Posts Tagged ‘top/bottom’

Sugarbutch Star: Shannon

April 10, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  8 Comments

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.”

the therapy session

February 15, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  7 Comments

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.

under my radar

January 2, 2008  |  journal entries  |  8 Comments

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.

the hotel room (part three)

December 28, 2007  |  journal entries  |  2 Comments

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.

the hotel room (part two)

December 27, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  9 Comments

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.

the hotel room

December 24, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  9 Comments

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.

poll results: my ass is hers

December 23, 2007  |  journal entries  |  8 Comments

The results of the poll, asking you, my favorite, loyal readers, how the sexy DateDyke and I are hooking up, are in.

But you already know what I’m going to report, because you were the ones who voted. (Traitors.)

You voted:

DateDyke tops me: 86
I top DateDyke: 50
We wrestle: 23

And we have two write-in votes, which were:

  • Wrestle for dominance, and loser gets to rule the day on your return flight
    and
  • I just want you to win!

Someone also commented, “I vote for your vote,” and I wondered, does that mean they’re voting for me to top, or for me to get topped? ‘Cause clearly, I’m not even sure what my own vote is. I had hoped not to lose by a margin that fucking huge, but, well, readers, I get it. I hear you loud and clear.

My two consultants told me a few days ago that I should’ve threatened not to write about it unless I won. Now that, I bet that would’ve worked.

Ironically, after the Sugarbutch Star contest this year, one of the things I took away from that was just how many submissive femmes were out there who were inviting me to top them, often in ways that were (note the past tense) beyond my topping capabilities, I felt – lots of force, domination, coercion. I was surprised, and extremely validated, that there were so many of my type, at least upon initial inspection, out there, and so excited that they felt I was capable of taking them down.

But this time … seems the tables have turned a little, eh?

I know, slightly different scenario.

I am managing myself well, I think, inside the flirting, the submission, the bottoming, in my chats with DD; I’m a bit nervous about tomorrow, but trying to re-frame that into excitement. Tonight, she told me, “I’m not nervous, not now. I’ve worked that out. I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from you.”

Mmmm, when you put it that way, I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from her, too. I think. But that still doesn’t quite make me feel ready … this territory is just new, I suppose.

And … then there’s the reality of what’s going to happen tomorrow, of that first kiss when I walk into that hotel room, of the spreader bar she’s threatened, of my ass – my ass, lord, it has been a really long time since my ass has been fucked by anyone other than me, years – in the air, of who knows what else, being exposed, being taken. I’m thinking, do I have pimples on my ass? When was the last time I did some hair grooming, down there? Will I, as they say, break? Cry? Or will I be able to take it, to submit actively, intentionally, to push back against her topping, to hold my own, in my own way, in a butch and boyish way?

I’ve also been thinking about the responsibility of bottoms lately, not only because I am faced with this (gulp) new scenario – it seems there are many ways to bottom, and if you’ve read the Topping and Bottoming Books (which I highly recommend), then you know something about that.

One of the common misconceptions is that bottoms don’t do anything – that “pillow queen” notion. The Topping Book calls these folks “bottom-less pits,” those who want and need and take and don’t offer anything up, don’t match their top’s energy and hold their own.

I know this feeling as a top, but I am not as experienced of a bottom, these days – I want to avoid this, if at all I can.

It’s the difference between this active submission, intentional surrender, and some other form of just taking from a top … and I can feel it, energetically, but I’m not sure how else to pinpoint. This is reminding me of this post of Dacia’s over at Live Girl Review and that look in Legs’s eyes … clearly, though she is submitting, she is very powerful, present, active, working just as hard as her top. Gorgeous.

I’ve had a lot of comments, emails, and conversations, on & offline, from folks who follow Sugarbutch, about the notion of bottoming and butchness, especially for those of us whose butch identities are intertwined with a top identity.

I am not stone, have never been stone, and usually like and expect to get off during sex in some way. But that’s not to say that my sexual satisfaction is defined by my own orgasms – in fact, that’s not usually what makes me feel satiated after an interaction. Usually, it is the pleasure of the femme I’m with.

And, I’ve often said that just because I bottom, it does not have to conflict with my butchness. Those two things are not mutually exclusive, I’ve never felt that they are. I’ve been loud & proud about this, in fact, insisting that those two things can in fact go together and compliment each other quite well. I know butch bottoms, male subs, trans guy switches, all sorts of a range of masculine- and bottom-identified folks, and yeah, sure, have at it! You get on with your bad selves.

But … I guess the thing is that I’ve never quite occupied that space myself. And even in the past few years, when receiving or bottoming I guess I was doing so to women who did not go there, to celebrate the things that my boyishness brought to our scenario.

Certainly not in this way.

Interesting, how I thought I’d gone here, thought I’d played with this, and yet, these past few weeks has opened up whole new places to explore, new passageways, new ideas. I like that. I’m grateful for it, thankful to DD that she’s giving me the opportunity to explore these things, gender, submission, my own intersections.

Some folks have asked me about reading DateDyke’s dating chronicles, which are so steamy that she keeps them locked – she told me that she’d most likely grant permission, you’ll just have to ask nicely.

Also, to clarify – though both Red and DateDyke read Sugarbutch, I met them both offline, through friends. I have yet to sleep with someone who met me through Sugarbutch.

Want to be the first?

a close call

December 21, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  4 Comments

Four weeks ago:

Second not-a-date with Red (remember the morning after?). We had drinks, saw a film, and then “got a piece of pie and talked about” the movie, told life stories.

I’m not on with her, and I like that. No game, no pomp-and-circumstance. I genuinely enjoy her company and she is knows how to push my buttons.

Good goddamn.

*

“Yo, it’s two women! It’s not two dudes, it’s awright, it’s awright. I could watch this aaaaaall night.”

We both have short hair. I guess that’s as much as it takes to be seen as a boy sometimes – like on the subway platform at Union Square at three am.

He was with a rather large group of young men, and I suddenly lost my hard-on and curled my fists instead. Danger. They’d circled us, predators and prey. But we were not men, so suddenly we were less of a threat. I wished desperately that I was not so fearful of physical confrontation, wished I knew how to throw a punch that would knock him off-center and not break my hand, wished that I knew he could punch me back and I’d be okay, wished that I could puff up my chest and say scary things that would make him squirm and never bother dykes in the subway again.

I wanted to protect her, above all. Kept my body between them and her. Maybe I shouldn’t send her home on the subway. Maybe I shouldn’t go home alone. Who was in more danger here?

I had walked her to the subway, waited with her while it came. She kissed me first, then she was up against the pillar and I gripped it hard behind her, pressing her between me and it.

“You can say no,” she said, “but, are you sure you don’t want to take me home?”

I can still feel her mouth on my earlobe, hot breath against the skin of my neck that was so cold, exposed.

“Since this isn’t a date,” she said, “I’m not going to do these things, but if it was …. I would want to be on my knees in front of you, and take your cock in my mouth.”

Unexpected. Caught off-guard.

“I want to look up at you with my mouth full, and I want to suck your cock till you come so hard in my mouth, so hard you can barely stand.”

So. Fucking. Hard.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me.” Her breath on my ear. My hands tearing at the curves of her body. I wanted to rip something.

“I want you to take me on my back, to get your biggest, thickest cock and get on top of me, slide it in, because I want to be so full of you.”

It’s amazing the joints in my legs continued to function. I couldn’t speak.

“I want you to fuck me, and fuck me, until we both come and soak the sheets.”

“Yo, can I get a picher? Can I get a photo?” he had his phone out, aimed at us. “I’m from out of town. I gotta get a picher.”

“No.” We both said. He pleaded. “No.”

*

It really was an amazing evening. I was open and honest, more than I’d expected to be. Scorpios can bring that out of me. I told stories of my life. This is the interesting part, the getting-to-know-you early part, because we get to tell our best stories, tell our best jokes, be our best selves.

“So, are you not taking me home because you don’t know what to think in the morning? I’ll get another “let’s be friends” email?”

I take responsibility for my choices. I won’t regret them tomorrow. “No,” I said. “I’m not taking you home because … well, performance anxiety, for one.”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? You write a sexblog!”

Yes. Precisely. She intimidates me, and she reads Sugarbutch. Lucky for me, my cocks don’t fail me, but I can still be bad and awkward, and better in writing.

“So if you’re not taking me home … will I get a chance to do those things to you?”

“I think … that can be arranged.”

*

By the time we both got home (safely) she had a few additional details she wanted added to this forthcoming encounter.

When I’m on my knees sucking your cock, in just my red bra, panties, and shoes, I want your hands in my hair. When you need me to look at you, I want you to pull my head back, force me to see you watching me suck your cock.

When you’re on top of me, the first time your cock enters me, I want that first stroke to be so slow it’s excruciating, so slow I can feel you muscles filled with that restraint, that tension begging to be released. And just for that first stroke I can’t move, you have complete control for as long as you can make that first penetration last.

She likes being pushed up against walls. Restrained. Forced. I want her wrists bound with rope. I want to smack her beautiful round ass until I leave marks.

Today, I am tightly wound.

Tonight, we have a date.

going down

December 20, 2007  |  journal entries  |  1 Comment

The poll will officially close at midnight PST tomorrow, friday.

I know I haven’t done a very good job selling my topping Mistress DateDyke, but that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight.

If she wins by a margin of more than 30 votes, she gets my ass, too. That’s the deal. But she’s gonna have to earn it. I’m sure, by now, she knows that.

I like submitting, but that’s a secret

December 19, 2007  |  journal entries  |  7 Comments

Don’t tell that seriously hot piece of ass, DateDyke, but just between us, my confidence is slipping. She’s got double the votes so far, but aside from that … when I get around another top – a particularly skilled top, if discussion so far is any indication – it makes me all the more bottomy, all the more submissive. I become eager to observe her skills, and eager not to fuck up.

This is probably more about my psychology than my sex play.

Don’t mistake me; I do enjoy pain, I do enjoy submitting, I always have. I’ve never wanted to be the one who tops all the time. And in a one-time (or two-time, or maybe five-time) scenario, I would gladly negotiate bottoming. In the longer-term, though, I want to top most of the time.

It’s like that theory about relationships – if you talk 30% of the time, and listen 70% of the time, you just gotta find someone who talks 70% of the time, and listens 30% of the time.

Same thing applies to sex play, I think. I don’t really know what my topping/bottom ratio is, but probably something like 80/20 or maybe even 90/10. One in ten times, I’ll get under the flogger for you. One out of ten times, I’ll give you my ass. Sounds about right.

Here’s the interesting thing about what DD is doing, though – she knows how to treat me like a boy and a bottom at the same time, and the ways she treats me like a boy are expanding me, and so sexy, and I feel so matched and validated and complimented, that I’m all the more willing and eager to be and do as she wishes. Submitting is not in conflict with my identities when I’m treated boyishly. It totally makes sense – I just never quite realized that most of my submitting and bottoming experience was with the boy I dated for all those high school years. When I started dating women, I got more and more toppy.

I’ve never bottomed with a cock on, for example. I’ve never played with gender and submission quite in that way, and I want to.

She’s not gonna get away with not bottoming to me, sometime. I am salivating at the idea of that slow, hard fuck she’s gonna get. Hopefully it’ll be the return flight, though I’m not sure that’s guaranteed yet.

The other secret, if I may entrust you with it, is that I’d much rather bottom on the way up, because that means I have a higher chance of topping for the second playdate … though perhaps I shouldn’t admit that, quite this early on in negotiations. Never show weakness, right?

Yeah, that’s not quite my style. My heart may be newly behind barbed wire, but it’s still on my sleeve, regardless.