I don’t usually review or play with very many “prosthetics” because, well, I’ll be honest: they are usually incredibly expensive. But recently I’ve noticed a growing market of (what I’d call) strap-on cocks, pissers, packers, and other penis-like tools that are marketed to transgender men as prosthetics, and as someone very curious about strap-ons and strap-on technology, I eventually had to try at least one of ’em.

So, I did a bunch of research (on Tumblr, mostly) and found the one that intrigued me the most: The FreeToM 4-in-1 Natural.

This prosthetic is made of medical grade silicone, and designed to have four functions: packing, peeing, playing, and pleasure. It is very soft, more like a packing dick than the usual silicone strap-ons that are made for fucking, and it folds easily in the center to pack more easily. It comes with a small, hollow rod that bends, which is insertable into the back of the dick through the hole in the center of the shaft, which makes it harder and able to fuck (play) with. It has a cup-like structure that fits against the body with a hole through the center of the shaft, so it’s able to be used as a stand-to-pee (STP) device. And the side that sits against the body also has a “pleasure slide,” textured silicone on the underneath that is meant to stimulate the wearer.

It comes in all kinds of colors. In fact, that would be my number one suggestion for folks interested in making the investment and getting one of their own: definitely order the color samples pack so you can get the precise match for your body and skin tone. I made an educated guess based on holding my forearm up to the computer screen plus what I read online (particularly that most white folks are more pink than they think), and I’m pretty happy with the color I ended up with, but I think a different color might be even more accurate, especially because genitals are often darker than skin on other parts of the body.

(When I order another one, I’ll definitely order the color pack first. Note I said when, not if.)

FreeToM offers a Paint Plus Upgrade Service, and the photos of their prosthetics that have been painted are incredibly impressive. I wasn’t sure it would be worth it to spring for the extra $80 to get it painted, but considering the high quality and how this dick has been a pretty serious game changer for me, I think it might be. The veins look amazing, and the head of the dick is much more realistic.

I spent quite a while browsing through the FreeToM website before I decided on this particular model, the 4-in-1 Natural. They also have a pack-and-play model that doesn’t have a ‘pleasure slide,’ and a 4-in-1 that is circumcised, as well as some smaller packing versions. But this one had a little bit of everything, which is what I wanted.

So this is what I ordered:

All NaturAL: 6.5″ Pack, Pee, Play & Pleasure – Warm Rosy Skin

Want to see some photos?

The cup and balls of the 4-in-1 are quite large

The hole goes all the way through the shaft for pissing and for sensation when sucking

The balls are very realistic, and it folds easily in half for packing

The “pleasure slide” on the underside of the cup adds stimulation to the wearer

From the website’s description:

The All NaturAL 4 in 1 prosthetic is 6 1/2″ in length and tapers off to 5 1/2″ in girth. The testicles and foreskin on this prosthetic are everything! It’s functions are: pack, pee, play and pleasure. It was deliberately designed to fold in the middle, to make packing much easier and has a sturdy enough cup for urination. All of our prosthetics are molded off of volunteer cis males for an ultra realistic look an the All NaturAL is definitely the most realistic prosthetic we sell! The hollow rod that comes inside the prosthetic is acid, fungal and bacteria building resistant. All hollow rods inside are removable for proper cleaning and sturdy enough for play. The hollow rod inside also allows you to bend the prosthetic in whichever position you’d like and can also be bent downward for comfortable packing. The FtM Pleasure Slide is also molded into the prosthetic itself and was designed to slide up and down the FtM genitalia. The All NaturAL is the most efficient prosthetic we sell and because of that, it’s a tad more expensive.

Let’s talk about how it works & what it’s like

Pros

Holy crap, this dick. I’m not kidding when I said it is a game-changer … other strap-on models just aren’t as interesting anymore. I love the softness of this one, I love how it feels when I wear it, I love how much I can feel a blow job through the suction and the hole through the shaft of the dick.

I keep using the word “juicy” about this dick, and it’s not (only) because it makes me wet, it’s also because of the way some of the model is hollow, so it has this … squish to it that is just awesome.

The colors are amazing, the quality is high, the texture is fantastic. It is so good for blow jobs. If you are into blow jobs, I highly recommend this dick.

rife told me it’s his second favorite dick to suck, his first favorite being Shilo by the New York Toy Collective. He also said he particularly likes it because I can be as rough as I want with it, and because it’s so soft (but still silicone!) he can take it and it doesn’t poke him the way some harder silicone does.

Cons

Let’s not beat around the bush: It’s huge. I ordered the 6.5″ because it was the only one that came uncut, though there are a few other models of the 4-in-1 that are smaller, and I would highly recommend going for something smaller than 6.5″ if it is primarily going to be a packing dick for you.

It is hard to pack with. Not impossible, but it feels very different and very noticeable. The balls and the cup are very, very large, bigger than the palm of my hand, and very bulky. It sits well in my (baggy) pants, and it does fit between my legs, but wearing it in that place has been taking some getting used to (I’m much more used to wearing a packing dick in front of my body, rather than under my body).

It’s also kind of hard to strap-on and fuck with. Maybe I just haven’t used the right harness yet (I think the SpareParts Joque would be particularly good for it), but it’s been hard for me to keep it in place. Because it’s so squishy, it moves around a lot and edges its way out of the places I want it to be. Also, I like pretty rough sex, and because it’s so soft, it is not the best at that.

I need more practice using it as a STP device, and I think generally it does quite well with that, but because the space inside of it is quite large, it feels a little bit messy. My favorite STPs are still simple and sleek, and this one feels like it’d need rinsed every time, which is a challenge in public restrooms or when using elaborate harnesses.

The other major con for this dick is the price. It’s a serious investment. They do have some pre-made and pre-painted models, which are not custom made when you order them, which have the benefit of shipping faster and also of being a bit more affordable. They also have a clearance section, so if you have your heart set on something from FreeToM and you just can’t afford to get one, definitely stalk their clearance and pick something up there.

Rating it on a 1-5 star scale, 5 being the best and 1 being meh:

★★☆☆☆ 2/5 Packing
★★★★☆ 4/5 Pleasure
★★★☆☆ 3/5 Pissing
★★★★★ 5/5 Blow jobs
★★☆☆☆ 2/5 Rough sex/hard fucking

Regardless of it’s limitations, it is a pretty incredible tool and toy. If you’re even half as into blow jobs and packing and strap-ons as I am, I bet you’d love this.

The All Natural 4-in-1 prosthetic from FreeToM was not sent to me to review, it was purchased of my own free will because I wanted it for myself. If you buy one, tell ’em I sent you?

guest posts

Tiger Stripes, Guest Post by Kyle Jones

Posted on April 1, 2016by Kyle Jones

One lamp was wedged between the wall and the side table, casting odd shadows across the room. The bed’s top mattress was halfway off its base and the bedding was completely off, a lumpy pile at the foot of the bed. The large console height dresser looked as if it had been tipped over and hastily righted, its drawers still hanging half open. Clothing was strewn around, some on the floor, some caught on corners of furniture in all directions. In short, the bedroom was wrecked, like a movie scene where the cops have tossed the place looking for evidence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my packy peaking out of a tangle of my underwear and jeans. There were other sex toys scattered around the room, as well as objects borrowed from other rooms in the apartment and repurposed. The rubber spatula in my hand was one example. I took in these details with my peripheral vision, while keeping my eyes on my adversary/lover, on the other side of the bed. Only her eyes and the top of her ginger head were visible. In this moment of pause, the sound of our harsh breathing bounced off the plastered walls, underwritten by her feral growl.

I didn’t dare look away for fear she’d launch herself at me again. I felt the damage she’d inflicted with her fingernails in the welts stinging all over my body. The moment was about to break, I could feel it. Besides, I’d need to move soon, my legs were threatening to cramp. I raised my head, bared my teeth and hissed. Her head came up as well and I saw the furrows, like tiger stripes, that I’d dug into her upper chest. Her eyes were wild and her face was flushed.

What did she see when she looked at me? Did she see the wild beast in me that mirrored the one I saw in her? Did she see my desire? Did she know I was thinking about how I could pin her down between the bed and the wall and spend my passion on any part of her body I could get under me?

Was she thinking about how quickly we’d gotten from staring at each other all lovey dovey at dinner to staring at each other like prey?

The evening had started romantically, with a meal at a nice place in town and an after dinner stroll. On this particular night, she’d gone butch. Her hair was shaved close except for high on her crown, where the vivid orange of her natural color was accented by a bleached streak, reminding me of a sidewalk sundae. The short sleeves of her shirt displayed her strong upper arms and her tight blue jeans gave me plenty to enjoy with that sweet ass and bulge. After catching sight of our reflection in a storefront window, I whispered in her ear, “Look at those hot fags” and she’d grabbed my ass. We’d kissed and groped all over downtown before deciding it was time to go back to her place.

I’d figured the rest of the evening would be as romantic as dinner. Hand in hand, we walked toward her car and I was already thinking ahead to the ways we would enjoy each other’s bodies when she suddenly stopped, almost yanking my shoulder out of its socket as my feet kept going forward.

“Whoops” I said, swinging back around awkwardly. She pulled me close and bopped me lightly on the nose.

“Hey, sexy, what’s on your mind? Have you heard anything I’ve said?” She sounded curious, rather than angry, which I appreciated.

“I was thinking about later, when we get home…” There was no good reason for my face to blush at that moment, no reason to be embarrassed about fantasizing about having sex but my face heated up anyway. I grew hotter at the sudden intensity of her gaze and as I watched, her expression changed.

“Is that right?” Her purr had a hardened edge to it. Sometimes it was just that quick, from sweet and romantic to predator in 60 seconds. The hunger in her eyes was only distantly related to the romantic desire I’d seen over dinner.

She turned me around quickly, pressing me against a wall of uneven brick that bit into my flesh, and forced her knee between my legs. Light, noise and people spilled from a nearby bar causing me to flinch at the unwanted witnesses. I’m not normally squeamish about public sex, in fact, I usually initiate it. At that moment, however, I felt very exposed, nervous, unsure of myself.

“What’s wrong, baby? Where’s my cocky lover?” Her fingers dug bruises into my forearms. The color red flared into my vision as the pain registered. I pushed away from the wall quickly while pulling her off balance. Soon our positions were reversed and I pressed my body against hers, remembering the uneven brick and hearing her gasp as it dug into her shoulder blades. I looked at her through narrowed eyes, my lip curled into a sneering smile.

“You rang?” We stared at each other for a moment or two before becoming aware that we were attracting unwanted attention.

I stepped back and gestured toward her car, “Shall we, my love?”

She drove and I leaned back in the passenger seat, rubbing my crotch. The sensation transferred through my packy to my engorged clit. She kept stealing looks and it was even odds that she’d pull over somewhere, even though we were moments from her place. I was out of her car almost before she’d parked it, trying to get to her door first with my set of keys. I thought I could get there first and lie in wait in the apartment but she caught me on the stairs. She got one hand on my belt loop and pulled, which caused me to miss a step. She got ahead of me but I caught up in the short hallway near her door. I pressed her against the wall and reached between her legs to grab her mound. She swooned and cursed me almost simultaneously before pushing me off and moving to unlock her door. I came up behind her and pressed myself against her ass. She opened the door and we fell through it.

I turned to lock the door behind me and she slammed me against it so hard I tasted blood. She was laughing almost maniacally, pressing me against the door while she tickled me. Dammit, I cursed to myself, it was hard to be aggressive while giggling. Cursing and flapping my hands, I managed to get free and stand out of range, catching my breath and considering my options. I chose humor as a method for buying time, “Apparently, an episode of wrestlemania had broken out in the middle of our date.”

There was a mischievous light in her eyes. “So, old man, how long you think you can go at it with me before I beat you?”

“You little shit,” I chuckled and rubbed my bulge. “Long enough, youngster, long enough.”

“I don’t know, grandpa, you seem pretty out of breath, I think this is my night.” The wide grin on her face softened the taunt. She was moving toward me, hands at her sides. I didn’t trust her, and was wary, while simultaneously wanting to kiss her mouth hard. I made my move, holding her arms at her sides and attempting a lip lock. She wiggle and resisted, laughing triumphantly as she pulled one hand free.

“You are definitely going down, old man.” Her fingers sought the tender spots under my arms, twisting until I screamed in pain.

“Ouch! Dammit, you little fucker!” I wrenched free of her pinchy fingers and threw myself at her.

She stumbled back into her bedroom and into a wall with a loud thud. I wondered what neighbors must be thinking with all this shouting, cursing and crashing about. Not that it was the first time we’d made a ruckus. So far, no one had called the cops.

I had moved fast to make the most of my momentary advantage. Pressing an arm against her upper chest, and gritting my teeth against the way she pulled and pinched my nipples, I got a grip on her upper thigh with my thumb in the crease, and squeezed hard. That got her attention.

She cried out and tried to slap me. I responded by kneeing her between the legs and delivering a stinger across her face. After a few more strikes with my knee, I stepped back and gave her a hard look, hands on my hips. She’d gotten a rise out of me, which is exactly what she’d wanted.

The sadist in me came to the fore. I wanted to taste her pain, to see the feral look in her eyes when I began to push her through that pain to the other side.

“Is it on, little girl?” I growled out the words.

Her eyes widened as my dig found its mark.

“Oh, it’s on, old man, you’re going down.” And then she came at me.

We grappled for a bit until I had her pinned to the floor, my legs wrapped around hers to keep her from kicking me. I had her wrists pinned above her head, my arms dangerously close to her teeth, a fact she emphasized by snapping and growling. We were both breathing hard. I began to grind my packy into her mound, shifting my weight so that I would hit her just under her clit.

She moaned from pleasure and roared in frustration. I was so hot for her and the pressure against my clit was building. I wanted to come on her right then and there, as she struggled and cursed me. I wanted to come not in spite of her resistance, but because of it.

“Dammit, we’re fighting, not fucking!”

“All’s fair in love and war, babycakes” I worked her just the way she liked it, and she did her best to resist but I knew her tells. Her eyelids were half closed and her hips were responding to me. “Besides, isn’t fucking AND fighting your favorite?”

I got my answer seconds later. I’d gotten cocky again and let my guard down. She got her feet braced and flipped me.

We went at it for a while like that. At one point she had three fingers in my cunt and I was chewing on her shoulder while growling. Not long after that, I was vigorously sucking her left breast while teasing her asshole. Neither of us was able to get consistent advantage over the other. We are very well matched for size and strength. We finally broke free of each other when her attempt to flip me over on the bed sent me flying off one side and her tumbling over the other. And now we were catching our breath, staring each other down.

It’s never a good thing to let my mind wander when we’re playing this way. I realized that a second too late and she took advantage, coming up and over the bed at me before I could move. She slammed me into the carpet, knocking the wind out of me. In the time it took me to get my breath back, she’d pinned my wrists down at my sides and was doing her best to chew chunks out of my chest while kneeing me viciously between the legs.

Lying on the floor with my arms pinned and her knee bruising the hell out of my cunt, I thought, Maybe she’s right. Maybe the old man is gonna lose. On the other hand, I could feel my cock getting harder as she pummeled it. So was I really losing? When I started moaning, she narrowed her eyes and stopped.

“Dammit, you’re not supposed to enjoy this!” She sat down on my pelvis and let go of my arms to punch my chest. Then I was able to get my feet under me and lift, pushing with my hands, throwing her off me. We both scrambled up, breathing hard. She lunged, and I sidestepped, redirecting her forward motion onto the bed. Then I wailed on her. I put a knee against her back and punched her ass hard, over and over. She pushed up and twisted, getting halfway up until I turned her and threw her down on her back. Then I resumed my assault against her chest and arms. She was getting her licks in too, punching hard against whatever she could reach. Her responses were getting weaker. Was I wearing her down? I wanted to push her over the edge, not just up to it. I knew that’s what she wanted, too. That’s what she always wanted.

I grabbed her wrists and pressed her arms against her sides. She struggled but couldn’t pull free. Leaning down, I got a mouthful of her chest and bit hard, causing her to yowl and me to wonder, for the millionth time, which of her neighbors would be the first to call 911. We paused, looking at each other, catching our breath. Her expression had softened, I eased up on my grip around her wrists. She slapped my face again, but not hard.

“That hurt, fucker!” She put on a mad face and I laughed. She took another swing at me and I caught her hand.

“Yes, I hurt you and you hurt me. That’s exactly what you wanted it, wasn’t it, beastie?” I kissed her forehead, then her cheek and hovered over her lips.

She pouted briefly and then pulled me in for a kiss and bit my lower lip, hard. Damn, that hurt. I didn’t pull away, that would have hurt more. Instead I waited her out. She let go after a moment and gave me a sweet full kiss, this time without teeth.

All of this physical exertion got me hot and bothered and I guessed the same was true for her. I moved my body so my clit was pressing against hers and she pressed back against me.

“Oh baby, yes, please, I need you.” Her urgency went right to my cock, and I could feel myself getting harder.

I licked her collarbone, then her nipple, moving downward while dragging my tongue along her curves. With a kiss to the top of her flaming ginger mound, I looked up at her and said, “You’re right about one thing, baby.”

“What’s that, love?” she asked.

“The old man IS going down.”

media

A Personal History of Best Lesbian Erotica

Posted on February 17, 2016by Sinclair Sexsmith

Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition is out now, and I’m part of the blog tour editor Sacchi Green has organized on it’s behalf. The story of mine that is in this collection, Luscious & Wild, is here on Sugarbutch already, so I thought I’d take you back into the Best Lesbian Erotica series in celebration of it’s 20th.

Personally, I started collecting them in 2001. I fancied myself a lover of smut and a sex-focused person, but frowned at my itty bitty erotica collection at home. So I started frequenting the lesbian erotica section of my favorite used book store, Twice Sold Tales, on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, which was an equally itty bitty shelf near the floor. The ‘Gay and Lesbian’ section towered in the shelves above it, but I was looking for the bottom-shelf stuff. The dirty stuff. I bought every edition I could find, eventually filling in my collection by ordering the few volumes I was missing online, and still order the newest edition the minute it comes out.

The series now spans 20 volumes with as many different guest editors. It can be hard to pick just which ones to read, or where to start. So, here are three of my favorites.

Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

The first one that got me really hooked was Best Lesbian Erotica 1998. The story by Karlyn Lotney (also known as Fairy Butch, if you remember On Our Backs and other late 90s sex/dyke activism) called “Clash of the Titans” remains one of my favorite erotica pieces ever, and blasted open what I thought erotica could be or do. For example, it could be complex emotionally, it could contain activism and politics, it could show switching, it could show vulnerability. Not that I didn’t know that, exactly, I just didn’t … realize it until I read this story, and this whole book. (I wrote about it in this week’s new View From The Top column, titled The First Time I Knew I Was A Top.)

She cut a swath through my flat like Moses parting the Red Sea, and made me feel like a man: all big and dumb and panting. I felt my internal butch cock harden and start its invisible levitation, and the part of my brain that concerns itself with floral arrangements, oranges, and perfect living rooms fell away. Another part took over, the part that found its genesis in my father’s collection of late sixties’ issues of Playboy, benches two-ten, and answers to “Daddy.”
—”Clash of the Titans” by Karlyn Lotney, from Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

The other piece that made me speechless (and come) was “Ridin’ Bitch” by Toni Amato. That story—that includes a hard femme who jacks off a butch’s strap-on shamelessly while they ride from the bar to the butch’s apartment on a motorcycle—was part of what completely convinced me that I loved strap-on sex.

Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

Best Lesbian Erotica 2006 included the first erotica short story I ever published. I have read that edition over and over, mostly because my story is in it, and it thrilled me to no end to see my name in print. (It’s under my legal name, by the way, not under Sinclair.) 2006 was the year I started Sugarbutch as well, but that actually came after this publication was accepted, and I thought Sugarbutch would be a little private side-project, not become my next big thing.

BLE ’06 also includes a beautiful story by Peggy Munson, and one of my absolute favorites by S. Bear Bergman, called ‘Silver Dollar Afternoon.’

I fall in love with her when anyone asks her why she doesn’t wear her beautiful long hair all the way down and she says, with just a hint of coolness: “A woman’s hair is for her husband,” which makes me remember every time she has unpinned her hair for my delighted eyes and even if I’m not quite a husband I still shiver in my blue jeans without fail.
—Silver Dollar Afternoon by S. Bear Bergman, Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

The 2012 edition is probably my favorite, but that’s because I’m the guest editor and so I got to pick all of the stories. I actually went back to Kathleen Warnock, the series editor then, to request more stories after I read all the picks she’d sent me and I didn’t have as many as we needed. They just weren’t dirty enough—she’d picked me really good stories, with characters and plots and development and such, but I want that AND a really excellent, dirty, kinky sex scene. It is largely butch/femme heavy, but I tried to get a good mix of other character types and pairings in there, too.

The introduction that I wrote for Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 is about why lesbian erotica is valuable activism, and it’s here on Sugarbutch if you’d like to dive into my thoughts on that more.

These books of lesbian erotica are not fluff. They are not nothing. They are not frivolous or useless. For queers coming out and into our own, they are a path.” —From Why Lesbian Erotica is Valuable Activism

And now: Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition

Since Tristan Taormino left, the series has gone through a few different editor’s hands, and I’m excited that Sacchi is responsible for this one. She’s edited many of my favorite lesbian erotica anthologies.

Thanks to Cleis Press for keeping this series going all these years!

I highly recommend picking up a copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition at your local queer, feminist, women-centric, activist-oriented bookstore, or, only if you must, from Amazon.

Here’s the rest of the blog tour, which features the different authors in the book and our story titles. Click around & follow along!

Feb 10, Sacchi Green, Introduction
Feb 11, Rose de Fer, “Dust”
Feb 12, Louise Blaydon, “Ascension”
Feb 13, Megan McFerren, “The Royalty Underground”
Feb 14, Harper Bliss, “Reunion Tour”
Feb 15, D.L. King, “Hot Blood”
Feb 16, Jean Roberta, “Tears from Heaven”
Feb 17, Sinclair Sexsmith, “Luscious and Wild”
Feb 18, R.G. Emanuelle, “Smorgasbord”
Feb 19, Rose P. Lethe, “A Professional”
Feb 20, Anna Watson, “Easy”
Feb 21, Valerie Alexander, “Grind House”
Feb 22, Annabeth Leong, “Give and Take”
Feb 23, Frankie Grayson, “Mirror Mirror”
Feb 24, Cheyenne Blue, “The Road to Hell”
Feb 25, Emily L. Byrne, “The Further Adventures of Miss Scarlet”
Feb 26, Sossity Chiricuzio, “Make them Shine”
Feb 27, Teresa Noelle Roberts, “Tomato Bondage”

PS: Comment on any of these posts for a chance to win a free copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition. The drawing will be held by February 28th and the winner announced by March 5th.

kink

Introducing View From The Top: My BDSM Journey

Posted on February 5, 2016by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’m so excited to have started writing a column over on Autostraddle called “View From The Top,” detailing my BDSM journey from being a bottom (before coming out) to being a master (and monogamish and partnered with a boy/boi and happier than I’ve ever been).

Over on the first column, which just came out and is called “I Started as a Bottom,” I kind of came out as a master. I mean, I know I’ve written about it here sometimes, but mostly kind of buried in posts and I haven’t written about it too too directly (yet). It’s scary! It’s a big word, a very loaded word to use and claim, and I hesitate to use it without a whooooole lot of back story to explain where I’m coming from, that I’m part of a community that uses those terms, etc.

So of course, in the comments of the article, there were questions about the use of the terms master and slave, particularly by someone white. I want to highlight my comment and rife’s, too, because I think this is a really interesting issue of semantics, language, and social justice, and I don’t feel 100% good about it, though it’s the best I have right now.

I wrote:

As the author of the post, to be honest, I’m completely uncomfortable with it. It’s something that I struggle with, precisely for the reasons you stated—primarily because I’m a white person and we have a particular, very very recent history of slavery in the US, where I live, the effects of which still benefit white people and me, specifically, and contribute to systemic racism.

There are quite a few folks who use pairings like Owner/property or Dom/sub instead of Master/slave, precisely because of their discomfort with those particular terms.

I’m about 5 years in to this exploration of what it means to be master and slave, and what it means to be part of that community, and it has been incredibly valuable to learn these skills and actually take part in that community. (Maybe I’ll go into this in a future column? Short version: This set of skills is something I’ve done in relationships unconsciously for a while, which was bad; and now that I’m doing it consciously, things are way better.) I resisted the particular words for a while, but after being part of the M/s world for longer and longer, I’ve grown more comfortable with it because of the difference in definition and usage.

I don’t see a lot of consciousness about this issue in the M/s world, which is predominantly white, though. Which I don’t like and am very uncomfortable with, and try to bring up and point out racist language and microagressions when I can (as I do in pretty much all communities I’m in, but I push myself to speak up a little more in this one).

For now, because it’s the most accurate words I have, I’m choosing to use them … but I’m not entirely unconflicted about that.

As a word lover, I think words can grow and change and morph definitions over time. While I do absolutely recognize the particular history that directly affects me, I also know that the words and concepts of master and slave are not a new invention in human history. The enslavement of African folks is just one of myriad examples throughout history. So I think that is one of the main arguments I hear about it—that the experience of ‘slavery’ is not so unique to that one part of history.

I use these words is because these are the most accurate words we have right now. I’m still new to this community and seeking to recognize others and find more friends who know about this stuff, so I’m using the words that are recognized by others so that we can find each other.

Identity words are complicated—some of them just *fit* better or differently than others. And these particular words fit what my boy and I are doing, particularly within the parts of the kink communities that practice them.

Also, if you ever have the chance to hear sex/BDSM educator Mollena do her workshop on taboos, which includes some of her philosophies about M/s languaging, I highly recommend it.

I think pursuing M/s is very complicated … There are many folks who don’t have an objection to those words based on race, but rather on the fact that enslavement is wrong. It’s complex to start unravelling fetishes that are on one hand, ‘morally wrong,’ but on the other hand, totally get you off and satisfy your life in a way that other things never have and in a bone-deep way you feel you need. I think in the RACK——”risk aware consensual kink”—camps, I understand that when things are done with full enthusiastic consent and taking responsibility for what happens, then it’s okay to fantasize and play. Personally, I want it to be done with a lot of consciousness and in a way that aligns with my values, but I also have to balance that with what sustains me, too.

rife wrote:

As a (white, American) who is identified as a slave, I initially struggled with the word, a lot.

What finally brought me around to it (I mean, other than my obvious erotic orientation to that kind of structured ownership fetish) was the realization that slavery has a long, long history. It has been around almost as long as humans. In some iterations, it was even consensual/contractual, like with certain Roman dynamics.

What I do has nothing to do with race play (although there isn’t anything *inherently* wrong with that). And honestly, if a black person told me they found my use of the word disrespectful, I would probably switch back to the more generic “property” descriptor. But here’s the thing: They haven’t, and I’ve had many soul-searching discussions with black friends, many of whom identify this way as well.

Let’s be clear: unconsensual slavery is abhorrent. Consensual slavery is fine. The two are very, very different. Just like rape is awful and consensual sex (even playing with faux-assault) is fine.

Here’s the other thing: it’s the best word for the job, despite its loaded cultural connotations. What else do you call a human who is owned? If we had another word for that, which wasn’t loaded with the unconsensual cultural history, maybe I would use that. But, we don’t. So I’ve made my peace with it.

I hear that it’s not a relationship structure you’d like to be in, fair enough! But be careful not to judge a relationship’s morals by how much you don’t want to be in it. :)

Though I’ve been stewing on this series for a while, and have already written 4 of the columns, I’m surprised and pleased at the impact it’s had so far and I think it’s bigger and more revealing than I expected. I kind of feel like I’m taking on the task of encapsulating my BDSM journey over the last, oh, 15-20 years, and trying to put it into ten or twelve columns to make a story. Feels a bit daunting, and very exciting. The folks at Autostraddle have been super supportive and the editing has been excellent, I so love working with good editors.

I really appreciate all the comments over there, and I’ve been replying to quite a few. (I miss that kind of comment conversation, where folks check back and actually reply—it’s been quite a few years since that’s happened on Sugarbutch, but I have some guesses as to why.)

If you have any particular questions or ideas of what you’d love to see me write about as I keep writing through this journey, I’d love to know. Questions or comments or ideas welcome.

cock confidence

Review: Finally, an Ejaculating Dildo: The Semenette

Posted on January 30, 2016by Sinclair Sexsmith

There are very few options for strap-on dildos that ejaculate. There are quite a few “novelty toys” out there, but they usually have one of two things wrong: either 1) they are made with porous or toxic materials, or 2) they are manufactured such that the tube that squirts the liquid out is lodged firmly in the center of the base of the dildo, which makes it pretty much impossible to strap on.

(I’ve even gone so far as to order one of the intense non-human Bad Dragon squirt dildos, to try it out. I bet some folks would be into it, but it didn’t work for me.)

So when the Semenette became available in 2014, I was thrilled. Finally, finally! A strap-on cock I can actually use to squirt with.

It came into being for personal reasons: the founder actually wanted something to use to get her partner pregnant (or so the urban legend goes). “Turkey basters? Ew!” are part of their marketing materials. Personally I don’t really have many feelings about turkey basters, one way or the other … not so sexy, sure, but I’m not sure actual insemination is exactly sexy, either. But that’s not to say that I don’t have a come or a body fluid fetish—I totally do. And I’ve wanted to be able to make a big mess of fluids in some of my strap-on play for quite a while. (Or to get a blow job and actually squeeze some liquid down my boy’s throat? I’d really like that.)

The plusses:

The Semenette is high quality silicone, and available in three colors (fairly standard for “realistic” tones of strap-ons, these days, and yes, very limited, and not at all accurate for everyone’s skin tones). It is 6.25″ long and about 1.5″ in diameter, which is on the small side for a strap-on dildo (most of my personal favorites are more like 7×2), but it’s a perfectly fine size for most things. The base of it is specifically designed so the tube tucks into a little divot and then comes out the side, so it’s possible to use it in a harness. It comes with a tube and little bulb that you can fill with water, lube, or a home-made come-like substance (there are a variety of recipes for this online).

But, there are a few minuses:

The silicone is hard, not one of the “soft skin” or “real skin” kinds of silicone that a lot of strap-on dildos are these days. And I know, I know—you do have to overlook the name. I think there must be some folks who are into it, but for me, I really dislike it. I think taking a word and adding “ette” on it in order to make it more accessible or interesting to women to be … belittling, somehow. And while some folks might get off on the idea of ‘semen’ as part of their sex toy, a lot of folks will not. (The name is changing in their 2.0 version—more on that in a minute.) And, perhaps the hardest thing for me to overlook, the bulb that comes with it—which is the reservoir in which you can store the liquid you want to squirt—is really tiny. I suppose if you’re building a toy to be used for actual insemination, the quantity of liquid that you would use is actually quite small. But if you’re going for the whole, uh, effect of it, I would like to use more. It probably wouldn’t be that hard to find an adequate new bulb that is bigger and able to hold more liquid, but, well, add that to the small projects list, and maybe I’ll get around to it in 2019.

Despite some of these setbacks, there is absolutely no better strap-on dildo on the market for ejaculating. Literally every other option I have found is either made of dangerous materials or not made for strapping on, so this is the only good one I know of.

(If you know of some I don’t know about, please, let me know!)

I’m also thrilled to discover that Semenette is releasing a new version of this same concept, now called POP! Dildo. It’s a little bigger than the Semenette, and has an optional slightly larger bulb as well. I haven’t gotten my hands (heh heh) on it yet, but when I do, I’ll let you know how they compare.

The Semenette was sent to me for a review. Order the Semenette online here.

poetry

14 ways of looking at New York

Posted on January 27, 2016by Sinclair Sexsmith

Fall is absolutely my favorite time of year. Fall is New York’s very best season. Let me always visit New York in the fall.
There are so few dogs in New York City. This makes me inexplicably sad.
I can’t write about New York without talking about New York as an ex-lover, as a former sanctuary that now is only causes pain when I think about it.
a) It is easier for me to be in a relationship with NYC when I’m alone. My favorite times here were wandering the city alone, engaging, observing; the smells, the energy, when my attention is really devoted to the city. Maybe I am monogamous with cities. Maybe I should live in a city that has no soul such that I can have richer human connection.
b) Sometimes it feels like NYC is the root of all of my bad decisions, all of the ghosts that haunt me.
c) … Something as of yet unarticulatable.
I ache for the past, but I don’t miss the drama.
I miss New York City. I could live here. Could I live here? It’s not as scary as I remember. Except the fear, destruction, dysfunction are lurking under the surface, I know they are.
And then I walk around a corner and the entire wall of some high-end sunglasses store is a motherfucking SHARK that is about to attack and I will never survive here. And I can’t even take a picture because your phone is dead and this wouldn’t translate.
The bar for what behavior is “crazy” seems so much lower. “Well, that dog [on the subway] looks well fed, even if it is wearing a superman halloween costume (though it’s well past halloween) and has a pacifier around it’s neck. That homeless woman muttering to herself whom it’s attached to probably treats it okay.”
The cliche of it all. Cabs honking in Times Square, traffic stopped in the intersection as the light changes. A thick male Jersey accent yells: “Shaaaat Aaaap! Knaaak it aaaff!” And everyone around me laughs. “That was perfect!” a woman with a Long Island accent next to me quips.
I think I should only go to musicals alone. They make me cry and cry and cry. They are always, always worth the money. I never regret it.
When the exit is at the opposite end of the train platform, I feel like an amateur.
When someone passes me, walking faster than I am, on the subway platform or sidewalk, I feel like an amateur.
I love New York. I’m not sure I realized it.
I hate New York. I could never afford to live here again.
Maybe if I lived here again, I wouldn’t be trying to figure out all those things I figured out the first time: gender orientation butch/femme lust/longing how to fight how to fuck how to heal how to survive. Maybe the next time I’ll have a vision for how NY and I could collaborate, and I wouldn’t become this hollowed out version of myself, waiting for a strong wind to blow down the Hudson and reanimate me.

guest posts

Lying Down, Guest Post by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Posted on December 28, 2015by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

Excerpt from Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Reprinted with permission

She presents her back to me, unadorned and shivering in the early morning air. I know she loathes to being naked, the humility and vulnerability of it, so the fact that she’s offered it to me has moved me greatly, made me rock hard. She is spectacular, standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes blinking sleepily, her body already melting in anticipation.

I have surprised her with this, barely allowing her to finish her first cup of coffee before ordering her to take off her clothes and give me her flesh. Although this is our ritual, a Sunday morning play-date we rarely, if ever, miss, I am usually gentle with her. I allow her to wake slowly and warm up to the day, serve her coffee in bed, warm up to the day. The ways in which we arouse each other during these weekly assignations are myriad indeed, sometimes kinky, always juicy. This morning I want kink, demanded it of her. Although this is unexpected, she has scurried to please me, collecting my whips, the lube, the condoms, arranging them within easy reach on the coffee table before she stands before me and offered herself up. She is eager for my instructions, always. I run my hand down the skin of her creamy back and murmur, “That’s a good girl.”

She quivers in response and raises her eyes to mine.

“I didn’t say you could look at me, girl,” I hiss, and we are on.

She knows the drill, eyes now downcast as she slips into her submission. There is a smirk of pleasure and excitement playing about her lips. I should punish her for her sass, but her morning face is so pretty that I decide to allow it. For now.

The first licks of my galley whip are a tease, a flirt of leather on her skin. Kisses promise more to come and render her shaking with desire and a bit of fear.

I like the fear. I let it build slowly, increasing the intensity of the lashes she is receiving until she moves her body in expectation of them, a slight shifting toward the whip. I laugh and hit her pussy, not gently. She moans and spreads her legs open for me, for more.

“Ooh, you liked that, didn’t you, you whore?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy.” Her voice is breathy.

I hit her pussy again, harder, first with the tails then the handle of the whip. She is moaning louder now, gasping. She blinks back the first sign of real tears—tears of pain or need, I’m not sure—but I give her more nonetheless.

When I stop abruptly her body jerks in response, stiffening, then softening and leaning back toward me. She sniffles, and I flick the whip gently through her hair, letting it caress her long red curls as if it were my fingers touching her.

She has told me it makes her feel cherished, when I beat and whip her flesh, when I fuck her hard and without lube, when I make demands of her. But I want to remind her she is also cherished now, in between the pain—that my whip can be both a brutal weapon and a tender one.

I reach around with my hands and squeeze her tits, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples, tugging them. I slide slowly down her belly, my fingers finding her slick wet pussy. She cries out and stumbles, losing her balance, when I shove three fingers inside her.

“Mmm, nice and wet for me, just the way I like you.”

Just as quickly I pull my hand away. My cock grows even stiffer when she cries out again and there is no mistaking her hunger.

I begin to whip her in earnest now, letting it build, slicing the whip into her skin with enough force to leave marks. That tender spot just under her ass is my favorite, the blood rising to the surface almost immediately in a sweet red welt.

She is fighting to stand still, moaning and sobbing, her entire body quaking. I land a series of intense blows on her back, and she sobs harder, in pain.

“Turn around,” I growl, and she obeys immediately.

Her teary eyes meet mine, her mouth swollen and quivering, and I want to tear into it, bite it, draw blood. I can see juice on her thighs, her pussy glistening. Her eyes are pleading. I know she wants more. She doesn’t have to beg—I’m not done yet—but I decide to make her anyway.

“Have you had enough, girl?” I ask. She starts to shake her head, than catches herself; she knows I prefer she answer me when I ask a question.

“N-no. No.”

“Do you want more then? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes. Yes, please. Please.” Her begging is not part of our play. I know she means it, and I am so stiff for her I might explode.

“Lift your arms for me.”

I demand full access to that delicate flesh. I want to devour her. Instead, I settle for my whip’s access, the ferocity of my own need barely restrained as I slice the tender skin of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Her nipples are hard, her breath rasping, her lips trembling. She bites her lower lip to keep from crying but she can’t stop the flow of tears, the sobs. When I lash out at her pussy, she again opens her legs for me, rocking her hips forward so I can better reach her clit, moving back and forth in time with the leather. This is a dance we have perfected over time, a dance not just of desire but of devotion.

I can’t wait a moment longer to enter that tight pussy, and I lay down the whip and grab her, pressing her against me. She collapses in my arms, simply melting, and I feel her wet cheeks buried in my neck.

Read the rest of the story in the anthology Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press. Get more information about the Dirty Dates anthology here. Thanks for letting me reprint part of it!

essays, reviews

On the Importance of Queer, Women Centered, & Feminist Sex Toy Shops (Map)

Posted on December 27, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

When I was traveling around to toy stores and bookstores across North America for the release of Say Please, I started keeping a list of the best of the best.

And eventually, I made a map of as many as I could find.

This is a totally US-centric map! Mostly because that’s where I live & work. I’d love to add more—what shops did I miss? Which should I add? Tell me in the comments + I’ll include it!

Link to the Google map of queer, women-centered, & feminist sex toy shops (just in case it doesn’t load up there)

I came out in Seattle in 1999, and I was lucky enough to be in close proximity to the first Babeland brick and morter store, where I started attending their workshops and smut readings, and I would go in with my scrimped ten bucks and get the best vibrator I could find. It took a long time for me to fully invest in quality silicone, or a real leather harness, but eventually, Babeland (which also has two stores in Manhattan & Brooklyn), and other stores, like Feelmore 510 in Oakland, became places that I frequented and invaluable resources.

The staff at women-centric, queer-friendly sex toy stores are often not just paid sales staff, but educators. The folks who work there know about safer sex practices, what lubes are good if you’re prone to yeast infections, and what kind of toys go with what kinds of lube or condoms. They can recommend different toys based on your body and your needs. I often find that they have a lot of knowledge about people of size, differing ability, body support, and other kinds of access needs. They often have tried out the newest toys and are up on all the latest goodies, so they can recommend all kinds of stuff.

These kinds of stores are well-lit, honest, out in the open, and sex-positive. There’s no flickering florescent blubs and weird backlit rooms for previewing porn videos (I don’t know about you, but that kind of thing was the sex toy store of my youth—and the only kind of sex toy store I knew about, until I found Babeland).

These kinds of stores often have all sorts of knowledge about women’s pleasure, about owning your own desires, about sustaining longer orgasms, about whatever kind of little pickle (ha ha) you might be dealing with in your own sex life. If you bring them your sex puzzles, they will help, is what I’m saying.

Good Vibrations has a Customer Service 800 number—(800) 289-8423 M-F 8am-5pm PST—which has made it into some famous erotica stories (see: this Herotica volume 3 collection from 1994 that I may or may not have read over and over and over and over. MAY OR MAY NOT), and which is staffed by sex educators who will eagerly help you figure out what toy to buy or how to get what it is you’re looking for.

This stuff goes way beyond “retail store” and far into the purpose of “community center” and “resource center.”

Plus, there are often classes and workshops, or erotica readings, at stores like these. If one of them is in your area, I highly suggest you get on their mailing list and keep up with their goings on.

I’m hoping that creating a map like this will be an easy resource for folks who are looking for the great sex-positive sex toy stores near them, and that also it will inspire us to keep patronizing these stores. They are so important + valuable to the sex worlds, and I really want to see them thrive.

If you’re not anywhere near one of these, you could check out some of these amazing shops online, too: Good Vibrations which has many different shops around the San Francisco Bay Area, JT’s Stockroom in LA, Early 2 Bed in Chicago, She Bop the Shop in Portland, Oregon, or Babeland.

Here’s the link to the Google map of queer, women-centered, & feminist sex toy shops that I have so far. Did I miss any? Please leave info on them in the comments & I’ll check them out! Make sure that they are:

Welcoming to all genders
Discerning about what kind of toys that they carry (e.g., they don’t carry toys made of plastics that are bad for the body)
Inclusive of and centered around women’s sexuality
Bonus points if they are queer- or woman-owned!

identity politics

Microagressions & Misgendering: “Right this way, ladies.”

Posted on December 21, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Interacting with service industry folks—in restaurants, at retail stores, at airports, schools, or health care offices—can be daunting and exhausting for genderqueer folks like me. It is so, so common for me and the group of queer folks I’m with to be referred to as “ladies” (which tells you that I don’t spend a lot of time with genderqueer or cis or trans men, which is true actually, I’m very much in a dyke bubble), and I feel so deflated when that happens.

No, no. It’s not just ‘deflated,’ though yes that’s part of it. It’s also a very real microagression. It’s a very real way that the larger culture, made up of thousands of individuals, gender polices us into binary categories and reminds anybody outside of those categories that we are wrong, unseen, invisible, and unimportant.

This has happened to me for years. It’s kind of related to the thing that happens when genderqueer folks have to pee in public and get hassled in both the women’s or the men’s bathrooms (and there’s a variety of pieces of activism and public awareness happening around that one, too—see, for example, Ivan Coyote’s recent Tedx talk We all need a safe place to pee). But while I can actually hold out and only pee in certain (single-stall) bathrooms, and I can have some control over peeing in public, it’s much harder to just not go interact with any service people, so as to avoid this issue.

Look, I get it. Caring that I’m addressed as “miss” or “ma’am” or that friends and I are called “ladies” sometimes seems like a very small thing on a trans activism scale, especially when so many trans women were murdered in 2015. Sometimes I think this issue of language is a tiny, “politically correct” thing that I should just let go and stop caring so damn much.

And I’ve heard folks say, “Hey, I don’t care if they call me/us ‘ladies,’ because at least they’re being nice to us and not kicking us out of this restaurant.” Which also tells you that I have primarily been queer and genderqueer and visibly different in cities and liberal small towns not so much in places more dangerous to queers.

This issue of gendering groups as a microagression has a certain amount of privilege in it. Absolutely.

And, as someone who continues to move in liberal circles, in large urban areas, in trans- and queer-centered communities, this hurts my feelings. Frequently. Daily.

Gender Perception & Getting a Thicker Skin

Part of the answer, I think, is actually to get a ‘thicker skin’, and I think in general folks who are outside of the mainstream do need to develop a good, solid sense of self, bolstered by community and lovers and theory and random strangers on the internet, to just deal with the reality that not everybody gets us. And for genderqueer and gender non-conforming and masculine of center and feminine of center folks, and trans folks who aren’t exactly ‘passing’ to some cis standard, developing a thicker skin is important. I think we also just need to be very discerning about when we want to offer some education, or feedback, and when we want to just go about our lives. Sometimes it’s exhausting to try to change the world all the time, to come up against gender norms, to fight against the binary system. And sometimes I just need to buy some eggs and get off to my meeting, and who cares what that person sees me as or thinks of me or what words they use.

That’s kind of about “gender perception,” right—the idea that part of your gender identity is how you are perceived by others. (The Gender Book has a great page on gender perception, click on the image in the 4th row 1st column here.) Personally, I’ve struggled with this—not that there’s some way I want to be perceived and am not, but rather I’ve struggled with the idea that what other people think of you matter or should affect one’s sense of self at all. It’s taken me some time to see how important it is, and to go through some of my own identity developments where my identities are then somewhat invisible, and aren’t perceived by others, and to have that really piss me off, has helped me understand how valuable it is at times in people’s lives.

Sometimes, I think how others perceive me is very important. Especially if it’s someone I interact with all the time—my family, my friends, my close community; even someone who works somewhere that I regularly frequent. Those are all important, and I do tend to (eventually) say something about gender, or make a comment about my pronouns. But for the person who is checking me out at the grocery store, or the server at a restaurant I rarely (if ever) go to? Most of the time, I just don’t have the energy to have that conversation. I used to, I suppose, but after more than 15 years of this happening? I just don’t anymore.

Okay wait: a note on class

This kind of misgendering most often happens in the service industry, so I want to write something here about class. I hope we are being aware of the class implications of speaking up or attempting to shift the way a server or service provider is gendering you/us. As a working/artist class person my whole life, I am acutely aware of how we treat folks in the service industry, and I think it’s SO important to enter into conversations with service folks with respect. The amount of pejorative, condescending language and tones that are used with service folks is horrible. And there’s a lot of unexamined privilege in folks who have never really been in a service position, or who have been out of the service industry for a long time. They’re a person, you’re a person. So I just want to encourage us all to watch our conversations here, and to do some examining about what we think of the service industry, and to ask ourselves if that’s really true. (For example: That everyone who works there isn’t smart enough to get a job anywhere else, or must have failed at other jobs, or must not be very good at anything. Probably none of those are true, but they are common stereotypes about service folks.)

Also: as a genderqueer/GNC person, I know that I don’t always have the patience and clarity it takes to interact in moments of microagressions with lots of respect and precision. I just don’t—sometimes I snap and it comes out yucky. Which is another reason, I suppose, why I’ve kind of stopped speaking up in most of these moments of misgendering—because I don’t want to be rude to someone who is just doing their job.

But sometimes, I do want to say something. And I do love how there are some new options (I’ll get to that in a minute, I swear—down at the bottom of this post) for conversations and becoming more aware of gendered language.

Ultimately: I want to strive for respecting folks when I am consuming their services, and be aware of the class implications.

Oh hey, here’s another question: I assume servers at restaurants and cashiers at shops aren’t trained to say “ladies” and “guys,” right? I’ve never actually been a server (though I’ve been a cashier for many years), so I’m not totally clear. It’s so SO so prevalent in the restaurant worlds that sometimes I think it must be in the handbook! But maybe it’s just in the culture? Unspoken, uninforced, but somehow we all absorb it? I’m curious about that.

Download the Gender-Neural Language Sheet

So this is a new possible way to interact with this service/misgendered language issue: the Queer Resource Center in BC adapted a card into a “gender neutral language sheet”, and you can download them for free here.

Toni Latour released “Hello There” cards earlier in 2015, in collaboration with Jenny Lynn and James Alexander Kelly. She’s not the first person I’ve heard who had this idea—in fact, when I first saw the image, I thought, drat, I wasn’t fast enough. I’ve had this thought many times, and I even remember sketching up a draft of it in Oregon on a road trip with rife in 2013. But Toni Latour is the one who made them and printed them up.

And now, the BC Queer center adapted Latour’s “Hello There” cards to be more inclusive and less “ladies” specific. Latour’s cards read:

When greeting customers, instead of saying ladies, gentelmen, ma’am, sir, girls, guys, and the like, please consider using gender neutral language. Here are some options: “Good morning folks.” “Hi everyone.” “Can I get you all something?” “And for you?” “Thanks friends, have a wonderful night.” Why? Shifting to gender neutral language respects and acknowledges the gender identities of all people and removes assumption. Join the movement to be more mindful of language. And if you make a mistake and misgender someone, it’s okay, say sorry once and move on. Thank you for making an effort!

The revised cards from QBC read:

When greeting others, avoid ladies, gentlemen, ma’am, sir, girls, guys, etc. Consider using instead: “Thanks friends, have a great night.” “Good morning, folks!” “Hi, everyone!” “And for you?” “Can I get you all something?” Why? Shifting to gender-inclusive language respects and acknowledges the gender identities of all people and removes assumption. Be mindful of language.

A note about “guys.”

A lot of folks have said that they use “guys,” and that that is gender neutral. I just want to go on record and say that I disagree, actually, it is not. I do understand that in this culture, we very often hear groups of various gendered people referred to as “guys,” and that it’s presumed to include everyone in the group, not just the young-ish men. I do understand that it is intended to mean “everyone” or “people” or “hey you folks over there.” However, in the realities of language, it is not neutral: it is masculine.

That this society treats the masculine, the male, the man, as the default and indeed as the ‘neutral’ is precisely one of the most sexist issues at play here. When something as fundamental as our language says that men are the norm and the default, and women are the other and the strange, then it affects every other aspect of our culture, too. (There are many writings and resources on this concept out there, I’m sure … I remember studying it extensively in language & gender studies classes in college in 2002. I’m not sure where to point you for more on it, though. Anybody have a good resource to recommend?)

I can often default to calling everybody “guys,” especially when talking to masculine of center queers and genderqueer folks, but I try not to. It’s inaccurate, and frankly it perpetuates the notion that masculinity is the norm, and I don’t want to do that. But, I’m a total nerd about language and gender, so I know that not everybody wants to do that kind of work on how they see the world and interact with words. I’m hoping, though, since you are still reading, that you have that interest and intention.

On Standing Up for Someone Else

Funny enough, this whole thing just happened this weekend, when the server referred to our table—two butches and a femme—as “ladies,” and I had a similar conversation about what we can/should do about it. The femme who was there asked us what our reaction was to it, and if it felt appropriate for her to say something, which I really appreciated. Honestly, when I’ve been in mixed gender groups, often it’s the folks who do not identify as ‘ladies’ who speak up the least, and sometimes having someone else speak up on my behalf makes me feel even more tired and exhausted and segregated and spotlighted—which doesn’t feel good. I think it has in the past made me feel very taken care of, and protected, but these days, it makes me feel annoyed and too singled out to have someone say something on my behalf.

I mean, if you want to speak up about this because it bugs you, by all means please do so, and I got your back. But if you want to speak up because you think that I am insulted and deflated and am now reacting to a microagression and want/need/would appreciate someone else speaking up for me, please don’t.

So if you’re someone who wants to speak up on behalf of someone else, perhaps you could just check in with them and make sure that you are acting in their best interest, and not just projecting your discomfort onto them.

Is this conversation completely among trans/masculine people?

I’m glad that the edits between the first “Hello There” cards and the new Gender Neutral Language Sheet have moved from being less lady-centric, but it makes me wonder: How does this happen in the service industry for folks who are not masculine of center or trans masculine? I imagine similar things happen, getting addressed as “gentlemen” or “guys,” but maybe not? I’ll have to ask around and see what I can find about that.

Most of the dialogue that I’ve seen already around this is dominated by trans masculine folks, so I wonder how we can take up a little less space and ask more questions and talk about this in ways that are relevant to other folks. Or maybe it’s just a very trans masculine issue, and there’s nothing wrong with that really—it just could mean that the conversation is a bit different.

Regardless, I’m curious about why this is so centered on masculinity, and if that’s because of old fashioned sexism and overvaluing the masculine (which is my guess). Still gathering more data about this.

I’m also curious about server’s experiences of this, if you all have been corrected and what you’ve done about it, and where that form of address comes from.

This is not a conclusion

This is not the end of my thoughts about this, but it’s a start. I am curious to see these cards gaining in popularity and making the rounds, and glad to see a second version of them made. I definitely plan to carry some around with me.

fiction

A toy to do with as I please.

Posted on November 30, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Another excerpt from the NaNoWriMo “novel”, the draft of which I completed this morning! I wouldn’t say the novel is actually done, but it’s 50,000 words strong and ready for revision. This is the beginning of chapter 6, Master Jack Harrison’s second date with Sidra (after they’ve been texting and emailing dirty things for a week).

Sidra is sitting on the steps, shivering a little in a too-short skirt and a long wool winter coat, when I walk up to my apartment building after I park the car. Her heels are high and poised carefully on the steps below her, feet apart, while her knees are together. She’s cute. Desperately so. I can’t believe she came all this way. What a good girl, asking for what she wanted. I’m salivating already.

I walk straight past her, getting my key out and unlocking the front door. She stands. “Come,” I say, a simple, clear command. I hold the door and she walks through it. She blinks at me when she walks by me, catching my eye, but she doesn’t say anything. “Go ahead; up.” I say as we reach the stairs. She looks slightly down and sideways, giving me a flash of her coyness, before she starts up the stairs. Her skirt is so short that I can see the tops of her stockings, which stop at her thighs, and the way her ass switches. She’s not wearing any underwear. I can see everything, the pink of her exposed. That must’ve been very cold, out there, waiting for me.

I just watch. I could watch this all day, her legs, the way her thighs rub together, how she criss-crosses her heels just the tiniest bit. The angles. I get my smart phone out and take a couple of photos, discreetly. I adjust my dick in my jeans, getting hard already. I want to fuck this girl.

But I want to hold the line I’m trying to draw, the line of a hard, strict master, even more.

She pauses at the top of the third floor, and I slide my arm around her waist and guide her down the hallway. The walk to the end seems excruciatingly slow and has never felt this far away. She leans into me, just enough that I can feel it, and I turn to inhale the scent of her hair: clean and floral, with the faintest hint of sweetness. The purple is growing on me. Somehow, it looks so elegant on her. “It’s good to see you,” I say quietly.

The key in the lock won’t turn, and I might burst and break it down if I can’t get it open momentarily. I breathe. Concentrate. Focus. This isn’t going to get any easier; in fact, it’ll only get harder as I get more turned on. Hold the line.

I take her coat when we walk in and immediately point to the floor. “Down.”

She obeys, dropping to her knees like she’s done it a thousand times for me, like she already knows the hardness of my floors and she doesn’t have to calculate how much to let gravity take her weight and how much to resist against it. It’s beautiful, seamless. Her eyes are down, hands behind her back. Her shirt is a small, tight tee shirt, white and simple, almost school girl-ish, but a little more grown up. Her black skirt fans out around her thighs, toes of her heels tapping the floor.

“Good,” I say, and turn to hang up our coats. “Wait there.” I put our coats away, place my keys in the dish by the door, pour us both glasses of water, and fuss with a few other things on the counter before I come back to Sidra. She’s still on the floor, breathing hard, the anticipation of waiting making her even more turned on and ready. Her purple hair hangs in her face, which is still lowered, focused; she’s playing in some internal landscape of submission, focused on her inner senses, not her knees (which are probably killing her by now) or her discomfort.

I step up right next to her, my boots clicking against the hardwood. “Come with me,” I say. She looks up at me and nods, unfolding her hands. I turn toward the dungeon, not watching her rise, letting her stretch and get the kinks out without my gaze on her.

I set the glasses down on the table next to the door. The moment we are both inside, I close the door and turn to press her up against it. Hard. My hand at her throat, hips grinding against her, my other hand holding both of hers above her head in one smooth motion. My mouth close to hers. She gasps, half closing her eyes, lips pursed and almost panting. She’s caught, like prey in a trap, like a fly in a web. I smile at the familiar current of dominance and power that come over me. She melts a little against the door, against me, her hips pushing back against mine, squirming a little, but not to escape so much as to feel the resistance back against her. I hold her firm.

“What did you expect to happen tonight, girl? Did you expect to come over and get fucked, get worked over? Did you think I would spank you for touching yourself, scold you like a naughty schoolgirl? Did you think this outfit would work on me?”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to speak, but doesn’t, and closes it. My hand is still at her throat, though not pressing with any real pressure; just holding it there, reminding her that I can.

“If you want to be mine, you’re going to have to do what I say. Are you ready to show me what you can do?”

She nods.

“Are you ready to be mine?”

She swallows, I can feel it against the palm of my hand. So vulnerable, the throat. So open. She nods again. “Please,” she whispers.

“Please, what?”

“Please, do what you want with me. I will obey you. Sir.” Her eyes are still almost closed, lips pink, cheeks flushing. My feet are planted firm and I trace my hand down her sternum, past her belly, down between her legs, and I hold her cunt in my hand through her skirt.

“Looks like you are eagerly ready for me,” I say, feeling the heat even through the black fabric of the skirt.

“Yes, yes, I am. So ready,” Sidra assures me.

“This could be just for tonight, Sidra; do not misunderstand me. I’m not promising you are mine forever. Just for tonight.”

“I understand.”

I can feel each time she inhales and exhales in her throat. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating, to hold her breath in my hand, to squeeze it just a little. I lean in closer to her, inhale her scent, smell the longing and desire building in her. My shoulders relax. My mind goes so perfectly clear. “I’ve been wanting this too, you know. Someone to play with, to use. A toy to do with as I please.”

media

Read These Books! (Perhaps Some Holiday Gift Ideas?)

Posted on November 27, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

I read a lot—and of course I obsessively read queer and sex-positive and revolutionary pleasure books all the time to figure out what’s going on in this field, to learn, to keep up with things (and because I stare at screens way too much and paper gives my eyes a break).

Here are some recent notable titles that I highly recommend you check out—and perhaps they’ll even be perfect gifts!

THE Sex & Pleasure Book by Shar Rednour and Carol Queen.
Coming out from Good Vibrations, you KNOW this bible is going to have a little bit of everything. Here’s the description: Good Vibrations Staff Sexologist Carol Queen PhD and Author, Editor Femmepress Shar Rednour have collaborated on a tome that aims to demystify sex and offer enough fun, detailed knowledge to make solo or sociable sex fabulous for just about everyone. Covering everything from sexual identity to relationships, sex through the lifespan to pregnancy and health issues, disability to sex and tech, and tons of information about sexual practices, positions, and of course toys! … This book is for people of many identities, experience levels, and interests. Covering sexual changes across the lifespan, the identity spectrum, sexual anatomy, and of course sex toys and products, this ambitious compendium aims to inform and inspire sexual comfort and exploration!
GET IT FOR: the aspiring sex educator friend in your life, who still needs reference manuals.
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Woman On Fire by Amy Jo Goddard.
Amy Jo is a genius empowerment coach who has worked with hundreds of women in intensive workshops. Throughout the book, she explores “the nine elements of a sexually empowered life:” 1. Voice: Excavate and rewrite your sexual story, 2. Release: Make space for the sexual self you’ve been waiting for; 3. Emotion: Show up as emotionally powerful; 4. Body: Know and radically accept your body; 5. Desire: Activate desire and create a sexual practice; 6. Permission: Give yourself permission to be erotically authentic; 7. Play: Develop sexual skills and remember how to play; 8. Home: Build sexual confidence and come home to you; 9. Fire: Use your dynamic sexual energy to live vibrantly. Amy Jo’s work doesn’t stop in the bedroom, though—the effects of her work reverberate out into more connected intimate relationships, more power in our work, and more pleasure throughout life. She reminds us that the more whole we are as sexual beings, the more fulfilled we are as human beings.
GET IT FOR: The woman who could use a kick to her power, and can do it through sex.
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Enough to Make You Blush by Princess Kali.
Kali is the force de femme behind Kink Academy, and she’s been teaching erotic humiliation in dungeons and at kink retreats for a decade, but now she’s compiled all her suggestions, tips, and theory into a book! Going way beyond “lick my boots, worm,” Kali explores in depth psychology of domination and submission through embarrassment, humiliation, and degradation. Using both personal experience and extensive interviews she shares advice and detailed ideas for a broad range of embarrassing, humiliating, and degrading ways to enjoy consensual kinky fun. Also covered are important concepts such as communication, negotiation, consent, triggers, aftercare, and more.
GET IT FOR: the kinkster friend who already has all the books! (They won’t have this one, yet—it’s brand new!)
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Show Yourself To Me by Xan West.
Xan has been and remains one of my most favorite erotica writers. Not just because they include all sorts of kinky queer genderfuckers who do dirty things to each other (and talk about it) in ways that mirror my own favorite fantasies and (at its best) play, but also because they write so beautifully and skillfully, and I seriously admire their craft as a writer. Show Yourself To Me is a game-changer of a short story collection. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so rocked by a collection—probably since I read Macho Sluts or The Leather Daddy and the Femme. From the description: Within these 24 stories, you will meet queers who build community together, who are careful about how they play with power, who care deeply about consent. You will meet trans and genderqueer folks who are hot for each other, who mentor each other, who do the kind of gender play that is only possible with other trans and genderqueer folks. One of the stories from this book, The Tender Sweet Young Thing, is here on Sugarbutch in full, and Xan’s blogs is one of the Best Queer Sex Blogs.
GET IT FOR: The genderqueer friend who talks about hir sexcapades.
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Love Not Given Lightly by Tina Horn.
Part memoir, part expose, part journalistic study—this is Tina Horn at her best, taking us deep into her world of sex work and spankings and showing us around, making it all seem perfectly normal and glittery. But not just that—human, too, and real, in a way that makes them seem like they could be our friends, our clients, our coworkers.
GET IT FOR: The sex worker friends you know, or folks who keep their finger on the pulse of what’s happening in the sex & activism world. (They’re going to want to read this.)
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Coming Out Like a Porn Star edited by Jiz Lee
Features an amazing array of porn stars telling their stories—Joanna Angel, Annie Sprinkle, Betty Blac, Nina Hartley, Candida Royalle, Conner Habib, Dale Cooper, Christopher Zeischegg, Cindy Gallop, Drew DeVeaux, Erika Lust, Gala Vanting, Casey Calvert, Lorelei Lee, Stoya, Ignacio Rivera AKA Papí Coxxx, and many others. Coming out is never an easy process, and some folks have to come out over and over again; Jiz’s collection shows the heartbreak, the amazing points of connection, and the humanness of so many moments in different porn star’s lives. Everyone has been talking about this book—and using words like “life-changing,” “powerful,” and “intensely human.” It reveals so much about what a porn star’s life is really like, and gives the opportunity for these stars to speak for themselves, and share the complexities of their own stories.
GET IT FOR: the aspiring porn star you know. You know the one.
Get it at Amazon, or your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica by Sinclair Sexsmith
Hey wait! How’d that get in this list?! Just kidding—I am making sure to tell you that the paperback version is now available on Amazon (because I don’t think I’ve actually mentioned that here yet, oops). Having a whole stack of ’em in my living room right now is so thrilling—it’s real! It feels so much more real than having a digital book. So, if you (or your loved one/s) enjoy reading the dirty writings on Sugarbutch, they’d probably enjoy this collection of some of my favorite stories that I’ve ever written. Hope you enjoy it. (Will be available in places other than Amazon soon; it is already available at Bluestockings Bookstore in New York City!)
GET IT FOR: the butch/femme queers who love reading dirty things.
Get it at Amazon, coming soon to your local feminist queer indie bookstore!

kink

The Best Queer Sex Blogs

Posted on November 15, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

A friend of mine emailed me this week asking for recommendations for other queer erotica online. I emailed her back with some links off the top of my head, but I’ve been pondering this question since then … where ARE all the queer sex bloggers? The ones who write erotica, I mean, not the ones who are writing sex commentary (because there are certainly some of those) or about butch/femme culture (ditto some of those) or who are reviewing toys (also some good ones) or are actual video/photographic porn (yay, but not erotica) or who aren’t writing anymore (there are a few who haven’t updated in years).

Kinkly has a top sex bloggers ranked list, but they don’t specify if they’re queer or not, or what kind of sex blog it is—and most of the ones at the top are sex toy blogs.

So here’s some recommendations of my personal favorite places to go read smutty erotica words written by and about queers. Am I missing anyone? Leave comments with recommendations, please!

1. BD Swain, www.bdswain.com

From the micro-stories on her Instagram to the longer works on her blog, BD Swain has written some of my favorite smut ever. Mostly butch/femme, but switchy, and includes some other pairings occasionally.

Excerpt from Stare Hard:

My fingers on her panties, pushing between her lips, feeling the wet lace between her legs. My own wet fingers on my belt buckle. Feeling like there’s no time. Not enough time. For hours, all night, not enough. Her skin is so soft. I stare down at her as I trace the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Sliding my fingers down each leg and back again to her pussy. “Spread your legs wider,” I say, bending over, “Let me smell you.”

Also, if you like BD’s dirty photos, pick up her custom deck of poker cards. So hot.

2. Xan West, xanwest.wordpress.com

Mostly they write about writing erotica, and there are not as many actual erotic stories on their site, but there are excerpts from their upcoming novel “Shocking Violet.” Definitely check out his new book Show Yourself To Me (there’s one story from that book on Sugarbutch, called “The Tender Sweet Young Thing”).

Excerpt from A Tease from Shocking Violet:

She laughed. “So you want a free show, hmm? Well let me do it right, then.” And she slowly peeled off her high-necked black cat sweater. Jax stilled, stopped breathing. A couple of thick straps held up a gorgeous neckline. He could see her bare throat, and her arms. All that skin and ink. And her cleavage…damn. Fuck if she didn’t shimmy again for him, all tease and arched back, a wicked grin on her face.

“Don’t forget to breathe, honey,” she drawled.

She was right. He wasn’t fucking breathing. He licked dry lips and tipped his glass to her before taking a swallow of cool water.

3. Words Can Be Sexy, wordscanbesexy.com

Written by non-monogamous, trans, queer femme Olivia Dromen, hir work is incredibly sexy and detailed and well-written and full of genderqueerness. This is a new link for me, so I’m excited to dive into the archives and devour it all.

Excerpt from [Short] Overwhelmed:

“Take off your panties and lay down across my knee.” Zir voice is very calm, as if this is something we do every day.

It isn’t.

Ze pats zir knees with both hands.

4. Kyle, www.butchtastic.net

Butch/femme, butch/butch, writings about gender … Kyle has been one of my favorite bloggers since he started Butchtastic.

Excerpt from I Know What You Been Doing:

“I found your magazines, girl. Found your nasty magazines with their sticky pages. I know what you do with those magazines.” My hips are pressing a little harder against your ass. The hand around your waist has dropped a bit lower, my hand now resting on your thigh. My other hand is tightening slightly across your throat. You squirm against me with a groan. ”You like lookin’ at those men with their cocks hangin’ out, don’t you? You look at those dirty pictures and rub your naughty cunt, don’t you?”

“Daddy… I’m sorry… what… what are you going to do to me?” The mixture of anticipation and fear in your voice makes my clit pulse.

5. Trans Fag Sex Journals, transfagssexjournals.blogspot.com

From the description: “two transfags of color living in a big city, exploring safe anonymous play with bio-boys.” This is new to me, and doesn’t have updates since 2014, but the archives are rich and interesting.

Excerpt from the threesome:

we move to my bedroom. i lie back and my regular begins sucking me off. bottom boy drops his cock into my mouth and i blow him. then they switch places i suck my regular’s cock while bottom boy blows me. i grab condoms. my regular moves between my legs and pushes into me. i sit up so i can suck his boy’s cock while he fucks me. this goes on for a while then my regular asks bottom boy if he wants to fuck me. he nods.

67. Rebekah Weatherspoon, www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/blog

Rebekah doesn’t have a lot of stories online, but she has tons of ebooks and they’re fantastic. Her book “At Her Feet” is a Mommy/girl story, and it’s fantastic. She’s also an avid erotica reader and has tons of recommendations of other titles, and also runs WOC in Romance, highlighting romance written by women of color (not queer, but important!).

7. Kiki Delovely, kikidelovely.wordpress.com

Kiki’s work is mostly in erotica anthologies, but she does have some excerpts on her blog.

Excerpt from Yes, Daddy:

“I’m going to have to shove my big, hard cock inside of you and fuck you until you’re screaming out in pain, our guests watching and waiting. After that, I’ll leave you to them, allowing them to do with you as they please.”

“NO, Daddi!” I cry out before I can catch myself. Your free hand lands severely on my ass, harder this time, my body uncontrollably releasing a violent jerk as I swallow the pain.

“You will take your punishment like a good grrl.”

8. Jen Cross, writingourselveswhole.org

Jen has run Writing Ourselves Whole, writing workshops “at the intersection of sex and trauma,” for a decade, and her work is phenomenal. She doesn’t have a lot of her erotic writing online, but she did undertake a masturbation May project, We Can Come Home, a few years back and that is fascinating to read. Her work explores the very complicated intersection of desire and healing, and much of it is explicit.

Excerpt from Opening the Throat:

Today I did it the new way, me in my shower, back bent against the porcelain, shower head switched to massage and held between my legs, the water hot as I can stand it. I say, Good morning, body. This is for us today. I say, thank you. I float into the conversation with my mother, then pull myself back. That was last night, that was another moment, that is not what I’m here for now. Now I’m in the bliss of your mouth (the water is so much easier to make into a mouth than the vibrator — a new development for my fantasy life), maybe we’re at a fancy bathroom at a fancy party and you shift aside my long skirt to find stockings, garter belt — and nothing else. Then you are asking me to sing, and I moan into the white quiet of my bathroom. I get loud, breathe hard, cry out, oh my god oh my god oh my god. This is a new way, too.

9. Jack Stratton, www.writingdirty.com

Jack writes mostly m/f erotica—and some of my very favorite smut of all time—but he also has a variety of gay erotic pieces, which I find complex and interesting. Not exactly a queer erotica writer, but he’s pretty queer, and you might find things you like in his extensive archives.

Excerpt from The Shaving Lesson:

“You just keep watching her finger fuck herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off,” Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

Henry felt the fear mix with a little anger. It felt like Adam was reading his mind and laughing at him.

“I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my cock.”

10. Benji Bright, Underwear Tales

Benji Bright’s work was recommended to me by Xan West, and I’m very glad to have discovered it. He has many stories in anthologies and, recently, his own short story collection Boy Stories.

From He Doesn’t Want to Call It What It Is:

He doesn’t want to call it what it is. The words nag at him, but it is easy to shake them off when there’s someone else’s tongue pressed hard against him, slavering, and using the mouth to which it’s attached in order to shape filthy words: ‘I’m going to use your hole,’ ‘I’m going to fill you up with my spit and cum,’ ‘I’m going to fuck you like the beast you are.’

11.

Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires

I adore Giselle Renarde’s work. She is in dozens of anthologies, and has an elaborate page of free smut online at her blog.

From Prude’s Failsafe Advice for Eating Ass:

With a giggle and a growl, Gloria went at my hole like crazy. She licked it up and down, then swirled around in circles. She was forceful about it, too. When she thrust her tongue into my ass, my soul just about jumped from my body. I watched her do it, and still I was in disbelief. If it wasn’t for that slip of latex separating her from me, I’d never have let her do this. I didn’t mind so much, though, knowing she was tasting raspberry and not me.

Gloria made happy noises as she lunged at my ass, fucking me with her tongue. It felt fat inside me, with far more girth than her finger. As she went at me, I reached for my clit and found it engorged, my pussy dripping with juice.

Bonus

Also check out the guest post section here on Sugarbutch – mostly the guest posts include the authors I’ve mentioned above, but you still might find something exciting.
Someone suggested Archive of Our Own, which is primarily fan fiction but includes quite a bit of queer erotica if you’re willing to dig through the archives.
There are a few internet archive sites of erotica that include queer work, like Nifty, which is exclusively LGBT, Literotica, and Lust Stories, but the quality is very hit-and-miss.

There MUST be other gay boy erotica blogs out there, but I don’t know them. I mean there must be other queer erotica blogs in general—please tell me this list is incomplete! Honestly, I have been looking and asking on Twitter & Facebook and this is the best of the best that I can come up with. Who have I missed? Do you write erotica & share it online?

Please let me/us all know in the comments!

reviews

Review: What’s the Best Wand Vibrator?

Posted on October 31, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

In general, I’m not much of a fan of vibrators.

I used to be—small, buzzy egg vibrators were some of the first sex toys I ever bought, and I accessorized them with small silicone slip-on covers that fluttered, and loved it. I bought a rabbit vibrator, that one that oscillates and rotates and pivots and then also the bunny’s ears flicker.

But for me, those were mostly gateway sex toys, leading me into BDSM gear and impact toys and leather and harnesses and strap-ons. I’d occasionally use one, but not too often. (You’ll notice there are very few vibrators reviewed in the Sugarbutch archives.)

The “luxury” vibrators started getting more and more popular in the last, oh, idk, 10 years or so, and there are a ridiculous amount of options for fancy, upscale vibrators that pulse in different patterns, that are rechargeable, submersible in water, made of gorgeous materials, and incredibly sexy designs. Still, in general, for me, the $100+ price tag is just too much and they will, inevitably, break, as they have tiny motors and detailed innards that just won’t work forever (unlike a leather flogger, that just gets more valuable as you break it in, or a silicone strap-on dick, which have lifetime guarantees from places like Vixen Creations).

I’ll admit, too, that the luxury vibes are often a little too … well, feminine. So I suppose I have a small bias there.

Plus, there’s just the way that my body works: I tend to need a lot of heavy stimulation. And … there’s something sexier about a static object: an object that only moves as an extension of me, of my arm, of my will, rather than something that has it’s own movement and agenda and volition.

And yet … when I finally got turned on to the Hitachi Magic Wand (now known as the Magic Wand Original), I made a vibrator exception. It is so great. Magic Wand converts know what I mean … often if someone is a “Magic Wand kind of guy” (as I have been known to describe myself), it tells me a lot about what kind of sensation they like.

If you’ve never tried a “wand” type vibrator, here’s a round-up review of four of the very best out there, and how they’re different and similar. My boy and I did some vigorous testing and we have our favorites, but your favorites may be different depending on your body.

Generally, wands are not a “well, if I work really hard, then I can get off with this toy” kind of toy. They are lazy toys. They are sit-back-and-take-it toys. They are toys for deep relaxing. I mean, hell, you can even use it on other parts of your body, like your feet or your shoulders, for really good muscle release. (I know, so novel right?) They are, in general, very intense—they often have a much higher power than any of the hand-held small vibrators, with a much deeper vibration.

The four different wands: The Magic Wand Original, The Doxy, The Magic Wand Cordless, and the Lelo Smart Wand

The Magic Wand Original

Ahh, the Original. It used to be called the Hitachi Magic Wand, but Hitachi wanted to pull it from the market (as they make tons of things other than vibrators, and they don’t really like having their brand name associated with sex toys), but agreed to keep making them if nobody would call them “Hitachis” ever again. I have a hard time not casually calling it a Hitachi—because, that’s what it’s been called for a dozen years!—but I try to think about it as an intentional transition and call it what it wants to be called. (I am glad the company is still making them, after all.)

When I asked rife his opinion, he said: “Everyone knows what this one is. It’s the go-to, classic, mother of all wands.”

Yeah.

It’s not particularly waterproof, however—if you’re someone who squirts a lot, it can easily seep into the motors of the Original and damage it. (I think rife and I have gone through two of them, and my best guess is that’s what did ’em in.)

If you don’t know it, this is probably the place to start. It’s teeth-rattlingly buzzy, and it has two settings: high, and OMFG AHHHHH. If you like a lot of stimulation or a lot of vibration, this one is for you.

rife’s rank: #2
Sinclair’s rank: #2

Plus:

Plugs in—never runs out of battery
Reliable, consistent vibration

Minus:

Plugs in – you’re tied to a power outlet, plus it is hard to travel with as it’s a US standard plug
No low setting and no setting variability
Not waterproof, if you’re even someone who squirts a lot of fluid you will likely get that into the gears of the wand and damage it
The head is made of plastic, so if you want to share it with partners you aren’t fluid-bonded with, you’ll want to use a condom over the head

Buy it at:

Babeland Good Vibrations She Vibe JT’s Stockroom

The Doxy

Erika Moen turned me on to the Doxy with her reviews on Oh Joy Sex Toy, saying that she loves the Magic Wand, but that the Doxy was even better. WHAAAT!? So I had to try it.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t do it for me at all. I don’t think I’ve ever actually gotten off while using this wand … I always get turned on, but then I just skip over the coming part and go right to the frustrated part, and I always end up wishing I was using the Magic Wand or even my hand.

It’s got a beautiful PVC head, which is bigger and softer than the Magic Wand, so I thought that would make the sensations less intense and therefore better, but somehow it is too soft and cloudy and not specific enough for me. It has a lot more settings than the Magic Wand—TEN of them total—but yet, they are too intense or not intense enough.

rife: “I got overstimulated WAY too quickly. Even the second to lowest setting was still way too much.”

Get this one if: You love your Magic Wand, but you want variable speeds or more power.

rife’s rank: #4
Sinclair’s rank: #4

Plus:

Ten variable speeds
High quality materials
Plugs in, so it won’t run out of battery
Comes in multiple colors!

Minus:

Plugs in, with a long cord
Soft head isn’t quite specific enough
Biggest of the 4 wands reviewed here, so it can be unweildly

Average cost: $135

Buy it at:

Babeland She Vibe JT’s Stockroom

The Magic Wand Cordless

The Magic Wand redesigned and re-released a new version just this year, and this time, they made it cordless! But although that’s notable, that’s not even the best thing about it—it’s the settings, the settings, the settings! The Original Magic Wand has just two speeds: High and OMFG. But the Cordless has four variable speeds AND four vibration settings, going from low to high. The buttons are completely intuitive and so easy to use.

The body and head are slightly redesigned, too, to be a little sleeker and slightly better materials.

rife says: “I don’t miss the Original. I want this one. I’m so into the settings, it really helps me not to get overstimulated. It has the most foreplay built in, all the variable speeds and settings make it more “believable,” more like a human interaction than a morse code machine.”

While I like it, I don’t like-like it, if you know what I mean. I find myself wanting the Original, and not that into the settings.

rife’s ranking: #1
Sinclair’s ranking: #3

Average cost: $125

Plus:

Four variable speeds!
Four variable buzzing patterns!
Cordless & rechargeable, OR you can plug it in!
Still as powerful as the Original!
Very intuitive buttons

Minus:

Cordless means that it can run out of battery power and die, just when you need it

Buy it at:

Maxi Wand Amazon Babeland She Vibe Good Vibrations

The Lelo Smart Wand

This one wins, hands-down, for design. It’s so sleek and sexy. The silicone body is that velvety-smooth silicone like many of Lelo’s high quality sex toys, and it just begs to be touched. (I love that.) It also has this curve in it, unlike any of the others, and I am completely convinced that the curve makes it better. It can both curl under the pubic bone, just a little bit, and get the pressure just in the right spot, and for those of us who like to jerk things off in a hand-pumping kind of (dick) way? This is really good for that.

So if the action of jerking a dick does anything for you, or if you are really into curved g-spot dildos or internal vibrators, you’ll like the shape.

The vibration is my favorite, by far. It’s got more of a deep rumble than any of the others, rather than a superficial buzzy-ness. It also has a weird/interesting feature where it responds to pressure, which isn’t quite as cool as it sounds, but nonetheless makes it feel a bit more interactive. It seems to slow down when it receives more pressure, though, which is kind of strange—I want it to speed up.

It has 8 variable speeds, though I don’t find myself using those very often. I don’t quite have the overstimulation issue that rife reports. I just want it to be deep, rumbly, consistent vibration. And this? Yes, this. This is a major win for me.

rife’s rank: #3
Sinclair’s rank: #1

Plus:

Cordless & rechargable
Waterproof – fully submersible, which makes it easy to clean!
EIGHT different speeds
“Sense touch” responsive
Amazing, sexy design
Two different sizes – Medium and Large

Minus:

Because it’s cordless, it can run out of power
Rumbly, deep vibrations aren’t for everyone
Most expensive
“Sense touch” is kinda weird

Average cost: Large, $199; Medium, $159

Buy it at:

Babeland She Vibe Good Vibrations

And there you have it, folks!

I have definitely wondered if my body has just gotten used to the 12-plus years that I’ve been using the Magic Wand Original … I mean, how could it not? People definitely talk about getting “addicted” to it, or the ways that it makes other ways of getting off a bit harder. While I’ve seen studies that conclude that that’s not true, I also know people who swear by their own bodies that it is true for them, and I tend to believe the body’s truth over some study.

I hope that round-up is helpful. Honestly, I think they are all pretty incredible. I think the best way to really know if you’re into it or not is to go into a store and try them all out on your hands (or shoulders or other SFW place), and go from there. But I hope some of this background information was helpful for your decision making process. And hey, the holidays are coming up—might be time to put one of these on your wish list, or get one for your partner.

Last but not least …

It is really hard to try out and compare a bunch of wand vibrators. I mean—I know, boo hoo, but also: after using one for even just a little while, I’m already turned on that it’s hard to have an unbiased review of the next one. And if I haven’t used one since yesterday or this morning, it’s harder to compare the sensation.

So, of course, I had to tie up rife and blindfold him, and use each of them on him in turn, playing with the settings and the intensities, to help have a better taste test of them all. (Well, it helped with his review of them at least. For mine, I’ve been testing and retesting for the last three months since I got ahold of all of them.)

That scene was so fun—and he was so giddy and silly, trying to describe the sensation to me while I was buzzing away at his cunt, that I had to shoot some video and keep questioning him. It wasn’t quite an interrogation scene, but maybe had a little bit of that feel. I’ll be putting up some of the video on Instagram in the next few days if you’d like to see it, it’s pretty hilarious.

Also, my Instagram account is protected, but it’s not because I don’t want to share with you; it’s just because I don’t want my exes or my family to be able to browse through my personal photographs, and I want to be able to keep posting personal things there. So please do come follow me there, just send a request and I’ll add you.

Thanks to Doxy, Magic Wand Rechargable, and Lelo for sending me samples to review!

guest posts

Careful. Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

Posted on October 27, 2015by Kiki DeLovely

I was distracted. Attempting to finalize a dinner menu while simultaneously shopping for the six course meal on four hours of sleep was making me dizzy. Throw into the mix her flustering flurry of taunting words that kept popping up on the screen of my cell phone, continually drowning out my mile-long grocery list. It was enough to draw my focus away from the task at hand. Yet somehow I was managing, not missing a single ingredient while receiving her praise at my last minute addition of a baked brie. And then this: a simple photo. I wouldn’t have thought that one little pic could stop me dead in my tracks. But it had been quite some time since I had been the recipient of one so compelling. And so I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape.

I clicked on the photo to examine its details. Sunlight tickling at the edge of the notebook, her hand-crafted leather flogger draped dramatically across the page, and braided falls spilling just under the solitary inscribed word: Careful. A vintage Eversharp Skyline fountain pen angled just so as to place appropriate emphasis upon the command. The meticulous composition of the photo elevated it to a true art form.

Careful.

A warning and a demand wrapped up in this seemingly unassuming, simplest of sentences. It echoed in my mind.

Careful.

Precisely the type of caution I was recklessly scattering to the wind with each passing second.

Careful.

The decree that brought me to my knees.

Mouthy little quips had flowed freely from my fingertips up until that moment. And with one little photo, one little word, my hands were silenced into submission. Trust me when I say I behaved myself for the remainder of the day. My ceaseless tasks kept me so busy in the kitchen that when it came time for the dinner party, I hadn’t had time to grow nervous. Sans prompting, she made herself useful, helping clear between courses, chivalrously following me into the kitchen every time I rose.

One of the times we had a few seconds to spare and smiling at the din of laughter coming from the other room, I took advantage of momentary bravery, confessing, “I have a thing for strong hands….” I glanced up ever so briefly to meet her gaze before returning mine to my peep toe pumps. “When you were massaging me last night, your fingers tangled in my hair, your fists punching my shoulders … I couldn’t help but imagine them exploring a couple other places as well.”

“A couple other? Aren’t we a bit … ambitious?” A spark in her eyes.

I was too close to saying something smart. Or even just cheekily placing my palm up against hers in order to make an accurate assessment of my ambitions, knowing full well just how much my body is capable of taking, given the right circumstances. Instead I bit back my grin, remained silent, and twirled around on my heel, letting her come to her own conclusions. Allowing her to do with that information what she would.

After all, she had spent the better part of three days with me gathering information. It seemed as though nothing about me was lost on her watchful eye. She wasn’t exactly the typical butch I usually go for, but energy trumps type every time, and after the second day the energy was dazzling. Her academic researcher skills proved quite useful in other fields as well, having gleaned everything she needed to know to have her way with me. By the third night, I was hers.

* * *

The very tip of her blade kissed the surface my skin, threatening to pierce flesh if I chose to move too quickly or suffered an involuntary spasm. My flesh gave generously under the steel’s unwavering affections until met with the muscle’s resistance.

A catch in my breath.

An almost indistinguishable shift sparked at the air as she dragged its point downward, scraping away at the epidermis.

Before she even brought the blade back up to its point of origin, I knew where this was headed. Breathing into my anticipation, a trickle of cum forged a path down my left lip. My mind finally began to quiet and submit to the impossibility of intellectualizing such primal cravings. At the curved completion of that very first “D” a moan betrayed me. I kept my eyes on her the entire time—when I could manage to keep them open, that is. No need to look down at my thigh to know precisely what was coming—my nerve endings piqued, keenly aware of the shape of each letter that would follow. An all too predictable read, given that the word loitered on my tongue when in her presence, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to form the disyllabic honorific.

She carved her possession into what we both knew was already hers. The visual effect giving rise to a shared desire that threatened to ignite the air between us; the haptic sensation of her staking her claim penetrating me much deeper. When I finally did look down, “DADDY’S” was etched into my inner thigh—a spell had been cast, an alchemical equation set into motion. This changed everything. An erotic act beyond titillating had established the tone for the evening. Her marking me in this way had dropped me down into an abyssal submissive headspace unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Utterly unexpected, I had not readied myself for these emotional depths, had not warmed to the vulnerability about to surface. But there was no turning back.

I needed it too badly and was willing to risk the emotional aftermath that was to flood over me in the days to come. Our interactions were gritty, a little bit wrong. The honorific of Daddy didn’t really belong. It wasn’t exactly hers. It was mine. Not mine to embody but, rather, my fetish, my desire, my greatest weakness. She took on the role, however, with an ease that convinced me otherwise. She was a natural, vacillating between nice Daddy and mean Daddy with a finesse that takes others years to master.

My cunt yielded to her fingers and cock, eventually capitulating to her fist as well with the simplest lines of encouragement. “Daddy needs you to take this for him,” she would coo. “Don’t make me hurt you again.”

Kissing my back with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes—a particular combination of sweetness and cruelty that is the end of me. “That’s my good girl.” Devastating in the most heart-crushing way, I struggled to stay in my body. It was too soon. Far too soon. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t want to get swept away.

Gathering me up in her arms, she whispered into my hair, “Tell Daddy how you’re feeling.”

I couldn’t. Couldn’t go there. Couldn’t give her access. She was to be my Daddy for that one night only and in that short time I learned a new, startling fact about myself. I could no longer do pick-up play with this particular archetype. It left the little girl in me feeling too exposed, too raw. So I used the opportunity to teach that girl a harsh lesson. Employing every last trick in the book, I drew out this Daddy’s most ruthless sadist. Made her beat the lesson down past the hematoma, penetrating every last haematid, so that I’d never forget. So that I’d never fail my babygirl self in this way again.

“I’m going to need you to take ten more of these on each side. Think you can do that for Daddy?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of her stance in my peripheral vision just for a split second before my eyes watered, unfocusing, drifting off to a place where only the sensation of her spankings existed. “Yes, Daddy.”

Her martial arts training was evident not only in her stance and the blows she landed but, perhaps most impressively, in her follow-through. That is where I could truly taste the skill level of her black belt. I could’ve sworn she was striking me with a closed fist, her hands possessed that much power. She bruised her wrist all the way up through her palm with my ass, leaving us both delectably empurpled.

Flipping me over deftly, she began slapping my inner thighs. My body automatically shifted to give her greater access, legs spreading of their own volition. “Such a little harlot. Is that all it takes for you to spread your legs?” I blushed hard, knowing she was right. My mouth could invent some excuse but my body would always relay the truth.

Daddy grew impatient with my arms getting in her way, demanding full access to all parts of me at any given moment. As soon as I thought I had figured out her plan of attack, she’d switch directions to forge a completely different path. My lack of grace combined with her erratic movements meant my appendages were constantly in her direct line of fire.

“Quit fidgeting. Arms behind your back. And stop licking your lips. You’re just trying to be provocative. No one’s lips are that dry.”

That last line really challenged me in stifling a giggle, but I somehow managed to keep it together, delighted to be under her direction. The new position forced my tits to stand even more prominently on display as I gave her the uninterrupted access to my flesh she required. She beat me with only her bare hands that night—punishing enough in their brute force—but the next morning, she brought out her toys. Only the crop with an inflexible leather tab was store-bought. The other six she had made herself.

She began with a simple nylon flogger—the likes of which could be almost soft and sweet enough to take without end. But not with the brand of exertion she put behind it. “I’m going to take out all my hatred for Emily Dickinson on your back,” she quipped, the white falls raining down on the tattoo between my shoulder blades featuring a stanza from the poetess. Then quickly moving onto a dragon tail when it became clear the Belle of Amherst hadn’t been disciplined severely enough for her untold crimes against literature.

“How many is that?”

Silence as I tried to figure out how to wrap my tongue around words … and then numbers. “Seven?”

“That sounded like a question.”

“Seven.” Only slightly more confident, I managed to avoid the higher pitch tell that signaled doubt.

She was looking for an (unnecessary) excuse to extend my punishment—which I won’t deny I longed for but the good girl in me wanted so badly to please her Daddy—and in the end, my answer was correct so she simply carried on with the original twenty she had promised. Whipping me so brutally, so evenly on each side, I could feel myself slipping into boundless subspace.

In my tranced out state, I caught a flash of myself a couple days from then, tears in my eyes as I acknowledged aloud for the first time that my emotions had gotten all tangled up with my abandonment issues. My new Daddy was never meant to have any staying power, but the lingering repercussions of our scene were tangible in my body. They had more of an effect on my soul than I would’ve liked to admit and I was only then coming to terms with the consequences. Shaking my head free of this vision, I re-grounded myself in the present, accepting my fate and taking responsibility into my own hands. I was a big girl. So what if this Daddy couldn’t provide me with the aftercare I needed? I could take care of myself. And to prove it to myself, my brattiest side surfaced, inciting her to beat me harder. I refused to regard myself as an innocent in this scene.

Her divinely thuddy leather flogger, plump with innumerable falls, afforded me an opportunity too tempting to pass up. The instrument composed the most seductive symphony on my shoulders, but despite its impressive soundings it didn’t inflict enough pain to suppress my smart mouth. “I thought you detested Dickinson. Didn’t you want to punish her? This feels more like a reward, a massage of sorts.” I could feel her indignation bubbling up as the thwacks rang increasingly louder with each bit of sass until finally I had to shout to be heard. “…Almost as if you’re making sweet, sweet lesbian love to her … like only her sister-in-law could do.”

That last line sealed the deal and she flung one flogger to the side, taking up a much nastier one in its place. The one with the braided tails from the photo. I had been waiting for this and we had moved far beyond anything even remotely resembling warm-up. She laid into me, holding nothing back, thoroughly delivering the warning she had conveyed in the photo that had interrupted my grocery shopping days prior.

As delicious as it was to finally earn what I had coming to me, getting beat with the strop that came next was, hands down, my favorite. Its sensation was biting and delicious but there was something special about being all too aware of its primary function. Mindful that buried in its leather grain was the energy her knives. Cognizant that while it licked and prickled at my flesh, it had also served to sharpen the same blades that had marked me the previous night.

Sufficiently satisfied by the painstaking beating she had administered but not quite yet done with me, Daddy ordered me to my feet. Holding me the entire way to steady me against vertigo, she lead me into the bathroom in order to make me look in the mirror at what I forced her do to me. I was entranced by the marks just beginning to surface across my flesh. They would bloom and blossom in the days to come—shades of pink, red, and purple, then blues, greens and yellows that eventually faded altogether. But the deeper effects would take longer to wear off. I knew I would carry that scene with me long after my scarring healed over. Until the day I was ready to release it on my own.

Admiring her handiwork, she ordered me to bend over farther still such that the view was then hers alone. A lecherously voyeuristic indulgence, she kept me bent over like that, staring long enough to ensure proper embarrassment on my part. An act of contrition. She was to send me home feeling objectified, as though she had used my body for her pleasures alone. Though we both knew better.

As I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taken aback by my babygirl self blinking wide-eyed back at me—tender, laid bare, and the most contented I had seen her in years. “The coming down is going to hurt,” I warned her with a look. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one to take care of you.”

Mindful of my promise to her from that day forward, I remained steadfast in her protection, always watchful, ever careful.

essays

The Exact Right Word: National Coming Out Day and Chosen Identities

Posted on October 16, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

For #nationalcomingoutday, here are some words I use to describe myself and some identities that I have actively cultivated:

white
butch
queer
writer
survivor
genderqueer
masculine of center
poet
teacher
bookworm
introvert
HSP
hedonist
working artist
social activist
able bodied
Pacific Northwestern American
Daddy
Master
cock-centric
college educated
2nd generation woo
Buddhist
foodie

For a while, I kept a list of words in the back of my journal, making a note to myself anytime I heard myself say, “I’m a _____.” I would write it down and think about it, pondering if I really am that thing or if it was a passing moment of identifying as such. Some of the words that came out of that are survivor, introvert, and hedonist, as well as the more often-used social justice ones, like butch and queer and dyke and gendequeer.

There are some other words—like lesbian, dyke, and trans—that are almost the right word, and which I sometimes use and sometimes identify with, but that aren’t always precisely right.

There are a few more that are complex and I hesitate to list, like yogi and tantrika, because while I do practice yoga and tantra, I haven’t quite been able to reconcile the cultural appropriation that surrounds me with those activities enough to be comfortable to use the identity labels to refer to myself. (So for now, I go with 2nd generation woo.)

There are a few more that I aspire to, but don’t quite have yet … like gardener and runner, which are identities in progress but not quite integrated. I do have a garden (finally!!), but I frequently forget about it. And I did run two 5k races in the past two years (hurrah!) but again, that habit doesn’t feel consistent, and isn’t quite an identity yet, just an occasional burst of interest.

And what’s the word for someone who tends to be depressed, or who struggles with depression? I don’t quite want to say neurodivergent or depressive, those seem too intense. Something a little more mild that says that I tend toward internalizing emotions rather than externalizing, and tend toward feeling down rather than feeling up (anxious). Or maybe this is a case where I have to reclaim a word, or use something that seems overly harsh and is misunderstood (like depressive).

There’s a lot to think about on National Coming Out Day … I’m particularly interested in identities, and what we call ourselves, and how we claim our power in these words and communities, but I also recognize that for many people, being associated with the identities that have marginalized them feels an awful lot like being marginalized all over again.

I believe that we should find the precise right words that are big enough to contain all the multitudes of us, and not sacrifice our selves to fit into labels which constrict. I believe the identity should conform to us, that we shouldn’t conform to it. And I believe that labels and identities and words that describe ourselves should always be the starting place, not the ending place, of the conversation—a place of opportunity to know more and ask questions and listen, not a place to fill in our own assumptions and determine the truths of others.

I’ll leave you of the Mark Twain quote: “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning-bug.”

What identities do you claim? What words do you use to define yourself?

guest posts

The Tender Sweet Young Thing, Guest Post by Xan West

Posted on October 4, 2015by Xan West

Dedicated to the members of the Church of the Movie Musical

As a heads up, this story includes descriptions of gender play, blade play, edge play, pain play, public sex, cocksucking and fisting.

Dax was raised by a second-wave feminist. Ze grew up reading books about girls who did stuff. Ze was pulled out of tap class because they were going to perform “I Love Being a Girl,” and hir mom refused to let Dax participate in something so sexist. Hir mother gave hir a gender-neutral name (to help hir get jobs) and had hir hair cut in a Buster Brown. For most of hir childhood, people were constantly asking, “Is that a boy or a girl?” They still asked that, actually. At least now ze chose hir own haircuts.

Dax didn’t change hir name when ze went on T. What was the point? Dax would work okay, and it’s not like ze wanted to pass as a man anyway. A gender-neutral name suited hir just fine. Guess mom got something right.

When Dax’s boyfriend Mikey got a ‘96 Volvo with a tape deck, Dax gave her some of hir old cassettes. They would drive around listening to tapes Dax had kept from back in the day. Their favorite was a childhood relic, Free to Be You and Me. They listened to it for probably the thousandth time on the way to a regular gathering of fat queers that involved two of Dax’s favorite things: potluck and watching musicals. That’s probably why Mikey was so quick to bring it up, when the pre-movie dinner discussion turned to early kink fantasies. (Which, let’s face it, was rather inevitable at this monthly event, which was now at Xóchi’s house because it was more accessible. No stairs meant that Dax and Mikey could be there, and that Jericho and Rusty came more often, too. Lee loved hosting, so even though it was now at Xóchi’s house and not her own, she was still in charge. Everything always went smoothly when she was in charge.)

“Want to hear one of Dax’s early kink roots?” Mikey asked, teasing.

Of course the group wanted to hear it. Dax was grateful Mikey was going to tell it, because hir migraine meds were making hir a bit loopy, and ze just wanted to watch the room and relax. It was nice to be back. Nobody did potluck like fat activist queers. The briscuit Rebecca brought was the best comfort food ever, especially with Mikey’s flan for dessert, and ze was looking forward to popcorn and Julie Andrews. Hir chair was comfy, the sun wasn’t in hir eyes, and ze was surrounded by kinky queers. Hey, who was that cute femme boy in the corner? Oh, was that Téo, the boy Mikey had been telling hir about?

“Well, I bet some of you know Free to Be You and Me?” Mikey asked.

Lee and Xóchi both nodded. Dax guessed the other folks were a bit too young to know it. Except Jericho, who looked at Rusty and shrugged, clearly having no clue what they were talking about.

Xóchi said, “Oh, wait. I bet it was that football player singing, ‘It’s Alright to Cry.’”

The whole room chuckled. Dax was well-known for being the kind of sadist that got off on tears. When Xóchi started to sing a bit of it, Lee and Mikey joined in. “It’s alright to cry. It might make you feel better!”

Dax was blushing. Ze reminded hirself that ze loved them. They were family. Family got to tease you. And, really, hadn’t ze crooned just that line to Mikey last month in the middle of a particularly brutal caning?

“No, it wasn’t that one, actually,” Mikey said, grinning at Dax. “You remember the one about the tender sweet young thing?”

Lee and Xóchi both shook their heads.

“Well, it’s about this girl who dresses impeccably, and always goes first in line, and gets basically everything she wants, and then she gets caught by a pack of lions.”

“Tigers!” Dax inserted.

“Oh, sorry, baby. Tigers. So they tie her up and sniff her a bit.” Mikey grinned.

“And she says, ‘I am a tender sweet young thing.’” Dax forgot hirself and got into it. “‘I am also a little lady.’” Dax grinned at Lee, who unconsciously began to adjust her shirt so that her considerable cleavage showed to better advantage.

“And she tells the lions to stop licking her,” Mikey inserted, watching Téo. Damn, the boy was so fucking cute. He had perked up, giving the story his full attention, a mixture of recognition and desire on his face. This confirmed it. Téo was the tender sweet young thing she’d had her eye out for.

“Tigers!” Dax insisted.

“That’s twice,” Lee said, holding up two fingers and looking sternly at Mikey over her turquoise cat eye glasses.

Dax continued, “My favorite part is when she says, ‘Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!’”

The whole group cracked up. Except for Téo, who was holding his breath.

“I’ve had a fashion safe word myself,” said Lee, eyes sparkling.

“So what happens to the tender sweet young thing?” asked Téo before he could stop himself.

“The tigers eat her,” said Dax, eying Téo again. Téo did something halfway between a preen and a squirm under Dax’s gaze. It was adorable. How had ze not noticed him before tonight?

“What?” said Xóchi. “How do I not remember this? They eat her?”

“Yep,” Mikey confirmed.

“And the whole story is told by the head tiger,” Dax added, grinning at Xóchi.

Xóchi grinned back, one predator to another, and then launched into a story of her own that involved her father’s knife. Dax hoped that Téo might share one of his own kink roots, but Lee soon ushered them over to the television for the much awaited showing of Victor/Victoria.

Téo couldn’t stop thinking about the tender sweet young thing. He could barely concentrate on Victor/Victoria, which he hadn’t seen before and was totally up his alley. He’d have to get ahold of it and watch it when he could pay attention.

He let himself work it out, as the others watched. It had been a while since he’d bottomed to a white person, and the last time had been a real mistake. That’s why he had been so careful with Rebecca. Their switchy thing was working out okay. But this was a different thing altogether because he kept thinking about being tied up and surrounded by Dax and hir band of tigers. That was serious bottoming, even from a power femme place.

But he’d been thinking about Dax all night, about that gleam in hir eyes as ze looked him over and told him that the tigers ate the tender sweet young thing. Anyone who could hang in this group was probably okay. Xóchi and Mikey clearly trusted hir. Jericho had made a point of saying that they wanted Dax and Mikey at their party next month, and that was a POC-centered space. I mean, they allowed white folks who acted right, but it was different to be invited special.

It’s not like he hadn’t known Dax for a few years; they’d been in that genderqueer showcase together, after all. He’d just never noticed hir in that way before. He’d been crushed out on Mikey for a while, as their friendship had grown, and been looking for a way to let her know he was interested. And it was clear that the scene he had in mind would mean bottoming to her, too. Yeah, he thought it was worth the risk, especially because he didn’t think he’d have to worry much about disability stuff with this group. Damn, this scene hit so many of his buttons in exactly the right way. Oh, was the movie over already?

It turned out that Rebecca was going home with Jericho and Rusty (which no one was surprised by after the kink root she’d shared about being constantly cast as the prince when she ached to be the evil stepmother instead). She had been Téo’s ride. So Dax and Mikey offered to drive the boy home. He had the cutest tempting blush on those fat cheeks of his when he accepted.

Dax made Mikey put on Free to Be You and Me, and ze watched Téo’s face as he listened to the one about the tender sweet young thing. As the girl described herself, Téo couldn’t resist running his hands through his shiny curls, blue sparkles on his nails picking up the dim light in the car. Oh, he was delicious. When Dax heard him gasp at the end when the tigers ate her, ze met Mikey’s eyes with a grin. Then ze asked Téo what he thought.

“I love the part where the tiger has ‘never seen anything quite like it before,’” he said, awe in his voice.

“Me, too,” said Dax.

“And that ‘tender sweet young thing’ is, like, her gender,” Téo continued.

“Told you he was a smart cookie,” Mikey murmured to Dax. She’d been eyeing Téo for some time. He was just her type: wicked smart, great politics around race and disability, and let’s face it—she had a weakness for sassy femme trans guys. And this one had those curls …

Dax grinned at Mikey. “You called that one.” Ze turned to the blushing boy. “So, Téo … are you a tender sweet young thing?”

“Who, me?” he drawled, winking at hir.

“I thought you might be.” Dax smiled into the boy’s eyes. “I can gather up a few tigers for Jericho’s party next week.”

“I have the perfect dress!” Damn, he was lit up like the Empire State Building.

“I can’t wait to see you in it,” Dax purred.

Mikey grinned at Téo. “I can’t wait to muss it up,” she said. She was already imagining it.

“I was hoping you might,” Téo gave Mikey a wicked smile and blew her a kiss.

***

Dax took hir time gathering the tigers. Mikey, of course. It was basically her idea, after all. Jericho surprised Dax by volunteering both themself and their boy Rusty. They might not be there for the whole scene because they were hosting, but they could be there at the beginning. Lee definitely wanted in, and Téo had agreed. Rebecca grinned wickedly and said she’d love to. Xóchi finally stopped chuckling long enough to say she’d do it, and that her girl would help hold space, fetch water, and have lube and snacks ready.

Negotiations went smoothly, and with this many disabled queers, it was a fucking miracle that there were no opposing access needs. Téo had been the one to bring up race, which meant he felt comfortable enough to raise the issue. Dax knew how important that was. They’d worked out the perfect bondage safe word. It was actually going to happen. Dax couldn’t really believe it.

What a band of tigers Dax had found. Lee honored the event in her turquoise tiger-print top, resplendent with matching glasses and cane. She was gleaming with top energy, regally driving her scooter around the party, grey curls streaming. Xóchi kept it simple in black jeans and her favorite boots. She planned to sit for most of the time, so it was actually possible to wear them, and nothing made her feel more powerful than those boots. Jericho’s bald head gleamed, and they were a gorgeous genderfuck mix of cues from dark lipstick to white button-down shirt and leather bowtie over a neon orange slip. The look was finished with knee-high lineman boots, a bootlicker’s dream, reserved solely for their boy as a reward for his silent service tonight. Their boy Rusty was clean and crisp in an A-line shirt and leather pants that showed off what he was packing. He looked delicious and untouchable all at the same time, a clear indicator of stone butchness if Dax ever saw one. Rebecca had laced a white boa around the handlebars of her scooter and slid her midsized curves into the tightest shortest thing in her closet, complete with fishnets, dramatic purple eyes that matched her glasses, and flats because her fibro had been flaring all week and heels were not fucking possible. Mikey wore a classic shirt and tie, her favorite top gear that she used to draw on a bit of Daddy magic for the scene ahead.

They claimed their space. Jericho wanted to use the scene to get the party started, raise the kind of energy they knew would inspire an electric night for everyone. They wanted to do their part to keep Carter Hall solvent, and a hot group scene can make a party. Having an accessible space was so damn rare even in the Bay, and this was a dream of a space, complete with a full-size sling that was actually rated for supersize folks like Téo. That’s exactly where Dax wanted to put the boy … if he ever showed up.

Xóchi’s girl Lina set up the space around the sling, with banquet chairs ready for folks who wanted to get off their scooters and rest or play while sitting; snacks and glucose tablets for the diabetics who needed a food break; and water, gloves, and lube for everyone. Dax took out the tools ze wanted to use and set them on the chair next to the one ze was sitting on. Ze kept it simple: the claws that an ex had made for hir out of metal guitar picks and a wicked pair of scissors to muss up the boy’s dress with. Ze was ready.

Mikey had finished laying out the electric blue rope she’d picked out to match the boy’s nails. She scanned the party. Where was Téo? He knew that Mikey had limited energy and needed to start early. Why wasn’t he here already?

Queers had started to form a circle around the sling, hoping to get a glimpse of some action, which gave Téo a perfect opportunity. He scooted through the crowd, trilling, “Ladies first! Ladies first!” at the top of his lungs. “Hand over a whole mango, please,” he quipped to Dax, turning to wink at Mikey, who chuckled, recognizing the line immediately.

He did have the perfect dress on, Dax marveled. Candy pink with a white collar that showed off his tempting neck and big white buttons down the front. He had on white knee socks and patent leather Mary Janes, and his curls were adorned with pink ribbons that matched his dress. The boy twirled on his scooter in front of them, showing off bulging white briefs, and Dax was mesmerized. Hir tender sweet young thing was packing!

Soon, Mikey had Téo bound to the sling. Could he look more fetching than when trussed up prettily in blue rope? Dax stood between his legs, hir midsize frame insistent against the boy’s cock. Rusty loomed by Téo’s head. Rebecca chose a seat where she could see his face and reach him with her cane. The rest of the tigers started up their scooters, circling slowly. Every few moments, one of them would poke him with their cane. Their grins were menacing, and the whirring of the motors combined into a purring growl that had Téo a bit more nervous than he had expected to be. He tried to watch them circle, but there were just too many of them. And Rusty seemed so damn huge at his head, standing over him, eyeing his curves. Had he actually signed up for this? What had he been thinking?

Dax waited until the boy was distracted, focused on the circling tigers, before ze pulled on hir claws. The metal gleamed, and ze knew it would make pale scratch marks on the boy’s reddish brown skin. Ze breathed into it, pushing into the floor with hir boots, settling deeper into topspace. The claws felt perfect as they traced along the boy’s neckline. He shivered, and Dax smiled down at him, feeling hir inner predator wake up. Oh, this was going to be fun. Ze gripped Téo’s throat and ground hir cock into his. He went still, trying not to move, all his attention on Dax, as Rusty gripped his hair to hold him steady and whispered in his ear. His eyes were saucers, and his lower lip trembled.

Mikey grinned as she watched Dax get things started. This was one of the best plans she’d had in a long time. She rolled up closer as Dax lifted Téo’s dress to run hir claws along the boy’s thighs. Rusty had the boy’s curls in his fist, and that position gave her a perfect opportunity. She nuzzled Téo’s neck, beckoning to Lee and gesturing to his stomach. Lee slid up to the boy and scent-marked his stomach through his dress, purring.

He was surrounded. He didn’t think it would be so easy to think of them as tigers, but they sure felt like it. Lee pressed her nose into his stomach as Mikey sniffed his neck, grazing her teeth along his skin. The ropes helped him sink into helplessness. There was no getting away from this, and that was exactly what he needed. Had Mikey just told Lee he smelled nice?

Mikey stood and met his eyes, running her hand along his curves, teasing into the collar of his dress, as her other hand held Dax’s both to steady herself and, well, because.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it before,” she drawled, letting the awe show in her eyes. “I wonder what it is?”

Téo knew his line. He’d been waiting for it, to claim this gender that fit so right, in front of queers who actually got it. He swallowed around the fear rising in his throat. “I am a tender … ,” he whispered, then stopped. It turned out it was harder to say than he’d thought.

Mikey met his gaze, gripped his face in her paw, and said, “What was that? Old tigers like me need it a bit louder.”

Dax took the opportunity to spread his thighs with hir claws, and Lee bit down on his stomach. Damn. Rebecca came over to hold his hand. That helped. Jericho came over to their boy and laid their hand on his shoulder. Rusty still hadn’t let go of his curls, but that felt grounding now.

“Looks tender,” said Xóchi, who had pulled up on the other side of his stomach with her knife out, and was tracing it along his collarbone, up toward his face.

Fuck, okay, he said to himself. You can’t talk when you aren’t breathing. You can do this. Let it out. It came out in a whimper, which only made Xóchi grin and press the knife deeper into his skin. Lee was nuzzling his stomach again, and Mikey held him captive in her gaze. Why couldn’t he look away? Why was it so damn hard to say?

Mikey’s eyes were warm and firm all at the same time. Her gaze said, Take your time. We are here. We know it’s hard. We’ve got you.

Dax saw the tears start rolling down those gloriously fat cheeks and knew what ze wanted to do. Hell, ze’d been thinking about it ever since ze saw the boy twirl. Ze pushed up the boy’s dress and worked his cock out of his briefs. Lina had a condom ready. (Damn, that girl was good.) Dax loved to suck boys off as they cried. It was such a fabulously twisted move for a top, and nothing tasted better than the power it gave. The boy went very still as ze worked the condom onto his cock. Ze slid hir tongue along the boy’s cock, watching his face. He was so damn sexy with his mascara running like that, a knife to his throat. Dax dug the claws into his thighs and feasted on Téo’s cock as the boy let go and sunk into fear, and helplessness, and sharp recognition.

It was too much, and he couldn’t keep still anymore, couldn’t stand to have Mikey look at him anymore. Not like that. His hands clenched, and his eyes scrunched up, and he was so damn frustrated that the words emerged without any censoring. “I wish you’d stop licking me!”

They all stilled. Xóchi put away her knife. Lee sat up, pulling her face out of his stomach. Dax raised hir head to look at him and smiled. Mikey came up next to hir and rested her head against Dax’s stomach.

“I got this,” Jericho said. “Me and my boy.”

They all moved to the chairs circling the sling, except for Jericho and Rusty.

Jericho said, “All that surface sensation is just too much, isn’t it? You need something deeper to show you how tender you are. I can do that.”

How did Jericho know that? It was scary how right they were. Deeper was exactly what he needed. He nodded helplessly.

Jericho handed their boy a condom and some lube. They picked up Dax’s scissors, getting a nod from hir, and cut off Téo’s briefs before he even registered what was happening. By then, Jericho had almost finished unstrapping Téo’s cock. They gestured to Rusty and moved around Téo, unbuttoning his dress to bare his chest. Téo loved, and hated, being beaten there. It was about the only kind of touch that felt right in that area, and it was so damn intense because, really, when you’re binding so many hours a day, your skin gets fucking sensitive.

Jericho had taken out their braided cat. Téo adored this toy, and was aching to get beaten with it again. Last time, it’d felt like light was bursting out the top of his head.

It was better than he remembered, probably because he needed deep sensation so much. He closed his eyes and let it drive into him. Sublime intensity concentrated where he needed to let go. Jericho was fucking magic. When Rusty slid into his front hole, it felt so easy and solid. Rusty was holding him steady with his cock, anchoring him here in this room so he didn’t float too far.

Mikey saw the shift before it happened. Jericho signaled to their boy, and Rusty started moving, holding the sling steady, and doing all the work himself, so that Jericho would have a clear target. They drove into the boy at both ends, watching him arc and writhe, and waited for him to scream. It was beautiful. They rode the boy together, building him up in spirals, and Jericho stopped beating him just in time to catch his scream in their mouth in a sweetly vicious kiss.

“Tender yet?” Jericho asked, poking Téo’s chest and grinning when he yelped.

“Yeah,” Téo managed to get out between yelps. Jericho motioned to Mikey and Dax.

“I’ve got host duties. Your turn to muss the boy up a bit.” They smiled down at Téo and tousled his curls. “You sure are sweet,” they murmured and, squeezing his shoulder, walked off on their boy’s arm.

Dax picked up the scissors and teased them against the boy’s cheek. Ze was going to enjoy this, and had been fantasizing about it for a long time.

Mikey slid on a glove, lubing it up. She nipped at the boy’s thigh, watching him squirm. She wanted him writhing on her arm, and soon.

Rebecca got her hand in Téo’s curls, and was doing that twisting-pulling thing that felt like sex. Dax snapped the scissors close to his ear, making him jump. Mikey was doing something slithery and twisty in his front hole. Damn, her paw was big. He wanted it inside him so bad, punching into his cervix with those powerful huge arms. Why was she going so damn slow? He was all-over impatient.

That’s when Dax began to cut into his perfect dress. He started to pull at the ropes, glaring at Dax, who seemed to get even bigger and more excited the more he glared. Xóchi and Lee began to pull at the tears Dax was making, and the fabric made a wet, almost breaking sound as they ripped it. Somehow, Téo was sobbing. Rebecca was stroking his hair, gathering him to her breast, and Mikey slid deeper into him and stilled.

Dax met his eyes, and he was held in the demand and witness of someone who got it. Got how helpless he needed to be, and how much he needed to let go, and how tender and new he was inside, and how scary it was to let others know that. Dax placed the scissors on his bare stomach, holding them firmly against him. They were cold and warm at the same time. How was that possible?

Dax reached over and stroked Téo’s cheek, lifting hir fingers to suck off his tears. Ze repeated Mikey’s question. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. I wonder what it is?”

This time, he could say it. “I am a tender sweet young thing.”

Mikey pulsed her hand inside him, and he moaned, repeating it, and getting rewarded by more twisting-pulsing yum that made his thighs quiver.

Lee and Xóchi growled, nuzzling his side. Rebecca stroked his curls, emerging with ribbons that she put in her own hair. He was getting stiff, and he wanted to move, so he said it: “Untie me this instant. My dress is getting mussed!”

They all chuckled and began untying him. Mikey stayed where she was, writhing her fingers inside him. “So, you want to be free for this, eh? That sounds perfect,” she said.

“Oh yes,” he said and used his newly free hands to shift position. He knew if he hit the right spot, oh yes…her hand slurped in, and she grinned at him.

The rest of the tigers began to nuzzle his belly, and neck, and thighs. Mikey went to work in his hole, pulsing, then twisting, still going way too damn slow for him, and he told her so, began to work with her, thrusting on to her fist, telling her to punch him deep inside, he could take it, he wanted it, her fat fist was exactly what he needed. She caught on real fast and began slamming into him just right, and he lost control of his muscles and just let her take over. He was impaled on her huge and perfect fist, and he could feel it build in his chest. Damn…did he really need to cry again?

It seemed that he did, and as he began to sob, five tigers chose their spots and bit. Dax chose his belly, the soft part of him, the place where he was most tender. Rebecca went after his neck, sucking hard on the bite, wanting him to remember her teeth for days to come. Xóchi chose the inside of his arm, and that hurt the fucking worst. Damn, she was evil in the best way. Mikey bit down on the heel of his hand as she came because he felt so damn good spasming around her fist. Lee chose his thigh, and it mixed in with the sex to push him over into a sobbing orgasm that spiraled through him until he was spent. They all bit down and savored the sweetness of him, feeding on his tears, past his pleasure, until they were sated.

They gathered him up and found him a blanket, stroking his curls as he slurped down water, feeding him dried mango and chocolate on the huge round bed that was close by. Dax and Lee had a more substantial snack, being diabetics after all. Xóchi and Rebecca just shared his chocolate, each clutching their scrap of Téo’s dress. Lee admired the ribbons in Rebecca’s hair and stroked her neck, showing her teeth. No one was surprised that they wandered off. Xóchi’s girl was done cleaning and curled up at her feet, head on her boots. Jericho came by with his boy to claim scraps of the dress, kiss Téo’s cheek, and poke his bruises. He could tell he’d made Jericho proud and let that sink in.

After a while, Dax turned to Téo, serious. “You are brave and precious, and a delight to me. Thank you.” Ze gathered him close and twined hir fingers in his curls. Mikey nudged Dax and wrapped them both in her arms, nuzzling Téo and asking if he might like to come home with them. He had been hoping for that, and smiled sweetly, nodding. He was glad he didn’t need to put his armor back on just yet, content to have his tender spots showing for a bit longer.

This guest post is part of Xan West’s blog tour for hir new book Show Yourself To Me, available now from Go Deeper Press. Buy ebook or print copies at Go Deeper Press | Buy the ebook on Amazon

In Show Yourself to Me: Queer Kink Erotica, Xan West introduces us to pretty boys and nervous boys, vulnerable tops and dominant sadists, good girls and fierce girls and scared little girls, mean Daddies and loving Daddies and Daddies that are terrifying in delicious ways.

Submissive queers go to alleys to suck cock, get bent over the bathroom sink by a handsome stranger, choose to face their fears, have their Daddy orchestrate a gang bang in the park, and get their dream gender-play scene—tied to a sling in an accessible dungeon.

Dominants find hope and take risks, fall hard and push edges, get fucked and devour the fear and tears that their sadist hearts desire.

Within these 24 stories, you will meet queers who build community together, who are careful about how they play with power, who care deeply about consent. You will meet trans and genderqueer folks who are hot for each other, who mentor each other, who do the kind of gender play that is only possible with other trans and genderqueer folks.

This is Show Yourself to Me. Get ready for a very wild ride.

The stops on the blog tour:

Interviews

“Submission is mine to define for myself.” Interview with Miss Piggy

Posted on September 14, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Miss Piggy was a player in Submissive Playground in 2014, and is signed up to join us again. She is the Social Activities Director of the Society of Janus in San Francisco.

What did you like about the course? What parts of it stand out?

There were a lot of things I liked about the course, but the first that stands out for me is that I felt like Mr. Sexsmith led me through a lot of pondering that I hadn’t done yet, about a variety of topics. I was still/am still very new, and it gave me an organized, thoughtful approach to my own kinks and interests. The quality of the materials was very high – the videos were very informative and entertaining, and I haven’t seen that caliber elsewhere. Mr. Sexsmith and rife are also “informative and entertaining” – you can really see how beautiful and thought-out their relationship is and how that shapes their perspectives.

The other aspect that was very special was the camaraderie with subs from all over the world. Everyone was so different in terms of their dynamics, orientation and interests, but each person was more fascinating that the last! Having people video chat and tell their stories was so cool. I might pay to do the class again just so I can learn from all the next group’s stories.

What drew you to Submissive Playground? Where were you before you took the course?
I was a fairly new submissive when I found out about the Playground. I was reading everything I could get my hands on, taking classes, and getting involved in the local scene. But I needed more, and everything I read pointed me to the Submissive Playground (especially the idea of homework).

What was your favorite part of the experience?
Hearing from submissives of every gender and orientation from all over the world. Having someone share a deep, dark scary secret and several of us all piping in “ME TOO!”

What did you learn?
I learned that I am ok as the submissive I am, and I can strive to become the submissive I want to be. It’s not about the end game, it’s about the journey. The Playground was an important part of that journey.

What kind of skills did you build?
Discovering what kinds of service are important to each of my partners and following through on those things, instead of making myself crazy trying to be perfect with things they couldn’t care less about. And flirting with Tops and Sadists and Dominants (oh my!) while still feeling submissive.

What changed with your relationship to submission?
Realizing it was mine (and my partners) to define for ourselves – there isn’t a right answer.

What changed with your relationship to your dominant?
Watching the assigned videos with Him, or sharing specific readings, was the best part. Further opening lines of communication – me finding my voice to say that something wasn’t working for me (bad pain versus good pain, suffering for His pleasure versus being miserable). Even for a strong, alpha submissive like myself, those are hard things to say aloud to a partner.

What in you feels stronger now than it did before the course?
My trust in my own gut to know when a relationship or scene isn’t right for me. My confidence that as a fat, middle-aged masochist submissive cis-woman, I am a hot catch for the right people and anyone who earns my service or submission better be damn worth it.

How & why would you recommend this to other submissives?
While I got lots of answers to my unresolved questions from this class, I felt more focused on the wonderful questions it brought to my attention. I found myself wandering my neighborhood caught up in a question that came up on a phone call or in one of the videos.

If you are intelligent, thoughtful, submissive (or might be), curious and ideally witty, I think you’ll get a lot out of it, even if it’s not what you think you’ll get out of it. It’s really a bit of a journey – I’m glad I took it seriously.

Submissive Playground
registration is open!

There are only 4 Star Package spots left! Registration is open until September 18; course begins September 24.

Click here to reserve your spot now!

advice, essays

7 Tips For Flirting As A Submissive

Posted on September 11, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

One of the most common questions I get asked from submissives is, “How do I flirt with dominants!?” And while learning some basic flirting tips (like: be curious and ask questions, give compliments, be honest) can be helpful, when you add D/s into the equation sometimes the rules are a little bit different.

Part of the confusion is that we associate flirtation with assertion—someone comes along, declares interest, and asks for what they want. Those can be seen as dominant traits. But it is absolutely possible for a submissive to do them, and to still come across as submissive and respect the dominant’s authority as a dom.

So, assuming that you’ve already established that you are submissive and the person you’re flirting with is a dominant, here’s some tips. (These are some of the things that would work for me.)

1. Establish whether or not they want to be flirted with.

This might seem obvious, but it’s multi-faceted. You gotta figure out if they are available or not—if their relationship allow for flirtation with other people. It might be as simple as figuring out whether or not they are single, but being partnered doesn’t necessarily mean that they can’t flirt—it just depends on whether their relationship allows for flirtation or not. And you might also see whether their relationship only allows flirting, and not going any farther than that—which may change your opinion on whether or not you want to flirt, depending on what the goal of your flirting is.

Secondly, you have to figure out if they are available or not right now, meaning if the timing is right. If I’m about to teach a workshop, for example, I am way less likely to respond well to flirtation than if I’ve just ended a workshop. How do you know if the timing is okay? Well, you can always ask—”So, is this a good time to flirt with you?” “Got a minute to flirt with me?” “Hey, if this isn’t a good time, could we set aside some time later and flirt maybe?”

2. If they have a submissive already, befriend them.

While you’re asking around about whether they’re available, also ask whether or not they already have a submissive—then, make friends with the sub. Ask if there’s any service you can do, if there’s some interesting talent or skill you can offer, or what other expression of interest would be welcome. If you establish yourself as aware of the hierarchy in the relationship that already exists, you’ll be a lot less threatening to the submissive, and they are way more likely to hook you up with tips and tricks to get the dominant’s attention.

3. Offer to be of service.

“May I ____ for you?”

As a friend of mine put it, “May I ____ for you?” This is where your keen observational skills can give you big points: if you notice some of the things they always do and offer to do it for them, you put yourself in the position of being very helpful. If being observational isn’t your strong point, offer some of your own impressive skills or talents: May I black your boots, may I gift you some peanut butter cookies that I made.

4. Use their title.

Using words that remind you both of the hierarchies that you like to play with can be a big turn-on, which is always a bonus when you’re trying to be flirtatious. Do some observation, and ask around, and see what kind of titles this person likes to use.

But, don’t use their relational titles. Some people have titles that they only use with a particular person, and those can be way too personal and intimate to use with a new person. Then again, some folks have “Daddy” or “Mistress” right there on their name tag or in their Fetlife user name, and everybody refers to them as such.

There’s no hard and clear rule about which titles are relational and which are respectful, so you kind of have to feel it out for yourself. In general, I’d say “Sir” and “Ma’am” are the most widely acceptable, but those are not universally liked by everyone. You can always slip it into a sentence and then ask permission: “I’d love to get your drink, ma’am—may I call you ma’am?” Hopefully, they’ll respond with the thing they would like to be called, if you guess incorrectly.

5. Be willing to be wrong.

Be willing to hear no. Be willing to be corrected if you make assumptions or mistakes. You might call them by a title and they might correct you—that’s okay. Say, “Sorry about that; thank you for the permission to call you sir.” Being corrected means you are worthy of correction, and it’s a good sign.

Putting yourself out there means taking risks, and when you’re the person who is initiating the flirtatious interaction, it’s kind of up to you to put yourself in a vulnerable position first.

6. Ask for what you want.

And be honest! Don’t ask to black their boots if that’s not your thing, don’t ask for them to beat you if you’re not into receiving sensation. Ask for what you actually want.

It’s always okay to ask for something, but it’s important that you are willing to hear any possible answer to your ask.

The context of your ask is important. If you can do that thing right there and then and it’s appropriate, it’s appropriate to offer it or to ask for it. So if you’re at a kink retreat, it is probably appropriate to offer a blow job or request to receive a spanking, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask for those things if you’re out at a bar (unless, you know, being crass and direct is one of your tactics—in which case, it could work! But know that it’s higher risk.)

It’s always okay to ask for something, but it’s important that you are willing to hear any possible answer to your ask. Of course, we want the answer to be an emphatic “yes,” but it isn’t always. If you’re going to get a little crushed if they say no, perhaps pre-plan the ask to have a friend around after who is willing to comfort you or perk you up.

Use your keen powers of observation and assess what kind of person this dominant is: Do they have public scenes at parties, or are they mostly private? Do they flirt and socialize a lot, or do they tend to keep to themself and their close people? Tailoring your asks to what you notice about the dominant makes it more likely for them to say yes.

7. Offer your contact information.

Assuming you are flirting now with the intention of following up for even more later, offer your info: Your Fetlife account, your cell number, your email address—however you want them to get in touch with you. Giving them your contact information gives them the power to follow up or not. Plus, it puts your vulnerability into a sexy framework: the potential to continue the flirtation, and possibly even more.

Submissive Playground
registration is open!

There are only 4 Star Package spots left! Registration is open until September 18; course begins September 24.

Click here to reserve your spot now!

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #188, Valentine & Ember.

Interviews, kink

“I found a sense of clarity about my path:” Interview with Shiris

Posted on August 26, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Shiris was a “player” in the first round of Submissive Playground, and after that she participated she came back to do an interview about masochism which is now part of the course. We sat down recently to talk about what her experience was like.

“I just adore tasks! I loved being given homework to read or watch … I loved having a list of things to accomplish.”

What drew you to Submissive Playground? Where were you before you took the course?

I had been an owned and collared submissive for 16 years before starting Submissive Playground. However, I was at a place in my journey where I felt like participating in the program would benefit not only my personal journey, but my dynamic with my Ma’am as well. I wrote out a long diagram for Ma’am explaining the different ways that Submissive Playground would benefit me and us, then I presented it to her and asked to join the course.

What was your favorite part of the experience?

The homework! I just adore tasks! I loved being given homework to read or watch, and in addition to the journal writing I was doing for Ma’am, I needed to be sure to post online in Submissive Playground as well. I loved having a list of things to accomplish. I’m a very busy person in my day-to-day life, so Submissive Playground was a way for me to be required to slow down and read, write, think, explore. It came along at just the right time for me, a time when I was yearning to slow down and reflect and focus on my submission and my D/s dynamic with my Ma’am.

What did you learn?

In addition to learning a basic two-column tie (which I’ve used COUNTLESS times since), I had a wonderful personal discovery about my own D/s path thus far, a lot of pieces came together for me. I wrote about it in the Submissive Playground and then expanded on it for my Ma’am later. It was probably my biggest take-away.

What kind of skills did you build?

I definitely picked up some basic bondage skills!

“I did find a sense of clarity about my path, some personal understanding about where I have come and where I want to go.” (click to tweet!)

What changed with your relationship to submission?

Nothing changed with my relationship to submission, exactly. But coming to the course as a seasoned submissive, I did find a sense of clarity about my path, some personal understanding about where I have come and where I want to go. I also felt energized and filled up to continue exploring on my own.

What changed with your relationship to your dominant?

My Ma’am enjoyed checking my homework and reading my writing. We would talk each week about how it was going, it was a lovely reason for us to slow down and connect in our dynamic during a time when we had both been busy for a long while – this is one of the reasons I used to talk Ma’am into letting my take the course – that it would strengthen our dynamic. I said, when I reflect on my submission it is a reflection of Ma’am because that submission belongs to her. Submissive Playground brought us closer together.

“Submissive Playground brought me & my dominant closer together.” (click to tweet!)

How & why would you recommend this to other submissives?

This is a wonderful course for new and seasoned submissives. It’s tailored to allow each person to have the experience they want. You can connect with other submissives and have it be very interactive, or you can be a little more introverted and introspective. It’s a wonderful journey and I found I got out of it what I put into it.

Submissive Playground
registration is open!

And it is already filling up! Deepen your relationship with submission, and with your dominant. Registration is open until September 18; course begins September 24.

Click here to reserve your spot now!

kink

You’ll Never Find the Perfect Dominant

Posted on August 18, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

You’re right: You won’t ever find a dominant who is your most perfect match.

If you listen way down deep, there’s a voice telling you that. You have very particular needs, desires, cravings, and your submission is demanding, sometimes feeling endless. You want and want and want, and who can fill that up with anything that leaves a mark? You won’t ever find someone as good as your ex. You won’t ever find someone as good as the person who introduced you to submission, who whispered those most perfect dirty things in your ear and told you to get on your knees. You will come on too strong to the next sexiest person you’ve ever seen and they will whisper to their friends about how much you “aren’t a real submissive” or are “topping from the bottom.” You are too much. Too big. Too thick. Too mouthy. Too bratty. You will never get your needs met. You will never find someone who matches your particular specialties in submission, your unique perspectives on service and masochism and giving over your body and will and all the dirt under your fingernails. Your dirty hands are too dirty. Your dirty mind is too dirty. Your next dominant just wants to sit on the couch and have you pour more wine, and where does that leave you? You have to wait, to beg, to crave touch, to sit still with skin hunger that may feel like it will devour you, to be disappointed.

You won’t find the perfect dominant for you.

Unless you Do The Work.

Look at the parts of yourself that are yours and only yours. Excavate some of those unknown places until you can see around them and know why they’re there. Acknowledge what it is that you want and what it is you just won’t settle for, and you will have a much better chance to find (and be) the right partner. Until you know what you want, you may not find it. Until you look deep at your part in your patterns, you will probably keep repeating them. Until you fill your own holes, you may continue to have a bottomless pit of desire and need that you think can only be filled by another person. Define your own cosmology of icons and worship and desire. Define your own dictionary of touch and connection and intimacy. Write the perfect love letter to the universe detailing all of the amazing things you secretly wish hope dream for in a lover and mail it off on the wind to fall and float down a waterfall. You can do it. You have wells of untapped strength.

Submissives are the strongest people I know.

Your demands are reasonable. Your desires are reasonable. Your wants are reasonable. Your unique particular weirdo gender is reasonable, and beautiful. Your too-much-ness is exactly the reason why you will be wanted, why you will be craved when you are not around, why someone who doesn’t even know you is craving you right now.

There is nothing wrong with you, or with the kind of submission that you most secretly, way down in your bones, seek.

I do actually believe that. But you have to believe it, too.

And then you have to go after it, with such vigilance that you won’t accept no for an answer, and your own no is an eager blade to get anything not serving your journey out of the way. Take up arms. Take up protest. Take up your favorite friends as armor, as council, as confidants. Take up your rightful space in the room. Take more dessert than you were served. Take the most amazing gift of yourself to the person who really could use it, right now, today.

Take the next step.

guest posts

Little Liar, Guest Post by Rebekah Weatherspoon

Posted on August 6, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

I need routine. It grounds me, keeps me sane, keeps me from going off on the teenagers I work in my other life. So I’ll tell you about my day, how things go when I’m with Daddy.

11:07am

Hours before, Daddy pulled me out of my bed, the cedar box at the foot of her CalKing. It’s comfy and cozy, the refreshing rich wood lined with a soft mattress and linens and pillows. There are plenty of holes that let me breathe just fine. I was afraid of my bed at first, but I like it now. It gives me a place to get away. It gives me a quiet dark place to think about Daddy. She always lets me sleep in. Her day starts early and we both know how cranky I am before ten a.m., but every morning she opens my box and helps me half asleep under the soft sheets where she spends the night. Sometimes I wake up a bit, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I remember the way Daddy touches me before she slips out the door.

Like this morning, I don’t want to wake up. I’m wrapped around my teddy bear, cozy in my bed. Daddy had me up late the night before fucking in the backyard so I went to sleep all worn out. Still when she opens the lid, it’s like my pussy isn’t done with her. Like we left some unfinished business in the grass by the pool. My body wakes up even though my mind doesn’t and I wiggle my way onto her comforter. She says something to me like “Good morning”, or “Good girl”. There’s a “good” in their somewhere as I flop against the pillow.

She touches me all over. My shoulder, my tummy, my breasts. I like it and I don’t tell her to stop. So when she rubs my pussy I might be sleeping, but I squirm a little and a little more until her fingers are inside me. Daddy has to leave. Gym, shower, juice bar, contracts, meeting, meeting, but she wants me as much I want her, so she fingers my pussy, letting me mumble away in my half sleep as I ride her hand until I come. That orgasm puts me right back to sleep. Or maybe I know Daddy is just teasing and doesn’t really want me to wake up because when I start talking that early in the morning, my mouth is smart and Daddy doesn’t have time to punish me.

But at little after 11:06 I do wake up. It’s the drone of the lawnmower, the rhythmic hum that blends into my dreams and makes me think I should do something weird like fly a helicopter. I take my time getting up, but when I do it’s into Daddy’s massive shower. Daddy takes care of my grooming so I just have to get myself nice and clean before I eat a healthy breakfast. I watch my figure, but I know how to balance waffles with fruit exercise and Daddy has the fanciest waffle maker. I have waffles and fruit and then three hours of daytime TV.

I don’t have any chores except cooking dinner, but Daddy has S, her housekeeper and the gardner, George. S stocked the fridge with everything I needed for the day including the chicken I’ll make for Daddy tonight, so I can watch all the junk TV I want while Daddy’s away.

2:00pm

I hit the pool. The hedges behind Daddy’s are high, but there’s a woman next door. She works from home and there’s this little spot where the trees part and she can see right into Daddy’s yard. When she works from home, most days she watches me. Like today she watches me as I work on my tan lines and play with my pussy. I told Daddy that the woman watches me. Daddy doesn’t mind. She might even invite her over sometime so she can get a load of me up close. We’ll both tease her, Daddy says, but it hasn’t happened. yet. I send a few texts. My friends are at work. They don’t get summers off. I get a few messages back, but soon I doze.

4:30pm

There’s chicken to bake and potatoes to prepare. I blast my music as loud as I want. S stops by for a bit after she’s spent the morning with her sick mum. She checks the mail and the gardener’s work, does some dusting, and makes Daddy’s bed. But the house is usually so clean so she doesn’t have to stay too long. She finds me as I’m dicing carrots. S checks my pussy just to make sure I’m wet. My nipples too for good measure.

She tells me to watch the chicken and not too dry it out. She tells me to turn down the music just in case Daddy calls. I need to hear the phone. And she tell me to put my toys back in my box before Daddy comes home. And I get a lecture about sunscreen. She likes my tan lines almost as much as Daddy doesn’t, but cancer isn’t cute and she doesn’t want me to get a sunburn.

S doesn’t want to play. She has her own fun with her own pets, but she’s a dirty old lady so she she checks me one more time, her hand gripping my pussy hard until my juices make a little squeaking noise as they slip between her fingers. I tell her she’s dirty and I don’t like it. I tell her to stop, but she knows I don’t mean it by the way I hold still. I like being teased this way. A slap on the ass and she’s gone.

6:30pm
I sneak a glass of wine. I hope Daddy doesn’t find out.

6:45pm

A text from Daddy. She’ll be home at her regular time. Dinner’s done and left to warm so I cover myself in this almond scented oil that Daddy loves and pull on these thigh high athletic socks with pink stripes that Daddy is obsessed with. Then I climb back in my box for a bit to wait for Daddy.

7:15pm

I’m playing games on my phone in the dark, but I hear Daddy. She doesn’t announce herself, I can hear her making her way to the bedroom. The front door shuts. Keys on the counter. I can’t hear her put down her bag, but I know she leaves in the kitchen right next to the counter. She’s checking to see if dinner is ready. Daddy likes to know before hand where or not she needs to punish me. But dinner is ready and I’ve been a good girl. Daddy opens my box. She’s adjusted the light in the bedroom so I can look at her gorgeous face without having to squint.

Still so handsome. Gray hair, almost pure white styled back away from her face. Brown eyes and full lips. Her dress shirt sleeves are already rolled up. I love her arms. I love her muscles.

“Hi,” she says.

I hide my face against my teddy before I look at her again. “Hi Daddy.”

“Were you a good girl today?”

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Pick out a toy and let’s have dinner.” Daddy’s so strong she reaches down and helps me out of my box. We walk over to her toy chest, where we keep all our straps and dildos and paddles and whips and the gags I asked so nicely for.

I look at the dildos laid out all nice and clean. I like to get them dirty for S and tease her when she has to clean them. I joke that she licks them when I’m not looking. Daddy laughs and tell me to cut it out.

“I want you to pick, Daddy,” I say before I shove my thumb in my mouth.

“You do, do you? Let’s go with Big Blue then.” Blue is the widest toy we have. I like to choke on it, and make my pussy hurt. Daddy grabs it for me and we go to the dining room. I get on the table while Daddy makes herself a plate and gets herself a drink. I get on the table and Daddy sits down with her food between my legs. When she takes the first bite that’s when I start. I sit up on my knees and suck the big blue cock in my hands. I suck it deep, push it down my throat until I gag. I pull it out and let saliva dribble down my chin. Daddy doesn’t like it when I swallow.

I do it again, drooling all over my chest. I use the big blue tip to spread my spit around my nipples. Daddy likes that.

“Is your cunt hungry, baby?” Daddy asks.

I nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then you should feed it.”

I stay on my knees, but slide Big Blue between my legs. I sit it on. Daddy likes the way I whimper. It hurts so much, but I’m so wet and it feels so good.

“Make it feel better,” I tell Daddy.

“Not while I’m eating, baby. You have to make yourself feel good.”

I bounce up and down, taking the ache, grateful the table’s so study. Daddy scoops up her wine before it spills over.

I’m close to coming, but I want to give Daddy the show she deserves. I slide to my ass and open my legs real wide. Daddy sits back and takes another sip. I’m going to be sore in the morning, but I don’t care. I fuck myself with Big Blue, harder and harder, until my cum dribbles all over the table and squirts on Daddy’s plate. I’m not done so I do it again and again. I know how Daddy likes it so I don’t make her wait too long before I crawl back to my knees and lick up the mess that I’ve made.

Daddy’s pleased, but there’s a look on her face. “Did you get into the wine?”

Daddy knows I’m a liar so I don’t tell the truth, I just keep licking at the slick table top. “No, Daddy. I don’t like wine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s yucky.”

“You sure about that? Come here baby.”

I move off the table as Daddy pushes back her chair and then I straddle her lap. She doesn’t pack to work, but some time while she was making her play she put on a strap and cock. I slide myself along the ridges in her slacks. But Daddy shakes her head.

“No, baby. You lied to me.”

“I swear, Daddy. I didn’t.”

She tips her glass and pours a few dribbles of the cool white wine over my nipples and then she cleans me up with her mouth. I whimper and moan and grind myself along the hidden ridges between my legs. “Only good girls get Daddy’s cock,” she whispers in my ear.

I pull back and drive myself against her lap even harder as I look her in the eye. “What do bad girls get, Daddy?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #176, Indigo Bleu and Viceroy.

cock confidence

Review: Carter, The (Big!) Bendable Dildo by New York Toy Collective

Posted on July 31, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Carter has joined the family of insertable silicone dildos from New York Toy Collective, which has quickly become one of my most favorite manufacturers of cocks. They have a couple of very distinctive features: 1) They are the only company to make a bendable dildo out of silicone, and 2) they are one of the few (along with Tantus and Vixen Creations) that make dual-density silicone. They’re also a queer-owned and -run business, which is always a bonus.

The Carter model is different from their other two, Shilo and Mason, as it’s much wider than either that came before. (I’ve reviewed the Shilo here.) It is one inch shorter than the Mason, and another 1/2″ thick, which makes a big difference. For those of you who like girth: This.

Carter finally feels like a desert-island dildo—like one that I would choose, above all else, to be my go-to dick for everything.

Carter has the same ability to bend—and, thus, to pack in your jeans—as the others, but the added girth makes it a wee bit more bulky, and not nearly as discreet.

You know what else is great with the Carter? NYTC’s love bump, aka detachable balls. I’ve come to really prefer to have balls on my dicks (ask me why at a Cock Confidence workshop sometime, and what it has to do with Tantra), and I love how I can swap the balls from one dick to another.

Stats:
2″x7.5″ insertable (8″ total)
Made out of: Silicone with a bendable core

The silicone material means that you can sanitize it quite easily, either by wiping it down with a 10% bleach (90% water) solution, boiling it for 8 minutes, or washing it in the top shelf of the dishwasher (with no soap!). You should not use silicone-based lube with silicone products, so make sure you pick up some water-based lube to use it!

Carter retails for $169.95 and is worth every penny. I know that seems like a significant amount of money for a whole lot of people, but I do want to (continue to) encourage you to invest in your own pleasure. It’s worth saving up for, and buying something that will seriously last.

I highly recommend any of the NYTC products, but especially Carter, which has become my all-purpose go-to dick. Regardless of your experience or interest or what your partner can take, NYTC has a dick that will fit for you.

The Carter bendable dildo was sent to me from New York Toy Collective to review. Get your own Carter from the NYTC website, or from your favorite feminist queer sex-positive sex toy store.

fiction

Moving In (Lauren & Beck #3)

Posted on July 31, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

“Please Beck, please put it in, please,” Lauren says, pushing her hips back to encourage the tip of Beck’s strap-on cock to slide inside of her. She’s on her knees, hands gripping the headboard of the bed for support. Beck has Lauren’s hair tight in her fist like reigns and a bridle.

Beck grins. She wants it excruciatingly slow. She wants it to last. She wants to savor this rare moment, this time when Lauren actually asked her to strap on and fuck her. Please Beck, will you fuck me with your cock? Lauren doesn’t usually ask for more than fingers. Beck’s hips are quivering.

They have been working all weekend, moving all of Lauren’s worldly possessions from her small apartment in Berkeley up to Beck’s house in the Oakland hills. Luckily, they had a lot of help: Lauren’s roommate, a few of her friends from work, plus Beck’s gaggle of friends who follow her around anywhere. Mostly big, burly butches who like to be useful—they had the heavy furniture moved in practically before Lauren even got out of the car. Fast and furious.

The move has been a long time coming. Beck has been wracked with anxiety these past few weeks, as the August 1st moving date got closer and closer and the reality of no longer living alone started setting in. They spent fewer nights together, savoring their own rooms and own space. Lauren finished packing early, the bulk of her objects being kitchen gear and clothes, and relatively easy to pack away. She even had the audacity to suggest that they rent the moving van a week early and just go for it—but Beck quickly stomped out that idea.

After three years together, the topic of moving in together came up frequently, but Beck became adept at changing or skirting the subject, deflecting or, eventually, out-right saying no. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” Beck used to say. “I just need my space to be the way I want it to be. I know we spend most of our nights together. But those one or two nights we don’t spend together are important for me to have.”

“I understand,” Lauren says. And she did. But she also wanted their books mingling on the same bookshelf, she missed her good set of knives whenever she was cooking at Beck’s house. Which was practically every day.

But things changed in the six months since Mallory died. Beck softened, somehow; everything about her is a little more raw, a little more exposed, a little less together and buttoned-up. Even her fucking has become more raw, more full of tears and growl. They weren’t that close, not since Beck moved to the opposite coast, but as soon as Mallory got sick, Beck almost moved back. Mallory was the one who told her no, who told her to live her life out in San Francisco the way she wanted to. They were practically the only family each other had, so the loss has turned Beck’s life upside down in the weeks since.

Now, Lauren’s fancy memory foam mattress is on the bed frame that Beck inherited from Mallory, a family heirloom of dark carved wood. It is practically the only thing that is put together in the whole house, with Lauren’s boxes and a few pieces of furniture haphazardly placed all over Beck’s usually neat and tidy home. Beck can feel the chaos of moving, even though it wasn’t her who moved; the suspension of security in order to become something new, something bigger than what she was before. This has been a year of letting go, of letting things happen, of accepting the gifts that the universe is offering, of learning how to ground and comfort herself.

And Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Such a beauty, how lucky Beck is to have her as a partner, as a friend, as a lover. She has been supportive, in her own way—which is not always the way that Beck wants her to be, but is a way, and ultimately, it works. Whenever Beck straps on, she wants to pour herself into Lauren and swing around inside until she’s wrung out. She knows those tight muscles of Lauren’s so well with her fingers, her tongue; she can envision them around this temporary fake cock, is starting to feel what it’s like to thrust inside of a girl and feel her clench.

Beck enters her slow, so slow. Lauren breathes in, breathes out. Beck closes her eyes, holding on to Lauren’s hips with both hands. She applies more lube and slows down even more.

Lauren is on her stomach, legs squeezed together, Beck’s thighs on the outside, thrusting in still so slow. Lauren is moaning into the sheets, hair falling in her face, hands clenching. She flexes her feet, her toes are curling. She tries to get Beck in even deeper by moving her hips. Beck responds slow and they are dancing, meeting each other’s rhythms, tension building.

“Please fuck me, please, do it harder, please baby, please,” Lauren says. Half of them are into the pillow and she’s drooling and Beck can barely tell what she’s saying, but she thrusts in a little harder now, a little faster, picking up speed as her own pleasure builds. She has these micro-orgasms, spasms that clench and release, every couple of thrusts, but she wants to go after the big one, too, wants to feel herself emptied into Lauren’s beautiful slit.

Beck holds on and focuses on the tip, just the tip of her cock, where it touches Lauren inside, where they meet and merge. Lauren is gasping and pressing back into her and it makes Beck crazy, it makes her hips tremor and thrust, it opens up new wanting in her pelvis like a bowl of milk. “Fuck, Lauren—fuck!” Beck starts to say as she comes, shaking and pressing harder inside, spilling out and deep into her.

“Baby, baby,” Beck murmurs into Lauren’s hair as her thrusting slows.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more Beck, just a little more—” Lauren works her hand down under her body and touches her clit, moaning out and thrusting her hips back again. Beck adjusts the strap-on so it’s a little higher, not so directly against her cunt anymore, and starts thrusting again. A little bit higher this time. “Yes, there—there—”

Only a few more thrusts, and Lauren is done. Flying and coming and screaming into the pillows, her own hand furiously touching her cunt as Beck smoothly slides inside at just the right angle. Her whole body tenses, so tight and hard, every muscle and joint contracted, even holding her breath, until she lets it go, releases everything, breathes out with a huge sigh, and inhales sweet new air. She moans, her body still jerking a little from the electricity running through it. Each breath gives her a little more spaciousness, a little more relaxation. Beck is still inside, and Lauren shifts her hips to ease her out.

“Was that what you wanted?” Beck asks, after Lauren has curled on her side and Beck is smoothing her hair back from her face.

“Yes, oh god yes,” Lauren says, kissing Beck lusciously with thick lips and fervor.

“Mmm, I’m glad.”

They’re quiet for a minute, gazing and touching, bodies still sensitive and heightened.

“Baby?” Beck starts.

“Hmm?”

“Can we unpack now?”

Lauren laughs. “Is that going to bug you basically until it’s done?”

Beck looks a little sheepish. “Yes.”

Lauren ruffles her hair. “I know. Yeah, let’s start. How about with the kitchen!”

Beck nods, starting to peel herself off of the bed to face her chaotic house. “It will make it easier to make dinner later.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lauren started, digging into a box for her silky robe, the blue one that goes to her mid-thigh. “Ricky is bringing over dinner later. He found some new Ethiopian place he says we have to try.”

Beck’s mouth waters. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they started talking about food. “Sounds great.” She grins, pulling on her boxers with the Superman S and not even caring that her clothes are strewn all over. It’ll come back together, soon, she tells herself. It won’t be the same as it was before, but it’ll be better. They’ll be stronger individually for being with each other. I’m ready, she thinks, as she watches Lauren’s ass in the thin robe as she walks out of the bedroom, lifting her hair out from the neck of the robe and letting it cascade down her back. This is it.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

fiction

Pancakes (Lauren & Beck #2)

Posted on July 30, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Beck wakes up slow, taking minutes to open her eyes, shifting her spine and hips as she snuggles closer under the smooth, soft comforter. It’s already bright outside, and if the fog has already burned off that means it’s after 9am already. Beck isn’t surprised they slept in, more like pleased—she never used to allow herself that luxury, even on a weekend. She snakes her arm over to find Lauren, but no one is there; Lauren’s half of the bed is empty. That is enough to wake Beck fully, and she throws off the covers, pulls on boxers, and goes out into Lauren’s kitchen.

The smell tells her where Lauren is before she sees her: pancakes. Beck’s favorite, and Lauren’s specialty. Beck breathes in, inhaling that luxurious smell of butter and sugar, the tangy tinge of fruit. Even her senses seem more sensitive, everything feels more intense. Lauren is balancing pans at the stove: a small cast-iron skillet full of berries, a flat griddle in the center, a metal spatula in one hand. She’s wearing a simple long chef’s apron, and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

“Where’d you go,” Beck mumbles, still sleepy, tongue thick and well-used from last night’s escapades. She comes up behind Lauren and slips her arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Lauren grins, turning her head to kiss Beck as well as she can reach. “Preparing your favorites,” she says.

“It smells amazing.”

“It’s almost done. I was just thinking about creative ways to wake you up. I can’t believe you slept so late.”

“Me either. Thanks for wearing me out last night.”

Another grin. “My pleasure.”

Beck’s cunt is still sore. It was the first time she’s taken Lauren’s fist all the way, to the hilt of her wrist, thick and all-consuming. Lauren’s hands aren’t small, but that isn’t it: Beck isn’t usually willing to open. Again, it goes through Beck’s mind: everything has changed. She pushes back tears, tries to stop her mind from going into that downward spiral that leaves her in bed watching sitcoms all day.

They eat in Beck’s messy dining room, clearing the paperwork to one side of the table and laying out the fruit compote, yogurt, maple syrup, and steaming pile of pancakes on their side. Beck is famished, but it’s so deliciously indulgent to be eating pancakes on a Wednesday morning that she savors bite after bite after bite like it’s the first one. She licks maple syrup from her fingers and doesn’t even care that that is messy and improper.

Lauren watches her eat with a little sadness in her eyes, finally asking, “How are you feeling?”

Beck sighs a little. Inevitable. “Good. I’m … okay.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know.” Another bite. At least eating is a good excuse not to talk. She chews quietly.

“Can I … help, somehow?”

Beck shrugs, spooning compote onto another pancake. “Not really. Look, baby—” Beck puts her spoon down, reaches over for Lauren’s hand, warm and comforting. “There’s just nothing to do. I’m hungry, that’s a good sign, right?”

Lauren nods a little. “Yeah. I just … worry. You know.”

“I know.”

Beck has one more pancake, just one more, she promises herself, and finishes off the coffee with coconut cream from her favorite mug. It’s perfect, it could not be more perfect. She beams at Lauren, thrilled and grateful. This is how it happens these days: the emotional roller coaster has ecstasy in the highs and despair in the lows. The ups and downs can make Beck feel nauseous, they happen so fast.

Lauren starts clearing dishes and Beck helps, carrying plates to the kitchen, overlooking last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. She doesn’t even care about that anymore. Everything has changed. When Beck comes back in, Lauren is wiping the table with a sponge. There’s a fat drip of maple syrup right in the center of the table that she misses, and something stirs in Beck. A new hunger, more hunger, that insatiable hunger that can never be satisfied. Breakfast is barely just complete, but it isn’t about food. It’s about consumption, about devouring, about fingernails ripping into flesh and the crying out that throats make when they are gasping for air.

Beck comes up behind Lauren and circles her neck with her hand, pushing her chest first down onto the table. Lauren gasps, bare breasts crushing against the table. “You missed a spot,” she hisses in Lauren’s ear. Lauren’s forehead is almost touching the dot of syrup. Beck points, and immediately Lauren opens her mouth to try to lick the table clean, but she can’t quite reach, so scoots further onto the table. Her feet no longer touch the floor, her hips are on the table now. As Lauren’s tongue touches the sticky-sweet drip, Beck stands between her legs, parting her cheeks, taking handfuls of her juicy ass and thighs. Lauren’s slit is pink, still swollen from so much fucking last night, thick. Her pubic hair is dark and groomed, but still a little wild, a little unruly.

It doesn’t take Beck much time at all to get her mouth positioned, and she sucks Lauren’s folds onto her tongue, soft and sharp, sweet and succulent. Lauren gasps, tender in all her private places. Beck is devourous. She sucks and opens Lauren’s legs wider, holds her hips, wraps her arms around her thighs. She doesn’t use her fingers inside, just her tongue, as deep as she can get, desperate to fill Lauren up. Lauren tastes like salt and brine and sweet milk, like promise and desire itself.

“Oh god, oh god,” Lauren moans, pushing herself back toward Beck’s eager mouth. Beck laps and sucks, flicks with her tongue on just the right places, makes it hard and long for others. Beck could do this for hours. Time is irrelevant. They don’t have anywhere to be, only here, right now, doing this kind of worship, this kind of reverence. Those other things can’t possibly matter more than this.

When Lauren finally comes, she gushes hard into Beck’s mouth and down her chin, dripping onto her chest, though Beck swallows mouthfuls eagerly. Lauren trembles, finally releasing her grip on the table’s edge, letting the tension drain out of her legs. She turns as Beck rises from her crouched position on the floor. Beck pets her hair, Lauren’s tangled mess of curls, as Lauren hums, still vibrating from orgasm.

Lauren raises her head a little, an invitation for a kiss. Beck leans down close and their lips touch softly. Lauren sees the sparks still in Beck’s eyes.

“More?” Lauren asks.

Beck nods.

“Bedroom?”

Beck nods again, offering her hand. “Let’s go.” Lauren takes it, and lets herself be led down the hall.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

fiction

The Night Everything Changed (Lauren & Beck #1)

Posted on July 28, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Beck waits for Lauren outside of Chez Panisse in Berkeley, leaning up against the brick wall, posing herself deliberately while trying to look casual. One foot back on the wall, knee bent; leaning on one shoulder, hand in the pocket; crouching down with her back resting against the wall—none of them felt quite right. Beck fiddles with a Bic pen, the back of which is nearly destroyed from chewing on it. At least it isn’t a cigarette. Lauren hates it when Beck smokes.

Fancy rich Berkeley people mill about, waiting for their reservation to be called. The night air is warm, the breeze still a little cool; it hasn’t rained in weeks and everything is dry and dusty. Everything is well taken care of on this block, but just one block in any direction and things get a lot more brown and crisp.

When Lauren emerges, she is long and limber and worked up from her shift, talking a mile a minute, kissing Beck so quickly she misses Beck’s skin and only touches air. Beck always picks up Lauren on Thursday nights, since she works from home on Friday. It’s become their date night, an unspoken agreement that they’ll spend the night together. They have a lot of unspoken agreements.

“The duck tonight was outta control,” Lauren is saying as Beck opens the door of her green VW Jetta and Lauren steps in. Her bare legs rub up against each other for a moment as she’s shifting and pulling her long legs in to the car, and Beck’s mouth waters. Lauren is wearing the black ballet flats with the little white bows, and Beck loves how she always kicks them off the second she gets home—”Who needs shoes? Shoes are for people who don’t like their feet to touch the ground. Me, I’m a realist.”

Beck is nodding, listening, interjecting little murmurs of interest as she drives through Berkeley up to her house in the Oakland hills, a modest little thing financed the first year she landed that exec position at Yelp. Beck lives alone. Beck likes to live alone. Lauren’s apartment in Berkeley is cramped but sweet, and they almost never stay there. Beck is pretty sure Lauren’s roommate Ricky hates her.

“And she didn’t even listen to me!” Lauren is saying. “It could have all been avoided if she’d just paid attention when I told her the plan for the evening.” She’s talking about the other host at Chez Panisse, a hetero woman, Christy, who just discovered Burning Man and won’t stop talking about it. Beck and Lauren went out to dinner with Christy and her “partner” Ben once, but spent the entire evening criticizing the food and never said one thing that was interesting. It was a good choice of restaurant though, Beck had to give them that—but she won’t put herself in that situation again, even though Christy has queried.

Lauren always needs half an hour to talk through what happened at work after her shift is over. Beck takes the long way, winding up Snake Road and up Skyline Boulevard, enjoying the view of the sparkling lights of San Francisco, Treasure Island, the Oakland shipyard, and the Bay Bridge.

Suddenly, Lauren says, “Pull over,” right into Beck’s ear. Her hands are on Beck’s thigh in that provocative way that tells Beck that she is about to dig into her jeans and she damn well better be wearing a cock. Lauren’s skirt is short and tight and her legs are tanned, her thighs thick. Beck licks her lips and eyes her girl as they slow to a pull-out overlooking the Bay. Beck hasn’t gotten a word in, doesn’t even know how to say what she needs to say. She’s been waiting to pick up Lauren ever since she left work at 5 o’clock, and the combination of lust and trust is making her hands ache to pull Lauren close and inhale her lavender shampoo smell. But talking can wait.

Lauren lunges at Beck’s fly before Beck even has the chance to put her car in park, pulling out Beck’s packing cock and taking it into her mouth. Lauren’s curls tumble out over Beck’s lap and Beck holds them back so she can see Lauren’s pretty lips. Her kisses are full-lipped and luxurious, soft and supple. Beck can’t feel anything through her cock, and she thinks it’s stupid when dykes pretend that they can, but she loves how Lauren looks when she wraps her lips around it and licks with her tongue. Beck comes pretty easily anyway, so a little extra distance between her premature orgasms is always nice.

Beck runs her hand down along Lauren’s back, over her ribs and the sides of her body, over her hips, pushing her hand between Lauren’s legs to reach her cunt. This is what Lauren likes: being fingered until she comes while Beck’s cock is in her mouth. This is what Beck likes: the weight of Lauren on her lap, the feel of her curls when Beck fists them, the feeling of her palm disappearing inside Lauren’s cunt, and fucking Lauren’s ass bent over the bed when they get back home. Plus, whatever gourmet midnight snack Lauren makes is always the perfect blend of sweet and umami. The curling up together and sleeping is the hardest part, but Beck is getting used to it, letting her messy self be seen.

It isn’t going to take long. Lauren’s hips are rocking already and she’s working her hand up and down on Beck’s cock. Beck could come at any moment. She feels numb. Her thighs are squeezing together and Lauren’s cunt is squeezing at the same pulse, her fingers caught inside and shaking. Something is happening, but Beck isn’t sure what, it doesn’t usually feel like this. This feels hard, dangerous, like she’s going to cry out and pee and come all at once, and something is going to happen, it’s going to make something happen, like her body is going to come apart at the seams and slowly disintegrate.

Against her palms, Lauren’s thighs are quivering. Beck wants her mouth on them, wants her mouth on Lauren’s cunt, wants to drink her down and make her come over and over, sucking her clit so swollen. The thought of it sends Beck’s own cunt contracting and coming, and she pushes her hips up against Lauren harder, her clit spasming in sharp jolts of electricity as she bites her lip, hard, harder than she means to. Her body bursts and vibrates, the numbness seeping away and leaving more spasms of pain, release, confusion. Why does it have to feel like this. Beck wants to ignore it, push it down, but she can’t, it bubbles up, and pretty soon she’s crying—tears leaking from her eyes, gulping for air, the messy gross crying that Beck would never let herself do in front of anyone else.

Lauren is in her lap before Beck even notices it, curled up between Beck’s body and the steering wheel, and the weight of Lauren feels comforting. Lauren is kissing her face, nuzzling into her neck. Beck can’t form words yet. Lauren knows better than to ask, or to demand, explanation. She just sits still, she just holds.

“My mom called earlier,” Beck breathes out, not even sure she can say the words. She can hear her mother’s voice again, so clear, ringing like a bell: “Rebecca, Mallory died last night.” They had been waiting for it, of course; it was inevitable, the doctors had said. It had been looming. She’d hung on longer than anyone expected. Beck had already traveled out to Connecticut twice to say goodbye.

Lauren is looking at Beck expectingly, her expression softening as she sees how much struggle is in Beck’s eyes. Beck takes another breath, and manages to say, “It’s Mallory. She’s gone.”

“Oh,” Lauren gasps. Her fingers lace through Beck’s, and she lays her head on Beck’s chest. Beck lowers her face to kiss the top of Laurens head, and inhales the scent of her lavender shampoo.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

fiction

Just This Next Thrust (Angie & Fern #4)

Posted on June 30, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Fern saunters down the corridor like she’s window shopping, so casual, so indifferent. She’s in a simple dark grey summer dress that bounces a little when she moves, coming down to her knees, scooping at the neck. She’s carrying a crisp black leather rectangle purse, so small I can’t imagine it holds more than one book. Her black leather boots click against the floor. She looks a little severe, but the way she moves makes it all seem so casual and light. My legs start burning to run to her before she’s through the official security checkpoint, so I hold myself back for as long as I can, then dash into her arms and bury my nose in her neck, inhaling her sweet intoxicating scent, always the same, still after these two years: honeysuckle and leather.

“God, I missed you,” I whisper, not really speaking to her, just needing to say it aloud. She holds me close, arms around my waist as mine are thrown around her neck. I pull back to kiss her and our lips crushing and insistent, urgently nipping with our teeth, tongues exploring and soft.

I sigh, so happy. Things just feel so right when she’s around. “I can’t wait to show you around Indy!” I say. “There are so many fun things—”

“Oh sugar, like I want to see anything except your bedroom this weekend. I have a list of scenes I want to play in,” Fern ruffles my hair and slips her arm around my waist, turning and steering us toward baggage claim. “Sightseeing I can do anytime. You, though …” she turns to me, pulls me hard against her, our lips barely brushing, foreheads touching. “I need you,” she says, and kisses me again, so hard and passionate that I swoon, my knees going weak. She holds me up.

“Take me to your place,” she says.

While we wait for the luggage we kiss luxuriously slow, giggling, as if we had all the time in the world, as if we weren’t packing two month’s worth of longing and desire into one weekend, as if we knew where this was going. I wore sheer, wet lipstick that tastes like peaches—the one she loves—and hers is dark, but it doesn’t come off on my mouth. Her hair is too perfect, piled and twisted on top of her head. I can’t wait for it to come down, to lather it with shampoo and conditioner, to brush it out for her before bed like I’ve come to do on every visit.

I drive us quickly back to my place. She keeps her hand on my thigh, pushing up my short skirt, fingertips brushing feather-light against my skin. She kisses my neck and the palm of my right hand. I’m jumping out of my skin by the time we are walking from my apartment building’s small carport through the lobby to the elevator. Fern is so calm, like she is about to walk in to a business meeting she’s running. I am talking like an idiot, babbling on about the end of college, about my roommate (out of town for the weekend, obvs), about what happened when my parents came to visit for graduation, about the internship I had that possibly maybe probably could lead to a job, maybe even in New York.

The elevator is mirrored from the waist up. There are a hundred of us reflected on all angles. I’ve always loved this elevator. Really good selfies in here. As soon as I touch the #7 button to my floor—still yammering on, this time about the super of my building and how nothing is ever fixed—Fern puts a finger to my lips to shush me, gently pushing me against the wall. I whimper, immediately parting my legs for her. She shoves her hand up my skirt brutally, knocking into my pubic bone, as she kicks my legs apart and pushes my hands above my head with her other hand. She cups her palm around my cunt and kisses me, hard this time, biting my lower lip and shoving her tongue into my mouth. “I need you, Angie, I need you,” she mutters, pinching the folders of my cunt with her fingers, causing me to cry out, wince, and start dripping. “So wet already, girl,” she coos. I moan. Damnit. She always knows I can never hide it from her: what I want, what turns me on, what I’m desperate for. She’s so hard to read, but I seem so easy for her.

Fern pushes her fingers past my thin cotton panties and slides two right into me, easy and slick. I gasp, pressing hard against her hand, willing her deeper inside. I want her whole hand, her strap-on, her mouth—I want it all.

I’m just about ready to pull her down on top of me when the elevator stops and the door opens, and we’re on my floor. Fern clears her throat, kisses me once, and slides out of me, slowly and deliberately.

I barely get the key out of the lock before she’s on me again, in the hallway in my own little apartment. “Wait, wait, let me at least close the—” I start, but Fern slams it shut with her boot and gives me this look like I am the most delicious pray and she’s been stalking me for weeks. It makes me want to run, and it makes me want her to catch me.

So I do. I bolt toward the bedroom, dropping my purse and my keys on the floor, things scattering, not caring. Fern is so fast in following me that I can feel the whoosh of air on my legs. She catches me from behind, shoving me down face first onto the bed. I’m going to get it, and I want every bit of it I’ll get.

“I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you, girl,” she growls in my ear while she pushes my skirt and panties aside. She slides her fingers in again, more of them this time, long and pressing right up against that exact spot that always needs more, and I moan into the quilt.

“Please, please,” I beg.

Fern isn’t nice when she gets like this, she’s rabid, a little vicious. I never thought that would turn me on, but now I crave it, being wanted like that, being taken down. She thrusts into me a dozen times, slow then harder and faster, until I’m shuddering and almost ready to come. “Not yet, sugar,” she says, low and syrupy, her face still so close to my ear.

She pulls up and says, “Strip,” and reaches behind her for the zipper on her own dress, sliding it off of her shoulders, revealing her freckles and moles and her lovely breasts as she pulls it down over her arms. I drop my skirt and panties, unbuttoning the silver cap-sleeved blouse I’d picked out especially for her earlier this week. When her dress falls to the floor I see that she has a strap-on beneath her dress, a dark red one that matches her lipstick and fingernail polish precisely, holstered in a red and white striped harness with a small red bow at the top in the center. The dick is so long, and her dress is so tight, that it’s tied down to her thigh with a black hanky.

My breath catches at the sight. Goddamn, she’s so sexy. She unties the dick and tightens the harness.

“On the bed,” she says, and I immediately hop up onto it and lay back, pumping a palm-full of lube from the bottle on my nightstand and rubbing it against my hole. She kneels next to me, twisting my hips so she can slide her tool in to me from behind while I’m still mostly on my back. When she enters me, I grab at the bars of my headboard for support, pushing against her, working my hips against hers, taking it all in, every inch, every thrust she can manage.

“Please more, Fern please, please!”

She fucks me harder. She’s starting to grunt and moan and I reach down to touch my own clit, cunt contracting even harder around her. I rub it fast and furious with my fingers, pushing against the headboard and against her legs. She twists around, lifting one of her feet up, boots still on, and presses it against the side of my head, pushing me down into the bed. I’m held immobile, I have to take it, it’s too much and I almost can’t, but I love it, and I open up to meet every inch of force she dishes out to me.

Harder still. I moan and cry out, begging for more, begging for her to let up, begging for mercy, but she is relentless, and focused on my hole, which is telling her all she needs to know. I breathe and quiet myself, trying to just feel it, just feel every bit of it, just let every cell in my body soak up this pleasure so I can let it seep into my skin over the next months that we’re apart. When are we going to see each other again? We don’t have another visit planned. I can’t think about that now. Just feel it, I tell myself. Just this next thrust. Just this next breath.

I start working my clit with my other hand again, face still pressed to the bed under her boot, and before I know it I come, hard, shuddering and gasping, crying out, pressing my hips into Fern as she thrusts into me.

She moves her boot and collapses next to me. “Fuck!” she declares.

I can barely move, but I nuzzle closer to her, catching my breath. “Uh huh.”

“Ange, you’re so fucking hot,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Mmm. You are,” I say. “Did you come?”

She gives a short laugh. “No, I can’t come like that. I’ll just use your mouth later. Or your hands. Or maybe my hands. Hm, so many options.”

I nod, sleepy. “Whatever you want.” We lay together in the quiet for a little while, skin against skin, hands touching, caressing.

Then, suddenly: “Come on,” she says, getting up off the bed.

“What?”

“Let’s go, I want a cigarette.” Last time she was here, we spent most of the time in my bedroom, the kitchen, and the little roof deck up on the 8th floor. She loves cigars especially. I’ve even gotten good at cigar service, which I learned from folks in the local leather scene at her urging.

I reluctantly oblige, pulling my softest, warmest robe from behind the closet door and slipping it on. She pulls on pajama pants and a tee shirt, and pulls my college sweatshirt from the closet.

I follow her upstairs, still giddy and buzzing. She’s a little antsy. I should probably have offered to get her off right away, she’s still all wound up. But when I get upstairs, I get the feeling something else is going on.

She lights a cigarette, playing with the lighter and staring at the flame, sucking down the smoke. I hate that I find her smoking sexy, but I do. She gets all squinty and intense, and I just want to kiss her and taste it on her mouth. We sit on the patio furniture, knees touching.

“You know I love you,” she leans, reaching over to my hands in my lap. It’s chilly out here; we’re in that gloaming time, when it’s still light but the sun is gone, and it’s not yet twilight. I wrap my robe tighter around my body.

“Of course,” I say, but she keeps going.

“You know I want to be with you. I just haven’t been able to figure out a way to do it, really. But I got some really good news at work recently. I’ve been waiting to tell you, I wanted to say it in person. They’re offering me an international position, which means I’ll be overseas probably 8 months out of the year to start. The company has a villa in France, and another in Italy—that’s where they want me first.”

I swallow. Oh shit. What is she saying?

“And school is done for you, now. I know you want to get your own job and have your own career, and I want you to, I don’t want to be in the way of that. But we have other options, too … ”

And out of nowhere, Fern suddenly has a ring in her hand. A diamond ring, a beautiful one, antique and perfect and catching all the light that the sky has left. I gasp at the sight of it.

“Fern!”

“Angie, you’re everything to me. I want to keep exploring this, and I want you in my life every day, not just sometimes. I want you to come abroad with me. I know it’s a risk, and it will be really different and probably hard, but I want to try. Do you? Will you … marry me?”

I swallow, my mouth is so dry, my eyes are wet. “Yes. Yes baby, yes!”

Fern is relieved, visibly, and lunges forward to hug me. I can barely breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. I take a deep breath and feel better, feeling Fern’s hands on my back, her body and the perfect shape of her next to me, inhaling the scent of her. And—France! Italy! And the ring!

She pulls back to offer the ring, and I offer my finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” she says, kissing me. “My mom said she can’t wait to meet you.”

She slides it on, and it’s a perfect fit.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade. Harness featured in the story is The Betty by Velvet Nest. Cheesy marriage ending brought to you by the Supreme Court marriage equality decision over this past (pride!) weekend.

fiction

Morning After (Angie & Fern #3)

Posted on June 29, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

“Good morning, baby,” I whisper, kissing Fern’s neck as I spoon her from behind. She mumbles something sleepy into the pillow and presses her hips back into me. Her skin is so smooth, I can feel the bone of her hip under my hand and it feels strong, thick, capable.

Even though my body is calibrated to an earlier time zone, I always wake up before Fern. She’s kind of a night owl—she’d sleep until noon if it wasn’t for me. She’s been keeping me up late, but I still can’t sleep much past nine.

I stretch my toes and circle my ankles in her big bed; the cotton sheets caress my legs. Our bodies are touching, still nude after last night’s play time, and I hear her sigh just a little and nestle deeper into the covers. It still smells like sex in here, like her come and my come and our sweat all mingled together. And under it all, that honeysuckle smell, but just a hint of it, not too sweet. The leather of her furniture balances it out, too—that dark, pungent smell of oils and skin. I know I keep going on about her sheets, but—my god, her sheets! I’ve never felt sheets this good. I really have to ask her where she gets them, what makes them so perfect. I feel like I’m in water, they’re so smooth and soft. Her hair is tangled behind her and tickles my nose as I nuzzle into her neck, trying unsuccessfully to wake her. Lying down, we fit together so well: my breasts against her back, her butt against my hips. We just fit.

I shift my body around and manage to turn her hips so she’s lying flat back on the bed, and then I start kissing my way down her body. First her clavicle, the tops of her breasts, then her nipples, where I pause to suck so, so slowly and gently, so soft that she won’t even wake up, just feel something pleasant and keep dreaming. Her nipple gets hard in my mouth, they are long when they get hard and it feels like sucking a clit. I purse my lips and work my mouth around it, barely touching, just enough to keep it in my mouth. I suck the other gently into my mouth, roll it around on my tongue. Then I kiss her stomach, her hip bones, while I slide down further under the covers and my feet and calves dangle off the edge of the bed. I kiss at the crease of her hip, where her thigh meets her torso, that delicate tendon. I latch my mouth onto that, too, and suck again, just enough to get my mouth wet and salivating, enough to get her relaxed and opening her legs even more.

Fern sighs, her hips and shoulders open, eyes still closed. She might be more awake now, but she isn’t showing it. Either she’s faking or she’s still dozing.

I can smell her cunt now, the sharp sweetness and salt of her juices, and I loop my hands around the backs of her thighs. I explore every inch of her cunt with my lips, my cheeks, my nose, brushing as lightly as I possibly can, breathing warm air and inhaling in her scent. The sun is starting to come in through her bedroom window and I take a moment and just look at her, too. Her labia are asymmetrical and pink, her curls are blonde and fine. She looks a little swollen, a little turned on. Her outer lips are thickening, her clit is just barely visible when I gently, gently use my hand to spread her lips apart.

She tenses, pushing her hips up toward me, and I open my mouth to meet her, letting it rest on her cunt, nuzzling my chin a little more so she can feel me against her. My own pussy throbs, I can feel it getting wet and longing to be touched.

I use the wide of my tongue to lap at her softly, with the full width of me but without much pressure. Lots of softness, sweetness. She tastes delicious, I want to lap her up. Who would’ve thought I would like the taste of pussy so much. But after just a few days, I’m craving it, moaning and gulping it down like it’s my last and favorite meal.

With the tip of my tongue, I start tracing the contours of her cunt, the crevasses and divots. But not hard, not jabby—just the softest tip of it, gently against her tenderest places. She shifts again, a little “mmmmm” coming out of her like a half-sigh, half-moan, her arms opening up on either side of her. I like the noises she makes. She’s so relaxed, open. I take this as a good side and keep working my tongue against her, focusing a little more on her clit, but making wide circles around everything.

As I start gently pushing my tongue against her hole, she stirs even more, and when I get up to suckling on her clit, taking it between my lips and working it up and down like a tiny cock, she gasps and sits up halfway.

“Girl! What do you think you’re … doing, ohhh …”

I giggle, but also don’t want to stop. I stretch my tongue and talk between lapping at her clit with the tip of it. “Oh, I thought you said—” Lap lap lap. “That it was okay?” Flick flick. “I can stop—” Lap lap lap. “You know, if you want me to.” Suck, lap, flick.

She collapses back on the pillows and moves her hand into my hair, holding my head where it is. “Don’t you dare move. God that’s good.”

Fern is wide awake now, and so am I. I use every trick I know, all the things I know I like on me, and when she moans or presses even harder into me, I keep at it. She pushes my head down harder and I use more pressure, then she pulls up on my ears and I use less. I follow her lead. She guides me. I suck on her clit like it is dessert and I will eat every single drop of it.

When she comes, she thrashes and stomps the bed with her feet, bent-kneed and flailing. She cries out in big gulps of air, holding my face down against her hard, my tongue working as hard and fast as I can make it go. I can barely breathe. She holds me there, her hands fisting my hair, and I lighten my touch and offer long, slow licks until she is ready to let me go.

She’s breathing hard, body thrumming with blood and pulse and aliveness, when she pulls me up against her and holds me close. I fit perfectly against her, curling up and tucking my legs under me. She wraps her arms around me and we both sigh, giddy with pleasure.

“Angie, goddamn … I … wasn’t expecting that,” Fern finally manages to say.

“It’s my pleasure. Truly,” I say, kissing her neck.

She pulls me even closer and tilts her head to kiss me, her lips soft, mouth opening against mine. I probably still have her salty sweet taste in my mouth.

“My turn,” she declares, and turns out from under me so fast I barely even notice what’s happening until she’s between my legs, on top of me, and holding my thighs open with her knees. I gasp and moan, feeling exposed.

Please, I think. “Please,” I whisper.

She has a sparkle in her eye, and she begins kissing my neck, holding the palm of her hand against my cunt as she travels down my body.

Still sex-hazed and loopy, I stand in Fern’s flower-printed robe in the kitchen flipping banana pancakes. She had a craving, and the Bisquick, so we went for it. Fern is unusually quiet, setting the table and pouring coffee, orange juice, water, and getting plates out. She tossed on a white teddy, this short little slip of a dress with spaghetti straps and lace trim, and when she bends it shows off a matching white thong. Note to self, buy better lingerie.

I bring the serving plate over to the small breakfast nook in her apartment’s kitchen, bright and white with lace-edged curtains over the lower half of the windows. The white tile is bright and clean, the floor is immaculate. Either she doesn’t spend much time in here, or she has a housecleaner. My money is on the latter.

I eat two pancakes with yogurt and cut strawberries and maple syrup before I notice that Fern hasn’t said a word. I put down my knife and fork. “Fern?”

She doesn’t look up, but keeps staring at her pancakes, moving the fruit around with her fork. “Yeah.”

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“It’s just … Oh, god, Angie, we just have to start being honest here. Okay?” She kind of pauses, glancing up at me, but hurries on. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I mean, you’re going back to school in wherever the fuck you’re from—”

“Indianapolis,” I offer.

“—Wherever. And I live here. I mean, we can’t really do this. So we may as well just call it good. Don’t get me wrong, I like you. But there’s no future here.”

I try to breathe in but suddenly my body doesn’t work that way. Call it good? We can’t do this? I feel dizzy. I try to speak. “What … what do you mean?”

“I mean, how many more days are you here? Two? This is silly. I’m being silly, thinking we can make something of this. You should go. I mean, you should finish your breakfast, but then you should go.”

“I should … go?” I can’t keep up. She’s talking too fast. I thought … but I wanted …

“I just can’t see a way. You still have school. I’m not moving there. I don’t do long distance. We may as well rip the band-aid off now,” Fern mumbles, and I can feel that she is trying to convince herself, too.

“But, there have to be options—”

“There’s no way, Ange,” her voice is soft and betrays her sadness. She really has feelings for me. I stand up and go over to her, tentatively touch her shoulder. She reaches for me roughly, her arms around my waist and her head against my chest. Fern looks up at me and I see her eyes are wet and wide, bare and open. She’s not quite crying, but not far from it. She buries her head against me.

“There has to be,” I say softly, holding her close, and at that moment, I make a vow to myself to make it work.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

fiction

Tangled (Angie & Fern #2)

Posted on June 23, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Fern’s first kiss makes my knees ache to buckle, my hands flailing to catch the air. Our shades of lipstick blend together and turn into the color of a bruise, all purple and red and plum. It makes me nervous to have color all over my mouth, I never let the edges go so mussed, but I like her imprint on me. Her lips are soft, so soft. She won’t let me put my hands in her hair, which makes me want to even more.

Her tiny leather vest had pins on it, some with dates—2013, 2012, 2011—one with tiny handcuffs, one with tiny stilettos. The back of it is embroidered in red and blue leather with the words “Ms. Formal Leather 2012,” and I puzzle as to what it all means. I hope she’ll keep me around long enough to find out.

She takes me to a wine bar around the corner. By now, I figure she’s smelled the money on me, but either way, she is a better date than James. But she doesn’t blink when the check comes, just slides some elite plastic from her tiny purse and says, “You’re coming home with me now.”

I giggle, dizzy from the burgundy and intoxicated from the sight of her smooth long legs, from the feel of the tips of my fingers dipping between her thighs. She leans in to my neck and sucks, nibbling gently, whispering, “Angie, I can’t wait to taste you,” and I bite my first two fingers to keep from moaning.

She takes my hand, pulls me from the restaurant, and hails a cab, all while keeping her mouth on my neck, her hand fisting my hair and holding my head precisely where she wants me. That pressure is the only thing keeping me standing, otherwise I swear I would be a puddle on the grimy, gum-stained sidewalk.

My thighs stick to the faux-leather back seat of the cab as I slide over so she can get in after me. Fern gives her address and some quick, specific directions, her fingers still tangled at the base of my neck.

Satisfied that the driver is following orders, she leans over to me, turning her shoulders to slide one of her hands between my thighs. I gasp. “What do you like, girl?” She’s whispering right next to my ear.

“I like … I like it when you kiss me,” I struggle with words.

She turns my head with her fist and our lips brush. “What else.”

“I like … rough. I like being thrown around. I like being used.”

Fern nods slowly, her lips exploring mine with each movement.

“I like … being filled up.” I’m pushing my legs open, begging with my hips for her to touch my pussy. I’m sure I’m wet; I feel hot and sticky, pulsing, swollen. She’s grazing the edges of my panties, dragging her her fingernails over my thighs just enough so I can feel it. Just enough to make me want more. I want to cry out. I want to beg.

“Oh, you do huh.”

Fern cups her whole hand over my vulva and lets me press it against her, trying to get my clit against the heel of her palm. “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

She moans a little. “Mmm, I like that.”

My dress is up way past my knees and I’m sure the driver can see whatever he wants in his rear view. My shoulders are thrown back, knees thrown open. I’m at her mercy. I want her fingers, her tongue, anything she would give me. Please, please. I can’t wait. I’ll do anything, everything. She brings one finger up to my mouth and slides it in against my tongue. I close my lips, close my eyes, and suck.

I am still bare, lying diagonally on her vast, fluffy bed, when Fern comes out of the shower. The sheets smell like her, the sweetness of some big yellow and white flower that tumbles down onto the ground with abandon, plus a little bit of harsh savory seriousness, along with a hint of down feathers. My entire body buzzes and pulses, and I can still feel her fingers on my hips, my thighs. She emerges with a puff of steam behind her, opening the master bathroom door wide to let it air out. The steam dissipates quickly and barely licks my calves and toes, just a whisper of wet warmth. Fern is wrapped in a thick grey towel that covers her body from above her breasts to her knees, wrapped more than once around her slender frame. Her hair hangs past her shoulders, darker now that it is damp.

She sits down at the vanity next to the picture window and watches me in the mirror while she pumps lotion into her hands and begins rubbing it into her skin. It hits my nose like I’d just driven by an entire field of honeysuckle—so sticky sweet, bright and pungent and enlivening.

I close my eyes, rolling on to my stomach and propping myself up with my elbows, my chin in my hands, and inhale deeply. “Mmm,” I sigh, with the same kind of relaxed eagerness as if I’ve been on a quest and now have found the source.

She smiles at me through the mirror, letting out a quiet laugh. Her voice is hoarse now. “You like?”

“It’s heavenly.” I sigh again.

Her hair is so fine, it is pretty much already dry, but it is tangled and matted from all of our rolling around. She holds up a bottle and a brush and says, “Would you?”

I nod, slipping off of the bed and taking the objects from her hands. I spray the bottle onto her tangles and gently start running the dark red comb through her hair. The teeth are big and wide, the handle is thick. I don’t use combs, only brushes really, the ones with the fine bristles, they smooth my hair the best. This, Fern’s red comb, feels foreign in my hands, but I want to be gentle, don’t want to pull. I spray more of the tonic and some of the knots loosen as I work them with the teeth, starting from the bottom, holding her hair so the pressure of the comb doesn’t pull her scalp.

Her shoulders are landscapes: the contours of the bones, the muscles. My eyes wander to her neck, her clavicle, the top curves of her breasts that are not covered by the grey towel. She continues with her creams and lotions, rubbing one kind in to her elbows, another kind to her knees and thighs, a third on her face.

I concentrate. More sprays from the tonic, more detailed attention to the matted knot that her hair has become—and then this one pulls through and begins to comb clean. There is one more on the other side. She is almost ignoring me, but I feel closer to her than when her whole hand was inside me. And then I feel it: I’m wet again.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

fiction

Honeysuckle & Leather (Angie & Fern #1)

Posted on June 11, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

I look at his face, and I know I am alive.

I’m not so sure about him, though. I mean, look at him. Leaning against the bar like he’s in a GQ photo shoot—hip jutting out just so, pursing his lips so they are a tad bit more plump and pink, shoulders down, neck twisted half-cocked to the right so his jaw looks even more square. He’s been staring at some mean-looking white leather man with long stringy hair since we walked in.

He should be staring at me! This is my best dress, the one that practically guarantees I’ll get laid. Not that I thought I would need it, but it’s always good to pack extra ammo. He dragged us here to New York City on our winter break, promising “all that the Big Apple has to offer,” and I was naive enough to swoon. He didn’t mean Broadway shows, gourmet restaurants with famous chefs, or horse and carriage rides through Central Park, though. He meant gay leather bars.

I have to admit: he is pretty. I could totally see him on my arm for our family Christmas photos, or at the epic Hamlin family Thanksgiving cutting the turkey and handing around slices of pie. Clearly that was me getting ahead of myself, and any and all of those little future fantasies were knocked out of my head the first night he got here and he dragged me to the meat-packing district to go to—his words!—”somewhere fun.” Then he spent all night drooling and staring, sucking up rum and Cokes, his perfect bubble-butt ass glued to the wall, too scared to actually talk to anyone.

Next to him, I am so animated, so vibrant. He’s pretty, sure, but c’mon—David is made out of stone, he’s no fun at a dinner party.

“I am really partial to Monet’s early work, though,” I’m saying, referring to our trip earlier to MOMA, but I’m not even paying attention to myself. He is posing and trying to eye-fuck every man in leather in this place, especially that one with the stringy hair. He’s not paying one penny of attention to me, but I figure one of us should be saying something, even if it’s not him.

The only white wine they had was some shit blend that is mass-produced in California, and it tastes like watered down sweet tea that’s gone bad. I drain my glass in a thick gulp so I don’t have to taste it, and announce, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

He nods, only registering me when I twist the bar stool and hop off of it, skittering away from him. Everyone in the bar notices me. My skirt is perfectly too short and my tits look amazing in the plunging neckline of this wrap dress. The sky blue color of it makes my eyes look so deep and sparkling. This dress works on every man I’ve ever been with—well, except for the gay ones. They’re easy to pick out: they’re the ones who don’t look as I switch my ass when I walk by.

I don’t really have to pee, I’m just bored as fuck. There are two bathrooms, but neither of them are gender-specific, probably because this bar doesn’t exactly get a lot of female patrons. The dark wooden door is so thin, it feels like I could knock it down if I tapped it with my Jimmy Choo strappy sandal, it’s hinges groaning in protest as I push it open. The mirrors are filthy, the walls are slate grey but covered in graffiti, all sorts of “suck your cock $5″ kinds of notes that I find quaint. I find two square inches of the mirror that aren’t covered in Sharpie writing or stickers and wipe off all my lipstick, then pull the shade of Shiseido red from my pocketbook and reapply.

That’s when I see someone watching me. She’s leaning against the wall behind me, her head bent back just enough that her throat is exposed. Her blonde curls fall around her shoulders, looking perfectly placed. I wonder who her stylist is. She’s wearing a tight fuchsia dress with a pencil skirt, and the thinnest black leather belt high around her waist. It has a small bow that is strategically off-center. The neck is high, the arms sleeveless. I can’t see how long it is or what shoes she’s wearing from my glimpses at her in the bathroom’s filthy mirror. She has a small leather vest on, one that is more like a holster than a vest. Her arms are crossed over her chest.

Lips pursed, I focus, painting the red back on my mouth and pressing my lips together, touching the edges to get the lines just right.

“What are you doing in a place like this, sweetheart?” she says, and her voice is much lower than I’d imagine. Thick and syrupy and it makes me bite my lip.

“Not enjoying the company, that’s for sure.”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you.” I cap the lipstick and make eye contact through the mirror, my back still to her. “I mean, that boring dope I came in with.”

“Ah, him.”

“I have half a mind to ditch him. Just can’t quite … I’m not sure how. We’re sharing a hotel room up the street.”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re not from here.”

“No shit,” dripping with sarcasm.

I take a deep breath, opening my pocketbook and sliding my lipstick back in place while turning around. The dress goes just past her knees. Her calves are sculpted and delicious. Her shoes are tall wedge peep-toe heels, black and shiny like the belt. I breathe in again.

“What’s your name, sugar?” She asks.

“Angie.”

“Angie, how nice to meet you. I’m Fern.” She reaches out her hand and her fingers are long and thin, her nails short and square with an impeccable French manicure. I slide my hand into hers and it fits perfectly. She squeezes and I feel faint.

“Well, Angie, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that boy of yours took off about thirty seconds after you came in here.”

I blink. “What?”

“He left. He went running out the door as soon as Master Wes left.”

“He WHAT?!” That son of a bitch! He’ll never get a date on our small campus again. And just wait until I tell his mother.

“Oh don’t worry. Master Wes is experienced and safe.”

“That’s not exactly what I was worried about.” I cross my arms and leaned back against the sink, pouting a little. That bastard.

Fern closes the distance between us, crisscrossing her ankles with each step. “Tell you what. Why don’t you let me buy you some dinner.” It’s not really a question. She puts her arm around my shoulders, holds her hand up to caress my other arm. Her touch is soothing, sweet, hypnotic. I can smell her perfume, something like honeysuckle and leather. I have the urge to nuzzle my face into her breasts. “I’d be glad to deliver you to your hotel whenever you’re ready. But until then, I think I can offer you some markedly improved company.”

I continue to sulk, but mostly for effect. This is turning out to be way more interesting than I’d planned.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #123, Kathryn Dupri and Lily Cade.

dirty stories, guest posts

Calibrate, Guest Post by Jen Cross

Posted on June 1, 2015by Jen Cross

This is how it was between them: leaded with need, full throttle, every night.

It didn’t matter who they were outside of the apartment. It didn’t matter how the world saw them. It didn’t matter: the misconstruals, the misreadings, the misunderstandings, the harassment, the rage. It didn’t matter that it often seemed as though no one could see them but one another.

They saw one another, and that was what really mattered.

Daphne placed the call, every afternoon at three, right when her boss stepped out for his afternoon constitutional – which actually amounted to making a rounds of the department and harassing the rest of the secretaries for awhile, giving Daphne a break.

At ten to three, Gage knew to step away from whatever machine she’d been underneath, wipe as much grease from her hands as she could, and stand nearish the phone. Every one of her coworkers at the shop knew what she was waiting for, and they didn’t quite understand why she pretended not to be waiting for her girlfriend’s call. The guys raised eyebrows at one another, but no one talked any shit. Gage had been at the shop longer than anyone, was the first woman the boss had ever hired back almost twenty years before; she had slowly but surely trained the boys how to deal when she was around: “No sexist bullshit,” she’d explain to a new hire, clapping him or her on the shoulder while showing them around the place. “I don’t wanna hear about any gash or pussy or tail or ass you got last night, got it? None of the other guys do, either. You talk about your women with respect, or don’t talk about ’em at all, got it?”

It didn’t matter to Gage that plenty of the guys wanted to hear about the pussy and the gash. She was all right with them resenting her for that. Fuck them. If she had to walk through the walls of hostility just to get to work every day, they could fucking well hold their tongues to avoid the shop getting sued for creating a hostile work environment.

Exactly at three, the oil-stained phone rang. Gage wiped damp palms on her coveralls and picked up the line.

“Stoney’s Auto.”

“Gage?” Daphne’s voice sounded like warm honey that’d been poured over shards of broken glass in the back alley behind some biker bar.

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Always, baby.”

“You got something for me when we get home?”

It never failed. Gage had to swallow hard just to be able to answer. All these years, and still she went immediately rigid at the sound of a woman—her woman—asking for what she wanted. Gage dropped her voice a shade, deepening it the way she knew Daphne liked, and trying to keep a little something private from the guys trying not to look like they’re listening in. “You want something when we get home?”

“Yeah.” A little whimper at the end.

“You gonna tell me about it.”

“Yeah.” A little sharper whimper.

“How’m I gonna calibrate?”

“Bring it all.”

Gage’s heart ached. She knew from this that Daphne had had a particularly hard day; maybe the boss had tried to feel her up again during the staff meeting, or maybe he’d offered up his only-very-thinly-veiled reminder that if she’d only go home with him, he would happily promote her up to management.

“I got it ready.”

“Ok.”

They hung up. One of the guys across the floor, Samuel, Gage’s oldest buddy at the shop, made eye contact with Gage as she hung up. Gage nodded a little slowly. Samuel gave a small smile and a shrug. Gage shrugged back. “Yeah,” she said. Then she went home, mind spinning with what was to come.

Daphne got home before Gage nearly every evening. Most nights she tore off her office drag—button-down shirt and pencil skirt, “nude” nylon stockings, low black pumps—off as soon as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Gage since their four-month anniversary. She’d let her long auburn hair down from its tight bun and wrap herself in one of the many peignoirs she’d collected over the years. Most nights she’d have a bath drawn and dinner started by the time Gage walked in the back door.

“Go clean up,” she’d say to her love, eyeing with hunger Gage’s thick shoulders and broad, filthy hands. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She’d let the satin robe fall, accidentally, from one smooth shoulder as Gage walked past her, which she’d trained Gage never to leave unsuckled, and so, most nights, she had to boil a pot of water to reheat the tub by the time Gage made it from the kitchen into to the bathroom. Most nights, Daphne was the one who’d sit down to their shared dinner oilstained.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw them, what anyone else read into the roles each played. What mattered was how each of them ached, specifically, for what and who and how the other was.

On this night, Daphne did not take off her clothes. She did not start dinner. She didn’t even remove her red plaid trench coat. She didn’t get past the kitchen. She fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the ones with the metal frame backs and the plastic covered seats that came with the ’50s-era linoleum kitchen set they’d found at an estate sale not long after moving in together. She didn’t cry, not again. Everything in her was numb.

Gage found Daphne this way when she arrived home a half-hour later. The evening sun had already given way to shadow, so Daphne was just a silhouette when Gage walked in their back door. There were no lights, none of the music Daphne always had going, no aromas of arroz con pollo or fried plantain or feijoada. Just the stinging scent of lemon cleanser and Daphne’s sorrow.

Gage didn’t speak. After kicking off her work boots, she knelt in front of Daphne. Gently, she removed Daphne’s coat, then let down her hair. She listened to Daphne’s body, the shallow intake of breath. She listened to what needed to happen first.

Gage took both of Daphne’s hands in her own then stood, pulling Daphne to standing with her. She slung a dirty arm around Daphne’s somehow still pristine white work shirt, and led her into the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, Gage began to unbutton Daphne’s shirt.

“No.” Daphne still had not met Gage’s eyes. “Leave them on.”

Gage hardened. It was going to be like this, then. She took a box from next to the bed, and as she went into the bathroom, she said over her shoulder, “Take your nylons off. Leave them on the floor.”

When Gage returned to the bedroom, Daphne had done as she’d been asked. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, far away. Gage collected her woman up in her arms, eased them both back onto the bed, then lifted herself up, reached down, and inched Daphne’s skirt up over those thick hips. She unbuttoned her fly, took out her cock, lubed it up and slipped into Daphne’s cunt.

It was then that Daphne started to cry. She fitted herself to Gage’s body—legs wrapped hard around thighs, arms clenched to Gage’s well-muscled back, fingernails digging in hard. She wept in big, fat sobs, burying her face in Gage’s chest as Gage buried herself in Daphne. Gage knew what to do. She found her rhythm, their rhythm, and kept steady as Daphne’s sorrow brewed and boiled over. It took awhile. She never knew how long it would take on nights like these. Give it to me, she thought. Give me what no one else can see.

The shift was immediate, when it came. Her gasping sobs shifted to gasps raw and thick with hunger. “Yes,” Daphne whimpered. “Yes. Like that, baby.” And Gage knew she could let go. She dropped her hands from where they’d been cradling Daphne’s head and shoulders, grabbed her woman’s hips, and drove herself home. “Yes,” she answered, panting. “Like this.” Daphne’s face wet, her body sore, her heartache subsiding. Yes, she thought, as she had every night for seventeen years. Yes, girl, please. Like this.

fiction

The Brute and the Brat (Bean & Mickey #3)

Posted on May 28, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Content warning: Rough sex, face slapping, dirty talk.

Bean fists Mickey’s hair, yanking hard, holding her motionless, before she throws her down onto the bed.

Mickey moans and lays still. Taking it.

Bean isn’t worried about what she wants. She is ready to take. Eager to trust her girl, eager to believe that Mickey can stop her or safeword or use her skillful negotiation to shift things if she really needs to. But Bean also knows that Mickey gets off on being used, abused, like property, like an object. She loves being a receptacle for that kind of pure, strong desire that Bean can dish out.

Every smooth surface she can find, Bean slaps. Ass, thigh, cunt. Throws her body around on the bed, just for a show of force, just so she can get used to being off-guard and off-kilter. Bean holds her down, bites into her shoulder, too hard too fast but Mickey likes it, she screams out, but she likes it. Her cunt is wet, wetter still. She’s along for the ride. She lets herself go, she turns herself over to Bean like a plaything.

Bean pulls her hair. Moves her closer to the edge of the bed.

That’s when Mickey starts to struggle. She bites Bean’s arm when she reaches. She wrestles against Bean’s weight, even though she has no chance. She’s fast, though—wily, and quick, and strong. She twists out of Bean’s grip and forces Bean to catch her again, to grab her harder, hard enough to leave fingerprint-sized bruises on her arms. She scratches. Bean pins her against the wall but Mickey ducks out of her arms, so Bean takes her down, hard, to the floor, knees hips wrist, but everyone is okay and so Mickey is pinned again. Bean takes hold of Mickey’s hair and drags her up to the bed.

Mickey smirks. As if getting to bed like this is her idea. As if it’s what she wants.

Bean smacks her in the mouth, wipes that smug look off her face. Bean has her attention now.

Mickey looks up, eyes and mouth wide, feeling a little wounded, a little shocked. She relents. It’s that moment Bean waits for, lives for. When Mickey gives up, gives in, gives herself over.

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

Bean puts her in her place.

Mickey stays there, and whimpers, and pleads, and begs, and opens her legs wide to her lover.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

dirty stories, fiction

Bath Time (Bean & Mickey #2)

Posted on May 22, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Content Warning: This story contains Daddy/girl dynamics, and shaving play with a razor (but no blood or skin cutting).

“Nooooo! Daddy, I’m scared!”

“Shhhh, hush babygirl. You’re going to make me slip. Now stay still.”

Bean’s arm is around Mickey’s shoulders, her big hand over Mickey’s breast, spilling out between Bean’s fingers. Mickey’s skin is wet and slick from the bath, the bubbles still shimmering and thick, smelling like lavender. The Mamie pink tiles in their bathroom was not a selling point when they moved in to the house, but they serve quite well for scenes like this. The matching thick grey hers & hers towels hang from the towel bar near the door; the cream paint needs touching up but things are generally in good shape. Mickey immediately bought a new shower curtain when they moved in, multi-colored and abstract like a Pollack painting, trying to make the pink tiles more subtle, but it mostly enhances the pink rather than camouflages it. The curtain is bunched up at one end of the tub, pushed aside. So are Mickey’s clothes, the sweet little blue and white skirt and blouse that she thinks make her look like a schoolgirl, the outfit she picked just to show off when Bean got home. It was not her first choice to have a bath instead. She might have stuck out her tongue in protest, for which she received a firm hand on her bottom.

When Bean took out a fresh, sharp razor, Mickey began an even louder protest.

Mickey tried to look away as Bean slid the razor expertly up her shin and calf, but she couldn’t. She could feel the metal—cold, despite being rinsed in her bath water, she could picture exactly how it was going to slice a line of red right through her skin and make her bleed. She doesn’t really like blood. It makes her feel faint, just the idea of bleeding.

“Daddy …” she whines, pleading with the syllables of her favorite word.

“You can do it, girl. Do it for me,” Bean leans over to kiss her babygirl square on the mouth, taking her lip between her teeth and holding it there, then opening her girl’s mouth for her tongue to plunge in. Mickey moans a little—she loves those big, overwhelming kisses. It distracts her long enough to breathe out.

“Good girl. Now stay relaxed, just like that. You wouldn’t want me to nick you,” Bean’s voice is soothing. Mickey shakes her head vigorously and grabs at Bean’s arm, Bean’s grey button-down work shirt rolled up and bunched at the elbow. Mickey’s hands are all wet but the whole front of Bean’s shirt is wet by now, with Mickey leaning against it and the splashing.

Mickey breathes in and tries to relax. Tries to remember her training from yoga, breathe in, relax, breathe out …Her eyes are wide and her breathing is shallow, but controlled. Her ankle is up on the side of the tub and Bean is past her knee now, up to the thigh where she doesn’t have much hair, so there isn’t much to shave. Usually Mickey does this herself. One of Daddy’s many rules is to keep herself shaved and smooth and soft.

Bean cups the bathwater in her hand and pours it over Mickey’s leg, the shaved one, to look for any places she’s missed. After a few more quick swipes, she’s done. “Next,” she tells Mickey, and Mickey, eyes big with her thumb in her mouth, swipes one leg for the other, balancing her ankle on the edge of the tub, and shivers in the cool air.

“Almost done, babygirl …” Bean is focused, methodical, technically precise in her skill. She leaves the shaving cream thick, she takes care around the bones of her ankles, around the tendons behind her knee. She draws the razor up Mickey’s leg in stripes, rinsing the razor, then pulls another stripe. Soon, Mickey’s leg is bare again, bare and tingling with menthol and naked exposure.

Her second leg is quicker; Mickey is more relaxed and more trusting (the thumb sucking helps), she doesn’t squirm as much. “You’re doing so well, babygirl,” Bean coos, and Mickey flushes with delight. She’s being strong, relaxed, doing something scary for her Daddy.

Bean rinses off Mickey’s leg, taking time to soothe every inch with her hand, then rinses the razor again. “Stand up,” Bean says, snaking her arm out from behind Mickey.

“What?”

“Stand up, girl. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Mickey stands carefully, trying not to slip in the lavender bubbles. Her hair is longer and darker from the water, past her shoulders and dripping onto her breasts, her nipples hard. She hugs her arms around her torso and shivers. Her eyes are big and nervous again.

“Turn.”

Mickey turns so she faces the wall, ass toward Bean. A spanking? Now? But she relaxed!

“Bend over.”

Mickey shivers again, though she’s less cold now. Maybe Bean was packing this whole time? She bends from the hips, holding on to the wall behind the tub for support.

Bean immediately begins probing Mickey’s ass, pulling apart her cheeks and running her finger along the velvety outside of Mickey’s tight pink asshole.

Mickey gasps. “Daddy!” Whining again, protesting. But she stays bent over, stays in place.

“We’re going to shave here, too, babygirl,” Bean has the shaving cream ready, balances the razor on the tub’s edge. She dabs cream generously at the small patch of light brown hair surrounding her girl’s delicate hole and rubs it in a little, massaging, getting her used to the touch. Some of the skin is puckered, Bean will have to be cautious. She picks up the razor and gently, gently starts kissing it to Mickey’s tender place, holding her cheeks apart with one hand and pulling the razor expertly swift with the other. Mickey gasps at the touch of it but stays bent over. Her little hole puckers, a wink of contraction, and relaxes. Bean grins.

It doesn’t take very many strokes of the razor before the soap is gone with the hair. There are a few strays that Bean takes out individually, the razor at a different angle, her hands spreading the skin taut.

When Bean is satisfied, she sets the razor on the tub’s edge again and dips her hands with her fingers tight together into the water, and pours handfuls of warm water down Mickey’s ass, rinsing the soap. Two, three times, then Bean pulls Mickey’s cheeks apart again to check on what soap is left. She swirls her thumb around Mickey’s tight hole and the skin feels practically squeaky clean.

Bean holds Mickey’s ass open and leans forward to kiss it. Her tongue swirls around the hole and against the puckering skin. Mickey gasps and purrs, leaning forward a little deeper and pushing her ass back against Bean’s face. “Oooooh,” she sighs. Bean licks, lapping with her tongue wide and soft, warm and wet and wanting. She tastes faintly of soap, and underneath that, of skin. Her tight hole is even more relaxed, opening a little for her daddy’s tongue, pushing faintly against it, urging it in deeper.

“Ohhh god that feels so good,” Mickey moans into the wall, barely loud enough for Bean to hear. Bean moans, the humming vibrating into Mickey’s ass. Bean reaches around to touch Mickey’s cunt and finds it wet, dripping already, her lips thick and puffy. She gets her thumb wet and then flicks Mickey’s clit with it while she plunges her tongue into Mickey’s tight asshole.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Mickey pleads again, this time with lust and a hint of begging behind her syllables.

“Hmm, look at this,” Bean answers, pulling on the short hair on Mickey’s cunt. “We’re not quite done yet, babygirl. Turn around.”

Mickey whimpers, extracting herself from the bent over pose and standing with some difficulty, her pussy thick and waiting. She turns.

“Spread your legs,” Bean orders, soaping up her hand with shaving cream again, applying it generously to the short light brown hair between Mickey’s legs. It tingles Mickey, the menthol cooling her skin, and she shivers again, her arms hugged close, fingers to her lips.

Bean takes her time. The hair here grows thicker than on Mickey’s legs or asshole, and needs some tender attention to get every one. Mickey does sometimes shave or wax on her own, though that is not required. This time, however, Bean wants her completely bare.

Bean works at her like she is an object, moving her hip or thigh with no show of concern for the person attached to it, the razor sliding along the hip crease, her inner thighs. When she starts to get closer and closer to Mickey’s lips and clit and slit, Mickey whimpers a little, shivering again, and Bean adds a little more shaving cream, just to make sure it’s nice and soft and supple. She goes slow, thoroughly.

“You’re doing great, babygirl,” Bean soothes. It’s a little harder with Mickey’s cunt all turned-on and thick, but it also entices Bean to do a good job—and quickly. She wants her mouth back on that girl’s cunt, wants to drink down her juices and suck her fat clit until she screams and claws at the wall to hold her up. She wants to plunge in her fingers and work her orgasm from inside, hooking around that spot until Mickey lets it all go. Bean refocuses, holding Mickey’s lips in one hand and working the razor with the other. She lets her thumb swirl around Mickey’s hole, around Mickey’s clit. Mickey hums a little in response.

“Almost done, baby. Just a little more.” Bean leaves her fingers flicking and playing while she rinses the razor again, then brings it back to get the last stray hairs. She uses her hands as a cup again and rinses the water down Mickey’s cunt, bare and bald, so soft and so smooth. So naked. Exposed to her, just to her own eyes and fingers and mouth. Bean pulls her lips apart with each thumb and nuzzles her mouth into Mickey’s cunt, lapping thick with her tongue and suckling ever so gently on Mickey’s clit.

“Ohhh,” Mickey moans, tangling her hands in Bean’s hair, lifting one of her feet up onto the side of the tub so Bean can get a better mouthful. “Please Daddy, please.” Mickey is close already. Bean slides two thick fingers into her cunt easily, her wetness already plenty of lube. She finds that spot and pulls, pressure behind Mickey’s clit as she sucks it down and flicks it quickly with her tongue. Mickey’s knees are shaking, she’s leaning against the shower wall for support. “Oh god, oh Daddy!” Mickey is close, digging her fingers into Bean’s head and shaking more, stomach rippling, hips bucking. Bean doesn’t let up, keeps her pressure steady and fast. Mickey slaps the wall looking for something to hold on to, pressing against it.

“Fuck! Ohhhh myyy gooood,” she draws the words out long and low as she comes, shaking, pressing hard against Bean, a stream of come flowing from her cunt. Bean opens her mouth to suck it down, some of it dripping down her chin onto her shirt. She keeps her sucking gentle, lapping at Mickey’s cunt until she’s clean and stops shaking. Mickey purrs, eyelids heavy, shoulders shivering.

Bean smiles up at her girl and releases her fingers, her grip on Mickey’s hips. She gets up to fetch one of the big fluffy towels and eases it around Mickey’s shoulders. “All clean, girl.”

Mickey sighs, pulling the towel around her. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Bean pulls the tub stopper and the water starts flowing out. It’s cool by now, almost room temperature.

“Daddy?” Mickey hums, while Bean uses the towel to keep drying Mickey’s skin.

“Yeah, baby,” Bean murmurs.

“Will you fuck me now? Please? Get your big dick out?”

Bean looks up, a little surprised, then runs her hand between Mickey’s legs and feels her cunt still wet, lips still puffy. “My pleasure, babygirl,” she replies, pulling Mickey close, kissing her sweetly, their mouths open. “Let’s go.” Mickey steps out of the tub. Bean is already unbuckling her belt, her jeans. Mickey follows Bean into the bedroom.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

dirty stories, fiction

Daddy’s Belt (Bean & Mickey #1)

Posted on May 7, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Content warning: This story contains daddy/girl play, punishment, name calling, humiliation, and some force. The characters in this story are consenting adults who have established this dynamic consensually and purposefully long before the story begins.

Mickey hears the belt before she sees it; that whip and jingle when it pulls free of Daddy’s jeans immediately makes her wet. She struggles against the silk men’s tie that binds her wrists to the metal headboard and tries to pull her hand through. She doesn’t want a spanking, especially not with the belt. Except kind of, a little bit, she does.

“You’re in trouble, babygirl,” Bean sneers from behind her. She’s mad, but is it for-real-mad or play-mad? Probably play-mad. Mickey doesn’t break any rules that actually matter, just the ones that she knows she can bend.

Mickey twists her neck around and switches her hips to get Bean’s attention. Bean is wrapping the belt around her big hand, her nails still have dirt under them from her long day of landscaping. She hasn’t even taken a shower yet. Bean hates not taking a shower right when she gets home. When Bean looks Mickey in the face, that flash of love and care and giddiness and just a little bit of mean sadist, Mickey sticks out her tongue.

Bean blinks, and sets her jaw, lunging forward to grab Mickey’s face in her other hand. “Dirty girl. You deserve it, and you know it. You know what you did.”

“No! No, Daddy!” Mickey struggles and pouts.

“Yes, you do. I try to teach you to be a good girl, but I just get this dirty little slut. You think you can do things like that and I won’t catch you? Huh, girl?” Bean grabs her ankles and twists her onto her stomach, pushing her down onto the bed and pulling up her skirt.

Mickey whimpers a little, then gets mad. “I do it all the time when you’re not home! So there!”

“You do not.”

“I do! I touch my little pussy and make it all wet and swollen.”

“Filthy little cunt,” Bean flexes, opening and closing her fist, and smacks Mickey’s ass with force, but then regains her nice-daddy composure and tries to go with the discipline approach rather than the humiliation, which will only fuel Mickey’s rebellion. “What’s Daddy’s rule about that, huh? Come on, you know the rule. Tell me.” Bean smacks again. Two pink handprint outlines begin to appear.

Mickey whimpers again, but tries to stay defiant. “Your rule is, only Daddy touches me down there.”

“That’s right. Good girl,” Bean soothes Mickey’s ass, starting to turn red from slaps already.

“You’re so mean! You’re the meanest Daddy ever!” Mickey tries to get out of the wrist ties again. Something loosens, and she focuses on slipping out of it even more. Bean keeps smacking her ass but she concentrates.

“No, babygirl, no I’m not. This is for your own good,” Bean pulls on the belt and gets it ready, pushing Mickey’s skirt up her legs. Mickey has quieted. Maybe she’ll calm down and take it.

Mickey knows she has to act fast once she slips away. Her body is small, quick. But she’ll only have a fraction of a second before Bean is on her. She gets both wrists free and stays still, thinking. She can see Bean’s reflection in the chrome of their bed frame, and when Bean pulls back the belt to wind up and hit her, she jumps up and darts for the door of their bedroom.

All it takes is a second. Bean hesitates for just long enough for Mickey to get a head start, skidding across the hardwood on her socks, skirt flying, hair flying, laughing and whooping with glee.

“Damn you, girl!” Bean yells, but she’s smiling and chuckling, her thighs flexing, calculating the time it’ll take Mickey to run from the living room into the kitchen and creeping behind the wall to intercept her. Bean gets quiet, to surprise her. Mickey is still laughing, and giving herself away. She rounds the corner and Bean is there, arms outstretched, catching her as she squirms and wiggles, trying fruitlessly to get out of Bean’s grip. Bean has at least fifty pounds on her, and many inches of height—plus, she’s still wearing her shoes, and can grip the floor without sliding, unlike Mickey, who is practically falling over and has nothing solid to push against. Except Bean.

They wrestle, tussling back and forth as Bean drags Mickey to the nearby couch and holds her down on her stomach, her leg bent and knee digging into Mickey’s shoulder. “Settle, girl!” Bean yells, pulling her hair, getting the belt out again. A few quick smacks to force Mickey’s submission, then longer, fluid, softer strokes to ease her ass to compliance. Mickey is wet. Bean can smell it. She dips her fingers into her babygirl’s tight hole and they come away glistening. She sucks in the taste of her girl, then pulls open her pussy lips as Mickey gasps.

“Mine, that’s mine,” Bean mutters, hitting Mickey’s ass and thighs. Stripes from the belt are starting to welt. Mickey moans, kicking her feet and pounding her fist into the leather of the couch, but she can’t budge anymore. She’s caught. Tears prick her eyes and her ass stings, but she also feels light, weightless, dizzy with lust.

“Please Daddy, please fuck me Daddy,” she coos, two fat tears spilling over as her desire takes over. Bean works her fingers in deeper and Mickey tilts her ass into the air. Bean hits what she can reach with the belt and adds more fingers to fuck her girl’s pussy, her thick calloused fingers working in and out easily with how wet she is.

“Yeah like that, I like that Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

“Is that what you wanted, huh?”

“Yes, yes, I want it!”

“Tell me, girl.”

“I want to come Daddy, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“That’s right, that’s my good girl. Come for your Daddy. Daddy’s the one who makes you come. My sweet girl,” Bean feels Mickey tighten around her fingers, her thighs quaking and pressing against the couch.

“Unnnhhh,” Mickey groans, stretching her arms and legs and pushing hard against Bean as she comes, shuddering, then collapses, spent.

Bean grins, shifting to soothe Mickey’s red ass with her hand and bending to lay herself on top of Mickey, kissing her cheek and shoulder, whispering into her ear what a good girl she is, how Bean knew she could take it, so proud of her babygirl. Mickey sighs, body humming.

“Daddy!” Mickey perks up, words still slow and dreamy.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can we get pizza?”

Bean laughs. “Yes, sure, of course we can. I’ll order while you get cleaned up. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” They shift again and Mickey curls up in Bean’s lap, her hands around Bean’s strong forearm as she traces her freckles. Her eyes are clear, shining when she looks up at Bean. Mickey reaches up to smooth out Bean’s hair, all disheveled from their escapades, and she giggles.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

dirty stories, guest posts

Getting Grown, Guest Post by BD Swain

Posted on April 30, 2015by BD Swain

BD Swain is a butch dyke who enjoys writing queer smut – not just because it’s fun, but because sex and pushing my sexual expression is what makes me feel most alive. I am turned on by trust and by pushing the boundaries of it. Follow me @redswain on twitter; @bdswain on instagram, bdswain.com.

“You expect me to suck this tiny cock? Your little girlfriends might like the size of this thing. Maybe. But look at me. Do you see me?” She grabbed my face, “You think this is good enough for me? I’m grown.”

I was shaking. I was lying on her couch, posed as if I’d just been thrown. My body splayed out like a belly up crab. My back tensed, I craned my neck to lift my head as high as I could. My hand floated in the air above my belt, half unbuckled. I was scrambling with my feet, pushing myself up on the cushions, kicking with my legs in a panic.

Let me go back. Start over. I need to tell this right.

I was a baby. I’d lived all my life in Tulsa, a rich kid with a Daddy in oil like everyone else I knew and I hated it more than anyone. I took my dad’s hair trimmer to the bathroom one day and walked out with a buzz cut that was never discussed at the family table. You don’t fuck up the family situation where I come from and if you do, you suffer in silence. Some families might have beat the shit out of me, mine just never spoke to me again. Fine by me. San Francisco. I knew where to go.

I want to tell you this story right, but I don’t need to go through every detail. Listen, I had fucked girls. I was good looking. I was cocky. Girls let me finger them after school behind the bleachers. I played the bad boy with the good heart I’d seen in all the movies. I was sweet with my soft cheeks and worn out jeans. We fucked in the back of our trucks and out on the rocks when we went camping. We took blankets and cases of beer out to the swimming holes. I played the boy for any girl who wanted. I was the boy who never asked for anything but to make you come. The boy who gave and gave and gave. The boy for a night when there wasn’t another boy, a real boy with a hard dick and demands. But that was the boy I wanted to be, who I thought I was.

I got to San Francisco and learned how to be butch. I was demanding and cocky, pushing a girls face down between my legs. Watching her lips curl around the tip of my cock. Wrapping my fingers in her curls to shove her deeper onto my hard-on. No one had a real name here and one girl took to calling me Tulsa. It felt good. I was where I wanted to be. A butch with femmes all around me in short skirts and low cut tops with their heels or their sexy boots. I liked the lipstick stains on my undershirts.

I thought all femmes were like this. Waiting for me to grab them. Watching my ass as I played a round of pool. I liked the back and forth of it. Sitting on the barstool with my back to the bar and a beer resting just inside my thigh, my thumb and finger loosely gripping the bottle’s neck, watching a girl walk slow in front me to the bathroom and back out again with her eye on me and her lipstick touched up. This was our dance. She would slide up to the bar next to me and I’d turn to listen as she ordered a cocktail. I could put my money on the bar and pick up her tab. She would smile and thank me. A lady and a gentleman; it was routine but not boring. Predictable in a way I had always hoped. We’d go back to her place. She’d suck me. I’d bend her over and fuck her. She’d come. I’d leave.

This woman I met, I thought she was that same girl. I’d been living here a few years. I had my own bedroom. I made a little money bussing tables and a little more selling drugs. I dated girls for a couple months before they caught me cheating on them and screamed and cried and told me what I dick I was. And I was. I wasn’t sure what else to be. I thought that was the whole point really. Isn’t that what everyone expects? This was the set up when I met her. This is what I knew. Nothing.

The first thing that threw me off was how we met. I was bussing tables. I hated the work. Everyone yelled at me at that job. I was always in someone’s way or worried that I was going to drop something. I felt like I was covered in other people’s food the whole time. I couldn’t wait to run home and shower after work but even then I couldn’t get the stink of deep fryer grease out of my skin. So I didn’t feel sexy when I caught her looking at me. I felt uncomfortable. Caught scavenging in the headlights. She looked so hot, too. I hated being seen like this but I knew that look she gave me and it still made me flush hot. I weakly strutted around after I caught her look, too tired to really make much of myself but feeling cocky as hell anyway. I didn’t look back again, but I felt her staring at me as I made my way through tables.

She caught my eye on her way out the door and I smiled to myself, sure she’d left her number for me on the table. I saw a small, folded piece of paper and slipped it into my pocket smiling. I didn’t look at it until I unlocked my bicycle to head home. I stared down at the paper like an idiot. “You should have asked,” was all it said. “Fuck,” I spat out, punching myself in the thigh. I felt so stupid. This woman didn’t look anything like the girls I’d picked up in bars. It sounds dumb, but the description that ran through my head was that she looked tall and clean. Those were the words that came to mind when I saw her. I wanted her. I wasn’t good enough for her. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined bringing her into my dingy little room with the dirty, dank bathroom down the hall. I shook my head. I knew that wouldn’t do. I shouldn’t even try. But hell, I caught myself looking for her everywhere after that. After several days with no luck, I realized this was a woman who wouldn’t be seen in my usual haunts. Not regularly, at least. I decided to expand my territory without a clue as to where I should start. I tried the new wine bar and the coffee place with the line down the block. I felt crazy for even trying. I was out of my league.

It was three weeks later that I was locking my bike in the Castro when I looked up and saw her. She was alone, walking towards me but looking across the street at something. She looked stunning. She shone bright in the sun, standing out from all the jeans and leather in a cream-colored pencil skirt and jacket with a sheer beige top and matching heels. I sucked in my breath and stepped into her path, “Hey,” I said. The woman looked at me up and down, appraising me, clearly considering the goods in front of her. “I’m Tulsa,” I said with a smile and held my hand out to her. She stared for a minute and shaded her eyes from the sun before answering, “No. No you’re not. You have a real name, I’m sure.” I hesitated, not knowing where to go from here. “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. I jumped at a second chance, “Let me buy you a drink.” She looked down at my boots. “No,” she said, “not a bar. I don’t think so. But why don’t I make you a drink at my place.” She walked past me briskly, clearly intending for me to follow, and I obliged. We walked a few blocks in silence until she glanced over her shoulder at me and walked up a few steps to her door, turning her key in the lock without giving me another look.

My mind was racing. I’m always prepared for a date, for fucking, a cock in my pants. I’d been caught off guard here, but maybe that’s not what this was. Or maybe she had a cock I could use. I pictured her falling to her knees with her fingers on my belt. I pictured her bent over a creamy white sofa or a nice coffee table. Maybe in the dining room or leaning over the kitchen counters. I pictured her legs sliding apart as she begged me to fuck her. I felt more and more cocky with each image, each step into her place.

“What do you drink?” she asked me, walking towards a small bar in the living room. “I’ll take a beer,” I yelled out, a little too loudly. “I don’t have beer,” she said, amused, “I’ll pour you a whiskey. Do you take ice?” I nodded before realizing she wasn’t looking at me. “Uh huh,” I grunted, “Yeah, ice.” I tried to shake the nerves creeping up on me. Whatever, I thought. She wants me to fuck her. I swirled the whiskey around in the glass and took a deep sip before opening my mouth to say something, but she cut me off. “I don’t think there’s much to say, do you?” she said with a slight laugh. I smiled at her. I belted the rest of my drink and set the glass down as I swaggered over to her, grabbing the back of her head to kiss her. In my mind, everything was playing out a few steps ahead. I eyed the couch and started to lead her over to it.

Her kiss was cold, sterile. I didn’t understand where I was going wrong. I grabbed her hand and pulled it down between my legs. That’s when everything shifted out from under me. She shoved me backwards onto the couch and got down on her knees. I leaned back, pulling my hands behind my head, ready for something familiar but the look on her face stopped my smile. “Do you want something, little boy? Were you going to ask nicely or just shove my face in your crotch like you grabbed my hand? Didn’t anyone ever teach you good manners?” she seemed to grow larger in front of me. She shoved my boots, spreading my legs wide and grabbed my dick through my jeans. Or what would have been my dick. I felt her fingers grabbing and feeling around through my jeans.

She looked at me, mocking with a false puzzled look on her face. I could feel my cheeks turn red and hot. I stared back at her as long as I could but had to turn away. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you had something for me here?” My insides burned. “Didn’t you just grab my hand and put it on your dick?” she went on, “I got the feeling you wanted to shove my face down there. Is that right? You want to show me?” She slowly brought her gaze to my belt and nodded her head at me. My hands moved, without thinking, to my belt. She grabbed me hard between my legs, “You’re so small, I can’t even feel you.” She punched my clit through my jeans several times.

Now we’re back where we started. The beginning of my story. The moment when everything shifted. “You expect me to suck this tiny cock?” she started to berate me. I felt sick. I wanted to disappear, run out the door and never look back, but I also wanted to play this out. What the fuck was going on? I’d lost my script and it turned me on.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, unbuckling my belt and tugging my jeans down my thighs. She pushed my chest, sending me back against the couch again and grabbed me through the front of my briefs at the same time. I yelled out, more surprised than in pain. She kneaded me, starting to coo, her face held near mine, “Where did it go, big boy?” I froze like a frightened animal. She snarled in my ear, “Where’s that big cock you wanted to show me? Did you lose it somewhere?” I shuddered, my whole body convulsed, I could smell my own sweat as my instincts jumped from point to point. Did I want this or was I just stuck? I was scrambling to figure it all out. Then she pet the side of my head and cradled me in her arms for a moment, “It’s okay. We’re going to find a way to have fun anyway, aren’t we?” she whispered in my ear and I stopped shivering. I knew. My body told me what I wanted. Every muscle relaxed for a split second before tensing again. She punched my clit again and again, “I just don’t think we’re going to find it, baby,” she said, “but don’t worry, I don’t think that’s what you’re really here for anyway.”

She ran her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes and let her pet me. I’d never been pet. I’d never allowed it. I had always acted so tough, unfeeling, never could let my guard down but somehow it was gone. “Please,” I said and I felt hot tears well up in my eyes. I squeezed my eyes and gulped down all this emotion about to pour out of me. “I know how to take care of you, baby boy,” she said, her voice teasing between soothing and sadistic.

She ran her hand under the collar of my shirt and over my small, hard tits. “Are you hiding something from me, boy?” she said. Her posture changed. She stood up tall over me and took off her jacket. She spoke to me as she unbuttoned her blouse, “Let’s cut the shit.” She slapped me hard. The impact made my clit jump. I looked up at her with a suckling mouth, wanting more. She looked at me hard and laughed, tracing her finger around my lips. I wanted her finger in my mouth, but she tugged my shirt out of my jeans instead. Her nails circled around my nipples, tracing little lines until she squeezed me hard, making me gasp.

I heard myself speak. “Thank you,” I said, my voice hollow and lost. I was so far away, so outside of myself. It was perfect. She was perfect. “Thank you,” I said again and she punched my chest, knocking the wind out of me. “Thank you,” I repeated. It was all I could say for a long time as she punched and slapped me, poked and prodded. I didn’t stop saying it until she returned to my mouth and stuck her fingers inside me. I sucked my cheeks in, my tongue curling around her knuckles, sliding along the ridge between her fingers. “At least you know how to suck, don’t you?” she said, petting my head. I nodded with her fingers held soft, but firm in my mouth.

“You didn’t need to pretend you had a big dick for me” she said, “I think you know better now, don’t you?” She slid her fingers out of my mouth, dragging them down my belly, into my briefs, feeling my swollen clit in her fingers. “You’re so tiny,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. I know what you really want.” She looked at her hand in my pants, “Here. Hold this for me,” she said and shoved my own hand between my legs. I circled my throbbing clit while she stepped out of the room for a minute, coming back in only her bra with a large cock strapped on.

I winced. I don’t get fucked. I didn’t get fucked. I didn’t know who the hell I was anymore but it didn’t matter. I turned over and shoved my ass in the air towards her. She laughed. A beautiful, rich, caramel laugh that made my spine melt. “Oh, you’re too easy,” she said. I felt her dick press against my ass, “I get to choose what hole I fuck you in,” she said. I wanted to ask her to fuck my ass, but I only nodded. I was ashamed of my own pussy but nothing mattered anymore. She knew who I was, not me. I needed her to show me.

Her fingers slid, one by one, under the elastic band of my briefs. She tugged them down slowly, letting me feel her dick press harder and harder against me. I heard the lube, her hand, the ritual. Something that had been mine, but not like this. Everything was turned around and new. “Thank you,” I whispered, inaudible. She held my hips and slid her cock against my ass, between my legs. She held it in her hands and teased my holes. I didn’t care what happened, I just wanted her to use me.

“You’re a sweet little boy,” she whispered, “Have you ever been used?” I shook my head, “No, ma’am,” I answered, Tulsa coming out strong in my accent. “Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “No,” I repeated, “There was no one before you.” She moaned, “That’s so good, baby. That’s just right.” She shoved her prick into my cunt and it hurt. It hurt but I wanted her deeper inside me. My hands reached behind me, grasping. “Yes,” she comforted, “I’m right here.” She was pumping me hard and my face kept hitting the back of the couch. My skin felt raw. My lip started to bleed. I instinctively pulled my shirt into my mouth to keep from dripping blood on her furniture. “Thank you,” I cried. Over and over again, I said it, “Thank you.”

“Grab your little dick,” she demanded, “Jerk yourself off while I fuck your hole.”

I obeyed.

I came, doubled over, with my legs shaking so hard she had to hold me and ease me back onto the couch. I was her pet. She told me so. And it was true.

dirty stories, fiction

Satiated (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #3)

Posted on April 28, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Content warning: mommy/boy play, breast and nipple play

Elise wakes slowly, her body a little stiff in places that were stretched and thrust and pounded and tightened last night, still nude under her silky sheets. The boy is still asleep, face relaxed, breathing light next to her, his butt snuggles up into the crook of her hips, his body curls and folds nearly in half. A faint cloudy morning light shines behind the lightweight curtains.

She doesn’t quite want to wake him, but she can feel a stirring in her cunt for more. When will she get enough of him? It would be so easy to take him, now, thrust her fingers into his hole, strap her favorite cock on and enter him again and again until she was spent. He is hers now, she has that kind of overarching permission to take him whenever she wants him—in fact, he likes it even more that way, when she uses him unapologetically, when she demands her own pleasure from his body. That is what gets him off the most.

Shifting, she pulls her arm out from under morgan where it is starting to cramp, slides it under his neck where it has more room, and wraps her arms around him. He moves too, sighing softly and turning to face her, sleepily nuzzling against her armpit and breast and the crook of her shoulder.

“Mama,” he murmurs, soft consonants and long vowels, kissing wherever his mouth has landed. He’s very close to her nipple and she wants him to suck for a while. “G’morning.”

She kisses his forehead. “Morning, my sweet boy.”

He sighs again, snuggling closer. His mouth is doing that suckling thing already, the leftover of how he grinds his teeth at night, and she shifts against him again, turning her body so she is a little more on her back. His hands are already tucked up next to his chin and he catches her breast in his hands, feeling the nipple against his lips before he opens his mouth to suck.

Soft, so soft at first, just the slightest pressure from his mouth. Just the hardness of her against the softness of him, just the way she grows thick against him, just the way he opens soft under her. And then more pressure, and more, how he urges her deeper, how he starts to swallow. She thinks about milk coming out and down his throat, she thinks about it filling his mouth and spilling down his chin. His hands squeeze a little too, almost unconsciously, like a kitten kneading. Her cunt is hot and starting to swell.

“That’s good, baby. So nice. I like how you do that,” she says quietly, the hand under his neck smoothing his hair, touching his cheek. She can feel his jaw and lips contracting under her fingers. She can feel the want of him sucking it out of her. Sometimes he uses his tongue, but mostly he just sucks. A little harder now, and she squirms, rubbing her legs together.

“You get mama all wet, boy,” she murmurs, so soft she is barely audible, but her lips are close to his ear and he can hear. He moans a little in response. They are in a sweet bubble here, wrapped around each other, his legs around hers, rubbing his hips against her. Her right knee is bent, lifted a little and draped open to the side, pressure building in her pelvis.

He keeps sucking, mouth fully open and hungry now, sucking down as much of her as he can hold. Little sounds from the suction and the skin, little murmurs from his throat. She slides her hand down her body and cups her cunt with it, feeling how her lips are swollen already, her opening slick and needy. She circles her hole with two fingers and brings them up to her clit when they are wet.

“Ohhh god,” she moans, arching her back and sliding her legs against his, just centimeters of movement but enough to feel their bodies pressed against each other, enough to feel the friction and heat building. Her hand tangled in his short hair. Mine, she tells herself. Mine mine mine.

Her clit is hard and hot and he is still sucking like a good boy, like a hungry sweet boy who will devour everything she pours into him, like he is oblivious to how it turns her on and just needs something in his mouth. He paws at her gently, holds her breast in his hands to get the angle right, works his jaw to swallow. Elise flicks at her cunt harder, faster. She’s close, she’s always close when he is like this. Feeling the hole of his mouth open up to pull it out of her is so different than using any of his holes to shove inside. Somehow equal and opposite, somehow the thing that lets her relax, receive, be taken, be used—but still be in charge. Feeding her boy, filling him up with her milk.

“Good boy, my good boy,” she murmurs, working her hand faster, that way that only she can do.

“Ummm,” he moans a little, rubbing against her, sucking harder now, so hard it almost hurts, she almost pulls away, but it’s good, he needs it, and she does.

Her clit pulses under her fingers, cunt contracting and thick with want. She’s close, and she holds his head with more pressure, feeling her stomach contracting as she pulses, her nipple hard, sore, so sensitive, her clit hard, it’s almost too much, almost too much—. Until it isn’t, and she’s coming, her mouth open and gasping, eyes squeezed shut, lifting her shoulders a little off of the bed as all of her focus pours into her clit and her nipple, the nipple in his mouth as her boy still softly laps.

She shudders—once, twice, four times—wringing the orgasm from her body, and kisses his forehead. He sucks deep a few more times, as if cleaning off her nipple, as if tidying up the mess he made. “Mama,” he sighs happily, cheek against her chest, raising his face to be kissed. She brings her mouth down and sighs back on the bed, zings of aliveness running through her.

“Baby,” she replies. Hollowed, satiated, awake.

dirty stories, fiction

100 Bedtime Strokes (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #2)

Posted on April 26, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

“May I sit?” morgan’s voice surprised Elise; she hadn’t seen him approach. She looked up from her book and blinked, then composed her face and her answer at once.

“Are your chores complete?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Tell me.” This was their ritual every night, the way they loved to come back together. Elise’s eyes sparkle as she fights the urge to reach out and grab him, pull him into her lap. Rituals are important, she reminds herself. Not only to display her authority, though yes that too, but also to reminder her of all that he does, the many ways he is devoted. She stays more present in gratitude and strives more successfully to be worthy when she pays attention to their rituals.

He begins the list. “Your tea service is complete; the dishes are done and put away; your clothes and jewels are put away, and tomorrow’s are laid out for you. Sir Elvis Purrmeister has been fed.”

Elise feels a smile pull on the corners of her mouth, starts to suppress it, and lets it come. Her cat’s name is just Elvis, but morgan has taken to adding the honorific and surname, and Elise is too amused to have him change it. It is clear who is above whom in the hierarchy, anyway, so the proper respect is just one more thing to admire about morgan.

“Tomorrow’s schedules, both yours and mine, are next to the bed and the morning alarms are set. The bed is turned down. And, I have picked tonight’s implement, it is in the usual place on the nightstand,” morgan doesn’t look smug or tired, just pleased to be useful and grateful to be serving.

Elise sighs a little, with relief and relaxation, with the pleasure of being taken care of precisely as she likes it. “Good job, boy; you may sit.” She pats the side of her elegant thick leather reading chair and he takes his seat at her feet, leaning against her bare legs and cuddling into her with happy sighs, the tension from the day leaving his shoulders.

She takes another sip of her tea and goes back to her book—one of those classic English novels that she likes. This one is Pride and Prejudice, a favorite she re-reads once a year or so. This is the second time morgan has seen it in her hands.

Most nights, this is how it goes. Sometimes morgan has a book, or something to study, or some lines to write for training or task. Usually, Elise has a novel, something that feels indulgent but keeps her mind steady and her heart thrumming. She likes to be as far into the adult-land in the evenings as possible—spending all day with pre-schoolers and kindergarteners for her job is exhausting, and can take such a toll.

She fingers the hair on the back of his head absently, as if fingering a blanket on the chair or her own sweater. His presence is comforting, reassuring. The warm mint tea and honey soothes her and flows golden down her tongue. Everything is just right.

After a few more chapters, when Lydia elopes with Mr. Wickham, Elise closes the book with a small snap and stands. morgan blinks and quickly rises to his ready position—hands behind his back, eyes down—he does not stay seated when she is standing. She pulls him close, nuzzles her cheek against his forehead, and he wraps his arms around her waist. How well they fit together, their bodies’ contours so complimentary. She holds him there for a moment until she says, “Okay; bedtime, boy,” and they separate. She turns to the hall to go into the bathroom for some of her evening self-care, and he goes to the bedroom to strip. She takes her time—brushing and braiding her hair, applying cleansers and creams to her skin, brushing her teeth. He waits. The waiting is like meditation, but cleaner for him, as it is totally beyond his control and thus much easier for him to let go. (This is the kinds of things he tells his Mistress in his journal, which she reads weekly.)

He has picked out the thick wooden paddle, taller than her hand’s widest spread. One side is soft suede, the other is hard wood. The handle is wrapped so her hand is protected.

This paddle makes beautiful, deep bruises.

When she enters, he has taken off his tee shirt and boy short-shorts, the ones that almost show the bottoms of the cheeks of his ass. He’s down to a jock strap, the white one, on his knees, hands behind his back in his submissive meditation position next to the bed. He knows to wait there until he is released by her. He breathes in the smell of her evening lotions, now so familiar to him and so related to their evening beatings that he flinches when the sweet tangy scent reaches his nose, and his mouth salivates. He is a trained pet. She can see his arousal in the flushing of his nearly naked skin, the slight hardening of his nipples. She is nearly bare now, too, down to one thin cream-colored slip with nothing beneath it. Her feet are bare. She keeps her bedroom warm.

“Here.” She points to the bed. She is not cruel, not really—just direct, specific. She eliminates superfluousness. She does not believe in coddling in D/s; she believes in trust, agency, consent. She believes morgan’s deep desire to serve and to please, and she is grateful, yes, but she also feeds off of it. She consumes it like cotton candy, leaving her mouth pink around the edges and her fingers sticky. She needs it, just as he does. Her clipped tone is only for simplicity, and for intimacy, as she trust him not to need hand-holding. Not anymore.

Mistress Elise Winter is deft with a paddle. It was always one of her favorites when she was domming professionally, delivering such a satisfying smack and leaving such good bruises. Plus, it can be a key prop in any age-play scene: just a few words and it is suddenly a cutting board the bottom’s mom grabbed from the kitchen, or a sorority girl who stole a fraternity paddle or a headmistress’s prized discipline tool. Even more than obedience, Elise likes her subs small and little, with feigned (preferably not real) innocence. Something about the corruption just works with the way she is wired.

She whispers in her boy’s ear before she begins—something soothing, something that makes him relax, arch his ass in the air a little higher, and lean in to her just a fraction of an inch more. She rubs herself against his ass and thighs, her hand stroking the fine muscles of his back. When he whimpers a little, she knows he is ready.

Starting with her hands, she warms up his ass and thighs and upper back. He is chest-down, his face kissed by her burgundy 1000-count sheets, his feet just touching the floor of her raised bed. When she moves from the quick light swats to the deeper fist-thuds, he asks her if it is time.

“Yes; go ahead and start,” she replies.

He begins counting aloud. She’ll do twenty or thirty more with her hands beofre bringing in the paddle to finish the hundred strokes.

They don’t say much. It’s just one of those quiet nights. Elise tries to let her job fall away, the stresses of her vaninlla life out of sync with her kinky self, the projects for the non-profit board she sits on, the pressure of her mother’s struggling health battle with emphysema. Nothing precisely fills Elise’s mind, but she finds her inner world quite full when she quiets and focuses. The relief of a target, a victim, is almost enough to make her start crying, the release feels so huge, like a dam beginning to leak and ready to smash apart with the weight of what is held back.

morgan is counting. “32 … 33 … 34.” He is diligent, and taking it for her. He is deconstructing and reassembling in front of her eyes in that way that power and sensation can inspire. She slides the paddle into her grip and opens a rain of blows on his tender flesh, already pink and warm to the touch. His breathing gets heavier and his voice gets more strained. She doesn’t care; they are only just barely to 50. She winds up like a baseball batter and swings. He screams into the sheets. Drops of sweat form and trickle at his neck, at the small of his back. His ass is a round handful and she takes her grip as it pleases her, kneading like dough. She leans down to bite his ass. He yells out, “Mistress, please, oh god, please, it hurts!” He squirms away, but her hands hold his hips. She leaves a dark ring mark from her teeth; that one will bruise up nicely.

She licks her lips, and swats with the paddle again.

“This is for me, not you,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I need it, I don’t know why I need it, but I need it, need your ass like this, need my marks on you, need your ache to show in your face tomorrow when you sit down.”

“68 … 69 … 70.” He is panting between the numbers. She is taking her time, savoring each one. His ass is already purple—he won’t be able to sit. She focuses on his thighs. He is trying so hard not to squirm. She slips a finger between his ass cheeks to check on his hole: it flexes against her finger pad like a kiss, open and eager. “Hungry boy,” she murmurs, swatting again with her right hand. He whimpers, pushing back against her just a little, not wanting to be too eager or demanding, but showing he wants it.

His knees are getting weak. The bed holds him up. Elise strokes his hair and he turns so one cheek is on the bed and he can see her, just a little. Her thick braid is flying behind her like the tail of a kite, her hands moving quickly, opening his tight back hole as the paddle slams in to him. He tries with all his concentration to keep count. He misses a few, but she lets it go; he is doing so well. “So good, boy,” she coos. “You’re so good.”

He’s in the nineties now and they are both climbing. Her two fingers have dipped into the Boy Butter on the nightstand and opens his hole just enough to feel the pressure distracting him from the wicked paddle. She might let him get off. Will she? She can’t decide. She likes it when he does.

“98 … 99 … 100,” morgan is whimpering each number, tears down his beautiful cheeks, body shuddering in waves of release. Elise steps back and breathes, separates herself from him for a moment so they can both catch their breath. Her wrists throb, shoulders buzz with aliveness. A few hairs have strayed and she tucks them back into her braid.

“Morgan,” she says softly. “Get on the bed and turn over.”

He does, slowly, testing out how his muscles have been changed, wincing at the rawness. She slides her slip up her thighs and kneels on the bed, swinging her leg over him and sliding up his body.

“Oh god,” he says, muffled, before she has even lowered her cunt onto his mouth to feed it to him. Hers is a hungry mouth, too, swollen and wet, dripping. She never lets him enter her, but she uses his mouth when she wants. His stamina is impressive.

She lifts her slip just enough to it is out of the way, not restricting the openness of her thighs. Its hem kisses his forehead. He laps with his tongue, sucks with his lips and throat. Her clit is huge and bursting with need, angry and red like the palms of her hands, like his ass. She needs it, this release, maybe even more than he does—though how can they compare? But her want is monstrous, never-ending. She almost feels like herself again. She rocks her hips over his mouth and steadies herself on the headboard, arms outstretched. She barely remembers there is a person under her right now, she just grinds down and against this beautiful boy, this toy who always does it just right, just right there.

“Come when I do,” she orders, low and fast, not giving much warning—but he won’t need it. He’s been ready to come since she fingered his ass. And he knows what she sounds like, what it means when she starts clawing at his hair and suffocating him with her hole.

“Fuck, that’s it, there, god oh god oh GOD!” Elise is sitting on a volcano and erupts through her mouth with words and grunts and screams when she comes, heavy, filling his mouth with liquid, pushing it into his throat. He opens wide and takes it, shuddering under her and swallowing.

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” he repeats, breathless, still only breathing small sips of air. She moves off of him and collapses onto the pillows, he curls up in her arms.

“Stay in my bed tonight,” she says, stroking his hair.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he sighs, happy, pulling the covers up over them both as they drift off to sleep.

Satiated (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #3)

dirty stories, fiction

The Bootblack Boy (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #1)

Posted on April 16, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

Elise is so over these regular play parties. She sits in the corner drinking sparkling water through a straw—no need to muss her lipstick over a drink—and surveys the dungeon. There are a handfull of young kinklings, giddy and drunk on flesh and feasts and possibility; a smattering of couples who haven’t left each others sides, their slightly widened eyes giving away their nervousness under their I’m-cool-I-got-this external demeanor; and a handful of her own former (and perhaps future) play partners. She starts to regret that she ever let Hannah talk her in to coming. Hannah is right—of course, she always is—that it’s been too long since Elise played, but Elise just isn’t sure if what she wants is out there—or maybe more accurately, how to find it. She is starting to feel old at 35, as if everyone has found someone by now, so nobody’s left to find. Except, of course, her.

Tucked into the corner Hannah is up on the high bootblack chair, wearing her favorite blood red Agent Provocateur matching lingerie set and her stiletto thigh-high leather boots. A bootblack is buzzing around her feet, soaping the leathers, expertly massaging Hannah’s feet and calves while cleaning the leather. Elise heads over to tell Hannah goodbye and hit the road. It isn’t even midnight yet, but she’s done.

“Hannah,” she starts, a few strides away, “I—”

The bootblack and Hannah both flick their attention over to Elise. The bootblack pauses, just for a moment, blinking, as if he is caught off guard, then quickly re-focuses on Hannah’s boots.

Elise tries again. “Hannah, I’m going home.”

“What? No, you can’t go yet! They haven’t even done the demo,” Hannah protests. That means, it isn’t even midnight. “Stay until then, at least. Barely anyone is here yet. You never know … ” Hannah flashes that seductive smile full of unspoken promises, and Elise gives in immediately, rationalizing it in her head. Well, someone new could show up. The demo could be really hot.

“Hannah, may I lick your boots, please?” The bootblack boy pauses his work again and waits, without expectation, for Hannah’s permission. The boots are sparkling clean, oil and some high-quality polish lined up and waiting obediently on the tray for the next step. The boy stands still, focusing, not nervously fumbling but calm and collected. Even at the feet of one of the most powerful dommes in the room.

“You may,” Hannah answers. Though her tone was clear, Elise could hear underneath it that Hannah was a little bored, too. Though the crowd is filling out, there isn’t much of note going on tonight.

Elise’s attention drifts to the bootblack, watching as he takes his time getting into just the right position before he gently places his tongue on her finest leather. His tongue is long, thick. Like it barely fits in his closed mouth. He licks in smooth, elegant strokes, almost delicate, though the boy himself is not. He looks like he could be thrown into walls, wrestled to the ground, torn open until he bled, and he’d only say thank you and beg for more.

He licks one boot: the seam of the leather on her insole, and the line starting at her pinky toe; the textured design of abstract flowers that snakes up her calf; and even the seam at the top of the boot, past her knee, well on to her thigh. Hannah sighs, and Elise can see her hips relax and her legs fall open just a little more.

The boy kisses back down her knee and calf, and begins to lick the other boot.

Elise realizes she is staring. Almost drooling. Fuck, why hadn’t she worn her best boots? Hannah didn’t come with him, he was just working the stand, so he’s probably doing anyone’s leather. She wonders if he’s owned. She looks: no collar. How hadn’t she noticed him before? Damn he’s cute: quite a few inches shorter than Elise, probably almost the same height if she took off her towering 4″ heels. Light brown hair, light skin, fine fingers and small hands. He had a thin wisp of facial hair, the kind on teenage boys before they can grow the real thing. Elise hopes he isn’t as young as he looks.

“A little longer,” Elise tells Hannah. “I’ll stay for the demo.” She heads back over to the perch on the other side of the room and tries not to keep watching Hannah and the bootblack, but mostly fails. He is deft, supple, and Elise craves to be in that chair. Her hands start pulsing in her lap, twitching with ache and desire.

The demo starts at twenty after midnight, because kinksters are never on time. Elise loses sight of the boy by then. Probably off playing with somebody else, probably he’s the one making the grunting yelps from the back room, probably he’s already left the party and Elise won’t see him again. A butch daddy-type and thick-thighed curvy gorgeous femme demonstrate a rough blow job for the whooping crowd, the butch standing up high on the bench, the femme kneeling on it, her lipstick wrecked and drool down the front of her bright thrift-store vintage dress. Elise watches half-heartedly, giving up on the party for the second time. That’s what everybody really wants, right? Some sweet, submissive femme—not the towering domme Elise presented. No wonder she had no dates. Play was easy enough—usually—but that wasn’t really what Elise was looking for. She wanted romance, courtship, love, a partner. A wedding, even. And also a servant, a submissive, a boy who would do his proper worship, and obey all her orders to the best of his ability. Even more so than play, she wanted companionship, wanted someone to walk through life with. She’d played with poly and open relationships, and that’s a possibility, but it isn’t necessarily her preference. She is too possessive for that, she wants to go too deep and too all-out with ownership and vulnerability.

It is a hard thing to date when one’s needs are so specific, especially in a community that usually values different sorts of pairings.

Elise turns to make her way through the crowd and head to the coat check.

“Hey, you’re not leaving, are you?” A voice cuts through the noisy dungeon from someone close to her ear. It’s not Hannah s voice, who else—? She turns, coming face to face with the bootblack boy, the crowd so thick around them that they are almost touching.

“Yes, I think it’s about time,” she replies, smiling. Unless …

“I’m Morgan,” he offers his hand to shake. She takes it, palm to palm, his hand warm and smaller than hers, nesting nicely into her grip. She doesn’t let go.

“Elise,” she says.

He nods, not meeting her eyes, shyly looking down. “I saw you watching me,” he says. Elise flushes a little—was she so obvious? She usually keeps her hand much closer to her chest. But there is something about this kid, something intriguing and so very hot.

“I was,” she says. “You made quite an impression. I liked how you treated Hannah’s boots.”

He nods slowly. “I liked it too. I love to be useful.” He shifts a little, foot to foot. Someone knocks into Elise from the back and she almost falls into Morgan, but catches herself.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to make sure to introduce myself. I hope I run into you again,” Morgan says.

“I’m not sure I believe in fate,” she says, taking one of her trick cards out of her tiny pocketbook.

“Oh, I do,” says Morgan. “Absolutely.” He smiles and almost looks directly at her, for just a blink, and Elise sees his eyes sparkle.

“You do, huh,” Elise flicks her arm back and holds the card close, tapping it against her cheek, considering some options. “Then I guess your fate is to call me tomorrow.” She hands him the card, keeping ahold of it, their fingers almost touching. “Not too early, I sleep in on Saturdays,” she adds, setting up a challenge: What would “too early” be to her? 9am? 11am? She lets go of the card.

He swallows, pulling it up to his face to read it in the dim dungeon. Mistress Elise Winter, it says, with her email address and phone number in embossed navy blue text on a cream background.

“Yes, uh, Elise. I will. Thank you.”

She leans in close to his ear. “Ma’am will do just fine, Morgan. Thank you for introducing yourself. Goodnight.” Husky, low, sweet. She felt his knees tremble, saw the rumble through his body.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Ma’am,” he whispers back.

She kisses his cheek, and disappears into the crowd.

100 Bedtime Strokes (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #2)

dirty stories, guest posts

Hunger, Guest Post by Maria See

Posted on March 31, 2015by Maria See

Content warning: Age play, nipple sucking, lactation play.

Maria posted this a few (5?) years ago online, and it cracked open my desire in a way I never would have expected. I am grateful she gave me permission to reprint it, to share it with you all.

Hunger

by Maria See

Continue reading →

dirty stories, fiction

DJ’s Birthday Gangbang (Kai & DJ #4)

Posted on March 30, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

I have always wanted to throw someone a gangbang. And by someone, I mean DJ. Maybe because they’ve thrown a few for me—it’s amazing how easy it became to orchestrate one after we’d been traveling to go to kink conferences for a few years—or maybe because I’ve never seen a gang bang where the person at the center is also the top. I’m not quite sure I can wrap my head around it, even though DJ and I have talked about it a bunch.

This year, for their birthday, I decided: fuck it. Let’s just try. Worst case scenario, all the hotties we know come and it’s an awkward good time.

I’ve invited a dozen people to meet us at the dungeon at IMsL at 8pm on Friday, and DJ thinks they and I are having a scene. I asked them to strap, and I’m bringing their favorite toys to use to fuck me up.

They’ll fuck me last. I mean, they’ll do whatever they want, but I hope to be last, even better if they let me get them off after they’ve gotten their fill of everyone else. I’m packing, for sure, and wearing a crisp white tee shirt I starched just for this. On top of that, my leather shorts, suspenders, and my tall boots. I mean it is a leather event, after all.

International Ms. Leather, IMsL, is one of my—our—favorites. It happens annually in the San Francisco Bay Area. The focus is on leather women, but all kinds of genders attend, and the vast majority is queer. There are dozens of classes with amazing presenters in the day, and evening entertainment while some folks compete for the titles of International Ms. Leather and International Ms. Bootblack. We’ve been attending for the past five years, ever since 2009 when everything blew up and we almost broke up, but it ended up being a huge transformation instead. We’d always been open and slutty, but it took a reconfiguring of our relationship to put kink play in the center of our sex lives. We’ve been going to all kinds of workshops, demos, parties, and munches since then. We really reprioritized what DJ calls ‘preserving the boners,’ and have revalued sex in our partnership (and outside of it). I mean, we didn’t want to break up—but we weren’t having sex, like at all, so something had to shift. I’ve been in relationships like that before, where sex peters out and wanes, and I’d never been able to get it back—but hey, we did! It is possible, I always believed in it, I’d just never actually seen it happen before. It sounds cheesy, but I think we really loved each other enough that we wanted to stay together, so we both made commitments to change and keep growing. Plus, therapy. That was essential.

And events like these weekends are so rejuvenating for us now. It’s like we can shut out the world, dive into the power and strength of our sexual connection, and let the rest of our lives go for the whole long weekend. So blissful. It helps that we know everyone here after going for so long—but I still love meeting the new folks. You could say I have a fetish for showing the newbies the ropes. I figure it’s part of my community service.

I show up in the dungeon at 7:30 to get the perfect spot—the corner where a sling, cross, and a massage table are all nearby. Nobody else is there for the gangbang yet, but they will be soon. I told them to be a little early. My pulse is racing already and I’m nervous but excited to get this going. How will it work? What will we do? Do I really have to sit here and wait, with nothing to do, for twenty minutes?

Thankfully, Tanner walks in carrying a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign and starts looking around for me. “Over here,” I projct my voice to reach them. They nod and head toward me.

“Setting up?” Tanner asks, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, not much to do though really. I mean all the equipment is already here, so. I like this corner. Lots of options.”

We hear a smack and someone yelps from the next room over, the thin hotel walls barely concealing it. But mostly the dungeon spaces are empty. Everyone is probably still in the hospitality suite having drinks.

Tanner agrees with me about the corner, and we tart talking about the details—who is coming, how will it work? I’m getting excited. It’s going to be great. Where is everyone? Where is DJ? They had a playdate a few hours ago and were going to shower and nap before joining us at 8, but it must be almost time.

A few more folks arrive—Tanner’s friend Rachel; one of my occasional playdates, Lee; DJ’s regular fuckbuddy (and sometimes boy) Ayden. We all discuss what we’re going to do, and how our IMsL has been so far. Lee has already been in two other gangbangs today.

“It’s important to have that friend you can rely on to show up for your gangbang,” I grin at Lee.

“It is my pleasure, buddy, all mine,” they respond generously, clapping me on the shoulder.

Ayden and Tanner are doing that flirting dance, nervously watching each other and talking low. Rachel is pretty quiet, as usual, she’s just watching us all and playing with what’s left of her hair. I’ve never seen it this short—she must’ve cut it for IMsL. Practically a boy cut from the back, but the front comes down to her chin and frames her face. It’s very cute. Something about it makes me want to kiss her.

A few other folks arrive, and Tanner and Lee make the rounds in the dungeon to see if there are any stragglers who would want to come join our scene. They come back with a few wide-eyed new kinklings in tow, talking about negotiation skills and what we’re planning in our scene. Mostly, this gangbang will mean that DJ will have an audience for whatever play they want to do, and each of us gets to have a turn with them. I decided to set a timer: 3 minutes each. That’s not a lot of time, but I also kind of expect people to start lining up if they hear that DJ is down here flogging anyone who wants it. We’re all milling about a little, and Ayden and Tanner start making out, Tanner sitting up on the massage table and Ayden between their legs.

And then DJ comes in.

“What! Is this!” They shout, grinning ear to ear, arms held out wide as now more than a dozen queers rush over to them, grinning, offering hugs and kisses.

“Happy birthday!” We all yell. I’m still in the corner, holding a flogger in one hand and my phone in the other. DJ makes their way to me, scooping me into their arms and holding me hard for a deep kiss. I laugh and moan, melting in their arms.

“Happy birthday, Sir,” I say, quiet. “Welcome to your birthday gangbang.”

“What! Oh man, this is the best. Thank you, Kai, and thank YOU …” they raise their eyes to the group, gathered around tightly, eager to get going.

I put on my game face. “Here’s how it works: You get three minutes each, and thirty seconds to negotiate what you’re going to do. I mean, more if you need it, but most of these folks you know.”

DJ nods, eyes shining.

“Tanner is going first. From there, we’ll just keep offering ourselves to you, until you’re done. Good?”

DJ nods vigorously, eager. “Great.”

“And … can I be last?” I ask, a little quieter.

“Absolutely.”

I think their face is going to break from smiling so hard. “Ready Tanner?”

Tanner hops down from the massage table and comes over to DJ, kneeling in front of them. “Ready, Kai. Ready, sir.”

I start my timer. “Go ahead, then!”

DJ leans down and they whisper with Tanner for a moment, then Tanner gets up and pulls their leather chest harness off, and then their tank top, so they are naked from the waist up. They cover the few steps over to the St. Andrew’s cross and DJ follows. DJ selects a flogger from the variety of toys I’d laid out and starts swinging. They’ve been playing together for months now, and DJ so skillfully knows how to warm them up and take them up to the edge, but not push them too far. It’s lovely to watch. Tanner starts breathing hard, I can see their chest heaving, sometimes twisting away from the flogger and crying out when it’s a particularly rough blow. Three minutes isn’t very long, though, and Tanner’s back is just starting to pinken when my timer chimes go off.

“Time!” I declare. “Next?” Rachel is right there next to me, so I snag her by the arm. “You ready?”

Her eyes are playful, sparkling. “Fuck yeah.” DJ directs Tanner back toward me and I catch them, stroke their skin while they purr and hum, eyes open, still anticipating what’s next. Rachel goes right over to DJ and asks, “Can I suck your cock? Please?”

“I would be honored,” DJ says, and unbuckles their belt. When DJ gets it into their hands and adds a condom, Rachel works her mouth on it, kissing and sucking, using her tongue expertly, her inner lips, her fingertips. She makes little noises around it, closes her eyes, swallowing like it’s gourmet dessert. DJ is rapt. We all are.

I almost forget about the timer, so I start it for two minutes and that goes by so quickly. “Lee, want to go next?” I stage-whisper. Lee nods. “Know what you’re going to do?” Lee shakes their head.

“Time,” I call over. Rachel grins and laughs a little, sucking the spit back into her mouth and giving a couple more tugs and kisses on DJ’s dick.

DJ groans. “Fuck, thank you.”

“Lee?”

Lee shyly walks over to DJ as they help Rachel up, and Rachel joins Tanner in the post-sexy blissed out pile. “What do you want to do, DJ? Anything in particular?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Great. Yes please.”

They navigate expertly, getting Lee up on the massage table while Ayden and I grab lube and gloves. DJ has flavored condoms in their pocket and slide a new one over their dick. Ayden pulls up their Utilikilt to reveal nothing underneath—”The way god intended!” they declare—and they start in as soon as I start the clock. They’re comfortable enough together that they just go, without much warm-up: DJ slides in slow and starts to pound. Ayden holds their legs up by the knees.

“More lube!” Someone cheers.

“Yeah, get them!” We’re all crowded around, I can’t quite tell who is talking. Voices overlap as they start cheering DJ on.

By the time it’s my turn, half of the folks have wandered away or started their own scenes nearby, but we still have a few folks still watching.

“Do I need to set a timer?” I ask.

“Not for you, baby,” DJ answers. They’ve lost their shirt by now, skin slick with sweat. I lick some of it and it tastes so good, like DJ but saltier.

“What do you want? What can I do for you?”

They think a moment and then grab my hands. “Fist me,” they say. “Did you bring the Hitachi?”

“Yes.” I go for the toy bag and find the nearest plug. It is close enough so they can be on the massage table and it still reaches.

It takes us no time to set up. DJ is swift and determined, and I am so fucking hard after watching all of that. It’s only been an hour or so, but it was a lot of people, practically every instrument of torture and pleasure that I brought, and a lot of people to wrangle. DJ takes off their boots so they can remove their pants, and leaves their dick on. Their harness is easy enough to get under, and this way they can jerk it while I am inside of them.

They’re so wet. Open. Ready to be filled already. DJ leaves their hand lazily on their dick and works the Hitachi at the base, figuring out how best to feel the intense vibration through the harness, or whether it’ll fit under. They find a good spot and settle, sighing, back into the table. It still takes me a while to work four fingers into them, but once I do, and I add even more lube, the thumb tucks easily and I start to push. They open against me, pressing back, and I slide in. A perfect fit.

They start working their dick faster, and pressing the Hitachi harder, and bucking their hips against my hand, and by the time all of that is in place they don’t last long at all, and they come in a deep grunt and a tense spasm that crunches my hand and starts to push it out, leaving only a few fingers still trailing inside. DJ is panting on the table. They pull me up on top of them, between their legs, my weight on their whole body, and they kiss me soft and sweet. Rachel brings over their water bottle, refilled again. Ayden and Tanner are doing some wrestling scene nearby, laughing and grunting at each other.

“So good, Kai,” DJ is still smiling, blissed out and high.

“I’m so glad,” I say back, hugging them hard. “I want your birthdays to be special.”

“Is there anyone left at IMsL that you haven’t fucked?” Rachel asks, holding the water bottle so DJ can sit up a bit more.

They laugh. “I think there are a few more, yeah. Hey, it’s only Friday, after all!”

I laugh, taking a swig of water. I can feel it go down my throat, cold and sweet.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

dirty stories, fiction

Stone Grief (Kai & DJ #3)

Posted on March 27, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

By the time I ease two fingers into DJ’s ass, they already have tears streaming down their cheeks, crying in that silent release way that I’ve only seen a handful of times in the years we’ve been together, but that always means something big is going on. I breathe in, slow my fingers down, and wait. Present. Attuning to each of the smallest movements DJ’s body communicates.

“Don’t stop,” they whisper. “Just keep going.”

They make small sips of eye contact, but are mostly having their own experience. Their body shivers, sometimes from their head to their toes, sometimes left to right, rippling like a chill is going through them. I recognize that release, too. They have been so tight, so tense, their body all locked up for months now. I’m so grateful for the request to fuck them tonight. I’d do anything to help them through this.

Their back hole is tight but pliable, and they relax deeper into my hand as I slowly, slowly use my fingers to massage their insides. It feels like I’m unlocking something, that something has been clenched and is now letting go.

I’m completely unaware of the play party going on around us. There are people up on St. Andrew’s crosses, bent over spanking benches, on massage tables, tied to the wall with the eyebolts that are scattered all around this space. We are in the back corner. I snagged the sling as soon as we got here, after we checked in and made it through the socializing space where the cold pizza, nuts, and mixed veggie trays were laid out already for anyone needing a snack after or during their play. DJ is lying back in it comfortably, body completely supported, swaying slightly with the pressure of my hand against their hole. Their legs are up in the sling’s stirrups, permanently hung there for better access.

We could have done this scene at home, but DJ wanted to come here. Not necessarily to be witnessed, though the exhibitionism is something some folks at play parties seek. It is more that they wanted a place to have a big experience, a big release, that was safe and known and comfortable. Plus, they wanted to be in a sling. It’s the best place for them to receive.

DJ isn’t stone, exactly, but kind of stone-ish. I don’t fuck them very often, and almost never strapped on, though they do suck me off sometimes. They don’t have trauma about getting fucked exactly, they just don’t like it very much. It’s not the best way to get them off, I know—it doesn’t turn them on nearly as much as topping, or fucking with their own cock. But I do get to use my hands on them sometimes, especially after we’ve been going for a while and they have fucked everything out of me that they possibly can but are still hungry—that’s when I know it’s time for me to beg to suck them off, and to offer to use my hands if they want me to, which they almost always do. I think it took them a long time to receive while still being in charge.

Like tonight. They’ve been planning this all week—decided what toys we’d bring, packed the bag, made the arrangements, drove us here. They even told me what to wear (jeans and a crisp white tee shirt, often my uniform when we’re out in public anyway, but it was nice to know that they like it). DJ specifically requested a night for release and catharsis, but I probably won’t do any impact play or anything. I suppose we’ll see if they need that or not.

“Keep going,” they whisper again. I move my fingers a little faster and their asshole relaxes around them. They nod, eyes squeezed shut, tears still coming. Their hands grip the chain of the sling and they rock their pelvis a little, swaying the swing. I focus. I keep breathing. I nearly start crying myself with the emotion pouring off of them like heatwaves, I can practically see it. It’s been bottled tight inside of them ever since we got the call that DJ’s aunt, the one who had practically raised them, died suddenly of a stroke.

They are usually pretty good at handling their own emotions. I wouldn’t be with them for this long if they weren’t. But this kind of grief … only people who have gone through it really know what it’s like. My best friend was diagnosed with cancer and died when I was 20 and I lost my shit for a few years after that. It took me a while to even realize what was going on, it just felt like my life was suddenly falling down around me. DJ hasn’t lost anyone this close before, just relatives and occasional community acquaintances. I know it’s their own process and there’s only so much I can do, but I want to support and be helpful when I can. Especially when helping involves adoring their body, which I love to do anyway.

They arch their back in the sling, press their hips further into me. Their body is shuddering, shoulders shaking—maybe they are starting to really cry, those heaving sobs that are rarer still.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. It isn’t about words now, this is just about their body, the emotions stored in their thick muscles, the tenderness of their brown skin. I use my fingertips to caress them, then rest my palm on their chest, their heart. I can feel them crying through my hand. They press against me harder, and I move my two fingers a little more furiously. Their mouth opens, they cry out a little, sadness and grief and release and pleasure all mixing, still squeezing their eyes shut, face scrunching up in frustration and fury.

They find my hand with theirs and squeeze, press against me. I stand a little closer, off to the side, to get a better angle. DJ brings their other hand down to their clit-dick and starts jerking it, not quite sobbing but body heaving, beginning to moan. I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or grief or both. The music pounds and I’m starting to sweat, I can feel it dripping on my neck. It’s good that it’s warm in here, easier to be naked that way, and those of us working hard really get a workout. DJ is still pawing hard at their clit, and their hole grips my fingers and I can barely move, so tight, every muscle in them gets so tight, their hips lifting even further, pressing against me, body twisted and contorted, face all torqued like something is in their mouth that they have to swallow. They fist my hand so hard it hurts.

Until … slowly, slowly, the sobs start to come. Then a wail, long and low. Body heaving. I keel forward to offer my body next to theirs and they gladly accept, wrapping their arms around me, pulling me closer to them, crying into my shirt for a good long while.

I still don’t say anything. I can’t find my words. But really, what is there to say? It’s not about me. It’s what they need. It’s the only thing they need right now, to be able to cry for as long as they need to without someone fussing about them. I don’t need them to feel better, or to stop, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I just feel honored that they want me here, that they let me do this for them. I know sometimes they prefer to release their feelings by themself.

DJ slowly pulls their arms through our tight embrace and wipes their eyes and face and nose on my tee shirt. I laugh a little. “Is that why you wanted me to wear white?”

They smile. “No,” they say, eyes downcast. “I just like it.” They sound small, but when they open their eyes and look at me, finally, softly, they are shining and bright, alive.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx.

dirty stories, fiction

Taking It (Kai & DJ #2)

Posted on March 20, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

The boy is in the center of our bedroom, hands chained to the eyebolt in the ceiling, body stretched long. Their eyes are closed and head is hanging, just a little, and their arms are pulling up and out of their shoulders. They aren’t that tall—our chain was barely long enough. I suppose if you didn’t know better, you’d think this was a torture scene.

I guess it is, kind of. I slipped Tanner’s shirt off before we tied them up there, so their round belly and small chest with a smattering of fine light brown fur over them are exposed.

“You’ve done an excellent job today, Tanner,” DJ says, and swings their favorite flogger again, a hard thud against the boy’s body.

“Thank you, sir,” Tanner says, obediently, after they groan.

“You have been a wonderful houseboy for us,” I add, taking my turn with my own flogger, this one with wide and flat leather tails—some call it a massage flogger. It’s my favorite to be hit with, so I use it whenever I can, when I top.

Tanner lets out a grunt when it collides. “Thank you, Kai.” We can’t decide on an honorific that fits me—sir and ma’am are too binary. So we just use my name. It still feels formal, and respectful.

Tanner is starting to drip with sweat. It rolls down their back and into the waistband of their briefs, tracing the contours of their young, strong muscles. They aren’t toned, but being chubby has it’s strength advantages too. It’s almost always a toss-up to see who wins when we wrestle, even though my upper back and chest and arms are pretty well sculpted, because Tanner has actual wrestling skill. They’re fast, too. Small, about the same height as I am.

Clearly we’ve got the heat up high enough. Tanner’s dark hair is starting to glisten from sweat, proof of their hard work—not just today, doing house chores, but also the hard work of Taking It. Orders, sadistic impulses, rules—you name it, Tanner took it today. This beating is the last of it, probably. Or rather, the last part of Taking It that is for us, and the start of Taking It that is for Tanner. DJ has a plan, I can tell. And I generally find it works best to just go along with DJ’s plans.

“Go around Tanner and hold them up, will you, Kai?” DJ pauses the flogging to lightly touch Tanner’s back, trailing their fingers over the sensitive exposed skin, still dancing with sensation.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer, draping my flogger over my shoulder. I don’t usually call DJ “Sir,” but when they’re being sir to someone else, I get the urge. I brace my feet and legs, grounded into the floor, and press myself against the front of Tanner’s body. They immediately lean into me and sigh, some of the pressure lifting from their limbs.

“How you doing?” I say softly, stroking Tanner’s hair.

“So great,” they reply, words humming and high. “More?”

I chuckle. “Sure. How about I stay while DJ flogs you for a while?”

Tanner nods, body limp and leaning on mine.

“Go for it, Sir,” I move my arms out of DJ’s way and focus on being a tree for Tanner.

The boy stiffens when he’s hit, then collapses again; stiffens, collapses, stiffens, collapses. Their breathing catches, evens out, and catches again. I breathe too.

I peek over Tanner to watch DJ. Their body flexes and heaves, shifting their weight back and forth on their legs, turning at the hips to get more torque into each blow. They are so elegant with a flogger. It looks like an extension of their arm, the energy flowing out and then fraying into the leather, colliding with another and emptying the charge down DJ’s arm, into the flogger, and out through the tails. DJ’s face is all concentration and precision—I’ve seen that look when they work me over, probably hundreds of times before. It makes me blush and rub my thighs together. It turns me on, hard.

Tanner sighs, body releasing, relaxing into me even further. It’s hard on a body to hold itself up and receive a beating at the same time. I readjust my feet to be more stable, so they can take the pressure out of their muscles and bones. They really did do incredibly well today. They showed up precisely on time (after the last time they were late, I would’ve been shocked if they hadn’t), and had clearly been working on the postures we’d wanted them to learn: kneel (when at rest and we are sitting), present (when they have something to ask or request), stand at ease (when chatting), stand at attention (when receiving orders). They even went through them all gracefully in a way that still felt masculine, not feminizing.

DJ winds up and throws a few more times, hard, the smack of the leather jolting both me and Tanner. I can almost feel the flogging through their body, its impact reverberating through me like bass through a speaker. Tanner cries out and their breath comes in heaves, deep sighs and moans coming up from somewhere low. DJ presses their body up against Tanner from the back, arms reaching around to hold me too, and the three of us synch up in breath, in heartbeat.

The boy is in the center between us, stripped bare, still sweaty, doing an excellent job of being holes for both of our cocks. Mine they are working over with their mouth, tonguing it and keeping their throat open, as DJ’s pushes in and out of their asshole. Don’t worry, we worked it in slow, with lots of lube, the way you’re supposed to. But Tanner was well-stretched and ready for it. They have been practicing with a butt plug in the weeks that we don’t play.

We’re all piled on the bed, our dark blue comforter and crisp white sheets already torn from the bed and scattered. DJ has ahold of one of the tall, sturdy posts on our four-poster, and I’m entirely on the bed, kneeling up by where the pillows usually are. They’re only half-way on the bed, one foot planted on the floor and the other knee hiked up onto the mattress, perfectly positioned behind Tanner. The lights are dim in here, the walls are a soft suede shade of tan. Our furniture is crowded to two walls in this smallish bedroom, but that’s just so we can have room for the eyebolt and to throw a flogger. We’ve been slowly outfitting this room as our bedroom slash dungeon for a few years now, and I still have dreams of making it even better, but for now, it’s great.

DJ and I are stripped bare too, mostly because clothes just seem to get in the way. Don’t tell them I told you, but DJ loves being naked. They’re rarely clothed beyond boxers when we’re home alone. It is kind of hellish on our heating bill, but it’s well worth the eye candy.

Each time DJ slides their cock in, the pressure pushes Tanner just enough that their mouth swallows my cock a little deeper. I barely even have to move, just the movement between us is enough. When I get my hips going, Tanner is like a ping-pong ball between us: I push them back to DJ, onto DJ’s cock, and DJ pushes them back to me, onto mine.

Tanner is moaning and drooling and coming, eyes closed, limbs limp. We’ve been at them for probably an hour like this already. They have moved past the begging and screaming stage into the blissed-out sub-space that is practically non-verbal. They’re just about done. But we’re not.

DJ reaches for me, catching the hand that’s on Tanner’s back, and pulls me toward them. We can just barely reach each other to kiss. “You’re going to come, Kai,” they whisper, mouth on mine.

I gasp, hips thrusting and contracting automatically when they talk like that. “Yes, Sir,” I manage to sputter.

“You’re going to thrust that dick of yours into this boy’s little mouth and use it.”

“Yes, Sir!” Harder now. Tanner chokes a little and opens up their mouth to get more air.

“You’re going to come while I fuck this boy in the other end.” They thrust harder and I match their rhythm. DJ holds my head with one hand and Tanner’s hip with the other, their hips gyrating like a pop star. Their spine is snake-like, each movement rippling up. They grip my head harder.

“Ohh, ohhh fuck, god that’s so good,” I keep one hand in Tanner’s hair, not forcing anything but more to feel the movement on my dick from a different angle, and the other hand is reaching for my clit under my harness, getting the angle as close to perfect as I can. I’m so close.

“Do it for me. Come on.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying, if anything is coming out of my mouth aside from groans and whimpers. Maybe I said thank you or I love you or oh god oh fuck holy good god damn … all I remember is the explosion that started in my pelvis and radiated out, squeezing every drop of resistance from me and opening up every cell in my body. As if all at once, each proton and neutron and electron shivered, shaking off any old dust or residue, and when the haze settled, each one was shining, sparkling anew.

I can barely hold myself up by my own thighs, they’re still quivering as Tanner looks up at me, one hand on my cock, licking the final drips from it, kissing it as they take their mouth away. DJ is grinning that cocky half-smile that suckered me in to a date with them in the first place, and I swoon and collapse and nearly start to cry with the adoration.

I fall over sideways, collapsing and starting to laugh, still breathing hard. “Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn you two. I’m surprised I didn’t just have a heart attack. My whole body felt like it just … exploded.”

DJ wraps around Tanner and they both reach for me. We’re all humming with vibration, pulsing with lust and thrusting.

“God, I love you,” I say, holding eye contact with DJ.

“I love you,” they say back, soft, their eyes crinkling at the corners, licking their lips and looking at mine like they want to kiss but can’t quite reach me.

“I love you both!” Tanner bursts. And we all laugh—not because it’s ridiculous, but because it’s so obvious and sweet, and we can all feel it alive in us.

“I love you, too, Tanner,” DJ says.

“Yeah. Love all around,” I say, and Tanner hoists forward to cuddle against me, and we all rest and talk for a while, before sending Tanner on their way.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Bare Leatherworks floggers.

dirty stories, fiction

Cruising in the Woods (Kai & DJ #1)

Posted on March 15, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’m supposed to find DJ, but I’m not exactly in a hurry to get out of this sea of hard dicks. I’d know their favorite strap-on anywhere, and it is definitely not yet in my line of sight. Not that I can see anything. It’s pitch black, almost midnight by now, and this particular part of Ramblewood is so secluded that the moon is the brightest light source.

Someone is up against that tree. I can only see their outline: they’re big, wearing a baseball cap, flannel, jeans, boots. They growl, “C’mere, then,” when I get close enough. A little more polite than actually grabbing me. I drop to my knees and start unbuckling their belt. They swat my hands away and do it themself. Their dick is thick and short, black silicone from what I can tell. I condom it quickly, the thin plastic stretching, taking a little extra effort. Worth it to keep my mouth clean. I try not to gag on the cherry flavor—one of my poly arrangements is using only flavored condoms with others. It keeps the encounters feeling more like play. Not that I’m worried—DJ and I have been together for 8 years, I am too eagerly devoted to them to think of it as much else. This kind of thing? It really is just play.

I open my mouth to lick and suck. I can’t get it very far down, but it’s not very long. I stretch my lips, try to open at the hinge of my jaw. I suspect this is that butch I saw at the needle play demo earlier, in the front row, taking notes. But I could be wrong. Almost impossible to tell in this dark. They’re big, girthy and heavy-set, and their cock matches, short and fat. It’s so hot when they match. Sometimes the pipsqueak fags have these huge strap-ons that they have no idea how to drive, and they don’t match their frames at all. This guy knows what they’re doing.

They seem like they’re having a hell of a time, grunting and starting to hump at my mouth like a teenager. They resist using their hands, though I can tell they aren’t sure where to put them, so they end up hugging the tree.

I use my hands to twist and jerk them off, and to press in harder to their bits underneath. “You gonna spew?” I ask, mouth still touching. “I’ll take it. I’ll suck it down.” I doubt they’ll really come, but it gives us an excuse to be done. I reach one hand down my loose jeans to finger my clit-dick, hard and throbbing. I slick my fingers with my own juices and slide them easily over my swollen junk, eager to drink down this big guy’s come and keep going. Who knows how many more before I find DJ.

Mister Girth brings both hands to their chest and tweaks at their nipples, face twisted into that delicious little death: eyes squeezed shut, mouth gasping for something to gnaw. I can only see it when they turn just right and the moonlight through the one opening in the trees pours in. They shudder and grunt a few last times, leaning hard into the tree to be held up.

“Thanks,” they mutter, as I stand and fish my hand out of my pants. I’m hard as stone and can’t wait to get off. DJ, where are you?

“My pleasure. Gotta go,” I answer, and turn into the woods.

I barely get ten steps before I see my next cock. I mean, trick. I mean, notch in my bedpost. They’re sitting on a stump, elbows on knees. I see them before they see me. They’re watching the dark, totally still, something deep churning behind the quiet. I know they’ll taste like ash and smoke. My mouth waters.

I snap a twig on my next step and their head snaps up, and they see me. I advance slowly. We make eye contact and they don’t break it. Their eyes are shadows but I can still feel them locked into mine. In this dark I can barely register colors, everything looks blown out, black and white.

And that’s how our negotiations are, too. Simple, one-word consents. None of us would do it like this in the dungeon that’s just on the other side of the pond, but we all have enough trust and acceptance of risk to keep going here.

I kneel again, still keeping my eyes on their face. They are already unbuckling. My ankles are starting to hurt and I think there’s something—a pine cone? Hopefully not a rock—under my left knee. I tighten my quads and pull up in my pelvis, imagining myself long. My swimming skills are useful in the strangest places.

“Behind your back,” they say when I reach for their jeans. Their voice is low and harsh, edgy. Immediately I slide my hands behind my back, grasping the wrists, thursting my chest forward. I want anything, though I’m smarter than to offer that aloud. They take their dick out and start to jerk it. It’s long and almost slim, just a couple fingers. I’d guess it’s a Leo.

They start talking: “If I had it my way, I’d leave you there until I shot all over your chest. Would you like that, boy?” They’re guessing at my gender, but they aren’t far off.

“Yes, sir,” I swallow.

“And we’d leave you a sticky mess. You’d get covered in come.”

I moan. I fucking love dirty talk. “Yes, yes please…”

“No begging. Just wait right there. I’ll stuff up that mouth if you don’t shut it,” they take a breath and jerk a little faster. “I don’t know why I should let you touch my dick, anyway. You don’t deserve it. All you get is my come. You’re lucky to even get that.”

I moan, involuntarily, and try to swallow it back.

“Quiet,” they growl. “Or I’ll send you on your way. Just need your obedience right now, that’s all, just do as I tell you and you can have my come … ohhh,” they start shuddering, holding their breath and then letting it out in a long puff of air. We both breathe hard. I might have come in my jeans, my thighs feel all wet and sticky. I wait. I listen to the night, I can hear grunts and someone moaning, “fuck fuck fuck,” off in the distance. Could it be—no, not DJ, it’s not their voice exactly, though hard to tell.

“Okay, get out of here. Go on,” the contemplative queer on the stump packs away their dick and stands, looking ready to call it a night. “That’s it for me, I’m spent. Thanks,” they toss back to me as they head out of the woods, back the way I came.

I pass the “fuck fuck fuck” couple, who are full-on fucking, one bent over in front of the other, pants around their ankles, body quaking with each thrust. Who knows what hole they’re using, or even what holes they have. I can’t tell either of their genders.

I’m practically ready to give up on finding DJ when I turn a bend in the path and there they are. Laying back on a log, some young thing’s mouth on their dick. I freeze like prey—maybe they can’t see me if I’m still—my eyes still riveted, locked on their bodies joint movement. Fuck, they’re so sexy. I can tell by the way they’re doing half-crunches, their stomach rippling and contracting, that they’re close. I reach for my clit-dick through my jeans and press. The pressure building is starting to hurt, to ache between my legs. I know just how they come with their dick sliding in and out of a hole, especially a mouth. I love seeing it from afar. Their hand is behind their head and everything is contracting at their core, and pretty soon everything will start exploding out and they’ll probably gush everywhere. I wonder if that kid is using their hand too. Could be, too dark to tell.

DJ starts coming in a hushed whisper, rushing words from their mouth: “Don’t stop right there fuck yeah fuck yeah,” and I swallow a moan in my own throat. Fuck I love them.

They seem all shy after, not making much eye contact, timid. They pack up and sit up on the log, and the kid offers a peck on the cheek before setting down the path. When they brush by me, they mutter, “Hey,” but don’t look at me, a big grin on their face. It’s Tanner, I realize—a very service-oriented boy we know from back home in Denver.

“Hey, sexy,” I call quietly, as I approach.

“Kai! Baby, I was wondering when you’d come,” they hop up and grab for me, arms sliding around my waist as I reach around their neck and kiss them. They’re only a few inches taller, but it’s enough that I’m the one who is always reaching up. “You still hard?” They grab for my crotch. I packed something small, just enough, a pissing packer with a hole in the center—which feels great to be sucked off through.

I groan in response. “Yes. Very hard.”

“You didn’t get sucked yet?”

“No … I was kind of waiting for you.”

DJ grins. “That’s so sweet. You didn’t have to wait.” They unbuckle, unzip my jeans and slide their hand down. I’m so wet, so swollen. I nearly come right then.

“Please, your mouth, please,” I manage. DJ drops to their knees and take out my small packing dick, and softly takes it onto their tongue before adding their throat muscles and sucking.

My body ripples, I’m so sensitive, I’m not even sure I can stand to be touched. But it feels so good when it’s soft, and just right. I palm their shaved head, finger their ears and the contours of their skull. My feet are planted and I can feel myself so close, DJ’s mouth is so wet, lips big and soft, wrapped around me and sucking and I can feel it in my clit-dick, oh god.

“Oh god, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—” I shudder and groan, pressing out, feeling some come drip out of me and down my thighs.

DJ looks up at me, grinning. “You’re so hot.”

I blush a little, weak in the knees, so open.

“You hungry?” They ask.

“Starved!”

“I bet midnight snack is on.”

“Best thing I’ve heard all night! Well, maybe second best. You weren’t very loud, but I loved hearing you come.”

Now DJ blushes, a little bashful. “Aw, you heard me?”

“Heard and saw.”

“Aww… now I’m embarrassed. I didn’t get to see you.”

I grin and hug them close, nuzzling into their neck and chest at that spot where I fit so well. “Next time,” I say, and we walk out of the woods together.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #98, Micah Riot and Papi Coxxx. Toys mentioned in this story: Vixen Creations Leo, Buy it at Babeland; Vixen Randy, Sugarbutch review; The Number One pissing packer, get it on Etsy.

dirty stories, fiction

The Last Night (Asher & Jesse #5)

Posted on February 28, 2015by Sinclair Sexsmith

The envelope from UT Houston stayed hidden in Jesse’s file cabinet for a week before she even had the nerve to tell Asher it had arrived. The other rejection letters from Seattle Pacific University and Seattle University and University of Washington were thinner, only containing one page and a quick ‘thank you for your application,’ a band-aid ripped off clean and swift—but this one from UT was thick. That had to mean something, right? That was a good sign. Jesse wasn’t really even sure she wanted an MFA when she applied, but then when there was more than no chance at all hiding in her very own drawer, she is pretty sure she wants nothing else in the world more.

Except …

“Asher, call me back when you get this. Love you baby.” Jesse leaves a voice mail. Asher is probably still with clients, 6pm on a Tuesday, but it was worth a try before Jesse goes in for her shift at the store.

Would Asher go with her? Would she want to? What if they got married? Is that crazy? What if they broke up? How would sex ever be this good with anyone ever again?

Jesse’s mind raced with stress and change and all the options in the history of options that ever there was. She finally stripped her jeans and boxer briefs off and dropped them next to her bed, pulling her vibrator out from the box on the bookshelf that held her harness, Shilo packing and playing cock, and the nipple clamps that she’d brought from Asher’s house, and she pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets. The bed had a chill underneath the fabric, something that turning up the heat never seems to help, as if the bed had a secret draft that is always letting out warmth. Maybe that’s why they always stay at Asher’s house.

Jesse put a pillow over her forehead and eyes to block the light, wanting to only feel and let her mind think and wander. She turned on the vibrator and touched it to her cunt, using the broad side of it to work the wet out of her and ease her into wanting.

She thought about Asher, whose dresses and layers of skirts and fluff of fabrics make her mouth water and palms sweat. And that one shirt of Asher’s, thin as the skin of dried grass, the one she always wears with extra bright colored bras under so everyone knows it’s on purpose. Jesse thought of that time she’d crawled under the table, dug through the layers of crinoline in Asher’s princess-cut dress, and worked her mouth up Asher’s stockings until she reached the wet between her legs and lapped and lapped until Asher banged on the table and squeezed Jesse’s head with her thighs so hard that Jesse couldn’t hear anything. Jesse was so dizzy with lust and permission, so intoxicated by Asher’s bold shamelessness, so in love. Just the memory made her almost spill over the edge of orgasm, so it only took another minute for Jesse to put the vibrator in exactly the right spot, and come.

After Jesse got off, she fell asleep, dreaming that she was swimming out to an expansive horizon on a perfectly calm sea. Her swimming was easeful, as simple and known to her body as walking, as calm as laying in the grass under dappled sunlight through bright green leaves. She woke refreshed and clear, and put the envelope and looming decision out of her mind, holding instead to the expanse of blue as she squeezed back into her tightest and stretchiest skinny jeans, and headed to work.

Jesse knows she’s not supposed to want Asher to beg her to stay, but she hopes she does. She’s not supposed to want Asher to drop her whole life here and come with her, but she wants that too. Maybe she’s supposed to want to stay, but she doesn’t. She’s been in Seattle her whole life. It’s comfortable, easy, simple. But since Asher, and since the kind of sex she’s been having with Asher, Jesse’s world has been split open—like it was thrown off of something really tall. So why not reassemble it in a new configuration? She hates the dreary rain, hates that she can never quite get warm and always ends up shivering in the dark under clouds splashed orange with city streetlight glow. She wants tropical fruit and thunderstorms and a thriving metropolis. She wants to discover who she’ll be when she’s states away from her narcissistic step-mom who has never quite allowed Jesse to separate, and who still expects “this gay thing” to be a phase. What would happen then? What if Jesse could remake herself from scratch? The idea feels like a betrayal somehow, a secret she shouldn’t reveal for fear of being so shamed she’ll never share herself, even to herself.

“Got your message. Meetings ran late. Still coming over after work?” Asher texts Jesse after her shift starts, so she doesn’t reply until she’s off the floor for her break.

“Sure. Be there around 10, I’m closing.” Jesse texts.

“Bring your dick, I really wanna get fucked hard tonight,” Asher replies right away. Jesse hesitates. She doesn’t have it, will have to go home to pick it up. She isn’t sure she can get it up to fuck, but then again, Asher always seems to be able to inspire her, even after almost a year together. But sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter that Jesse is the one fucking her, that as long as Asher gets fucked, that is the real desire.

When Jesse goes back to her apartment, past where the neighbors doors are always leaking pot smoke, up the stairway with the lamp out and around the dark dark corner where Jesse always holds her breath, slides her key into the lock that always sticks, she grabs the strap-on and the harness, the nipple clamps, and the thick envelope from its hiding place in her file cabinet, and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up, she heads back out into the grey Seattle night.

Two hours later, Asher is worn out and giddy with endorphins and Jesse is sleepy but still wet and swollen. Asher works her mouth on Jesse’s clit, sprawled naked between Jesse’s open thighs, sheets and blankets long tossed onto the floor, tangled around the bed. Asher bends her own knees to lift her feet in the air, parting Jesse’s cunt gently with her fingers, and expertly uses the smooth inner parts of her own mouth to suck.

Jesse is having trouble letting go and relaxing, but coaxes herself through it gently in her own head. It’s okay. You’re safe and you can do it. Just focus on how good it feels. It feels so good. Give her direction if you want more or less of something. She’ll listen. It’s okay.

She doesn’t need to change what Asher does, once she can relax. Asher has done this before, not tons, but probably a dozen times in the last year, and enough to get a feel for what Jesse’s body craves and how she likes to be touched and tongued and held. Asher works her mouth, gently sucking, flicking her tongue over Jesse’s clit, tugging and parting and opening. It feels to Jesse like it is taking her a very long time to get off, and she tries not to let her brain yell at her for being so slow, so unresponsive. It’s okay to take a while. This isn’t a race. Nobody’s in a hurry, Asher’s not in a hurry, she tells herself.

When Jesse finally comes, Asher’s arms are underneath Jesse’s thighs, Jesse is pushing her cunt hard into Asher’s mouth, her hands on Asher’s head and tangled in her hair. Asher is sucking and flicking with her tongue and pulling with her fingers. Jesse feels all that tension well up and up and up in her, until her pelvis feels so full of pressure from all sides, inside and outside and all around, until something gives way and it pours open, her whole body shuddering, crying out, gasping, moaning Asher’s name.

Asher softens her touches and rests her head on Jesse’s thigh for a minute, then wipes some of the wet from her mouth and slides up next to Jesse, tucking her head onto Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse kisses her, tasting her own musky sweetness and just some hints of Asher’s orange and cream lip gloss.

“Was that … okay?” Asher asks finally, in a small voice.

“So good,” Jesse moans out the words, limbs still liquidy and soft. “I love how you use your mouth. I love how you hold me so well. Thank you. That was … just right.”

Asher snuggles closer. “Good. I want to do it how you like it.”

“I know,” Jesse yawns, body spent, wrung out, tired from her retail shift and from staying up late last night finishing an essay. She wants to bring up the envelope, the future, what they’re going to do. She wants to ask Asher what she thinks, what she wants, what kind of life she could possibly envision them having together, what her next tattoo is going to be. She wants to hear Asher brainstorm about places they could live or adventures they could take, elaborate meals they would make together for brunch on the weekends, what kind of TV shows they would watch while they were winding down from their jobs and lives and stresses of being queer in the world. She wants to brainstorm herself about poems she’ll write, essays she’ll submit to online magazines that will go viral and say important things, teachers she’ll work with, kinky conferences they could attend together. She wants to do all these things. With Asher. Asher, the girl who lit a fire inside her pelvis and told her exactly where it belonged. Asher, who instigates and entices, with a flip of the hair or the way she turns her knee in or how she spreads her legs. Asher, who isn’t shy, and isn’t afraid of looking at the truth.

“Goodnight,” Asher whispers, and puts out the light, kissing Jesse on the cheek and settling back in. Asher’s thick blanket has magically been pulled up over them both.

Jesse can’t get her mouth to open and her eyes to wake enough to form words, let alone to say them aloud, but she is ready to talk to Asher in the morning. Jesse starts drifting to sleep even as she’s imagining what she’ll do: She’ll get the envelope out, she’ll tell Asher it arrived, they’ll open it. And they’ll figure out what will happen next. Together.

Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

All NaturAL: 6.5″ Pack, Pee, Play & Pleasure – Warm Rosy Skin

Let’s talk about how it works & what it’s like

Pros

Cons

Rating it on a 1-5 star scale, 5 being the best and 1 being meh:

Best Lesbian Erotica 1998

Best Lesbian Erotica 2006

Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

And now: Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition

PS: Comment on any of these posts for a chance to win a free copy of Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition. The drawing will be held by February 28th and the winner announced by March 5th.

Gender Perception & Getting a Thicker Skin

Okay wait: a note on class

Download the Gender-Neural Language Sheet

A note about “guys.”

On Standing Up for Someone Else

Is this conversation completely among trans/masculine people?

This is not a conclusion

1. BD Swain, www.bdswain.com

2. Xan West, xanwest.wordpress.com

3. Words Can Be Sexy, wordscanbesexy.com

4. Kyle, www.butchtastic.net

5. Trans Fag Sex Journals, transfagssexjournals.blogspot.com

67. Rebekah Weatherspoon, www.rebekahweatherspoon.com/blog

7. Kiki Delovely, kikidelovely.wordpress.com

8. Jen Cross, writingourselveswhole.org

9. Jack Stratton, www.writingdirty.com

10. Benji Bright, Underwear Tales

Giselle Renarde, Donuts and Desires

Bonus

Please let me/us all know in the comments!

The Magic Wand Original

rife’s rank: #2 Sinclair’s rank: #2

Plus:

Minus:

Buy it at:

The Doxy

rife’s rank: #4 Sinclair’s rank: #4

Plus:

Minus:

Buy it at:

The Magic Wand Cordless

rife’s ranking: #1 Sinclair’s ranking: #3

Plus:

Minus:

Buy it at:

The Lelo Smart Wand

rife’s rank: #3 Sinclair’s rank: #1

Plus:

Minus:

Buy it at:

And there you have it, folks!

Last but not least …

The stops on the blog tour:

Submissive Playground registration is open!

1. Establish whether or not they want to be flirted with.

2. If they have a submissive already, befriend them.

3. Offer to be of service.

4. Use their title.

5. Be willing to be wrong.

6. Ask for what you want.

7. Offer your contact information.

Submissive Playground registration is open!

What drew you to Submissive Playground? Where were you before you took the course?

What was your favorite part of the experience?

What did you learn?

What kind of skills did you build?

What changed with your relationship to submission?

What changed with your relationship to your dominant?

How & why would you recommend this to other submissives?

Submissive Playground registration is open!

Hunger

by Maria See

rife’s rank: #2
Sinclair’s rank: #2

rife’s rank: #4
Sinclair’s rank: #4

rife’s ranking: #1
Sinclair’s ranking: #3

rife’s rank: #3
Sinclair’s rank: #1

Submissive Playground
registration is open!

Submissive Playground
registration is open!

Submissive Playground
registration is open!