dirty stories, fiction

The Houseboy’s Rebellion

For Datedyke, because she asked me for this story, with thanks for reading the early draft and commenting things like “Make my character more mean,” “Don’t say thank you,” and “Just take me down,” and for providing the details of her outfit, and picking out my tie. “Swift thrust of cock,” one of my very favorite lines, was written by DD, not me; and DD informs me that “Lea” is pronounced “Lee.”*

“Honey!” Lea calls from the bathroom while she’s doing her hair and makeup. “Which tie are you going to wear?”

I’m dressed, plain black slacks and a black button-down, sitting on her bed, fidgeting with three ties in my fist I know will fit her desired houseboy fare. I bring them to her, gaze at her in the mirror as she applies something to her eyes with a fine brush.

“Either this silver, or this dark purple, or the dark blue with the white dots?” I offer.

“No no. This one.” She turns around fast and points, chooses the silver, the one she bought for me over the holidays. I nod and set the other two on the counter, start to tie the silver one. She glances at me in the mirror, aware that I’m watching her, narrowing her eyes a little, then finishes with the brush, tosses it into her makeup case.

She’s a little annoyed. She doesn’t like it when I watch her get ready. “Hand me those earrings, will you?” I see small diamond studs on the counter and hand them over.

“Not those,” she says. She’s beginning to get stressed. Three of her closest friends will be here any minute. It is my first time as her houseboy for a group.

“Those,” she points again and I see favorite pair of gold hoops. Of course. They match the black heels with the gold trim that she has on with her cocktail dress.

I fetch the earrings and she fastens them to her ears. I attempt to kiss her shoulders, neck, slip my hands around her waist, touch the curves of her hips in her sleek black cocktail dress. She shrugs me off, turns around, kisses me swiftly, dismissively. “Darling,” she says, “You look great. Really. I’m excited for the party.” And then she’s gone, running downstairs to check on the kitchen, fuss over food and drinks.

I sigh at my reflection, take a breath. Check my eyebrows, my teeth, my perfectly messy hair. I’m nervous, but ready for this, excited to be shown off, a trophy boy, look at my tricks. I want to please her. I adjust the dimple in my tie and then my cock under my harness strap.

The Oscars start at four and her friends have one of those pools where they’ve all guessed the winners and someone wins the whole pot. Lea gives me significant glances when the doorbell rings and I take coats to the closet, take drink requests, and practice my sweet “hi, hello” submission as they come in the door. Her friends are dressed up: The Cuban Genius, BB, and the Butch Daddy.

BB giggles at my predicament and hugs me, eyes twinkling, flirtatious, amused. The Butch Daddy eyes me like we’re fags and she’s cruising. I feel myself stiffen and try to relax.

Lea shines, says hello, hugs and smiles and laughter and greetings. She is subtly maneuvering this whole interaction, sparkling in her element; her earrings catch the light, glitter, and her makeup is flawless, soft. Her dress flirts around her knees, off her shoulders.

I serve martinis and cosmos, smiling and making myself as unnoticeable as I can be while I watch her. My attention is tuned fully into her body language, her eye contact, her hands. Not only for her cues at service, but to see her, to observe, to take in. I admire her like this. That external expert persona of hers is so appealing, I see her through her friend’s eyes, strong, poised, capable. I am blessed to see the soft parts, too.

Conversation flows, they catch up on jobs, girlfriends, America’s Next Top Model, the weather for upcoming kayaking, hiking. I try to participate, but Lea keeps interrupting me with glances and gestures every time I sit.

“Boy! More wieners!” she calls while I’m in the kitchen fetching a glass of water for the Butch Daddy, and everyone laughs. She’s been waiting to use that command. I bring the next plate of cocktail wieners onto the coffee table with a bow and a smile, as if I’m in on the joke.

Lea brings one up to her lips and leaves it poised. “Mmm, I love wieners,” she says, winking dramatically. Everyone’s still giggling; BB is giving me suggestive glances, the Cuban Genius mimics Lea’s movement of a wiener to her mouth and gives it a mock blow job, eyes low, looking at the Butch Daddy. I blush and try to laugh, adjust my silver tie nervously.

Lea takes inventory of the living room. “Refill BB’s drink,” she whispers loudly, for everyone to hear, and I take BB’s glass. He gives me a smug flirty smile. I mix his martini like he said, three olives, and I am careful careful careful not to spill in the long walk from the kitchen to the couch, and hand it to BB.

“BB likes his martinis dirtier than that,” Lea hisses at me as I resume my perch on the edge of the chair. “Make it right next time.”

I look to Lea in a glance, apologetically and to see her face, to see what’s under these commands, pleasure or embarrassment, gratitude or heat, but she’s already engaged back in her conversation with the Cuban Genius, laughing about something, talking about someone whose name I don’t recognize, who is that, who are these people I don’t know? She feels me looking at her and glances at me briefly, and for just a fraction of a second I see her features soften with deep appreciation, lust, care.

Then it’s gone; her body languages changes and she holds her near-empty cosmo up at me. “You’ve got another one of these ready, right? I shouldn’t have to even be asking you.”

I duck my head, go back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later she’s calling me, but I don’t recognize the call of “boy” fast enough, don’t hear her for a moment too long. Finally she uses my name: “Sinclair!” And I look up, caught off guard.

She inclines her head quickly to mean, come here, with that look on her face of hard exasperation and displeasure. She’s sitting on the arm of her couch, it makes her feel taller, and I approach. “No, here,” she says as I stop, pointing at the space next to her.

“Take your cock out,” she says.

I freeze for a second, then my hand goes to my fly. I bite my lip. I’m taller than her, and she looks up at me from that familiar place below me, but with different eyes, with I’ll take it out if you don’t do it fast enough and you better not make me put my hands on you. I fumble with my belt buckle, with the button of my slacks, and pull down the elastic of my briefs, straighten the bent packing cock so it pokes out through the zipper, fly peeled back.

I feel like I just stepped out of a cold pool, and the sexy, unobtainable girl who has been sunbathing on the lawn chairs all afternoon has finally, finally noticed me, and checked me out, only to find me shriveled and tiny. I feel exposed.

“See?” Lea’s saying. “It packs so nicely.” She’s got her fingers around my cock now and she’s jerking it back and forth, bending it a little to demonstrate how it works. “But it’s still hard enough to fuck. So the boy just wears it around all the time. Whenever I tell him to,” she adds quickly. “So I know he’s always ready, and I just take him whenever I want him.”

They’re snickering, looking at me, watching my face and I don’t know where to look – at my cock with her pretty fingers around it? At the back of her head where I want to fist her hair? I don’t know what to do with my hands so I put them in my pockets but that doesn’t work, so I hold them behind my back but that’s too much of a hip-thrust, so I cross them over my chest. My eyes land on the painting over Lea’s couch and I attempt to concentrate on the colors, the words.

“It’s really not very big, is it?” the Cuban Genius is staring, and has that amused sneer on her face.

“No … but you’d be surprised.” Lea answers, eyes alight. That’s almost a compliment; I take what I can get. Her fingers still on my cock, softer now, stroking it the way she knows I like, slow and firm.

“So he knows what to do with it?” the Cuban Genius asks, looking up at me under her eyes, lips parted a little in a very deliberate tease. She’s enjoying this. I want to whimper and god what will Lea say to that and I am certain my exposure is showing on my face.

“Well, you know, when I tell him what to do. He took some training, as all the good houseboys do.” Lea and the Cuban Genius giggle like it’s a private joke.

“I like it,” says the Butch Daddy strongly, and the definitive statement makes the femme teasing stop and twist. Reaching for my cock, The Butch Daddy runs her fingerpad along the head and shaft of my cock and I shudder, it’s a feather touch and I can feel it, it runs through me from my pelvis to my neck and sends a shiver along the insides of my elbows, backs of my knees. She removes her finger and sets her wide palm onto her thigh. We all watch.

She growls low, “I bet this boy knows how to get on his knees.”

I swallow and nearly buckle at that, eyes nearly water out of frustration, nearly ready to run to Lea for some kind physical reassurance. She gives a low laugh and says, “wouldn’t you like to know,” then puts her hand on my thigh possessively, a small gesture that reestablishes her as the barrier between me and them.

“Another round of drinks?” Lea breaks the tension, offering distraction both to me and to the group. They nod, clear their throats, smile at Lea.

I retreat back to the kitchen, holding my pants up which I have not yet buckled. I catch my breath. This is hard. I am used to being in control. I don’t want them to see this is hard for me. I worry I’m going to fuck up. I curl and uncurl my fists, fight my impulse to crush something in my hand, to throw a punch, to rotate my arms at their shoulders.

I resume making Lea’s cosmo and immediately spill the martini shaker I had not cleaned out earlier, clear liquid and half-melted ice skate along the counter. I curse softly, shitshitshit, rush for the kitchen towels, not the nice ones, the dirty ones, grip the towel tight, wrap it around my fist and mop up the liquid.

I hear the click of Lea’s pinpoint heels with the gold trim on the tile floor as she approaches and appears in the doorway. I love the line of that dress against her thighs. She’s got a few plates in one hand, her empty drink in the other.

“You didn’t take my glass,” she says, annoyed. Then she sees the counter. “You’re making a mess of my kitchen! Look at this, vodka all over.”

I look away from her. Both hands on the counter, I lean, dip my head. She comes up behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Are you upset? What, you can’t take it? If you didn’t keep messing up the drinks, I wouldn’t have to show you off like that, would I? You’re not remembering your duties – case in point, I’m still holding my empty glass.”

I turn, take it from her in a swift movement and toss it a little too hard into the sink, where it crashes, but doesn’t break.

Mouth open, eyebrows raised in mock-anger and surprise, with amusement underneath, she leans to check the status of the glass. “You better not have broken anything.”

“Everything okay in there, houseboy?” BB calls from the living room.

Lea sighs dramatically, exasperated. “Fine,” she calls, “just a little rebellion. You know how boys are when their cocks come out!” We hear the living room collectively laugh. Lea lowers her voice. “Nothing a good beating won’t fix, right, boy?”

And that’s it. I lower my chin and feel that look rise, that look on my face that tells her I’m going to take her, she’s going down. Both hands closing tight around her forearms, my palms so wide around her thin wrists, pushing her and she blinks, stumbles back a half-step. I press my hips against hers, cock throbbing.

She’s amused, scowling a little like I’m a misbehaving puppy. Annoyance and condescension and I feel every lover who ever pushed me too hard, every time I was reprimanded, even a splash of the abuse I endured years ago. I know underneath that she respects me. I know she’s playing, and she’s grateful for my servitude and submission.

And she knows my servitude and submission are a temporary gift.

I have forty pounds and six inches on her.

Keeping my grip on her wrist, I twist one arm until her body turns and her stomach is up against the counter, pushing her head with my other hand and I hear her gold hoop earring scrape against the countertop, her cheek in the pooled vodka. She doesn’t cry out but lets a gasp of air escape her lips as she struggles against me. I can’t let go of her arm or head so I shove my hips against her ass and brush my cock back and forth between her legs. For that, I get the curve of her lower back, somewhat involuntarily.

“Funny, Sin – boy,” she corrects herself. “Yeah, okay, you’re bigger than me. But you’re mine tonight.”

My mouth is next to her ear: “Is that what you think?” I twist her arm again, lifting her from the counter, up against my chest and there’s surprise in her eyes, amusement. She pushes her elbows against me but can’t go anywhere, my arms strong around her, hand on her upper back.

“Stop it,” she says, “we have guests.”

“Mmm. We do, don’t we.”

I have my hand in her hair, then on the curve of her skull, and I push, and she’s on her knees.

“Just what do you think –” I shut her up with a swift thrust of cock.

I watch her face as her eyes register disbelief, then shock, then defiance, quick flashes, then a reverence as she realizes she’s caught, overpowered. I thrust my hips against her face and her throat opens, eyes roll and her body gives that little shudder of giving in, giving over.

It gets me every time. So beautiful, the impulse to surrender.

The skin at her collarbone is already flushed and she gulps, looks up at me with those soft lustful eyes, brings her hand to the shaft of my cock, where my hand is curled and she sucks my index finger into her mouth, too, tongue hot and wet against it.

My other hand doesn’t leave her hair, the back of her head, and I won’t let her pull up enough to let my cock out of her mouth. “Suck it,” I say, low, through clenched teeth. “That’s right, just like that. Take my cock down your throat.”

She gives muffled protest and adjusts her knees from their landing place, swallows (I can feel the muscles of her throat clench and release), and slides her lips along my cock, each time more and more eagerly.

“You know how to do that, don’t you,” I whisper. “You can order me around all you want, but I don’t forget that you love to suck my cock. You don’t forget that either, do you? You’ll get it out, and show me off, but we both know you wish you were sucking it.”

Lea gasps a little and sucks deeper. “A little more than one of those little cocktail wieners, huh, girl,” I say. “But you can take it, can’t you. Can’t you.” She can, she does. Her lips are pink, eyes rolled up and watching me.

I let her suck for a while and then pull out abruptly; she’s just as stunned as when I stuck it in. “Up.” I say, and suck the saliva in my mouth back into my throat, wipe my wet lips with the back of my hand. My stare has hardened, and I want her.

She rises slowly, tentatively, and as soon as both feet are under her I circle her ribcage with my palms and flatten her against the wall, arm sliding under her dress to pull at her panties, her knee lifted in my elbow.

We hear a cascade of laughter from the living room and her eyes panic, remembering her guests. “Sinclair! Don’t you dare,” she whispers, beginning to struggle. She hooks her hand around my tie and tries to gain leverage, but it doesn’t change the way I’ve got her pinned against the wall. “No, dammit, fuck you.”

There’s a knife on the counter I’ve used to slice limes and I could cut through the lace boycut panties but there’s no time, I can’t let go of her – once I release her this spell, this momentary rebellion will be over. I grab with both fists at her pussy and tear the fabric.

Her thighs spread she moans against the wall, turns her head to the side, mouth open, hands over my shoulders, I have her lifted, hips lifted, and in one swift slip I am inside her, cock inside and gripping the edge of the wall for leverage, hips hard against her, my black slacks sliding down my legs and bunching around my ankles, her dress twisted up around her hips.

She starts moaning and I growl into her neck, “Don’t. Don’t you dare come. We wouldn’t want you to ruin your pretty dress, would we?”

She wraps her arms around my neck to keep from falling, doesn’t want to kiss me but she can’t move away from me, she’s turning her head to protest but I catch her bottom lip in my teeth and she gasps, chest heaves, and I shove my tongue into her mouth hard and deep. I bite her shoulder, feel my cunt burst, clit hard against the strap of my harness and she’s grinding against me, matching me, our bodies colliding as she opens, hips open, taking me in, and I’m deep inside up somewhere past where I can reach when she’s like this, her hands tearing at my shoulders, my arms gripping the wall, and I shudder, thrust hard and silent, mouth open, as orgasm tears through me, and I thrust slower, a few more times, a few more gasps of my body, as she squeezes hard against my cock, milks every last drop of force from me.

I hold tight and she wraps her legs around me. I kiss her neck, her jaw line, her mouth, and she’s giggling, soft and low, that hum of breath she does when she’s pleased.

“Lea!” the Cuban Genius calls. “It’s starting again! Best Picture is up!”

Lea slides her torn undies down over her high heels, then stands, slips them into my pocket and adjusts her dress. She laces her fingers through mine and brings my arm up to her mouth and wipes her lips on the back of my sleeve, smiling, holding my eyes. Then she kisses me, quick but soft. “Coming!” she calls.

She takes two steps and the click of her heels begin to descend, then she turns her entire body back to face me. I’m putting my cock away and my hand is on my zipper. She quite obviously trails my body from my hands to my face, her eyes shining with desire and pleasure.

“I’ll take my drink in the living room,” she says. “Thank you, houseboy.”

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queers" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for a Lambda Literary Award, and they are the current editor of the Best Lesbian Erotica series. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert, and they live outside Seattle as an uninvited settler on traditional, ancestral, & unceded Snoqualmie land.

36 thoughts on “The Houseboy’s Rebellion”

  1. janie blooms says:

    Oh my goodness gracious. That works JUST FINE. Wooh. I need some water…

    And incidentally, any Oscar Party this year is just gonna flat out STINK next to this story. Excellent job.

  2. Cuban Genius says:

    I'll have another.


  3. Oh dear me. After a date, a kiss, and this story, I'll never get my homework done!

  4. alisha says:


    i love the balance of it all.. toying with the 'expected' roles and giving into the unexpected.

  5. Joy says:

    Whew. I was almost crying in frustration with you, so angry that she could treat such a fine, eager houseboy like that! But, damn, sir, you took back your own. Wow.

  6. la vie à la résistance !

  7. Cuban Genius says:

    One thing you all should know about DateDyke's beautiful townhouse: You can see clear into the kitchen from the living room.

  8. I sent in my nomination, Kim.

    I felt the same as Joy, I was just hoping you would take control and boy oh boy did you ever!

    I needed a fan for this story, whew.

  9. Belle says:

    Well… I think we have a lot to chat about tomorrow on gtalk love. If only…

  10. Essin' Em says:

    I read your erotica at the most awkward of times, because it gets me so hot….

    On the way to the airport…

    Before I'm supposed to be reading Pregnancy and Power for class tomorrow….

    Ugh. Sigh. First things first. Where that hitachi of mine…

  11. upon request says:

    Well done! I'll never look the same at DD's kitchen again! :)

  12. Vixen says:

    Ooooh-this one was steaming!

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  16. Molly Ren says:

    You know those thousand girls you have sighing in cyberspace?

    Make that a thousand and one.

  17. Beatrice. says:

    Oh my. God. I had to gather myself and start breathing again before that much would even come out. You just turned a fantasy into something so unbelievably F*#@ing hot- I couldn’t have imagined this or any thing better! And seriously what IS better than a fantasy anyway? Well, you are.

    * Beatrice.

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