Rating: R

Categories: queer, non-human, goofball

Possible triggers: Extreme silliness (I can’t think of anything).

This scene involves two non-binary merfolk hooking up while dumpster diving. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Wrestling Mermaid Dumpster Makeouts

K was disgruntled. Their housemates had eaten fucking everything, even the processed poison from the doughnut dumpster, and the pantries were bare when they got home from work.

“Harrumph,” they muttered to themselves as they swam towards the Trader Joe’s sign shining like a beacon in the distance, flickering through the schools of fish occupying the foreground. “Harrumph, harrumph, harrumph. If there aren’t some good noms in the dumpster tonight, I’m gonna… I’m gonna… hit something. Or be very hungry. AND GROUCHY, GOD DAMMIT.” They pumped their black-and-purple tailfin harder as the obligatory shipwreck (required to set the mood in any undersea story) came into view.

They reached and rounded the back corner of the grocery store, finally spying the dumpster. Eagerly, they swam faster and faster—

—and then came to an abrupt stop. The lid was flung wide, and a long rainbow tail protruded from within.

K was no longer disgruntled. K was now officially enraged. “Hey!” they shouted. “What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing?” And with that, they grabbed one shiny fin and yanked hard.

“I was looking for some dinner, jagoff,” whoever-it-was snarled as ze was pulled from the dumpster in a most undignified way. As soon as ze was fully out, ze twisted around to get a good look at zis assailant, sweeping up and down their body with zis headlamp. “What the fuck is in your hair?”

“Oh, these?” K asked, patting the multitude of silver spikes sticking out of their fauxhawk. They seemed distracted, maybe even a little flattered… whoever-it-was was looking pretty fine in that chainmail bra and spiky pigtails. “These are little forks I found on the beach; I like to comb with them and I just feel like I have so much more hair if I stick lots of little forks in my head than just one or two regular-sized ones… wait! No! You don’t get off that easy. We’re fighting here!”

The pigtailed mer shrugged, rolled zis eyes as if to say, “Fine, I mean, I’d rather get sexy but if that’s how you really want it…” and promptly dropped the bag of sea cucumbers ze had been holding before launching zimself at the belligerent, beforked intruder.

Ze knew what ze was doing, and K was too busy yelling to actually prepare themselves for the attack. In a matter of seconds, the stranger had one of K’s hands twisted up between their shoulderblades and a handful of their hair clutched tight, which ze yanked further and further back, stretching K’s neck until the tips of their fingers brushed loose strands of their (rather short) hair.

But ze forgot one thing, and that thing was K’s other arm; before ze quite had time to process what was happening, zis arms were crossed over zis neck, wrists pinned against the dumpster. Ze twisted zis tail back and forth, pushing against the metal, trying to get enough leverage to free zimself, but it was of no use. Time for a new tactic. Ze wrenched zis face to one side, snapped at K’s hand, managed to get three fingers firmly between zis teeth.

“Motherfucker,” K growled. “Oh, it’s on now.” They tried and failed to pull their hand free; each tug only increased the pressure of teeth-on-bone. Quickly considering their options—wanting to get the situation back under control, afraid that releasing zis other hand would only lead to a further loss of power—they decided. In one fluid motion, they let go of the rainbow mer’s hand, slammed their hand palm-first into zis neck, and twisted their body around to re-pin zis arm against the metal side with their ribcage.

Unfortunately for K, that left their side extremely vulnerable. To tickles. In a matter of seconds, they were twitching helplessly, laughing too loud for their impressive arsenal of curses to be heard. By the time the tickling let up, K was on their back on the ocean floor, both hands above their head, wrists wrapped in the strong fingers of whoever-it-was… who was sitting side-saddle on their hips.

“So, my name is Tayana,” whoever-it-was offered conversationally, as if both of them were equally free to move, as if the salt water wasn’t thick with awkward sexual tension. “And that dumpster is ridic full of food. We could have shared, you know, but then you wanted to get all fighty about it…”

“You… on top… me,” K replied rather limply, as if sentences had suddenly become a chore.

“I most certainly am! Now, what do you think I should do with that, uh… what’s your name?”

“K. My name is K. You could, um, er, you… you’re pretty and, uh-” They appeared to have difficulty making eye contact.

“Not to jump stack or anything, but I have a proposal. More wrestling, but fun this time, because we both know there’s no reason to fight over a god damn dumpster, and with make outs thrown in for good measure.” (At this, their head began to nod so violently ze was half-afraid it would pop off.) “And then we go in the dumpster, where we find many goodies to take back to my house and eat in comfort.”

“I like you!” K said, finally remembering what subject-verb-object was for. And with a mighty heave, they rippled their tail up off the ocean floor, pushing their torso up and over in the process, knocking Tayana flat on zis back, where ze waited with a sly smirk, arms flung fetchingly over zis head. The two faces came slowly together until—only scant centimeters apart—both mer broke in self-conscious giggles. “I’ve never kissed anyone in a dumpster before.”

“We’re still next to it,” Tayana pointed out logically. “’In’ will have to come later.” Ze reached up and grabbed an un-forked handful of hair, tugging K inexorably towards zim. Their mouths touched, finally, in a flurry of gasps and teeth as they resumed wrestling, each trying to gain the upper hand while maintaining as much contact as possible… especially in the area of the face.

After several minutes of this, Tayana pulled back slightly to whisper, “We have too many clothes on.” K wanted to point out that between the two of them, they had only one article of clothing, but was quickly distracted when ze swam several feet up, untied the ribbon behind zis back, and let the chainmail slide right down zis body, after which it quickly sunk, landing on the bottom with a dull thud and a poof of sand.

“Oh fuck! There’s sand in my eyes!” K wailed. “I can’t see.”

“Oh for-” Tayana muttered to zimself. Ze quickly dove down to the bottom, grabbed one of their wrists, and hauled them up to float above the dumpster. “Can you see better now?”

K blinked the sand out, still looking a tad harrumphy—until they actually looked at Tayana. Their jaw dropped. They shut it, gulped slowly. “Er, yes. Yes. I can see very well, thank you.” They stayed stock still for a moment, then shook themselves as if to knock the inaction from their head. And dove straight for Tayana, kissing zim with renewed vigor. “Can I touch you-”

“FUCK YES!” ze screamed, practically shoving zis mertits into their hands. K palmed them tentatively, giggling shyly, at first… but the hesitancy soon wore off. Before long, they were pulling ze into themselves by the chest, grabbing handfuls of flesh at zis hips, torsos rubbing against each other with virtually no friction; mere molecules of water separated their sweat-slick skins.

Nipple-to-nipple, tails twined together, both bodies writhing faster and faster, gasps and sighs overlapping now, whispered reminders to not be too loud, don’t get busted, laughter and moans. They rolled over each other like a ball of mating snakes, frotting frenetically as the explosive pressure built.

And built.

And burst.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, gay male

Possible triggers: impact play, bondage

This scene involves a trans guy beating and fucking a cis guy. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Pain Scale

He’s naked and spread out in front of me, cuffed to the bed. I have his wrists attached at the top of the bed, arms stretched long in front him, knees under his hips, ankles wide and clipped halfway down. Plenty of room for me on the mattress behind him.

But for now, I stand to the side, admiring the way the sun shines on his naked, rapidly flexing butt. He isn’t blindfolded but his face buried in the comforter renders him sightless, squirming with the discomfort of not knowing what to expect. There’s a collar buckled around his neck—temporary, yes, but the thought of him wearing my collar daily (like I wear his) is nevertheless sexy enough to set my groin throbbing painfully. The sharp curvature of his spine makes my mouth water; just tracing the lines of his thighs with my eyes makes me forget what I’m doing.

A soft, almost pleading, moan reminds me. I tap the end of my cane against my hip thoughtfully. “So. I’m going to beat you. I’m going to beat you absolutely as hard as you can handle, but I need to know exactly where that line is. So this is what’s going to happen: every time I strike you, you’ll tell me where on the pain scale it is. Zero to nine. Zero means it doesn’t hurt at all, nine means it’s the most pain you can take with pleasure. If you say ten, I will know it’s too hard for you to enjoy. I will stop—for a moment—and make sure you’re okay. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he whimpers. Shit, just that sound of “sir” coming from his mouth is enough to make my clit harden instantly. Switching on him is hot as all hell.

The rattan whips through the air, lands solidly against both asscheeks. Each of the five strands leaves its own long, thin, red stripe on his pale skin. “Three!”

“I can see I’m going to have to hit a lot harder, then.” I wonder to myself how long it will take to bruise his ass like I keep hoping he’ll bruise mine.

“Six! Seven! Nine! Nine, nine, nine, oh fuck, eight.” I think I’m getting a grasp of his pain scale now. “One… one… one… two… eight! Nine! Nine! Ten!”

I kneel next to the bed with my face next to his, softly stroke the hot-pink skin on his butt with one hand while I kiss his cheek. “Are you okay, sweetie? Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes, yes… I want more.”

“Do you mean that you want more caning in general, or more that’s that hard.”

“More in general… just… go a… little light… please, sir.” He’s still gasping from the impact; coherent speech is plainly taking a great deal of effort, which I find incredibly sexy.

I tilt his face towards me and kiss him for a long time. When I’m done, I stand up and move behind him. Grabbing his cock, I pull it back between his legs, pull it until he bends his knees and rolls his hips towards me.

“You’re such a fucking slut. I can see how ready you are to get fucked. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

I place the cane under his belly, just in front of his knees, and kneel behind him. I grab one mound in each hand, knead them, pull them apart, push them back together. He mews and shoves back against me roughly. “Too bad.”

“Wha-” I slap him left handed, just hard enough to stop complaining. “Two!”

I settle into a nice grope-spank-caress-spank rhythm with my right hand, reach behind me and through my own legs to grab his cock with my left hand. I press the underside firmly into my wet cunt, tease the topside with my fingertips, exerting just enough pressure to keep him against me without penetrating. I stay mostly in the five to seven range for several minutes; he’s panting hard, precum leaking down my pinkie.

I lean over his sweat-slick back, bring my hand to his mouth. I watch him greedily licking my fingers as I tease his ear with my lips and tongue. My right hand buries itself in his hair, massaging the back of his skull from c-spine to crown. When I’m satisfied I’m clean, I trail my left hand down his torso, kiss a line across his cheek as I whisper, “Wait here. Get that ass high up in the air.” He nods, and I kiss him briefly on the lips before I stand. I trot across the room on tiptoes, grab my cock, a condom, and a bottle of lube off the desk, and hurry back to the bed.

Most times, I need some lube to get it in, but right now I’m wet enough that it only takes a few sharp moans and some strategic flexing to slip the jellybean-shaped end into my tight cunt. I pump some lube onto my palm, and grab both our cocks as I grasp his jutting hipbone with the other. I jack us simultaneously, humping my pubic bone against his asshole as I do.

“Stop teasing me!”

I tighten my fingers at the base of his cock. “Aww… teasing you is such fun.”

“But I need you to fuck me… please…”

“You remembered to say, ‘please.’ That’s good. But I know you can do better. Ask nicely.”

“Please, sir, fill my hungry asshole with your cock. Fuck me til I can’t walk.” You trail off in a long moan, blushing wildly.

“You want that so badly, don’t you.” A wobbling nod rumples the bedspread. “Faggot.”

“Yessir.”

“Oh, I like you. You’re a good slut—”

“Thank you.”

“—but I’m not gonna fuck you yet.”

He whimpers pathetically, and I revel in the novelty of feeling devious. Almost evil. I could use a minion right about now… double teaming you would be lovely… I daydream a moment, nearly sigh regretfully, until I remember how amazingly fantastic it is to have him restrained and vulnerable in front of me and what a fucking great time I am having right at this very moment.

My pants were left at the foot of the bed—I lean backwards and grab for my belt without taking my eyes off his ass and legs, the long lines of torso visible between spread thighs leading into a sliver of his face. I keep jerking our cocks until the lube turns sticky, wipe my palm clean on the sex towel under his knees.

I’m not sure he’d noticed my getting the belt, so I double and snap it. His shoulders jerk, and he twists his head back to look at me. To look at me in fear, I should say. His wide, disbelieving eyes are nearly debilitating in their aphrodisiac qualities. I stare into his pupils and nod slowly as I draw my arm back.

He stares at me as the belt comes down, but collapses forward at impact. “Eight!” is muffled but discernible. The horizontal welts of the cane become exponentially more visible where crossed by the vertical strap of the belt. Interesting. I test this on the other side (“Ah, seven!”) and find the same thing happens. I can’t decide if this is more of a science moment or more of an art moment; I’m having fun regardless.

Switching from side to side, I start over at one, gradually working my way up in numbers. In my experiences being belted, I can take an awful lot more if the warm-up is slow. By the time I’m around six and seven, my arm is getting tired, but I’m determined to keep going. His ass is an intricate lattice of various shades of red, and his thighs are quickly gaining ground. I speed up a little, only allowing him a few eights. After the first nine, I rub his ass softly. He moans appreciatively, screams out, “NINE!” when I hit him again, moans more when I repeat the caress. I do this a few times before tossing the belt aside and getting on my hands and knees behind him. He smells good.

The first swipe of my tongue goes from his inner knee to the crest of his ass. The blood is close to the surface of his skin, coursing through his capillaries, and the smell is almost strong enough for me to taste. I dig my teeth into flesh, suck hard and scrape back until my mouth pops off his ass. Now I can taste blood. He groans unintelligibly. I admire the fat purple mark. He groans again—oh, he’s saying, “Green.”

On his other leg, I lick from the back of his ankle, over his bike-pedaling calf, tickle the inside of his knee, zigzag up his thigh, lap at several mouthfuls of butt before I choose one to bury my fangs in. He screams. He’s too far gone to tell me how much it hurts—I grin broadly at this realization. (But I may have to punish him for it later anyhow.)

I mouth his ass thoroughly with lips and tongue and teeth in turn until he’s a quivering mess in front of me, gasping with need. When I’m satisfied that his brain is well-melted, I let my tongue explore the soft skin of his taint. He moans in a way that lets the whole neighborhood know what we’re up to. As I run just the extreme tip of my tongue around his shiny pink asshole, the low—almost grunting—moan oozes into a high, breathy, keening sound. I think I’m doing something right. I flatten my tongue, flick it back and forth, letting the stud slap against his sphincter. I keep at it for several minutes, wrapping my palm around his cock as I bury my face in his ass. I can feel his muscles flexing around my tongue as if they’re begging for cock. I pretend that I’m not getting the message (such a prankster!) until he begs with his mouth, “Please, sir… fuck me. Fuck me hard, fill me with your cock and use me as your fucktoy.”

“You shameless hussy,” I murmur, as if I disapprove or something. With my thumb and index finger, I make a tight circle just under the head of his cock and pull it back towards me.

“Yesssss…” he whines.

“And I would like to fuck you.” My voice is muffled by his asshole, what with my tongue still being in it, but I think he can hear me well enough. “But I’m just not sure you’ve earned your dicking.”

“What?!” He sounds heart-broken, and incredulous on top of that, as if he doesn’t believe I could be so cruel.

“It’s just that…” I bite him, suck hard, leave a bright purple hickey on his left cheek, so close to his hole it’ll be hidden when he stands. “…You didn’t tell me how much the bites have been hurting you, which makes me think they didn’t hurt at all. And I can’t have that.” With that, I sink my teeth back in, leave a mirroring hickey on his right buttock.

I think he’s trying to utter some type of rebuttal, but the words don’t come out too well through the screams. He might be really scared—he knows the way I bite him is gentle by my standards—this turns me on. A lot. I let go; after he catches his breath, he manages to respond. “No, sir… they did hurt… I just… thought the pain… scale… was only for… impact.”

I pretend to take this into consideration, though I’d decided his punishment when I first noticed he wasn’t rating the bites. “Well, I suppose you were doing the best you could—if you had to estimate, which you do, what would say the mean pain level was?”

The moan of futile concentration tells me he’s trying to actually do the math. Cute, but I need to distract him further, so I suck on the head of his cock, teasing the slit with my tongue. “Ah… hard to say… eight?”

“Eight, huh? Times how many bites—let’s see—there are five marks here, so that makes forty. But I really don’t like multiples of five, so…”

Quickly, I lean over him and take a hunk of shoulder into my mouth, biting down until he yells out, “NINE!” whereupon I ease up on the teeth and apply suction instead.

“Six times eight is forty-eight…” I hum to myself, hopping off the bed. “I love you, baby boy. Now—count!” With that, I snap my wrist and bring the long rattan cane down over his ass.

“One!”

“Count, and give me a pain rating.”

“One, five.”

“Manners?”

“One, five, thank you, sir.”

“So much better.” I want to hurt him. I want to hurt him a lot, more than he can handle, which frightens me. But his feedback keeps my baser urges in check; I keep the hits up in the seven-to-nine range, lessening my force as his skin gets more and more sensitive. After stroke number eighteen, I rub flat hands from calves to shoulder blades. He shudders with pleasure at the unexpected gentleness. His ass is a beautiful red that I’m hoping will turn purple in a couple hours.

I lay on my side next to him, curling around his crumpled form, and kiss the side of his face softly. I slip a fingertip under the band of the collar, and he turns to face me, eyes still closed, lips blindly searching for mine. I let him have them. “I love you, sweetheart. I’m pleased you’re taking this so well,” I whisper into the kiss.

“Thank you, sir,” he moans.

I kiss and lick and nibble his ear, whispering at a barely audible level so I don’t hurt his ears. “I’ll let you have that dicking you’ve been begging for as soon as we’re done with this, yeah?”

“YES!”

His enthusiasm is adorable, and I have to bury my blushing twitterpation in his neck for a moment before I remember why I’m here—to dom the bajeesus out of my owner. Right.

There are thirty strokes left to go, which I distribute evenly over his legs, ass, and back; with the exception of a few scattered, merciful sixes, they’re all eights and nines. But mostly nines.

I’m very sneaky, and by the time I get to the last three—extra hard—hits, I’m all condomed- and lubed-up, without his noticing a thing. “You did it,” I murmur, sliding my cock into him in one long, smooth motion. “You’re my good boy.”

“Ahh! Fuck! Ohyes! Thank you, sir!”

I bottom out and start a slow rhythm. “Thank you? For what?” I know what, of course. I just like to hear him talk about what a great lay I am.

“For giving me the finest dicking of my life. And beatings. And being fucking wonderful.”

“You’re very welcome. But-” I hump him with short, furious thrusts. “-you forgot to thank me for coming in your ass.”

He pushes back against me, grinding his hips and moaning loudly. “Thank you for coming in my ass, sir! Yes! Ohgod, fill me, fill me, yes!”

I lose control. I driver deeper and deeper into him without ever pulling out. My pelvic floor muscles are contracting wildly around the silicone inside me, and I lose all sense of rhythm as I orgasm repeatedly. My hips are snapping to and fro as if they have a mind of their own. I dig all ten fingernails into his love handles (or rather, the place he’d have them if he weren’t so skinny) and pull his ass tight against me as I ride out my climaxes.

As soon as I’m done coming (for now, anyway), I pull out slowly until just the head is left in, then fuck him slowly, sweetly, circling my hips. He likes it when I treat him tenderly, but I’m trying to overdo it.

It works.

“Harder, please,” he begs. “I want to feel you use me, want you to fuck me until you can’t come anymore…”

“Until I can’t come anymore?” I scoff. “You’d be dead, sweetie.”

He moans something that could just as easily be “Uh-huh” or “Uh-uh.” I’m pretending he agrees.

“Death by sex machine, huh? That’s what you want?” I relinquish my grip on one of his hips to grab his cock. It’s so covered in pre-cum I don’t need lube.

“YES! PLEASE!”

I don’t bother with any more banter, fun as it is to tease him. I jerk his cock at the same fast pace I’m fucking him, edging myself for as long as I can stand it before I crash into my orgasm the way I’m crashing into him—thunderously. His moans turn into mewls as he gets close; I switch to the base when he screams my name, and he jizzes all over the sex towel. I collapse onto his sweaty back as a few lingering orgasms shiver through me, kiss his shoulders in gratitude. I carefully withdraw, remove the condom, toss it on the sex towel, yank both off the bed, and release his limbs from the restraints. He wraps me up in his arms, kisses the top of my head. “Ohhh, you’re such a good Pet.”

“Thank you, sir,” I whisper bashfully.

“Now clean me up.”

“Gladly!” I nuzzle him all the way down to his semen-covered cock and lick it greedily. I keep licking long after it’s clean, until he laughingly grabs my hair and tugs my face up to his.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, non-fiction, domination

Possible triggers: feet

This scene involves a person dominating the living daylights out of his Pet. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Your Puppet

I enter your room after our shower; you’re sitting on the overturned bucket, flicking through tabs on Firefox, naked save smartsocks and the ever-present chainmail. Collar in one hand, I crawl over and kneel at your side, curl around your legs. As long as I have my face resting on your thigh, I don’t mind waiting.

I stay still for a few minutes. When you’re ready, you grab my hair and pull me up to rest on my haunches. “Thank you, Pet,” you whisper, kissing the top of my head. Gently, you pluck the collar from my fist.

I kneel at your feet in a state of tranquil ecstasy, holding as still as I can with your long fingers wrapping the nylon webbing of the collar around my neck. When the circle is nearly complete, you saw it back and forth a few times, putting the slightest pressure on my airway. I tilt my head at an obtuse angle, to make eye contact and to further constrict my breathing.

You spin the collar around to better access the buckle and I compliantly stretch my neck to one side. You’re staring into me when I start to orgasm—I know from your breathing that you feel it, even without my saying anything. As soon as it’s fastened, you command, “Hump my feet.”

My eyes, already wide with arousal, open further in a blatant look of, “Oh you have got to be fucking with me.” I do not want this, do not want to be doing this. Just those words from anyone else would’ve been enough to stop my orgasm in its tracks and unleash a flood of virulent sassmouth.

But that’s not what happens here.

My legs collapse until my ass is on your toes, my hands clutch your calves, my ribcage brushes your shins. My fluffy pubes and freshly-washed cunt are held neatly between your cuneiform bones. I can’t help but gyrate against your ankles.

“Harder,” you say.

Unable to talk, I plead with my eyes, but your eyebrows furrow unrelentingly. My cock is squeezed between my outer lips, still tumescent from the extremely thorough washing you gave me in the shower. Rocking forward mimics the sensation of penetration, and that’s the point of no return.

I hump you desperately, the embarrassment on my face plain as day. My blush deepens with each successive orgasm; I feel my cheeks burning when my spasms finally slack off and I crumple onto your knees.

But my mortification at what I’ve already done doesn’t satisfy you. “More,” you insist.

I fight it, but I’m your puppet. I hope my inner defiance is visible, but fear it’s somewhat concealed by the rapid-fire snapping of my hips and the moans rising from my throat. I grind figure-eights into the tops of your feet with my pubic bone. I want to help it but I can’t; I come on your feet over and over again, staring into your eyes… I must be making such a sticky mess. I’m too chagrined to look away, seized by the last-ditch hope that my shame over my utter lack of self-control will somehow make you feel remorse.

But of course it doesn’t work that way.

“Good boy,” you chirp when I finally come down, blinking and flushing in stupefaction.

I wheeze my disbelief. “I can’t… holy shit… I would not have done that… for anyone else… that was your feet… feet are so grossssss….” I groan.

“I know,” you say smugly.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, non-binary, gay male, non-fiction

Possible triggers: domination? biting? Iunno…

This scene involves a trans guy (me) orgasming at his owner’s command. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Countdown

I’m running my thumb along the edge of your bottom lip, being adorable, when you catch it between your teeth and bear down. Hard. I moan and rise off the bed a little. My arm instinctively yanks back, and though I don’t intend to free my hand, you bite down harder, just behind the knuckle.

As is typical, your teeth on my skin immediately floods the levee holding back my libido. My body is merely an extension of that single phalange, an eddy of need swirling around a painful nucleus. The movement of your mouth makes me moan, but when I hear how ridiculous you sound, I begin to chuckle on top it.

“Thicksh,” you mumble wetly, your mouth full of thumb. I am belly-laughing now but that does nothing to halt the jolt of arousal that courses through my body the instant I decipher your speech. I roll onto my side, pressing my pubic crest against your iliac crest and shoving my nose abruptly into your armpit. So fucking good, I can’t inhale deeply enough.

“Fiff,” is really just a muffled puff of air into my palm, but the meaning is plain. I gasp desperately as you roll over to face me and tremble when we lock eyes.

The way you lishp, “Frrrrf,” sends me into gales of laughter even as my body knee-jerks into action, bucking helplessly against you in the short, hard jerks you like so much.

Something about laughing so hard while rapidly approaching such a massive orgasm seems terribly conflicted to me, but my body does not seem to give a shit. I’m trying to find words to express this when you bite down even harder on my thumb. “FUCK,” I screech. Then, “Yes, yes, oh yesssss…” when your tongue wraps around the tip. You bob up and down like the excellent cocksucker you are, and I have to keep myself from coming too soon. I press kisses all over your collarbone and shoulder to distract myself.

I start giggling again when you say, “Schreeeeesh.” My convulsing torso can’t help but to contract in rhythm with my laughs, which means rapid-fire kegels. The walls of my fuckhole rub against each other and my involuntary attempts to guffaw and moan simultaneously almost make me choke.

You don’t say anything until my diaphragm calms down a little, and I would say you were being kind—except I see the devious look in your eyes, the look that says you’re just drawing this out because you know how ready I am to come rightthefucknow and there’s still three numbers to go…

“Thooosh,” you whisper, staring me down. You bite down harder on my thumb (bringing it to agony-level); my body throbs in time with your pulse, which I can feel racing through the portions of your body touching mine. We’re pressed together ankles to navels, your arms on my back, my forehead on your neck.

The exertion of holding myself back makes my eyes squeeze so hard they tear. I know it’s not been more than a few minutes, but already I feel I’ve been edging since time immemorial. The laughter running through me shakes your body as much as my own. “Unn.”

Still chortling under my breath, unable to stop even to focus my energy on coming, my eyes fly open and I squirm close, nuzzle your neck with my nose as if I could root the command out of you.

“Tsheroth,” makes me come too hard to laugh, too hard to think about laughing, too hard to even remember that I had been laughing. There is something beyond my control happening in my hips, something that involves a lot of back-and-forth motion, and I wonder—in a dazed sort of fashion—if you somehow installed springs while I was distracted.

When I stop screaming with orgasm, I start laughing again, a bubbling noise that rises through my thighs and bursts from my chest. Every time I move or breathe or laugh or try to talk, it triggers another tiny orgasm joining the avalanche.

It’s a long time before I can catch my breath enough to say, “Ding!” and even then, diminishing spurts of orgasm keep me twitchy.

Your teeth release me as your hand pull me closer. “Good boy.”

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, gay male, fluid bonding, d/s

Possible triggers: Nothing comes to mind.

This scene involves a genderqueer trans guy and a cis guy gettin’ down in a barrier-free manner. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Antici… PATION!

I’ve spent months waiting for this moment, sleepless nights of lip-biting, one hand down my pants and one clamped across my gaping mouth, the whole time telling myself how much I’d savor it when it finally got here. How I wouldn’t let myself rush things. Anticipation is probably my favorite thing about sex, about connection—the awkward grope for the words, “May I kiss you?,” the twitterpated daydreams before the first I love you is voiced, the endless seconds of breathless hesitation before a new lover sinks into me for the first time.

And so, although I very much want to throw myself in whole-hog, straddle your wet cock and hump it viciously until you shoot inside me, only to slurp it clean again, I force myself to listen to the stern voice in the back of my head.

Shivering with the exertion of holding still, I let you slowly remove the clothes I selected especially due to how long they take to undo. (Suits are awesome like that.) Your fingers fumble as they unfasten the row of tiny buttons marching down my chest, your eyes brimming with smiles as you glance shyly back and forth between my face and the clothes slowly slipping off myself.

I’m reminded of our first meal in your kitchen, both of us too overflowing with lust and crush to know how to comport ourselves. Then, at least, I knew what to do with my hands, rushing to shove juicy chunks of my safeword (pineapple) into my mouth when meeting your gaze made me blush and stammer. Now, I content myself with clenching and unclenching sweaty fists, staring in hunger at the hard-on clearly visible through your clinging jeans, imagining the endless fun I’ll have when I finally, finally have your cock in my mouth, contentedly rolling the head around with my tongue, massaging the shaft with my teeth—safely cloaked, of course, by my humming lips.

The shirt is gone, at long last, and your cold, nimble fingers creep under my waistband to grasp the hem of my undershirt. You pull it up at a painstaking rate, sharp fingernails washboarding over my ribs. My eyes close of their own accord—I want to watch every precious second, I do—and a broken moan leaves my throat. “Oh,” you murmur, and I glance up to see your eyebrows furrowed in faux-concern. “Is there an orgasm trapped in there?” I nod helplessly, beseeching you with wide eyes and bitten, twisted lips. “Do you need me to let it out?” Again, nodding. My arms are fully extended over my head, the thin cotton undershirt making a white haze of my vision when your voice puffs out the command to orgasm. I thrash and scream as if speaking in tongues, nearly knocking us both over. I know you only said one, but I climax over and over and over again as you rip the undershirt off and keep me vertical—one hand cupping my ass, one tangled in my hair.

When I manage to shake off the fog of orgasm, my hands are white-knuckling on your shoulders, so cemented in place that you have to reach up and forcibly uncurl them one finger at a time.

I’m not too far gone to notice you wincing. “Oops. Did I hurt you?”

“It was worth it.” I mean to apologize, but you sink smoothly to your knees in front of me, and I forget where my brain is. “Now, don’t fall over. Hurting you is my job, not gravity’s.”

“Got it,” I gulp, as you press kisses into my cloth-covered crotch, large hands running over the back of my legs, ankle to thigh and back again. “C-can I hold onto you?”

It’s hard to tell, exactly, your voice muffled as it is by my cunt, but I’m almost sure you say, “As long as I have hair left by the end of this.” My eyes are glued to your face, your hands… struggling as they always do with the friction clasp on my great-grandfather’s leather belt. I start to smirk and offer help, but you free it before I can force the words out; you gently outline my aching clit with the loose-hanging end before delivering one, two, three, sharp thwacks to the throbbing head. Three keening moans escape and I grab your hair, pulling you hard into me and humping your face.

You push me away. “Did I tell you to hump my face?” you admonish, unfastening the hook-and-eye in my waistband, pulling the zipper down tooth by lonely tooth.

“N-n-no-oooo,” I whimper, remorseful already.

You nuzzle my cock, now covered by a mere layer of pussy-drenched cotton, inhaling deeply, and even the steep angle of my line of sight does little to hide your grin. “Hump my face,” you order sternly, so close I can feel the reverberations of your whisper through my whole groin, and I have no choice but to comply. I can feel your thick tongue through the fabric of my underpants, diligently beating in time to my frantic rhythm.

“I love you!” I manage to gasp as a slew of orgasms wash over me—somewhere in the back of my mind I hope I’m not doing permanent damage to your nose, but it’s a little late to worry about that now. When I’m able to stop moving, I try to breathe and look down to your beaming self. I notice my pants around my ankles.

“Thank you, my Pet. You’re such a good boy.” I giggle and blush, try to thank you but can’t. “Now step out of these,” you request, tugging at the puddle of slick grey fabric by way of indication. I do so, just barely managing to stay upright as I balance on first one shaky leg, then the other. I’m down to just my favorite satin-shimmery knee socks, sodden underwear, tie, and of course the choke-chain collar you gave me when you first asked me to be your Pet. You spread your legs, sink down further, blaze a path of soft kisses and sharp nips from the skin of one exposed knee to my inner thigh, ghosting over my needy groin, then down the other leg and up again. Finally, you enclose my clit in your panting mouth, trap the throbbing bundle of nerves between your large front teeth and pull—just this side of agony, you release me but retain your hold on my briefs. They stick, at first, because of the magical cohesive/adhesive powers of my pussy juice, but you free them by pushing the tip of each thumb under the crotch, outlining the edges of my opening with a feather touch. I moan and widen my legs in hopes you’ll touch me more, but you just tug my underwear down until my splayed legs halt any further progress.

“You know how happy it makes me that you’re such a giant slut,” you remark drily, “but I’m never going to get these off you if you don’t [slap] close [slap] your [slap] fucking [slap] legs!”

SMACK!

I comply, albeit shakily, and my underwear finally slides down. You lift my right leg, then my left, taking advantage of my momentary incoherence to caress each thinly-stockinged foot for much longer than I’d usually tolerate. I’m so worked up that even The Dreaded Foottouching elicits gasps and whimpers.

But I guess you know not to push your luck too far, because you haul yourself vertical by my tie and kiss me for the first time in what feels like hours. I swoon. And then, predictably, I moan and orgasm in your arms; it’s a wonder you’re not bored by my constant fits yet. (Thank goodness! Being poly is great and all, but no one turns me into a puddle of subby goo like you do…) You pull back a few millimeters, take one end of my tie in each hand and slowly, purposefully tighten it while you stare intently into my swimming eyes. “Does my puppy like that?” I nod, whimpering as much as I can through my constricted airway. “Does my puppy want me to choke him until he passes out and I have to slap him in the face with my cock to wake him up?” Mouthing something (“please,” maybe?), I nod again. “Too bad,” you shrug, loosening my tie and pulling it off in one lightning movement. You bend to nuzzle the stretch of my neck just bared. “Because this where I’m going to put the new collar I have for you, my Pet. The collar you can’t take off.”

I shudder, feeling the weight of your words pooling in the lowest levels of my belly. “Yes, love. Thank… thank you.” I run my hands up under your tunic, scratch my nails down your torso to the cliffs of your hips. “May I?” I ask, worrying the hem with my thumbs.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

If I’m slow about it, it has more to do with my unwillingness to peel my torso from yours than any patience on my part. When our bare chests meet, my nipple rings pressing into your ribcage, we both groan and our mouths collide in a storm of bruising teeth and lips. I stretch up on tiptoe to caress your ear with my mouth, kiss and bite my way down to your collar bone, shoulder, the flat planes of your chest, marking you all the way—making you into my chewtoy. Somewhere in the region of your belly button, through your gasps and cries, I look up, meet your eyes, and you nod.

That’s all I need.

I fall, urgently, to my knees, lap at the promising erection already seeping through your pants before I remember—I don’t have to do that anymore! I make short work of your belt, have your cock out before your pants are all the way off your hips. I groan, hungrily, when it springs out and thwaps me lightly in the nose, make sure your eyes are locked with mine as I extend my tongue, swirl it around your naked slit for the first time. Without looking away, I lick you up and down while I struggle to push your pants and panties down your legs. True, my task would probably be easier if I looked at what I was doing, but that would require looking away from the need and contentment warring for control of your face.

Unfortunately, my eyes don’t roll far enough back to maintain eye contact as I deepthroat you repeatedly, though I do engage in a staring contest with your navel. You’re certainly welcome to fuck my face, but I’m doing it for you, moaning each time you bottom out in my throat. I’m salivating uncontrollably by the time my orgasm rolls around, drooling on your balls, try as I might to catch it all with my tongue and lick it back into my mouth.

I don’t notice the time passing; more than happy with my lot, I could keep this up for hours (and have, in the past). But at some point or another, you pull me back by my hair, tsktsk gently. “Oh, Pet, look at you. You made such a mess on my nice clean floor. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yessir.” I try to get down on my hands and knees, but just end up yanking my own hair. Without letting go, you join me on the floor and push my face into the puddle I left there. Growling a little in the back of my throat, I lap it all up as quickly as I can, keeping lapping long after it’s gone.

Grabbing my neck, you tilt my head up to kiss me without realizing that my mouth, beard, and chin are all still sloppy-wet from sucking you off. I know wetface isn’t really your thing, so I laugh and wipe the bulk of the saliva from my face with the back of my forearm before kissing you again. And again, as you grab my nipples and pull upwards, helping me stand. Your hard, slick cock is pressing adamantly into my abdomen and I rise up on tiptoe, trying to get it between my legs.

“Bed,” I gasp into your mouth. “Want to.” I refuse to break the kiss. “Feel you.” I push you back until your legs hit the mattress, cradle your head as I lay you down on your side. My cunt is so ridiculously wet (even for me) that it takes physical as well as emotional effort to prevent you from slipping in instantly as soon as we touch. No one is shocked when our cocks meet and I come instantly. I clench my thighs on your shaft, frotting you mercilessly as one orgasm blends into the next.

My head is reeling but I force myself to back off, just for a moment. I roll you onto your back, straddle you, lower myself so that only nanometers separate my junk from yours. “Watch,” I whisper, and you push yourself up onto your elbows, eyes glued to my hand around your cock. I trace the edges of my cunt with your glans, gasping with the effort of staying upright. You moan something ending in, “Sweetheart,” but I can’t make out the beginning and am too far gone to ask. Not orgasming is taking a lot out of me.

Too much, it appears. I slip down just enough to feel you—your head isn’t even all the way inside—and scream at the top of my lungs.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, interrogation, non-consensual

Possible triggers: If generic government agents kidnapping people and holding them indefinitely while subjecting them to questioning and physical/psychological torture isn’t your thing, you shouldn’t read this. There’s also a lot of blood.

This scene involves a genderless government agent interrogating a genderless innocent. Also some Dead Kennedys lyrics. I started writing it about a fantasy I had involving one of my fuckbuddies before that whole “indefinite detention for no reason thing” happened, and found I couldn’t finish it. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Bleed for Me

The moon is rising a few degrees to my left, bloated and waxing as I stroll serenely down the brick-paved ally. My mutt spies a cat melting into a deeper pool of shadow and tugs briefly at his leash before relaxing against my side.

I hear footsteps, but they’re quiet, sound like they’re coming from far behind me. I want to turn and look behind me, but I don’t. I have my dog, I have my pepper spray and my knife, I have years of my folks saying, “Don’t look scared. Don’t walk scared. Look like a victim and you’ll be a victim,” instilled in me, muscle deep.

Before I even know they’re next to me, my neck is encased in a firm chokehold. My hands fly up, unbidden, to try to pry the arm off me―I drop the leash and curse myself for doing so as my dogs takes off after the myriad alley cats―but I end up just scratching myself and harming them not at all.

I smell something saccharine.

“Come with me to the building that no one stops to watch.”

My arms hurt. I’m upright, but not standing. I’ve been bound with something―I twist my wrists experimentally and discover that it’s rough, raw rope―and have been attached to something above me. I’ve been unconscious, sagging in the restraints, and my hands feel numb and tingly. I struggle to stand, realize the reason it’s so difficult is that my legs have been hobbled, attached to some type of bar at the ankles, holding them uncomfortably far apart. I finally manage to support my own weight, flex my hands in an effort to get the blood back.

I’m not blindfolded but I can’t see. Wherever I am, inside or outside I’m not sure, is pitch black. Not a single photon. I can’t hear a damn thing. I need to know where my puppy is. I need him with me.

I feel something cold and sharp against my throat. A line of pressure coming to a sharp point. I know it’s the dumbest thing to do with a knife at my throat, but I can’t help it, I scream at the top of my lungs and thrash as much I can, which is dispiritingly little. I’m smacked, I keep screaming. The knife moves to the outside of my left arm, catches my sleeve and slices all the way down. Slowly. The point of my knife never leaves my skin. I shudder, almost fall when it gets to my armpit. My ears hurt from so much noise, but I can’t stop yelling. I am going to die. I know it. I know it. I think I feel blood trickling down my ribs. The knife moves to my c-spine, catches the collar of my button-up and drags, knocks into each vertebrae on its way to the hem. My shirt is now hanging by the right sleeve alone, and that is quickly taken care with another, faster, slash of the knife.

Then nothing. Eventually I calm down enough to stop screaming, breath raggedly. A voice like a whisper of steel says, “You can keep screaming. I don’t care. No one’s going to hear you.”

The fear this instills in me makes me want to scream, but I bite my lip in an attempt to hide it.

“You think you’re so brave, don’t you? Well, you’re not. I can smell your fear.” Something brushes my armpit hair, I hear a loud inhale. “You’re going to sing like a little bird before I’m done with you.” I hear steps circle me slowly, once, twice, and stop behind me. The echo rings for a moment longer. “We’ve been watching you. We know that you’ve been hanging ’round with an enemy of the state. Matter of fact, we know their name. But I’m kind, and I’m going to give you the chance to prove how honest and trustworthy you are by just telling me that name. Right. Now.”

“B-b-but―I haven’t bee-”

That’s as far as I get into my denial before something cracks hot across my back. And again. And again. I’m screaming again, no words, just sounds, and tremble every time I hear the crack, the crack that brings the pain. I’m struggling in my bindings―my wrists and ankles are aching but I can’t stop trying to get forward, to get away. I have no idea how many times I’m hit before it stops.

The lights flick on, harsh and bright, and I groan in pain at the sudden affront to my rods and cones. When my eyes can focus, all I see is a coiled, bloody single-tail held in front of my face by a gloved fist. I twist―painfully―to look over my shoulder; blood drips down my splayed legs and into a congealing pool between my feet. The floor is dirty, concrete. I look forward again. My glasses are gone, I can’t tell how big the room we’re in is. The fist is attached to an arm in a nondescript brown shirt, three chevrons at each shoulder. Backlighting makes the blond hair glow, the face indecipherable.

“You wanna bleed some more for me? Or you ready to talk?”

“I don’t know anyth-” and the fist hits my gut. I have time to contract my abdominals, barely. I retch momentarily. They spin on their heel and walk behind me. I hear a door open, slam, then nothing.

Alone for the time being, I’m seized by a foolish hope to escape and start desperately struggling against the ropes around my wrists. But they’re well tied natural fibers, and the more I desperately writhe and sweat, the more they lock together. By the time the ominous figure reenters the room, I’m exhausted from my fruitless efforts, blood oozing from my raw skin.

“Oh, isn’t that cute. You thought you could get loose. Too bad you can’t. Or maybe it’s a good thing for you. There’s no way to escape this room, no way for you to unlock that spreader bar, and if I were to come back and see you had untied yourself…” they trail off, reach into their coat and pull out a heavy revolver. “Well, I’d be very, very angry. You are here for me to play with, and I get so angry when my toys misbehave. You. Really. Don’t. Want. That. Trust me.”

I gulp, nod.

“You’re learning. Maybe there is hope for you after all. Are you ready to talk yet?”

I refuse to move, just tighten my jaw and glare.

“My whip is being cleaned right now; you got your nasty blood all over it, and that will damage it if it stays on too long. Luckily I have plenty of other tools.” With that, they pull a handful of binder clips from their trouser pocket. The first one goes on just above the waistband of my pants, and it doesn’t hurt too much, but they’re closely spaced, all the way up my side, all the way up my arm. By the time both sides are done, the skin over my ribs is stretched painfully tight and I’m whimpering despite my best effort.
 
“Does it hurt?”

“Y-y-yes,” I admit grudgingly.

“It’s not that bad right now. The real pain comes when they’re taken off―the longer they’re on, the more it hurts. I’ve been reading about you. I heard you’re a nerd, yeah? Answer me, damn it!”

I nod, grudgingly. Admitting something already known about me isn’t snitching.

“You’re a fucking grammarian, ain’tcha. Fucking thought so. Well, I’m looking for nouns. People, places, things, that sort of thing.”

I shake my head no, don’t make eye contact. The knife is back out. The sharp edge touches the bone of my chin, pushes my head up to look them dead on, slowly enough that it doesn’t bleed… much.

“Look at me when I talk to you!” A hand sounds across my face. “Tell me who you fucking know.” Ferocity corrupts their face, voice wet and coarse with fury, spit flying into my face with every plosive.

“I won’t do it,” I grunt. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Fuck you.” The knife leaves my chin, touches my sternum. It’s cold. “You’re nothing.” The knife shaves off a few small hairs, just to prove it can, and slices a short line straight down. “No one knows you’re here, you know that?” Another line, overlapping the first at 90 degrees. “Your people will never find you.”

“I don’t have people, christ!” I exclaim in frustration. The punishing punch is immediate.

“Don’t have people, huh? We’ll see about that.”

Starting at the top of my forearms, just below my bound wrists, they scratch diagonal lines down the side of my arm, parallel segments maybe two or three inches but feeling much longer, all the way to my armpit―first my left, then my right. By that time all that’s done, my breath is ragged, my crotch is throbbing, and a trail of blood covers each of my nipples. The blood is cleaned in two long, sinuous tongue-swipes, but the lacerations are still trickling.

“I know your STI status better than you do.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“You’re a fucking smartass, you know that?”

I restrain my urge to answer. The smell of blood is making me bolder than I should be.

C’mon bleed
, c’mon bleed
, c’mon bleed

Bleed for me
We’ll strap you to a pipe
, electrodes on your balls

C’mon scream
, c’mon writhe
 face down in a pool of piss
C’mon bleed
, c’mon bleed
, c’mon bleed

Bleed for me
Anytime
Anywhere
Maybe you’ll just disappear

He puts John Waters to shame.

Title: Messrs. Strunk and White, 1923

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, gay male, teacher/student, grammar nerdery

Possible triggers: not coming up with much

Cheekbones!

This scene involves William Strunk Jr. and Elwyn Brooks White (both currently deceased) having hot trans-on-trans sex in a paper storage closet at Cornell. Aw yeah. This was inspired by the webcomic xkcd; so far as I have been able to google, this is the first Strunk/White fanfiction in existence. If you find any spelling or grammar mistakes, please do tell me, as I don’t usually write porn in the past tense. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

Messrs. Strunk and White, 1923

“Strunk was also active in a gathering known as the Manuscript Club, an ‘informal Saturday-night gathering of students and professors interested in writing,’ where he met ‘a sensitive and deeply thoughtful young man named Elwyn Brooks White’.”

-Wikipedia

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Strunk?” Mr. Elwyn White gasped raggedly, his vertebrae imprinting shifting dents into the ceiling-high stacks of typewriter paper. “This, this is so―unseemly! I can’t believe we’re, ahh…”

And at that, he trailed off, his eyes rolling back into his head. Truth be told, it was a singularly unattractive look for the young man, but Mr. Strunk was too absorbed in his task to take note. He hastily, almost clumsily, unfastened the buttons on his soon-to-be-former pupil’s white Oxford shirt. He could not be bothered to unknot the tie in proper fashion and merely nudged it away from the upperclassman’s clavicle.

Mr. White moaned a long, breathy note as Mr. Strunk raked long, pale fingers over his newly bare torso; the moan grew sharp when the teacher’s head ducked down, leaving an asterism of round, purplescent bites across the freckled skin. The shy twenty-three-year-old had never had such an intimate experience with another human, or indeed, with himself; when the older man’s tongue made soft contact with his nipple, he cried involuntarily, “It hurts!”

“Hurts? Where? Here?” Mr. Strunk queried, grasping both nibs lightly between thumb and forefinger. The unadorned light above the low closet door reflected off the exposed slice of his brightest student’s slightly scrawny torso.

“No-no.” A hot flush rose on his chest, neck, and face.

“Where, then?”

Mr. White inexplicably managed to look unwilling and eager at the same time. “Down… lower, sir.”

“Show me.” Mr. Strunk’s voice crackled with deep notes of hunger.

Elwyn set one trembling hand on the soft hairs trailing down from his belly button; the movement caused his left sleeve to cascade down to his elbow, denuding his shoulder and half his back. His right hand came to rest on top of the first, and his shirt was around his wrists, torso bare but for the disheveled tie. Tentatively, the hands crept down to cover his groin. The shirt lowered as well, covering the man’s hips, waist, and wrists. His breath hitched when he tried to puff, “H-here,” as he involuntarily jerked against his clasped hands.

Mr. Strunk swallowed once and asked, “Do you want me to help you with that?” as he stared purposefully into his student’s face, his pupils huge and black. His only answer was a nod and a whimper. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” came the shame-faced reply, the last word dragging out as Mr. Strunk kissed and bit his way down the boy’s neck, collar bone, torso.

Just as he settled onto his knees, Mr. Strunk looked up and made forceful eye contact. “In that case, it is absolutely imperative that you tell me if you like what I’m doing. And it is even more important that you tell me if I am doing something wrong, or in a place you don’t like. I won’t be upset. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” was the whisper.

“And you agree?”

“Yes.”

After that, Mr. Strunk wasted no time. He placed a chrysanthemum of kisses around the dimpled naval in front of him, moving downward at a place carefully calculated to keep the initiate relaxed―at least as relaxed as one could be with their handsome teacher kissing around (but not on) their aching genitals. A maelstrom of sensations clouded Mr. White’s vision: the harsh pant of his own breath through his dry throat, the relentless throb echoing from loin to loin, the sight of Mr. Strunk’s silver-blond hair sweatily escaping his careful part, the firm fingertips stroking the back of his knees, the stacks of paper on the shelves behind him digging sharply into his skin, the dark arch of his eyebrows raised in question.

“Yes oh yes oh please yes,” he babbled.

“Yes what?”

“I don’t know! more,” Mr. White pleaded in an agonized tone. He could feel his turgid member tenting his cotton shorts, even beginning to show through his heavy pants. He was quite sure he’d never been so hard, not even on the endless nights after beginning testosterone, when thoughts shameful and delighting took over his mind and he rocked his hips against his mattress fruitlessly until first light.

Mr. Strunk brought his right hand up, outlined the fly of the pants with his thumb. “Do you want me to kiss you… here?” he asked in a soft growl, his nose pressed against the boy’s iliac crest, his rumbling voice setting the lower abdomen trembling.

“So much! I―I―I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Never felt how?”

“So, oh, so painfully hard, sir.”

At that Mr. Strunk laughed, a heartfelt belly laugh, and buried his feral grin in the blushing man’s stomach before he grabbed a great mouthful of flesh between quick teeth, clenched, shook momentarily, and released.

“I like what you’re doing,” Mr. White nearly screamed.

“Good boy.” With that, he began to take small pinches of cloth between his teeth, scraping his incisors over the skin as he did, all the way from the belt loops of the high-waisted pants to the long-ignored pubis. When his mouth was positioned directly over the radiating heat of Mr. White’s erection, he placed a firm kiss over the tangibly pulsing organ, widened the kiss to take it into his mouth. As he knowingly massaged the head through the cloth with his lips and teeth, Mr. White panted heavily, staccato affirmations in an increasingly shrill pitch.

Abruptly, Mr. Strunk stood up. Over his partner’s incoherent objections, he stated firmly, “If you cannot be quiet I shall have to gag you. Or stop.”

There was a whisper, impossible to decipher.

“Speak up if you’re going to talk, boy!”

“I want you to gag me, s-” Elwyn found himself cut off, mouth captured in a damaging kiss, all tooth and suction. His teacher was grinding into him, crotch pressing against crotch, buttocks smashed uncomfortably against the shelf behind him. He felt long past due for explosion.

In due time, Mr. Strunk freed him, stepped back a fraction of an inch to say, “I think your undergarments would be the most convenient gag we have at hand, don’t you?”

Mr. White thought about the handkerchief in his pants pocket and dismissed the idea immediately, and nodded his enthusiasm.

“Would you like to remove them? Or should I?”

“You, please.”

“Right choice. Turn around. Take off your shoes.”

The closet was only barely large enough to admit both of them, and Mr. White had to jackknife at the hips to reach his feet, well aware of the way this must look to Mr. Strunk―and then, with one shoe untied, felt Mr. Strunk’s hands working gently over his butt, rubbing, squeezing, massaging down his thighs, up his sides, and between his legs. He faltered at his task, rocking forward a bit as he forgot about the shoes.

“I said take off your shoes.” Mr. Strunk closed the distance again, grasped Elwyn’s hips firmly and humped them steadily.

“You’re―ee―making it very, uh, difficult, I mean…”

“Maybe. But the fact remains that the faster you give me your underthings, the sooner I will be able to let you orgasm. Whether I allow you to or not, however, depends on how pleased I am with your behavior. It’s your fault I had to stop, you know, and I was enjoying myself thoroughly. Naughty, naughty.” Each syllable was punctuated with a thrust of the hips, some gentle, some rough.

With an immense force of will, Mr. White shoved the fog of arousal out of one small corner of his brain, and used those few cells to untie his shoes and toe them off. “I did it,” he declared, feeling a pride in his success he hadn’t experienced over such a mundane task in over two decades.

“You certainly did,” Mr. Strunk replied, amused. “Now stand, and turn back around.” The two men’s jaws crashed together. Mr. White freely surrendered, melted into the driving force of the other’s kiss; he moaned as Mr. Strunk reached for the fastening of his pants, made short work of them and cupped his genitals in one hot palm. “Before I remove your drawers—may I kiss you here?”

“Oh… yes!”

“You must be very quiet.” Mr. White bit down on the first knuckle of his index finger as his unblinking eyes watched Mr. Strunk sink to his knees a second time. He shivered as thin, closed lips approached his pulsing clitoris and hissed his appreciation for the contact as quietly as he could.

“Well done,” Mr. Strunk whispered just loud enough for his voice to buzz the protruding cotton. His enunciation was immaculate; this very tip of his lips and tongue brushed the object of his desire as he formed the consonants. He hooked his thumbs under the drawstring waist as his mouth finally made contact— his tongue slipped forth to nuzzle gently under the glans, where the skin began to part wetly.

Mr. White’s first orgasm escaped him in a low whine; try as he might to hold himself back, he simply couldn’t. His hips bucked wildly (pelvic bone glancing off Mr. Strunk’s upper teeth with painful sparks); he drew his own blood in an effort to remain quiet. Fortunately for him, it was a mild seize, a mere prelude to what would follow… even so, it left him dazed and watery. Once the spasms of joy left his limbs, he slid limply down the wall until he felt the support of the other man’s arms.

“What… what was that?”

“Did you like it?”

A beaming nod was the only answer.

“It gets better,” Mr. Strunk said as he lowered the drawers, guiding them down calves and over feet, stood up and faced his student. “Open your mouth. Do you smell that? That’s your cum. Have you ever tasted it before? No? Well, you’re in for a treat… your sex is unusually fragrant,” he finished quietly, enjoying the blush this provoked.

The fabric forced its way to the back of Mr. White’s mouth and he grunted in recognition of his treat.

“Don’t let that fall out unless you want me to stop, okay? Blink twice if you agree.”

Mr. White blinked twice. Then his eyes widened at the sight of Mr. Strunk on his knees for the third time that day, his tongue extended to nearly grotesque lengths.

He was panting heavily, heart about to burst, when he at last felt the warm muscle between his thighs. It wended its way to the top of of his pubic mound, repeated the action. He opened his legs, feeling more than hearing the wanton moan that accompanied the motion. He ground his hips downward, and immediately was rewarded with a hot, knowing mouth enveloping his erection. The orgasm swept over him almost immediately, taking hold of his entire body this time. One firm hand pinned his ribs against the shelves while the other slipped one finger inside his dripping self, then two, holding him down from the inside; if hadn’t been for those two things, he would have dissolved to nothing more than a twitching heap.

As it was, he could barely keep his head up to kiss Mr. Strunk when the professor stood, leaving his hands in place and biting Elwyn’s bottom lip. “I think you made quite a mess on my hand, young man,” he faux-reprimanded as he added a third finger. “But I think you can do more for me…

“I.

“Want.

“You.

“To.

“Come.

“For.

“Me.

“NOW!”

Mr. White rode his increasing waves of pleasure until the last explosive syllable—the tremor in his lover’s voice broke every dam he had, and he cried out, so loud even through the thick gag that Mr. Strunk had to stop what he was doing and replace it with his soaking hand.

“I believe it’s my turn to get off now,” the man commented drolly, unfastening his pants quickly and dropping them. He wore nothing beneath, and pinched both of their clitorises between his thumb and pinky on one side and his remaining three fingers on the other, one glans protruding at either side. He removed his hand from his partner’s gasping mouth and covered it in tiny closed-lip kisses, wiped his hand dry on his shirt and caressed the flushed face from temple to jaw. He dropped both hands to the boy’s shuddering hipbones and guided the tumescence there between his damp thighs. His erection bumped against the taller man’s pelvic bone; he ground against it roughly and hissed his satisfaction. It only took a few teasing thrusts between his legs for him to orgasm fiercely, kissing the shoulder in front of him in passing before sinking his every tooth into him. He and Elwyn moaned in unison as he squirted scalding liquid onto the boy’s happy thighs.

“Oh… Mr. Strunk… thank you for that,” the euphoric youth moaned.

“Call me, ‘William’,” William replied, smiling.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, gay male, fan fiction

Possible triggers: teacher/student, leather

This scene involves Harry Potter bootworshipping Snape. You should also know I never write in the past tense, so there’s probably tense disagreements. Oh well. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda. And I obviously do not own these characters.

Lesson Learned

Crap, thought Harry in the instant his cauldron overturned, tumbling over his uselessly outstretched hands and spilling its entire contents on the lower portion of Snape’s body, mostly the “very tall thestral-hide boots” portion.

“You will remain after class to serve your first detention,” Snape spat out in an icy, unhesitating voice. “You are fortunate that this is the last period of the day, and you will be merely missing supper, not your next class. Although if your attention to other subjects resembles your attention here at all, I hardly think it would make a difference if you were present or no. Indeed, your peers would very likely appreciate the absence of your distracting presence.”

Harry’s eyes flared, but he bit his tongue and shoved a firm elbow into Ron’s ribcage to nip his friend’s protestations in the bud. Snape hadn’t even-

“And of course, there’s the matter of points. Shall we say fifteen?”

Damn it. Harry nodded mutely, gulping audibly in a doomed effort to quash his anger.

Class ended in a matter of minutes, and while the other students filed out—the Gryffindors with expressions of greatest empathy etched across their mugs—Harry sat mutely at his table, staring at the puddle of potion creeping across the pitched floor into the drain, breathing slowly in attempts to fill himself with unrufflable calm before facing Snape on-on-one.

“You may approach my desk, Mr. Potter.” Harry looked up to see Snape seated sedately in his desk chair, fingers steepled and eyebrow raised as if to add …any decade now would be lovely.

Harry nodded silently and approached, hanging back awkwardly once he got within a couple feet of his professor, unsure what to do.

“Closer, Mr. Potter. You were careless enough to make this mess; to make the punishment truly fit the crime I think you should be forced to clean it up. Yes, I said forced. You may turn around.”

Harry turned uneasily, back to Snape. What would Moody say, if he were still here to see Harry voluntarily put himself in such a vulnerable position, especially with such an unknown quantity as Snape? It took the better portion of his self-control, but he managed to keep his eyes down, to not crane his neck and gawk at Snape over his shoulder. Something told him Snape would not appreciate that sort of attention.

He gasped and instinctively jerked his arms forward when the long fingers closed around his wrists, but they had an iron grip for phalanges so slender, and his hands were guided securely to his back where Snape fastened them with hemp cord, palm to elbow, forearms overlapping.

“You may turn back around, Mr. Potter. And kneel, if you please.”

“You want me to what?”

“I believe you heard me just fine, Mr. Potter. Headmistress Umbridge has had the glorious foresight to grant faculty the authority to enforce our punishments however we see fit. And you, boy, will be cleaning my boots. No magic.”

“But I can’t clean with no magic without using my hands, sir! That’s absurd!”

“I think you’ll find yourself quite capable when you put your mind to it, Mr. Potter. And if not, well, this detention will stretch on until you do. Now, kneel.”

Grudgingly, Harry lowered himself ungracefully to the professor’s feet, face burning as he felt the dark eyes judging his stumbling. He turned his eyes upward to meet his professor’s, trying now to glare. “Now what?”

“Now you clean my boots before I take anymore points from Gryffindor for your insolence.”

“But-” and suddenly the answer hit Harry like a Bludger. No wand, no hands… just his… mouth. He choked back his question as the unhappy revelation spread across his visage.

“Yes…” Snape drawled softly. “You understand now, don’t you? I imagine you’ll be more careful in the future, perhaps refrain from wrestling the incomparable Mr. Weasley when you should be focused on more studious pursuits, mm?” And with that, he opened his legs slightly, drawing back his thick robes to expose his boots to knee. Harry could see the dark leather disappearing under the equally dark fabric, but refused to think about that. Surely the potion didn’t spill that far up. Surely he wouldn’t be forced to… to…

And he forced his mind into silence as he bent forward, toes of the boots looming ever closer. He smelled the strong odor of the potion now, vinegary enough to sting his nostrils and water his eyes, and under that the earthy, oily scent of leather.

“It’s not poisonous. Granted, of course, you managed to brew it correctly.”

He screwed his eyelids tight, as if not seeing his humiliation would make it any less, and extended his tongue, inching closer to the boot. And then, in his blindness, ran his forehead into the boot and licked the cold stone floor. Snape barked a single note of harsh laughter as he flushed, opened his eyes, and made his first real lick.

It tasted better than it smelled, a little sweet, mostly tangy, but cold now, and slimy. Nevertheless, the constant licking quickly moistened Harry’s dry lips and throat; the toe cap and vamp of both feet were shiny with saliva in a matter of minutes. Proud of himself despite his better judgement, Harry rocked back on his heels and looked up at his professor, who met his shy smile with a questioning eye. He seemed unsurprised at the speed with which Harry took to his new task.

Harry gazed up for another few seconds before Snape shifted, extending his legs to allow easier access to the heels, and Harry shook his head clear before bending back over his task. Silent and focused, he moved methodically up the legs, cleaning the instep of each before ascending any higher. Although it had been initially so unpleasant to debase himself in this way, the sourness wore off as time went on, and Harry found himself reveling in the taste and smell of the boots, fulfilled by the simple act of taking something once so messy and making it neat and orderly.

It was tricky to lick up the tongue and around the eyelets, but he managed. Once he finished both calves, he buried his nose in the now-clean crease behind Snape’s left knee, delighting in the sensation of burying his face in the leather, in the leg.

Snape cleared his throat once, twice, and murmured, “You’re not out of boot, yet, boy,” in a hoarse whisper. Harry remembered about the above-the-shin portions of Snape, dimly recalled his disgust earlier but couldn’t for the life of him think why he had felt that way. He jerked his head up, looked into Snape’s face for a long moment before working up the courage to meet the man’s eyes. As he swallowed, he felt something in him dissolve, abruptly noticed the erection aching between his legs. He glanced down at the robes covering Snape’s lap, back up at his face, grinned momentarily, and then took the bottom-most button between his teeth and shook it loose.

A broken groan spilled out above him, but Harry couldn’t be distracted from his task. It took six buttons to reach the top of the boots, at which point scant inches of painfully pale thigh shone below what amounted to a Muggle miniskirt.

When his mouth watered this time, Harry had no doubts as to why.

Harry had been right, earlier, before this eager-to-please fog settled so thickly into the grooves of his brain, when he had thought the upper portions of Snape’s boots must be clean. But he licked them with no less devotion than had they been coated in molasses. Snape had to slouch down in the towering straight-backed chair so Harry could reach the undersides, twisting his back in his eagerness, arms tugging against the ropes as he valiantly attempted to hump his own ankles.

He was so dedicated that he reached the topline all too quickly and dawdled along the last inch of gleaming black leather, tongue slipping slyly off the boot to trace skin for heart-pounding moments. Snape’s hands began to flutter towards his hair but drew back at the last second to land unsteadily on knees.

Harry looked up then, slowly, taking in each centimeter of his teacher, from thigh to face. The musky smell coming from Snape’s lap was that of his own hasty late-night orgasms, though stronger and—Harry thought—sweeter. Robes hid a lot, he knew from awkward experience in first and second year (and third and fourth), but couldn’t entirely mask the erection rising so close to his face. As he made eye contact at last, he managed to choke out, “Is that… er… is that because of me, sir?”

Snape didn’t speak, just bit his thin top lip and nodded, hissing as his entranced eyes tracked the progress of Harry’s mouth… up his lap… to his robe… unfastening first one button, then another and another… until his nose bumped into and nuzzled his throbbing hardon… teeth still working buttons…

Harry whimpered a little when the robes finally fell free of Snape’s cock, mewling in the back of his throat when it bounced free, right into his nose. He inhaled deeply and smiled, rubbing his closed lips softly against the underside. “May I-”

“Merlin’sbeardyes,” Snape moaned brokenly, bucking a little despite himself. Harry opened his lips just enough for his tongue to peek out and licked Snape’s shaft hungrily, up and down, until they shone with saliva, just like the boots. At the top, he lapped the frenulum eagerly until Snape growled with need and laced his fingers through Harry’s perennially rumpled hair, nudging more and more cock into Harry’s hungry mouth. He shivered when the boy moaned at his small use of force, and tightened his grip, pulling two handfuls of shaggy black strands in two different directions.

Harry, lost in concentration, didn’t notice how much time passed but he did take note when Snape stiffened, hips pummeling upwards, and began to pant harsh, shallow breaths. Rather than pull back, he hunkered down, sucked the entire thing into his mouth, hollowed his cheeks, bathed everything he could reach with serpentine tongue. Snape shortly rewarded his diligence with thick jets of cum which landed hot on his tongue and slid smoothly down his throat with a satisfied grin. Harry then set to the task of cleaning Snape’s half-erect cock with the same focus he had shown for the boots before he finally looked up to whisper, “D-did I do okay, sir?”

Snape coughed in disbelief, realized Harry was serious and burst out, “Bloody hell, boy!” and pulled him to his feet as he himself stood, swept him into a thorough kiss-and-grope as Harry melted against his long frame.

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, trans, non-fiction

Possible triggers: spanking

This scene involves smexy trans-on-trans fisting and domination and such. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

How Many Fingers

“Am I hitting you hard enough?”

“No.” What am I doing? He’s going to fucking destroy me.

“Why, you little…” He sounds So Furious. He sounds like that right there was Such A Bad Idea. Whups. He bites down hard on my hips, my ribs, my legs, my chest, my arms, my ass. If I could bruise in any reasonable manner, I’d be all purple by now.

“I love hitting people with toys,” he flames, “but I love just laying into people with my bare hands and bringing the fucking pain.”

With that, he turns me onto my side, legs splayed across his lap, ass falling off one side, and fucking wails on me all over my ass and thighs. When my hindquarters are thoroughly sore and, I hope, beginning to bruise, he turns me flat on my belly, still prone and exposed over his lap, takes gigantic pinches of raw flesh all the way down, from the bottom of my ribs to my calves. Holy. Motherfucking. Shit.

He leans over me, whispers in me ear, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yessss,” I whimper, nodding weakly.

“Do you want me to use a glove?”

I nod again, gulping. He rummages next to the bed and procures a bag. From the bag comes the sexy black glove that’s become synonymous with queer fisting for me. My groin lurches with horny at the sight―and sound―of him snapping it into place. His face is just barely out of range for me to see him clearly without my glasses, but I can still make out the what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it smirk on his face.

“Kiss me?” He hesitates, I think just to fuck with me, before he leans down, nudges my legs open with his own. His fingers find my junk just as his mouth finds my neck. “Oh shit,” I groan. “Fuck yes,” and then I stop moaning, because his mouth is on mine and his fingers are sliding in me. I clamp down on his hand, but he’s not having any of that.

Leaving my mouth for the time being, he bites a trail down my body, working another vinyled finger inside. Getting laid at a house called “Desperate House Punks” means I get to be as loud as I damn well please, which is good, because I’m pretty sure I’m winning the scream-off between me and CSX.

“Do you know how many fingers are in you right now?”

I shake my head desperately. Counting? Now? Not happening.

“Guess.”

“Three?”

Now it’s his turn to shake his head. “Four,” he beams.

“Oh shit,” I moan. I think about telling him that lube is helpful for fisting—and then I realize that I don’t actually need any right now. I can’t believe how great my life is; show up for the hot cocoa, stay for the fisting.

He looks feral as he reaches above me, grabs the (very dirty) underwear he left by my head when he stripped me earlier, shoves it unceremoniously into my mouth. I doubt this particular gag will make me any quieter, but I certainly enjoy having the taste of my own cunt in my mouth while I get fucked… it’s the next-best thing to getting double teamed.

I can feel his whole hand turning within me, the bulb of his knuckles gently (okay, not that that gently) opening the way for the rest of his hand.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” I drone into the wadded cloth slowly falling from my mouth, panting and breathy and endlessly orgasming. I―oh fuck, I feel the thumb pop in.

“I’m past the knuckles,” he whispers. “I’m so proud of you.”

My body is exploding. I feel like he’s punching me in the cervix. No. He is punching me in the cervix. I clench on his hand, trapping his arms between my thighs―I meant to be good I couldn’t help it floats across my mind but what comes out is an endless moan, growling and wailing in turn as I seize.

“Do you need a break?” he asks when I quiet down a bit.

I consider it, looking into his eyes, shake my head no.

He begins moving his hand again. I didn’t realize it was possible, I didn’t think I could fit this much in the first place, but I get fuller and fuller. “I wish you could see how much of my hand is in you right now,” he gasps. “Good boy.”

I almost tell him to take a picture, but words are not happening. Pity, really, because I could tease the fuck out of some people with just such a picture.

His hand is doing something inside me, something I have no way of knowing, only feeling, but I imagine he’s making shadow puppets and almost start giggling. Almost. His hand is going in and out, in and out. I don’t think the knuckles emerge, but I’m definitely getting pummeled.

Time is a false human construction, and it collapses to teensy shreds in the face of my orgasm, which lasts exactly forever, one of those face-melting psychedelic crotch-based experiences. When I come down, it’s in a bleary haze of happy what-the-fuck.

“Do you need a break?”

I don’t want one but… “A little,” I admit. That was, like, a lot to take. Holy shit. Gently, he eases his wrist out of me; I moan both with pleasure and loss.

Eventually, he withdraws. I collapse onto the pillow, grinning. I’m still half orgasming but I’m aware enough to notice when he strips the glove off, inside out, and the resulting spray of cum hits me square in the face. Fuck yeah sloppy sluts.

“You’re such a sweet mess,” he says, looking happily at my splayed-out, dripping self as he stands to throw away the glove. “Do you want some water? And a cookie?”

Rating: NC-17

Categories: queer, d/s, punishment

Possible triggers: Sexiness?

This scene involves a trans boi fucking the shit out of a trans boy. It begins as non-fiction but takes a sharp turn into fantasy land. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.

By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda.

In The Hanging Garden

Inching toward me on the cemetery bench. “Do you think this is fucking funny? Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke?”

I try to say no, but I’m still grinning, shy and excited, from his kiss―so tender, so new―and the denial just doesn’t come fast enough.

Smack. Stop. Smack. Fucking. Smack. Smirking. Smack.

I want to say I’m not smirking, I’m just libidinous, but that would be backtalk and he doesn’t give me the opportunity in any case. He takes my neck in both hands, bends me away from him; my whole torso hangs from his distended arms, choking me out. If I struggle, I’ll fall on my head. Good thing I’m too terrified and turned on to move, drowning on land as if a fish, panting and shaky. Jesus fuck he is hot. This is hot.

He hoists me toward him, seems satisfied that my ability to smirk has been annihilated. “That’s what I fucking thought,” he snarls. Kisses me. “There is nothing to fucking laugh about.”

“No, sir,” I moan into his kiss. His fingers climb the back of my T-shirt, his teeth descend the arch of my throat. Sharp, pleading whimpers issue from that throat. His hair is soft between my fingers, fluffy.

“Mmm,” he muses. “I wonder what else makes you make that noise.” He kisses and bites, gropes my torso and legs. “Can I touch you under here?” he queries, indicating the hem of my shirt. I nod emphatically. He rubs me, strokes my belly hair, pinches a fat chunk of skin on my right side. Twists. Shakes.

It reminds me of nothing so much as my puppy executing a death shake on one of his toys, but I have nothing really to compare it to. No one’s ever done anything like this to me before. I’m so down. It feels damn incredible, so intense, like I could be ripped to fucking shreds at the drop of a hat.

He lets go. I moan, but he quickly grabs my left side and repeats while his other hand reddens my belly with a series of sharp slaps, overlapping and concentrated on the fingerprints above my hip.

“You really are a pain slut,” he says wonderingly. He sounds delighted, proud. I may or may not manage a nod. “I’m gonna tie you to a fucking cross.”

I gulp, nod. “I’m into desecration.”

He stands, runs a hand up my face, I start to follow, he slaps me, one-two. “Did I tell you to fucking move? No, I didn’t fucking think so. He holds my chin in one hand, tugs me up by my shirtfront. The fingers of both hands dance across my throat, tighten as they bring me in for a tender, glorious kiss.

“Stay there.” He pulls a coil of rope out of his backpack, and I whimper at the sight. He arches his eyebrow at the noise momentarily before stepping back towards me, wrapping a bite of rope around my waist. As I feel his hands move down my ass, I moan and spread my legs. He growls, “I. Said. Stay.” He sounds fucking furious.

“Sorry, sir.” I move to close them again but his grip digs vicelike into my thighs, keeping them open. One hand cups my crotch, one hand slaps quickly up and down my legs, all over my ass. He squeezes, I nearly fall over.

He brings the two ends of rope forward, between my legs, yanks it tight. I do fall over, then, and grab his hip to keep from toppling. “You keep moving,” he murmurs in faux disapproval, fastening the rope with a half hitch.

“You―you made me,” I blurt.

The instantaneous change that storms over his face is enough to let me know what a bad idea that was. “You think it’s my fault, you fucking slut?”

I almost start to backpedal, but he cuts me off, his thumb a bit across my tongue. A flurry of slaps to one cheek sets my glasses askew. He takes a few steps backward, yanks the rope protruding from my groin, pulling me jerkily forward. I almost crash into him, he takes another step back.

“I can’t believe you would fucking say something like that. You are cruisin’ for a bruisin’, motherfucker.”

All at once, his hands are under my shirt again, each pinching a nipple, pulling―I feel fingernails, and I lose my shit. I’m screaming something akin to, “OH HOLY FUCK,” and my knees are weak but the pain blooming across my chest keeps me vertical.

“Whose fault is it you fell over, you little faggot?”

“Y-yours,” I grit out. “You made me too horny and I fell over.” I know I’m playing with fucking fire now, but having made the mistake already, I’m too damn stubborn to back down.

He tightens his grip on my nips, twists them in opposite directions so far it stretches the skin in between. He pulls up, and I dance tiptoe, but he just keeps pulling. I think they could legit come off at this point, and that’s the only reason I can force myself to scream, “My fault!” through my orgasm when he growls, “Whose fault?”

He lets go, and I collapse forward, faceplant in his chest. Orgasming while vertical is hard work. He just steps away, walking backward on the path around the pond, forcing me to support my own spine and follow him. Even though I manage to get my legs under me somewhat, I see him smirking at my lust-drunk stumblings.

He kisses me again before stepping onto the grass, all sly tooth and soft lip. After a long moment, he parts with a firm bite to the corner of my jaw. He turns away and jogs up the hill, still pulling me behind him.

He has such a cute butt. But my opportunity to watch it is all too brief, as we quickly arrive at a cross of his liking―it’s taller than me, sparkling granite in Pittsburgh’s ever-present light pollution. He pushes me face first, smooshed into some long dead patriarch’s etched name. He pins my hips to the stone with his own, squeezes his hand between my junk and the grave, unties the knot there. He yanks the long rope as quickly as possible, leaving a hot stripe of rope burn―my jeans being the only reason I’m not howling in blistering pain right now.

Not that I’m being in any way quiet.

Crotch rope now freed, he binds my arms to the outstretched arms of the cross.

“No one’s ever crucified me before,” I remark dryly.

“It’s about fucking time then, huh?” he sneers. I nod, scraping my nose on the stone. “Slut,” he mutters with approval, noting my easy acquiescence.

He kisses my ear, runs his hands down my sides until he reaches my belt loops and my moaned Yessss is thick with anticipation. “Count,” is the last word before he steps back and instantly, a hard palm lands on my right asscheek, cushioned only somewhat by the black bandana in the pocket.

“One!”

I have a belt, but he doesn’t bother with that, just grabs my pants at either side and fucking pulls. I look over my shoulder to see him on his knees, grinning like a fucking fool. His nails burn white tracks into the inside of one thigh. He winks, and grabs the lower seam of my briefs between his teeth, tugs them slowly down.

I am ridic horny at this point, and just the sensation of elastic moving across my skin is enough to make me moan. I nearly come from his breath on my leg. My ass now bared, he stands, and I push my hips backwards into the cold air, spreading my legs as wantonly as possible with such tight pants pooled around my ankles.

The next slap resounds loudly against my bare, hot skin. I choke out, “Two!” thinking that though we got here in daylight, it’s full dark now and highly unlikely anyone’s here to pay their respects. But if they are, I do not give a single fuck.

―crack!― Three!

―crack!― Four!

Both hands―cracrack!― Fivesix!

Somewhere in the vicinity of sixteen, I lose track, shout out in terror “I’msorryIcan’tremember!” There’s two or three more in quick succession, and then a sudden halt.

“You little fucker,” he whispers. Angry angry angry. I squirm in my ropes, trying to see what he’s doing—I hear a zipper clicking open―but he stops that with a quick slap to my behind and a barely audible threat. He covers the back of my neck in teensy kisses while rubbing the reddened skin of my ass gently. I start to relax. “Start over at one,” he murmurs sweetly into my ear.

I shudder and nod, wondering what he pulled out of that amazing backpack.

The first strike is hard, definitive, lets me know he’s wielding a cane. “One,” I manage, somewhere between a moan and a shriek.

“Say ‘thank you’.”

“One, thank you.” This apparently isn’t good enough, because he grabs a handful of flank again and shakes it. “Umm… sir. One, thank you, sir.”

“Better. See if you can do it all at once this time.” And the cane makes contact again, diagonally this time, crossing the last stripe.

“Two, thank you, sir.”

As the numbers climb, as my ass accrues more and more fiery welts, I push further and further away from the gravemarker. The night air comforts my fevered skin (I would not be surprised if my junk is steaming by now) but really, I’m just looking for more. More what, I probably couldn’t tell you.

Lucky for me, he’s there to tell me what’s up. Running the tip of the cane lightly up the inside of my left thigh, he says, “You look like such a little slut right now. You’re so ready to get fucked, aren’t you? Faggot.”

I moan affirmatively as his other hand sneaks up my right thigh to rest maliciously between my legs, maybe a centimeter out of reach of my burning, dripping cock.

“Too bad.” I can hear the shrug in his voice, imagine his flippant eye-rolling. Both the cane and the hand withdraw and my disapproval escapes unbidden with a whimper.

Without warning, the cane cracks against my skin again, gracing the very top of my thighs. He’s switched sides.

“Fourteen, thank you, sir.”

“Good boy.” The obvious pleasure in his voice vindicates me, and my ass wiggles for more.

“Fifteen, thank you, sir.”

The strikes come quickly now, stumbling on the heels of their predecessors, and it takes most of what I have to keep counting. I’m breathing heavily through my nose, like an angered bull, and groaning loudly through clenched teeth. I’m almost certain that I’m orgasming from the pain and the need, but I’m a little too out of my brain to tell for sure.

“Twenty five, thank you, sir, twenty six, thank you sir, twentyseven thankyousir,” and he stops. Takes a fat chunk of buttock between his teeth, shakes roughly.

Now I know I’m coming, sagging in the ropes and humping empty air desperately. My cock just wants to come into contact with something, anything, and my cunt needs filled. Like, right the fuck now.

I realize that I’m screaming, “PLEASE!” only when he asks me, “Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me… sir!”

“Oh yeah? How do you want it?”

I start babbling uncontrollably. “I don’t care, I like it all, you know I’m indecisive, I just need… need… I just need something… please sir fuck me.”

“Hmm. Let me think. I guess it depends on how bad you want it.”

“Very extremely super extra bad,” I somehow manage to choke out. His hands grip my ankles, move flat palmed up the inside of my legs, sure and slow.

I’m half mad with lust by the time his first finger makes contact with my junk, almost sobbing in frustration and need. “Oh fucking god yes,” I hiss as he slides inside me.

“You’re a sweet mess, little bird,” he coos. He’s not fucking around. Another finger is in me in short order, curling and crooking and everything amazing in the world is happening inside of me. “You’re so wet, you fucking pain slut. You love being tied up and beaten like this, don’t you? You love being treated like a filthy fucking faggot.” I nod enthusiastically. “Fucking disgusting.”

But he doesn’t act disgusted. He gets closer, pistoning his hand until he hits os. I roll my face against the cool, comforting stone, setting my glasses askew as my legs spasm close in orgasm.

Wrong idea. Slapslapslapslap on the back of my thighs, the inside of my knees. “Keep them open! Do you think I fuck boys who close their legs? ‘Cause I don’t.”

“No,” I try to say, but his kiss catches me off guard. Suddenly empty, his messywet hand feathers fingers around my cock, his clean hand catches my jaw and turns me to him. He sucks my bottom lip deeply into his mouth, biting and chewing. Instant desperation. I plead, “Why…” all wide-eyed, but it’s muffled.

He doesn’t break his hold to slap me for my mouth. Now there’s pussy on my face.

“I don’t think you deserve this. You’re not acting like a faggot who wants to get fucked. You’re acting like a nasty prude.”

“I’ll… be good… sir,” I moan, spreading my legs. “Please…”

An arched eyebrow. “Please, what, boy?”

“Please fuck me.”

Without answering, he pinches the base of my clit firmly between two fingers and a thumb. He jerks it fast, rough, and I come on the spot. Mid-squall he stuffs two fingers back inside me.

He rotates his hand inside me as if throwing a pot. It’s hard to tell, what with all the clenching of the floor muscles, but I think a third finger makes its way in as well. This is the part that gets a little repetitive and boring to write about, where I’m just riding the rippling orgasms and have pretty much no fucking clue what is happening outside my own skin.

It goes on for quite a while, but he does eventually slow his relentless fucking and let me come down a bit. He smiles tenderly at me, and I respond in kind, eyes still glazed with lust. I could be content to pull my pants up, that right there was pretty effin mind blowing.

Or I could be DTF again.

He doesn’t say anything, just kisses my trembling leg and watches me struggle to remain upright. Pretty sure my heart is pounding audibly. “Oh shit,” I whimper, and his thumb closes in on my clit. The barrier between orgasm and not-orgasm dissolves into the thick haze of sub space. His whole hand clenches around my pelvic bone, rubbing the living daylights out of my g-spot as he grinds his thumb against me. I’m panting for breath, dry-mouthed and sore-throated from screaming earlier. When he starts spanking me with the hand that isn’t buried in my cunt, I shout gleeful obscenities. He’s an evil bastard, hitting all the same spots he was wailing on earlier, over and over, smacking and biting blossoming bruises.

“You made me pruney,” he remarks, removing his dripping fingers. He rubs his flat hand between my legs, catching my cock between two wet digits, giving me something to fuck. Which I do, with vigor. Stone tops… I don’t think a greedy, bottomless pit of a bottom like myself can get any luckier than hooking up with a stone top. Especially a sexy queer nerd of a stone top who is fucking me unfalteringly with several fingers, who appears to be morally opposed to me doing anything that isn’t climaxing for what seems to be hours on end.

I’m so down.

But sadly, nothing good lasts forever, and during some brief lull between orgasms, I realize that it is really kind of cold, being tied to a giant hunk of stone at night in late September. It takes me a few tries to get my mouth to function properly, but I get there eventually. “I, uh, not to say this isn’t, isn’t amazing, but, er, it’s kinda cold and, well, pants?”

“You want to get dressed, boy?”

“Not really, no. But it’s getting chilly…” He pulls out and wipes his hand unceremoniously on my goose-bumped legs; even that slight touch is enough to make me shudder. As he unfastens the rope around my wrists, I bend down to pull up my pants, stand up and turn around. Backing up against the cross, I pull him toward me and kiss him. My arms around his waist, his hands around my neck; one hand warm and dry and smooth, the other cool and wrinkled and a bit clammy.

I cover his hand with my own, pull it where I can see it. “Holy shit! Your fingers are like little raisins!”

“You made quite a mess.”

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m a mess maker.”

“I might need to punish you for that sometime soon.”

I kiss him again, quickly. “Okay.” And then I lick his fingers (and palm. And wrist.) clean.

He puts the rope away, and we head for the gate. On our way, we see several families of deer, parents and babies eating adorably. He bumps into me, a hip check turned caress, and says, “That was awesome! Real. I kept thinking you were gonna want me to stop fucking you, which would have been fine, but I was enjoying it SO MUCH. And then, no, not at all, you just kept going and going… and going.”

“I hear I’m insatiable,” I smile.

“So into it. And did you notice how fucking goth that was?”

“I know, right? I never did anything even a little bit close to being that goth when I was one.”

“Real.”