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Archive for the ‘Smut’ Category

As I have stated here in the past, I am a switch. This means many things to many people, but for me it means I can play both the traditional binary D/s or top/bottom roles, and enjoy them both. If anything, I tend to be more comfortable in the submissive role, and get a ton out of it, particularly with male dominants. And this, as I have discussed ad nauseam in this space, can be problematic in all kinds of ways.

It’s been a long time since I’ve found those desires problematic for myself in particular; I’m pretty well settled on the fact that being dominated by a (right) man in particular ways is one of the most loving and fulfilling ways I experience sex, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable with my identity or doubt my power or agency as a woman. But I do notice this one annoying thing:

Where the hell is all the good porn at?

My longtime girlfriend and I were discussing the magnificant John Preston (RIP) the other night, as I had just recently finished I Once Had A Master (which I’d started years ago) and gone on to the gay leather classic, Mr. Benson. We were sharing our undying love for gay leather porn, how unapologetic it is, how raw, how rich in enthusiastic consent and unabashed, rough desire. Preston’s work paints a generation of gay life that literally no longer exists: the magnificent black knights of Folsom Street and Christopher Street, the Mine Shaft, the sex clubs that saw the wildest nights of an era passed by gruff men in boots and harnesses, worshipping and fisting and pissing on and fucking each other in acts of such profound intimacy and freedom that the earmarks of their slavery were worn as marks of pride. All of it wiped out, vaguely reflected today in a leather culture that is straighter, narrower, smaller.

And we realized together that the thing we both so love about this stuff is the ease of it all: the removal of the need to describe every negotiation in painstaking detail, the way the straightforward maleness of it all takes questions of patriarchy out of the power dynamics, the way two characters in this world can come together and be absolutely clear that they both want to be there, more than they want anything else in the world.

Which is not to say that Preston’s characters never experience self-doubt. Hell, the hottest and sweetest stories always involve someone feeling unsure, scared that they’ll scare the bottom away, or that they won’t be good enough, or any of a number of poignant human moments that make the encounters that much more real.

But rarely in gay leather porn do you find, say, an elaborately constructed fantasy in which the submissive must be captured, groomed, and “tamed” (read: raped) in order to become a “true slave.” Or stories in which a dominant man is the way he is because of his abuse history and must ultimately be “saved” by the submissive. Or in which the dominant likes beating up and treating submissives badly because he has some other axe to grind – or worse, because the author does.

My girlfriend points out that much writing about and for submissive women who like dominant men – Anne Rice’s extremely silly Beauty books come to mind – has built into it a component of nonconsent because women feel they need some excuse to surrender. And I get this, I do: it’s really hard to deliberately give over power to a man in a society that still demads that we do so in every other way, which simultaneously telling us that we must under no circumstances do that. When it comes to stroke fiction, it’s not surprising to me that many women need an “out” in order to safely explore their desires.

But my gods, is it exhausting. Also, to me at least, super not-hot. I would much rather read a negotiation, complete with nervousness and all the little things a dominant can do to make a negotiation hotter, than read a story in which the scene happens because of kidnapping, abuse, rape, or Stockholm syndrome.

Still more than that, though, I’d like to read a scene like some of the ones in Preston’s work, where two people see each other across the bar and then the dominant tests to see if the sub is what he wants that night. Those squeezes and looks, orders and countermands, the dance of seduction – it’s hot, and it’s a lost art, sacrificed to rape culture. And that fucking sucks.

If anyone knows of any male dom / female sub porn that actually makes this work in a way that is both pantsfeelings-inducing and clearly consensual, please send it my way. Until then, I’ll be in the bathtub with Mr. Benson.

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Through Orlando’s Tumblr page, which is already hot enough to keep me distracted, I’ve stumbled across the Leathermen Tumblr page, which might be enough to destroy my productivity forever. Particularly distracting thus far are this image of a top wringing a washcloth (presumably full of his own sweat) over the bound and bruised body of his boy, who looks out at the camera with the most glorious expression of mingled humiliation and challenge; this prototypical image of a couple in an alley in full leathers, where the top’s expression is rough with power and pleasure and doesn’t seem to be for the camera; and this shot of a man in uniform, casually enjoying a cigarette while he rests his booted feet on a boy who’s worshipping his leathers.

What can I say, I’m an old fashioned kind of gal.

Still other images I love for their simplicity and beauty in what they evoke, like this one of a leather pantleg, hand, and boot on some stairs, or this sweet one of a Daddy cutting his boy’s hair.

If I haven’t mentioned it in this space before, I’m something of a leather slut. I’m not too excited by the kind of leather female dommes are expected to wear, though I’m happy to wear it because hey, leather. But the gay leather iconography gets me so hot it sometimes feels like I’m one of those fetishists I see from time to time whom I feel sorry for because they can never truly fulfill their fantasies: giantess fetishists, for example, or people into vore.

But from time to time I butch up and treat my girl nice, and from time to time I boy up and get kicked around by my Daddy a bit. And those are times when I feel my gender dissolve into something new and mythical and beautiful. It’s painful, too, though: I know the unreality of it, and I also embrace the femme side of me, and wouldn’t want to change. There’s something terribly poignant about this type of play, and something godlike to me about these images of men doing terrible, wonderful things to each other without shame or doubt.

One time, I got to go to Provincetown with my Daddy, and watch him get picked up, picked over and appraised by a number of men. We went cruising and drinking with these guys, hung out in front of Spiritus after closing, got shown the infamous “dick dock.” I felt like Goldilocks surrounded by all these warm and loving bears, and at the same time I felt like a squealing fangirl, a fag hag, the least interesting person in the room. Still, there was something freeing about it: I didn’t have to perform, only to admire. Only to wish I were one of them.

It was a night when I got to face down my high school demons at last, in a way I never expected. I was in love with a gay boy in high school, and I always thought it was because I wasn’t ready to have a real sexual relationship. My crushes on gay men continued through college – particularly when I didn’t know someone was gay. Later in college I dated a bi man, and would continue to stumble into queer space for a long time to come.

It’s only recently that I’ve come to recognize that fag haggery isn’t part of my sexuality: it’s more that I’m part gay boy. My attraction to gay men and leathermen isn’t entirely unrealizable: my own Daddy proves that, as do my interactions with other amazing bi men who see fit to draw me into their worlds. I’ll never be a real boy; I’m a bit like Pinocchio in all this. But I’m proud to be a part of what seems to be an ever-expanding definition of queer leather.

And still totally distracted by that Tumblr account.

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I’ve always had a thing for topping dominant men. There’s just something so delicious about taking someone who’s caused you so much pain and pleasure and making them squirm.

Even nicer, though, is topping other switches. Switches are some of my favorite people to play with, actually, and I’m lucky to be in a scene where not a ton of value is placed on identifying as “pure top” or “true submissive.” While I know a few people who would never think of picking up a paddle, and a few others who would laugh in my face if I asked to tie them down, most of the folks I know either truly enjoy both roles, or at least occasionally dabble in the role that isn’t usual for them.

The neatest thing about it, I think, is that switches who can fully engage in both roles already know what both roles feel like. It makes them more sensitive to the difficulties and insecurities each role can bring up, and allows them both to help the other party along if he or she is inexperienced, and to fully surrender or take control in the role they’ve chosen.

Submission is always a gift, but it feels like an extra-special gift to me when I’m given it by the one who spends most of his time domming me.

There can be few better ways to spend an afternoon then sliding gloved fingers in and out of my usual dominant, gently guiding his hands away from his cock to keep him from distracting himself, watching him shudder and sigh and build, burying myself inside his body, nearly blind with the chemical rush of control and pleasure, hand becoming cock pouring love into him and out again into me, then, instead of letting him fuck my mouth, sucking him off actively while I press on his prostate for all I’m worth, forcing him to explode in my mouth.

As I curled up on his chest, my cunt soaking from the waves of power and his pleasure, so closely linked to mine now, I told him, “That was a completely satisfying sexual experience.” I hadn’t actually physically had an orgasm. But I spend a lot of time with him worshipping his body and letting him manhandle mine. The opportunity to invade the body I worship is an opportunity for even greater sacredness.

Tomorrow he’ll be ordering me to my knees again. But now and then I can revel in the precious gift of his submission.

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[Part 1 is here.]

I’ve taken the cuffs off of him and for a moment we’re equals, dropped lightly out of the scene and into a few seconds of friendly conversation, laced with compassion and care.

“I haven’t been to that place in a long time,” he tells me again. “I so needed it.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” I remind him with a smirk. “Are you ready to go on?”

The flogging wasn’t even that severe; it was something about the thuddy pressure, the rhythmic nature of it, his surrender, that made him break. His back is reddened but not welted, and I can tell that he can take a lot more. I take the four-foot singletail out of my bag and order him onto his hands and knees on the bed.

In an instant he is down again, dropped into that swimming pool I know so well, the place of buzzy-headed wordlessness. I start swinging the whip back and forth across his ass, leaving little red trails in perfect horizontal formation. He breathes, managing the pain, arching his back, rolling his hips, letting it flow up his spine. I start throwing the whip and leaving fiery vertical cuts to cross the stripes I’ve already made, throwing it harder, harder, harder, not playing at the speed of sound but getting little low-pitched thaps out of the cracker and sweet whimpers, at a higher and higher pitch, out of him.

I see him start to shiver again, the muscles tense, the breathing quicken. This is the place where I always hedge: do I keep going? I back off a little, slow down, give him more time to process each strike, but then I feel what his body wants, feel that need again from him, and I ramp back up until he breaks a second time, falling face-down on the bed.

I put the whip down and slowly approach. His back is hot, his ass scorching, under my cool hand. I succumb to an impulse I rarely have with clients: to lay my body on top of his, to hold and comfort him. Finally I turn him over, and there’s a moment when I see his cock, hard and short and thick, and think of what it would be like to suck it, to let him fuck me. It comes to mind only because he doesn’t look at me with challenge in his eyes, because his submission is so complete. From the moment we met he has been respectful, classy, considerate, and now he is opened, vulnerable, and more beautiful than I dared to notice.

The moment passes, and again we find ourselves in gentle cameraderie, sitting on the bed together and talking. I ask him if he wants to stop here, or go on with something else; we have perhaps a half hour remaining.

He had told me that strap-on play was very important to him, and I had told him that I don’t do it, but he hired me anyway. On some strange hunch I brought my equipment along, and at the beginning I laid everything out on the bed – “just in case.”

“Please,” he asks me now, not quite back in that submissive headspace but not looking me in the eyes either, “could we play with your strap-on?”

I’m still conflicted about it, knowing the boundaries I generally set for myself and feeling them pushed, but knowing, too, that I deliberately brought it and flaunted it, perhaps in the hopes that I’d get to use it with someone I found attractive. I agree to let him suck it, but don’t make any promises about fucking him.

But having my cock sucked is my downfall.

I strap on the leather harness, with my purple cock through it, and set it in place, feeling the way it connects with my body and becomes an extension of me. At these moments I never feel dominant: I feel exposed, naked and rampant. Powerful, perhaps, but flayed: unveiled in the kind of power that terrifies. With my cock on I feel like a predator in the heat of the kill, and at the same time I fear the foolishness of it, the ridiculous spectacle of a woman wearing a rubber dick. This is another of my secrets about this act, my reluctance in sharing it with strangers: what if they see that I’m like a tiger wearing a baby bonnet – or worse, like a sheep wearing a wolf suit?

But with the object of desire in place he falls into role again as easily as breathing. I put my hand back in his curls and help/force him to his knees in front of me, and he takes the purple cock – my cock – into his mouth and sucks.

Sucking my cock is a sure way to plug it even more deeply into my body: watching someone suck it, suck it earnestly and treat it like it’s real, makes it real. Some part of me extends outward, fills the space the cock occupies, ennervates it and animates it, and all at once I’m not just shoving a silicone cock I have strapped to my body with leather down your throat. I’m fucking your mouth.

I fuck his mouth a little and watch his eyes tear as he looks up at me. I feel the abandon start to rise in me, the wetness and the growling and the fear, the fear of how I’ll let go, coming and snarling and shooting my energy into this person I don’t know, scaring him maybe, giving away my life force, and I pull him back by the hair. He looks at me with that pleading in his eyes that I can’t refuse. “Please fuck me,” he whispers, “just a little. Please.”

I pull him onto the bed and order him back onto his hands and knees. “Back up,” I say, and he backs his muscular ass toward the end of the bed so I can stand while I fuck. I grab a glove and the thick lube I’ve brought and my black-gloved finger finds his hole and pushes, swirls around the opening, finds him warm and ready and yearning.

I slide into him and he makes that sound, that sound that is only made by men who are being fucked in the ass because they want it. That half-whimper, half-moan, that fucking beautiful sound of abandon and pleasure and fear and yearning and taboos busted all over the floor.

He fucks back into me and I hold his hips with one gloved hand and one bare one, guiding him onto my curved purple cock, filling his guts. I start to feel it building in me again, the unreal reality of my cock squeezed by his tight little asshole, the fucking miracle of my cock disappearing inside him, the sounds he’s making – and then he’s asking me if he can touch himself and yes, of course, play with your cock but don’t come until I tell you, and I feel dizzy and tunnel-visioned and I don’t want to come, I can’t come, not here, not with him, and why not, but I want to, but I hold back and keep control, letting him find his abandon without taking my own.

“Please may I come?” he gasps, and what can I say but yes, fucking come for me, and he does, crying out, his sounds like someone dying of sex, and I fear the tears again but there’s nothing, only silence and softness and I pull out of him, humbled, a little embarrassed, happy that I had him that way and not face-up, where he couldn’t see my face, the struggle, the loss of composure.

Immediately I take the harness off and begin to bring the scene down; somehow I can’t cuddle him now, it’s too intimate, but I speak gently and let him recover in his own time. He thanks me and I thank him again, and we slowly recover our roles – or recover from them.

It’s awkward, saying goodbye. I’d like to see him again and I know that that can’t happen except at his instigation. Even if we do, it won’t be me he sees. Not the me who would like to fuck him again, without money exchanging hands, without the need to hold back, to wear a corset while I do it, to play, as I sometimes have to, at loving less.

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He was sitting at the chic hotel bar when I walked in: compact, muscular, with a tanned face that bespoke Greek heritage, perhaps, with bright green eyes. More attractive, needless to say, than my clients generally were. Younger, too. The problem with this is that such men tend to be obnoxious, to ask more of me than I’m willing to give, to push my boundaries. Like they’re doing me a favor.

Not this one. He’s kind, offers to buy me a drink, which I decline. He’s well-read, and a Burner. He has a low key but confident way about him that I like. I could tell this would be one of those rare instances where the client is someone I would have happily played with for free, but would never have the guts to approach at a party.

He’s booked me for three hours, and I can think of worse things to do with that time than explore the kinks of this rather yummy specimen. He tells me that he usually tops, but from time to time, he feels the need to let go, to let someone else be in control. I usually worry about this, again with the concern that he’ll be bratty or try to make me switch. But something tells me that this is a different sort of person.

The hotel is downtown, one of the swanker places in the Manhattan style – sleek black and silver, not ornate old wood. The room is spacious and inviting, and now that we’ve had our talk we start right in.

When he undresses I see that he takes care of himself, and also that he is one of those men who is never quite thin: shortish, barrel-chested, thick all over but not hairy. The hair on his head is short and curly and lovely to grab and pull.

There is something beautiful about a usually-dominant man submitting. The sincerity and thoroughness of the surrender, in this case, almost steals my breath. Many men have dropped to their knees in front of me and kissed and licked my boots. It’s all part of the script. Dig me, such subs seem to say, I know what it’s all about, how it’s done. This man knows both sides of the coin, and the way he gives over, drops his eyes, trembles in fear and anticipation, is immensely moving. When I grab his hair he actually whimpers, and is immediately in the headspace I want him in.

I love boot worship when it’s done well; when it’s not, it’s a total bore. It’s hard to say what it is that makes it well-done: I only know that when it is, it makes me wet. It’s something about the way the sub becomes absorbed in the act, doesn’t always have, literally or figuratively, one eye on me to see how I’m reacting. The boots in that moment are me, and the truly gifted bootlicker isn’t doing it only for my pleasure. His head is swimming with desire, his vision is blurred with only the blackness of leather or vinyl in its scope, his nose and tongue are full of the scent, his mouth working slowly and with focus. Most importantly, he doesn’t have that puppy-dog approval-whore thing going on: none of that aren’t I a great submissive? crap. I’m not interested in how well you play your role. I’m interested in you, and how your desires mesh with mine.

This man is with me, in the way that clients rarely are. We have seen each other, in this conversation that we shared. There is spark, here. His need for submission is great, and yet the expression of that need is specific. He is both well-trained – the way he moves is graceful yet without pretense – and totally responsive.

I’m loving this, but it’s time to move on. I’ve found a way to jury-rig dog leashes over the bathroom door and I string him up with cuffs, standing, and begin to flog his broad brown back.

I love to flog, but it’s the rare client that loves it like I do. It becomes clear, quickly, that he is one of these gems, and I go at him with a zen-like yet ever intensifying rhythm. I don’t know how long I stand there, swinging my right arm in figure-eights, harder and harder, watching his back redden and his muscles tighten and loosen, listening to him gasp and whimper and moan. Fuck. Now and then I ease off, rub his back with a cool hand, press my body into his back, my thigh against his ass, between his legs. I think, at one point, that I’ve gone too far, and I check in with him.

“Please,” he whispers as I hold my head next to his, run my nails down over his ass. “Please, more.” He doesn’t, can’t, look at me, but his body tells the whole story and it’s true. I back up and start swinging again, a few strokes to work back up to the level I’d stopped at, then harder and harder. He starts to shake, muscles spasming, hands clenching at the cuffs, and I can feel the energy flowing between us, the way his want draws the blows from me, the way I feel his need, the need I’ve so often felt myself, for just one more, one more, one more…

And then he breaks, and he’s sobbing, half-hanging from the dog-leashes and barely holding himself up. I stop swinging and move to him again, my arm wrapping up under his arm, around his chest, pressing his heart. My body against his back, feeling the waves of his tears passing through me. There is no shame here. Only release. Only love, in that strange sense that it can happen in one encounter, the true exchange between two people in a moment.

When he calms down, he tells me, “That hasn’t happened in a long time. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and we take a rest. But there is still so much time to go…

[Part 2.]

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So it may come as a surprise to no one that now that I’ve quit the pro-domming business, I’ve been having wicked fantasies about doing terrible, terrible things to lovely boys and men. I mean, it’s like the old joke about the gynecologist, right?

Well, sort of. See, I’ve had a thing about Not Doing Strap-On Sex At Work for the entirety of my tenure as a pro. It was just something I didn’t do. Now, part of the reason I didn’t do it was because it crosses the line into sex: in the state of Massachusetts, if you penetrate an orifice with anything, it’s defined as sex. Good law, for a lot of reasons: it was developed in order to make rape cases where some Neanderthal fucks stuck a shot glass into a woman prosecutable. But problematic law for people doing domination, where one of the most popular items on the menu is being fucked in the ass with a dildo.

For the most part, though, the legal thing was more of an excuse for me not to have to address the real issue, which was that doing strap-on sex was too intimate for me. It was one of the boundaries I set for myself early on, because I didn’t want to be having sex with my clients. I was aware that the other things I was doing were sexual, but I didn’t realize until later the subtle effects that it would have on me. I was prescient enough to know, however, that having strap-on sex with clients would be too much for me.

Why, you might ask? Well, here’s where I break from the crowd completely. I fully appreciate Bitchy’s complaint that strap-ons are not only weird because they imply that power and sexual dominance = having a cock (which I agree is a crock of shit), but that they don’t provide any pleasure to the wielder. I also am pleased with Eileen’s reply wherein she sings the praises of strap-ons as separate from gender identity and recommends them as a tool of dominance comparable to a singletail, a needle, or a fist. But nobody I’ve yet stumbled across (except for, perhaps, Sinclair, but the butch perspective there isn’t one that gets a lot of play in BDSM circles) has gone into anything resembling my own experience of the act.

That is, I fucking love it and it makes me come, in a way that nothing else can.

Because get this: I have a cock. I always have a cock, whether I’m strapping one on or not. It’s non-corporeal, of course, but it’s part of, if you will, my energetic anatomy. Without getting too deeply into spiritual experience, it is a simple fact that at times, I can feel myself penetrating another human being, even when I am not physically doing so. And yes, they feel it too – the force of my will and intention pressing into their bodies, invading them.

For me, the energetics of topping someone will sometimes bring out the hidden masculine in me. I suppose if I wanted to be all Jungian about it, I’d call it my animus. I become more aggressive, my voice deepens, and the desire to possess rips through me. When I strap on a cock, it becomes a very real extension of my body, and when I fuck with it, I don’t want a vibrator inside the harness or anything penetrating me – I just want to fuck. It’s usually not too long into the action that I start to come and come, in a way that even feels distinctly masculine: unlike the internally focused waves that thrash through me when, say, I’m being fisted, I feel energy shooting out from me, into the other person, as white lightning shoots up my spine.

Now. I’ve been reluctant to talk about this, in part because it seems a bit woo-woo, but also in part because I don’t want to give the impression that I think dominance is essentially male, or that penetration is essentially dominant, or any of those bugaboos that come up when we talk about female dominance and try to separate it from gender.

But I do want to record my experience here, because I don’t see a lot of women out there talking about how intensely pleasurable strap-on sex can be for the woman wielding. I also know that my experience is not every woman’s experience – far from it.

But I am out here, feeling this, experiencing this genuinely as part of my rather complex sexuality. For the record, I also often come sympathetically when fisting someone. But this experience is entirely different, separate. It is, at least in part, about awakening my masculine self, my butch self, which is buried deep in a seriously femme facade.

And this is why I didn’t do it at work. I couldn’t fuck men I didn’t know any more than I could let them fuck me. And there weren’t many men (not any, by my last count) that wanted me to fuck them while I wore jeans and a leather vest and boots.

But incidentally…if you are such a man, comment here. I’ve been having the most remarkable fantasies lately…

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There’s a new video clip up at my clips store of me spanking the crap out of a sissy over my knee. Bare hand, hairbrush, paddles, you name it. He whines hilariously, too.

.wmv and .mov formats are up; more are coming. Enjoy!

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