I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. Like how when she gasps more she may actually mean more friction – how she has the type of orgasms that means she can squirt.
Which is why I kept going for orgasm number two, three – because I wanted to feel her do it. I suspected she could.
(I was right.)
I hadn’t planned to take her back to my place, but that didn’t stop me from cleaning my room on Saturday before the date. Unlikely is not impossible. And if my room is not presentable, it isn’t even an option. I like to have options.
I could fist her, I think. She opens in a way that makes it seem possible, makes space inside. I would like to throw her around more, too – she’s small, and so receptive. She went where I put her, stayed, made space for me to enter, to take. My favorite kind of bottom, surrendering.
She’s wrestling a little with a femme identity. “Femme and feminist sometimes conflict,” she started to explain.
“I understand that. I saw butch and feminist as conflicting when I started figuring this out for myself too. I was a feminist first, and most importantly. And when you take misogyny out of masculinity, what’s left? Societal roles teach us those are one and the same.”
In case it needs reiteration, I firmly believe that femme and feminist can be simultaneously occupied. In fact, in some ways I think intentionally choosing femme is inherently feminist – as I think Leah said at the Femme Conference, femme is a way of making “girl” not hurt. Femininity can be inherently painful under societal hierarchies and rules, and to recreate it in ways that actually buffer the hurt instead of deepen it is so incredibly powerful.
She talked a little about the ways femme is misperceived, especially as an invitation to men. This is definitely a huge difference in the development of the butch and femme identities.
We barely scratched the surface of these conversations.
This was foreplay.
Suddenly Kristen stopped walking and back-stepped.
“Did you just lose your shoe?” I laughed.
She gave me a small smile. “Uh, that’s embarrassing.” I held out my hand so she could balance on one foot, slip her high black heel back on.
“Nah, not embarrassing,” I said, hand against her back as we started to walk to the bar again. We’d just come from dinner and needed a darker, more comfortable place to make out. “It happens to me all the time.”
She shot me a questioning look. “Really?!”
“Uh, no. Not really.” Too deadpan. I turned to face her, stopping her from walking forward, took hold of her jacket at the zipper with both hands. “No, sorry, that was trying to be a joke but it really didn’t work.” I pulled her a little closer. Even in heels she was still shorter than me. “Do forgive me …” I held her gaze and pulled her toward me. Immediately the kiss was electrifying. Delicate and wanting, full of desire. I’d barely touched her yet but now wanted my hands on her, on her waist in that secretary pencil skirt, her legs in those seamed black stockings.
At the bar.
A gin gimlet for her, another Maker’s on the rocks for me. Chatting. The topic was activism, mostly – educating those around us. I feel increasingly bold, be it the good conversation or the drinks or the chemistry or the ways she opens her eyes to look at me. My hand finds her waist, her back, and her nerves are electric and so receptive, her body curls every time I touch her.
She gasps a little. I keep talking. “Uh, I’m sorry – I’m not hearing a word you’re saying.” She looks at me with her eyes half-lidded. “But keep talking, please.” I pull her toward me and we kiss again, sparking at the mouth, at my fingertips where our bodies connect.
In the car on the way to my place.
She’s got her legs in my lap and if she wasn’t wearing full stockings I would already have my fingers in her. Her ankles are small and my thumb and forefinger close around one, then I take her instep in my hand, grip her heel. Run my hands up her legs and don’t stop, cup her cunt with my palm, catch her gaze with mine and she leans forward to kiss me again.
Every time I touch her she lets out a moan, quick, with her breath. “You have to be quiet,” I say, nodding toward the driver. I’ve known dykes who were kicked out of cabs for kissing.
“I’m not quiet,” she tells me earnestly, giving me that under-the-eyelashes shy look.
“I can tell.”
And she’s not. At my place I throw her down onto the bed, hold her down when she tries to get up. Peel off her sweater and skirt, shove my hand in after I’ve pulled her stockings and underwear down to her thighs. She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes. She is so responsive.
It is wonderful to hear.
I don’t know exactly when I pulled out my packing cock – sometime in the beginning – but then switched to my hands when I figured out she comes that way, gspot orgasms, one after another and I love to feel it inside when that happens. Love the way she thickens and shudders, her whole body twisting, so I hold her down, forearm over her chest, my knees holding her thighs open.
I don’t know when it was that I took off my bondage belt and waited for her to slide her wrists through it. I took hold of the loose strap and curled it around my hand for grip, twisted it a little, her arms over her head, on her back again, just so she could resist, just so she could feel the pressure, my other hand between her legs and shoving inside, fast, hard, or slower, massaging and tender, as she thrashed against the pillows again.
We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.
I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.
She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.
“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.
I grin. So am I.
My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”
“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.
Yes, yes, yes.
I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. There is so much more I know I could do to her. I barely got to smack her. Barely used force. There was very little restraint or bondage, very little sensation play, and she could take it, I know she could.
We could’ve kept going. Two hours wasn’t quite enough.
What a wonderful feeling to have coming away from a near-perfect date: that raw potential for more, more, more.
42 thoughts on ““I’m kind of … insatiable.” My First Date with Kristen”
Goddamn. I'm ready for sexytime now!
Damn that's hot. I think I was barely conscious of my surroundings while reading this, slack-jawed and breathing shallow.
I love it when you have dates that compel you to write hot smut. it's my number one criteria for your potential suitors. xo
I love that you recognize that political conversation can be foreplay. Butch tops with brains who can carry on a meaningful conversation are the ones I love to fuck, the ones I can surrender to, the ones who earn this prize.
Wow, another example of great writing. Now if you'll excuse me…
I should share my own hot sex story from this week, it was one of those weird things that ended up turning out REALLY hot!!!! ;)
Holy crap, this is *so hot.*
…I'll be in my bunk.
LOVED this. So hot and heartfelt.
Um… how did you manage to capture so perfectly what I want?
It's nice to hear someone be so appreciative of some of the things I've been made to feel self-concious about by others. How I am sensitive to touch, not quiet and…insatiable. Quite refreshing.
Wow, that is one hell of a woman. I love the way you describe woman during sex – you manage to describe someone fucking in a way that makes them seem whole and sexually beautiful, not like an object.
"Mort" is feminine, as is the adjective ("petite") that is paired with it, so the article "la" is required rather than the "le" you have above. Sorry, but as hot as the story was, that little detail awoke the schoolteacher in me. Thought you might want to know…
[Thank you, yes, I definitely want to know that! Always want to make things as accurate as possible, especially in spelling & grammar. I changed it. – ss]
You have such a talent for writing about passion and sex. Sitting at the office reading this and its kinda turning me on. Love the way you describe the submissive bottom :)