These Eight Years

Posted on September 30, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Eight years ago, you offered me a blow job and I didn’t usually date boys but you were so fucking cute. We immediately had chemistry and I immediately wanted to make you wince and melt, and I can guess what you wanted, so we had a scene.

Seven years ago, we were still talking. Getting more serious. Navigating the other partners we both had, navigating my crippling grief, navigating long distance D/s turning into M/s and what does that even mean how could we ever use those words. You were about to leave California and spend the winter in Texas, a slower life, with your dog and your horse and your family ranch, chopping wood and sending me photos of you topless with leather gloves and an axe. I came to visit you four times that winter, for weeks. We finished writing and signed our first temporary contact.

Six years ago, we were settling in to our first apartment together. My cat your dog all our baggage together. My moods and unresolved grief, your deep desire to serve. We made caramel apples and went to a pumpkin patch and I found out you love dressing up for Halloween. You set up a peg board in our bedroom with hooks for all the toys, a hard point in the wall for me to chain you to, a hand-made sling. We had a beautiful collaring ceremony and I told all of my closest folks that I was your owner, and what that meant to me.

Four years ago, I was recovering from some major physical health challenges. A digestive issue had me on a medical diet for six months and was way harder than I expected. A breast reduction surgery was easier than I expected, but significantly changed what I could do – soon, for the better. These changes were helping, they changed things. But it wasn’t enough.

Three years ago, we were in the depth of it. Deep trauma demons clashing in ways that I was pretty sure would be the end of us. My terror up against yours. We still don’t agree on the story of what happened, but that’s how I see it. It would get worse before it got better. But first, I would formally propose.

Two years ago was the summer we got married. It was a leap of faith and my deepest heart’s desire. We can manifest together so well. We visioned, we created. It was so much more beautiful than I expected. We were still in the deep battles, but they were more often our own, and less often each other’s.

One year ago, I was starting to see the forest and not just the trees. I was back to myself. We were still repairing, are still repairing, but we were ourselves again, and better. We were already preparing to run for the leather title in spring 2019 and spending a lot of time talking about our dynamic, our foundation. I had to revisit everything. I had to relearn everything to apply to where we now were, what I now knew. About myself, and about you. In some ways, we were starting over. In some ways, we were stronger than ever.

This year, it has been eight years since our first date, seven since our first contract, six since you were collared, two and a half since we got married. You have stayed past the trauma monsters that have shown up in every other relationship – of course they have – and you have persisted. You have turned toward me again and again where others have turned away.

I have witnessed you change and grow and evolve and strengthen. You are pursuing just what you want: your work, your relationship with the wilderness, your storytelling, your friendships, your community. Your family has grown, your work has grown.

I’ve never passed this precipice before, so I don’t really understand what comes next. How we just keep going, keep asking ourselves what our needs are now, keep asking each other. But apparently that’s ther plan. And I plan to carry it out, until I can’t.

I’ve learned so much about me and us and you. You continue to excite, entice, and enliven me. You bring my life so much joy.

Thank you.

Happy anniversary.

fiction

Touch, Devour, Swallow

Posted on September 30, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

One of my big hands holding your wrists together.

A pause while I whip the belt out of your belt loops, then: weave the leather around your wrists and tighten. It isn’t hard. You don’t struggle. You want this, you want to be bound, you want the freedom that comes with restriction.

There is nothing for you to do but be right where you are.

There is nothing for me to do but be right where I am, one hand gently holding the belt against the wall, one hand touching. Softly. Trailing my fingers. Exploring. Slow.

Not cruel. Not yet.

You look at me with pleading eyes. Your lips are bright, your eyes are soft from that place of surrender. You want me to kiss you, and I want to deny you what you want, so I don’t. You want me to fill the ache that comes rushing in when I take everything else away.

I want to devour your attention.

I hold the back of your head, thumb your neck. I feel your jawbone move as you swallow. My mouth waters and I want to suck you deep. I slide my fingers over your lips, press your cheek to the wall.

This is the moment. More than the pounding wrath of my lust or my greed, this soft part where you are open and trusting and I’m just about to fall down the crevasse where permission meets skill and I lose myself, but find someone I’d much rather be. This is the moment I meet you anew and we remind each other who we are.

But I long to kiss you every minute that I don’t, so I spit at you instead, mark you, claim you. You wince but you want all parts of me that touch you.

I want all parts of you.

Give me the small soft ones, the solid ones, the ones that will never break, the ones that have never been anything but broken. They aren’t mine but I’ll put each to bed, to pillows and furs and spice rose tea and white flannel sheets and the moon, and you can tend to them when you’re ready. On the good days, I put mine to bed, too.

I get lost in the desire stalking me like a lion when I get this close and restrain myself, hoping to follow my own plan. I get lost when I have to be out in the world making meaning, making due, making sense. So I keep coming here, to us, to this, where I do make sense, where I am not the monster inside. Where you meet the monster inside and bow in reverence, and ask, and ask, and ask.

I unclip the flogger from my hip and feel the weight of the baton like a friend, like my shaft, hard in my hand. The falls like a gown made for me and worn at all my transformative life events. I swing it once, twice. The heat roars up and shakes something under my heart loose and starts to crumble.

Before you take my first blows, I lean in. Lips touching not kissing: you are so good. Beautiful, beautiful. Thank you.

guest posts

A Good Beating, Guest Post by Xan West

Posted on September 30, 2019by Xan West

This story contains: consensual kink including pain play, rough body play, boot play, edge play, D/s, playing with rage.

an excerpt from Shocking Violet

for Edith, who helped immensely in the eleventh hour

Hunter was one of those older leathermen who didn’t use the word play, called his scenes sessions, and took himself extremely seriously. Zak was certain he had never seen him smile.

This was one of the zillion ways that leather life would make no sense to outsiders. He’d never call Hunter a fuck buddy…because they would never be buddies. (Or fuck, for that matter.) But once a month, he beat the snot out of Zak for a couple hours. They’d been doing this for two years, and it was one of the steady constants that kept Zak going. He needed this.

He’d been surprised when Hunter approached him, because silver fox muscled cis leathermen didn’t generally line up to play with thirtysomething fat trans guys in thick glasses who were more cute than handsome. It had been a few weeks after Sam and Neo had dumped him. His friends had dragged Zak to the Eagle with them, even though he was absolutely certain he had “just dumped” stamped on his forehead and would be terrible company.

He’d seen Hunter around, of course, with his perfectly trimmed silver beard and well-used, extremely well-kept leathers. Zak knew his reputation as a heavy top who was very serious and respectful, and wanted no romance and no sex in his kink. But he was shocked as hell when Hunter approached him before he’d even ordered his usual seltzer, and had said, “You look like you could use a good beating.”

Zak was demiro and gray-ace, and had considered approaching Hunter for play, even though they’d never spoken. He’d thought Hunter would be a good fit, because of his boundaries around romance and sex. When they’d negotiated, Hunter had lead off with “I want to be real clear about something. I’m aroace, do you know what that means?” And Zak had sighed with relief, before sharing his own a-spec IDs. He’d never played with another a-spec person before, and that had him even more excited than the prospect of a good beating.

Though Zak had definitely needed a good beating that night. He’d needed to have the snot beaten out of him so damn badly. It was the best way to find his mad, which was blanketed over with numbness.

He needed a good beating today too. Needed the pain, and the intensity, and just the sheer physicality of it, as a way to move some of what had gotten stuck last night. All that rage he’d had to control when he was facing down Rickie’s asshole of an ex. He needed a way to let some of that out, or it would eat at him.

Sessions with Hunter gave him a way to release some of his rage. For all his formality, he was perfectly fine with Zak screaming, sobbing, and cursing him out. As long as Zak took everything he could, pushed himself, Hunter was happy. He actually seemed to like it when Zak cursed at him, though he would never smile. But his eyes would get this gleam…Zak was pretty sure Hunter was happiest when Zak called him a fucking asshole. What more could he ask for, really? It was rare to find a top that was up for that.

The first Sunday of the month at 1pm, Zak would show up at Hunter’s fancy place in DUMBO, to be methodically taken apart in the man’s living room. After all this time, his body knew what was coming, and was already running on adrenaline before he rang the bell. Hunter was in his full leathers, like always. The only thing that ever changed was the boots. Today it was Wesco Jobmasters, with red stitching, and Zak had a hard time paying attention to anything else for a moment because they were so beautiful. Those treads were going to feel so good.

After greeting Zak, and leading him to the living room, Hunter picked up his very fluffy light grey cat, Melisande. (Zak suspected, but had never confirmed, that she was named after the character in Kushiel’s Dart.) Hunter carried Melisande to her room, crooning to her, telling her she was beautiful and perfect and how very much he adored her. Yes, she had her own room, but of course she liked to roam freely through the apartment (aka her territory). So, when Zak came over for a session, Hunter always set her up in her room and put on Richard Attenborough’s Birds of Paradise for her—it was her favorite video, after all.

When he came back into the living room, he usually slid right into the scene, so Zak shucked down to his boxer briefs and boots, and got himself into headspace. Today was no different; Hunter stalked over and immediately bent him over the side of the couch, yanking his belt from his pants, and proceeded to beat Zak’s back. It was gloriously quick and jarring, and so much of Zak’s most favorite kind of pain all at once, with no traditional warm up at all. Zak couldn’t make words, or even sounds, everything went quiet for this. He was grateful for the couch, for its cool leather pressing into his cheek, the sturdy way it held him. He would not have been able to stand as Hunter poured this gorgeous blaze of pain into him, filled him up with it, methodically, ruthlessly. Yes. This was the way to start, pain swirling into every bit of him so there was nothing else at all. Nothing but the searing wonder of this.

This was the way they began, the way they re-learned each other, tested each other. Abundance, right from the start, a foundation of things to come. It would build and build until Zak bent, like always, and let the first drops of whatever was stuck, out. That meant tears. Sometimes it took 3 minutes of the belt, and sometimes it took 30. It rarely took more than that for Zak to let go. For Zak’s body, and psyche, to take in the reality that he could have as much pain as he needed, and that it was okay to let go.

For so many tops, tears were a signal to end a scene. In their sessions, Zak’s tears were a signal it was really beginning. It took a wonderfully long time to make a crack in the dam today. Such an incredible relief when it finally came, and the sobs were drawn from his body by the inexorable, patient blows of the belt he loved dearly.

It made him so angry to cry. He had always hated it, and most especially hated doing it in front of other people. That’s why this worked, tears were the best way to create an entry point for the rage. Hunter pulled Zak up to stand, and marched him over to the exposed brick wall he had in his fucking living room. That wall was the height of self-indulgence, and a marker of wealth funneled into kinky purpose. Hunter wanted a brick wall in his living room to slam boys into, so he made it happen. And really, who was Zak to complain? It felt so damned good, the roughness of the brick against the welts on his back.

Hunter was done with the belt. He put on his gloves, then pulled his leather sap from his back pocket, fitting the strap onto his hand as if he had all the time in the world. Which, Zak supposed, he did. They were on Hunter’s timetable now. Where he got to be patient and precise, and use as much thud as he wanted. Sting cracked the dam, but thud…thud pissed Zak the fuck off, so much that he let his rage flood out.

Zak thrust his chin out, anticipating what came next. When Hunter put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place, and met his gaze, Zak glared. Hunter nodded, and began, the blows slow and methodical, driving into Zak’s bicep. They were jarring, in a deep way, made Zak feel off balance, even with the wall behind him and Hunter’s hand bracing him. The off balance was inside, this sense of being trapped and needing to prove himself and bubbling rage, already sparked by the tears still drying on his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he spit into Hunter’s face. The man simply hit him harder, making it very clear that he was barely using his strength at all, didn’t need to, as the lead inside the sap did the work for him. Heat built under the pounding, bruises were blooming. Hunter was fucking relentless. The ball of anger grew inside him, the more Zak stood there, and took it, and glared; and Hunter’s face was this completely fucking inscrutable wall for Zak to throw himself against. Steady, constant, dependably there, poking and poking until Zak exploded, knowing that Hunter would stay steady all the way through, hold all of it.

Zak hated and loved Hunter’s inscrutability, because it made so much fucking room, because it meant that Zak had no impact. It wasn’t real, of course. He’d seen the man be completely gooey over his cat. He knew Hunter was deeply committed to raising as much money as he possibly could for AIDS research, and matched donations at the big leather fundraiser for it every single year. Hunter had a sweet queerplatonic partner named Xavier, who lived with him and whom he loved dearly, who always brought Zak a blanket, water, cocoa and cookies at the end of a session.

He knew Hunter wasn’t actually who he presented as during sessions. He might not smile, but outside of topspace he was affectionate toward Zak, and caring, offering an ear for whatever might pour out after a scene, checking on him at least once a day for a few days afterward. His inscrutability was a tool, one that suited his style as a top, one he offered to Zak along with his beautiful methodical sadism. Zak knew all of that, but in the middle of a beating, it floated away; he got to just have the room and the goad that it made for him.

Hunter began to knee Zak in the thigh. It forced Zak to concentrate, because his body wanted to curl in to protect itself. It made him grit his teeth and curse, focusing on staying still for it. There was nothing like rough body play to get his mad going, and he began to spit out curses incessantly, as Hunter drove his knee into his thighs, his fist into Zak’s pecs, in an irregular pattern that Zak couldn’t quite catch up to enough to predict. He just dug his boots into the floor and clenched his fists, so he wouldn’t inadvertently fight back.

That was the thing about allowing rage to build, it still demanded that he control the course of it; as adrenaline flooded him and emotion drove him, he was in charge. That’s part of what made it such a rush, because as much as he was now flooding Hunter’s living room with shouted curses, he wasn’t battling Hunter at all. He was fighting for control over his rage. Not by bottling it up, but by releasing it in exactly the way that he chose.

He focused on making sure his shoulders were back, his legs were steady, his chin was raised, as he glared into Hunter’s face and called him a fucking asshole for doing this to him. He saw that gleam in Hunter’s eyes that told him the man was pleased, and bared his teeth in satisfaction. Then, just as he caught himself swaying, and gripped the wall to steady himself, Hunter told him to lie on his back on the floor. The man was a fucking hawk. Nothing got past him. He always made Zak stand until he just fucking couldn’t anymore.

The floor was cool and hard and perfect against the welts on his back. Zak knew what was coming next. He was going to get to feel the treads of those spectacular boots. Not right away, though. First, Hunter began to kick, driving his boots into Zak’s arms, then his thighs, circling, delivering blow after shattering blow.

Being on the floor, with this miracle of a top towering over him, kicking him, made Zak more aware of his helplessness than anything else ever did. If there was one thing guaranteed to bring out his rage, it was that kind of awareness. This feeling was what had filled him last night, that there were things he could not control, however desperately he wanted to. That was what he had to release. So he concentrated on it, feeling it build inside him, this terrible rage-inducing feeling, as Hunter stoked it with every single blow.

He was screaming incoherent rage at Hunter, had lost words at this point, was just screaming and screaming, even though his throat was hoarse, and Hunter kept going until Zak’s voice was nearly gone altogether, before he lifted his boot, and ground it into Zak’s thigh. Zak felt himself growl, as he glared up at Hunter, who nodded, and, bracing himself on the wall, lifted his other boot, so his entire weight was on Zak’s thighs. Then he slowly, methodically, began to grind first one boot, then the other, into Zak, whose growl turned into a sob, and transformed into a shout.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!” Zak shouted at full volume, before breaking into sobs again. Hunter slowly removed his weight, then sank into his chair nearby, and crooked his finger at Zak, who crawled over to him, and grabbed onto his boots like they were a fucking lifeline. He kept on sobbing, Hunter’s hand stroking his hair, until he was spent. Then he just lay there for a good long while, his cheek pressed into Hunter’s boot, enjoying the man’s hand in his hair.

He raised his head finally, and Hunter told him to sit at his feet and drink some water. Zak sat between Hunter’s thighs, drank the water Xavier gave him, and listened, as Hunter told him what a good boy he had been, how brave and strong, and how much he had pushed himself, but Hunter knew he would, that was one of the things Hunter liked most about their sessions, and that was why he’d chosen to wear his new boots for the first time with Zak. Because Zak had earned this. His tears should be the first ones to touch them.

Zak breathed that in, wanting to set this memory in his mind as one he could draw on whenever he doubted his own strength. It was a beautiful gift, and he thanked Hunter for the honor and babbled a bit about how beautiful the boots were. Then he let Xavier fuss at him, and wrap him in a blanket, and concentrated on drinking his cocoa and eating his cookies—Xavier had baked the gluten free almond ones that he loved. As Zak focused on sweets, Hunter drank his own water and leaned into Xavier, who stood next to his chair, a pillar of support, telling him about the dinner he’d made for them.

identity politics

Bi-Erasure, Community, and Other Thoughts on Bisexual Visibility Day

Posted on September 23, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

It’s Bisexual Visibility Day!

Here’s a few things I want to put out there that are often misunderstood or stereotypes about bi folks.

Bisexual Doesn’t Necessarily Mean Two Genders

Some folks think “bisexual” is antiquated because bi means two, and it’s referring to being attracted to two genders. I have seen some great breakdowns about “bi” from a linguistic standpoint, and that the prefix bi can mean “from one end of the polarity to the other,” not necessarily “one thing and it’s opposite” or “two things.”

People can use whatever identity words they decide for themselves, let me be clear! If the word doesn’t work for someone, cool. I’ve heard people say that even agreeing that bisexual means attraction to lots of genders, they still don’t want to use the word, because the predominant understanding of it in culture is still meaning two. I always intend to support whatever words work best for you to describe yourself.

Bisexuality is Not A Phase

It is a legitimate sexual orientation, not a stop-over between compulsory heterosexuality and coming out as queer.

Except, you know, when it sometimes is, which is also fine.

Bisexual people belong at Pride.

And bisexual people are not always visibly queer, so there can be judgement, exclusion, and dirty looks at queer gatherings and pride events. This lack of inclusivity is part of bi-erasure, where bisexual folks are accidentally or intentionally excluded from queer community and events.

People, c’mon: do better.

You can’t necessarily tell if someone is queer by looking at them. Repeat that until it’s embedded in your brain. Also repeat, you can’t necessarily tell someone’s gender by looking at them.

Trans People Can Be Bisexual!

Many trans people identify as bisexual, just as many cis people do. Sexuality & gender are different things!

Bisexual Folks Aren’t Necessarily Polyamorous

Bisexual people aren’t necessarily polyamorous or generally slutty. They can be just as monogamous, polyamorous, open, slutty, or kinky as any other person of any other sexual orientation!

And that leads me to: people are still bisexual even if they’re in a monogamous relationship.

And on a personal note …

I’ve been thinking about being bisexual lately, and my own relationship to it, which is what is prompting me to write this.

Being a butch who has historically dated femmes, now that I’m dating a trans genderqueer boy/boi, I sometimes feel like part of my identity is lost or invisible.

I’ve had a lot of pushback for dating a boy, especially because I was so visible as a writer on butch/femme theories and smut. People have expressed disappointment, sent hate mail, left mean comments, and even accusations of misogyny (which, actually, I take very seriously, but it seems to be exclusively based in not dating a femme anymore, which in my definition isn’t the same as misogyny).

It’s been hard to have lost that visible identity as a butch who loves femmes, as well as receiving criticism.

I don’t usually think of myself as bisexual, partly because he is (so) exceptional and I still feel oriented to femmes, and partly because I’m not really involved with explicitly bisexual community so it’s not something that I’m around. (See how that implies that bisexual community is not within queer community? I believe it should be, & should be very welcome, but in practice, in my experience, it is separate.)

A lot of the concepts about bi-erasure and bisexual invisibility are really resonating with me at the moment. I’m really curious about folks who are bisexual go through some sort of process when they become monogamous — which doesn’t exclude who they are attracted to, but it excludes acting on those attractions, to some arranged and agreed upon degree. Is that something that is mourned by bisexual folks? Is there literature on that? As you can tell, I haven’t done any research on it yet — I’m just starting to articulate it myself.

I have heard people talk about that the difficulty when they are in a relationship with someone who transitions, and their sexual orientation is perceived to have changed by others, when in fact it may not have. It can create a feeling of invisibility, too.

I’m curious about the way the world — and the queer community specifically — perceives bisexual identities, and how much the orientation perception is really limited to who that person is with at the moment.

I primarily call myself queer when referring to my sexual orientation, though I do resonate with the lineage of lesbian and dyke. I wouldn’t correct someone if they used those terms. Bisexual still feels uncomfortable and not quite right, personally, but I am curious about some of the theory and how it relates to my current relationship structure.

Happy bisexual visibility day, all!

media

Table of Contents for Best Lesbian Erotica Volume 4 (2020)

Posted on September 18, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I have been eagerly waiting to share with you the work from the next Best Lesbian Erotica volume — and I can’t, yet, because it doesn’t come out until December — but here is the table of contents!

The book write-up for publicity things:

A mysterious warrior at the Renaissance Faire.
An elder reunited with a lost love.
A bottom with chronic pain.
A new play party for a long-term couple.
A fantasy speed-dating night.
A dress-up doll.
A femme gangbang…
Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 has it all!
Written by a refreshing group of individuals of various genders and sexualities, this arousing anthology explores identities and stories beyond the usual lesbian erotica. A diverse group of multi-talented authors explore a myriad of erotic delights: from fruit to silk scarves to spanking to whips, from the cozy home to the leather dungeon to the wrong side of the tracks. Award-winning editor Sinclair Sexsmith has put together a collection of varied sensual textures and flavors, but they all explore what it feels like to step fully into one’s own power, and feel deeply into one’s own body.

Introduction, Sinclair Sexsmith

Do Tell — Foster Joy
My Sweet Femme Nightmare — June Amelia Rose
Of Sword and Sorcery — Maria Chiara Ferro
Pinked — Avery Cassell
Pleasure With Her Pain — Ada Lowell
Leviathan — Catherine Collinsworth
Good Girls Do — Marie Carlson
Here Comes the Sun — Mx. Nillin Fuchs
Gina, Across the Tracks — Fallen Matthews
Adventure in Palm Springs — Dorothy Freed
The Strip — J. Mork
The Butler, the Flapper, and the Stable Boy — Gigi Frost
All Dolled Up — Olivia Dromen
What I Want — Laurel Isaacs
Brunch Service — Tobi Hill-Meyer
Pay Me No Mind — R. Magdalen
Modern Lovers (You Probably Haven’t Heard of Them) — T.R. Verten
Because Today Has Been the Most Beautiful Day — BD Swain
Crave — Xan West
Love Remembers — Angora Shade

I love each & every of these stories. They are very different from each other, but the thread through is a personal empowerment through playing with sexuality, eroticism, power, and BDSM.

Can’t wait for you to read the whole thing!

miscellany

Call For Submissions: Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year Volume 5 (2021), due October 31, 2019

Posted on September 12, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Editor: Sinclair Sexsmith

Publisher: Cleis Press

Deadline: October 31, 2019 (earlier encouraged)

Payment: $50 and 1 copy of the book within 90 days of publication

Rights: non-exclusive right to publish the story in this anthology in print, ebook and audiobook form. Authors will retain copyright to their stories.

Sinclair Sexsmith is editing the next volume of Best Lesbian Erotica, and is looking for your best sexy stories about queer women.

Representations of queer women, non-binary, and trans women’s sexuality that are not as frequently seen — with ability, race, ethnicity, class, neurodiversity, ace-spectrum, age, religion, or other marginalized viewpoints — are particularly of interest.

Writers who have not previously published are encouraged.

#Ownvoices stories are encouraged and will be prioritized.

The anthology is not limited to certain kinds of sex acts. “Vanilla,” BDSM, fetish, ace, and all kinds of sensual and sexual expression are welcome. I will be looking for a wide variety of sexual identities: mommy, mistress, sir, puppy, girl, servant, etc.

I will consider a few reprints published in 2019, but prefer unpublished stories. No simultaneous submissions.

Up to two submissions per author.

Stories should be between 2500-4000 words.

No poetry or speculative fiction.

Please submit your work through this Google form: http://bitly.com/bestlesbianerotica

If it does not work to submit your story via this form, please contact Sinclair directly at sinclair@sugarbutch.net with the subject line “Best Lesbian Erotica submission” and include your story as an attachment in .doc, .docx or .rtf format. Include the story title, your legal name, pseudonym (if applicable), 150-word bio, previous publication information for the story (if applicable), and mailing address.

Queries are welcome; contact sinclair@sugarbutch.net.

journal entries

Protected: On Inheriting Leather

Posted on August 30, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries, kink

Protected: Writing About D/s Online

Posted on August 29, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

cock confidence

Plus Size Pegging: A Longer Dildo & Comfortable Harness

Posted on August 26, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

My wife and I have been dabbling in pegging. She has mentioned to me that the harness is uncomfortable and that it would probably be better if we found a longer dildo, because we are a bit on the plus size. Currently we have a 6”, 7”, and 8”, so I’m thinking 10 or 12 “ length would be fine. I have looked for longer dildos but have come up empty handed and not real sure the best route to take in this hunt.
Any suggestion on a website or a product that could help us out? Thanks.
— C

Sure, I’ve got a few recommendations for you.

You’re totally right about a longer dildo. You have an 8″ already? Most of the ones made with high quality silicone don’t get too much longer than 8. SheVibe.com has some, but primarily Doc Johnson brand — which are usually made from very poor materials and have that very strong plastic off-gassing smell.

Gambler by Vixen Creations
also comes in vanilla, caramel, chocolate
Leroy by New York Toy Collective
also available in rose & seafoam

One of the high quality ones is Gambler by Vixen Creations. It’s gorgeous — and huge! 11″ long, 3″ circumference. It’s kind hard to tell just how big it is by the photos on their site & other sites.

(Maybe someone will send me one so that I can take some photos for you with comparable objects for size … hint.)

But honestly — that one might be too big!

Here’s another: try Leroy, from New York Toy Collective — It’s 9.5″ long, 2.5″ wide, so it’s pretty big. Duo-density, which means it has a hard core but a soft squishy outside, so it’s not like plastic so much as a toy. Plus the inner core is ‘posable’ so it can bend and stay in place. New York Toy Collective gives $5 off with code SUGARBUTCH.

As far as harnesses go: the one you want, in my opinion, is the Joque by SpareParts.

They have a size A that goes to 50″ waist and a size B to a 65″ waist. It’s stretchy and comfortable, more like wearing underwear, and gives a lot of tight control — more than the panty-style ones. Which also means the straps are wider and softer, so it doesn’t dig in to squishy parts like other harnesses do. It comes in some colors (red, black, purple) if the black is too boyish. It velcros, which makes it really easy to step into and you don’t have to fuss with buckles. It’s also easy to wash in the washing machine.

The Joque is jock-strap style, meaning it has two straps that go under the butt, not in between the butt cheeks. They do have a thong-style version, too, called Theo.

Hope that helps!

identity politics

What Are You Going To Do With That Women, Gender, Sexuality Studies Degree?

Posted on August 5, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I wrote & performed a poem called “What I’m Going To Do With My Women* Studies Degree” at the Gender, Women, Sexuality Studies graduation in 2004.

Ever since I saw it, I’ve been thinking of this tweet. Things are changing so, so much. I’m so grateful.

One of my favorite parts of the poem? “People ask me — ‘what are you going to do with that degree? Go work at the women studies factory?'”

(That poem is called Every Single Day on my 2004 spoken word poetry album, For the Record.)

When I took my first feminist theory class, at Seattle Central Community College in 2000 (wish I remembered the professor’s name to give credit), I had such a lightbulb moment that I felt bowled over. Oh. I’m a women studies major. Right. I forgot. Well, it’s not that I forgot, it’s that I had never thought that thought before, but now that I had, I knew completely that it was correct.

I needed that degree because I needed to understand the suffering I had related to my nonbinary (though we weren’t using that word then) gender and my queerness, and I came out of it with a bigger understanding of other intersectional identities like my artist/semi-working class background and my whiteness. That degree was survival, was key for me to be able to be an adult in the world and not be completely shut down by my experiences as a person with marginalized identities.

I was also a Creative Writing/English major, and my tentative plan was to work in book publishing. I figured I’d be writing eloquent emails and identifying the sexism in the workplace, and that’s what I’d be doing with it.

I used to feel some envy — or even jealousy — when other people would write eloquently about intersectional oppression, because I wanted so badly to do that. but jealousy is often the best teacher, because I doubled down and studied and wrote and wove my experience in with all the things I was learning. Sometimes I say Sugarbutch is my graduate degree, only partly in jest.

I never expected to have the tiny platform (very well known in very few places) that I have, talking about sexuality, gender, kink, and relationships. so much of what I know comes from that degree, and from the queer education my first queer roommate led me through when I was 20, 21, 22.

So I saw this tweet the other day and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It stopped me and I had to pause my scrolling and let it settle in.

Things are changing so, so much. I’m so grateful.

Seeing so many people picking up this conversation and doing so much work, in such huge ways … instead of feeling jealousy, I just feel relief.

Relief that the racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, heterosexism, cissexism, is being called out from within tiny communities to a national level. Not everywhere, I know, and I’m in a self-selected bubble on the internet just like I’m in a self-selected bubble in the liberal cities I’ve lived in all my adult life. But because of the internet, and advancing technology, and because of the marginalization and terror we are feeling so hard due to this presidency, it is happening in such larger ways.

And I’m feeling this slow ungripping, this letting go, this holding on to it softer. I’m still so invested, and I still get in there and get my hands and face and feet and whole self dirty sometimes, but I don’t feel obligated the way I did before.

Still, often, I feel like there is so much to do and so little has changed. But when I pull back a little, there are such significant differences even in my lifetime.

I’m so grateful for the strides.

And thank you, Earth, first for teaching me so much, and now for continuing to catch up.

*The degree at University of Washington Seattle at the time was called Women Studies, definitively with no apostrophe-s, because it was studies about women, not studies that women do. It’s now changed to Gender, Women, Sexuality Studies, which they abbreviate to GWSS and pronounce g-whiz. (Love it!) As a student, my class petitioned the department to change the name and expand to gender and sexuality, even to use the word ‘queer.’ This is one of the oldest Women Studies programs in the country, however; started in the early 80s (I think), and the first batch of professors were just then starting to retire. They said, you have no idea how hard we fought to use the word women, to convince the university that women studies is legit. I learned a lot from those conversations, and while I’m glad they changed the name, I respect the roots and think it’s important to name the lineage it comes from. Much love to the professors there who changed my life.

journal entries

Protected: Disrupt the Cycle

Posted on July 31, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

kink

Methods of Control in Your D/s Relationship: Defining Rules, Tasks, Protocol, and Ritual

Posted on July 24, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Relationships with authority exchange, using dominance and submission, are usually centered around control: who makes decisions, who dictates what happens, whose standards are upheld, who tells who to do what.

For lots of us, telling someone else what to do — or being told what to do — is the core of the fetish. It’s the thing that makes us feel all tingly and yummy and taken care of and important and good.

So, D/s relationships use a lot of rules, tasks, protocol, and ritual.

These words are often used interchangeably, but have nuanced differences. In my personal relationship, we’ve spent a lot of time ironing out what the key distinctions are and how to use them.

Your mileage may vary here — please, find and use the language that works for you. Sometimes I short-hand these in my work, so hopefully it’ll be useful to have a reference point for the definitions I’m using when I do.

”Rules” Are The Big Picture Guidelines

“Rules,” as I use them, are like a moral compass, like the underlying ethical values in the relationship.

You’ve probably been in a workshop or a classroom where the instructor set some expectations at the beginning, such as “One Mic: one person talks at a time.” (I’m sure you can think of many other examples of these.) This is a way we set community agreements with each other about the values we hold collectively, so we can be clear about the kind of behavior we expect.

Same goes for a relationship — these are the overarching guidelines we are agreeing to follow as part of our foundation.

Sometimes people call these things like guidelines, principles, or philosophies, but we call them rules — sometimes we refer to them as “capital-R Rules.” They are best when simple, clear, and straightforward (though that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re easy) — I suggest between 5-10, not very many. Because these rules are often words that have multiple definitions, being very clear about what they mean is important.

Examples of rules:

Transparency — be forthcoming about what is happening in your life
Respect — communication expectations, how we treat each other

”Protocols” Happen Ongoing

You can have dozens, even hundreds, of protocols underneath the rules. Sometimes they are directly related to the rules, but sometimes they are not.

Protocols are the instructions that are followed on a day to day basis. They are recuring and time-specific, meaning they have some sort of trigger that makes them happen. If they can be explained by the statement “if this, then that,” then I consider it a protocol.

Sometimes people call this “procedures” or “rules” in a relationship, though D/s folks tend to really like the word “protocol.” Sometimes I use “protocol” and “rules” interchangeably — such as, “rife has a rule that he asks permission to get in bed.” Meaning, that is a protocol. Or, “Whether or not he uses furniture isn’t a rule for us.” But what I mean is, we don’t have that protocol. (Mostly I do this in speech and am more careful in writing, for clarity.)

Most of us have lots of little protocols like this for ourselves, things that dictate our style and habits. Examples are things like, I never wear a blue shirt with blue jeans; I always wash my dishes after I eat; I never go to bed without a cup of tea. (I bet you can think of at least five that you already have, off the top of your head.)

They should be fluid — especially when one person is making protocols for another. They can be added or removed as the needs or desires of the folks involve change and grow. Sometimes they become so integrated that they are invisible. rife and I call our protocol notes a “living document” — sometimes it changes organically, sometimes we need to have a formal check-in about it and assess.

When introducing new protocols in a relationship, do so slowly, and a few (one or two) at a time. It can be so tempting — for all of us! — to pile on the protocols and get hot and excited about it, but that quickly can become overwhelming, which both means it’s hard for the dominant to track what’s happening and it’s hard for the submissive to implement. Make sure to let everyone have time to integrate and practice the new protocol before adding more.

I’m not going to go in to enforcing protocol, but there are many complicated things to say about it.

How do you figure out which protocols you want to make? Well, that’s a process! I have a lot of theories through my workshops like The Protocol Game and the Discipline Unit of D/s Playground.

Examples of protocol:

Brush, floss, and use mouthwash immediately after you wake up
No screen time after 9pm
Always wear matching bra & panties
Get a manicure once every two weeks with a polish of my choice

”Procedures” Are How Things Are Done

Protocol is what I want to be done, and the procedure is how I want it done. “Do the dishes every night before bed” is a protocol; “wash the dishes with this type of soap; put them this way in the drying rack organized by size; wipe down all the counters, sink, and stove; set up the coffee pot to be ready in the morning” might be the procedures underneath that protocol.

Usually, the procedure can be taught once (and perhaps guided or corrected, as time goes on) and documented clearly, and the submissive will have a point of reference. The protocol might happen daily, but the procedure is explained and then enforced.

Procedures are slightly different than rituals because while they reinforce the dynamic through controlled behavior, they aren’t necessarily intending to generate D/s headspace or a spiritual connection. They do often have multiple steps within them, but they are usually concrete steps.

Often, people include how a protocol is done in the definition of the protocol itself. Nothing wrong with that! I’m just breaking down the two different concepts for clarity.

Examples of procedures:

“Make my coffee:” add creamer until the color matches this paint chip, approximately two tablespoons; add one dash of simple syrup
“Make the bed:” military corners, fluff the pillows, put pillows on top of the sheet and blanket

“Tasks” Are One-Time Assignments

Tasks are assignments which are done one time. Sometimes they have deadlines, sometimes they are open ended.

Tasks could evolve into protocols, particularly over time — for example, “Pick up my dry cleaning tomorrow,” is a task, but “Pick up my dry cleaning every Thursday,” is a protocol.

With tasks … the sky’s the limit! Tasks are great when starting out in a relationship, because the people involved can get a sense of what they like and don’t like, what the dominant’s style is, what works, and what doesn’t. Plus, they are great opportunities for rewards (even if the reward is a spanking).

One fun way to do task assignments is to give them a task with the instructions that they will get another one when they complete this one. That way they can take their time with it — if they have an incredibly busy schedule, or if it is very elaborate, it could take a month, but if it is simpler or they have more time, it could take a day.

Some task examples:

Run an errand and pick up [object] at [place]
Write me an email with short descriptions of five fantasies
Clean the kitchen and bathroom before [date]
Make me [this particular] piece of art

“Rituals” Remind Us of D/s Headspace

This could sometimes be known as “routines,” though I use the word “ritual” because it has a slightly different intention behind it — the word “routine” sounds a little more like being on auto-pilot. I think of the intention as being connection to the D/s dynamic, each other, and possibly a larger purpose — a spiritual path. Either way, rituals are intended to get us deeper into a D/s headspace, to bring more consciousness and intention. Toutines are generally intended to become background habits that propel us through our lives.

Routines are often used more in the day-to-day, and rituals are used for more special occasions, but using the word ritual for the day to day — hopefully — brings more consciousness to it.

Rituals are larger events that usually have multiple steps or aspects of protocol. They also have a particular trigger, such as: when we wake up together, then do the morning ritual.

Rituals might be daily or occasionally. We might have morning/evening ritual, or a New Year’s Eve ritual, or we might have a once in a lifetime ritual of a bat mitzvah upon turning 13.

Examples of rituals:

When your alarm goes off at 6:30am, get up from your sleeping spot and kneel on my side of the bed until I acknowledge you. I will rise and stand above you, and we will recite our morning poem. I will go to the shower and you will begin cooking
When someone graduates from school, we go to our favorite restaurant and invite the whole family
When we have been apart, before anything else, the submissive kneels and kisses their dominants boots

That’s my thoughts — how do you use these words?

Do you use them in similar ways that we do? Or different? Do you prefer to call these concepts something different? Totally cool. These are ideas to jump-start what works best for you, and have clarity in the different categories of control in D/s relationships.

Hopefully, having different categories makes it easier to create and brainstorm protocols to try out.

essays

Decks, Books, & Spreads: Getting Started with a Tarot Practice

Posted on July 12, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’ve been sharing more of my tarot practice (particularly on my personal Instagram) lately, and getting some questions.

With the rise of self-publishing, artists from around the world have been able to create and publish their own decks through places like Kickstarter and on-demand — so there are literally hundreds of decks.

And then, once you have a deck, where do you start?

Three Decks

You only need one deck, technically, but a lot of folks end up collecting a few 9or a lot). Here are three of my favorites (and the most popular and accessible), with a few others thrown in. Ultimately, tarot decks are works of art, and you want to choose one where the art speaks to you, and you find meaning to sit with and absorb in the imagery.

The Wild Unknown, by Kim Kranz

The Wild Unknown is the most popular tarot deck right now, usurping the classic Rider-Waite deck (more on that next). Kim Kranz’s illustrations are clear, accessible, beautiful. The accompanying guidebook is simple and straightforward. It’s a great modern, simple interpretation of the concepts, and a fantastic deck to start with.

There are two websites which have catalogued all the cards in the Wild Unknown and written some of their own interpretations, and those can drop you in to even deeper meanings of the cards: Carrie Mallon, and Mira Sol Wisdom. Order it at your favorite local bookstore or new age store, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Rider-Waite-Smith, traditional

If the archetypes and hero’s journey of the tarot speaks to you, you might want to start diving in to the traditional theory a little more. Most of the deep theory of the tarot uses the traditional Rider-Waite, or Rider-Waite-Smith deck.

Why am I referring to it with two different names? Rider is the publisher, Waite is the writer, and Patricia Coleman Smith is the illustrator. The deck has been called Rider or Rider-Waite for decades, but many folks now are moving toward calling it the Smith deck, as the imagery is one of the most intense and lasting thing about the deck itself.

Rachel Pollack and Mary Greer are two of the most renowned tarot theorists, and all of their work focuses on this deck. They have many books (more on that below). Jessica Dore is a modern tarot reader who is using social media — Twitter and Instagram — to share interpretations based on psychotherapy concepts and models. She has online courses and classes, too.

This deck is usually less than $20, and pretty much all stores which carry tarot decks will have it. Try your local crystal – new age – witchy store, or grab it on Amazon.

Spacious Tarot, forthcoming by Annie Ruygt and Carrie Mallon

Carrie Mallon is a bit of a modern tarot celebrity. I found her through her Wild Unknown interpretations and have followed her work ever since.

She has just finished her own tarot deck, the Spacious Tarot, illustrated by Annie Ruygt, and it is b e a u t i f u l. I’m already anticipating that it will be one of my most-loved and most-used decks when it arrives. Her kickstarter closes July 20th, go grab it there.

I also really love …

Inner Hue’s Lumina Tarot, Raven’s Prophecy, Anima Mundi, Wayhome. I’m really excited about a few more decks coming out this summer: The Witch’s Insurrection and Modern Witch Tarot.

And then there are the queer decks!

There are quite a few which have explicitly reimagined some of the more patriarchal themes. Some of them, like Carrie’s Spacious Tarot above, move away from the patriarchal imagery, but still aren’t explicitly queer. But even more of them are explicitly queer, and many of the interpretations are much more modern, using queer activist language.

They often re-interpret the court cards, for example — instead of “page / knight / queen / king,” or “daughter / son / mother / father,” they might interpret them more as stages of a wisdom practice, like “seeker / apprentice / artist / mentor” (The Collective Tarot) or “beast / witch / grandmother / shadow” (Tarot of the Crone).

Rather than compile my own list, here are a few good ones: Autostraddle has a list of eight queer tarot decks, and Queer Tarot has a great list too.

Three books

Some come with books, and some don’t, so you might want a book or two of interpretations of the cards in addition to your deck. I tend to pick my favorite deck, then use multiple books to read interpretations of the cards until I feel like I have a sense of what it means and how it applies.

Queering the Tarot by Cassandra Snow

This book started as a series on a great queer tarot website (now shut down), but lucky for us, it turned into a book. Cassandra Snow dives into the traditional meanings of the cards and offers new interpretations based on lived queer experience and

Order it at your favorite local bookstore, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom by Rachel Pollack

One of the best interpretation and theory books I can recommend. If you want to go deep, here’s the one to go to. It has in-depth writings for each of the cards, of course, but it features more philosophy about the progression of the Major Arcana than most books do, and more connection between the cards and the journeys embodied in the cards. For example, in the six of swords, it might reference how it’s a bridge from the five to the seven — things like that. Highly recommend it if you want to get more into the archetypes, hero’s journey, and interwoven connections of the tarot. Order it at your favorite local bookstore, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Tarot For Your Self: A Workbook for Personal Transformation by Mary K. Greer

Mary K. Greer is considered one of the great tarot leaders, and this workbook will make it obvious why. It is a great resource to keep unfolding all the ways that tarot can be used for personal insight and growth.

Order it from your local bookstore or new age store, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Soul Tarot School by Lindsay Mack

I have to mention Lindsay Mack and Soul Tarot School — she has a variety of ecourses, but also her tarot podcast has been hugely influential for me. I look forward to her “monthly medicine” episodes every month, and it’s one of the few podcasts I actually keep up with.

Daily practice

One of the best ways to get to know your deck is by pulling a card daily.

Sit still and bring your focus in. Get centered. Breathe. Ground. Whatever your practice is to get in touch with yourself, do that for a minute or two.
Shuffle the cards. Most tarot folks use the overhand shuffle method, rather than the riffle shuffle, I suppose because it prevents the cards from bending. Tarot decks can be many different sizes, too, so it is easier for bigger decks.
Ask: What energy would support me today? What should I be calling in? Where should my energy focus? Your wording may vary, so find words that work for you. Focus on that request.
Choose one card. It could be the one on top, or a random one from the deck that is calling to you.
Sit with the imagery for a minute and see what you feel. How would you interpret it?
If you want, look it up in whatever books or online sources that you’d like. Some folks read entirely intuitively, from the imagery, and don’t use other sources, but you can use none or one or seven or however many you’d like. I like to pull a variety of books down, and see the different interpretations of the cards in each one. Sometimes I look through the corresponding hashtag for that particular card on Instagram to see even more artistic interpretations of the card, and the posts often include some write-up interpretations, too. For example: #fiveofswords, #thehierophant, #kingofwands.

Three spreads

Three-card

If I want to go a little deeper than one card, if I have some time or a bigger psychoemotional puzzle, I might do a three card spread instead. Labyrinthos has a list of 18 simple 3-card tarot spreads, and I use these frequently for just a little more than a single daily pull. I particularly like Situation – Action – Outcome, and use that often.

Deck Introduction

Katey Flowers has a tarot deck interview spread that I usually conduct any time I get a new deck. It feels like a way to ground into the new imagery and tone of the deck. It asks things like, how can we work together? What can you teach me? Describe yourself; describe me. I find it insightful and helpful, like a first date with the deck.

Spreads for special occasions

One of my favorite things to do is to pull out the cards on a particularly meaningful day. Sometimes that’s my birthday, a holiday, the solstices and equinoxes, an eclipse, a new moon or full moon, a life-changing event. There are dozens of spreads for all of these, depending on what you’re looking for. A quick Google search for whatever you’re looking for will bring up many options, as will some looking around on Instagram.

For example, I recently used this spread by @lionharts on Instagram on July 2nd, for the Total New Moon Solar Eclipse in the sign of cancer. But it could be any particular occasion — try Pinterest, Instagram, or just a Google image search for the occasion + “tarot”, and plenty of spread options will come up.

Ultimately, tarot is a personal journey.

Discard everything I’m saying here if it doesn’t resonate — Find what works for you.

journal entries

Protected: Two

Posted on July 7, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries

Protected: Spirolic Breaking

Posted on June 30, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

kink

Kinky Summer Camps You Should Definitely Attend

Posted on June 28, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I spent two weekends in June at kink events that were primarily outdoors — Desire: Leather Women and Boundless. Both were here in California, Desire in Palm Springs and Boundless near Ukiah.

I had a great time — I’d been to both events before. While they’re wildly different in terms of who they attract, the tone of it, the cross-section of the leather community, the classes, and even the location, I was struck by what they had in common.

I spend a lot of time observing — at these events, but also in general. As I sat in a chair in the shade by the pool at Desire, and as I sat on a picnic bench eating lunch at Boundless, I had the same thought:

I hope all adults do this.

At least once, if not every summer, if not all the time.

Not just the kink part of the sex part, but the body positivity. People wore whatever they wanted to wear: head to toe leather, suits, fancy dresses I would even call gowns, sarong wraps, mesh jock straps, wrist and ankle cuffs with nothing else, or just completely nude. (I wished them much sunscreen.)

I wouldn’t think of an outfit that would stand out in a way that they would “look weird,” be judged, shamed, or not fit in. Maybe a military or police uniform? But even that has a place in kink, as many have uniform fetishes (though it is problematic at best, and outright violent at worst, as they are symbols of racist and classist systems. Still, they are seen in kink spaces).

I don’t think there’s a body that would stand out, either. There are so many people of so many sizes, abilities, appearances. I’m sure that body shaming, fat phobia, and ablism all still happen, I’m not trying to say they don’t — this community is a microcosm, after all, not some magical safe haven where the cultural biases don’t exist.

But generally, there’s a different standard of body acceptance at these retreats. There are tiny women with big burly men on leashes, there are round men in kilts with three submissive girls in tow, there are conventionally gorgeous women who are just there to watch, there are fat non-binary folks with a different play partner every time they turn around, there are gender-fabulous people with beards and high heels.

It’s every configuration I can think of, and some I would probably never think of; my own bias is frequently questioned.

And I love it.

The folks who attend are, for the most part, cultural outsiders. Sure, many are conventionally attractive and some have “beauty privilege,” but many (even most?) don’t. To many, we’ve always been the weirdos. But there’s no being the weirdo here — or maybe more accurately, we’re all weirdos here, in a reclaimed, honored way.

Beyond the body acceptance, it also struck me just how unique, unparalleled, and embodied play these spaces encourage. They really are adult playgrounds, places we can explore connection with others; temperature like the swimming pool, hot tub, fire play, body bags; sensation on the skin and muscles and fascia from bold to subtle to sensual to violent; ways to move and run and jump and wrestle and chase; ways we make up the rules to our games and get others to play along, follow the leader and tag and laughter and interpersonal group social politics.

Of course, with all our adult knowledge of complexities — like consent, psychology, authority exchange, systems of oppression patters of trauma and habit and conditioning — it’s not easy play. But that, too, is part of what makes it fun — the challenge, the risk, the thrill.

I hope everyone spends time in these environments.

That they are held outdoors in clothing-optional spaces (in summer) is key — we can wear anything, we can be on leashes or stilts, in bondage or pajamas. We can have our bellies hanging out, showing our scars in all their glory and history, our genitals touched by the sunshine (again with the sunscreen wishes!).

I hope everyone gets to experience this at least once in their lives. Even if it isn’t comfortable for them to be nude, or to not bind, or to not wear makeup, or show their desires to anyone watching, it is incredible to see so many people doing so. It is incredible to see so much permission to take up space, to go for it — to play with our bodies in every and any sense of the word.

I’m sure I don’t know all of the events that are like this, but here’s a list of a few you can check out if you want to attend something like this. They really are worth flying across the country to attend.

Check out these events:

Boundless — in Northern California, about half an hour from Ukiah. Outdoors, food provided, wonderful education, dungeons and activities in the evenings. Most attendees bring their own tents and camp, but there are some cabins and some shared rooms in the lodge available. The event center, Saratoga Springs, hosts other kink events, too.

Desire Leather Women — in Palm Springs, California. It’s a women-only event, which means trans and cis women. As with any event that is gender-specific, they’ve received some criticism about their policies, but in my experience it’s been a welcoming, inclusive environment. As two transmasculine / trans-ish people, rife & I have loved attending.

Dark Odyssey Fusion, and Dark Odyssey Summer Camp — Summer Camp is where rife and I met (and, later, where I threw a scavenger hunt engagement party, so obviously I’m biased, because I think it’s the best event ever. More specifically though, it’s held at Camp Ramblewood near Baltimore, Maryland, which hosts many kink events through the year. They’re mostly pansexual, lots of amazing education and celebrations, I love having a pool and huge grass lawn and as much outdoor play as we want. If I lived closer, I would be there every time.

I haven’t attended any of these, but here are some others to check out — if y’all have been there, I’d love to hear what you thought.

Camp Crucible — Camp Ramblewood, near Baltimore
Gear Up — Saratoga Springs, Northern California
Kinky Queer Weekend — near Portland, Oregon
The Chase — A human fox hunt! Whispering Pines Resort north of Napa Valley, California
Beach Bind — a rope con-cation. 2020 is in Jamaica, though I’m not sure if that’s a special year or every year
Beltaine — Camp Ramblewood, near Baltimore
C2K: Camping Cookouts & Kink — Albany Power Exchange, near Albany, NY
Camp Hard Wood — near Minneapolis/St Paul, Minnesota

If you have other events like this to recommend, please leave them in the comments!

I imagine this kind of liberation is what many people find at events like Burning Man, circus arts gatherings, or other hotel-based kink and sexuality conferences. It’s different, to me, to have them all combined — outside, kink, sex, all clothing optional.

If you’ve attended any of these, I’d love to know what your experience was like. Often people particularly ask me how it was to be there as a queer nonbinary person — most kink events are largely white, cis, and straight, so finding ones that have a strong queer component, or aren’t that way at all, is a concern for a lot of folks.

I’ve experienced this in the summer 5-day residential retreat that my spiritual community produces, called Portals of Pleasure. We producers/facilitators have been doing this for 11 years now, and I’ve been part of the planning and facilitation team since the beginning. It’s challenging to describe, though we tried on our recent podcast episode. What’s the most different about it compared to these others is that Portals is 25 people maximum, and these others have hundreds of people. It’s also much more personal, tailored, curated … there’s no pickup play, it’s all very intentional and, for me, much more intense and deeper.

Portals is happening at the end of July. If that kind of group erotic embodiment / sacred somatic work is something you’re already familiar with, I invite you to reach out and learn more, and see if it is a good fit for you.

If you aren’t familiar with it, take a look at the workshops I’m cofacilitating in Seattle this coming year about BDSM and energy. They aren’t beginner workshops, but they are suitable to folks who haven’t done erotic/spiritual group work in the past but who are familiar with play parties, kink, and play. They will be near the solstices and equinoxes as part of our Year Wheel series.

Glad to talk more about them, just send me a note and let’s talk.

But meanwhile — find one of those kinky summer camps! And let me know what you think.

journal entries

Protected: Under Water

Posted on June 18, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

guest posts

A Moaning Mess of a Girl, Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

Posted on May 28, 2019by Kiki DeLovely

I wake with a start, reaching for my phone. 5:35am. Shit, which way is it again? Could be either 2:35 or 8:35 where you’re at. This should be quick and easy math in my head but I keep going back and forth between adding the threes for you and subtracting them for me. Both of these options seem like impossible times in my hazy, dream-laden mind. Subtract the three. Yes, it’s definitely subtraction on my end. But it doesn’t matter. Both of these preposterous times mean that you’re probably asleep…and I unquestionably ought to be as well. I roll over and barely have a minute of self-indulgent pouting before I realize something is vibrating in my hand.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

I blush, curling into a tiny ball, beaming into the phone. Your voice is cracked, raspy with slumber heavy on your tongue, honey to my ears. My lugubrious lips quickly arc upwards, forming the sweetest smile.

“Good morning, handsome.”

“Do something for me.” You politely await my reply even though this favorite line of yours has long since ceased being a question. Really, more of a call and response because my answer is always the same:

“Anything.”

“Roll over. Touch yourself for me. Be a good girl for Daddy.”

I can tell from the tone in your voice how hard you are already. The desire drips from each slow syllable. And these few simple words have an immediate, palpable effect on my body. My clit began to throb before you completed that first sentence. My pussy quivers, glistening so soon. I can barely form words when you talk to me like that. You know how to make me so fucking shy. Delighting in it. Add to that my mounting orgasm and I’m a non-verbal, moaning mess of a girl. Lucky for me, you’re perfectly content to hear nothing but those inarticulate melodies as I come for you, writhing in between my crimson sheets. And then again.

My butch Daddy, your unique flavor of female masculinity and dominance was set to high heat the moment you laid eyes on me, stirred to a quick boil that first night we spent in your precariously lofted bed, bubbling up and spilling all over my body every day since. I feel blessed to witness you coming into your own so thoroughly, to get to experience it firsthand. Mmmm…your hands. How I long for them. So rough and strong, you never knew to have pride in them until I purred under your touch as you stroked them down my exposed back, cupping my ass. I cooed my craving into the curve of your neck, letting you know just how much the ascendancy of those hands turn me on. My femme instinct smelled the butch all over you long before you ever used the word to describe yourself. I sensed it burning inside of you, eagerly awaiting a femme like me to show you just how desirable female masculinity can be. To express how it’s one of the many parts of you I honor and cherish. To prove to you that I just can’t get enough. And even with all the distance between us now, we don’t let that get in our way. We simply search out other methods to stay connected.

Email, Facetime, mobile-to-mobile, texting (sexting), voicemail. Damn, you’ve got me going against everything I believe in. I detest technology. In all of its many, varied forms. Yet here I find myself. Sleeping with my phone turned on in case you call, sending endless fantasies on the tiniest keyboard until my thumbs cramp up, last night you even put me to bed over the computer. I normally resist sleeping in the same room with anything electronic, let alone something connected to wifi. But I’ll admit that the sound of your voice singing me to sleep and that of your shallow breathing when I awoke in the middle of the night was so sweetly comforting. And such a turn on. Instead of waking you though I let you sleep.

This time. Next time you’re going to be roused with quite the little show. I decide to pour all my mid-night lust into mid-day distractions that’ll make your hours at work fly by faster.

2:57pm. Subtract the three. Noon is just as good a time as any to get this started. Text is my weapon of choice today.

I lick my lips. Slowly. You groan, fighting hard against your instinctual impulses. My mouth is watering, Daddy. May I please give you a little kiss?

The minutes crawl by too slowly as I impatiently check my phone for the hundredth time. I want to keep going but I can’t. Not without your express permission. So I squirm around in my bed, jilling off lazily, feeling more and more desperate for your response. Proud of myself for only sending one frantic pleading message in the meantime as I wait out each of those torturous, interminable forty-seven minutes before you reply.

Lick your lips again and kiss Daddy.

I nearly come when you send me such lascivious demands. But I can’t be distracted now. My aim is to distract you.

I bend forward and gradually lower my mouth. My pretty little mouth that you so love inching closer and closer to your hard-on, the tip of my tongue gliding across my upper lip. Looking up at you with big brown eyes, I pucker my lips and kiss the head of your cock. An electric volt of desire starts there, shooting straight through you, making your whole body jump.

The current running through your body is so intense that you don’t even notice until it’s too late that I’ve gone and gotten greedy, wrapping my hand around the base of your cock and going in for another kiss. Sans permission. Bad girl. It’s not until your feel the warmth of my lips opening a little wider this time that you realize. You feel the pressure of my tongue ease across the tip of your cock. Very bad girl. So you grab me by the back of my hair with such force that I cry out.

You drag me up and throw me down on the bed. Your patience was bound to break and I pushed you over the edge sooner than you’d have liked. So now I’m gonna get it. Fear and desire shine in my eyes, a lustful tempest in yours, as you shove my legs apart. You hear the lace of my panties ripping as you tear them to the side, not giving a fuck what you tear. You drive your cock into me, taking me rougher than ever before. Taking it all in one single thrust. Taking what’s yours.

I look down at my phone, grinning and gratified at having ruined you for the rest of your day.

* * *

I can feel my phone trill in my pocket but I’m in the middle of a story, surrounded by my family. Receiving anything from you while I’m around them makes me nervous. So I wait until an opportune moment presents itself to make my way to the bathroom. Closing the door while fumbling with the touch screen, I see the little red circle above “Mail” has increased in number many times over. Most of them are photos – which I love, don’t get me wrong, my eyes drinking in every pixel of you, the beauty you’ve encountered in your journeyings – but it’s your words that do me in:

I look into your eyes, your wanting eyes, and return the gaze with mine. Bending you over slowly, you grip your ankles for support as I take my cock in hand and place it between your legs. But I don’t go inside you, I don’t touch anything, actually. I hold it there beneath your pussy and wait, like waiting for raindrops. Opening your pussy with my right hand, I exhale with satisfaction. It is as I hoped. You are wet enough for this. Your wet is all over my cock now, dripping onto it as I hold it at your hole. It’s running up to your clit, it wants to make its way to your inner thighs. This. This is what I wanted. I pull away from you and run my hand all over your juices. All over me. I can feel it all over me.

These words go straight to my cunt and now I’m unbuttoning my jeans one-handedly, struggling to get to my clit fast enough. Fuck, I’m so fucking wet. Just like in your fantasy. Rereading it two and a half more times before I’m coming hard and fast, I wash my hands and rejoin my sisters, hoping they won’t smell how much I need you.

God, my jaw is aching. You make me too happy. The muscles in my cheeks are out of practice. It seems like my head is constantly thrown back these days – either in a fit of laughter or of passion. I suppose the jaw-ache could also be all the blow jobs I’ve been giving you. Still I can’t stop myself. I glance at the hands on the wall. Quarter to four. You’re off at 3:00pm today. Add the three. That gives me plenty of time to get myself going and leave you a voicemail.

Before dialing yours, I call mine and search out my very favorite message. I want to be so close when I call so that nerves don’t take over and I’m actually able to orgasm. I know you’ll hear the difference if I don’t. Hitting the four, I replay your words once more. “That’s my good girl. Oh, I’m so close. Fuck. You get me so hard. I’m gonna take my cock out and come all over your pussy. Ohhh, I’m coming for you. Fuck. So fucking hard. All over you. Reach down and put that cum in your pussy now. Do it for me. Do it for me, babygirl. Shove it in with your fingers. Now rub it up all over your clit. You like that? I want my cum all over you.”

Despite being quite the filthy girl, I had never imagined myself getting off to such a thought. And you never dared dream a dyke would find your secret fantasies so arousing. Yet here we are. Reveling in every last drop. And you know my screams are genuine when you skip out of work early to take a listen. Leaving you throbbing the rest of the day.

I wake with a moan, clutching at the covers. You know I’m yours, all of me, so you’re allowed to take whatever you want, whenever you want it. And so you do. 4:44am. Subtract the three. You must be just getting home from your gig. Horny. We both sleep weird and few hours. Fewer and fewer since we first met. The unpredictable hours kept by a musician and a writer. Between band practice, random deadlines, my insomnia on top of yours, we’re lucky if either of us gets more than a few hours’ sleep at any given time. Still you can’t help yourself. Or rather, you do. You help yourself quite generously. There may be 2,818 miles between us, but I still know when you’re jacking off to me. You take me in my dreams, I awake with the sheets soaking wet.

I wake with a start, reaching for my laptop. 5:51am. I don’t bother with the math – it’s not you I need to write this time, it’s a story that needs to surface. Fuck, it’s been too long since I woke with a story itching at my fingertips. And this one is all you. You and me. Us. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I need to give it a voice. One of my favorite love stories of all time. One that’s so brimming with lust it pours out all around us. Unlike so many of my fantasy-filled favorites that exist only between the covers, this one is real. So painfully and beautifully real. Plagued with writer’s block for frustratingly drawn-out months, you came along and broke the spell.

Thank you, my muse, my butch, my Daddy. I whisper a blessing of gratitude to whomever is listening. Hoping you hear me as well. Knowing you’re feeling me. Because I’m feeling you.

nonbinary diaries

The Singular “They” Is Grammatically Correct, Dammit

Posted on May 16, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Hello!

I just read your identity pronoun piece on Medium and I would like to converse with you about a few questions I have.

My child is currently identifying as non-binary. My only issue is from a grammar stand point. I struggle with referring to an individual in a plural way due to years of grammar education. I truly feel that I (and possibly others) may catch on quicker if it didn’t seem like we were being incorrect with the grammar by being correct in addressing the person.

I truly ask this with an open heart and mind. Do you think due to the creation of the subset — or acknowledgement as it were- that it may be easier for those outside the set to be mindful and those in the set to become recognized?

I look forward to your commentary.

Regards,
Renee’

This is a real email that I received, though I did edit it to be shorter.

Here is my reply.

Hi Renee’,

I hear ya with the kind intention of this question. You’re not alone in asking it — many, many people do not like the use of the “singular they” as a nonbinary pronoun.

Here are a few resources for you.

Other options for third person pronouns:

Many transgender, gender non-confirming (GNC), and nonbinary folks in the US have been using pronouns aside from he or she for decades. Ze, hir, zir, xie, ey, and per are just a few that some of my community has used over the years. Here is a table of many of the different third-person gender pronouns used in English.

In GNC communities, people choose which pronoun they feel best fits them and resonates for them. The use of the singular they was always one of many, but it is only recently that it has become widely accepted in the mainstream English speaking / US environment.

Why singular they is okay:

Singular they was declared the word of the year by the American Dialect Society in 2015.

It has been in consistent use as a third person singular pronoun since the 1300s. Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Emily Dickinson all use it in their work. The wikipedia entry on it breaks it down quite well. Here is another longer history of the usage of the singular they.

Whether or not you realize it, most people already use the singular they. It is just used more generically, rather than individually. Teen Vogue has a good write-up of the common questions asked about nonbinary pronouns.

Because singular they has been used for so long, it is generally the easiest third person nonbinary pronoun for people to grasp.

Which do you think is easier to say?

they went to the store
ze went to the store
pe went to the store

On changing language:

I get that it’s hard to change the use of something that has always been one way. But language changes all the time. Here’s a list of TED talks that discuss how language is fluid and changes.

Language is solidified by those in power. Those who have been in power have been (are) cisgender people. But language is more of a living thing that both reflects and shapes cultural norms. Changing the language changes the oppression of marginalized people.

Using singular ‘they’ also helps with another major feminist linguistic issue: the way we default to using he/him pronouns as general examples in English. Using they/them solves that problem, and is much less awkward than using “s/he” or “she or he,” and challenges the use of maleness as the norm.

Here are two books for you:

A Quick & Easy Guide to
They/Them Pronouns

The Gender Book

Perhaps this part is the most important:

It takes uncomfortable change to be inclusive and supportive of marginalized people.

Yes, it can be uncomfortable to use the singular they. Yes, it means you will probably mess up as you are getting used to it, and perhaps hurt some people’s feelings, and perhaps have to apologize and learn and do better, and that is uncomfortable. But it is essential to try in order to make a world that can be more welcoming, inclusive, and celebratory of marginalized and oppressed folks.

This is a very clear, very concrete way that nonbinary people are asking to be supportive. Please do it.

Last, but not least:

Please consider doing your own Google research before asking nonbinary people, such as myself, to do research and explain things to you. This has taken an hour of my time that I could be otherwise working for money, being with my friends, or creating my own art.

I decided to do this for you because I am going to use this as my next article and make it public. But next time, please use Google — or a librarian, whose job it is to help you find information! — and educate yourself. There are thousands and thousands of articles, videos, and offerings online that already explain the things you’re asking me.

Things you could Google for additional research:

how to use the singular they
why use singular they
history of singular they
is singular they grammatically correct
how to be supportive of nonbinary people
alternative third person pronouns
use of singular they in literature
changing language over time

Asking nonbinary people to do work to educate cis people is a form of emotional labor that costs us time, effort, and energy. It is incredibly common for nonbinary people to be asked to educate cis people, and it is exhausting.

Next time you ask for labor like this, at least offer to compensate. I do coach people on gender, sexuality, and relationship issues, and I would be happy to consider coach you further. Contact me if you wish to pursue that.

In conclusion:

If you agree with me, great. Please share this.

Perhaps you do not agree with me, and you’re one of those people who only uses “cool” to describe temperature. But if you insist on prioritizing grammar rules above honoring nonbinary people, I insist on thinking you’re a jerk.

Sincerely,
Sinclair

Pronouns: they/them

PS: If you appreciate the time I put into this article, please consider supporting me on Patreon or making a PayPal donation to my email address, sinclair@gmail.com

event

Announcing: D/s Playground! Summer 2019

Posted on May 13, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

D/s Playground is a course for dominants, switches, submissives, folks who are curious, folks who aren’t sure where they fall, and anyone in between.

You only have to want to study consensual authority exchange — dominance and submission — in depth from a trauma-informed, queer, nonbinary, intersectional perspective.

Here are the details!

What is D/s Playground?

D/s Playground is an online course. It doesn’t teach you how to be a dominant or a submissive, but rather offers tools, resources, texts, and experiments to explore your own relationship to dominance, submission, and authority exchange, so you can articulate your interests and explore your edges. After these explorations you will be able to better communicate what you’re looking for and desire — which greatly increases your chances of having it!

There is an introduction video & article for the basic agreements and concepts of the course, and then there are four units — Bondage, Discipline, Service, and SadoMasochism (that spells the acronym BDSM).

Each unit has some or all of the following:

How-to videos by sex & BDSM educators
Dirty stories to read
Nonfiction how-to articles to read
Additional fun, like quizzes & checklists
Journal prompts to reflect on each of the materials
An experiment — something for you to do, in person, alone or with someone else, to try out the concepts of the unit

When is this happening?

Each unit will be available LIVE and included with $5+ patrons benefits through Patreon:

May 25, 2019 – Unit 1: Bondage
July 20, 2019 – Unit 2: Discipline
September 20, 2019 – Unit 3: Service
November 25, 2019 – Unit 4: SadoMasochism

The units on Patreon will be recorded, but only the parts with rife and myself will be made public; none of the parts from other participants will be included later.

Yes, it will be available for everyone — not just through Patreon!

Each unit will be available for everybody the following month. (This will give us some time to edit videos, set up the payment systems, etc.)

June 30, 2019 – Unit 1: Bondage
August 30, 2019 – Unit 2: Discipline
October 30, 2019 – Unit 3: Service
December 30, 2019 – Unit 4: SadoMasochism

How much will it be?

Each unit will be $69, and all four units can be downloaded for $200. You can preorder them this summer, or wait until the end of the year when they are all available.

A few more questions … ?

Do I have to be in a partnership? Can I do this solo?

Absolutely, you can do this solo, in partnership, with play partners, long distance — in any kind of structure of a relationship. The experiments are all built to be adapted to any scenario.

I’ve taken Submissive Playground before, should I do this one too?

Sure! You will recognize some of the materials, but some of them are new. We had many people take Submissive Playground more than once, and because we are always growing and changing, our relationship to D/s is always growing and changing, so they found new things in the activities. Plus, there are many ways to adapt the experiments and do it differently the next time.

What’s the difference between doing it through Patreon or paying for it later? Is it the same material?

Yes — mostly. All the materials are the same. The difference is that through the Patreon, you will have a community of folks going through it with you, and downloading it later will be more of a solo experience.

Signing up through Patreon also gives you access to a private Discord server, which is like a chatroom. The only people in there are signed up through Patreon, so it’s a small, intimate group of people I trust. There are ongoing conversations in there about dominance and submission, and we’ll have a dedicated space to talk about the materials in the course, have accountability buddies, and share the homework.

How do I sign up?

Go over to patreon.com/mrsexsmith and sign up as a $5+ patron, and you’ll automatically get access to the live webinars starting in May.

If you want to download them after and not through Patreon, sign up for the mailing list and you’ll get notifications when they are available. (Keep an eye on my social media, too!)

guest posts

Frisson, Guest Post by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Posted on April 26, 2019by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Content: this post contains a gang bang, possessive language, name calling, sex, whips, and a public scene.

Wrists and ankles trussed together, Delilah fought to stay on her feet. Her arms and legs ached from effort, her exposed pussy slick with hunger. She moaned softly, struggling not to wiggle her ass in the air like she was begging for it. She heard murmurs of approval at her position, felt the stares of strangers raking over her flesh. God help her, she was begging for it. But she had been ordered to wait, to hold herself upright and still. She waited.

An hour earlier, Delilah had wandered the club, somewhat disenchanted, definitely bored. The scenes that night were lukewarm at best, amateurish to her seasoned experience. She played hard, she played long, and she was not the sort to bow down to any old Top in the room. The crew tonight seemed to expect that of her, and she kept her distance. Choosing to bide her time and keep her eyes peeled for potential in the midst of greenness, she circled the outskirts of the room.

When she spotted Von across the sea of inexperience, her heart leapt into her throat. A salt and pepper butch with volumes of confidence and expertise, Von was the sort to make a girl want to roll over onto her back and spread her legs as soon as she swaggered into the room. Damn, but Delilah was hot for her. She had observed Von’s skills at many a party, had even enjoyed a choking and gagging blow job with her in the back seat of her car on one memorable occasion. She had grown to respect and admire Von, and considered her a friend. Taking care to swish her ass provocatively as she crossed the room, Delilah greeted her warmly when she arrived at her side.

Von tossed an arm casually around her shoulders as Delilah sparkled up at her.

“You look gorgeous,” Von murmured appreciatively, and Delilah all but purred.

After several moments of small talk, Von perused the room thoughtfully, then turned her attention back to Delilah.

“Up for it tonight?” She queried.

“Yes!” Delilah’s immediate and enthusiastic answer drew a laugh.

Their negotiations were brief, thorough, and easy with the understanding of some shared history.

“I will take care of you for the evening, and in return I expect that you will be completely honest with me if I cross a line or go too far. Other than that, you are entirely mine for the rest of the night and will do all I ask. Do you understand?”

Delilah nodded, trusting both Von and her own limits.

Von shook her head. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I understand,” Delilah’s face was open, an invitation. And with those few words she placed herself into Von’s capable hands.

Von undressed her slowly, her eyes never leaving Delilah’s face. Sliding the straps of her slip from her shoulders, Von kissed her skin with a tenderness that surprised her. She shivered deliciously as the slip dropped to her ankles. Von lifted her legs one at a time, and kicked the slip aside. She crouched down to trace the lace edge of Delilah’s stocking with one finger until she was quivering.

“Mmm. These are nice. You may keep them on.” Von winked.

She cupped Delilah’s tits in her hands, working them over gently. Her nipples became erect the moment Von put her hands on them, and Delilah arched her back, granting Von greater access to her. When Von lowered her head to Delilah’s nipple, her mouth was greedy, sucking and tugging on her tit until she was gasping for breath. When she suddenly used her teeth to tear into Delilah’s tender breast, she cried out in pain.

Von lifted her head and slapped Delilah’s face. Hard. Delilah bit her lip to keep from crying out again.

“Did I say you could make a sound?” Von growled.

She shook her head.

“Answer me when I ask a question.” Von’s tone brooked no argument.

“N-no. No.” Delilah felt a twinge of her first real fear.

“Then keep quiet. You may do nothing until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” Von nodded, apparently satisfied for now, and Delilah felt herself relax again.

Von removed a coil of hemp rope from her bag.

“Bend over. Grab your ankles.” She commanded, and Delilah complied. It was that easy.

Von positioned Delilah’s legs slightly apart, stabilizing her on her spiked heels before working the rope between her legs and around her wrists. The hemp was abrasive and smelled like damp earth, and her head swam with longing.

Von tugged on the knots, running her fingers under the rope to ensure it wasn’t too tight. When she judged all to her standards, she straightened and placed her hands on Delilah’s waist. Her touch was a light caress, just enough to drive her mad. Von’s hands explored her, sampling her round bottom, opening her pussy and rubbing her clit teasingly, kneading her thighs. Tears of desire coursed down Delilah’s cheeks at this inspection, her thighs sticky with her juice. Von’s hand was in her cunt now, pumping slowly in and out of her until her hips rocked in response. Just as she was driven to an edge she felt she could not bear to cross, Von abruptly withdrew her hand.

“Oh.” It was barely a breath, but when Von heard her utter it she smiled to herself. She had Delilah where she wanted her.

“Tell me you are mine,” she hissed. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I am yours,” Delilah breathed, her voice thick with desire for it. For Von to belong to her. Yes. She meant it with her entire being. For this scene, for tonight, for the next 20 years — at this moment in time, Delilah wanted it all.

“Tell me you are my whore.”

Delilah stammered. “I am your whore.”

“Tell me you would do anything for me.”

“Anything. Anything.” The word reverberated in the air between them.

Von snapped her fingers. Delilah felt it before she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye a small crowd moving in closer around them, a crowd she had not even been aware of until that moment. A handful of queers now leering at her lithe, naked body, their desire for her obvious and disconcerting. A ripple of wolf whistles and catcalls pierced the otherwise all too quiet room. Were all these people with Von?

Delilah’s fear was back, her body trembling with anticipation and a twinge of anxiety.

“Von?” It wasn’t so much a question as a searching for something, perhaps comfort. Delilah wasn’t entirely certain, her nerves fraught.

“Shh. Close your eyes.” It was a command, not a request, but spoken kindly. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited.

The waiting was the worst. Moments, hours, she had no concept of time. Her limbs strained with the effort of holding still, of staying upright on her now wobbly legs. And yet, more than her fear, more than her pain, more than anything else she wanted to please Von. As she realized that, took it in and allowed herself to relish it, her pussy ached with need. She gave herself over to that need, embraced it, and with that, began to thoroughly enjoy herself and the attention she knew was focused on her.

When she felt hands roving over her skin, she shuddered as much from revulsion as from excitement. Although she had been expecting it, she felt completely unprepared for the vulnerability of so many strangers pawing at her flesh. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and oh so powerful. Basking in that power, Delilah raised her ass higher, opening herself up and giving her audience a better view. Her subtle move was met with a round of applause, and a deep chuckle from Von.

“Enjoying yourself, are you? Such a whore.” Von slapped her ass hard enough to leave an instant red welt. Delilah lifted her ass even higher, seeking more.

The first lash of the whip struck her in the tender spot between her firm cheek and the top of her thigh, just above her stocking. She rocked on her heels before collecting herself for more. After that initial, almost flirtatious lick of leather, the blows of the whip came fast and strong. Delilah writhed beneath the lashing, a mix of pain and pleasure. She was on fire, both her cunt and her cherry red bottom a fury of liquid heat. It was delicious, the whip her favorite instrument of torture. Did Von know this? Her mind struggled to remember if Von had witnessed her submit to whip play in the past, or if this was merely one of the many implements with which she was so skilled. No matter, Delilah relinquished all thoughts and embraced the physical sensations assailing her. Pain, arousal, surrender, the deepest desire and pleasure — she succumbed entirely. Her pussy and thighs were soaked with juices. Delilah felt sure she could come at any moment from the intensity of this experience alone.

Jolted out of her state of pure feeling by the cessation of the lashings, Delilah moaned softly. Her tender flesh hurt, her legs and arms in agony from holding her position for so long. As if she could read Delilah’s mind, Von reached down to untie the rope that bound her. She loosened the knots, untangling the rope and letting it fall to the ground. She gently massaged the blood flow back into Delilah’s ankles and wrists, then wrapped her arms around Delilah and pulled her to her chest. She melted into the strength she found there, and closed her eyes, resting. Her respite was brief, however, as moments later Von straightened her and held her at arm’s length.

“I’m not done with you yet, whore. Can you take more?”

Delilah nodded immediately, then recalling earlier instructions, answered, “Yes.”

“I’ll allow you to stand for this, give you a bit of a break. But you must not open your eyes. If you do, we will be done with you. Eyes stay closed, arms stay out to your sides. Ready?”

Delilah assumed the position, her arms held out in a way that left her feeling completely exposed to the room. Again, the hands of strangers grabbed at her, pinching and caressing her skin simultaneously. It was almost too much, and she was dimly aware of the tears on her cheeks. Her breasts were handled roughly, twisted and pulled at until she felt raw and bruised. Her nipple was sucked into someone’s mouth, teeth nibbling at it mercilessly.

Someone’s hands grabbed her thighs, prying her legs open even wider. The cold air on her heated pussy rendered her weak with lust, and she wiggled her cunt despite her best intentions of holding absolutely still. She was rewarded with a hard slap to her sex, but the torment of her captors continued without interruption.

The sudden thrust of a rubber cock into her ass was so startling she screamed. She was pinned for a moment, immobilized by pain. Then whoever was inside her began to move, thrusting herself in to her base and out again, ripping her ass open. Pumping hard into her, grunting in her ear, her hands a steel vice on Delilah’s waist holding her on her feet while she claimed her. It was brutal and beautiful agony, being fucked like that by god knew whom, and she began to thrust back in time with the rhythm, squatting a bit lower so she could better take it.

She pulled out of Delilah before she came, so abruptly Delilah nearly toppled over. Delilah’s hair was twisted in strong fingers, and her head jerked back. Someone — Von? — hissed in her ear.

“I’ll have every hole before I am done with you.”

“Please.” Delilah had only that word. “Please.” Uttered again and again. She needed to come. She was terrified Von would not let her.

A large hand slid inside her cunt to the wrist. Delilah opened easily, ready for it, and moved against it, trying to rub her engorged clit on it. Someone laughed cruelly, the hand withdrew, and Delilah splashed onto her own legs and the floor. Her arms were lowered and pulled behind her back, thrusting her tits upright. They were slapped with increasing force as Delilah squirmed, with hands or a paddle she could not be sure and dared not peek. She did not want this to end, and would not risk the displeasure of her tormentors.

Again, that cruel laughter.

Delilah was hoisted into the air in strong arms, her legs wrapped around someone’s waist. She heard the sound of a zipper, a sound she considered the utmost in foreplay, and the tearing of a condom wrapper. Her thighs and stomach were slapped and battered by another rubber cock. It was demeaning. It was divine. She arched her back, moving her pussy closer.

“Oh, I’ll give you more, whore. You are going to take every inch of me.” She recognized Von’s voice and cheered inwardly, craving her inside her cunt.

Anticipating the cock that pierced her pussy did not take away from the thrill when it happened in the least. The contrary. Long and swollen with hunger for her, Von’s cock took her slowly at first, with a languid thrust that left her feeling she would die without more.

“Please.”

Again, that one word. Delilah was rewarded instantly, the cock ramming her, tearing into her with thrust after jackhammer thrust. Riding that cock, she begged for more, begged to come, shouting nonsense beseechingly, her pussy keening with need.

“Yes. Come, whore. Come now.”

And she did, her desire spilling over, her body wild with it, jerking and flailing against the people who held her down. She sagged briefly, panting, then came again with no less force.

Completely and utterly spent, satiated, Delilah could barely move as Von finished herself off before pulling out. Delilah felt empty immediately.

She was laid on the floor gently. Someone brought a pillow, lifted her head to slide it under her. One of the women stroked her hair tenderly, another held her hand and kissed it. She was soaked with sweat and sex, and thoroughly exhausted. Her eyes still closed, she felt rather than saw that the crowd was thinning. It must be over. Both relieved and disappointed, she focused on regaining her breath. Although the hands stroking her were soothing, she shivered, her muscles still contracting.

“Open your eyes.”

She did, to find Von standing over her, her cock still in her hand. She stroked it casually, a sexy smile on her face. Delilah could not help but smile back in return. God, she wanted Von all over again, even now.

Delilah’s eyes widened when Von unrolled a fresh condom and covered her cock with it in one smooth motion.

“I said I intended to take every hole, remember? I will own you, whore.”

Delilah gasped and attempted to raise herself up on her elbows.

Von gently put her boot in the center of Delilah’s chest and nudged her back down.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move. And open that pretty little mouth for me.”

Delilah traced her tongue over her lips to moisten them, unaware that the simple gesture caused Von to swell all the more. She knelt over Delilah and slid the tip into her mouth, just enough for her to suck at the head. Delilah lapped and licked at it, surprised to once more be incredibly aroused. How could she be this greedy for yet more? But she was, and she drew Von in to the base of her throat, gagging on the girth. Von moved slowly, relishing every flick of Delilah’s tongue, every pull of her lips, allowing her need to build with Delilah’s.

Von fucked Delilah’s mouth deeply, savoring her, and she choked on her cock, tears in her eyes, aching to come once more. As if Von could again sense her thoughts, she reached one hand back and ran her fingers lightly over Delilah’s clit. Delilah spread her thighs open for Von, and she worked her back up to the edge. She exploded against Von’s hand, crying out as she came, never breaking the momentum of what she hoped was the blow job of Von’s lifetime.

Delilah could smell herself on Von when she grabbed her face in both her hands and held her still. Von stopped sliding herself in and out of Delilah’s mouth, stopped moving altogether. Pinned beneath Von, unable to move, Delilah raised her eyes to meet hers. Von smiled down at her as she came. Delilah wanted to drink it in, take it inside her, and although it caused her to choke all the more, she laughed with pure joy.

Von sagged for a moment, gasping. Her cock dangled in the air above Delilah’s face. Emboldened by the obvious thrill she just gave Von, Delilah kissed the tip of her dick lightly. Von opened her eyes, raising her brows at Delilah’s daring move. When Von winked at her, Delilah relaxed visibly.

“You were a good girl.” Von smiled at her as she pushed herself to her feet. Delilah had the grace to blush.

Delilah remained on the floor, limp with exhaustion, while Von conferred with the handful of observers left. Just as she began to slip into sleep, she felt hands behind her back raising her to her feet. She stood, blinking in the suddenly glaring light at the faces smiling at her.

“You may thank everyone now.” Von nudged her forward with a firm hand on the flat of her back.

Head bowed in deference, Delilah moved from person to person, kissing a hand if it were held out to her, accepting the generous embraces a couple of folks offered. She was surprised to discover that she was not merely acting out a scene anymore. She felt profoundly grateful to have been used by strangers, gorgeous even, like a work of art the group had created. She could not recall ever having felt so moved by a public scene.

When Delilah came to Von, she knelt gracefully before her, tears in her eyes. It was a presentation of sorts, an offering. She held her breath, praying she would be accepted, petrified of disapproval, rejection. The events of the last two hours had shifted something inside her, and she knew instinctively there was no going back. She felt decidedly sure she was ruined for anyone else.

Von’s hands reached for Delilah’s face, lifting her head. She brushed her mouth tenderly with her own and smiled.

“Yes.” One simple word from Von. It was that easy. Delilah’s heart soared.

nonbinary diaries

Dear (Cis) People Who Put Your Pronouns On Your “Hello My Name Is” Name Tag

Posted on April 20, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Dear cis people who put your pronouns on your “hello my name is” name tags:

Thank you.

When you do that, I feel more comfortable putting my pronouns — they/them. I feel more comfortable being visibly out as nonbinary. I feel more comfortable asking people to use the pronouns that feel most like me, that make me feel most seen and whole, instead of just resolving to be mis-gendered and mis-represented and whatever who cares anyway.

(Maybe I do, somewhere, a little.)

When we’re doing the socializing part of whatever event we’re at, and we are introduced, I automatically feel warmer toward you — regardless of your gender or presentation. I feel much more comfortable talking to you, because you already tell me you know a little about gender.

Thank you.

It is an ongoing cultural struggle right now to break our eyes open to more than the two binary gender roles. We are all still learning. Nonbinary and trans folks are still evolving the language and culture, and educators are still figuring out the best ways to communicate the theory and compassion. It’s a challenge to undo the cultural systems that have been normalized all our lives.

And yet, we must. If we want to support everyone to live their best lives, we must. If we want to be honoring of everyone, we must.

Other great places to include your pronouns:

Your email signature. Example: “Sinclair Sexsmith¶ Pronouns: they, them, theirs, themself¶ sinclair@sugarbutch.net | @mrsexsmith | Facebook | Patreon”
Social media bio, on Twitter or Facebook or etc. Example: “Writer. White non-binary butch feminist dominant. They/them.” You could also periodically put a post up on your social media, “Just for the record, I use they/them pronouns. Also, I grew up in Alaska, my favorite flower is red gerbera daisies and my favorite number is 12.”
Regular bio, if you’re a performer, writer, teacher of some sort and you have a bio you send around, include them there! Example: “Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is a writer and queer nonbinary butch dominant.”
Introductions at a meeting or workshop, if they say “Go around & say your names.” They don’t have to invite you to include your pronoun in your intro in order to include it! Example: “I’m Sinclair, I use they/them pronouns.”
Any time you’re speaking in front of a group! Example: “Hi! I’m excited to have you at this poetry reading today, thanks for coming to the Bluestockings Bookstore. I’m Sinclair, I use they/them pronouns — but you probably already know that, since you’re here!”
Can you think of other places I haven’t listed here? I’m sure there are others. Leave ’em in the comments!

If you don’t know someone’s pronouns, ask!

This is an important skill to cultivate. We have probably all heard this, but there are plenty of times we — all of us, myself included — feel awkward asking, and so we don’t. But it’s never too late — ask at any point during the conversation.

It’s not a faux pas if you have to stop in the middle of a sentence, just ask.

“Sorry, what are your pronouns?”

“Oh I didn’t get your pronouns, what are they?”

“Will you remind me your pronouns please?”

If you mess up, no big deal. We all do.

You’re not a bad person if you mess it up. You’re not a bad ally, or a bad person. You’re practicing. Maybe you got the wrong info, or maybe that person just changed their pronouns.

Just start again.

The #1 thing to remember: don’t make it about you. Apologize, move on, try again.

“The other day, she — “
“They use they pronouns.”
“Oh, they. Okay. The other day, they …”

That thing where people say, “Omigod, I’m SO sorry! I really care about pronouns! I’m trying so hard! I’m not used to it! Forgive me!!!!” — that makes it such a bigger deal than it is. Treat it like mispronouncing someone’s name — it’s a little disrespectful, so be sure to be sensitive, but it’s ultimately no big deal.

Just acknowledge, apologize, have a redo, and do better in the future.

It gets easier with practice & time.

You’ll get it. Keep at it. Practice saying and expressing your pronouns whenever you can. Practice asking. The more cis people can ask and practice with each other, the more of the burden it takes off of trans and nonbinary folks to do the education work themselves.

There’s one more thing I want you to know:

It feels so good when people get it right.

It can make my whole day brighter when I hear someone use they/them pronouns.

Honestly, I rarely hear it myself, because if I’m standing there, it’s the least likely place for someone to refer to me in the third person. But sometimes it happens in an introduction, or a story. And it still surprises me sometimes.

I feel vulnerable, and cared for, and seen.

event, kink

Fundamentals of the Protocol Game

Posted on April 15, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

It’s a game: Try out one protocol a week for a year — keep ones you like, forget those you don’t. It’s pretty simple!

rife + I are doing a webinar at the end of April where we’ll walk you through how to actually come up with 52, making training categories, and some best practices for making protocol happen. The webinar is on April 27th for $5+ patrons — sign up here.

We’ll do most of the workbook right on the webinar, so you’ll walk away with the game set up — you won’t stick it in your desk drawer and discover it three months later thinking oh yeah, I was going to do that wasn’t I?

I highly recommend it for folks in and out of power dynamics or relationships, for dominants or subs or switches! It’s been very helpful & successful for un-owned subs in the past; it gives a sense of structure, things to practice, and ongoing reminders of D/s identity.

Some of our key learnings:

The first few times we set it up for ourselves, rife + I found that sometimes the protocol I set up for him were actually things I had to do — like: “receive a flogging every night” is actually kinda my protocol, something I had to make happen, not his. So the second year we did the game, we each had our own.

We also split the protocols into tasks vs protocols:

Protocols are “if this then that:” when you wake up, offer me sexual service. When you shower, shave your cunt. when you do the dishes, wear a butt plug.

Tasks are one time: clean the refrigerator. Get waxed. Buy new rope.

I’ve had (mostly) vanilla friends of mine use this for other things, too. Once I helped a friend set up 52 dating experiments, because she wanted to date more but was coming up against all kinds of blocks. It can work for all sorts of realms of exploration and growth and goals.

But how do you come up with 52?!

Coming up with the actual protocols can be the hardest. I asked so many dominants if they would mind sharing their list of the protocols with me

Breaking it into training categories, or, as we call it, making a training wheel, can help with that:

(PS, it’s really helpful to have a graphic designer / illustrator as my owned property, I gotta say. Reminds me of how all those singer/songwriters marry their sound techs. I get it.)

There are also more serious high-level overviews of life like this one, from the book How To Be, Do, or Have Anything (which is actually better than it sounds).

There are other life matrix-esque charts, but it’s often best to come up with the areas of your life specifically that you want to make the most progress in. They could be the ones that are holding you back, but don’t forget the ones that are sexy, fun, power-driven, exciting, juicy!

We break protocols into multiple categories:

Sexy for sexy’s sake — just, because
Making pragmatic things hot — dishes (but with a butt plug!), paperwork (but tied to a chair!)
Self-improvement

(But go easy on the self-improvement one, okay? We can so easily get caught up in Making Ourselves Better, and it’s important to also be accepting of where we’re at and just stay still, too. Meaning: make sure you also have a lot of sexy ones that just feel good in your dynamic & identity! Plenty more of those than the self-improvement ones.)

In her book Discipline (now out of print), Lily Lloyd set up these Three Core Rules for protocol which I really like. If a protocol goes against any of these things, don’t do it! Or, reassess it!

If all of this sounds interesting, come join me + rife on April 27th for the Protocol Game workshop!

The $5 or up levels on Patreon include the monthly webinars —— which will include D/s PLAYGROUND this summer!

Sign up at patreon.com/mrsexsmith

guest posts

Are You Game? Guest Post by Dilo Keith

Posted on March 30, 2019by Dilo Keith

Moments before my boss arrived on Friday, I sent her a message about an especially troublesome client. It was no longer awkward thinking of Lisa as “boss,” though it had seemed damn weird at first. I had almost asked for a transfer when they assigned me to her team three years ago, but it turned out we functioned better as co-workers than romantic partners. Now we were getting along so well that we had talked about having sex again, or at least exchanging massages. Such intimacies, however, required the permission of her wife-to-be Morgan, otherwise known as “Master M.”

My relationship with Morgan had vastly improved since the day we met. I could recall little about our first encounter other than my embarrassment at calling her “Sir” and the fact that she bore an uncanny resemblance to my senior year math professor, Mr. Foxman. I’d swear she wore the same hat. After they returned from lunch that day, Lisa told me Morgan actually enjoyed being called “Sir”, but didn’t elaborate until weeks later.

Lisa was late and wearing a familiar expression that told me her tardiness had nothing to do with snarled traffic. Damp locks on her forehead suggested she’d been up to something that had required a quick rinse afterwards. I shook my head to clear memories of sweaty morning sex with her curly, mocha brown hair tickling my breasts.

“I hate to wipe that smile off your face,” I said, “but Mr. Harrison left three voice messages.”

“Fuck. I wish he wasn’t a priority.”

The rest of the day was uneventful, enabling Lisa to finish the Harrison project and leave on time. I stayed late to make up for a long lunch break, but was almost out the door when Harrison called with “critical” changes. I hastily assured him we could make them over the weekend, only to realize as I hung up that this meant I had to find Lisa.

She didn’t answer my calls or texts, so I emailed what I could and stuffed the relevant hardcopies into an envelope. Considering her house was on my way home, dropping them off would be quicker than scanning and emailing everything. Two cars were in front of the house she now shared with Morgan, but the doorbell went unanswered. After trying the land line and cell again, I decided this qualified as the sort of emergency in which Lisa wouldn’t mind my using the spare key, something I’d done before. Neither woman answered when I called Lisa’s name from the front hall, and there was no sign of anyone on the first floor. Weighing the urgency of the Harrison project against Lisa and Morgan’s privacy, I cautiously headed upstairs. I assumed they’d be in the bedroom and the most obvious place to leave the folder would be right outside their room.

The bedroom door was closed, fortunately, and I was startled to hear the unmistakable cracks of something solid striking naked flesh, a paddle or maybe a hand. The sound didn’t surprise me intellectually – Lisa’s more intense interest in BDSM was one reason for our incompatibility – but I hadn’t expected to actually hear it right then. Sharper sounds, probably from a whip or crop, followed. I scrawled a note on the envelope and bent down for a discreet delivery that had almost succeeded when my phone slid out of my pocket and thumped against the door.

“Anna – that you already?” Morgan called out, referring to a weekend guest I knew they were expecting.

Shit. “It’s Kylie. Sorry to bother you, but something came up at the office. I was leaving some files.”

“Sounds important. Hold on.” After several seconds, Morgan said, “Come in.”

Knowing Lisa’s proclivities didn’t prepare me for the sight of my beautiful, olive-skinned ex kneeling naked at Morgan’s feet, her wrists in leather cuffs clipped together behind her back. Two stripes across Lisa’s reddened ass confirmed my suspicions regarding what I’d heard. Morgan was fully dressed, the severe uniformity of her black clothes broken only by a splash of color from the bright purple cock sheathed in Lisa’s mouth. I’d frequently imagined myself with Morgan in relatively vanilla versions of this sizzling scene.

Lisa tried to pull back, but Morgan twisted her hand in her dark curls and pulled Lisa more firmly onto her cock. “Lisa’s having trouble speaking at the moment. Go on.”

“I… uh… I mean…” I felt my face warming. “I’m really sorry. It’s Harrison again. I stupidly promised we’d make more revisions this weekend.”

“You were right to come. Do you need Lisa now? Can she call later?”

“Later’s fine. Sorry about this.” I turned to leave.

“Wait,” Morgan said. “I could use a second sub tonight. Interested?”

“Me? A sub?” What had Lisa told her? In our mismatched attempts at kink, I had topped. Even so, something about Morgan’s confidence made obeying her seem perfectly natural. It didn’t hurt that she was solidly built, with muscled arms that I could imagine pulling me into an inescapable embrace, or that she was almost twice my age. Her cropped hair walked a fine line between butch and femme, and her square jaw added an extra hint of toughness.

“I think you’ll do fine.”

No matter how hot she was, I had no interest in getting beaten. “Thanks… no… um, I mean, you know I don’t really do that sort of thing.”

“You don’t even know what ‘sort of thing’ I’d require.”

“I have the general idea.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She might be right, but, fuck, Lisa’s my boss now, and this looks damn private. “Won’t Lisa mind?”

She stroked Lisa’s cheek. “I won’t include Kylie without your consent.”

Lisa nodded – as best she could with a mouthful of dick – and pressed her face into Morgan’s hand.

“Are you sure?”

Lisa glanced at me.

“Is it awkward, considering Kylie works for you?”

Lisa shrugged and nodded. That probably meant “a little”.

“Kylie?” Morgan prompted.

“Nothing will change at the office, boss,” I assured Lisa quickly. “If I join you, that is.”

Lisa nodded again and Morgan caressed her head approvingly. That seemed like my cue.

“Okay, I guess I’m game. I get a safe word or something, don’t I?”

Morgan chuckled. “Sure, but I doubt you’ll need it.”

“How does this work?”

“Follow instructions and be respectful. I won’t hurt you. You may not do anything to Lisa without my permission. She’s not allowed to speak at all. Try not to talk unless I ask you a question or give you an order that requires feedback. If necessary, say something like ‘Please, may I speak?’ You don’t need a safe word – if you’re uncomfortable, say so. Call me ‘Master M’ or ‘Sir’. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then strip. Any delays or interruptions will result in punishment for Lisa, regardless of who’s at fault. Lisa, don’t forget you’re to remain completely silent unless I say otherwise.”

As I hastily peeled off my clothes, Morgan led Lisa to the bed and patted the mattress. “Kneel up here.”

That left Lisa facing away from us, below a pair of chains hanging above the bed. Morgan unclipped Lisa’s cuffs and pointed at one dangling chain. “Hand me the end.”

Morgan attached the snap hook on the chain to Lisa’s cuff while I did the same on the other side. “Bring me that blindfold,” she said, pointing to where it was laid out with other toys on the dresser.

“Stroke her gently, anywhere you like except her cunt.” Morgan blindfolded Lisa and double-checked her restraints while I fondled her lovely breasts and smoothed my hands across her toned torso. She pressed her body into my hands appreciatively, and I forced myself to veer away from the forbidden zone. The treasures of her back side weren’t explicitly prohibited, but I limited myself to palming the delectable curves of ass.

During my lustful explorations, Morgan had stripped down to underwear, a black compression tank and silk boxers. She quickly closed the distance to the bed and shoved the side of her hand between her lover’s legs. Lisa made a visible effort to suppress a moan as she ground onto Morgan’s hand.

“I could forbid you to move,” Morgan said with a wicked smile. Lisa froze. “But not now; I’m not that sadistic. Not with company, anyway.” Morgan allowed Lisa a few more thrusts before withdrawing her hand.

Morgan stood and pressed her body against Lisa’s back. Her lover’s sharp intake of breath was loud enough that I wondered if it would count as a noise, but Morgan let her off with the warning, “Careful, love.” She kissed the back of Lisa’s neck and reached around to pinch her nipples. Lisa leaned into Morgan’s hands and parted her lips in a silent moan when Morgan squeezed harder.

“Kylie, bring me the short flogger.”

I touched the nearest implement and glanced wordlessly at Morgan, who was still playing with Lisa’s breasts.

“No, two over. Yes, that one. Bring the one to the right of it, too, but leave it on the bed.”

The first item was a soft, medium-sized flogger that I imagined Lisa would enjoy, unlike the one I’d put aside. Lisa had tried explaining that submission sometimes meant doing unpleasant and painful things. I had no problem with the light play we’d been doing, but it suddenly occurred to me that Morgan might make Lisa suffer for real at some point, something I didn’t care to see.

Morgan gradually reddened Lisa’s skin from the base of her neck to her knees, soft and hard strokes following one another with no obvious pattern. Lisa met the leather with her body, tensing and relaxing in an erotic rhythm that left little in the room but the beauty of two women in perfect harmony. Shockingly, Morgan turned to me and said, “Here, you try.” She handed me the flogger. “Nice and gentle to start.”

I held it, not moving.

“Go on. I know you’ve done this before. Lisa thought you had potential.”

“Really? I thought she was just –”

“Quiet,” Morgan ordered.

So I wasn’t supposed to answer that? Subbing is harder than it looks. I landed light strokes on Lisa’s ass until I felt comfortable enough to strike more forcefully.

“Very good. Harder now,” Morgan said.

Lisa seemed to welcome every blow, and Morgan eyed me approvingly before climbing onto the bed. She played with Lisa’s nipples and caressed her breasts as I plied the flogger. When Lisa seemed lulled by the sensations, Morgan slid her hand between the wet lips of her cunt. Lisa swallowed her low moan quickly, but not entirely.

“Earning a punishment so soon, slut?” Morgan wiped her fingers on Lisa’s hip.

Punishment?! Oh, right, for noise.

Morgan continued, “Since you weren’t expecting the distraction of company tonight, you get a little break. You’ll receive all six, but you don’t have to be silent.” She motioned for me to fetch the short whip – or whatever the harsh-looking single-tailed thing was called. Morgan must have noticed my unease because she said firmly, “Lisa knew this could happen. Stand back.”

Thwack.

Lisa yelped, and a long, red stripe appeared. I winced, but didn’t look away.

Morgan delivered another hard lash to Lisa’s ass and two to her back, evoking stoic grunts each time. Next was an even harder lash to the base of one ass cheek, the sensitive spot just at the top of the thigh, and another on the opposite side.

“You did well. Try not to misbehave again.”

Morgan directed me back to the bed and laid a gentle hand on my neck. “You’re doing well too, and you’ve earned a little treat. Face down.” She stroked my back and ass, traced the ridge of my pelvis, and continued across my groin, lingering close to where I most wanted her. Did she say “treat” or “tease”? Begging for relief for my throbbing cunt was probably unacceptable, and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause Morgan to stop. As I was about to try a suggestive whimper, she snaked a finger into my bush and stroked my clit. Despite my most encouraging moans, it was over far too soon. I could hear the amusement in the blonde sadist’s voice when she said, “Get up,” and held out her other hand for the softer flogger.

She struck Lisa harder this time, and after several lashes, positioned me in front of Lisa. “Keep her from moving around too much. Suck her nipples and use your hands anywhere you like.”

Lisa stiffened delightfully in my mouth as the blows of Morgan’s flogger forced her breasts into my face. I explored her body, glad I didn’t have to avoid the treasures between her legs but not quite daring to delve inside. Instead, I slid my fingers across her swollen clit and around her slick folds, holding her by one hip. Lisa trembled, but managed to remain silent. When Morgan stopped the flogging, I shifted closer to get a solid handful of Lisa’s now-unobstructed ass. She moaned, and we both froze.

Morgan, her hands full of condoms, gloves, and a bottle of lube, exclaimed, “Kylie! What did you do to her?”

“I’m sorry, I leaned in to fondle her ass. Maybe it was my, um, tits?” Lisa had always loved their feel, and she was highly sensitized at present.

“I told you to use your hands, not your boobs. It was a simple instruction.” She glared at me sternly.

“It was an accident, Sir. Please don’t hurt her.”

“The rules don’t change when something unexpected happens.”

I asked, “May I say something else?”

“You may.”

“I volunteer to take her punishment, Sir.”

“Lisa’s willing to go by the rules.”

“I don’t like being responsible.”

“You’re not. Plus, I’m in charge, remember?”

“But Lisa –”

“Quiet. Lisa, tell her. Briefly.”

“I’m fine with the rules, and it’s more… um… interesting with you here.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Morgan said, “Since you’re feeling responsible, I’ll reduce the sentence. A second offense normally gets double the first, but I’ll deduct three. Stand over there. Lisa, no noise.”

Lisa managed, impressively, to remain quiet for the first several strokes. When one landed on Lisa’s inner thigh, a barely audible “fuck” escaped her lips. Oops. Morgan shoved the whip into my hands and sprang onto the bed.

“No swearing.” She slapped Lisa’s face.

“I’m –” Lisa started.

“And you haven’t been given permission to speak!” Morgan slapped the other cheek, harder this time. “For that, you’ll get the remaining lashes from the original twelve – five more. Be grateful you don’t get another punishment for talking.”

I stood in place, wide-eyed. Despite her clear preference for stricter command than I had ever offered her, Lisa’s earlier assurance of consent wasn’t very comforting. Morgan got off the bed and approached me determinedly. I slowly handed her the whip, this time looking away as the strokes bit into Lisa’s tender thighs.

“Help her down onto the bed.”

Morgan rubbed Lisa’s neck soothingly. “If you endure what’s coming next in silence, I’ll allow you to make noise for the rest. I know having Kylie here makes it more difficult.” She removed the blindfold and ran a finger over Lisa’s lip dented from her efforts at silence. “And don’t hurt yourself. That’s my job.”

“Kylie, on your back in the middle of the bed. Knees up, and spread ’em.” I scrambled into position.

“Lisa, put that talented mouth to work. No hands.”

Lisa crawled between my legs and, without preamble, lapped a broad stroke across my cunt before flicking my clit with her tongue.

“Omigod!” It had been far too long since Lisa – or anyone – had done that. Toys are terrific, but there’s nothing like the wet heat of a woman’s mouth. Her tongue danced around my cunt, not always on my clit, which was good since I didn’t know if I was allowed to come. Should I ask? I also didn’t know if I could touch her, so I clutched the blanket and concentrated on staying in position, not wanting to dislodge Lisa’s sublime tongue. Through the haze of arousal, it occurred to me there was a pattern – she was tracing letters on my pussy. My name, twice, then… I tried hard to follow…“I miss you.” I almost laughed aloud.

“Lisa, stop that for a moment. Kylie, stay put.”

Damn — did she see my face and detect Lisa’s covert naughtiness? I hope it’s just a moment. But it wasn’t. She spanked Lisa for what seemed like a full minute before telling her, “Get back to it.” My guess was that Morgan had warmed Lisa’s ass just because she could.

Far too soon, Morgan ordered Lisa to stop for good, leaving me panting in combined arousal and frustration. She tossed a glove and the lube in my direction. I ignored them and watched Morgan fingering Lisa’s lubed ass, which had Lisa shoving her face into the mattress to keep quiet.

“Very good,” Morgan said when three fingers slid in effortlessly. “You may speak from now on.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Morgan discarded her gloves and gave Lisa a passionate kiss. “Kylie, too,” Morgan said, and Lisa kissed me almost as thoroughly before returning to her place on the bed.

“Kylie, would you like to fuck this gorgeous ass?”

It was tempting, but I said, “Honestly, Sir, I’d rather watch you take her.”

Morgan chuckled and shook her head. From the bedside drawer, she extracted a small butt plug that she had me cover with a condom before she stuffed it into Lisa. “That’ll hold you, girl. Now, on your back like Kylie was.”

Morgan explained, “She’s not allowed to come yet, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to make her. Anything you want.”

I lost myself in Lisa’s familiar, delightful taste and smell, barely reacting when Morgan plunged her fingers into me and rubbed circles around my clit with her thumb.

“Is something wrong?” Morgan asked as she slid her hand out.

What? Why? Put it back! “No, just concentrating,” I managed.

“Well, concentrate on this.” She shoved her cock in, driving my face into Lisa, and went after my clit again. “Kylie, you may come anytime.”

I did, sooner than I’d hoped, clenching around Morgan’s cock and gasping for air as I tried not to suffocate myself in Lisa’s cunt. Morgan guided me down next to Lisa, who whimpered with need.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve been a lot of fun, but I’ve detained you long enough.”

Dismissed already? “I have nowhere else to be. Please, Sir?”

After a nod of permission from Morgan, Lisa said, “We need to finish here. Thanks for understanding.”

“Sure thing, boss. I guess I’ll see you Monday. Let me know if I can help with Harrison.”

Morgan pressed a finger to Lisa’s lips. “She will, and she’ll definitely call you about a play date.”

Although the sentiment seemed inadequate for the trust and intimacy we’d shared, I said only, “Thanks .. for everything.”

_________________________

Author’s note: Thanks to Meghan for permission to use portions of her lovely whipping scene from Mon Corbeau.

journal entries

Protected: On the Verge

Posted on March 29, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

poetry

A Poem About Worship & Worth

Posted on March 27, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I need your worship, boy —
come home and put yourself
under the sole of my boot.
Flatten yourself beneath me. If
I toe you off the floor,
only then is that your signal
to rise. I need your spit,
boy. Down your chin soaking
the split of my jeans. Open.
The soft of your lip kissing here
and here, I need that, too.
You see,

I forget my worth. I forget
how much I can control the rise
of the sun. The rise of the walls
between us. I forget how much
I can evoke the me that will
be able to solve this problem.
The me that likes to puzzle and
forgive. I forget what it is not
to have what I have, and the ache
that never goes away, even after
the finest meals, the lushest wine,
the perfect starshine redwood
grove. Thank you

for reminding me with your eyes.
with your tongue. With your open
holes. Thank you for every time
you beg, though I can’t say it to you
then — I can only tell you to beg
harder. You deserve your atonement,
your devout surrender, who am I
to tell you otherwise. Who am I to
change so unapologetically into
someone I might actually love to
spend the rest of my life with.
But who am I not to? And who
am I, really, to stand in the way
of your worship?

journal entries

Protected: integrating the past

Posted on February 28, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries

Making Your Strap-On Part of Your Body

Posted on February 27, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

When someone straps on, it’s easy for it to feel like an awkward protrusion rather than something connected to their actual body. But there are ways to practice embodying a strap-on so it feels more like you, which can then make it feel more exciting and more connective when using it during play.

You know how sometimes you put on a bigger backpack than you’re used to, and at first, you knock into the wall, the table, or a friend, because you just aren’t sure where the backpack is in relationship to you? That’s an illustration of one of the great human senses called proprioception.

Proprioception is the “perception or awareness of the position and movement of the body.” After we spend some time with that backpack, generally, we are able to sense how far behind us it extends, and we can be more aware of when we’re going to fit through a door and when we won’t.

The same is true of how we drive a car — ever notice that when you get into a new car, it takes a little while to figure out how to parallel park smoothly? But with your own car, it might be simple — because you already have a sense of the extension of the car in relationship to your body, and you know how to maneuver it.

The same thing is true for a strap-on.

It’s a tool, and a sex toy, yes, but it’s more than that: It can become an extension of your body.

Here’s some ideas of ways to play with proprioception, embodiment, and body-awareness to make your strap-on part of your body.

1. Feel It

Right after you put it on, take a few deep breaths and feel into it. What does it feel like? Maybe it’s awkward, exciting, a turn-on, exhilarating, nerve-wracking. Whatever it is, that’s normal and okay.

If it works for you, you could have a conversation, or put your intention into it while you’re first sensing what it’s like to wear it.

2. Touch It

Use your hands. Feel it, not as a sex toy that you are about to use, but as part of your body. Hold it in your hand. Put your finger on the very tip and see if you can feel your energy all the way into the shaft. Feel the weight and length and girth of it. Move your hips a little and feel what it feels like to have it move with you.

Try that all over again, but this time, close your eyes. What does it feel like now?

3. Practice Wearing It

Even when you’re not going to be using it for sexy playtime, put it on sometimes. Wear it around the house when you are doing chores or doing homework to get used to it. You’ll start to feel how it moves, how it connects to your hips, how the harness feels.

Not all of them are comfortable to put on and wear, I know — but you can figure out a way to wear it without having to move around so much (or put pants on top of it). You could just watch TV.

(Plus, it’s always good to practice putting the harness on and off, since having that be fluid helps with confidence.)

4. Masturbate With It

Dedicate some time to yourself to see what it feels like. No, you don’t have to use it as penetrative (unless you want to) — but use it as if you were using it with someone else.

Jerk off with it, play with it. Use lube, and slide your hand on the shaft. See what it feels like with a vibrator underneath it. See what it feels like when you thrust your hips up to meet your hand, rather than have all the movement come from your hand.

It doesn’t have to bring you to orgasm — the point is just to practice feeling it, and feeling it erotically. It certainly could have an orgasm involved, though!

5. Take Your Time

If you’re with a lover, take some time to yourself right after you put it on. Don’t rush! Feel it, touch it, and move with it until you feel like you have a sense of it as part of your body.

The more you get used to having it connected to your body, the more easily it’ll feel like an extension of you.

reviews

An Enthusiastic Review of the Cowgirl Sex Machine

Posted on February 26, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I have been in awe since the Cowgirl Sex Machine landed on my doorstep (courtesy of Tabu Toys). Seriously.

It’s heavy, it comes with all sorts of accessories — and it even has an app that powers it from far away, so someone could be traveling and still control the sex machine their partner is sitting on.

Here’s the unboxing:

Before it even arrived, rife and I talked about positions. How could you use this? What ways could it be ridden while that person also gets used in other ways by their partner? We had theories.

But it turned out, in practice, only figure A worked for our bodies. It might be possible for other people to get into more contortionist positions? But it’s clear that this machine is made for someone to straddle it, and ride.

And it does that very, very well.

What rife and I have deemed most successful and pleasurable continues to be having someone sit on the Cowgirl, with penetration or vibration or both, and their partner is in a chair very close to them, and the person sitting on the Cowgirl also has their mouth penetrated, too.

(Highly recommend.)

Here’s a little photo & video tour:

The analog controller. Swoon!
It also doubles as a pretty great footstool
The controller connects to one side …
… and the power adapter connects to the other
The two attachments which sit on top of it — Rawhide and WildWest
The silicone of the attachments are stretchy, and both have little pockets at either side which hook under the action on top
The Rawhide in place

But how does the WildWest rotate? Through this little spring contraption!
… or through this plastic one, which makes it less flexible (hypothetically, at least. I think they feel about the same).
On goes the WildWest!
The WildWest in the saddle

In my attempts to get as thorough of a review as possible, I did get an official on-the-record comment from a friend:

It’s an impressive toy (if you can call it that) – it is clearly high quality, well designed, and commands a certain, ah, attention in the room.
It’s a pretty intense full body experience, in part because your whole body has to be engaged to get in position. Although we did experiment a little with putting it in different positions (propping it up so that I could be on my back, for example), it is really meant to stay in one spot so the user mounts it to use it. That’s fun and it’s heavy and solid enough that it’s a very satisfying feeling just to straddle it — whether the vibration and rotation can be calibrated to what feels good to you will be very individual, but it can be a fun experience even if that part isn’t spot on. The vibration and rotation adjustments do have a wide range but even the lowest settings are pretty intense (of course, I don’t use vibrators normally so take that with a grain of salt perhaps), and the sensation is more intense because you are also straddling it, holding yourself up in some way.
As someone who generally doesn’t use vibrators (they aren’t the right sensation for me), I’m always excited about toys that do something else, and this one was an interesting ride. It isn’t for the faint of heart, but that isn’t really the point, then, is it.
— Penny

Folks, here is the whole kit & caboodle: The Cowgirl Sex Machine

In Conclusion

It’s not something we’ll use often, but it is an incredible pleasure to have the option to use it when we want to. I’m grateful to the fine folks at Cowgirl for sending it on to me, thank you. Head over there to look at their very high-fashion photos of this baby, and add it to your wedding registry or your baby registry or your 40th birthday wish list for your friends to all go in on together … or just save up. It’s an incredible investment for the home dungeon.

PS: Here’s an outtake — sliding the control plug into it’s socket. It’s … so satisfying. They even say it’s “modeled after high-end musical equipment” and it feels just like that.

An extra enthusiastic thank you to Tabu Toys, who sent this toy in exchange for an honest review. Head over to their site and check out the information they have on the Cowgirl. Thank you!

dirty stories, guest posts

Ariadne’s Thread, Guest Post by Jean Roberta

Posted on February 19, 2019by Jean Roberta

Content warning: this story contains humiliation, objectification, sploshing (food play), and force.

“Let me in, girlfriend.”

The sound of Zoe’s voice assaulted Ariadne’s ears where she sat in the funk of her misery. Dirty dishes covered her tables and counters, pungent clothing littered her floor. Her curtains were closed, leaving the apartment in perpetual gloom. “Go away.”

“Come on, baby. I know you’re not feeling good, but there is life after a breakup, you know? We’ve all gone through it. You need company.” Silence. “Ari, come on. I don’t want to stand here talking to you through the door. Do you want all your neighbors to hear this?”

A dark, swollen eye appeared at the peephole, then the thin wooden door was yanked open. Ariadne Megalopolous blocked the entrance, taking up space out of proportion to her girlish, fine-boned, high-breasted body. The smell of her sweat and her contempt for the world confronted the brisk assertiveness of her friend Zoe, who stepped back before she could stop herself.

Ariadne sneered like a damned soul, her white face framed in greasy black hair. She held onto the doorframe, slouching in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans so old and dirty that they held the shape of her ass and thighs even when she wasn’t in them. Her presence was so intense that Zoe felt it in her clit.

Ariadne filled the silence. “What are you, Zoe, human Prozac? If you think you know how I’m supposed to feel, then fuck you.”

For an instant, Zoe heard her say, “Fuck me.” What a pleasure that would be.

“Okay, you wanta be a good Samaritan, you can come in and wash my — Jesus.” Ariadne had stepped far enough into the hallway to see Carter lurking a few feet away from Zoe.

Suzanne Carter, who preferred to be known by her last name, was wiry and wily. As an employee of Child Protection Services, she took bewildered, mistreated children away from their violent or distraught parents after warning the adults of the legal consequences of their behavior. Carter dreamed of being a secret agent for the federal government.

Carter grabbed Ariadne by the arm before she could slam the door on her two friends.Zoe tried to soothe her with words. “Ari! We’re concerned about you. We just want to —”

“Help me get her inside,” grunted Carter.

Zoe worked for the Department of Social Services, like Carter, but in a milder role. She specialized in job-readiness counseling.

Ariadne saw through the good-cop/bad-cop act. “Fuckin’ Christ!” She made no effort to control her volume. “You two dykes are a fuckin’ joke! What is this, a scene for World’s Worst Videos?” She wasted so much energy expressing herself verbally that Carter had no trouble forcing her back into her apartment. This didn’t prevent Carter from glaring at Zoe for awkwardly trailing behind and closing the door quietly instead of helping to restrain the prisoner.

Carter’s pale, spiky hair seemed to bristle more than usual. It was naturally blonde, and Carter tried to compensate for the baby-chick color by keeping it short and artificially stiff. Zoe suspected her of using starch.

“What the hell do you want?” Ariadne was still hostile, but quieter.

Carter loosened her grip, and slid a hand up to Ariadne’s chin. “Why didn’t you answer your phone for a week, Ari? Don’t you think anyone cares what happens to you?”

Ariadne backed away. She seemed to be wondering whether anyone in the world could actually worry about her. “You didn’t have to spaz out. You knew Denny dumped me so she could be with whatsername. Everyone knows everything in this community. There’s no flippin’ mystery here, okay? That’s why the fuck I didn’t answer my phone.”

Ariadne still gave off a dull-red glow, but Zoe could feel her exhaustion. Zoe offered traditional advice. “You can forget her, Ari. Denny didn’t deserve you. You’ll find someone better.”

Ariadne fended off a hug by pushing Zoe’s hands away. She looked like a cornered animal. “You can go to hell, both of you.”

“Hey!” Carter objected.

Ariadne wasn’t finished. “Damn social workers get all your lines out of a book. I’m not gonna find someone better. You know that damn well.”

Something in the air chilled Zoe to the bone. It was the presence of death, lured in by the despair that lingered in the smell of stale food and body odor.

Zoe had watched the luck drain out of Ariadne’s life, one event at a time, for the past seven years. She had had to drop out of university due to lack of funds, and lack of credit. She had found a good job at an advertising agency, but a volatile male boss had first groped her and then ridiculed her ideas until she quit. Her mother had died and her father had moved his girlfriend into the house a few days after the funeral.

A series of alcoholic girlfriends had wrecked or taken all of Ariadne’s most treasured belongings, including her car, her good-luck stone and her grandmother’s earrings. She had given notice on her apartment after accepting Denny’s invitation to move in with her, then Denny had changed her mind after a one-night bar hookup with someone else.

Like her namesake in Greek mythology, Ariadne seemed to be lost in a maze with a monster at its center, and no one had given her a thread to guide her back to the open air.

“Just leave me alone,” she said. The dark eyes in her puffy face said something else.

“We can’t do that,” Carter told her, unconsciously imitating the coolly-dangerous voice of a cop in a crime show on prime-time. “A stupid little thing like you can’t be trusted alone.” Carter seized her by both arms from behind as though she were planning to handcuff her. Ariadne’s T-shirt was pulled against her small, perky breasts and her hips bucked provokingly.

Zoe was appalled at Carter and herself.

Carter looked at her like a conspirator. She kept speaking to Ariadne. “Besides, if you can’t find anyone better than Denny, you’d be lucky if we do you a favor. Everyone knows everything in our community, honey, and we’ve heard all about you. We know what a greedy little pig you are, and you have nothing to lose.”

Ariadne looked at Zoe in disbelief. “Oh please. You’re not going to try cheering me up by fucking me.” It was more of a question than a statement.

The heat of evil joy spread through Zoe. “She said please,” she told Carter. “We both heard her.”

Ariadne seemed strangely resigned, even serene in Carter’s grip. If she hadn’t, Zoe would have gushed apologies and tried to soothe Ariadne with hugs and tea and grief counseling – anything to appease whatever gods seemed to blast everything she touched. Anything to prevent the curse from spreading like a virus.

But Ariadne seemed easy. “This place is filthy, and so are you,” Carter told her. “Should we give her a bath first?”

Zoe brushed the hair off Ariadne’s forehead. She cradled Ariadne’s head, releasing the hot smell of her scalp as she pulled a tragic young face closer to hers. Zoe could see the faint mustache above Ariadne’s full, curved lips, and a row of eyebrow hairs that were trying to grow back in after being tweezed out. Ariadne’s eyes were closed, and her black eyelashes rested on pale, clammy skin.

Zoe was aware of her own neatly-trimmed hair, her subtle makeup, her skin cream and deodorant. She felt like a cleaner, older, saner version of Ariadne.

Zoe felt moved to tears. She fought the feeling by pressing her lips to Ariadne’s. The taste was fresher than Zoe expected, like spring rain enriched with salt and iron. Zoe could taste Ariadne’s grief and rage, her confusion and self-hatred. Underneath it all, she could taste fear. Zoe was surprised at how easy it was to taste emotions on another person’s porous, vulnerable skin.

Zoe slid her tongue between Ariadne’s lips. Ariadne didn’t exactly co-operate, but she didn’t fight the invasion. Zoe could swear she tasted hope in Ariadne’s mouth, just enough to keep her alive.

“No,” said Zoe to Carter. “We can wash her later. Let’s play with her first.”

“We need to take her clothes off. They’re gross.” Zoe unbuttoned and unzipped Ariadne’s jeans while Carter kept a firm grip on her arms.

“Hey, I can see what you’re trying to do, but I’m not into it, Masters and Johnson. Sex therapy won’t work on me.” Ariadne sounded sad, not outraged. Zoe felt encouraged.

“Shut up,” said Carter. “This isn’t for you, this is for us. We get tired of taking care of other people all the time. We want someone we can use, and you were born for that, baby. You’re a piece of trash living in a garbage dump. We’ll just take what we want and then leave.” Carter reached under Ariadne’s T-shirt to pinch her naked nipples.

Zoe watched Ariadne for real signs of distress, but the captive squirmed more like a friendly puppy than like a frantic victim. Zoe helped Carter to pull Ariadne’s T-shirt over her head. The smell of her neck and armpits wafted over them, but Zoe wasn’t offended. She was reminded that all human beings have a smell if nothing is done to erase it, and that most people in Western civilization have been trained to feel unreasonably ashamed of their own.

“Ariadne, you’re a slut,” Zoe explained. “That used to mean a dirty woman, one who doesn’t keep herself clean. Literally. A lazy housekeeper. We can’t mess you up any worse than you already are.”

“She needs a spanking.” Carter looked at Zoe.

“Good plan.” Zoe had been acquainted with Ariadne all her life because their parents attended the same church, but Zoe had never wondered before whether Ariadne’s parents believed in physical punishment as a spur to sound character development. Zoe and Ariadne hadn’t been close enough as children to play hitting or touching games.

Zoe wanted to make up for lost time.

Carter efficiently pulled Ariadne’s jeans off her legs, lifting each of her feet for that purpose. Beneath the denim, Ariadne wore nothing but her own skin, lightly coated with oil and sweat. “Bend over and touch your toes,” said Carter like a police matron.

The sight of Ariadne’s deep rose-colored cunt-lips, surrounded by black fur and the delicate skin of her thighs, was as appealing as Zoe and Carter had hoped. Moisture glistened in her slit as its fragrance filled the air. “Mm,” the two women hummed quietly. We don’t all look the same down there, thought Zoe. And even if we did, that wouldn’t stop us from wanting to see other women’s secret fruit.

Carter stroked Ariadne’s girlish butt-cheeks, then lightly slapped one of them. “Bad girl!” Ariadne twitched, but stayed in position. Carter slapped the other cheek with more confidence.

Zoe faced Ariadne and held her hips in place. She could feel Ariadne’s breath on her ankles.

Whap! Carter was getting into it, and Ariadne was taking it.

“My turn next. Leave some skin on her for me,” Zoe told Carter. She pulled off her sweater, her bra, her belt, her corduroy pant and her sensible cotton panties as quickly as possible. Being naked made her feel free, not exposed.

Ariadne stood up, looking flushed and disoriented. She noticed Zoe. “Nice tits, mama,” she said.

“None of that from you!” said Carter. She let her eyes travel over Zoe’s small breasts, slim waist and full hips, which she had never seen before. Carter grinned. “Will you do the honors, ma’am?”

“Gladly.” Zoe and Carter pushed Ariadne back into position. Zoe thought of reaching for her belt, and decided against it. She held her right hand as stiff as possible, and slapped Ariadne’s butt smartly. “Dirty girl!” Zoe slapped the other cheek, trying to keep the force even. Ariadne squeaked. “Are you going to learn how to wash dishes?”

Ariadne grunted something which could have meant “yes.”

Whap! “Speak up, girl! Are you going to wear underwear, and keep it clean?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Ow, stop, that’s enough.”

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Zoe pulled Ariadne upright, and hugged her with passion. Both of them were shaking. “Ari,” sighed Zoe. She kissed Ariadne and snaked one hand down between them to find Ariadne’s wet bush.

Ariadne moaned, and something melted in Zoe.

“I just need to know how you’re doing,” she mumbled. She hunched down as two of her fingers found Ariadne’s swollen clit and squeezed it.

“Zoe, are you fucking her already?” Carter tried to pull them apart, but Ariadne spread her legs and Zoe plunged her fingers in as far as they would go, like shooting a bolt into its slot. Ariadne clung to Zoe for dear life, moving fluidly on Zoe’s slippery fingers.

“Hey, don’t let her come! She can’t come yet!” Carter really seemed annoyed, although the subject of coming hadn’t been discussed at all. Carter grabbed Zoe’s wrist and abruptly pulled her out of Ariadne. Carter wedged herself between them.

“Carter, I really want her.”

“Well, show some self-control, woman. Shit. There’s a way to do things, and this isn’t it. Think about it, Zoe. Now I have to find something to keep her worked up that won’t let her get off.”

Carter looked wildly around her, and saw a spool of black thread on the floor. Half of it was unwound, lying in a dusty snarl. “This isn’t clean, but it’s good enough for you.”

Carter bent down, picked up the spool, unwound more of the thread and bit off a length of it with her teeth. “Here, you. Stay like that, legs spread.”

In a humble-looking gesture, Carter knelt on one knee and spread Ariadne’s bush with both hands. Then Carter pulled a Kleenex out of her jeans pocket and actually wiped Ariadne’s lower lips like a mother wiping spittle off a child’s mouth. Zoe could see her making a fast circular motion.

“Uh,” grunted Ariadne.

“There. Don’t touch it until one of us takes it off for you. You better do what you’re told or you won’t get no satisfaction.”

“It’s hard for me to come anyway. You didn’t need to worry about it.”

“We’re in charge here, trash, not you.” Carter stood aside to let Zoe see her handiwork. Zoe spread Ariadne’s lower lips to see that her clit was tied as tightly as possible with a tourniquet of thread. Zoe snickered.

“It’s like a cock ring for a girl,” bragged Carter. “Best I could do.”

“Do you think it will stay on while we wash her?” Zoe wanted to see Ariadne sopping wet, and she wanted an excuse to touch her all over.

“She’ll get a lot dirtier before she gets clean.” Carter briskly unbuttoned her shirt, folded it, and continued undressing until all her clothes were lying in a neat pile in a corner. She had an impressive number of tattoos and piercings, but Zoe and Ariadne were too distracted to study them.

“I’ll need your help, Zoe.” Carter handed her a small rubber butt-plug. “Plug her with this, will you?”

“Gladly. Bend over, slut.” Ariadne let herself be maneuvered into a convenient position for Zoe to find her small, puckered hole and push the plug into it. “Keep this in until we take it out. It will keep you in the right frame of mind.”

“I have something to show you, Ari.” Carter grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the kitchen. “This room is a fucking health hazard. Do you want to start a maggot farm or die from an infection? Down on your hands and knees. I know it’s a nasty floor. That’s the point.”

Ariadne arranged herself on all fours. Zoe stood closest to the door, where she could admire Ariadne’s red ass.

Carter rummaged in the fridge. “You like beer, do you?” She popped open a cold can. Without warning, she poured a fizzy yellow stream on Ariadne’s hair.

“Aww!” wailed Ariadne. But she didn’t move. Zoe didn’t know what to say.

“You like that, do you, piggy? There’s more.” Carter opened a jar of applesauce and shook blobs of it over Ariadne’s back. “Zoe, what do you think would happen to her if we left her to live in this filth? She eats in this kitchen.”

Ariadne was a gleaming mess. “She’s right, baby,” said Zoe. Her hands itched, and she opened a cupboard to find something with a contrasting texture. A half-empty box of crackers caught her eye. Zoe was soon crumbling them over Ariadne’s head, admiring the starry shine of salt crystals against the midnight darkness of her dripping hair.

Zoe wanted to see what Ariadne would look like with something red and viscous on her skin. Carter seemed to have the same thought, and she found a jar of pasta sauce in the fridge. Using a wooden spoon, Carter trailed a red line down Ariadne’s back and spread some of the sauce into horizontal stripes like stylized ribs. Ariadne shivered.

Zoe added canned peas and black olives for color contrast. She drizzled olive oil all over Ariadne to give her a slick shine.

The naked woman on all fours responded to each new substance with a new sound. She seemed to have lost the power of speech.

Carter slid her hand between her ass cheeks to jiggle the base of the plug. A ripple seemed to flow from there through the rest of Ariadne’s body.

Zoe ran her hands all over Ariadne, teasing her nipples until they pointed redly at the floor. Zoe smeared some of the mess on herself, and straddled her victim, pretending to ride her. Zoe slapped her greasy rump. “We’ll have to hose you down with industrial-strength detergent. Unless you want to stay like this.”

“How’s your clit?” asked Carter, bending down to examine it.

Some of the liquid dripping from Ariadne’s face seemed to be tears. “It’s—beating. Like a pulse.” Her voice sounded huskier than usual. Zoe could almost feel an intrusive plug in her own ass, and hear it calling to a bound clit.

“You’re a stuffed little animal, but you still need something else,” said Carter. Zoe needed something herself, but she also wanted to push Ariadne to a breaking-point.

Zoe stood up and pulled Carter into her arms, loving the hardness of her muscles and bones. She had a hunch. “I bet she has a dildo.”

“Is that true, Ari?” asked Carter. “If you don’t tell us where it is, we’ll take you outside and tie you to the fence while we look for it.”

“My top left dresser drawer,” said Ariadne.

“I’ll get it.” Zoe didn’t really expect to find it where Ariadne said it was. The obscenely realistic silicone cock was impossible to miss, and it looked too big to fit inside Ariadne. Zoe wondered if she had kept it as collateral for something of hers which had disappeared with a fly-by-night companion.

Carter had two fingers deep in Ariadne’s cunt when Zoe came back to the kitchen. “See this,” she said.

Carter laughed and withdrew her fingers, which shone wetly. “We knew she was a greedy pig. There’s the proof. Do you want to do her?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Ariadne was shaking and shifting her weight, but Zoe found her as wet between the legs as she was everywhere on the outside.

“Fuck her hard,” urged Carter. Zoe spread Ariadne’s lower lips wide enough to accommodate the smooth, arrogant head. Ariadne moaned as it sank into her, inch by inch, under Zoe’s steady pressure.

The dildo filled Ariadne to its wide base. By pulling and pushing, Zoe set up a rhythm which must have affected everything in the neighborhood of Ariadne’s deep channel.

“This is your life, Ari,” sneered Carter. “Living in garbage and getting fucked with an elephant cock. You asked for it. It’s what you deserve.” Carter reached under her and tugged at the thread on her clit. Ariadne grimaced in pain.

“No-o!” she screamed. Zoe could feel her convulse around the objects inside her. She came and came as though she would explode. Zoe and Carter held her like human shock absorbers.

Zoe’s face was wet when she carefully pulled the dildo and the butt plug out of Ariadne’s swollen flesh. Zoe kissed Carter over Ariadne’s back before they each wrapped their arms around her and helped her to her feet.

Carter looked more shaken than Zoe had ever seen her. The two conspirators formed a pungent sandwich with Ariadne as the filling, and they kept her balanced between them.

The three women swayed together, slipping against each other. Zoe wondered if they had fucked open a new crack in the universe, a way out of no way. She felt as if they had all fought a monster, and it made her love the other two like crazy.

Zoe knew there was plenty of time for them to clean up the mess and continue their game, or vice versa. She could hardly wait to offer her own ecstasy, an explosion out of her skin, to whatever gods might be watching.

dirty stories, guest posts

You Asked Me About My Fantasies, Guest Post by Kitty Faut

Posted on January 31, 2019by Kitty Faut

… but then we didn’t really talk so I’m just writing them here.

In my fantasies we’re at N’s place in Thessaloniki, old furniture and random things on the floor and your hair is the way it was the day I met you, or we’re at your old flat, night turning to day or it doesn’t really matter.

No, no — I know.

We’re gonna go at a party later that night. You came over to drink tea, it’s bitter almond and the bougainvillea flowers that help me breathe and you need help to pick an outfit, even though I can’t really imagine us ever doing that. I show you the dresses: the long silver one, the skater dress I got just for you, the kinda see-through one with the big flowers. Will you try them on? You do a shy little catwalk for me, you look so pretty, I wanna eat you up alive. The collar that says SEX TOY, the one with the three D-rings, one for the leash and two for the handcuffs even though you’re not wearing any leash or handcuffs right now. I want to kiss you, you say, I smile and grab the middle ring of your collar and bring you closer and kiss you and bite your lip.

I write those words missing you even though I just saw you two days ago. I miss the idea of you more, of what we could have been.

I wanna do your nails. Will you pick a color? You choose a dark blue and I choose a silvery glitter top coat to go together, look like the starry night. I really like painting your nails, I love caring for you in these tiny ways, I like these still and silent moments when I have an excuse to be quiet and so close to you. Now you have to wait for like five minutes for the first layer to dry but we’re so close and I see how you look at me biting your bottom lip, tapping your fingers on your knees impatiently, but I’m sorry, I just did these nails and you’re not gonna mess them up, so stay still boy.

I get up and leave you desperate, sitting on the floor with your back on the bed, your hands placed carefully on your sides. I come back with strawberry juice and grapes and yesterday’s pizza. I smile and you smile. I sit on the bed behind you, spread my legs and place your head in between my thighs, are you comfy? You nod. I grab my book and read to you about caves and trees and birds and you’re so excited with everything. I feed you grapes and check your nails, they’ve dried so let’s apply a second layer. I kiss the top of your head and place your right hand on my thigh, start doing your nails, while I feel your other hand slowly touching my leg. My hand pulling your hair hard stops you and you apologize shyly. You have to politely ask first, remember?

I feel okay with you. Sometimes I’d like to be more confident, like Dom/mes are. Sometimes I’d like to find a way to be a Dom/me without needing to be confident. Does my desire for you make me vulnerable? Is being vulnerable a bad thing? Is vulnerability reserved only for subs?

I’d like to tie you up, would you like to be tied up? There’s a new knot I’ve been practicing that I’d like to show you, I say. You smile so wide and nod excited like a puppy, yes, yes! I bring out the scissors and the ropes, purple and teal and gray. I tell you to sit on the bed and I sit behind you, tie your hands firmly behind your back and try to remember the pattern I had practiced but at some point give up and do the same old things I know so well. I run my hands through your chest to straighten the ropes and as an excuse to touch you more. Are you okay? Does this feel good? I bring you closer to me, hold you tight, wrap my arms around your neck and my legs around your waist. I just sit still to feel your breath, its rhythm getting faster. You turn and try to kiss me, can I kiss you please, you beg softly. I turn you around, sure thing, boy.

We kiss a bit and I lay you on your back. I’m thirsty, you say, and I take a sip of water and pass it carefully from my mouth to yours. I sit on your crotch and feel you getting harder. I rub myself against you for a bit and you moan. I get up and clumsily take my underwear off, leave just the binder, or should I take this off too? I sit right next to you as you’re laying on your back, wishing you could touch me, trying to get your hands free even though you know it’s no use, but you know I love seeing you struggle. You manage to crawl closer, what do you want, boy? You know that if you ask nicely you might actually get it. Can I eat you up, Sir, please? Pretty please. Well, if you ask so nicely, how can I ever say no? I ride your face, my clit just a breath away from your mouth, you struggle but can’t reach me. I stand there enjoying the view of your pretty face in agony. I decide to be nice and just lower my hips a bit and let you get a taste of my pussy. Your tongue feels amazing, licking and sucking slowly, gratefully, carefully, your tongue feels like home. I feel like I can be myself with you and I had just missed you so much. I let myself enjoy this for a bit but then get up again. I sit next to your face, far enough so you can’t reach me, but if you crawl a bit you’ll be able to. Won’t you come here, boy? You struggle and you almost make it, but I just move away a tiny bit more. You’re so annoyed, I love it, you kiss and bite my knees and I laugh. I grab my toy box and tell you that I’d like you to suck my dick now, would you like that? Yes Sir, thank you so much.

Do your arms still feel ok? I bring you all the colorful dildos to choose from. I strap the one you picked on and sit on top of your face. You start licking it slowly, sucking the tip, then taking it all in. I love how you gag on it, keep looking me in the eyes, my sweet boy, my pet, my toy, I lock my hands around your throat while I fuck your mouth, slip my thumb inside it, keep doing that, you’re mine.

I lay you on your stomach, I just want to spend a moment with your back, with your ass, with the back of your thighs, with your tied up arms. I untie you slowly and kiss the rope marks, I wish they’d still be visible tomorrow, but I’m gonna make you some bruises to remember me by. I take my time tidying up the ropes, letting you wait, unsure what’s gonna happen next. You feel my dildo pressing up your butt and bend towards me. But for now I just wanna taste your salty skin, bite the back of your neck and pull your head up by your hair to get a kiss. I wanna map every little part of your body, scratch your arms and your back, hear all the different sounds you make that correspond to all the different ways I’m touching you.

I’m scratching and spanking your ass, watching it get pink and then red, hearing you louder, begging just for a little bit more. Then I stop. You’re shaking from desire, you know what’s coming next. Soft bites on your butt and the inside of your thighs. Little kisses. My fingers running on your skin gently. My tongue on your anus, my wet fingers, you sound as if you can’t take it anymore. Please, Sir. I apply lube and then one finger, two fingers, you close your eyes and say you like it, you want more. Lucky you, you’re just about to get more. You breath heavily as you feel the tip of my dildo rubbing against your anus, going slowly inside and then all the way. I fuck you a bit like that but I just wanna be able to see your face. Turn around, I demand and you obey. You’re the sweetest thing, I just want you so much. I feel your hands around me, you pressing closer to me to feel my dick deeper inside you. You hold me close as I fuck you, you reach for a kiss and you get it, you deserve it. I taste your sweat, your chest, your neck your armpits, I feel your nails on my back. I slow down. I kiss you gently, your lips, your face. Are you okay, boy? You nod. You’re so pretty, you’re too much to bear. I think that’s enough, you say. I need a break, We cuddle and kiss and whisper little things and make plans for the night. What time should we get there? Who will be there? You haven’t picked a dress yet! I drink some of the strawberry juice and you ask for a sip.

Can I touch you a bit? You ask, and I say sure. Can I touch your breasts? I smile. You kiss and suck on my nipples softly, then a sudden bite. I love it when you hurt me like that, I love this pain. I want you to bruise me. You get on top of me and spend some time caressing my hair, licking my fingers, kissing me all over. Little kisses on my belly and hips, little bites on the inside of my thighs, I feel so nice and safe with your head between my thighs. Will you get your sexy gloves? I ask you smiling. And of course you do, you look so freaking hot with them on and it feels so good when you finger me wearing those. I grab my wand while your fingers slip so easily inside my wet pussy. You fuck my faster and harder, bending over closer to me to kiss me, it’s so nice letting go, trusting you to fuck me, trusting to be vulnerable and strong and soft with you. Trusting you enough to cum hard, my wand vibrating against my clit and three of your fingers inside me. I collapse and you hug me, hold me super closely against your warm body that smells like home and lust and sweat and all the nice things. We stare at the ceiling together and you give me tiny kisses.

We get up, my hands are still all over you, caressing and scratching softly, playing with your hair and your ears and your shoulders and your hands. You smile and I smile. Can I do your makeup? Yes please, you say and take a sit while I bring my lipstick and brushes. You stand still, almost holding your breath. I apply eyeliner softly, I kiss your nose. Your new bruises go so well with the lip color. I bring the mirror and you see yourself and you have the widest smile. You like it? I love it.

Let’s get dressed and let’s go.

cock confidence

Cock Confidence: Uncut with Movable Foreskin

Posted on January 31, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I can’t tell you the number of times folks have asked me about getting a strap-on dildo with foreskin! And while there are some that include the shape of the foreskin in the mold, none of them (that I know of) have foreskin that is movable — until this one.

So, of course, I leapt to purchase it.

It’s called King Cock Uncut, and it’s made by Doc Johnson. It comes in 6”, 7”, and 9” versions, in the colors vanilla, caramel, and chocolate (which have become fairly standard for realistic strap-ons). The width varies by size — the 6” one is about 1.5” wide and the 9” is 1.8” wide.

She Vibe has it in stock with the various options. (It’s actually hard to find at other feminist/queer sex toy stores, because they usually don’t carry this kind of material.)

First, Let’s Talk About the Material

I was really excited when it arrived, even though when I took it out of it’s package, it smelled highly of plastic off-gassing — always a red flag for me. It is touted as being “phthalate-free, latex-free, body-safe, and hypoallergenic,” and while I believe that, their approximately $30 price tag tells me that the plastics they’re using are still not particularly high quality. SheVibe calls the material “Phthalate Free Fanta Flesh PVC.” I’ve had mostly bad experiences with PVC, especially because of the smells.

What is off-gassing, you ask? Well, it’s when manufactured items release volatile organic compounds (VOCs) and other chemicals, mostly detectable by smell. They usually undergo their most noxious (and smelly) off-gassing for about a month after they’re produced; some chemicals can emit VOCs for years. (Source.)

This material, by the way, cannot be disinfected, meaning it won’t clean by boiling it (the heat would probably disfigure it). It is porous, so it shouldn’t be used with multiple partners. If someone has sensitive skin, I do not recommend it.

Okay, but: sometimes a toy has other features that might make it work using a less-than-ideal material.

And this one? It’s special!

But It Has Foreskin!

Aside from the off-gassing, the first thing I had to do — of course! — was slide the foreskin. Wow: it did not disappoint. I was really excited about this when it arrived!

I ordered the 6” version to try it out. The foreskin slid fairly easily as soon as I took it out! It came with a little packet of lube that had a long nozzle, I assume to get it down inside of the dildo between the layers to make it slide more easily. I didn’t put any in early on, it was sliding easily enough on its own.

I washed it a few times, set it out to dry, but the smell didn’t change much. So I left it in a drawer for a while. Usually off-gassing diminishes with time, so I figured it would calm down. I wasn’t about to stick that in my mouth, and if I wouldn’t put it there, there’s no way I’d put it in a body (mine, or anyone else’s) in other places.

Time did help it be less scented, a little bit. When I took it back out a few months (yes, months) later, it still had a strong plastic smell, but not as intense.

But the Material :(

Unfortunately, what it also had was stains from being next to a black leather harness in the drawer. Not a lot, but definitely noticeable, and not particularly attractive. I wouldn’t say they look like bruises, but they look messy, like patches of soot, maybe.

By this time, it was much harder to slide the foreskin. It was sticky, and required quite a bit of arm muscle. I added some lube underneath the layer of foreskin, and that helped, though it still wasn’t nearly as smooth as it was before.

But What About Actually Using It?

Reports on the experience of using this strap-on have varied. Some folks weren’t bothered by the off-gassing smell, or perhaps theirs were not quite as strong as ours. Some said the smell was enough to put them off of it for good. Some were impressed with the foreskin, others though it wasn’t nearly as cool as they expected.

It has limitations, and yeah, maybe it isn’t quite as cool as it’s touted to be. But for what it is, it’s pretty fun — and unique.

The skin doesn’t really slide easily when it’s used. It wouldn’t make much sense for it to slide when it’s in someone’s mouth … it just takes more pressure and grip than would be comfortable or natural for a mouth to do. Same with being inside other body holes; the skin doesn’t move without the right kind of grip, so it won’t pull back just from going in and out of someone’s body.

So if that’s what you want, you probably won’t get it.

I’m not sure why that’s important, personally. I don’t need it to slide while I have it strapped on — I don’t know if you know this, but I can’t actually feel that part. So really, I just want it to slide while it’s in my hand, or while I watch someone else’s hand on it. And that it does, and does well.

rife reports that it is a really good size and shape. It’s a little fat, not very long. It’s very soft — they describe it as “proprietary dual-density Slide-Skin™ formula.” The dual-density is softer than many of the others on the market, and it might be even more squishy because of its additional outer layer. rife also reports that it is “not pokey” like others can be, and expressed that he really liked it. (I was surprised to hear that, to be honest!)

I am pretty excited about it as a masturbation toy. That feeling of it sliding is really pleasurable.

The Care & Cleaning of King Cock

Because it is PVC, it is porous, and cannot be fully disinfected the way other silicone, metal, and glass toys can be. It can be used with a condom, but that changes the way the foreskin moves, which is most of the point of this toy.

It can’t be boiled without damage, but it should be washed with warm water and mild soap before and after use.

As you can imagine, it’s very hard to clean. The skin peels back a little, but the piece of PVC that makes up the foreskin is actually a sheath that goes very far down the length of the shaft. It’s possible to get a small brush down in there, but lube is sticky and can be tricky to wash off without some care — and some direct soap.

king cock uncut with foreskin peeled back halfway down the shaft

Ultimately: I Like It

I’ve been on the fence about it, but rife’s comments about how good the size is tips me over to being glad it’s part of the collection. I’m not sure how heavily it’ll be in rotation, but for now, it’s the best option for a dildo with foreskin. And it does feel pretty good in my hand.

King Cock was not sent to me for a review; I purchased it myself. Get it over on SheVibe.

dirty stories, fiction

Whatever I Want, Whatever I Say

Posted on January 30, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

“I’m going to do whatever I want.”

By now, I have my hand over her mouth. My arm is pressed up against the plaster wall; the paint is scratchy and the plaster is cold. The curves of her — hips, ass, ribs — against my body are warm.

“And you’re going to do whatever I say.”

I’m not stupid. I know there are limits to what I can do with her. When I negotiated with her owner a few nights ago, we went over all kinds of things I could feasibly see myself doing, and some things that probably would never cross my mind. Although now that they have, perhaps I shall.

Her owner laughed when we started negotiating. “Honestly, I can’t imagine anything you could do that would be over the line.”

“That’s very generous,” I replied, smiling. We laid out everything we could think of, and made it all clear.

She whimpers under the palm of my hand. Her hair is caught at my wrist, probably in my watch. I might rip it if I move too quickly. She keeps arching her back and rubbing her ass into my thighs. I wonder if she even notices she’s doing that.

I reach under the loose, knee-length wrap dress to trace my way up her thighs. I savor the feeling of fishnets on my skin. The pad of my fingers fit perfectly into one of the little holes, and when I press just a little on her skin, I can feel how it dips inside of it. How easily I could hook my finger in, and pull her hole open.

She makes a sound that is half of a whimper and half of a moan, muffled by my hand. Her lips are open and she’s almost sucking. I can feel her teeth.

The straps of her garter belt are pulling at the raw top of her fishnets. I can feel the strain. They aren’t going to last much longer. My breathing gets shallow and faster. I want to tear, rip, split apart, shatter. I want that moment when the pounding against her is what forces the sound from her mouth.

I did promise I wouldn’t break her.

She isn’t wearing panties underneath anymore. She handed them to me after she walked in the door, one hand on the doorframe to steady herself while she peeled them over her delicate t-strap heels. She knows the protocol.

I promised myself I would fuck her mouth before I touched her pussy, before I made her feel good. I promised myself I would focus on my pleasure and her service. But when I think about feeling her wetness on my fingers I feel the tension ratchet up and up and up. I want it. I want to feel her stretch open. I want to shove my fingers in her mouth with her juices all over them and feel her open her throat.

Slow, I tell myself. Go slow. The faintest finger on her velvet lips.

She whines. A sweet noise, a long high note from her throat.

“Shut up,” I whisper. My lips touch her earlobe. “You’re mine tonight. Just for tonight. Aren’t you lucky, you slutty little bitch.”

She swallows whatever cry was going to come out of her next.

I feel the folds of her. She is not bare; her hair is short and thin. It feels impossibly dry, and I try not to think about sinking my finger into the slick of her.

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” I slide my lips to her neck to kiss, to suck. To taste her skin, the sweat of her, and the sweet. She arches her neck, rolling her head back on my shoulder, offering herself up.

My fingers find it, the spot I was looking for, where she is pouring, where she is waiting for me. I wonder how long I can wait. I wonder how cliche it is to want to strap on and fuck her. I let her wetness coat my fingertip, but only that. I don’t put it inside.

I pull it away, tighten my grip around her chest, and heave her toward the bed. She stumbles slightly and catches herself. I grab her ankles, one with each hand, pushing her up onto the bed and twisting her legs so she turns over onto her back. Her eyes flash a little fear, a lot of arousal. She bites her lip, unsure if she can speak yet.

In a breath, I whip my belt from my jeans, slide the end back through the buckle, and loop it around her wrists. It’ll do. I wrap the end in my fist, pull it above her head, and push between her thighs. She reaches for me. She looks at me, pleading. She wants.

I want to slide in. Her pussy is making a wet spot on my jeans. I want there to be something I can feel ready for her to take. I want the nerve endings. Instead, I have this: the color of my flesh, supple, flexible, on demand. I pull the buttons of my fly and they open, pop pop pop. It is easy to heave forward the swell of me.

She moans right away, with thick breaths and pressing hips, and turns her head to bite her upper arm. Her lip catches and turns out. The pink of her is showing.

I rub the head against her cunt. Her hole is so slick it almost slides in just by touching. She is an invitation, an open door: come inside.

“Just because I’m going to fill you with come doesn’t mean we’re done tonight,” I growl above her. She glances at me sideways, then lowers her eyes. She didn’t think this would be it, did she?

“Yes, sir,” she whispers. She steals a glance at me again to check my face and see if her words please me. “I will do whatever you say.”

A place in my core liquifies and groans, filling a void the has needed soothing. That is what I need to hear.

I let go of the belt and stand. Is she trembling? Her wrap dress is a mess, falling off of her. I reach for one end of the fabric belt of it and tug, and the bow dissolves. One side of the dress spills back, exposing the skin of her stomach, the curves of her plush body, the curl of her breast.

“Open your legs.”

Her face goes tight around her eyes, but she does. Her knees butterfly open and she slides her feet apart. My thighs are inside of hers, touching. I can feel the scrape of her tights when she moves. I want the indentation in my skin, want to feel the pinch and burn of it.

She has the expression of a woman who has readied herself to be entered. She knows she may or may not like it; she knows she may or may not come; she knows it isn’t for her. She knows who it is for. She knows what she is for, and right now, she is a plaything her owner loaned out. She is a toy her owner is showing off.

“Pull your hands free of the belt. Open your lips.” My mouth is going dry. “Show me.”

She slowly brings her arms down from over her head and reaches for her pussy, spreading her fingers to show me what’s underneath her layers. I grip her thighs with my hands. Strong. A handful. With the kind of pressure that will leave finger marks tomorrow. Gifts for my friend. She lets me push her thighs open further. I press forward with my hips. My cock is stiff in front of me and I find her hole with the tip of it, I keep my hands gripped on her thighs, the flesh of her giving under my hands. My fingertips feel the holes in the stockings again and I don’t resist, I slide my fingers through them and pull. I slide my cock into her and push. She writhes and gasps. I flex and urge forward. The cells of her stockings burst with my pressure.

I slide in and out. My eyes are closed, I don’t see her, but I do, through my touch, through the heat of her. I pull her thighs to me. I rip her stockings again. She cries out when it gives way. I feel myself close, so close.

“Please,” she whispers. She has moved her hands out of the way so I can push in deeper. “Please.”

Does she want it to end, or is she fearful of what comes next? Does she want my seed in her, or does she want me to pull out?

Doesn’t matter. What I want is to flood deep inside of her. To surprise her with the pressure. To fill her. Instead, I empty myself, thrust after thrust, and she milks me, she catches me, she holds everything I give her.

My body thrums.

Then I breathe out. “Good,” I say, righting myself again, pulling to my feet. Her dress is a piece of fabric. Her fishnets are shredded, falling off of her thighs. My lust is poured inside her and I can control myself, I can think, again. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s start.”

I button my jeans slowly and watch as she comes back together. I take my shirt off, bare from the waist up. I kiss her mouth and she is supple and so, so soft. Then I reminder her, and I grip her throat, a little too hard. “Say it again,” I tell her.

“You’re going to do whatever you want,” she whispers. She rubs her thighs together, presses her lips tight before swallowing. “And I’m going to do whatever you say.”

I pick up the belt and fist it. I try to stop the wicked grin from spreading over my face.

“Oh,” she says. “God.”

kink

The Outermost Bracket™: A Theory on D/s and Non-Monogamy

Posted on January 28, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

Both non-monogamy and power exchange relationships revolve around sets of agreements between the people involved. Sometimes, those agreements are in harmony — and ahhh, isn’t it lovely when that happens? Not just lovely: it is magic.

Sometimes, however, they conflict.

Both D/s and non-monogamous relationships often have agreements (and arguments) which center around control, ownership, and permission. The difference is, non-monogamy often emphasizes the equality of all parties, while D/s is about someone having authority over the other.

As you can imagine, when both D/s and non-monogamy are both happening within one relationship, that can be very difficult to negotiate.

rife and I were both in non-monogamous relationships when we met, and we quickly knew our play — and then our relationship — would have an ongoing authority imbalance (a.k.a. power dynamic, D/s). As our D/s relationship grew, the non-monogamous and D/s agreements became increasingly complicated. Our authority imbalance continued to strengthen, and sometimes it trumped — or we wanted it to trump — our non-monogamous agreements. That didn’t make sense to a lot of our non-monogamous friends or with the polyamoroy theory that we were reading, and we had a lot of trouble navigating that.

In trying to negotiate all of this (with a lot of trial and error and fucking up), we developed a theory we call “the outermost bracket,” that explores which identity is set within the other.

In other words, is the D/s within the non-monogamy agreements, or is the non-monogamy within the D/s agreements?

Quick disclaimer:

This theory doesn’t apply to everyone. If it makes sense in your world, great! Hope you can take it and make it your own and use it to negotiate these complex things with more ease. If it doesn’t apply, cool. Just take what makes sense and leave the rest.

I’m using the terms “D/s”, “dominant/submissive relationship,” “authority imbalance,” and “power dynamic” as somewhat interchangeable. There are dozens of other terms that folks might be using, too, but these are some of the main ones. All of them mean different things to different people with subtle nuance, but for the purposes of this theory, they are similar enough. Generally, I use them to mean all kinds of authority imbalance relationships in and out of the bedroom.

This theory might be most relevant for D/s relationship where the dominant has a lot of control, but some bedroom-only D/s dynamics might apply here, too, since often there are rules executed in the bedroom. Such as: you will only come when I give you permission, you will call me Mistress and nobody else, you will always keep your genitals shaved. As you can imagine, if someone who has those rules is playing with someone else, they might cause conflicts.

Similarly, I’m using the terms “polyam,” “polyamory,” “open relationship,” and “non-monogamy” somewhat interchangeably. We could have long conversations about the nuanced differences between them, and what applies to what, but for the sake of this essay, they’re similar enough.

The conflicts around D/s and non-monogamy are vast and complicated, and, while there might be some parallels and common concepts, the specific circumstances are unique to each polycule or set of folks involved. I don’t assume to speak for everyone or all experiences, and this might not resonate with you at all.

The Key Distinction of the Theory

Is your non-monogamy restricted by your D/s rules and agreements, or is your D/s restricted by your non-monogamy agreements?

Let’s break that down.

When Non-Monogamy is the Outermost Bracket

When non-monogamy is the outermost bracket for someone, a couple’s D/s relationships happen within their open relationship agreements.

This often looks like making relationship guidelines with a partner, or setting one’s own solo-poly or polyamorous family boundaries, and negotiating D/s within the confines of those agreements. Whatever D/s-based rules, protocols, or agreements are made, they do not extend to other partners — and the D/s might be restricted by non-monogamous arrangements.

For Example:

Let’s say that Mel has a partner they live with, Jay, and another partner, Alex, they are in a power exchange relationship with (and perhaps other partners, too).

The relationship with Jay is long-term and they consider themselves primary partners. That relationship has various agreements for how any other relationships happen — how many times per week, whether or not they sleep over, whether they only do certain things with one person and not another. Mel and Jay made these rules together from an egalitarian place, and both adhere to them.

Mel’s relationship with Alex is a power exchange relationship where Mel is the sub and Alex is the dom. Alex wants to exercise some control over Mel’s sexuality — let’s say they want to restrict the use of Mel’s ass so that only they can fuck it. But Jay doesn’t want any restrictions on what they can or can’t do with Mel.

The agreements within the D/s don’t extend to their primary partnership — at least, not without some negotiations between all three of them, and with Jay’s blessings for the restrictions.

(Sometimes, Alex and Jay might get together and conspire to make wonderfully terrible things happen for Mel. But that’s an exception, because non-monogamy is hard and sometimes Alex has lots of feelings and they have to spend lots of time sorting it all out.)

So Jay might have control over very specific things in Mel’s life — for example, what they wear when they get together for dates, or how they keep their hair. Whatever these are, they are not things that interfere with Mel’s other relationships.

But Jay’s control does not extend to whether or not Mel can have any other partners, and does not extend to any parts of their relationship with Alex.

In other words, the rules of the D/s relationship do not extend to the primary relationship, nor to the arrangements of any other non-monogamous activities.

In my experience, this is how the majority of D/s non-monogamous relationships operate.

Having non-monogamy as the outermost bracket can help the D/s boundaries be incredibly clear. Mel might want Alex’s power and control over them to be in certain realms or within certain time restrictions only, and their power dynamic might flourish that way.

When D/s is the Outermost Bracket

When D/s is the outermost bracket for someone, their non-monogamous relationships happen within their D/s agreements.

The dominant in this scenario would be in control — to whatever degree they arrange — of the kind of play the submissive would have with other people.

Let’s use another example:

Carter is Devon’s dominant. Carter is in charge of pretty much every aspect of Devon’s life. Devon occasionally wants to play with other people, but Carter gets to say how that happens, when, and within what context.

That could look like:

The dominant gives orders when the submissive plays with anyone else
The dominant is allowed to play with others, but the submissive is not
The submissive is allowed to do certain things but not other things
The submissive has to ask permission for any kind of play with others
The dominant gives permission for all of the sub’s new relationships, but none of their existing ones

Ultimately, the submissive conforms to the dominant’s will, and the arrangements for their non-monogamy are within the confines of the D/s. The submissive’s needs and boundaries are taken into consideration here, and the rules are consented to, but they might be guided by the controlling ideals of D/s and not the egalitarian ideals of open relationships.

This means that the other people Devon is in relationships with must, to some degree, consent to their relationship being underneath the D/s umbrella that Devon has with Carter. Not everyone wants to do that.

How far does the control go?

A dominant controlling the kinds of acts the submissive can or can’t do is one thing; controlling who the submissive is in relationship with is another thing. Vetting or giving permission for a certain relationship to happen or continue can get into tricky territory that can become controlling, unhealthy, or even abusive.

When the dominant controls the kind of non-monogamy that the submissive is allowed to have, it can be a red flag to some folks outside of the relationship. The negotiations of this should be careful and intentional. All parties are in their full agency, give explicit informed consent, and understand that they can talk about it if it becomes a problem between them.

For some folks, it works; for others, it means that the control goes too far.

And this is the key distinction of the Outermost Bracket theory.

Why Does This Matter?

If you know you are into one of these relationship styles more than the other, it can be useful to bring up early on in negotiations. If you can communicate what you’re looking for, you’re much more likely to get it. So, where do you fall? Is non-monogamy your outermost bracket? Is D/s? Or do you structure things in another way?

If you’re having trouble figuring it out, I suggest doing a thought experiment: imagine you are in the most ideal D/s relationship. Do you have control over all aspects of your submissive’s relationships? Does your dominant have complete control over you? What would it feel like if they did?

In Conclusion

For me and rife, this distinction was very helpful as we were figuring out how to navigate the theories we knew about non-monogamy and the desires we had within our D/s. We even extended it with geeky HTML references to talk about hierarchies of other relationship identities (for example, our relationship is M/s first, and Daddy/boy within that). More on this later, or come to our “Art of Ownership” class!

There are probably many other theories and best practices within the overlap of D/s and non-monogamy — no doubt this is not the only one! But honestly, there’s not much out there about it. We know of very few resources, aside from Raven Kaldera’s book Power Circuits: Polyamory in a Power Dynamic.

I’d love to hear about the different kind of theories you all know about and have come up with. Please add your resources and theories to the comments!

PS: Feel free to expand on this theory and apply it to all kinds of other identities! Please do credit us and link back here if you do.

miscellany

Using CoSchedule: Project Management, Editorial Calendar, & Social Media

Posted on January 17, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I love CoSchedule.

It is an editorial calendar and project management system which connects my WordPress blog (that would be this) to my social media. It can do a whole bunch of organizing, and it has all these features for teams, but for me, as just one person, that’s primarily what I use it for.

It connects to WordPress, so either in my WordPress dashboard, or on the CoSchedule website, when I’m on an individual post, the CoSchedule plugin appears and I have different options. I can publish the post on all the social media accounts I’ve connected, as many times as I want — on Twitter or Facebook or Tumblr or Instagram (and probably more, but those are the ones I use). There are some suggestions for posting today, tomorrow, next week, and next month, but I can add custom times, too. When I go to schedule a post to Twitter, it has different shortcuts — title, excerpt, permalink — so I don’t have to write anything post-specific, just add text if I want it to be different than that. I can add images, too.

It’ll also show me all kinds of analytics, including the top posts, so I can see what kind of posts are getting the most attention and traffic.

(To be honest, I don’t pay much attention to the metrics. But I’m glad to have them there when, at some point, I decide to look into them!)

The social media integration is what makes it all worth it, though. I love that I don’t even have to think about it.

So that’s all amazing, and I would be using it even if that was all it did. But the feature that has been the most incredible for me on Twitter is called ReQueue. It is basically a small database where you store text and images for social media posts, and you set up a schedule. ReQueue will automatically put those into your queue to be posted, and it will integrate with the posts you are setting up which promote blog posts.

You can set up different sets of them — this series to only post on Mondays, tagged with #MotivationMonday. You could make series of holiday posts, with affiliate links and links to past gift guide ideas, and then turn it on from November through December and have your promotion ready to go. Of course, you can always add more — through CoSchedule’s calendar, through another app like Buffer, or on your own on the websites.

It has helped me so much more organized about my posting schedule, and it is so helpful for social media. People aren’t following individual blogs like they used to, so really the major ways my work reaches people is through social media. And not everyone is on Twitter or Facebook at any given time, so only a fraction of my followers see when I post. So putting the new story or essay out there multiple times is important!

CoSchedule is one of the essential apps for serious bloggers, as far as I’m concerned. Along with Patreon and ConvertKit, I will offer some coaching on these apps if you sign up for them with my referral code!

Click here to go check out CoSchedule, and if you use my code, let me know, and we can set up some time to talk about your project and for me to support it in any way I can.

dirty stories, guest posts

I Know Where You Live, Guest Post by Raki Kopernik

Posted on January 15, 2019by Raki Kopernik

Content warning: this story contains being groped in public, stalking, being followed home, restraint, hands on the throat, force, knife play, offensive name calling, and fisting. All characters are consenting adults.

I’ll be on a crowded bus traveling south down MLK. At 6:15 pm, you will get on the bus, walk past me, make eye contact for a quick moment, then step behind me. I will be standing, holding the overhead bar. You’ll have to stand too. I won’t be able to see you, but I will feel you looking at me from behind, at my ass and the back of my neck. The bus will make a sudden stop and you’ll almost fall into me. One of your hands will land on my ass. I’ll feel it, but I won’t turn around. When you catch your step, you’ll stand closer to me, behind me. Your hand will stay on my ass and faintly rub up and down, creeping between my legs. I’ll feel the heat of your breath on the back of my bare neck. I won’t do anything. The bus will stop suddenly, again, and your hips will press into mine. You’ll stay there, reach your hand around to the front of my body, and rub my crotch, pressing your pelvis into my ass with the rhythm of the bus. A few people will notice. They will look, trying not to stare, but no one will do anything about it. I won’t make eye contact with any of them, embarrassed. Your breath will get hotter on my neck and you’ll whisper in my ear that you’re going to follow me when I get off the bus. The next stop will be mine and I will push you away, simultaneously pushing other people out of my way to get off the bus. You’ll barely make it off the bus behind me.

It will be already be dark out. I will walk fast toward my house. I’ll feel you behind me, turn to look, but I won’t see you. I’ll start running and I’ll hear you running behind me. I’ll turn but, again, I won’t see you. When I get home, the house will be dark and empty. I’ll forget to lock the door behind me. I will go upstairs and light candles to calm myself. I’ll hear a noise downstairs but will convince myself it’s the cat. I’ll look out the window toward the bed, away from the door and the stairway. I’ll see my reflection in the glass, rub my face and my eyes. Suddenly, your right hand will be pressed over my mouth. Your left hand will be tight around my chest. You’ll whisper in my ear not to move or make a sound. I will wince.

If you scream, you say, I will hurt you.

Then you will let go and push me hard onto the bed, belly down. Stay there, you’ll say, and I will not move, in fear and anticipation. I’ll hear you open your bag and rustle around in it quickly. You’ll straddle my ass and tie my hands together above my head, firm with a black nylon rope, then fasten the rope to the bed frame. With the brown bandana you wear around your neck, you will tie my mouth. Bite this, bitch, you’ll say. I’ll wince again.

Then you will flip me over onto my back. There will be a small hole in my shirt, just above the chest, and you will put your index finger into it and tug, making the hole bigger. You’ll put another finger in, then another until the hole is big enough for all of your fingers. In one quick motion, you’ll tear my shirt apart and pull my pants down around my knees. Your right hand will rest at my throat. You will spit into your left hand and reach it between my legs, forcing your fingers, two, three, then four, inside of me. I will be wet and you will call me a slut for it. I’ll scream into the bandana. You will keep moving your fingers in and out of me until I get so wet you think I might come, and then you’ll stop. Again, I will wince and you will shake your head, no, and smile. You’ll flip me back over onto my belly and pull me up onto my forearms and knees. Then you will slap my ass several times, hard and quick, leaving bright red welts.

You’ll place your fingers back between my legs and say, Damn, you’re dripping, you can’t get enough.

I’ll push my pussy into your hand but you’ll pull it away. You’ll put your hands on my ankles to hold me in place while you breath hot air onto my pussy from behind. I’ll feel your tongue barely lick. I will almost come.

You’ll take out your pocketknife and run it along my back, down between my legs. Are you afraid, you’ll ask. I’ll flinch in fear and want. The tip of the knife will press into my inner thigh, then up around my cunt and ass crack. It will scratch the surface of my skin without breaking it. You will run it back up my spine and around my tits, down my belly, and almost to my pussy again. My breath will quicken and you will laugh. You will, again, press its tip into my inner thigh and this time, a tiny drop of blood will surface. Oh, sorry, you’ll say, condescending, then slap my ass again. And again. I will feel the redness of the skin around my ass and thighs, burning. For a moment, nothing more will happen. We will just breathe, me on my knees, you behind me.

I will hear you close the knife and put it back into your pocket. The bed will creak as you get up. You’ll start to walk away. When I no longer hear your steps I will think you’re almost gone, but suddenly, you will thrust your fingers into my pussy and fuck me hard and quick, from behind; three fingers, then four, then your knuckles, then your whole fist. I’ll scream into the bandana. I will be swollen and damp, yet still you will tear me open and it will hurt. Your fingers will move back and forth inside of me. I’ll scream into the bandana again and again. I’ll bite it, feeling like my teeth might break. I’ll pull my wrists at the rope, I’ll push my hips into your hand, I’ll writhe.

You like that, you’ll say. Yeah, I bet you do, bitch.

Your hand will quicken until I gush and collapse onto the bed. You’ll laugh, then smack my ass once more, for luck, you’ll say. You’ll untie the rope and the bandana and leave me in a pile on the bed as you walk away, down the stairs. I’ll hear you run the water in the kitchen sink and drink, then slam the door as you leave to catch the bus home.

When I’m sure you’re gone, I will wipe my pussy on a towel and get dressed quickly. Then I will go downstairs, drink a glass of water, and slam the door behind me as I run to catch the number 6 bus, the one you take to get home. I know where you live.

miscellany

Announcing: D/s Webinars for Patrons

Posted on January 10, 2019by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’ve reached a new goal in Patreon where I’m beginning to offer monthly D/s webinars for the folks who are pledging $5+ over on Patreon.

Fourth Saturday of the Month
10am-12noon PT / 1-3pm ET

It’s been exciting! We’ve done four so far. The one in December, 2018, was a condensed version of a workshop that rife and I have done many places called The Protocol Game, about building 52 protocol based on a “training wheel” that you make for yourself, and then you pull one random protocol each week for a year. It’s great to do for submissives who either don’t have a dominant or whose dominant doesn’t control their protocol that way, or for dominants who want to get better at self-control and discipline.

rife & I did a walk-through of how we created our first Protocol Game and explained it here, in case you’re interested in building that for yourself.

January’s webinar will be Fundamentals of Dominance

Saturday, January 26, 2019
10am-12pm PT / 1pm-3pm ET

Here’s how to join the webinars:

Head over to my page on Patreon, patreon.com/mrsexsmith
Sign up for one of the $5 or more tiers. You’ll get other gifts, too, not just the webinars!
You’ll receive email notifications in the days coming up to the webinar with the links on how to join!

Yes, the webinars will be recorded, so patrons can watch it later if they cannot access it live. And, they can access all of the past webinars!

There will be different D/s workshop every month

rife won’t always be able to join me, and it won’t always be on the 4th Saturday of the month, but the patrons will be notified in advance of the dates. As soon as I have a schedule worked out, I’ll release a few months in advance, with the dates and topics.

Topic wise, I will do some more classes on power dynamics that rife and I have already taught, and some new ones … and I’m thinking about Submissive Playground, too.

Would you come to Submissive Playground if I broke it up over four webinars?

I’m thinking I’ll break the course down and do one unit per webinar, for four webinars, every other month. So one month will be Bondage, then Discipline, then Service, then Masochism. $5+ patrons will have access to all the course materials, and if they want individual sessions with me or for me to go over their homework, that’ll be an add-on.

It’d make the course much more affordable than it was before. (The $5 level on Patreon is per-thing, not per-month, though, remember, so it’s actually about $25/month. Still, $25 webinar is less than I have done any of these in the past.)

I’d love to know what other D/s topics or classes you’d like!

So far, I have these requests:

Codependence & D/s
Stepping up your D/s (beginner->intermediate)
D/s and Open Relationships
Dom drop tips
D/s when you don’t live together / long distance

The classes rife & I are working on are:

The Art of Ownership
Queer Non-Binary D/s
Powerful Submission, Vulnerable Dominance
Take, Allow, Serve, Accept
Doctor D/s
Up the D/s Escalator: Trust & Limits

If any of these are speaking to you, I’d love to know; please add your ideas in the comments.

kink

Creating a Submissive Training Plan for Yourself

Posted on December 31, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

Submissives don’t have to wait for a dominant to give them structure, plans, and training! There is a lot you can do on your own to keep yourself connected to your submission.

A training plan involves protocol, goals, rules to follow, and, ideally, rewards. A lot of protocol and training in relationships revolve around sexy kinky things, but sometimes people use it as tools for self-growth and self-improvement.

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A quick side note: though I am really into the tools and ideas of the self-growth worlds, I take it with caution. Sometimes focusing so hard on improvement and growth can give the impression that who you are and what you’re doing already right now is not good enough, and I don’t want to encourage that. Still, it’s often satisfying to dream big, break it down into goals, and work toward them, so the tools still have a useful place in my life.

Even if you don’t currently have a dominant, you can create a training plan for yourself to keep you motivated, connected to your submissive, and striving. These are excellent skills to hone, both for yourself and for your future dominant.

So what is a ‘training plan,’ anyway?

A training plan is a breakdown of the small steps needed to reach a goal. For example, if the goal is to run a marathon, the training plan breaks down the different steps to get mentally and physically prepared in order to do it. For example, a triathlon training plan might include identifying one’s current level of swim, bike, run; increasing capacity for each; targeting biggest improvement potential; and setting a date to do the triathlon in order to dole out the milestone goals between then and now.

Making a goal and working to achieve it combats boredom & complacency, because there’s something challenging to strive for — pushing oneself is not usually boring, and inherently not complacent.

Within the context of D/s, there are dozens of skills that submissives can hone in order to be of greater service to the dominant. Setting a goal to learn or master some of those skills can serve the D/s in the long run, as well as the submissive themself.

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If you are in a relationship, and you want more training or support to meet goals and push yourself, you could think about presenting your dom with a short list of goals you are curious about, that you think will benefit your partnership, and ask your dom to choose which one they would like most. You could still follow the other suggestions, and create the rest of your plan yourself, knowing that the reward will be presenting your completed goal to your dominant at the end of the plan.

Step 1: Identify What Kind of Training to Pursue

Depending on what you want to improve, or what your dominant/household would want you to improve, your training will be different.

Here’s some examples of skills you’d like to increase or parts of your life that you’d like to improve:

Providing sexual service
Domestic service: cooking, housekeeping chores, bookkeeping, assistance, gardening
“Trophy” attributes like dress, grooming, mannerisms
Entertainment: music, dance, storytelling, producing/hosting events
Expressions of devotion

Step 2: Vision What You’d Like the Goal to Be

Here’s some examples that (roughly) correspond to the examples above:

Receive double penetration
Perfect your favorite Thai food dish
Do 100 push-ups
Play guitar well enough to share sing-alongs at a campfire
Make a photo album (actually print out some of your Instagram photos!)

Step 3: Break the Goal Into Small Tasks

Continuing with the examples above, here’s some of the tasks and experiments that could happen in order to perfect your favorite Thai food dish.

Go visit your favorite Thai restaurants to order the dish and see how you most like it
Research Thai cooking classes in your area
Ask that friend who is a really good cook for some help
Look up recipes for that thai dish
Gather the ingredients needed
Cook the dish for your friends at least 5x to experiment with getting the flavors right

Step 4: Set a Timeline

When do you want to have this task or goal complete? A timeline is essential to a training plan — otherwise, it’s just a someday-dream.

Make your timeline as realistic as possible. You might even check in with friends about the timeline and see if they find it realistic — sometimes it’s hard to tell how long something will actually take.

Step 5: Set Aside Time To Do These Different Tasks

That might mean saying no to things you want to do, or canceling things, or pausing a project or hobby you love in order to make time. You can come back to all those things later. You won’t miss out on that much, I promise. (This is a good time to practice noticing your FOMO — fear of missing out — and not letting that fear overpower your goals and training.)

Put your tasks on your calendar! You could even make a date with a friend to keep yourself accountable.

This is box title

One Last Note: About ‘Failing’ to Meet Goals: I’ve noticed that submissives are often a-types, and often beat themselves up (even more than their doms beat them up) for mistakes and short-comings. Learning to acknowledge limits, forgive failures, understand and move on are big skills for a sub to build. (Big skills for all of us to build, let’s be honest; but in a D/s context a sub is held to external standards and both D and s need to work with that with kindness & forgiveness & humanity.)

Step 6: Practice

Anything new needs practice. For a while, it will be a thing to try out (and probably fail, sometimes). The only way to see the progress is with more practice, more diligence, and more trying.

Find different ways to practice. Put your skill in different situations to adjust and practice with different variables. Tell your friends that you’re practicing and ask for their help in supporting you. For example, cook at a friend’s house, cook in a very limited prep time, cook using only what you have in the house and make a range of substitutions.

Step 7: Present! Show Off Your New Skills!

Once you feel confident that you have practiced a lot, show off your skills! Share what you’ve been doing with friends. Offer your new cooking skills by bringing dishes to a leather community event. Or find different ways to share what you’ve been learning, and tell people about your journey.

Make the Thai dish for dinner for your partners + friends
Dress up for no good reason, just to look good
Write down a fantasy about your new DP skill
Set up a campfire sing-along

This is part of how to reward yourself for a job well done!

Step 8: Celebrate Meeting Your Goal!

You get to decide how to celebrate — you could bribe yourself, you could create a star chart and cross things off, you could high-five your bestie and congratulate yourself.

And repeat!

Set another new goal, break it down, and get it done!

dirty stories, real life

Show Me You Want It

Posted on December 31, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

I want you on your knees in the dark. Waiting. Unsure when I’ll come for you but knowing that I will. Of course I will. We both trust I will.

You know you have to be ready. Your knees are sore your back is sore your wrists are enflamed from the cuffs. Loose enough to be safe, but barely. You won’t use the buzzer affixed to you, the one that alerts me if you are in danger. You know it’s there. That is enough comfort for you.

You know you have to be ready because when I open the door I will not wait. It could be a blow to the face, a swift kick, knocking you over, shoving you to the floor. It could be a tight grip, lifting you to your feet. Don’t fall over don’t get thrown off balance keep your composure.

Impress me.

Maybe I’ll let you breathe. Maybe I’ll let you look at me, touch me. Maybe I’ll let you catch your breath, ease off of your red knees, work the kink out of your elbow.

The softest fingertip touch is a tease, is a curse, is even worse because of the pounding force that will come. You don’t trust it. But you trust me, underneath, under the pink of you, inside. You know I can hold this, hold myself and you, hold all of your autonomy and authority and sense of self, and I will give them back to you in morsels you can melt on your tongue. Close your eyes. Don’t bite, just suck. Good boy.

You will be lucky if you taste me. Open your mouth, stick out your tongue. Wider, further. Don’t make me get the gag that opens you too far. I could kneel over your mouth and drip into it, I could urge you open wider and watch you strain to lick, to suck. I like when you strain. I like when you want it.

Show me you want it.

I won’t give it to you, precisely because you want it. This isn’t about you getting what you want. This is about me. This is about my want, my ownership, my craving, my retribution, my dick. It isn’t personal. It’s about the ways my life is so far out of my control, both because that no human is in control of their surroundings and also because I am wired to be passive, to let things happen to me instead of making the things happen. But this, I can control. This is my deepest lust and vulnerability, the rawness at the heart of me, both the raw power and the raw open wound. It isn’t personal, but then again it is: it is the ways that we have grown together and changed

You will take all that I can give and more than I can give. I want it raw, just you and me: I use my fists. I catch you in the jaw, in the chest. One or two in the stomach to remind you of your place. To ensure that it hurts and is too much, sometimes.

I will hit you for so long and you will take it, just take it. Will you ever cry for me? You hold out for so long. You are so tough, so brave. Not so much a masochist, but capable of dispersing the intensity and absorbing the impact with your whole self. But you won’t outlast me. You will cry. You will break down for me. You need it. Maybe we both forget how you need it, but I remember each time you curl in my arms and finally heave sobs of relief and love.

Something in me releases when you do: Relief. I can still do it. I can still break you down to particles, put your puzzle pieces back together. I still have you. You are still, and always have been, mine.

dirty stories, guest posts

Stone Femmes Should Be Called Diamonds, Guest Post by R. Magdalen

Posted on December 29, 2018by R. Magdalen

I could see Jaci’s outline as they were coming into the bar, and I could guess already how it would go. There was something in their body language that signaled a difficult conversation. I closed my book and put it on my lap. Their short gray hair falling a bit into their eyes. Looking around for me for a second, and then focusing. They were wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a an old white t-shirt. They walked up and sat down roughly, looking at me and then looking away, like some kind of 1950’s bad boy. Even though I felt what was coming, their face and the smell of the leather and pomade made my heart flutter. Or maybe the flutter was lower down. Or maybe there’s some disagreement about where my heart is actually located.

“You look pretty. Is that a new dress? How have you been?” I could tell they were going to put off the conversation as long as possible. I accepted the compliment and told them about my family, about the concert I went to last week, and they asked some feeble follow-up questions. I tried to make eye contact with the waitress, but she was busy.

“We have to talk.” There it was. I felt a bit of panic starting to rise.

“That’s why I’m here,” I answered, steeling myself.

“So, we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and that’s been great, but …”

“But.”

“But this was obviously not ever going to work out.”

“I thought it was fine,” I really don’t know why, but I did.

They ran their fingers through their hair and I felt the color rise to my cheeks. A thought occurred to me.

“You’ve already met someone? That was quick.”

“Yeah,” they said, looking down. I guess I was looking down, too, because abruptly the waitress was there. I wondered how much she’d heard, what she thought this was. I looked away and ordered a glass of wine, as my lover decided on a fancy beer.

As the waitress left, I could tell my lover wanted to chicken out, change the subject. I could not allow that, now that we’d finally started, so I didn’t skip a beat.

“And I guess she must be monogamous?”

“Pretty much.”

“Fair enough. It’s part of our arrangement. I back off when things get monogamous.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded. I knew what the thing was. “You know this about me. You know I can’t…be touched. By other people, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” We hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but it was true. They let me. I don’t know why they didn’t let anyone else, but they let me. It was the thing I needed. Because it was true for me, too. Jaci was the only one I could let in, the only one I felt comfortable enough with, and they knew it. They put their head down and rested it on their hands.

“I just, I just couldn’t ever do anything for you. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

My eyes stung at this, even though I’d seen it coming. They knew exactly what this change would mean to me. I’m a service top for my other lovers, just not them. I’d miss being touched. It would hurt, and my cunt would miss their hand, but I had other ways to fix that problem. I could turn to stone again. I could feel it already, as if my skin were cooling and hardening, creating a shell that protected a soft core.

Their eyes were suddenly red and they grew quiet. I could tell my lover was squirming inside, wondering if they’d lose me forever this time, and decided to wait a few beats before reassuring them. The blow to my ego was very real, and I am not without sadistic impulses. They slumped, and I decided to put them out of their misery.

“It’s okay,” I lied, and reached across the table to put my fingers in their hair, “It’s alright. We’ve been here before and it’s fine.”

They looked up with relief in their eyes. These things were never really certain. It’s the nature of the beast. There had been other women, other femmes who were warmer, prettier, more loving. I had backed off before, enough to give those relationships space to grow and then die on the vine. It was never easy, though, knowing I couldn’t be one of them. There were things I was not capable of giving. What I was capable of was another matter.

I smiled, shifted, and moved my book so they could see the outline of the big cock I had strapped on under my dress. I had come prepared for a somewhat different, more mutual sort of scene, but my mind shifted and adapted to the new reality. A cool, calm feeling spread through my chest. Jaci’s eyes widened, and they bit their lower lip, curled in the tiniest of smiles.

“Bathroom,” I said.

“Uhhh? Don’t you want to talk about this?” Maybe we should’ve, but I couldn’t stand the thought of processing right now. It was too fucking exhausting. Right now I wanted to believe that I was somehow too enlightened to need what Jaci had given me, and that I was completely comfortable with everything. I had to be nonchalant, and I had to fuck.

“Bathroom!” I said again, this time my voice came out harder than I intended. I slung my purse over my body so the cock was obscured again, picked up my book, and slid out of the booth. I led the way to the bathroom.

There was a woman leaving by the time we got back there. I smiled at her as my lover and I both went in, when there was obviously only one toilet.

I closed the door behind Jaci and pushed them against it. I moved my face close to theirs and we both opened our mouths slightly, but I didn’t move in for a kiss. They shifted forward, and I backed away, reaching down and pulling the leather jacket off of their shoulders instead. Then I pulled their t-shirt out of their pants, and yanked it and their binder up, exposing their chest. The binder left bright red welts behind. These, I kissed. They moaned and their face went slack and serious the way it does. I bit their nipples the way I do. I could do this for hours, with my teeth and my tongue. The taste, like nothing, and like everything. I liked to put my tongue in every cleft, under those tits and between them, still half compressed into firmness by the binder, like the skin of a plum. I bit, leaving red ovals. They were leaning against the door now and I reached down between their legs to feel their cunt’s warmth through the denim. I squeezed and they made a beautiful little sound.

I felt around for their belt buckle, and when I hesitated, they unbuckled it for me and opened their jeans. I pulled their pants and boxers down a bit, just to their thighs. The angle would be … suboptimal … but enough. I knelt down in front of them, the threads of my fishnets pressed into my knees, the floor dirty. I inhaled their cunt for a moment before giving the small mound the same as I’d given their tits, biting and teasing and kissing, covering it with attention before I worked my way to their slit. I wouldn’t be able to fuck them this way, but I took a long, delightful taste, pushing my tongue between their lips to find the wetness and the familiar flavors I loved. I reached their clit and a small wave washed over both of us. For a time, I just moved my head back and forth, my tongue rubbing their clit. When I felt their knees get a little bit weak, I jerked away and stood up.

They looked at me like a helpless creature.

They reached for me, tentatively, their hand moving toward the V of my wrap dress and the fluorescent pink bra that was starting to peek out. I slapped it away, hard, liking the sound.

“No. Not allowed anymore, remember?”

They drew their hands back. I adjusted the front of my dress to reveal as little as possible.

Then I put my fingers in their short hair again and pulled. Not gentle or comforting this time. I grabbed a fistful of gray hair and with the other hand pulled off their jacket. Not letting go, I turned them around and pushed their face hard against the door. With the other hand, I touched their ass. I squeezed, hard, until they whimpered. There would be a nice bruise there tomorrow. I wondered who would see it. I worked my hand between their legs and touched their cunt for a time, and they moved against me.

“You’re not coming. Not this way.” I took my hand away and they whined.

I pulled open the front of my dress, pulled down the fishnets a little, and let my big silicone cock bob out, pointing at that round ass. I reached into my purse and groped for a small packet of lube. I didn’t want to let go of their hair, so I opened it with my teeth and awkwardly squirted it into my hand. I rubbed some of it on my cock, and, with the rest, I started massaging their tight little asshole. They moaned and it did not take much of my massage before I felt their asshole relax enough for me to put a finger in. I fucked them like this until they moaned and said, “Now.”

Then I put the head of my cock against their asshole. There was the smallest resistance at first, and then it slid in easily. They moaned a little louder.

“Shut the fuck up or we’ll get kicked out,” I said in a stage whisper and I started pumping them slowly at first. I let go of the hair and held their hips. Their belt, still hanging from their pants, jingled a bit in time with our rhythm. The sound evoked a vestigial response in my cunt, from the days when the sound that belt made meant they’d use it.

I fucked them until I got lost in the fucking and forgot where we were, why we were there, and what they’d come to say. Then I pulled their hips as close to me as they would go and reached around with my other, unlubed hand, for their clit. I rubbed it in circles, my cock still deep in their ass, until they tensed and shuddered and came, not quietly enough at all. I pulled their body against mine, to keep them steady, to keep them from falling on the floor. I wanted to be their strength for a little bit longer. I held them for a while and then pulled my cock out. They winced at this. It was the end of a connection.

“We’ll be okay,” I said. We wouldn’t. The new girlfriend would find out, would become insecure with having me in the mix, and eventually even a friendship would become impossible. This would be the last time I’d see Jaci alone.

“My hair looks terrible,” they said, running a casual hand through it before pulling up their jeans and reaching for their jacket. They walked out of the bathroom, briefly meeting my eyes in the bathroom mirror.

I stayed and looked at myself. My skin looked grayish in the shitty light, my eyeliner was smudged. I wrapped the dildo in a plastic bag and stuffed it into my purse. Then I washed my hands and carefully tended to my face, gently drawing new lines around my eyes. I added some sparkles to my eyes, put on lotion and dabbed perfume on my wrists. There is something beautiful and strong about stone, I thought.

dirty stories, fiction

I Want To Be Brutal.

Posted on December 26, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

This story contains some physical force, talk of ownership and dominance, the threat of choking, and somewhat forced orgasm.

I want to be brutal, but I want to be nice.

This is a constant conflict in my mind: I want to get that fire in my throat that comes when I see you wince and cringe and cry and beg, that thing that opens through the center of me and smiles when you hurt. And I want you to feel good, I want to touch you and for you to like it, I want to watch you come and give permission for pleasure and encourage you and embrace all the sensations of being in a body.

So maybe I don’t really want to “be nice:” what I want is for you to feel good. I want to be brutal, but I want you to feel good.

Sometimes you tell me that when I’m brutal is when you feel the best. That helps. But I also know that what feels “good” isn’t always loving, caressing touch; sometimes the rough, painful touch is an ordeal to conquer, an experience to withstand, and that too is pleasure.

Tonight, that’s the phrase that keeps coming up: I want to be brutal. I want to brutalize you. I feel afraid of my own desire for this, but I feel inspired by the lines of our contract and things that you’ve said and mantras that I’ve made going around in my head: “I want you to do whatever you want to me.” “I like it when it hurts.” “I want to cry for you.” “I want you to take it out on me.”

You’re working on your computer. I tell you to tell me when you are done, that I need you for something.

You come over to where I’m reading in the leather armchair. I have my reading glasses on and a little lamp next to me.

“Sir?”

“Mmm.” I don’t look up.

“I’m ready for you.”

I glance at you quickly. “Strip. Then kneel there.” I point. And I go back to my book.

It’s not a particularly good book, but it’s easy to read and I get engrossed. You slip off your jeans and tee shirt. You hesitate at your underwear, but I am not paying attention to you, so you don’t interrupt me to ask. You take it off. You kneel, there, with your hands behind your back and your eyes down, and you wait.

I turn pages. Mostly I am reading them, too. I’m waiting for the end of the chapter, but I already know I’m hard and wet and eager and starting to tremble at the sight of you I’m drinking in through my periphery vision. I never stop wanting you. It still feels like it did when we first got together and we had such limited time, that desire, that need to be inside you, to get so deep in you, to claim you, to own you. You press yourself up against me in the mornings with sleepy hellos or in the afternoon with frustrated work stress or in the evenings after coming home from out with friends, and when you kiss me, my desire for you stirs up and rises just like it always does. You are such a good kisser. Something about the softness of your lips and the way you use the sweet part on the inside and its slick and smooth but not too wet and it makes me shiver with pleasure. I want you. I feel embarrassed at how much you turn me on. I’m glad my hard-ons don’t show through my pants because you would know all the time how I just glance at you and it happens. My mouth waters and my cunt gets wet but you can’t see that.

I close the book. It makes a sharp, definitive noise. You were in a meditative state and you jump a little, your muscles tensing as you straighten up.

I stand next to you. I take a few steps around you. I see your chest rise as you breathe in.

I want to lavish praise on you, talk about how good you are and how well you serve me, and while it is true, it is also out of guilt. I want you to know how much I appreciate it when you can take the brutality I need to give, but that can happen after. I give too much praise. It softens the blow.

Tonight, I don’t want the blow to be soft.

I grab a fist full of your hair and I twist so you fall forward to your hands and knees, and pull you so you are crawling. I have some of your weight but mostly you are on your hands and knees. I drag you to the bedroom. I pull you up by your hair and throw you onto the bed with a shove.

“Sit up.” I whip the belt out of the loops of my jeans. You move slowly. You are so quiet, you get so quiet and still when I have you in my palm like this. You will do whatever I say. The noise is gone. There is only me and my commands, demands.

I pull the belt around your right forearm and thigh, binding them together. I grab another belt and do the same on the left.

I sit at the head of the bed, the pillows sweetly behind me, and pull you to sit in between my legs. I spread your legs open, pushing your feet to the outside of my knees. I grab the Magic Wand vibrator from its proper spot between the mattress and the wall and hold it to your cunt with my right hand, gripping your jaw with my left hand, with my mouth right next to your ear.

I turn on the vibrator and it rumbles. You whimper.

“This isn’t for you,” I growl quietly. I savor every shudder as your body starts to tremble and react. You’re so sensitive. I will overwhelm you quickly. That’s the point. “This is for me.”

I might kiss you, sometimes. My mouth is right there and your neck is so sweet and you moan and roll your head against me and I like that, so I might just kiss you again.

My hand covers both your mouth and nose. I take your air. I take your breath. I can have it if I want it. It’s mine.

“I take what I want.”

I let go and you inhale deep and you gasp and you moan when you exhale.

“Aren’t you lucky that you like this.”

I put my hand around your throat, but no pressure, just the touch. It makes you nervous, but there is no danger. Not yet.

“You may as well like it, I’m going to do it whether you want it or not.”

You are straining against the two leather belts. You are pressing back against me. I can feel your pulse in how you are shaking.

“I like to feel you all worked up like this.”

I kiss you again. Why not. You’ve earned it. Or you will.

“I like to remember all the things I can do to you, whenever I want to.”

Your voice is so soft I barely hear you, but you say, “Yes, Sir.”

My arms are in front of your shoulders, holding you back, holding your legs open. I put my fingers to your lips and you reach to have them in your mouth. I tease your mouth. I know how much you like to have your mouth filled, so I won’t give it to you. This torture is for me.

“I get so worked up. I just need to see you suffer. I need to remember my role, my purpose.”

You whisper yes, Sir again.

“It feels so good to see you this way.”

You whimper. You struggle and strain. I let you suck the tips of my fingers.

“It feeds me.”

My lips are on your ear, my voice quiet and low.

“You can do it for me. Go ahead and come when you’re ready. I’m just going to hold you right here and tease you and force you. You don’t have to ask. Just do it.”

You cry out and I let you have more of my fingers. They slip deep on your tongue. Your legs are shaking and you’re pulling against the leather belts, against me, kicking your feet, arching your back. I hold your jaw with my fingers in your mouth, I press the vibrator against you in pulses, softer then harder, feeling the thrust of your hips and the way you’re moving to get it to just the right spot, and I leave it there, and I wait, and I growl.

“Come for me, little toy.”

You do; you come hard, tensing everything, your stomach rippling, clenching your thighs and arms and toes and shaking until you collapse against me, still whimpering, almost crying, releasing.

I’m radiating. I’m giddy. I’m glowing. I’m so fucking deeply satisfied somewhere that I don’t know how to explain or how to touch but seems to only be sated when I force you to do hard things. And I’m so, so turned on. I will have you on your belly with my cock in your mouth next. I will fist your hair again and hold you against me until you can’t breathe. I will thrust my cunt up into you and fuck your mouth. I will come down your throat and you will drink it and swallow it and thank me for the privilege.

But first, I take the leather belts off of you, and you curl up in my arms, and I touch you with long soothing strokes, sweet and comforting, until I can be brutal again.

journal entries, poetry

Protected: I Want to Tell You

Posted on December 17, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

dirty stories, guest posts

Getting Wood, Guest Post by Morris Danielson

Posted on November 2, 2018by Morris Danielson

In the woodshed, kneeling, Nia is looking away from me, stacking logs on her arm. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Don’t be angry.”

I might be.

“Me and Kim, last night.”

“In my bed? Did you?”

She nods, quickly, and looks up. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not. That’s really hot.”

“Really?”

I squat in front of her. “What did you do?”

“You want to know?”

“All of it. Who started?”

“I asked her if she wanted to cuddle.”

“And she did?”

“She did. I was holding her and … we started touching.”

“Did you ask?”

“She started stroking my side first. Then we were kissing.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“I … I think I started the kissing. Are you okay with this?”

“I’m so okay with this.” I’m close to her and she searches my face. For what? She still thinks I might be angry, or jealous. She can see my eyes are dark and my cock hard, and smiles. Her hand is on my arm, her touch so light it”s hardly there.

“We were kissing, and I asked if she wanted to. She just nodded.” I know that nod. She’s shy but she’s honest. “I pulled her on top of me, I wanted to see if she’d top.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She did a bit, my hands were in her hair to keep it off my face.”

“Still kissing?”

“Still kissing, and her eyes …” she’s breathing heavily, she’s moved closer so our knees intersect. I can picture Kim’s eyes, hazel and secret and wanting, and not quite comfortable on top. I take the logs from Nia’s arm and lean into her, feeling her body tense against me. “Then she rolled us over, her hands were on my back.”

“Where was your leg?”

“You know where my leg was.”

“Tell me.”

“Between hers, rubbing on her.” Does Nia know she’s started moving against me? Her little skirt up around her waist, her pants tight and moving, just a little, on the leg of my jeans. Can she feel that I’m packing, hard against her leg? She’s looking up at me, light grey eyes holding fire. “I put her hands above her head and held them, and touched her side with the other hand.”

“Like this?” My hand traces her curved flank through her tee shirt, around her waist and into the small of her back, pushing her down against my leg, and she draws breath, quick and harsh. She wants me to kiss her, but I’m not going to, not yet. I lean down to her, she closes her eyes, but I move past to her ear and whisper, “Then what?” Her cheek is against mine, my hand at the nape of her neck. I’m holding her close, not letting her kiss me. I’m in charge here and she likes it, riding my leg in earnest now as I pull her to me and breathing hard in my ear, I wonder if she’s let go of her story, but she hasn’t.

“I let go of her hands, and she took mine and put it on her cunt, and pushed up against me. A sound escapes me, because I’m all of them, I’m Jodi on top of Kim, parting the trimmed fur to find slick wetness, I’m Kim feeling Nia’s weight on me and the sweetness of surrender, I’m Nia, pushing her cunt into my leg and wanting to feel my fingers on her, I’m both of my selves, Leah, wet with my packer pressing in just the right place, but most of all I’m Lee, my cock on Jodi’s leg, hard and real and mine, and now I have to take her face in my hands and kiss her.

“Did you go inside her?” I need to know, my voice is harsh and urgent. My fingers brush her lacy pants and she moans in my ear. “Did you?”

“Her clit … then inside … please …” she’s lost the story now, as I slip my fingers inside the fabric and find her clit, circle it with my thumb, move my fingers inside.

She’s close, I can feel it in the tightness of her shoulders and her breath in my neck, but the house door opens and someone calls out, “Are you getting wood or what?”

“Just coming!” I yell back. She’s looking up at me, her eyes wide and needing more. I grab a handful of her hair and yank her head to the side, lean down and bite her neck, hard, and mash her face into my chest to muffle her cries as her body twists in my arms and her cunt contracts around my fingers. The door slams, they won’t come out; I have time to hold her while her breathing slows, feeling her melt into me, every muscle letting go. Then I kiss her. “Are you going to do it again tonight?”

“Probably.” Her voice and her eyes are soft now. “Can I tell you about it tomorrow?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

journal entries, poetry

Trauma Is Your Teacher

Posted on November 2, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

“You acknowledge the trauma as your teacher, and thank it as the unique lesson your Soul devised for you in this lifetime as a strategy for calling out your best and highest faculties. This is no easy task. You might feel bewildered and resentful, yet your subconscious mind is eager to re-claim this aspect of your lost power and re-integrate it. Ask yourself what gifts the trauma has given you, and why it was necessary for you to receive them. Your Soul knows the answers to these questions.”

— Angels & Demons: A Tarot Spread for Processing Trauma

I live in the space in between the crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs and the glimpse I catch of potential on the horizon. It could be better; it might be better; hello, look, here I am better for a little while; but look again, here I am crumbled, it doesn’t ever last long.

It is the aftermath. The recovering from the betrayal pain trauma that has never healed. My life is the aftermath, the need for rest and regeneration and healing and pause and allowing myself to feel into the extent of it so that I can actually take the path into the new way of being.

But underneath that: more grief. More loss. The pain so deep the offerings of transformation and nourishment aren’t even visible. Look away, look away, I don’t even trust them.

And underneath that: watching watching watching everything. Observing everything. Making everything into a story that is either true or untrue. This serves me well; often my skills of emotional and psychological insight are greater than those around me, and they learn and are grateful for the insight. But it can become compulsive. I can’t stop seeing every little detail that is wrong wrong wrong. I can’t stop listing every infraction. I can’t stop noticing all the things that should not be the way they are.

Sometimes, when the ghosts come, it is impossible to be awake in the present moment. All there is is indecisiveness, restlessness, carelessness, and a lost path. There is no here/now. There is no building of stability because why? Stability is lost and will surely never be found.

Way down deep in the bottom of it all, I am untrustworthy. I do not trust myself.

In my highest of high selves, connection can pull me out of it. The spark of new love. The spark of insight about being in relationship with myself, with the living earth. Fueling each other, asking each other to share our lives. The mirroring that can happen. The deep feeling of being understood. The deep feeling of life meaning something, because it can be shared and others can witness and feel seen and understood, too.

And when I can get out of my own way, I can see where I am going: king of my own passion. King of my own emotions. King of my own sovereign kingdom. I know where the boundaries are, and I know how to keep them. I know my own strength and I’m not afraid to use it. I have control, mastery. I know my limits. I know how to take my seat and not give it up, to hold my ground and be willing to fight to keep it. I know my worth. I trust my worth.

I trust that I will be okay, regardless of what happens around me.

I can say no, I’m sorry, that just isn’t right, and I’m going to remove myself from that situation. I can say yes, that is the right thing for me. Yes, that is where I am going. Yes, I have a vision I have values I have goals I have experiments to do, and I’m going to do them, they are all in alignment, they are working together harmoniously. Oh, there is something wrong? Totally cool, tell me the details and we will work out a solution.

I will not take things so personally. I will not identify so deeply with the pain, anguish, suffering.

When I can resurrect what has been taken from me, what trauma has strangled and left bleeding, I can get back to my own trust. I can trust my own proprietary experiences. I will build my own stability, a fertile ground where I can grow into the person I have always wanted to spend my life with.

journal entries

Protected: Things I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, Part Two

Posted on October 15, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries

Protected: wake up

Posted on October 6, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries

Protected: untitled journal entry about shock and other things

Posted on September 28, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

cock confidence

Cock Confidence: Zoro, by Perfect Fit

Posted on September 26, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

Zoro is a one-piece strap-on. The silicone is molded to fit the body’s pelvic contour, and it features a protrusion (5.5″), plus a hole underneath (good for accessing what’s underneath, or putting something through).

It comes with an elastic waistband — it won’t really work in other harnesses, but it doesn’t need to, because the jock strap style elastic is as comfy as wearing underwear. The site says the waistband is for all gender wear, and it fits waist sizes 24-40″. As someone on the top end of that spectrum, I gotta say, it was perfectly comfortable to wear. And as rife just said this morning when I asked him to put it on so I could take some photos, “How does this fit you? It fits me perfectly.”

I asked him what he remembered about being the recipient of this comfy Zoro, and he said he couldn’t recall — which is on the positive side, since there wasn’t anything particularly bad or annoying or weird about it, it was just us having sex. Ya know?

It’s really comfortable to wear. It’s an unusual shape — I’m particularly used to my two-piece style of harness-plus-interchangeable-silicone, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s actually really comfortable.

The silicone is actually hollow on the inside, so someone on the smaller side could actually fit inside of it, and use it as an extender.

It’s a great size — not too big, not too small. Really good standard one-cock-fits-all-holes kind of size.

Details

Price: $90
Material: Silicone; waistband is nylon, polyester, and elastic. No phthalates or latex
Size: 5.5″ long, which means it’s about 1.4″ in diameter
Colors: Purple and black
Clean up: The waistband unsnaps from the silicone. Silicone can be sanitized with bleach, in the dishwasher with no soap, or by boiling for 5-7 minutes. Waistband can be washed in mild soap and water; it would probably get stretched out in the washing machine, so I wouldn’t recommend that

Comfortable, easy to clean, really good size. If you’re looking to invest in just one single strap-on, this is a really good option! If you want to have more options, it’s probably worth saving up and buying a separate harness and dildo, so that when you want to expand to even more dildos and harnesses you can use them all interchangeably.

Pick up Zoro in purple or in black
over on the Perfect Fit website.

Zoro was sent to me from Perfect Fit for review.

journal entries

Protected: Forgiveness

Posted on September 24, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

journal entries

Things I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know: Part One

Posted on August 29, 2018by Sinclair Sexsmith

“Feel it fully.”
“Don’t shy away from your feelings.”
“Let all your emotions flow through you without getting attached to them.”
“Don’t push them away or resist them, they’ll just get stronger.”
“Just be with the pain.”

How many times have I heard these things? I’ve been studying self-actualization spiritual self-help psychological philosophy things in the “transformational communities” since I was in high school — that’s a good 20 years now. I couldn’t even count how many times I’ve heard these, or things like these. These kinds of aphorisms are so heavily embedded in almost all the narratives about bettering the self.

I have taken them in and internalized them and really truly believed that that is what I’ve been doing all along.

But I was wrong.

Well, maybe that’s too harsh on myself. (Wouldn’t be the first time.) Maybe it’s more that I was only capable of understanding or implementing it to a certain degree, and now I’ve leveled up, and a new understanding of it is unlocked. It’s harder to see it that way, and much easier to believe that I just had. It. Wrong. This. Whole. Time. But I do actually believe that “everyone is doing the best they can,” because well, if I could do better, I would.

Regardless: these teachings that I’ve been reading for years have led to the habits and techniques I have used over and over as coping strategies for my intense moods, thinking that I knew what they meant.

Some of those include:

journaling all the feelings out
journaling all my feelings out and telling elaborate stories about them
journaling all my feelings out and telling elaborate stories about them and reaffirming those stories any time I re-wrote my feelings
journaling all my feelings out and telling elaborate stories about them on the internet for an audience (that has continued to grow over the 12 years I’ve been doing this)
talking to friends for hours and going over every little detail of the scenario
chatting over telnet chatrooms, ICQ, message boards, Gchat, and iMessage to friends and strangers disclosing every little bit about my feelings that I can think of
reading books and listening to podcasts that get down into the wound and poke poke poke at it
internalizing the feelings and thoughts and beliefs into part of my identity and forming a self-image around them
self-harm
seeking experiences that raise the chemicals in my brain so I feel better, but that often results in a bigger crash
seeking comfort food & drinks & sometimes drugs to feel better, which has led to all sorts of gut health issues, which they are now discovering is all the more linked to mental health and stability
to paraphrase Brene Brown: I’m not an alcoholic, but I am a numb-aholic; I’ll use all sorts of things to numb out and not feel, in the name of coping and managing my feelings

I have absolutely confused coping and treatment — coping being the thing that will make me feel better in the moment, to lift me out of whatever particular hole I’m in so that I can actually be in a better frame of mind to make decisions and connection, and treatment being techniques during episodes and outside of episodes which will ultimately support getting better over time, though they often take more work in the moment.

I always thought I was “sitting with the hurt” while I journaled, talked it through with multiple people, called in sick to work or didn’t get anything done because I was too flooded with feelings, and focused brooding over feelings. That wasn’t the same as pushing the feelings away, denying they were even happening, and pushing through my day to day obligations pretending the feelings weren’t even there! So of course I was “sitting with the hurt,” right?

I mean, maybe? Maybe pushing feelings away is a whole other level of it, and what I’ve been doing is a version of “sitting with it” and feeling the discomfort and pain more than the denial and complete numbness is. So maybe I should give myself some credit here?

But what I now know is this:

I worked with some good therapists in 2017. I saw someone specializing in early childhood trauma, and someone else who primarily worked with mindfulness and trauma. For the first time, I started seeing the emotional reactions I was having as a “part” of me, in a family systems theory way. I started to be able to dialogue with that part — just a little at first, and then more.

This is kind of the stereotypical “inner child” work, and before 2017 I would have told you that I have so done that, I know all about it, I’m so over it, that’s not what I’m going through, it’s not relevant to this now. Ugh. I’m even a little embarrassed to admit that I haven’t already gone through that and triumphed — I mean, I’m 39, you know? I’ve been doing these kind of self-examination healing awareness processes since I was 14. So SO frustrating that I haven’t gone further already!

But. Okay, okay, that’s another judgement place: for whatever reason, I’m at a new place with it now. It’s okay. Maybe other people are over it before they’re 22 or whatever. I wasn’t. This is a new edge for me. Trying to let that be and be kind about it.

So I hit a breaking point in December, 2017. I’ve written some about what’s been going on between me and rife, and all of the old things and relationship trauma it’s been bringing up for me (someday I should go back and read all the posts on it, there aren’t all that many, and figure out what I have or haven’t written about — there’s so much missing, I’m not sure where to start now to keep telling you what’s been happening). In December, I had a “dark night of the soul” kind of month. I had started to make some progress and could, occasionally, watch myself reacting when I was getting triggered, rather than being completely identified with and consumed by the triggered feeling state. But those states were still so constant — sometimes one thing would set me off for a day or two, sometimes a week, sometimes longer.

It became clear to me, though, that having some space between the “adult” functional self part of me and that part of me that was having a trauma reaction was the key to softening the impact of the trauma reaction on me — and on rife. I kept studying, therapizing, and practicing mindfulness as much as possible. My understanding is that cultivating that distance takes a lot of time, so it wouldn’t happen quickly, and that constant, diligent practice is what helps. My intention was to develop a stronger sense of that adult-functioning-part, understand the trauma-reaction (-child) part more, and cultivate my mind’s ability to be less identified and have more distance between the two parts, so that I could not do some of my own self-soothing and not be so overwhelmed and controlled by the triggered response.

One major tool that came to mind here is meditation. At its best, it cultivates the ability to watch the thoughts the mind is putting forth and both stay calm and let the thought go without taking it too seriously and identifying with it. I’ve been studying meditation since high school, but I only really understood how to do it and started a regular practice of it when I was in New York and learning from Sharon Salzberg, then studying at the Interdependence Project. At that same time, I was diving into work with the crew that is now Body Trust, and that too encouraged and bolstered my study of meditation. Body Trust has in the past hosted twice-weekly online morning meditations, and I started those back up in January 2018 — we’ve been going ever since, and I’ve only missed a few, and often meditate more often than twice a week. Still aiming for daily, though that’s only occasionally.

I definitely think that cultivating that practice helped.

In January or February, can’t quite recall, I started diving in to the tarot practice that I’ve been writing about quite a bit, and tried a new experiment with journaling: rather than writing out my feeeeeeelings and telling myself my own version of what is happening, over and over, and seeing the writing which made the story even more true, and sharing the story which made the story even more true, I would try to journal less and write more, and I would use tarot to journal. This helped with distance too, and with softening my identification with the stories. Tarot kicked my ass, man. It told me all sorts of truths that I don’t think I would have come to otherwise, and shook me up out of my habits in ways that really supported the changes.

In March, things came to a head again. (Am I the only one who thinks about pimples when I hear that phrase? I should use a different phrase.) It was another “dark night of the soul,” or maybe it was a different kind. I was facing some decisions about moving forward, and the best path of the three major options was in the long run the least painful, but in the short run felt like dying. Felt like annihilation. Felt like the destruction of everything I knew and loved and trusted. Yeah, that all sounds very dramatic — but that’s how trauma talks and feels, especially when it is being threatened with healing or change. It wants to grip so tightly that it stays right where it is, thank you very much, doing its very important job of protection.

So I tried a new thing — or rather, I tried the same thing I thought I was doing, but I tried it with new tools: I sat still with the pain of it. With the death and annihilation and destruction. I sat in this chair I am sitting in right now and I watched the pain happen. I saw the reactions. Sometimes it took all my effort to sit still. Sometimes I slid down onto the floor and sobbed for an hour. I could barely think about anything else. I woke up and gasped for breath and started crying immediately. It would hit me at odd moments and I found myself on the bathroom floor, on the floor in the shower, on the floor in the closet holding a shirt I was going to put on.

rife wanted to help. I know he did. I was pretty sure he couldn’t. I just needed to feel into it, all the way, and to watch myself feel it, and to be okay with it happening.

This is just going to happen, I’d tell myself. This is just how it is. I don’t know how long this will hurt. Maybe forever. But everyone says that if I sit with it and watch it and soften toward it, it will change. It’s been one day, it’s been two days, it’s been three days and I haven’t seen it change, but what else can I do? This is the best option. This is the way forward.

Sometimes I could say hello. Hello, you who are suffering, you who are in pain. What do you need? Can I hold you? I can tell it hurts so much. I see you hurting. You are safe, you are safe.

Sometimes all I could do was whisper, “I am so angry. I am so sad. I can’t believe this is my best option. I am so angry that I am in this situation, that this is what I have to do to go forward.”

On the fourth day, I was home alone for a long evening, trying to take care of myself while in a moderately triggered state. I sat still for a while. I probably cried for a while. I tried to tell myself some of the little mantra sayings that I’ve collected over the years, the deep beliefs I have in moving through difficulty and joy and making meaning — like: raise your heart. What is the hidden gift? You already have what you need. Resisting pain causes more suffering. You already have what you need. And I got this instinct to go play with the little scraps of paper I’d started to collect all of those sayings on, and somehow, I was divinely driven to create this oracle deck. It’s still a very mysterious process to me; I’d never made anything like them before, and they came together with such perfect moments — like I had exactly 20 blank cards, and I randomly pulled exactly 20 images out of this pile of magazine clippings, and the sayings and the pictures matched up completely.

And the sobbing stopped. Those moments of absolute annihilation and terror stopped. I mean, not really completely, but for the moment — that particular crisis shifted.

It’s not like I now feel like I’m a pro at “sitting with it” and I can just do that and things are fine. But my reactions have extremely shifted, and I understand this skill and technique and what the aphorisms really mean in a way I never have before.

It feels amazing, really — to suddenly really get a concept that I thought I’d been working with for years, for decades. I didn’t know that I didn’t know how it really worked, or could work. I thought I’d been practicing it all this time. It’s still hard not to beat myself up about that, or not to be angry at the world for not telling me sooner that I wasn’t doing it “right.” But for whatever reason, this spring was when I was actually ready to hear it, and now, finally, all the different threads of work and insight and study that I’d been doing came together, and something is … better.