another quick once-over glance, and spins on her heel. The diner is deserted. It’s just me, and Shanna. I watch the waitress walk out, the bell on the glass door ringing softly, and turn to look at this gorgeous femme. She’s smoothing her hair, already watching me, watching my face, and she slides out of the booth and holds out her hand. I take it and slide out behind her.

“Your turn,” she says.

[… part two will be posted tomorrow]

is that inspiration, or are you just happy to see me?

Submissions are still coming – and for a top like me, well, that’s music to my ears. I’m even beginning to write out a few of them. And though I did say the new contest entry deadline is August 7th, I plan on having at least one for you on Monday, the 6th, and then the other four finalists will follow.

(I may pick more than five of these to write up. They’re just all so damn good! But don’t hold me to that – it’ll depend on my time and motivation, too.)

A few notable recent submissions include: me in a fedora, with a rockabilly femme blowing me behind the counter at a diner, and a buxom blonde femme on the beach, with as much force & restraint as I can stand to include.

This is oh so much inspiration! Thank you, sincerely thank you, for all the ideas.

Let me clarify something from that last post – it sounded so depressing when I was looking over it this morning. And though I’ve been very emotional, and crying, I haven’t quite been sad, if you know what I mean. Maybe I’m pulling through the other side of something. I’m not sure what’s really going on or why I’m feeling so sensitive – I wish it was as easy as explaining that I’m PMSing and it will pass and change as soon as I start bleeding, but I actually just stopped bleeding, so that’s not it. Maybe it’s just all the changes, all the adjusting. It is taking some time to acclimate, to reach equanimity again.

just what you wanted

Well hello, new visitors! Thanks for a few strategically placed links (don’t I wish I’d emailed out a press release for this two weeks ago! Well, live & learn), I’ve got all kinds of folks stopping by.

So, in case you’re new, here’s what’s going on.


I’m running a contest to be a guest star on this here sex blog. That means:

  1. You submit some of the elements of an erotic scenario (i.e., sex scene) to me, including: characters, setting, basic plot (what should we do to each other?) [NOTE! the deadline’s been extended to AUGUST 7TH, due to my lack of PR planning]
  2. I will pick my TOP FIVE favorite submissions and write out the full stories
  3. Readers will vote on their favorite
  4. One lucky favorite will get a special prize, from me (wink wink)

If you’d like to read some of my erotica, to get a feel for what kinds of things I do to others, and what they do to me, here’s a list of my favorite scenarios and my top posts:

Let go, just let go
Desire so overwhelming …
Distracting myself (three parts)
In which Sinclair bottoms (three parts)
What I would’ve done
The prettiest girl in the place
Bully
New Year’s Eve
The beginning, again
Guilty fantasies
Craving something sweet

get fantasizin’!

The submissions are pouring in – by which I mean, I have six. They’re good ones, though, all of them. People, you’ve got today & tomorrow, get crackin’. Or should I say, get fantasizin’.Some notable new submissions include: a sexy fat femme in a swanky hotel bar that then retires into a suite, complete with withholding &amp; begging; and what happens to me after a femme top arrives with her dick & harness in her purse, ready to use this. (Gulp. Holy. Crap.)

There were some folks I had hoped to hear from, especially those of you in the New York sex blogging scene. Perhaps I didn’t shout the contest from the rooftops enough?

Well – I suppose I have now. (Thanks Dacia!)

loose ends

I don’t think I was very clear about this whole contest entry request thing. I’ve had more than a few emails and comments about how much detail I’m asking for, and I am realizing that I should’ve given an example for what kind of information I’m looking for. I was hoping the form would help with that, but that ended up not being so clear either (and then had a character limit, and was cutting entries off).

So, to be totally clear: this is an example of what I mean when I’ve said details and lots of information:

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 insues, 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.

See? Some major things for me to elaborate upon, major plot points and details, but not TOO much. I mean, if you want to write the story yourself, you are welcome to do that – actually, I may have another contest in the works (possibly – we’ll see how this one goes) that plays out that scenario. You’ll have to hold onto your hat for that one.

One more thing:

Say you’re a little kid and you wake up in the middle of the night, and out of every window you see huge flames, fire, crackling wood, glowing red and orange. Scary, right? You think the world is ending. You think the entire world is on fire. You panic. Your parents are already engulfed in it and your dog is probably gone too. All you can hear is tree limbs falling and snapping.

Then, your door opens. Your mom comes in. “It’s okay, honey,” she says, “it’s only a forest fire.”

Get it?

That’s why this is only a broken heart. Because for the past two months it has felt like my world is ending. My sense of self is crumbling. Things I thought I knew were wrong, and twisted, and twisting my very sense of reality. But I had a moment this week when I realized this is only a broken heart this is not the end of the world, this is not the end of love.

I hate being misunderstood. Add that to the character study of myself.

PS: Sugarbutch hit 50,000 hits sometime this morning. Thanks, readers. Despite my occasional bitchings about details and misunderstandings, I really appreciate the comments, feedback, and presence of everyone.

submissions, so far

I’ve got four submissions so far. Keep ’em coming folks! Ten more days and the polls are closed.

So far, I’ve got some of the following ideas: a photo shoot, a dark & dirty bar, a back alley, a bathroom, a hitchiking scene, power tools, my bedroom, a femme, a straight girl, a “tough boi” working as a gardner. I like ’em all … it’s going to be hard to pick my favorites (assuming I get more than five submissions at all, of course, which I’m still a little nervous about).

sugarbutch star: form submission

I’m sorry to say, the form is cutting off entries. I’m working to rebuild it. Meanwhile, please email me your submission – [email protected]

Include:

name
email address
characters
setting
plot
your URL (and if it’s ok to publish it, if I write up your story)
& any ideas for the prize you may have

Thanks!!

be the next sugarbutch star

Here’s how you could be the next Sugarbutch star:

Email me (aspiringstud at gmail.com), leave a comment, or fill out this form with your scene scenario.

Here’s some of the things you should probably include:

  1. Characters: you & me? You & me and a third? You & your partner, written by me (could be a nice gift)? You & someone you’ve always wanted to fuck? [* Please do leave a description of the characters so I can write in at least a few details. Sending a photograph to me is another option.] Include the name you’d like your character(s) to have (especially if it’s different from your own).
  2. Setting: the easiest for me might be my bedroom, because I know what it looks like. But other ideas include: your bedroom, a bar, club, beach, hiking trip, sex club, office, elevator … If you want it to be specific, be descriptive.
  3. Plot: And what, pray tell, shall I do to you? Or what shall you do to me? Anything goes. If you’ve read some of my sex writing, you probably know what I like to do. You can, of course, leave it up to me, but the more specific you are, the more of a challenge it’ll be for me to write it, and the more likely I will be to pick your story to flesh out.

Let me know to what extent I can make your identity public, as well – I can use your pseudonym, I can link to your blog, I can use a completely unrelated name.

Also include any particular ideas about the prize – I’m still working out those details.

And I think that’s it! Any questions?

So, c’mon, inspire me, turn me on – bring it on!

the contest starts tomorrow

Soo, I’ve received a big of feedback about the header – glad y’all like it. The whole reason I created it, actually, is because I’m working on a little reader contest, and I want to have a tile ad you can (if you, you know, feel so inspired) post on your own site with a link back to here.

And what is the contest, you ask?

Well. Ahem. It will be …

It’s a reality blog contest, of sorts. Here’s how it’s going to work:
  1. You, the readers, will enter the contest by giving me an erotica scenario that you would like for me to write
  2. I will pick my top 5 scenarios – five finalists – from the submissions, and write all of them
  3. Judges (probably you readers) will choose the best story out of the five finalists
  4. The winner will be awarded something fabulous, to be determined primarily by geographic location. If you’re in the New York City area (or nearby), I would gladly take you out for dinner & drinks (and, of course, the possibility of acting out the scenario). If you’re in another part of the country, we may have to do some creative negotiation

Some fine print:

Anyone can apply, regardless of age, gender, sexual orientation, kink, geographic location … or any of those other things (ability, class, race – they seem to be less relevant to mention overtly, but still don’t matter).

The more explicit the scenario, the better for my writing. Photographs are welcomed, especially if you want the scene to be about you or someone specific.

You may be asking, why is she doing this? Primarily, I’ve realized recently that I write better erotica scenes when I have some sort of template, some sort of plot already played out, which is partly why writing about what actually happened is the easiest. Getting from A to B to C is easier when I know what A and B and C are. So really, this is primarily to ask you to be my muse for some (hopefully) good erotic writing.

This is also because the femme top I dated recently said I should really make tee shirts that said I was a Sugarbutch star, (and I actually may do that, and I owe her a big thank you for that idea), and we had some great conversations about a slut phase (it’s coming, I can feel it). I’m trying to stay inspired in my sex life and sex writing, and I thought this might just be the way to do it.

I’ll accept submissions for two weeks, until the end of July, and then pick my favorites. I will post a more elaborte how-to-apply tomorrow. Meanwhile, any questions?