Me and My Boi Read online

  She could have let me come then and, although I was desperate for her to do just that, I would have been disappointed if things had been over that quickly. But Jo wasn’t one for disappointment. And she wasn’t one for a quick and easy screw. We hadn’t walked all this way into the forest for a five-minute finger fuck. Even so, I felt bereft when her fingers pulled out of me and her mouth disengaged.

  “Don’t stop,” I pleaded.

  “I’ve got something better,” she said, her voice as husky as ever.

  She was kneeling over me again, still fully dressed. I squinted up at her—she looked so hot, I was trying to freeze the image onto my brain so I could hold on to the moment for as long as I needed it. She grinned and I smiled back. Her hand went to the zipper on her jeans and I heard the rasp as she pulled it down. She slipped her fingers inside, looking for all the world like a guy adjusting himself. Adrenaline and desire flooded me and my cunt clenched and pulsed till it hurt. When she’d finished rooting about inside her pants, the vision that emerged made me clench even more. It was sure going to hurt. My girl was brandishing a huge silicone cock, a beautiful, huge anatomical replica in inky black. It was way bigger than any flesh-and-blood cock I’d ever laid eyes on—not that that was saying much. I’d stopped sleeping with men pretty early on in my sexual career.

  As soon as I saw it, I wanted it inside me. Deep inside me, moving in and out, hard and fast. But Jo was going to make me wait.

  “You like?” she said, running her hand sensually along the never-ending shaft.

  I nodded, panting too much to articulate the single word she wanted.

  “Seriously, tell me you like it,” she said.

  “I like it.” It didn’t sound like my voice at all.

  “And?”

  “I want it.”

  “Where do you want it?” All the while she carried on stroking it and looking down at it, while I jerked at my cuffs, desperate to get to it.

  “In my…cunt,” I sobbed. “In my cunt.” I spread my legs wide to show her I was ready.

  She dove straight in, with a perfect aim at the perfect angle. I was so wet it just slid up through me like a hot knife through butter, stretching me with its enormous girth till it felt like I was burning. She immediately pulled back and plunged again, making me gasp, filling me up, and my muscles tightened around it all the more, so the next time she had to really pull to get it out.

  As she fucked me and fucked me, I gazed up at her slack-mouthed face and her bright eyes. At the cords of sinew standing out along her neck and the hard tension in the muscles of her shoulders and upper arms. At her blonde hair, now damp and floppy with sweat, and the dark, wet patches forming on her wife-beater. It flapped forward every time she came forward, giving me a glimpse of her small, pointed nipples.

  We were both panting and moaning but as she pushed me over the edge, as my orgasm took hold, I screamed. Deep in the forest I screamed and screamed, raising a flurry of wood pigeons, flapping and squawking, out of the bushes. And without letting up her rhythm, she pushed one hand down between us and grasped my clit, pulling on it hard, yanking and twisting until I came some more and screamed even louder.

  Finally she pulled out. She knelt above me, her black cock dripping and shining with my juices. She thrust a hand down the waist of her jeans, behind the dildo, and rubbed. With her other hand she grabbed one of her nipples underneath the tank and twisted. Her back arched and she grunted low in her throat, muscles juddering. Then she flopped down on the blanket beside me, the wet dildo smacking my thigh hard enough to raise a bruise.

  I turned my head and bit her shoulder, sucking at the same time, to leave a mark.

  She smiled at me and undid the handcuffs, kissing each wrist as she released it.

  “You’re my girl now,” she said.

  FIVE BLOW JOBS

  Sinclair Sexsmith

  I

  After the workshop, I still haven’t had enough of you (will I ever get enough of you?) and strip you bare, glove my hand, slide two fingers inside you, sideways on our huge king bed. The lamplight is different than the bright white of this room during the day, more warm, orange-yellow-gold and more full of shadows, and the shadows and the gold fall onto your skin like paint.

  In the car on the way back I couldn’t resist (can rarely resist, it’s so hard to resist when part of our dynamic is built around taking what I want) and slid your small fingers into my mouth. You missed the exit.

  Your fingers are blunt and I trace your jagged nails with my tongue, suck the salt from the pads, taste the day on your skin. I pull your wrist down to your pelvis and take two fingers in my mouth again when my two fingers are inside you, gently pressing, not a lot of motion, and I start to suck you off. Up and down your fingers like a cock. I hold your G-spot and feel it quiver in my fingers. I let your fingers out of my mouth so you can touch your clit, and keep my tongue on the back of your hand. You shudder and convulse against my mouth, your cunt grips my fingers. You slide your fingers back in my mouth, eager, and I taste you, just a little, at the tips, and I do it all over again.

  II

  On the side of the bed, but you’re not supposed to be coming that day, and you do. It sneaks up on you in a moan, but before you can really come you stop yourself, blurting out, “Fuck!” again, and it’s the second time you’ve come without permission, and you’re in trouble. You back off and look at me shyly; I am laughing at your distress, you just feel so bad for defying the rules, and the guilt is more than enough punishment. I can feel how badly you want to please me. I am enjoying this too, too much: your attempts to do things just right and your scrambles to fix it when you are so happy, so pleased to be serving me, servicing me, kneeling before me, my cock in your throat. It’s enough for you to see that look on my face, that ecstasy you’re causing, that overwhelming lust and adoration as your tongue hits the head so soft and slow as you suck it down, which makes me want to pulse and shoot, makes me feel my balls (as if I had them) contract and swell, cocked and loaded. You move back toward my dick with your lips parted and I push you away. “No—I think you’re done sucking my cock. You lost that privilege when you came without asking. Down. Kiss my boots.”

  III

  Long, slow aftercare. I let the beating settle into your body—the belt, my hands, the restraints on your ankles and wrists. After some time on the bed I move us to the chair so you can sit on my lap. You wrap around me, sink down. You quiet and calm and I ask, “Ready to suck my cock again?” You say yes, quickly, in a whisper, and kneel between my knees. I loosen the harness and touch my clit under it while you suck me down. (You’re not supposed to come today, still; one of us may as well.) “Good boy,” I breathe as I watch your mouth, tongue, lips, my cock down your throat. I let you guide it. I let you slide it however deep you want. I push a little, because that’s what I do, but mostly I just concentrate on the feeling and the sight. I almost come but it’s too much, I get overstimulated and don’t have the right angle so I get up and take my jeans off, my socks and shoes and briefs, and spread my legs wider, get a better grip under the harness. You start in again and I imagine what your mouth would feel like. I know every inch of it, know every ridge of the roof and every taste bud on your tongue and every valley of your teeth with my fingers and my tongue, but fuck how I wish I could feel those with my cock. We are making do with what we have and you are an expert at sucking me down, swallowing, and I think about how I’d get tight and build up pressure, ready to shoot. You moan around my cock and I feel it in my pelvis and I feel you squirt on my ankle and foot; you’re straddling my leg. “Ohh fuck you’re in trouble,” I manage. You whimper a little, give me those eyes, those sweet little boy eyes like you would do anything for your Daddy, you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to, you couldn’t help it, and it doesn’t take long before I’m over the edge for you, coming in your mouth, yelling out and curling my spine and feeling how I’d shove and come to the back of your throat. I breathe, my body stills. You sink down onto you
r belly and put your tongue to my foot, clean it off, suck my instep. With your head still down low, you say, “Am I still in trouble?” and I laugh.

  IV

  You walk over to me with your cock on, hard and thick and fitting you, jutting out from your hips. “Can you stand?” I ask. You nod. I sit on the edge of the bed. You let me feel it, with my hands and along my lips, my jaw, getting to know its new contours. I put my tongue on it, kiss it, and you shudder. I like feeling how hard you are in my mouth. I can’t take it as deep as I think I can, but I try, again and again, wanting you so far inside.

  V

  You start on your knees at the end of the bed after I have kicked you, hit you with my belt, after I told you to pick a number and you picked three, after you took more than you thought you could, after you crawled for me, after my hands in you at the edge when I said come on and shoot that load for your Daddy, little faggot, and I shove in, impatient and hard, to the back of your throat. You gag. I keep going. I hold you by the hair and work my hips so it goes in and out of your mouth. You gag again. I keep going. I stand over you and you rise up a little higher and I keep fucking your mouth. I wrap my hand around your throat. I pinch your nose closed and shove in. You look up at me, pleading, in a rare moment of eye contact. I don’t let up until I count to ten. I take my dick out and let you breathe and do it again. Count to ten. Sometimes I hold my breath with you, but I always let mine go before you do. I fist your hair and shove in deep. My hips shake against your mouth. Come on, little boy, take it, that’s right, that’s how I like it, fuck, yeah, give me that pretty little mouth, take it deeper, you can do better than that, fucker, do it, suck it down, yeah that’s right, nice. You stumble back a little and my fist holds you up.

  Always.

  NOT JUST HAIR

  Annabeth Leong

  Darla thought she knew all the butches in town, but even in the dim lighting of the play party, she was sure she’d never met this one. From behind, the woman looked deliciously strong—far too muscular to be described as slight despite her compact build.

  The sight of her made Darla lick her lips. Just her type. She hoped this time she’d found someone who wanted to play her way, too.

  Darla clutched her rope bag. It had been a big step for her to buy it since the vast majority of her kink experience had been as a bottom. She still wasn’t sure she could live up to the expertise that the black bag seemed to promise. A few attempted scenes using borrowed rope, however, and she’d learned how hard it was to be taken seriously when she was using another top’s toys. It was hard enough to be a girly girl looking for tough leather-clad types who wanted to play the sub role, and harder still when all the locals had seen Darla suspended and squealing with delight too many times to treat her as a dominant. She didn’t need to add any handicaps she didn’t already have.

  The nice thing about meeting a stranger such as the sexy butch across the way was that it gave Darla a chance to start fresh. In this moment, before they had spoken, Darla could fantasize that this was the woman she’d been looking for—the butch who didn’t see bottoming as a threat to her masculinity, the lover who would be as thrilled by experimentation as Darla was.

  Taking a deep breath, Darla edged closer. The newcomer had dyed her buzz cut a brilliant, defiant pink that showed up nicely amid the otherwise muted colors in the room. That seemed like a good sign, a declaration of some sort of in-between space where Darla might fit.

  No longer seeing the shadowy couples around her with their rope and paddles, Darla made for that breath of butch fresh air, the party’s sinuous music informing the movements of her hips. She’d oiled her leather miniskirt until it was supple enough that it didn’t creak as she moved, it sighed.

  Once she got close enough to catch her quarry’s scent, she liked that, too. Her cologne smelled clean and woodsy, a light fragrance with a hint of animal energy underneath. Darla had forgotten the rest of the party the moment she laid eyes on the unfamiliar guest, so it was a bit of a surprise to find herself at the edge of a small crowd that had gathered around a spanking scene.

  She knew the players—a showy femme popular for the ease with which her pale asscheeks turned cherry red and a fierce top who could swing away all night and never get tired. Fun stuff for anyone who hadn’t seen it a hundred times before.

  The newcomer seemed supremely nervous watching it, though, scratching at the short, bright hairs at the nape of her neck every few seconds and tugging at her leather vest as if it itched. She didn’t carry a toy bag, and Darla wondered if she’d stashed it somewhere, had come only to watch or, wonder of wonders, had shown up hoping to bottom.

  Darla had to know. She formed a rapid plan, her face and hands feeling a little hot. She wasn’t used to being this aggressive, but she didn’t often get the chance to be. She could welcome this woman to town, then work her way into a discussion of what they each hoped to get out of the play party, and maybe by then she’d know if she had a shot at doing a scene.

  With a few determined steps, she closed the rest of the distance between them and placed herself at the other woman’s left shoulder. “I haven’t seen you here before,” she said, pitching her voice to a low purr. “I thought I’d take the chance to welcome you before some other femme snaps you up.”

  She glanced up with a practiced flirtatious motion, first looking through her eyelashes, then snapping her lids open to reveal the stunning violet shade of the colored contacts she wore. The effect could be magnificent when Darla didn’t end the process with her jaw dropped open, gaping. “Shawna?”

  The woman she’d been watching wasn’t a stranger. Darla and Shawna had come to these play parties together countless times, with and without their girlfriends. Just two months ago, Shawna’s longtime girlfriend, Andi, had tied their hands together, palm to palm, and led them to a spanking bench. She’d helped Shawna lie on her stomach on the bench, still connected to Darla, who wound up kneeling by her head. Then Andi spanked Shawna until she cried and gripped Darla’s hands so hard it hurt, while Darla’s top made her lick the tears away. At some point during the scene, Darla and Shawna had kissed. Nothing had been real for Darla after that except for the heat of Shawna’s tongue, the occasional scrape of her teeth and the silk of her soft, plump lips, which were slightly sticky from the remnants of her sweet-smelling strawberry lip gloss.

  That kiss had bothered Darla for weeks because she wasn’t used to being attracted to women like Shawna—at least, not women who looked the way Shawna had every other time that Darla had seen her. Always dressed to the highest height of femme, Shawna had eyebrows drawn on, eyes shaded with a masterful blend of brown and gold tones, nails painted a shimmering pink and long blonde hair smoothed into the soft waves of a 1940s movie star. Everything about her had looked, smelled and tasted of cream and sugar, and that wasn’t anything Darla had ever thought she wanted.

  As certain as Darla was that this was in fact Shawna, the same body and the same face, almost nothing about her seemed the same. Aside from the haircut and dye job, she’d let her eyebrows grow in thick. Unadorned by makeup, the lines of her face had taken on a stubborn handsomeness that made Darla wonder how she had ever seemed so delicate and sweet. And those muscles—had Shawna always been so strong, so immaculately gym sculpted?

  The fine specimen of butch in front of her was making Darla juice up and swoon, but also question reality. She stammered as she stared, but couldn’t form a complete question.

  Shawna flushed, and the pink that came to her cheeks reminded Darla even more of the way she used to look. “I’m trying out Shawn these days,” she told Darla.

  The difference wasn’t only in her look—she treated Darla differently, too. A slight teasing quality crept into Shawn’s voice, and her jaw tightened as she took in Darla’s curves with blatant flicks of her gaze. Her dark eyes hardened with approval, instead of softening. This new version of Darla’s old acquaintance knew how to praise femininity with a series of shifts of her demeanor, and she made Da
rla ache to respond, to apply every soft line of herself as contrast, to make Shawn feel big and firm all over.

  If this had been a stranger, Darla would have begged to start a scene then and there, giving in at once to the powerful, primitive reactions swirling through her body. However, since this was a dramatically different version of a woman she’d thought she’d known, words seemed necessary. A few of them, at least.

  “Where’s Andi?” Darla asked, remembering Shawn’s stern, inventive girlfriend.

  “We broke up.”

  “You cut your hair.”

  “You noticed.” Shawn delivered the reply in a dry tone that also didn’t fit with the bubbly persona that Darla had always associated with her.

  Darla sensed that it would be best to respond in kind. “It’s a subtle change, but I pride myself on my powers of observation.”

  Shawn grinned at that, and the effect made Darla gooey again. That wide, boyish smile—why had she never perceived it the way she did now? “Thanks for that. You’re the first person who hasn’t scolded me about making such a drastic change so soon after a breakup.” She shrugged defensively. “It’s just hair.”

  As a self-respecting femme, Darla couldn’t let the comment pass. “It’s not just hair, and you know it. I’m not going to judge you, but don’t lie.”

  Shawn opened her mouth to respond, but the spanking going on nearby intruded with a set of sharp, staccato slaps in quick succession and the accompanying shrieks. Feeling bold, Darla grabbed Shawn’s hand. “Let’s find a spot of our own.” The newly minted butch gave no resistance to the tug. Excitement built in Darla’s chest, making her feel as if her ribs would need to stretch to contain it all. She kept thinking about that scene they’d shared, and that kiss, and wondering if Shawn’s transformation explained the chemistry Darla had felt.