Posts Tagged ‘the femme top’

a bruise, and heels

July 7, 2008  |  miscellany  |  4 Comments

In celebration of my ticket to the Femme Conference, I thought I might dig out this photo of The Femme Top, who sent this to me after my call for birthday photographs. She lives in Chicago, now, where the conference is being held.

“They’re not strappy sandals, but my legs and my bruise (if you’re gonna play with other tops…) can make up for that.”

Sugarbutch Star: the femme top

August 16, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  7 Comments

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.

in which sinclair fists

July 11, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  8 Comments

I know – finally! Part three of three

“So,” I begin, “can I touch you?”

She doesn’t hear me. I have a tendency to mumble. I wasn’t certain the muscles in my mouth were recovered enough for the minute movements of forming sounds anyway. She sighs softly, relaxed, her entire body weight laid out over mine. A change from most of the evening where she seemed a bit tense, guarded. I want more of that. Want more of her eyes open and clear.

I shift my head to nuzzle her neck, draw her chin-length brown hair back behind her ear and whisper, a little louder, “Can I touch you, now?”

She’s a top. (Have I mentioned this?) I wasn’t sure what kind of permission she needed to give.

“… Yes.” She breaths out.

I kiss her neck, and that tender spot by her ear, and she offers me her mouth, soft, supple. Offers me her tongue, her tender inner lips.

She is still in charge here. Calling the shots. Even when I take her (later) she is somehow in control, commanding my movements with her body. There is little surrender in her kisses, her sighing moans, the movements of her body. Instead she keeps tight subtle control.

(Which makes me want to take it all the more … but I am hoping there is time for that, later.)

She slides her hips off mine and turns with me so I am on top, still kissing, kissing, lots of kissing, this girl likes to kiss and is so deliciously good at it. Soft and open, then demanding, then fierce.

I grip her hip bone in my right hand, turn her thighs. One knee between hers, gently pressing, nudging her, but I don’t do much because she offers me her open legs, offers me the curves craving my hands.

“Can you fist me?” She asks from under her eyelids, laid back over the pillows of my bed.

I grin. It is what could be called shit-eating, and I’m glad my room is dark. It sounds like more of a question of my abilities than a request, is it possible for you to rather than please, which makes me want to do it all the more.

“I can try.”

I move my mouth and lips and tongue on her skin, her neck, her jawline, her perfect breasts (seriously, I’ve never seen felt touched sucked any breasts more perfect, areolas dark, small nipples but more than a handful of curve – I’m usually so into legs, and did I mention she has perfect legs?), and I slide my fingers over her bare lips, the small patch of hair above her clit, her labia smooth and slick and I wet my fingers, trace circles over her clit, lazy curls down and around until I slide two fingers inside, soft, easy, slide inside and she parts her legs, pushes against me and I add another finger, three fingers now and she’s moaning against the pillow, turning her head to her right my left, trying to keep quiet, keep quiet, remembering we are not alone in my apartment but beginning to forget herself, forget her body. And her eyes are open, open.

I disentangle and get lube from the bedside table. Slide my hand inside again, four fingers this time, tight at the knuckle and I let her push against me to open further. I leave my thumb on her clit for a while and she presses down on my hand until I tuck my thumb and I keep pressing inside, sliding past the widest part of my hand where my fingers join my palm, that’s the hardest place, usually, I’ve found.

She’s shaking and her hands are gripping the blankets and resisting me, a little, when I press in harder, trying to get those last two inches of my palm to my wrist.

The fit is inexact. She is tight, and small. Width isn’t the issue (as I have found it often is), but the depth – even with my fingers curled she doesn’t have enough space inside, my knuckles are already hitting the back of her cunt, her cervix, the smooth walls of her and I’m still pressing inside, still only halfway down my palm.

This is the painful part, the stretching of the opening to allow the widest part of the fist through. After the fist is through to the wrist, usually, usually, the pain goes away and there is just fullness, such a feeling of space and being filled. But if I cannot get my palm in further she is just going to stay in pain, stretched at this uncomfortable in-between. I begin to think she can’t take it.

“You are so close,” I whisper, hovering above her, the angle of my arm not allowing me to lay myself out on top of her, which is what I would prefer. “Just relax.”

She whimpers a little, gasping, moving her mouth to make these sounds without sound coming out, still trying to be silent. I’m still pressing against her and she opens a little on my hand, I add more lube through the tunnel my curled fingers make but it doesn’t help much. I leave four fingers inside and pull back, just to the knuckle instead of half of the palm, and begin thumbing her clit again, all the folds of her labia pulled tight and thrumming. I circle and tap and gauge her reactions.

She grips my forearm and shoulder hard, grips the headboard, grips the sheets and the side of the bed, presses against me, hips wild sometimes tight sometimes releasing. The muscles of her cunt grip my hand tight and her stomach contracts, pulsing, that curling motion, and she begins to get louder, sounds from her throat and cunt, groaning and trying to stay quiet, she turns her head into the pillow, moans into the fabric, presses it with her hand against her mouth.

I want to hear her scream.

Her body quiets and she presses her hand to my wrist, signals me to slow and stop. I shift my body forward and lay out next to her, holding her, her arms around my neck, my hand resting between her legs.

“Do you want a break?” I ask.

“Does that mean, do I want to stop?” she breathes heavily.

“… Yes. Stop, or a break?”

She nods, eyes closed, catching her breath, body quickening, quieting. I stay still with her for a while, curled around her, lightly touching the sides of her body, the swirl of her hip, her stomach, my arm draped across her body. She fingers the back of my neck, kisses me. Eventually I have to get up, my shoulders and arms and elbows and wrists are all cramping from the … vigor, and I need to stretch them, loosen them.

“I think you’re bleeding,” she says, when I come back from the bathroom in my robe. She’s laid out on the bed on her side, head on her arm. Body exhausted. It’s almost four am.

“I’m … what?”

“Bleeding.”

Oh. “Sorry, I thought I’d stopped.”

She shrugs. I take care of that bleeding thing and return to bed. She snuggles against me, so sweet, no pressure, just gentle presence. We stay in various states of wrapped around each other all night, and I wake to her blue eyes in the morning.

I walk her to the subway. Her hips feel incredible under the bend in my elbow, under the palm of my hand. We’re laughing and flirting and I don’t quite want to see her go.

“Hey hey hey!” yells some guy on the sidewalk as we walk by. I feel so obviously draped in sex, I’m not surprised.

“I’ll fight ya for her!” He calls after us.

Not a chance, buddy. I want to yell back. She’s mine.

in which sinclair gets off

July 5, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  7 Comments

Part two of three

It’s a challenge for me to be explicit about the sex I receive, for two reasons: there are a select few friends of mine, who I know offline, who read this, and while I am very happy to talk about my sex life, I usually don’t offer up the same level of detail as I do in my writing; and two, I feel a lot more embarassed & vulnerable talking about my own body, my own feelings and sensations, than I do about giving pleasure to someone else. This is, I suppose, part of why I am a top.

The reason I mention that is because I’m going to attempt to be explicit here about my own experience. (That is your fair warning, childhood friends.) You may remember from the last time I tried to write about being topped that I skirted around the juicy parts. So, in the interest of being a better writer, and in the interest of wanting to turn this girl on as much as possible before I see her again (Saturday), I’ll do my best.

(And those paragraphs above, those are called foreplay. And procrastination. Ahem.)

She – this stunningly hot fuckable gorgeous femme top – goes down on me, fingers teasing the opening of my cunt, her lips and tongue pushing back my labia before sucking my clit. She keeps me distracted finding the most sensitive underside places and working her mouth slick along the folds and edges.

I felt like a turtle on my back. Acutely aware of how funny (I feel) I look when being fucked this way, knees bent feet on the bed, hips pressed forward, stomach tight, often one hand behind my head, holding onto the bars of my headboard or the back of my neck, holding my head up, contracting at my stomach so it occasionally seems like I am doing situps. Mouth open and gasping, quiet, be quiet. Pressing against my muscles and bones, pressing deeper onto her fingers, into her mouth, muscles hard and contracted.

But her mouth keeps me from thinking of this for longer than just a flash. Her fingers inside me, two, three – more? – I can feel the resistance of my cunt at the opening, though I want to feel more inside. Want to feel full of her. Her mouth still warm and moving hard on me, the bones of my pelvis pressed against her jaw I can feel the electricity of the space where our bodies are connecting.

With her tongue she fucked me. Hard and thick. Made my eyes roll back, head roll back, back arch, toes curl.

She doesn’t wait long, but rips the condom open, snaps it onto my cock, which she has in easy reach between my legs. Something tightens momentarily in my stomach and chest: I haven’t been fucked with a cock in years, literally years, but I remind myself to relax, I love what she’s doing with her gentle long fingers, want to feel more, love the way my cunt muscles contracting leads me to deeper vibrancy in my clit and, consequently, orgasm. I don’t think about my knees bent in the air, instead only concentrate on the soft head of my cock nudging its way inside.

Fuck I remember this. This pulsing in & out, this thrust inside, this fullness, this pinpoint of pleasure concentrated on my clit and swollen cunt. She pressed that cock inside me hard. I felt every inch of it sliding in. It’s not particularly large, but I felt out of practice, it was shockingly blissful, an impailing, an opening, something thick for me to press against.

She worked it in & out of me with a new speed & pressure, less exploration than her fingers, more force. Left her mouth on my soft spots, sucking, at times hard, sometimes tender, the muscles of my pelvis pulling. I arched my back to get deeper into her mouth.

After moments or minutes or hours (I, my body in a blissfully state resembling pulled taffy, can’t tell), she pulled out and said she was switching to her hand again. Her hot breath on my lips. Still sucking and she knew what to do. Her fingers expertly twisting, thrusting. I noticed myself in that sit-up position again, curling my body into a C shape and pressing my cunt into her mouth deeper. My right hand still behind me, behind my head or sometimes pulling on the headboard, left hand on the back of her head, tangled in the longish hair that fell in her face, touching the back of her head where her dark hair was recently cut short.

I let my hips thrust, fucking her mouth. The detail of her tongue so precise.

I was wrecked, buzzing, wrapped around her if only energetically and not physically, wound tight like a top. (Or, should I say, like a bottom – though not really, more like a top being fucked.) I wanted to scream, wanted to let my whole body release & rip.

I have to be quiet. It’s two am, roommate is asleep, assuming we have not already kept her up. Instead I bottle my noise and feel my body strung tight and then plucked, soaring for a moment before releasing, shuddering against her before grabbing her hair, hard, my fist pulling her up to me by the back of her head and she slid up my body, lays herself over me, curls around me.

Oh lord and this was perhaps my favorite part. The small of her back in my hands, her soft skin, the curves of her hips and ribcage, back of her neck, the feel of her weight on my chest and pelvis, such comfort, such comfort, so I just shudder and release, it takes me embarassingly long to stop breathing heavily and shaking with bodily afterquakes so I just feel her weight on me, the comfort of skin, the tender way she kissed my neck and face, and I grinned and laughed and giggled between whispers of oh god and fuck and ohh, and held her tight.

in which sinclair bottoms

July 3, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  6 Comments

Part one of three

I’d never been with a girl who identified as a top. All the girls I’ve slept with, while some of them were more toppy than others, have absolutely been on the submissive side – and that tends to be one of the things that draws me to them. I know how to read those signals. I know what the lowering of the eyes, looking up at me under her eyelashes, means.

I’ve been topped, don’t get me wrong. And generally, I like getting off, I like giving my body over to let someone else touch me, to guide them to what feels good, to let myself get to that moment of fully physically letting go.

I hear this is actually fairly rare, for a butch top. I don’t know what to tell ya about that. We’re all different, I suppose.

Point is, I’m not entirely unfamiliar with submission – but, at the same time, it is not my ‘default’ mode. It is not where I am most comfortable, these days, and it is not my impulse most times. But, as you probably remember from the few times I intentionally bottomed in my last relationship, it’s hard for me to do and, even, harder for me to write about.

So what was I going to do with this stunningly fucking hot femme top once we got to my bed?

This is what kept rattling around in my head as we took (sexy) public transportation back to my (ghetto) apartment.

I thought, it won’t make that much difference that I’m a top and she’s a top. It won’t change much between us. We probably won’t have a heavy SM scene, and that is what I tend to associate primarily with topping and bottoming – dominance, and submission.

But already, the making out at the bar was a little different. I wasn’t calling the shots. She was responding to me, yes, her lips changing mouth opening tongue teasing in accordance to mine, but there was something else underneath it. A force coming from her. The way she kept control of it all.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, only barely pulled away from my lips, I could feel her breath moving against my mouth as she said the words. She kept her hands on my hips, my ribcage, positioning me where she wanted me. She sucked my tongue, hard. “Like your tiny cock,” she whispered into my ear, grinning. She bit my bottom lip, drew blood, leaving teeth marks inside that I continued touching with my tongue all night.

Most of the time, it made me want to take her all the more. Fight her for control, push her down and restrain her arms so she couldn’t restrain mine.

Sometimes, though, I sunk into the refuge of submission, the giving-over of my body and mouth and, later, cunt. I not only let her guide me through the kisses, I tried to ask her to. Tried to ask her with my body and gestures and movement and open mouth.

I spent the evening fighting my impulses, the ones to take control. Push her down on the bed and tilt her pelvis back to slide my hand inside. Instead, she flipped me onto my back (I stopped struggling), and said, “Do you have something you want me to fuck you with?”

I inhaled. Sharply. Caught off guard, not the first time that night. “Yes, I think … I do.” Damn. Submission stirred somewhere deep in me, my stomach, between my legs, and I wanted her to take me like that, wanted to feel full, feel splayed open, feel cradled. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I trusted her with my body in a way that felt new, considering I barely knew her. Maybe that’s why it was safe. Maybe it was because of the way she knew how to touch me, knew how to unwrap my breasts, finger the back of my neck, press against my thigh, just how I like it.

And I was suddenly grateful she knew how to take control, I was feeling fuzzy-headed and uncertain around her. Was that the submission? Could be. I certainly don’t usually feel that way when I’m in charge. I got my pink cock out, wrestled in the toybox to find an unlubed condom. I’d never been fucked with it.

She eased back on top of me, hips against mine, legs scissored together. Hands on my hips, my inner thigh, my breasts. Squeezing hard, sometimes painfully. I loved it. Brought me to the edge of my body and made me cry out, made everything sensitive, made everything feel. I attempted to keep quiet.

Her kisses made my vision and the palms of my hands blurry and taut. It was hard not to press her shoulders to the bed and ease my thighs between hers, press her knees apart. Tear at her hair. But there was also such sweetness, such precision, such tenderness between us – I wanted that, too, but I wanted more, I wanted to feel her pressing me open from inside, I wanted my cock in her mouth, I wanted, wanted, wanted.

Desire rose and fell on an isotope slope, gripping me fiercely. She knew just how to pull want from this body of mine. After a particularly efficacious kiss, I spiraled, eyes rolling, hips bucking. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to be opened by her.

“Fuck me,” I whispered, as she held herself above me, inches away, “please.”

Her eyes flashed and she grinned. Held my gaze, my open face, steady for a moment. “Can I go down on you?”

“Oh, god yes,” I breathed out. Please do, yes, god yes, echoed in my head, and though she may have liked it I’d (further) begged, I was glad I didn’t say it. It was hard enough for me to ask for it once.

How did she know so well what I like? … It occurs to me now that she’s read, among other things, the extensive sex survey/interview of myself, and there is a lot – quite a lot – of personal preferences listed there. I should send that to all my lovers before we fuck. (Just kidding.)

kiss & tell

July 2, 2007  |  journal entries  |  3 Comments

The inside of my bottom lip is still swollen and a bit tender where she bit hard. And I’m bursting to write about it. Instead, perhaps I’ll write about something else: kissing & telling.

I’ve been thinking about it: I don’t really know what the rules are. I only know that, on occasion, the chivalrous guys in films or in literature say things like, “I don’t kiss and tell.” This seems to be one of those straight social dating conventions that I have somehow never really understood, like the waiting-to-call after a date, the I’m-not-interested games, etc. (Living with my straight sister has brought all sorts of new social dating conventions into my life. Actually, I’ve never lived with a straight girl before, and the only straight boy I lived with, I was dating at the time. Since then I’ve only ever had queer roommates. Interesting …)

This kiss-and-tell thing seems to be for straight men more than anything else. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen straight women (I’m racking through the Sex and the City archive in my brain – surely, if straight women do that, it was depicted in that show) talk about kissing and telling, and there’s little hesitation to talk about how the kissing was, or even how the sex was, between women. And, do we see this as rude, when women talk about sex? No – at least I don’t – I see it as HOT.

When men talk about the sex they had, though, I do sometimes see it as rude, because of the way it is depicted. It’s different to see a guy sit down with his friends and say, “Wow, I had a fabulous date on Friday, and we ended up going home together – gosh, she was so great in bed,” than, if he said, for example, “Dude I totally hit that, she was beggin’ for more,” (which is not the best example, but you get the point).

So that means, for me, it’s actually about the respect given to the people these folks are sleeping with. I imagine I could hear women – straight or gay or queer or whatever – talking about a sexual escapade and be totally offended by the rude, lewd, lack of respect, more than who is actually doing the talking.

Even so: it is so much more common to hear (straight) men speaking inappropriately about their sexual conquests, probably (ya think?) because of the sexism in this culture, not only the treating-women-poorly thing but also the notion that women aren’t inherently sexual creatures, that we are either/or mothers or whores. There’s also that machismo guise within masculinity that says that you’re a “real man” if you conquer women.

Well so, it would make sense, then, for “I don’t kiss and tell” to evolve out of that type of culture, as a social convention to keep the lewd sexual misogyny in check.

So how does it apply to women, if at all? And how does it apply to lesbians?

I mean, to a certain extent it is incredibly tacky to talk about your sexcapades with your friends. For example, if you start sleeping with your best friend’s ex, you probably shouldn’t go into details about how you fucked her up the ass with a strap-on last night. And if you happen to be dating your buddy’s sister, he probably won’t want to know how she likes to be roughed up a bit.

But aside from disclosing the sexual details of people your friends actually know (which, it seems, shouldn’t be disclosed primarily because it’s private information. Which is interesting, that some things are more private because a friendship exists, rather than keeping a stranger’s details private, which isn’t as important), how much is it okay to talk about sex?

I like sex. Not that I expect that to be a surprise to you, but I love talking about it. I love hearing about what other people think and do, because hey, I just may learn something – not only about my friend, and what they like (and that can sometimes be incredibly deep held beliefs, psychological complications relating to other aspects of their personality, which can be fascating) but I also might discover more about what I like. Or I might understand something in a new way, I might “get” a fetish or sex act in a way I never understood before.

Also? It is oh so important to be open and honest about what’s going on in our sex lives, I think, because a lot of strange damage can be done there. A lot of healing can be done, too – but it’s similar to the reason why I believe we should talk about our relationships, in depth and often, with our close friends. Our friends (one would hope & assume) watch out for our best interest, and if something strange is happening, if red flags are going up and up and up, hopefully our friends will be able to tell us those things. Our relationships should be socially monitored. And, perhaps, so should our sex lives, to a certain degree.

So. Back to kissing & telling. I think that means, for me, I believe in talking about my sex life.

Not that you’re surprised, I know. I’ve been writing about it here – explicitly – for more than a year. But I’ve never quite gone all the way into the kiss & tell argument, so I’m glad to now know where I stand, and why.

But I’m still not going to tell you what happened Saturday night.

(At least, not until she gives me permission.)