Weekend, part one: flogging

I slid my cock inside her swiftly and she took it easily. Let out a little cry, lifted her ankles around my hips. I was hungry. I could feel her opening, could feel how she could be filled.

“Get up,” I said after a while. I lifted myself off the bed and began switching to my other cock, the bigger one. “Turn over.”

She started to, up on her hands and knees, and I reached my arm around her hips and pulled her off the side of the bed, her pussy at my cock’s height perfectly. I took a palmful of lube and fucked her, hard, deep.

Moans and cries from both of us as I pounded into her. Fucks like that I swear I can feel my cock thickening, getting harder, being restricted and pulled into her cunt by her tight rings of muscles. She’s discovered that she can lift her legs off the floor and wrap them around my waist when I fuck her bent over the edge of the bed if she has the right grip on her hands (because it’s just the right height), which gets my cock ever deeper.

I moved my right hand around to her clit and she shuddered, I took a small grip on my cock to test the lube and moved back to her clit, swollen like a berry on a vine, thick, slick, sweet. I moved my other hand to her hair, pulling and holding her body so I could fuck harder. Shifting my pace, slowing excruciatingly and she was shuddering and gasping, nearly thrashing on the bed.

Faster again, slightly tilting my pelvis to aim for her gspot, fingers working her clit and lips stretched taut as she thrust back against me. I felt her thighs shudder, once, twice, as she squeezed and gasped, then came, nearly yelling into the bed.

We disentangled, breathing hard, little sighs of pleasure. She pulled herself up lengthwise on the bed and I went to her, legs scissored around hers, hand in her hair, one by her hip, head to her breast. She rested her hand on the back of my head and kept it there, weaving through the short hairs on my neck. Her fingers began to unravel me, to pull me apart, so tender, and I let go.

“You’re so sweet to me tonight,” I said, pulling myself up so our faces were next to each other on the pillow.

“You never let me be.”

[ Is that true? Maybe. Maybe I'm doing something that she interprets as keeping her at a distance, as pushing her away. I don't think that's how I intend it (is it?), and sometimes I even wish she'd touch me more. I don't wish it enough that I have asked for it (at least, not often, just once, the only time we showered together). ]

We pillow-talked for a while. “Did you like flogging me?”

“Yes. Very much.”

Let me elaborate: flogging is tangible power. Energy sparkling and crackling up and down my arms, my shoulders, all through my back. Rhythmic breathing, rhythmic swinging, and everything becomes hyper-sensual, hyper-senstive. I can detect a change in the air current, can hear a door open across the apartment building’s hallway. I feel her breathing, feel her breath, can see it visibly moving through her body. I sense the depth of the blows: that one too light, still too light, ah yes just right. Keep it there. Keep it just there. Then suddenly - too hard, and she gasps. I want to pull back but I so love the way she whimpers and squirms, just a little pain, just a little uncomfortable, then her muscles release, her voice releases when I let up, and that’s it, that’s the moment I crave, the supple giving in, the letting go, the release of what you don’t even know you’re holding on to.

Let go, let go. You don’t need it. All you need is this beautiful body, this beautiful breath.

In pillow talk, the subject shifted to dominance, to submission, to force. She knows I like it when she struggles. She’d like to play with that more, she said. I’d like her to say no, I said.

Then, I’m not sure how it started, but it did. Kissing, probably; isn’t that always how things start?

It’s a blur. Me looming over her, using the weight of my body (I must have more than 50 pounds on her) to hold her down. Force her legs apart. And she let out a string of words: “No no no no no,” whimpering, softly, turning her head side to side into the pillow as she tried to get her wrists out of my grip, “no no no no.”

“Yes,” I whispered, firmly. “Oh yes.”

She arched her back, tried to kick me and I got my calf against her knee and my hips between her thighs. Both wrists in one hand and position my cock.

“You’re going to take it. I’m going to fuck you.”

“Nooo …” Was she crying now? Gasping and her face felt wet when I took a grip on her hair and force her mouth to mine. It scared me a little, maybe I was hurting her (is she in physical pain? Are her knees okay, her shoulders?), and it scared me that I liked how much she was resisting me. How much I liked it when she won’t let me in.

I raised myself arms-length from her momentarily and paused. “You’ve got a safeword now, little girl. You remember what it is?”

She nodded a little, meeting my eyes briefly, and they were almost calm. Dancing. I felt releif.

“I’m not going to stop unless you use it. You’re gonna be mine tonight. My girl.”

And I pushed my thighs up to open hers, my knees sliding under her to force her pelvis up, her legs apart. My weight was shifted forward on my forearm, holding her arms down. She resisted my attempts to kiss her and whimpered more, moaning a little, cries inciting some sort of pulsing urge in my core, my pelvis, my hands in fists, down to my toes where I pushed against the bed firmly.

I slid inside slow and she shuddered, gasped, chest heaved and sank into the pillows and she let out a moan despite herself.

“You’re my girl tonight. Mine.” I said into her neck as I closed my teeth against her tender skin to keep her there, an animal instinct and she can’t move without ripping herself.

“You’re my girl.” I said again. “Say it.”

I felt her breath on my ear, her fingers clawing at my shoulderblades as she pulled me to her as I pumped my hips against her, thrusting, pressing, circling, and she pulsed under me.

Just a whisper: “I’m your girl.”

“That’s right. That’s right, baby. Say it again.”

“I’m yours, I’m your girl.”

I brought my mouth to hers, and we slid into the fuck, rocked together. Rocked deep.

This guest post comes from Muse, as part of a response to my post on the sadistic impulse. She adds this PS: “the quote in the story is direct from Big Bad Daddy Lee.”

The first thing I think of when I conjure up images of sex: a fist in my hair, yanking hard, holding me motionless.

I want to be taken, to be thrown around and kicked down and tied up and fucked and spanked and twisted and slapped and bitten and pinched and pulled and made to endure. But I don’t want you to worry about what I want. I want you to know what you want, and I want you to take it. Without asking. I’m along for the ride, I can let myself go, I can be yours to play with. Trust me, I want you to.

But sometimes, I want to fight. I won’t go down without a struggle. I’ll run, bite, wrestle, kick you away. And I’m very wily, very quick, very strong. I’ll twist out of your grip, force you to catch me, grab me harder, pin me up against the wall or down on the floor, drag me by the hair and throw me into bed. I’ll make you do something to wipe the smirk off my face, to get my attention, to stop me in my tracks. I’ll make you restrain me, so I can’t get away again, even if I try. (I will try, at first.)

Finally I’ll look up at you, eyes and mouth wide, wounded, shocked, and I will relent. I will give up. Give in. Give myself over to you.

When I do, you lean over and growl in my ear: “That’s right. I can fuck you any way I want, whenever I want. I can do anything to you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you. And you like it rough, don’t you, you dirty girl. You are such a bad girl. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. You’re going to get it now.”

Oh, handsome. What you’ve got to give, this naughty girl is going to take so well.

Please, put me in my place.

I dare you.

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:

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.”

The Saturday that Miss DD was visiting me in New York City, we attempted to go out to a queer dance that boasted swing, salsa, and tango music, but when we arrived it was near empty, awkward, unsexy, and unwelcoming. We did not stay.

The failed dance, really, is irrelevant, aside from that we had dressed up for it. We’d been to the Shanghai Mermaid the night before, which, we didn’t realize, would’ve been a perfect venue for our swing outfits: her short-short black twirly dress, small jacket with leopard-print accents, seamed stockings (there’s a word for those yes? “cuban heel”?), and she carried her red “ruby slippers” dancing heels in a bag - can’t have the soles getting all messed up - which she’d found when we’d been out shopping in the Village. I wore the outfit my stylist and I had picked out especially for this, including a black velvet jacket (which I’ve always wanted) and a fedora.

“I love that you understand costuming,” Miss DD said to me.

So we should’ve worn those fabulous swing outfits to Shanghai Mermaid, but we thought this dance was going to be great. Instead we were let down. We left the dance almost immediately, and went to Therapy.

“Therapy has the most fuckable bathrooms I’ve ever been in,” I remembered, opening the thick, heavy wooden door at the gayboy bar for DD. Fucking her in the bathroom honestly hadn’t been part of the plan - I was just desperate for a queer-ish venue where we could have some drinks, make out, possibly dance. It was the only bar around Midtown I could think of.

We found two stools at one of their huge beautiful tables and watched the gay boys, made up stories about their characters and hookups. Occupations, personal histories. Talked about literature and gender and dancing and costumes and how the fedora was fucking up my perfectly messy hair.

Eventually we made our way down to the first floor, to the back, to the bathrooms. I followed her into one of the stalls, which are more like individual rooms, real walls but the doors don’t quite go all the way to the floor. We both set our drinks down near the wall where we’d try not to kick them over.

She dropped to her knees, almost immediately. Did I kiss her first? Possibly. Possible too that she took my fingers deep into her mouth like she does, letting me feel her throat and the back of her tongue and her soft palette with my fingertips. Two, three fingers. Her tongue, her teeth grazing my knuckles.

And then on her knees. Her beautiful eyes looking up at me, cock deep in her throat, her hands on my thighs, on my ass, pulling me deeper into her. I’m moaning and gasping aw fuck and she takes my hand and puts it in her hair, I grip a fistful and hold her there, steady, as I pump my hips and fuck her face.

I was getting a little out of control here. I could feel it. That feeling looming where I can expand and explode and take. Different than orgasm, this is a topping energy that rises up and makes me want to damage, rip apart, destroy.

I started thrusting deeper and harder, taking control of the blow job, fucking her mouth rather than letting her do the work. I began tipping her backward.

Aw yeah, aw fuck yeah. Fuck.

Pulling her hair to lift her up to me, I stopped, pulled my cock out of her mouth, slammed her against the wall, hit her head against the tile. Kissed her. Hard, and again. Hand in her hair again, on her arms, shoulders, pinning her between me and the wall. I thrust my hand between her legs and found her pussy wet and ready for me, pressed my fingers inside, two then three, in and out slow, then harder and deeper, curling inside to touch her gspot and feel her opening for me, feel her swelling under my fingers.

She had one leg up, knee bent, against the wall and my arm was under her knee, but then she lifted it farther and pressed the sole of her high-heeled black leather boot against the opposite wall of the stall behind me. Opened her pelvis even deeper, gave us both better leverage.

Not to mention: so. fucking. hot.

She gasped, moaned. She bit my lips a little too hard and I pressed my hand to her cheek, pushed her face against the wall.

“Come for me, baby,” I started, whispering in her ear. “So fucken hot, you all pressed up against the bathroom wall like this. I love the way you suck my cock, you’re so good, so good. Now I want you to come for me, squirt for me, let it go, I want to feel it, I want you to splash the floor of this dirty bathroom … ”

She gasped, kissed me, mouth open, her stomach contracting and all the muscles in her body became taut, pressing hard against the edges of her so she could feel my fingers thrumming inside, and she started to gush, ejaculating in a stream I couldn’t see but could feel against my hand. Her pussy tightened and thickened and her muscles started pushing my fingers out, which means to finger her clit, so I did, brought two fingers against the hard swollen nub and pressed, worked it like a guitar string, an instrument, and she gasped and kept coming and coming, so much liquid.

“Yeah baby, oh yeah.”

Her fist gripped my hand, eyes bored into mine. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.” Her body shook. Her face opened, eyes wide and she shuddered, kept coming, I don’t know how long, a steady stream of come wetting the floor until finally her body gave out, spent, and she started laughing, whimpering and breathing hard, pulling me to her, kissing me, gasping.

We kissed. She brought her leg down from the wall with a slightly painful adjustment and stretched her hip. I adjusted myself and - of course - kicked her drink over, spilling it out from underneath the door of the stall.

Which is when we heard, “One at a time in the stalls!” and a knock on the door.

We laughed, tried to stifle it. “One minute!”  DD called.

“Oh, sorry ladies … ”

We shifted, gathered our jackets, bags, looked at the mess on the floor but could do nothing about it.

“Come on, now,” the voice called again.

We left the bathroom, trying not to laugh, embarrassed, made a bee-line right for the door of the club. Laughed and held hands and kissed in doorways all the way to the subway.

“God,” I said. “That was so hot.“

My bottom lip is still tender from where she bit just a little too hard.

My inner left thigh has three perfect bruises in rings of teeth marks, two new, one darker and faded; she bit me hard enough for me to gasp, wince, jerk my thigh away from her mouth but I could not slide out of her grip, probably wouldn’t really have wanted to if I could.

The handprint on my right thigh has pretty much faded completely.

She poured me a glass of port, brought chocolate truffles after we peeled ourselves out of bed.

Looking in the mirror, putting in her contacts, she said, “I came so hard, I broke capillaries in my face, look.”

In The Leather Daddy and the Femme, one of the characters said, “they’re the kind of couple you’d pay a million bucks to watch fuck,” and that’s what we are when we’re together. Chemistry palpable. Bodies synched.

We made lists of things we would do if we had time. Proper dates. Dancing. Watching The Secretary (”And then we’d reinact it. And you’d be the secretary, of course.” “Oh, of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Unless, of course, she was the secretary.). Take a tour of her personal history of Seattle.

I loved the way she said yes and don’t stop and baby. Loved her impulse to confess when my hand was inside her deep. Loved the look of nervousness in her eyes when I easily attached the leather cuffs - that were the week before around my wrists - to the restraints she keeps on her bed. Loved the way she slid her leg over mine sitting next to me at breakfast, the morning after. Loved her growl, her lunge, her strength, her tenderness.

Twenty-two hours. That’s what we had together on my way back to New York. I spent the night in her bed, shared her tub, her shower, coffee in the morning, met her cats, watched her problem-solve, undress, dress, sleep.

I held back. Bit her shoulders to keep from giving in, letting go. Left marks, teeth, fingertips, where I gripped her tight, held her close, for leverage and levity and lust.

I know the precise amount of water that her body displaces in a tub. How her fist feels inside me to the wrist. The torture of her pure white lingerie peeking out from the low plunge of her dress.

We had a proper date. I opened her door, took her coat, held it for her to put on, ordered for her. Kept my hand on her thigh so I could feel the lace of her garter the whole way through dinner. I didn’t realize I was doing so until she said, “You like that, huh?”

My mouth watered. I wanted to see it, to peel that dress over her head.

Later, I did. Slid her boots off of her lovely calves and ankles and she said she felt particularly naked. I liked her exposed. I had longed to feel her body under mine like that.

She’s used to dating butches, trans guys, the female-bodied masculine quadrant in the gender galaxy. She notices all those little identity things that build me up, that have often been mysterious to the femmes I’ve dated. She notices and comments and has a context for them, a compairison. My clothes, body hair, gestures, chivalry. Makes me feel young, inexperienced in this gender, but I also feel recognized, visible, seen.

Probably, probably, I’m only this into her precisely because she’s so far away. But somehow she slipped under my radar, slid inside, sat down and made herself comfortable, poured herself a glass of wine, and had one waiting for me, too.

“I’m fifty-fifty, top and bottom,” she said. “What would happen if you were with someone who liked to top as much as bottom? Maybe you wouldn’t get bored?”

She has a point. As much as I love topping, bottoming opens up a different space in me, makes me more vulnerable, more exposed, more defenseless.

Yes, I had some sweet revenge, but those twenty-two hours were not a scene, like the hotel room was, not something with a beginning-middle-end concocted specifically with purpose and time management. These hours were fluid, thick and heavy with desire and lovemaking (there is, indeed, a reason that’s what it’s called). I loved the way she received me, opened for me, pushed herself. Wanted her to push me harder, and then she did, again and again. Curled around her like a vine. We both came & cried. Intense, intense.

Again, she took care of me brilliantly, I felt cherished. And then she left me at the airport. I haven’t cried on an airplane in a long time; it felt ridiculous, accidental, and I couldn’t stop feeling.

There is something here, between us. What a loss, what a great injustice, that we are so far apart that we cannot play it out the best way - in close physical proximity.

We are talking nearly every day. Have some ideas about seeing each other again, soon, and I don’t want to wait to have her back in my arms. Does this mean I’m thawing? Feeling through to my heart again? Still distancing myself from possibility? Someone told me yesterday that I have to prepare to get ready to be ready before I can actually be ready.

“How significant is she,” one of us was asked.

“Well … she’s not insignificant.” we answered.

Yeah. Ain’t that the truth.

There’s something here.

Our story continues with our hero and heroine already in the midst of fucking in a hotel room near the Seattle airport. Read part one and part two.

For logistical sake, Miss DD reminded me that she didn’t actually take the spreader bar off until after she’d fucked me on all fours on the bed for a while.

She also had her hand in my ass, I’m pretty sure, while I was on my knees in front of her, while she was fucking me. Fingers, I mean; not her whole hand.

I forget how much I like double pentration. That feeling of being filled.

By then, I was practically insatiable. She had me by the hips, had my ass in her hands, in range of her slaps, my shoulders and arms stinging and sensitive to where she’d bitten me raw. Everything was sensation. I lost my sense of myself and only reacted to her touches, thrusts.

We detangled, she paused and removed the bar, and I dared walk to the bathroom, laughing at the look of myself with wrist and ankle cuffs, amused and deeply appreciative. It takes a lot for someone to get me into these. I can’t believe how uncomplex she makes it all seem; the minute I heard her laugh when she opened that hotel door, I was comfortable, comforted.

I came back to the hotel bed, pillows pulled onto the floor, white bedspread messy.

“Let’s have you bent over the edge of that bed, there,” she nodded to the side, near the wall, snapping another condom on her hard, huge cock, re-gloving her hand (one of them) over her makeup case that doubled as her domme kit.

(I too have one of those; of course, it is a black and orange toolbox. Oh we make quite the pair.)

I bent. Fiddled with my harness, she had losened it and the strap between my legs was completely unhooked now, cock lose and hanging a little awkwardly.

I stretched my arms in front of me, face down in the bedspread, and she lubed up her cock, slowly entered me, again, from behind, drew a finger into my ass - oh - and then a smallish plug.

“Don’t push this out,” she ordered, cock still sliding in me. I was dizzy, felt out of control of my body. If I’d been able to think about it any further I would’ve felt opened, vulnerable, exposed, but I could barely think, could only feel that distinct filling up embrace.

I am out of practice; the plug slipped out easily. I became aware enough of my muscles to clench, which made my cunt burn and throb.

“Better. Now keep it there,” she threatened, taking hold of my hips and fucking me harder.

She braced one boot behind her, on the wall, for better leverage.

I stretched my hands over my head, mouth gnawing at the bedspread. She had me at just the right angle and I was close to coming from her cock alone, a way in which I never come.

She felt it. “Put your hand on your clit.”

I did, but couldn’t get the right spot, the right release. I had no precision with my hand, felt like some big paw and all I could do was thrust against it.

I came nearly twice this way - I built up high to a thick peak, but without the precision of orgasm. Still, some sort of muscle clench and release.

She turned me onto my back and told me she wanted to see me come, wanted to feel me come around her cock, told me to do it, told me to remember my sweet revenge of topping her. It was all a blur, a fog, completely slowed down and every moment, every sensation happening at the same time.

I yelled out, screamed strings of obscenities, as I am prone to doing. She stood, my legs off the bed, then layed her body over mine as I came closer and closer, built up into a thick peak of sensation that gripped me in waves, moved through me. We both collapsed, wrapped up in each other for a sweet second, giggling and breathing heavy, moaning, still getting hold of my own body.

And, suddenly - “Roomservice!” - at the door.

I shit you not, the timing was that perfect.

I felt like hiding. Stripped, spent, and exposed, she scrambled for her slip - which she had removed to reveal amazing lingerie! black lace bra, garter! how could I not have mentioned that yet? - and answered the door.

She kept herself together beautifully and set down the roomservice she’d ordered, then scrambled back into bed, laughing.

“I can’t believe that just happened!”

“Me either.”

She put her arms around me, still on my back, and we laughed and grinned and I turned her over so I was on top and touched her skin, the curves of her hips, realized I had barely touched her body this whole time, barely felt her skin, and desire welled up thick in me to watch the way she would open, give in, give over.

“Put your cock back on,” she said. I did. “On the bed, on your back.” And she straddled over me, lowered her small tight body onto my cock and bent her head back, touched her clit.

God, oh god.

I was close to coming again, the way she rocked her hips back and forth, the curve of her neck exposed and vulnerable, one hand behind her as she knelt and rocked and slid against my cock. Oh it was gorgeous to watch. I thrust my hips in rhythm with hers. Brought mine up to meet her, pulled back, pressed.

She warned me she was close. Asked if it was okay - of course - and came, hard, let loose and ejaculated, my belly suddenly warm and wet with such a gush of liquid, and she shuddered, convulsed, collapsed.

My grey silk tie was soaked, practically ruined.

We kissed, held each other. I felt close to her, so close, under her skin, in all the creases of her.

But we were out of time. I had a flight to Alaska to catch. She rushed me into the shower, thankfully, and had a portabella burger waiting for me when I got out, the roomservice she’d ordered, complete with the most delicious wedge-fries I’ve ever had. That burger was about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, let me tell you - there is nothing like food after your body is desperately fucked. I don’t even like mushrooms, but this was so luscious, perfect, flavorful. We split it in half and shared it, kissed, chatted on the bed as we gathered up our things, got dressed. She had a slice of chocolate cake, too, and we ate some of it with the rest of the strawberries, then, reluctantly, left the sanctity of our hotel room, and checked out.

She drove me back to the airport, dropped me off at departures.

“So, you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? The kids and I will miss you!” she joked. We kissed, and I teared up.

There’s something here. Something magic, something already under my skin. I didn’t beg to see her on the return trip, but I prayed she would want to.

I got back on a plane, headed off to see my family for the holidays, thinking of her, writing about her, the whole way.

Her cock slid in and out of my mouth.

It was not small. Mid-range, maybe; definitely bigger than the average dildo. Thicker and longer than many of my cocks, though not bigger than my largest. Long, too; a good eight inches at least. A light tan color very similar to her skin tone, and mine.

My hands clipped together in cuffs behind my back, I couldn’t grip it, couldn’t feel it in my fist and wanted to, but I also knew I’d be reaching for her, grabbing at her hips and sweet girl curves if let me free. I ached for her.

I sucked the head, tongued the shaft. I was out of practice, but not altogether bad.

“Look up at me,” she said, and took a photograph.

She kept her hands in my hair, on my shoulders, fingering my jawline. She felt the stubble I’d let grow, that I usually shave. I swallowed her cock, closed my eyes, hands straining against the leather cuffs. Took as much as I could down my throat. Watched her garter and thighs peeking from under the lace hem of her slip.

Sucked and swallowed and closed my lips over her cock as she held it, pressed into me.

“I think it’s time for you to be out of those clothes,” she said eventually, and pulled her cock from my mouth, let me up, and unhooked my wrists, but left the cuffs on. I pulled off my white button down, white tee shirt, boots, socks, jeans, briefs. “Leave the tie on,” she said. “And the cock.” I left my sports bra on too, and sat on the bed, kissing her again.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t play with these,” she said, sliding her hand against my breasts.

I was already breathless from her kisses. Sensitive, wound up tight. “That’s true, I didn’t.” She pinched my nipples, hard. I cried out, tried not to.

She kissed my cheeks, my neck. “I like this,” she said, kissing my chin where the stubble grew. “Oh, I like this a lot.” Fingers, tongue, lips - everywhere.

She attached ankle cuffs as I sat on the edge of the bed, slightly loose. Leather, soft and fur-lined. “Let’s have you on the bed,” she said. “On your back.”

I shivered, my skin tingling, and slid onto the bed.

“Put your hands on your cock,” she said. I did. “Grip it. Keep hold of it. I don’t want you to let go of your cock, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

She hooked my ankles to the spreader she’d brought using clips, which gave me a little extra room to manouver. Really, if I tried, I could close my thighs, but my knees were still separated a bit. I liked the range it had. I couldn’t see it well, but I could feel it, and when she stepped away from the bed I pulled against it to see what I could and couldn’t do.

She slid on top of me, kissed me. Bit my shoulderblades, my sholders, my upper arms, then harder, harder, until I was writhing and she was biting hard, leaving marks, leaving deep bruises. The sharp pain jolted me into my body, jolted me right to the edges of my skin and I felt everything, felt every nerve in my body, felt my feet pulling against the leather. I make the kinds of noises that people make in sync with my breath, noise coming out whenever I breathe in or out. Gasping. I tried not to be too loud when I cried out.

It hurt. Oh, I liked it.

“You never told me you like pain this much,” she whispered in my ear, pinching my nipples. “You are the perfect combination of boy and girl,” she whispered as she palmed my breasts, bit my shoulder.

I felt exposed. “Really?”

She nodded, looked into my eyes. “Really.” And brought her cock to my mouth again. Straddled my chest and dipped it against my tongue. That position makes me nervous. I opened my mouth for it. Sucked. Lips swollen, red, tongue hot.

I tried to keep my hands on my cock. I wanted to reach for her, tear through her skin and silk lingerie. “I want to rip these stockings off you,” I said, cheek against her thigh when she withdrew from my mouth.

“Do you? Aww. Why don’t you kiss them,” she said, leaning to one side and offering me her thigh. “Only the part that’s covered. Not the skin,” she ordered. I kissed, brought my lips to the silky thin fabric, kissed and drew my tongue along the tight ring around her thigh where the stocking was held up by her garter. I could feel the tiny little ridges with my tongue and lips, the crosshaired pattern slightly rough against my mouth. I wanted my teeth tearing through it.

She moaned, and said, “enough.” She kissed me, worked her way down my body and paused for just a second too long at my cock with her mouth open just above it. My body shuddered and I ached, just ached to feel her lips close around it.

“Not this time,” she said, and slid off the bed, pushing the spreader bar up.

“Hold that there,” she said, and put it into my hands. I let go of my cock, bobbing from my pubic bone, and gripped the bar. My right leg was pulled up, knee bent, left leg higher, thigh pushed against my stomach by the bar, foot in the air, uneven.

“Stay here. Don’t move.” She moved around the room. I couldn’t see her, but she slid a condom on, grabbed my camera, and took another photograph. “You look gorgeous. So fucken hot,” she said, and touched my clit with something cold, so cold, I thought it was fingers full of lube but it just kept getting colder, and I didn’t connect it until she slid the glass dildo inside me, began working it in and out. My labia piercing conducted the temperature and hurt, ached, as though it was being pinched extremely hard.

I gasped, moaned, writhed on the bed, tried to keep my dick in my hand. Turned my head and yelled into the pillow. She shushed me, and repositioned to fuck me, loosened my g-string style harness so she could reach my cunt and slid inside slow.

“Don’t let go of that bar,” she threatened. I gripped it tight, felt my cock throbbing and pushing against my hand. “You feel that against your belly?” she said, low, next to my ear. “You feel your cock, all hard, between us?”

“Yes,” I breathed. I loved how she kept my cock in play, despite that I was not fucking her with it. Boyish. And god, she’s such a skilled top.

She fucked me like this for a while, legs spread and lifted, hips and ass curved up from the bed, my hands gripping the bar as she lowered herself onto me, cock thrusting. I saw red. Eyes rolling back. Gasping into her shoulder, sucking.

We kissed, kept our faces close. Smiled and giggled and gasped and rocked our bodies together. Eventually, she pulled away, slid back down my body, unhooked the spreader bar, and turned me over.

She smacked my ass, my shoulderblades, even the bottoms of my feet. Bit my shoulders again. I wished I could see her, watch her hips move. I was completely lost in the sensation. “I forgot I get your ass, too,” she mumbled at some point. Sure you did.

“Get up on your knees.”

She gave me her fingers first, then lubed up her cock and began fucking me from behind, entering slowly. My head was practically on the bed, holding myself up with my shoulders because my hands were between my legs, I couldn’t let go of my cock, which was fucken hard and thick and I felt it was going to pop in my hands. I kept it against my clit, kept my fingers circling the head, I love how that feels, the ridge of it against my thumb. Boyish. Masculine.

“You keeping hold of that cock of yours?”

“Yes,” I gasped into the pillow, pushing my hips back into her to get her to slide in deeper. She had her hands on my hips, pulled me back to her. I began whimpering, gasping louder into the pillows.

Fuck.

I don’t know how long we were like this. A long time. My sense of time in that hotel room was limited, having been told that I was not supposed to look at a clock and that she would be the timekeeper. She had full control of this situation, this scene, this interaction between us, and I gave in to her.

It’s really hard to write this up amidst family dynamics and wrapping gifts and visiting old haunts in my hometown - so this is just a very small snippet of the beginning of what happened between DateDyke and I yesterday. More to come.

She answered the hotel room door wearing a black vintage lingerie slip, black stockings, black knee high heeled boots. Grinning.

Oh, my god. Stunning.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said, laughing.

*

“Get yourself some champagne, and refill my glass. I’d like an orange slice too.”

I picked her champagne flute up from the dresser. It hummed a little in my hand, that sound of glass vibrating. Refilled hers. Poured mine. There was a glass dildo in the ice bucket, buried. Brought her an orange from the bowl of strawberries and orange slices, she took it from my fingers with her mouth.

It was my first act of servitude.

I leaned on the edge of the desk, and she said, “Umm, no, I’d like you right here,” and pointed. I sat on the edge of the bed, near her chair.

“So there were some things you were supposed to do,” she said a bit later, taking the empty champagne flute from my hand and pressing her thigh against mine, coming close, hand on the back of my neck where I’d just cut my hair short. “What were they?” she murmured. “Can you recite them for me?”

“I texted you when I landed.”

“Very good,” she murmured. I got a kiss as a reward. She kept her mouth so close I could feel her breath.

“I told you what time I need to be back at the airport.”

“Very good.” Another soft, soft kiss.

“I brought my camera.”

“Did you? Good. In a minute I want you to get it out and ready for me. What else?”

“I wore briefs, a tie and … my cock.”

“Very, very good.”

“Um … ”

“What else?”

Her lips brushed my jaw, my neck, my mouth. I couldn’t concentrate. I held my hands gently on the curves of her hips and wanted to twist her down behind me, throw her on the bed. I restrained. Every moment I restrained my impulses. I held my body on tight reigns, which created a swirl of energy, of reeling. Restrained, restrained, restrained.

What was the last thing I was supposed to do?

“I haven’t … gotten off … since Wednesday.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good. Oh, I’m very, very happy about that. Your balls must be so heavy … ” she kissed me again. Deeper. Her hand on my cock. “Now get that camera out.” I crossed the room and did. She played with the settings, took a few test shots, then set it down, took hold of my tie. “I’d like you here now,” she pulled, “kneeling on the floor in front of me.”

I sank to my knees, still fully clothed. Black boots freshly polished, jeans, black leather belt, white tee shirt, white button down, dark gray silk tie.

I kept my knees splayed without really realizing - my impulse, wearing a cock, and also more comfortable for my boots that way.

She noticed. “Oh, I like the way you did that.” Kissing me. Her hands down my belly onto my cock, rubbing. I inhaled sharply. Her mouth was luscious, soft, subtle. I struggled for composure. I wanted my hands on her body, wanted to feel her thighs, peel away her stockings.

“What,” she asked, reading something - hesitation? resistance? - in me.

“I am … not pouncing on you.”

“Oh that is very much not allowed.”

“I know.” I swallowed. “I just, want you to notice precisely how much I am not pouncing on you.”

She smiled. “Good boy,” she said. “I know that must be hard for you,” and she took hold of my forearm. “Unbutton those cuffs,” she said. Boyish, I felt so boyish. Not even butch, but like a teenage boy, eager, willing to learn, desperate to please. I began unbuttoning, kneeling in front of her, watching her face as she watched me, fingers suddenly fumbling. I looked at her. Noticed her hands, small, cute. I bet she could fist me. Her skin was so soft, so soft, and I could see her thighs where her stockings ended, could see on garter. I’d felt a harness under that slip, too, when she’d allowed me briefly, at the door, to feel her ass.

I finished the second wrist and raised my hands into her lap, offered them to her, open palmed.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You know what it’s like to have someone offer their wrists to you.”

I nodded. “Yes.” Barely a whisper.

“I like your new tattoo,” she said, touching it. She cuffed me, both wrists, leather cuffs with silver buckles, and tested the tension. I watched. “Something that we talked about, when we were planning this, is that I wanted you to suck my femme cock, do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I have really been looking forward to that.” She pulled my hands behind my back and linked them together. “I don’t trust your hands on your own. You’re gonna have to keep them there for a while. Now, stay there. Don’t move, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

On my knees, facing the chair. Arms cuffed together behind my back. I could hear her rustling around the room. I struggled against the cuffs, just to see how far I could pull, how it would feel. I love the pressure on my wrists.

I kept my head low, shoulders pulled back by my wrists pulled together. She re-appeared, cock under her black silk slip, at the edge, next to the lace, hard and bobbing, nudging at the hemline.

My mouth salivated. I looked up at her, tried not to wonder about my gag reflex, and kissed it.