Content notes: non-human entities, t4t, feet, giant

We join our hero now after his voluntary surrender to the Bromeliac guards of the Temple of the Goo Empress of 61 Cygni.

Syd peeled off his spacesuit in front of the guards, and turned to face the red stone wall at the back of the cave. He braced his hands and belly against the wall while arching his back and spreading his legs open. Water gushed in spurts all over his back, his ass, his thighs and calf muscles. The water here was heavy, but not viscous, and clung to Syd’s hairy body. He moved to brush the heavy droplets away, but the Bromeliac guard barked a high-pitched reproach.

Syd resumed position and felt the itch of small hairs trailing both ankles and ambling along his calves. He glanced down at the four slender, hairy cerulean worms inching their way to his inner thighs, wrapping his skin in translucent ribbons of bubbling blue foam. He bit his lip hard, and the tiny and numerous muscles of his inner thighs quivered in spite of himself.

This was far from the most invasive hygiene ritual Syd had encountered since he’d set out on the Castor X alone. It made sense for beings to apprehend travelers with their own sanitizing rituals. Who knows how many countless planets—

Syd gulped as one worm circled around the front of his hip, skating slowly along his pubic mound towards his cunt. Another worm— or two? — seemed to be slinking in circles around his hole. Oh God. He mustered long, even breaths through his nose. He felt the crest of his dick peek from his mound and vibrate, sensitive to the delicate pressure shift from the worm’s wriggling hairs. Between the worms and their hairs tracing his very sensitive nerve endings and all of the effort it was taking to stay still, Syd’s whole lower half felt as if it were on fire. Sweat trickled down the backs of his thighs, mixing with the effervescing trails of foam. He thought he could hear the Bromeliacs laugh. He breathed through his teeth and went somewhere deep inside, somewhere very quiet.

The fourth worm that inched along his hairline suddenly crept across his ear. Syd’s face became a grid of bright white pins, tingling in stark harmony. Underneath his flexed fingers, bits of the red cave wall crumbled into sand.
Syd opened his mouth and took it all in.

The Bromeliac guard pulled Syd by a chain connected to his collar, and Syd, on all fours, crawled through the marshland towards the Temple of the Goo Empress. Tall grasses and fan-leafed trees appeared as silhouettes against the dawn slowly filling with gradients of orange, pink, and wet, wet blue.

In anticipation for his meeting with the Goo Empress, her cave harem had showered Syd in affectionate grooming. He’d been shaved and plucked, with loops stenciled onto his chest and crotch in a stylized approximation of hair. Everything beautiful on this world took on the chaotic crowdedness of a sea anemone or a swarm of fruit flies teeming on a rotting pit. He’d had his genitals tugged and slapped which he’d surmised were meant to increase their redness or heat. Syd didn’t really understand. But he’d learned in his decades of adventuring through the galaxies that acting in a wide berth of permissiveness increased the depth of his experiences.

And Syd was all but ready to leave his body to experience this. Only one person had encountered the Goo Empress and returned home to describe the experience, and all they told Syd was that now they could imagine being inside of a flower. What it could be like to swim in that sweet, sticky, alluring smell— to conceive it in your pores. To reduce all your becoming into gold dust that scattered in the wind.

“What’s she like, Elna? You’ve got to give me something concrete,” Syd had asked, all hungry.

Elna’s grey eyes, like scales, flexed a sheen.

“She’s bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.”

The guard brought Syd crawling on his hands and knees to the base of a huge stone facade. Syd was dressed in a chainmail harness with his ass and cunt exposed. His limbs were filthy from crawling through the marsh. This felt like no way to meet an Empress.

The guard dropped the leash and screeched, the sound cutting through the cool dawn air.

The ground beneath Syd began to vibrate, audibly rumbling. The trees shook and any animals hidden in them fled in alarm. The rumbles grew heavier and heavier and Syd’s body shook with their rhythm, all the chainmail clanging against itself. His guard slinked off into the marsh. Syd was alone, plucked, prone, and violently shaking.

And then it ceased and then she stood before Syd. It was her. Her thighs, her stomach, her chin, her eyes, her balls, her lips, her long fingers. Her breasts like year-long tear drops hanging against a backdrop of soft white clouds in the sky. She sat down on the stone facade and her thighs spread like water.

Syd’s heart pounded as he struggled to fathom the Empress in his position. Almost more than her size, Syd was struck by her iridescence. Her skin was a wet nacre, every curve reflecting a prism of light. Her body looked supple, opalescent, as if the marsh and open skies themselves had taken the form of a woman doused in sticky nectar.

Around Syd’s tiny body, she placed each of her enormous feet. They were shapely feet with sloping arches. Each toe was so finely shaped and decorated with a thatch of hair. They were beautiful, huge, goo feet and Syd felt his exposed dick pulse.

“Approach me, little one,” her voice came down on Syd like a sheet of rain. She had a deep voice, a muscular taproot of a voice.

Syd crawled towards her glistening toes. He could already feel the slick between his legs.

“You may clean yourself against me, little one.”

Syd didn’t understand. He looked up, attempting to meet her gaze, but all he could see at this angle was the curve of her belly meeting her softened dick meeting her wide thighs in opalescent folds.

He stood up, which felt wrong, and approached a foot that was as tall as he was. Syd hovered his mud-laden forearm against the Empress’s skin and quickly found out that there were subtle layers that he could feel while touching her. There was a sense when he pressed against her that he was against the wall of a small waterfall and it was here that Syd showered the grime off of his skin. When he was clean and pulled away slightly, Syd felt a semi-tacky exterior, and suspected that there was some kind of exo-skin that gave her skin its pearliness. He walked around her foot like this, exploring the Empress, and if she minded, she didn’t show it.

She then flicked her big toe, as if beckoning Syd. She bent her nail like a ramp and let him climb on top of her toe. He straddled the ridges of her knuckle, holding onto the gooey folds of skin. The Empress’s body felt so soft and wet as if it were melting beneath him at every moment. Syd eased into the sensation and his cleaned, shaved, and slapped genitals blurred at their edges against the jellylike toe. He felt a warmth rise through her and into him or through him and into her? He spread his legs wider, wider, as if they could go any wider still. He started to rub his pussy and dick against the toe until the depth of his rhythm found that subtle wall of flowing, pressurized goo.

“OH FUUUCCCCKKK,” Syd let the hot goo pulse against his dick, leaning back to angle the pink tip against what felt like a chorus of rapid, wet tongues lapping him in unison.

“OH FUUUUU-”

The Empress’s long fingernails pinched Syd by the skin between his shoulders and pulled him off her toy.

“Greedy boy!” Her sonorous voice wrapped him up in its low warmth, the whole puddle of him.

She dropped him into her lap, where her dick was hard. Its iridescent pink head protruded from her foreskin and flirted with the morning light. A bead of cum clung to the slit in the center.

Syd shimmied to the top of her stiff dick. It was larger than his whole body even, the biggest and most supple cock he’d ever seen in his life. He stuck out his tongue first into the juicy bead and let himself be overcome by the sweetness.

“MMMMM,” he moaned into the Empress’s goo cock. She tasted like a long summer, a heat that overtakes everything in its path once it begins.
Syd licked and he licked and the Empress’s breaths turned into shudders.

The trees around them opened their naked buds into the all-consuming air, squirting nectar to be freely drunk.

This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Rachel Kincaid

Content notes: public/outdoor sex, consensual wrestling, biting, choking, mention of conversion therapy

We had a sticker of the Eiffel Tower adorning the headstock of our guitar. She’d gotten it while we were making our way out of Philly after a show.

“What are you doing?” I had asked. “C’mon, we have to get back on the road if we want to make the next stop tonight.”

Scarlett was crouched down, peering into the dusty, rusted toy machines lining the exit of the ancient supermarket. It was an off day for us—just a whole day of driving through the countryside between shows. We were picking up two drawstring bags of snacks and preserved foods for the rest of the drive towards our next house to crash. The orange sun shimmered down between the scuffed handprints of the unwashed windows.

She didn’t reply, as if she hadn’t heard me.

“Babe, c’mon,”

A housewife rattled a shopping cart past me, letting her shoulder bump into me in a passive aggressive gesture. I lost my footing slightly. When I looked up, she was looking back behind her shoulder at me, with a face that said, watch where you stand, faggot. The joke was on her; we were sometimes faggots and sometimes dykes. Talk about uncultured. I guess having pink pigtails made me quite the target. Either that, or it was my hairy legs poking out of my miniskirt. Couldn’t be helped. I liked to stay shaven when I could, but on tour, I tended to let it grow.

“Just a minute Trixie, I need something,” Scar said, breaking me out of my fiery stare at the back of the bitch’s salmon-pink blouse.

“Okay, okay,” I said, “but make it quick. We have a gig in Ohio tomorrow and I don’t wanna push our luck getting to our next sleeping spot past 2am. The kids may be in college, but they’ll still be pissed.”

Scarlett ignored my nagging as she popped four quarters into the slots, each resting upright in their place. One of them was a bit warped, so that the coin didn’t fit right. When it got stuck, she jammed it until it popped, and the wheel finally turned. The gears of the crank crunched between her hands. I half thought the thing was going to fall apart. It must’ve been the first time it had been used in ages. Seemed like even kids out here couldn’t be bothered with dusty old stickers, their designs faded by the constant pulverizing of the sunlight.

But she wanted one. My Scarlett, my one and only Scar.

The girl I could never, ever read, even though I’d opted to spend my days with her as long as I could. Her brownish auburn hair hung equal parts limp and shaggy, sketched like a leaf decaying towards autumn. A single streak of red dye cut across her bangs like a clawmark covering her left eye. It was a sloppy rushed job that gave her hair some character.

That disheveled hair, ruffled like the hair of the gamer boys I used to date before I knew any better. I guess this was my divine retribution for dating people who didn’t know the difference between shampoo and conditioner.

She would cut pieces of her hair off when I wasn’t looking, just to fuck with me. She knew how much I hated it. We’d be cuddling until I’d catch a small strip of hair that should’ve been longer than it was. It would drive me absolutely insane.

Out in the parking lot, I threw our food haul in the front seat in prep for the rest of our drive that evening. I was putting our drinks in the iced cooler, when I saw Scarlett with our guitar, her legs hanging out the back door. I traveled around the car to greet her in the back. I looked at her in silence as she paid me no mind, oblivious or indifferent while I blocked out the setting sun. She affixed the Eiffel Tower sticker to the headstock of our guitar, seated on the reclined backdoor of our VW Microbus.

We had gotten into the tradition of ending our sets with the closer from Bob Dylan’s album, Bringing it All Back Home – “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue.” The original was sung with a country croon, but for us, we let the song crescendo and build, my voice the raspy cigarette one, hers the soft high falsetto. It was the equivalent of a party trick, a way to awe at the end of our sets with a bout of theatrics. Kids would join in to sing along, many of them having heard the song too many times growing up. It was fun to watch them try to keep up with our lightning pace.

So we named her Baby Blue. Our pride and joy, our guitar, the beautiful woman who’d brought us closer together and the reason the drunk kids kept coming out on weeknights to see us throughout the Midwest. The finish on the front was a blue sunburst pattern, the blues and blacks rippling and vibrating like the weight of a teardrop under gravity. The cerulean sheen of her body resonated almost as much as her strings did. She was a somber little thing, made so beautifully we couldn’t resist.

“Think of it as a promise,” she said as she brought the crystalline guitar below her armpit and began strumming chords for the parking lot. “We’ll go play across the sea one day. You and me and Baby Blue, making our way throughout Europe, traveling as far as our songs can take us.” She popped up from the bumper, and pecked me on the cheek.

“Okay, I promise,” I said, caressing the side of her freckled face.

She had been like that even on the day we met, and in all the years since, she hadn’t changed a bit.

It was after what I thought was the worst day of my life.

I had been booked to play at an abandoned church taken over by a group of hippie anarchists in Virginia. You know the ones, the Food Not Bombs type. I was touring through on my own, just me, my guitar, my cassettes, and my manga collection on a cross-country getaway.

There was also a bigger touring band coming through that night, a twinkly emo heartthrob groupie magnet called Somberseen Run. Complemented with seven members including one banjo and one synth player, they got the coveted third spot out of four, the perfect medium. The second spot went to The Stevie Collins Bachelorette Party, a lighthearted local Fat Wreck Chords style SoCal punk band, the kind nobody ever took much seriously. An older, more seasoned hardcore dive band called Undone were taking the fourth and final spot, since they were the best to drink to, and all the townies would stay for them.

The last was me, taking the first spot that nobody ever wanted. The graveyard spot, we called it. People were always late, especially college students, and if they were there, they were more interested in pregaming or hooking up than watching some ditzy femme cry her way through a few songs on her guitar.

I was so out of it that night, by the second verse of my first song, I’d forgotten all the words. Couldn’t tell one chorus from another. I hadn’t even had a sip of alcohol; it was all nerves, pure and deathly simple. The thing no performer should ever get, and I got them on a night when I needed to shine most of all.

Catching myself as the lyrics stumbled into silence, my hand still strumming on instinct, I started humming the rest of what I could remember of the melody. Slowly, people began to show half-hearted claps, and one dude in a cap who was double fisting two tall boys shouted “It’s okay if it’s your first time, you’ve got this!!”

That hurt even worse than fucking up.

I finished out the rest of my set in shame, playing stripped down versions of every song in my repertoire. It was the worst performance I’d ever given. It was a far cry from the festival stages and opening sets I’d crushed all by myself for huge touring bands like Eagle Fang or The Last Siren, where I had dozens of new fans eating out of the palm of my hand.

I felt a few pats on my back when I concluded the set and was too defeated to even scream at the dudes for touching me. I had never felt more pathetic.

I was on the back steps, letting my silent tears drip like the condensation of the beer in my hand. Everyone had left, so it was just me alone with my sorrows. My other hand was clenched above my eyes like a visor, my thumb massaging the knots in my temple. I didn’t even care that I had to drive later that night.

That was when I felt a pair of fingers brush my shoulder.

I went to jump up and yell, “what the fuck?! Get off me asshole!”, my rage finally boiling over from sadness to anger. When I looked up, I was staring into the baby blue eyes of a freckled tomboy.

“Hey,” she said. “Nice set.”

Her auburn hair had a reddish tint to it that bloomed in the darting spotted streetlights of the night. It cascaded across one eye, partially obscuring half of her face as her pupil peeked between the strands. A slim, inorganic blood red streak of hair cut through the boyish bedhead style she wore. It looked like she’d just woken up from a nap. It looked nice.
It was then I realized, dumbstruck, that I hadn’t responded to her gracious lie of a compliment.

“Oh god, thank you, but no, it was absolutely embarrassing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I forgot all my words. It was horrible, I don’t think I’ve ever faceplanted that hard in a live set before. Not even when I was first starting out.”

“Yeah, you kinda did forget a lot of words there,” she said, my heart dropping with them, “but you were perfectly in tune. You played like a pro.” She sat down next to me on the steps of the church.

“You can’t mean that,” I said, blushing that she’d been listening hard enough to know.

“You sang every note on point. And then the timing with your guitar parts, that’s the kind of rhythmic finger picking you can only get after practicing a lot.”

“Yeah… it definitely took a while to master.” I brushed a lock of hair that was hanging in my face behind my ear.

“So of course it makes sense that you forgot the words. You’re so focused on those changes, you lost sight of some easily memorized words. It’s no big deal. You obviously have talent.”

“Thanks, I guess. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“I mean, you just did, but sure. Go ahead. Crucify me.”

“So morbid,” she laughed. “But really, what’s with the pigtails?”

“Do you have a problem with my hair?”

“No no, not at all, I just— they’re an interesting fashion choice. Pink hair, tied up into two pigtails. It’s like, a cheerleader or a schoolgirl or something. Most girls wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like that on stage.”

“Listen, whoever you are, I don’t know what your fucking game is but I can’t believe you’d make fun of me after the terrible night I had! The fucking nerve of some people!” I shouted, pushing myself up to my feet.

“Wait, wait!”

“What?!”

“No, listen, I just—I’m not good at this whole flirting thing, okay? I was trying to be suave and talk about how your hair is different and I fucked it up, so let me start over. I’m Scarlett. I like your hair a lot. It’s cute.”

“…huh?” I turned back around to face her.

“Most femmes I know wouldn’t wear a hairstyle that eye-catching on stage, they try to avoid guys being creeps as hard as they can. But you, you seem like you don’t give a fuck, like you’re daring them to be a creep to you, just so you can call them on their bullshit. I think that’s pretty fucking cool. I’m sorry if I came off like a creep. I’m new to this whole lesbian thing.”

“You’re new?” That surprised me. I’d been out for five years, and her demeanor had even intimidated me. “You don’t look it.”

“I grew up fast.”

“Well, don’t come off as some fedora-tipping pickup artist next time. You’re too handsome for that.” I was flirting back with her. I couldn’t believe it.

“Thanks for the pointers,” she turned away, looking embarrassed that I’d called her bluff hard enough to turn the tables.

“Trixie. My name is Trixie, by the way. Make a joke about how trix are for kids or call me a silly rabbit, and I’ll cut your tits off and eat ‘em like steaks. I mean it. Second piece of advice, ask a girl’s name before you try to pull your cool guy butch shtick. Might land a little better next time.” I laughed as I placed my hand on her leg—my right hand, the one with the long fingernails that didn’t have to form chords.

“My name’s Scarlett. Some people call me Scar. Take your pick.”

Before I knew it, her lips were on mine. It was a dangerous move, less consent and more of a gamble if it felt anything but mutual. I kissed her back though. If she had asked me, I would’ve said yes yes yes oh please god yes just get me out of this terrible day and let me forget everything. Let me forget who I am let me forget my lines let me forget the town I’m in let me forget it all for just one night. After all, how many times do you come face to face with the lips of a hot butch after the worst set you’ve ever played?

Her fingers walked up my waist, my body shivering under the static heat of her contact. They worked beneath my sweaty crop top. They were calloused, a guitar player’s hands—I could tell from the way they lightly scratched my skin. I tried not to giggle at her inexperience, but I was taken by her passion.

“Hey hey, fastest girl alive, I love your enthusiasm but can we savor the moment here?”

“Sorry, I was just getting excited,” she said, her eyes turned down. She pulled away.

“You weren’t kidding me about your inexperience. That’s okay though. Just be honest.”

I liked the girl, I really did. There was something in the way she blushed, the way she’d approached me, that set her apart even despite her babydyke status. Her words felt real, and my intuition was rarely off. I didn’t sense any malintent. It was a shy passion. Somehow, this handsome girl had gotten my heart beating faster. I wanted to kiss her again.

“Here,” I said, placing my hands on the back of her head, “come back here.”

I kissed against her. She kissed me back, shifting in place at the embarrassment of being called out.

“Hah,” she moaned.

I drew back. A thread of spit stretched out between us, connecting our lips until it was severed as my words. “Use more kisses, draw it out. Build it up, lead me along. Go softly until it all feels like it will boil over. You don’t want to be a premature ejaculator, do you? Here, try again.”

She got back to kissing me, this time with a bit more reserved energy. She took my advice and moved along the side of my face, trailing down my neck. She even licked me once or twice, a feeling that made me want to laugh but I didn’t want to bruise her ego. Besides, her saliva felt nice in the summer air.

Scarlett drew straight lines of neutral tinted lip gloss along the veins of my neck, up and down in a pattern until she grew bold enough to kiss further down to the exposed space above my chest.

“Okay, haha. Now you can go for my tits. You learn quickly.”

“Maybe you’re just a good teacher,” she said, tugging my shirt between her teeth. The sweaty Nine Inch Nails crop top I hadn’t washed in days. She correctly guessed where my nipples were underneath the garment as they pushed upwards to greet her. Her eyes asked me if she could take it off.

I pulled my shirt over my head. The moonlight gleamed against my sweat. “Now you. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Scarlett brought her shirt above her and threw it on the steps beside us. She also wasn’t wearing a bra. I couldn’t wait to feel them. She leaned down into me, pressing me down into the steps of the church as her bodyweight shifted on top of me.

Her hands gripped themselves around my waist as she pushed her face against my chest. I tilted my head back to give her the go ahead. Her hair brushed against the sides of my tits as she kissed my cleavage. I felt a little spark along my spine. She was coming into her own.

She sucked on my nipples like a baby. It felt nice, but I wanted to direct her a bit more. “Try nibbling,” I said, choreographing the scene. I wasn’t disappointed by the prospect; any girl who could take orders as well as she could execute them was well worth her time. Scarlett listened to my request and gently pushed my tits between her teeth and lips—just the right amount of pressure to make me squirm. I liked the subtle pain of it. It wasn’t clear if she was the type who’d be more into that kind of thing, so I shelved that conversation for another time.

Scarlett was kneeling on the ground in front of the steps, my ass hanging off the edge and knees turned up to the sky. Her head hung below my skirt, right between my thighs, her stupid gamer boy hair tickling the silky sides of my skinny legs, almost enough to make me want to scratch—but her hair was surprisingly soft, so it felt less like bristles and more like the fur of a stuffed animal.

“Would that be too far?” she asked.

“No, it’s exactly how it should be.” I leaned down to kiss her forehead, and she blushed. I brought my fingers down and slipped off my panties, my pussy exposed. For all I knew, it might’ve been the first one she’d ever seen up close besides her own. The thought was kinda hot.

I didn’t have to direct her; she went right in for it. When her tongue connected my limbs stretched out, the muscles flexing at the surge. She wasn’t the best I’d ever had, but that was understandable. No one’s first song is the best they’ll ever write. It felt good, the sensation of coming home after a long day. It was a reminder that after all the humiliation I’d been through that night, I was still somehow desirable. Was I just using this girl, or was there something more brewing beneath the casual sex?

Scarlett ate away at my pussy, her tongue digging deeper inside me until it stretched as far as it could go, so she pulled her tongue out and started licking my clit with a muscled motion, her fingers hovering over my vulva to take the place of where her tongue had been. She might not have been experienced, but she certainly had the drive, and I appreciated the dedication. I could tell she was the kind of girl who wanted to make others feel good, and right then, she was succeeding.

“Are you… are you really writing the alphabet on my clit right now…?” I asked.

“Hey, it’s my first time, okay, I heard this works. If you don’t like it, I can leave.” She grinned up at me.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before? Because that sass was hot.” I placed my hand on the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of that hair I loved so much, and pushed her face further into my pussy until I felt her nose rubbing my clit, her tongue back inside me. I brought a hand down and began fondling her tits as I realized it was the first time since we’d started that I’d really placed my hands on her exposed skin. Her tits were small, petite, but not at all a disappointment. I could tell without seeing that they were perky. Beneath them and around her torso there was some unrefined muscle. So she was a girl who worked out. My kind of muscle butch.

She continued further and further, going faster and faster when I told her. Soon enough, my legs were locking behind her head from the pleasure, trying to pressure her face further against me. She moaned as I did it, and I could feel myself twitch in response. She was so cute and boyish, but yet there was something so womanly about the way she moved. My ankles pressing against each other so hard I swore they would bruise, and I began rubbing them together as she brought me closer and closer to climax. I thought about how she was lapping at me like a dog, and that was the single thought that brought me over the edge, hyperfocused on the beautiful feeling of her tongue as my eyes blurred over.

“Hah, hahh, AHh!” I placed my hands on her shoulders to steady myself as my knees shook from the shock. She stopped licking me, and looked up into my glazed-over eyes. She had this nervous, self-satisfied look on her face. She knew she’d done a good job.

The full moon was low that night. I didn’t know what to say, my breathing becoming a measured pant in the darkness, her heart synced with my own. That was how I took Scarlett’s virginity.

After that, I had invited her to spend the night in the back of my VW Microbus. For optimized touring, I had outfitted it with the smallest twin bed I could find. It wasn’t ideal, as the sun burned down onto the windows and baked the car in the morning, and of course there was no plumbing, but it worked in a pinch. If you took out most of the seats and brought in your own small furniture, it could become a little home of its own.

We were cuddling in the bed, cramped up against each other, when she posed the question to me.

“Have you ever considered having another player play those bass notes alongside you? Y’know, something to prop you up, that way you could focus on more specific melodies and sharper singing instead of dumping all the work on one person.”

“So like, are you asking to join my band?”

“I can play guitar and sing. Think about it, I pluck the chords while you show off. I harmonize with you. See how it goes. What do you think?”

“I’m just passing by tonight, I’m on tour right now.”

“Hun, do you really think I have anything I’d be leaving behind here?”

We stared across each other, and I could tell she was telling me the brutal, painful truth, and that formed the answer in my throat before I could even think about it, let alone weigh the complexities of the repercussions.

The worst day of our lives together happened in Templar, Illinois, after a fairly standard show. Not enough turnout, songplaying on autopilot, a little burnt out from making it about halfway through the Midwest on a series of late night drives. It was just some converted coffee house beatnik relic hybrid named Keys overrun by college students, but the gig was fun enough.

After the show, Scarlett and I had ran our bags and guitar out to the van a few blocks away. We doubled back and hung out with the students until the cafe closed, then a bit longer on the stoop. They had wanted to shoot the shit with us and pick our brains a bit. We, having once been in their shoes, obliged them.

When you’re on tour, you get treated like royalty; the kids don’t know just how much you suck. You’re the shining light of their weekend, their excuse to get drunk. Many of them worship your songs, assured that being the biggest fan of an obscure band makes them the most interesting of the bunch.

There was little in the way of parking, so we had parked on a cul-de-sac a few blocks away. On main roads, vans could get vandalized or broken into, especially overnight, but on backwood residential streets, it was normally fine.

We turned the corner to an empty street.

A streetlight shone where our van should’ve been. It flickered, as if it sensed the dissonance in the air. The van was gone.
I screamed out into the sinister suburbia, but no one paid any mind. Templar was a place where people minded their own business. We were left on our own.

Scarlett had a bit more of a level head on her. She rubbed my back, muttering “fucking bastards” under her breath. My first thought was that the college kids who’d stopped us were in on it, somehow keeping us distracted while their accomplices worked on our van, but it was unlikely. Stealing a van requires a lot of resources, either a flatbed or a tow truck.

“You’re freaking out; you need to calm down,” Scarlett said. She was massaging the scruff of my neck as if I were a kitten. I was hunched over in the middle of the street, knees to my chest, hands over my face, sobbing.

“Our life was in there! Our whole fucking life! I moved out of my apartment for this, and so did you! I can’t even think about what we lost.” We were supposed to sleep in there that night. The small twin in the back of our VW Microbus wasn’t desirable, but it was something when no kids wanted to let us crash. I had always been told it was playing with fire to tour in a van with lots of windows. Now, I was reaping what I’d sown.

“We might get it back. You never know. I’ll call the fucking cops now. Ugh. I can’t believe I have to talk to them, but giving the description and license plate won’t hurt. The sooner the better.” She got out her cell phone and dialed the number.

My girl. She was shaking from nerves too, but she was trying to keep it together for me. Always putting on a strong demeanor, as if it would help the helplessness of the situation.

“They’re putting out an all points bulletin. They didn’t seem too confident. But they said we’re lucky we caught them on a slow night.”

“Okay. How considerate of the people who stole our van, to swipe it on a slow night! But where do we sleep? It’s two in the morning. All the kids are gone and our contacts are probably knocked out.”

“Let’s take a walk through town. Maybe we’ll catch a sign of the van. At the very least, we might find someplace to crash.”

We walked hand in hand down the three blocks of main street, and there was no inn and no sign of our van. At the end of the stretch, we came upon a huge building, the tallest structure we’d seen in quite some time.

It was a church. Or at least, at some point, people might’ve called it one. It looked abandoned. Stained glass windows were chipped and shattered, with holes from rocks chucked by delinquent kids. The windows that were still in place had a layer of grime covering the images. The dirty dark grey bricks that made up the structure felt more at home in a high fantasy novel than in this speak-nothing town.

The cathedral towered above, at least four or five stories high. It was built in the style of self-important neo-Gothic architecture. As a stone edifice, it gave the appearance of having stood for a thousand years, but it was an obvious lie, a posture of authority through fearful faith. It reminded me of the way Providence’s buildings loomed over the city, as if curling to shield the residents from the sun.

There was a broken fire escape along the side of the building. The crescent moon loomed over us, obscured only by the shallow tide of the clouds.

“You know, we first met at a church,” she said. “Funny how these places keep coming back to us.”

“Yeah, I know. It was the worst performance I ever gave, but I ended up meeting you.”

“Wanna climb it?” she asked me.

“What?! No! Are you crazy?”

“Looks like the nightmare kind of place they’d bring you for conversion therapy. A little fear, a little electroshock!” Scarlett brought both her hands up, extending her index and middle fingers outright, then lunged forward, jabbing me on both sides of my waist. “BZZT!” she shouted as I convulsed under the vibrating, ticklish sensation.

She stepped back and brought her right hand up to her mouth, blew audibly as if her fingers were a smoking gun, then raised an eyebrow at me in a playful smirk.

“Not funny,” I scolded her, trying not to laugh myself.

“Aw, c’mon babe. I was just trying to cheer you up on the worst day of our lives.”

“For all you knew, I could’ve actually been through that.”

“You mean like I was?” she replied.

“…what?”

“Yeah. My parents sent me to Jesus camp over summer. Except this Jesus camp they locked you inside your rooms after dinner, and there were barbed wire fences. I never got electroshocked, but it was threatened as punishment to quite a few girls and a few more rebellious ones who couldn’t play the system wouldn’t come back to their rooms sometimes. The next day in prayer class, they’d be spaced out, staring at nothing, barely able to respond to simple questions. They didn’t know who they were.”

“I didn’t know that about you. Why didn’t you tell me?” I couldn’t believe there were still things I didn’t know, especially things this deep. We had been together for years, but apparently had barely even scratched the surface.

“You never asked. I like to let those memories lie if I can. Makes it easier to lie to myself.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Okay, you’re on,” I said after a long pause. “Let’s climb the fucker.”

“I thought you’d never ask!” She looked genuinely excited.

We hopped over the shallow fence and across the dead grass dotting the field leading up to the structure. The ladder was down, so climbing it was easy—in theory. The fire escape was painted black, though blotches of rust and grime were desecrating it so that when we stepped on it, it breathed a squeak out into the night sky.

We carefully climbed one step at a time, our hands linked for safety. We each held one end of the rail for balance, testing the steps gingerly before moving on to the next.

At one point, a step below me broke, and my foot went down into the air. If my hand hadn’t been in hers, I would’ve been dead.

“You wanna go back?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? We’re more than halfway there. I’m not pussying out now.”

“That’s my girl.”

We finally reached the roof. It was flat except for a broken glass dome towards the rear, where the flying buttresses were. A statue of what I presumed was the Virgin Mary towered above the dome, her head chopped clean off. A dark shit-gold gilded her seductive holy body.

From atop the building we could see all of Templar before us, the rustling black trees swirling below like moss in the ocean. The few lights that were still on in town did nothing to illuminate us on top of the structure. Nobody could’ve known we were up there. We stood atop our own little world.

“You know we have to fuck up here.”

I couldn’t believe I was the one who said it. I had been in such a horribly panicked mood just an hour ago. For me, sex had always been a way of coping.

“Okay, you’re on.” Scarlett stepped forward, her lips on mine as quickly as I’d propositioned her.

She slipped my hand down her denim shorts, inside the front of her boxers. Hairy as it had ever been. Showers were few and far between on tour, and rather than worry about body hair, it was best to just relax in the rare moments you were afforded an hour alone in a bathroom. I didn’t mind at all. I hated hair on myself, but on other women—especially butches—it was so hot.

The sweat smell, the way it sponges up the cum and juices until they rub against the sides of your face, the way the curtains matched the drapes… I drool just thinking about it.

Her fingers crept up my skirt, only to find out I hadn’t been wearing underwear that day.

“You’re a pervert to your core, aren’t you?” She laughed. She brought her hand out from under my skirt and up to her mouth. She reached her tongue out, taking a lick of my wetness. In response, I took my hand out of hers, and did the same. Static crossed between our eyes. I could tell where the heat was headed.

“I mean, it’s really hot out, so I figured why not. Although, now that I guess I don’t own any underwear anymore, I’m starting to regret it.”

“We’ll find a way to busk for some new pairs if we have to. I’m sure we can steal a guitar easy enough.”

“Why not just steal the underwear?”

“I’d rather steal something that will make us money for a while rather than something that covers your ass for a night,” she spat through a playful grin.

“I bet you don’t want my ass covered, huh? Typical.”

With one hand on my pussy, she brought her other hand to pinch the sides of my mouth between her fingers, my lips puckering like a fish. “Bratty tonight, aren’t we?” I used my other hand to swat away hers.

“Bratty, or just dominant?” I shot back with my eyes narrowed.

“You’re not topping tonight,” she said, stern.

“Want to bet? First one to cum’s the bottom? Like always.”

“Ready set go!” she shouted, and the two of us got to work.

When we were doing heavily kinky stuff, I tended to gravitate more towards bottom and Scarlett more towards the top, but when we were having something closer to vanilla sex, all bets were off. Sometimes I’d top, sometimes she. Sometimes we’d fight it out. That was one of those times.

We both wasted no time. We kissed each other aggressively, in a way that was more of an attack than anything else. Those were the rules of the game. First one to cum lost, no holds barred. It was a silly concept, of course, but we always had fun with it and would just lean into whatever the outcome happened to be. It was an excuse for us to both be as forward as possible, to break up the monotony of measured sex.

The both of our hands skipped going for the other’s breasts, knowing the crotch was how the game was won. I had almost went on the outside of her shorts, but decided against it, going full inside her underwear again. She had worked her way up the sides of my sweaty thigh, sticking and smacking together in the hot summer night.

My hands on her pussy, hers on mine. Her fingers felt so good against me as I tried to keep my concentration. My knees began to buckle from the warmth of her fingering me—I could tell I was losing. My butch knew her stuff, she knew my body better than anyone else. To fight back, I ducked harder into her mouth, my tongue full force against hers. She was taken by my energy, and I knew as I felt her hesitation that I’d made the right choice. She liked to be teased with sensual chaos, and I knew it was the kind of play that had the power to bring her to her knees. It had been forever since we’d had a switch fight, and so victory favored whoever was more unwavering.

She bit me back, chomping down as hard as she could on my lips; I was the masochist of the two of us, especially during a makeout. She was gunning for my love of pain, and my knees briefly shook beneath her bite. It felt so good, I wanted her to bite me again, but that would mean giving in, not winning. Sometimes winning the switch fight meant kind of losing. When you were both switches, though, everybody won no matter the outcome. It all came down to pride and play.

Despite the blood rushing to my head at her every touch, I didn’t lose focus. As she finger me, she began slapping my exposed thighs, the smack echoing through the night air. With each slap I let out a yelp, instinctively pushing my cunt into her fingers. She had come a long way in the years we’d been together, a force to be reckoned with.

However, I was the one who’d taught her everything she knew.

In return, I dug my sharp nails into her own thigh. I squeezed as hard as I could, the wince in her voice betraying her tough guy persona. She liked pain too, and I knew how she liked it. Of course, hurting her only turned me on more, my breath growing more lustful as I crushed her skin between my fingers like squeezing out the juice of an orange.

In return, she moved her other hand to grip my ass, her fingers still working my clit. She knew that going for my ass was a surefire way to get me off. I felt a finger circling my asshole under my skirt, a place that if she went, I would definitely buckle and cum. I wanted her to go there so badly, just one touch, just one finger, or maybe two or three or hell the whole fist… but my pride set me straight. I was her teacher; I couldn’t lose. So, I took a desperate maneuver.

I brought both of my hands up behind her shoulders, gripping them as hard and steady as I could. She had a look of surprise across her face as her eyes narrowed, then quickly grew bug eyed as she realized what I was about to do.

“TRIXIE!” she shouted, but I didn’t listen. Jumping up into the air, my fingers latched behind her, and I fell to the ground like a backyard wrestler, taking her along with me. She screamed as she came down on top of me, stunned that I went there. The roof thumped and creaked as it adjusted to our weight. I felt it buckle a bit under us, shifting in a slight concave, but it held.

“Trixie!” she shouted. “This ceiling could’ve come down with us!” I could tell the danger had got her going a bit more.

“All’s fair in love and war, bitch!”

Laughing as I jerked her shoulders to the side, I rolled her next to me and perched on top of her, her back resting on the roof beneath us. She squirmed to try to get away, but she was too slow, and I pinned her wrists down with both my hands as hard I could. I brought my lips down on her mouth, the most dominant I’d gotten in the fight so far. She loved it, I knew she did, and I loved this moment the best, when I could turn the tables on her.

It didn’t last long, though. She was more fit than I was, so she knew how to break out of it. She rocked back and forth, building momentum as her shoulders rolled against the roof. With enough of a jump she rolled me back towards the ground, her on top of me once more. It went like that for a while, the two of us fighting for control, not even trying to fuck each other anymore. We made our way across the dirty roof. her on top, then me, then her on top again. I could feel myself getting bruised a bit from the soft blows, but I didn’t care in the slightest. We’d grown accustomed to the mildewed basement floors of the countless houses we’d crashed in, and were now technically homeless; if anything, it somehow felt like the familiar gutter-grime of home.

Finally, I had her underneath me. She’d tired herself out, but I still had something to prove.

With one hand pinning her arms up above her, I slipped myself back inside her boxers. They were drenched with her juices, and I could feel my heart race with excitement. It was all just what I needed.

When I pressed against her clit, she started to buck up against me.

“Are you trying to hump me right now? Am I winning for once?!” I teased her.

“Try again,” she laughed, and spat up into my face.

It threw me off, and I let up off her wrists for a second. That was all she needed for her hands to wrap around my throat, the killshot that was the second dirty move she’d pulled in less than a minute.

Following her technique, I brought my hand out of her crotch and to her own throat. I squeezed with the same intensity as she, both of our thumbs criss crossing over the other’s neck to apply pressure on the arteries. We mirrored one another like a Queen of Hearts, twin outstretched images of perverse desire. We both looked at our hands around the opposite person’s neck, then up into each other’s eyes.

There was nowhere I would have rather been.

We both let out a laugh into the unforgiving night sky, only for it to be stolen by the whims of the darkness—along with our van, our gear, and our precious guitar.

“I guess it’s a tie,” she said with strained breath. “We’re too good at controlling our orgasms now to have a switch fight this fun. We both know how to hold out.”

“I’m pretty sure you came at one point, you liar.”

“Okay, maybe a little, but you were close too when I grabbed your ass.”

“Prove it in a court of law and then we’ll talk.”

“I wish we had a place to sleep tonight that wasn’t this fucking roof.” She sighed.

“I wish sex could’ve gotten us our van back,” I said.

“Me too.”

“But at least we have each other.”

“Corny, but true. I’ll take it.”

“I love you, cunt.”

“Right back at ya.” She winked at me. This handsome bitch winked at me. I loved her for it.

We never did get our van back. It was only one more mystery under our belt out of many that were yet to come. Most of all, I wonder to myself, what happened to our guitar? What happened to Baby Blue?

Who plays her now? Was she scrapped for parts? Does the sticker of the Eiffel Tower still adorn her like a headdress? I wanted to know more than anything. The orphaned teardrop, the casualty of our reckless love.

This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Carolyn Yates.

Content notes: dating apps, long distance, phone sex, vibrator

If we were being honest:

But this is a dating app, so here’s what I actually write:

Simple, prescriptive, kind of embarrassing. I know that as a queer woman, you’ve got to go the distance to find the right one. I post it and then turn off my phone. I mean all the way off. And then I set it face down and try to fall asleep but mostly just stare at the blinking, incorrect clock for a few hours before slipping under. But you already know that, because it takes you roughly 87 minutes to contact me, and then you grow a bit more nervous with each passing moment that I don’t cringe at your message. You’d written something clever about buying a membership to the museum.

You’re five states away, but distance is no match for Facetime, Snapchat, Zoom, texts… Your first selfie just for me highlights your dimples, which is a nice surprise. I’m still at the point where I’ll only send you the most flattering angles.

We talk, and talk, and talk, and keep talking. I need to slow down and despite knowing that and reminding myself of that, I possess the incredible ability to start picturing our wedding the moment I first hear you laugh—you’d wear a green tweed vest.

Of course I know it’ll never work out like that. I broke up with my ex three months ago and everything inside of me is tender, fresh skin growing back over a wound, red and vulnerable and thin. Despite the scars, I tell you things that I never even admitted to the others, feeling strangely emboldened with the inability to see your reaction as I speak. You’re the first message in the morning, the last word at night.

It’s been two weeks and I can’t stop smiling. And sure, maybe your attention is just a balm for my bruised heart, but I don’t see a problem with that. What’s the point in limiting myself to forever when I can have right now? Besides, you’re miles away and us still feels impossible despite our emotions, which makes me pretend it feels a little safer to risk my feelings.

But tonight? Tonight, you call. No front-facing cameras, no text first to see if I’m awake. My heart stutters as I see your name on the screen, then races as I hit the accept button. I’m still feeling tiny jolts of thrill shoot through my veins. You say, “Hey, I wanna try something a little different. You up for that?”

It depends. But I want to seem brave and exciting, so I swallow my anticipation and say, “Of course,” mostly because I’m curious.

Mixed media painting by Laura Lee Benjamin

“Do you trust me?”

I trust you as much as anyone can trust another person they’ve never met in real life, which is to say, an alarming amount. “Depends,” I say, but hopefully in a sly enough tone that doesn’t give away how unchill I feel.

“Are you in bed?”

I resist the urge to snort in amusement and instead smile as I ask, “Oh, so it’s like that?”

“I had a kind of dirty dream about you. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Every detail,” I admit, shameless.

You laugh, and fuck, that sound twists itself inside my chest like a fist. I want to make you laugh more. Your voice drops, somewhere between a whisper and a quake. “It started with me kissing you.”

My stomach is doing cartwheels. “Oh yeah?” This is the moment I realize there is no pumping the brakes. The brake line was never installed in this ride.

“Fuck, I wish I could kiss you right now.”

It’s a simple confession, but it does something to me all the same. You’re bold tonight, and I want to show you I like it. “I want to hear more dream kiss details.”

“Well, we had a really nice time and then I made you hashbrowns.” I can almost hear you smile.

“You talk a big game.” I may have daydreamed about you in green tweed but I’m still tiptoeing and careful about what parts of me you get to see, and right now, it is not the fact that the idea of you making me hashbrowns has me thinking of hopping a flight. “But specifically, tell me about the nice time.”

“Well, we’d better set the scene then, huh? I’m lying in bed and I’m only wearing boxer briefs. What about you?”

I look down at my ratty t-shirt and a pair of oversized soccer shorts I stole from a boyfriend fifteen years ago, but I’d rather lie to keep you in the moment. “I’m not wearing anything,” I say innocently, just to hear your reaction. The line is silent, and then I hear your quiet, frustrated huff of air.

In this dark room, alone, staring up at the ceiling, I can be whatever I want. And I can make you whatever I want, too.

And so, I do. Your boxer briefs are dark, slung low, highlighting the stretch of skin over your hip bones. But if that’s the only thing you’re wearing… I can imagine tracing my hands up the curve of your waistline, the subtle indent of the ribs at your sides, leading to the irresistible rise of your breasts. I’ve seen your hands only in photographs, wrapped around cold glasses, strong and square-knuckled, like they could fix my bike or pick me wildflowers.

I push. “What was our first kiss like, then?”

“I kissed you, pushing my fingers into your long hair, holding you still as I brushed my mouth over yours, feeling your warm breath on my lips.”

My cheeks heat at the suggestion. “Damn, you’re really good at this.”

“And then when I kissed you, I could taste your mint chapstick.”

I smirk. You even remember the Burt’s Bees. “I’ve always imagined you kissing me a little rougher. Like you’d bite my lip, rake your nails down my back.”

I hear a cracked moan that I think you were trying to hold in. I sit up, pulling my t-shirt over my head, wiggling out of my shorts. My own hands feel foreign on my skin as I imagine yours instead. Do you have callused fingertips from playing the guitar? Now you do.

“I can’t believe you got me into bed so easily,” I say, biting my own lip.

“What makes you think we were in the bed already? We’re just innocently making out on the couch.” Your faux-innocence makes me laugh, alleviating the last of the nervous energy I have.

“Of course, so sorry,” I joke.

“I pushed you down, pinning you on the couch under me, biting at your neck.”

“Hey, careful.”

“It’s scarf season. You’ll be fine.”

I grin, tracing my fingers over my throat. You’d bite at the soft spot under my ear, the vulnerable spot over my pulse. “So, we’re kissing in the dream, then what?”

“I pushed my knee between your thighs, and then I realized you were grinding against my leg. I almost didn’t notice it as I pulled your flimsy bra out of the way, finding your nipple with my teeth.”

I cup my breast in my hand, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin between the jolts of pain and underlying pleasure. I can almost feel you exhale against my skin, hot and damp. Goosebumps rise over my chest, and I shiver. I bite back a moan, but a faint sound slips past my lips anyway.

This isn’t the conversation I expected when I answered the phone tonight. It’s so much better.

I can hear you breathing now, heavier, and I imagine your hands on your own body, tracing the same pattern as mine. Your hands become mine, and I’m tracing the outline of your breasts, kissing my way down your sternum to the expanse of your stomach, then lower. “Are you touching yourself?” you ask, all breath, barely any sound.

A storm is growing inside of me, electric with energy and dark at the edges. “Mmhmm,” I manage. “Tell me what happens next.”

“We were wearing way too many clothes for the occasion—”

I laugh.

“And I knelt between your legs,” you continue.

My hand slips lower, running through the short curls between my thighs. My heart pounds in my ears, under my fingertips. I move my fingers over the smooth velvet of my outer folds, then let my touch dip towards my core. I’m already soaked, ready, aching for you to touch me.

“The next part is a little fuzzy, because suddenly I had my harness on and… well.” You say through a chuckle, much lower and raspier than before.

“I don’t mind this change in scenery,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Tell me more about this harness.”

“Leather.”

“Say more.”

“Black leather with a silver hardware.”

“And that’s all?” I ask.

“Well, in this dream, we were using my favorite ribbed dildo with it.”

“I don’t mind the sound of that.” I clench my thighs together at the image in my mind. “And what’d you do with it?”

I can just picture your cocky smirk, the one that makes your right dimple pop, and that mischievous glint in your eye as you say, “It was all you. You pushed me down, climbed on top, slowly taking it, inch by inch.”

Oh. Oh.

My fingers find the exact spot I need, tracing lazy figure eights as the image of you underneath me blurs into focus. Your mouth slightly parted, your fingers digging into the softness of my hips. The muscles in my thighs burn as I steady myself on your chest, then you reach forward to touch me, finally.

I know I’m moaning into the phone speaker now, shameless with need. I can hear you, too, your breath hitching as I imagine you graze your fingers over just the right spot. I switch the call to speaker and let it fall to the pillow beside me as I reach into my nightstand for my vibrator, clumsy with desperation. The first rumble between my thighs nearly sends me to climax as soon as I turn on the device, but I take a deep breath as I slide it inside of me, leaving my other hand to continue its steady circles.

“That’s right, baby, make it last,” you whisper, and the distance between us evades time and space, folding and warping until you are next to me, the fantasy comes in phrases and flashes now—those moans warm against my ear, your tongue exploring my throat, your palm slapping against my ass as you hitch my thigh up. Lips trailing over goosebumps, teeth grazing over the thin stretch of skin across clavicles and ribs, your fingers spreading to push into me.

The scratch of the sheets against my back as my body rocks with your hand, your command, my obeisance. And then suddenly, forcefully, I’m pushed over the edge as I cry out god’s name so many times the room begins to feel holy. You follow my lead, all gentle whimpers and heavy, panting breaths and I can feel your stomach clenching as you writhe against my fingers.

Flushed, barely satiated, desperate for more, I remember the phone in my hand as I blink the room back into focus. It’s my own, the clock blinking on the dresser, the glow of the streetlight outside my window. I swallow, disoriented as I catch my breath. I can hear you through the miles, doing the same. I feel a bit embarrassed with my brazen vulnerability, and judging by your silence, I wonder if you feel the same.

I clear my throat, trying to even out the temperature change. “Um, that was quite the dream,” I whisper.

“Would it be way too forward for me to fly there for the weekend?” you ask.

It’s way too soon but I want it too much to hold back. If this is going to hurt someday, I want it to feel good first. Then, it can all go up in flames after your hands are actually on me. I want nothing more than to roll onto my side in this moment, wrapping my arms around you and kissing your flushed cheeks. “If it’s anything like your dream, you’re welcome anytime,” I say, biting my lip to try to contain my quickly bursting smile.

You laugh and say, “Until then, sweet dreams.”

This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Carolyn Yates.

Content notes: tentacles, sex toys, friend sex

I’d never seen anything like the tentacle in the box Ari handed me: a blue and green shaft with purple and orange freckles, covered in knobby feelers, coiled up like a fern. The shaft was thick as my forearm and tapered into a pencil-thin point. The base ended in a three-pronged copper plug, where it could be plugged into my body. It was almost two feet long. I shut the box and handed it back to Ari.

“That one’s a bit much,” they said, placing the box next to them on the bed. “I grabbed it anyway, to give you a sense of the range.”

We were sitting on my bed, which doubled as my couch, and Ari had unpacked a duffel bag with a suite of cellophane-wrapped attachments. A camera on a tripod waited next to the bed.

I had met Ari last year in an insurance-company-mandated info session ahead of our respective surgeries. We were an unlikely pair: I was here because I had no choice, and getting a universal genital port installed was the only way I could still have genitals. Ari had bought their way into this room with a combination of hustling, bartending, truck driving, sex work, and probably some other things I didn’t want to know about. But when I left the hospital, it was Ari who called me every day and sent me care packages throughout chemo, regardless of whether they were visiting their grandma in Poughkeepsie or on a photo shoot in Hong Kong.

Ari was scandalized that the hospital had sent me home with something as pedestrian as a penis or a vagina. They had immediately vowed to scour the indie markets and DIY manufacturers to find me a set of the wildest, most colorful attachments I couldn’t imagine.

I picked up each of the attachments Ari had bought me and placed them on the bed in a neat row: the small phallus poking out of two vulva lips, the purple-red bulb that looked like a sea anemone, and the tentacle, which scared the hell out of me. Honestly, I left my attachments at home under the bed most of the time. It was just easier.

But here was Ari, laughing with me over a bag full of bright colors and different textures and unusual shapes. Just like them to stage an intervention with objects of pleasure.

I picked up the phallus. It at least looked like human genitals, not abstract art. Ari followed me down the hall to the bathroom, their boots clomping on the floor.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I said.

“Okay,” they said, leaning against the wall. They seemed concerned. They brushed a loc over their shoulder. “Let me know if you need help.”

In my bathroom, I shut the door and took off the pajama pants I’d been living in since the beginning of quarantine. I pulled the silicone cover off my port. Plugging these things into your nervous system was like giving yourself a shot or putting in a contact lens. How had the nurses done this? They had some trick I didn’t remember. Something about lining up the lower edge of the attachment with the bottom of the port before clicking it into place.

I tried doing that, but the prongs didn’t fit. I lined up the plug and tried to angle it inside. A sudden shock jolted me. I yelped and dropped the phallus, and it bounced off the tile floor.

“Are you okay?” Ari called.

“Ow! Fuck,” I said, rubbing my hand.

“I’m coming in.”

I would have balked at walking in on someone who was trying to put an attachment into a universal genital port, but Ari seemed used to it. They probably faced situations like this all the time at work. I felt clumsy. I picked up the attachment from the floor and began to rinse it off in the sink.

“Hey,” Ari said in a soft voice. They took my hands in theirs as we soaped it together, cleaning between all the little folds. “This is your time, okay?” they said tenderly. “You get to decide what you do and how fast you go.”

We patted the attachment dry. “May I?” They gestured to my port, and I nodded. Ari showed me how to line up the port, how to brace myself by holding the towel rack, how to click it in with one long steady exhale. I felt the cold and uncomfortable metallic tang of the plug going in, and then the sudden awareness of a new body part. Ari stretched the outer rim of skin over the rim of my port.

“That’s a great look on you,” they said. I turned to face both of us in the mirror. Ari’s arm around my narrow shoulders. My folds opening up to reveal my phallus.

I’m sure I blushed. With Ari’s attention on me, I felt good. The tip of the phallus even tingled. It felt like a fat thrust of pressure among silks. I liked how the shaft and head felt concentrated but the folds felt diffuse.

“That one really rocks with a stroker,” Aris said excitedly, leading me back to the living room.

Why didn’t I have a stroker? I had a basic twist-the-cap vibrator from forever ago that lived in a drawer. Why hadn’t I bought more sex toys, especially when Ari gleefully informed me that they’d found me an arsenal of attachments? Did I think it was more than I deserved?

I lay on the bed, and Ari took pictures. I ran the tip of my finger along the phallus until it stiffened in my hands and begged me to stroke it. I closed my eyes and engulfed it in my hand, rubbing it in tune with the click of Ari’s camera. Mmm.

“You look amazing,” they said, showing me the photo roll. Who was this person with the arched back, the eyes closing in pleasure, the I’m-going-to-melt smile?

I wanted to try something else. Ari showed me how to get the attachment out without an uncomfortable jolt, a skill they had discovered on their own through lots of practice. I reached over, fumbling with the other attachments on the bed. “Do you ever even wear this?” I asked Ari, holding up the blue-green tentacle.

Illustration by Laura Lee Benjamin.

“All the time,” they said. “I’m wearing one right now.”

I stared.

“It’s got a personality of its own,” they insisted, waving their hands. “I swear it knows what I want and who’s good for me before I do.”

I wasn’t ready to go there yet. I picked up the anemone. As soon as I plugged it in, its fronds began desperately searching and its bulb pulsing for something inside. I grabbed the vibrator from my drawer and touched the tip to one of the fronds. Ari sat on the bed next to me, camera at the ready.

I yelped as the anemone grasped the tip of the vibrator and pulled it in, inch by inch, all the way to the base. It was so strong! I gripped the comforter and screamed and thrashed as the anemone swallowed every inch of it. And above me, Ari’s smile. I swear I saw tears in their eyes. I turned off the vibrator and gently eased it out, then popped off the attachment.

“All right, I’m going to try this,” I giggled, reaching for the tentacle.

“I knew it,” they cackled, clapping their hands together. “You can’t stay away from it.”

I picked up the tentacle attachment and clicked it into place. For a moment, nothing happened, and I wondered if Ari had purchased a defective one. Then, the tip began to move, seeking out something to touch, and the entire shaft lit up with sensation. There was so much of it! I felt like I had an extra arm between my legs. Every time the suckers touched the comforter, little pinpricks of sensation licked up my spine.

“I know, right?” Ari said as I watched in amazement. “It’s like it wants to touch and taste every…” They started. Something was poking out from under the edge of their skirt, reaching toward mine. We laughed.

“Told you,” they said, propping themselves up on one elbow. “It’s got a mind of its own.”

The tips reached for each other. As they met, the sudden touch made my legs shake. I moaned as my tip coiled around Ari’s, touching and exploring. Ari rolled over and reached into the duffel bag on the floor, rummaging around in it. Our tips coiled around each other, like we were holding hands. “You’ve got to experience this,” they said, producing the biggest bottle of lube I’d ever seen.

Ari popped open the cap and filled their palm with lube. I wondered if they were enjoying this beyond the thrill of getting to show their repressed friend something cool. There’d been so much unspoken between us, especially those times I helped them through break-ups or non-starters with people who treated them wrong, who saw them as strong and unshakable and didn’t know that they were sensitive and needed a lot of time to recharge. I wanted Ari to touch me if they wanted that too.

They cupped their hand below our two tentacles and let them cover themselves in lube. I gasped and my back arched as mine slipped past theirs, a sudden ocean of sensation. We lay side by side on the bed, the tentacles slick and slipping past one another, pulling us closer together as they corkscrewed around each other. I moaned, arching my back and pushing into the touch. The tip of Ari’s nose brushed against mine. Ask, I thought. Ask them.

“Can I kiss you?” I asked.

“I thought you’d never ask,” they said, reaching for me.

Our mouths met and they kissed me gently, exploring, inviting me in. I kissed them back harder, running my hands over their smooth skin. Ari’s hands found my face, my shoulders, my chest, my belly. The parts of my body that had been locked up and closely guarded all opened to their touch. Our attachments coiled like ropes between us, tighter and tighter. All the things I wished I’d said to them during our late-night phone calls came out in the force of my attachment coiling around theirs, slipping against each other.

I grasped Ari around the waist, holding them close to me as our tentacles quivered together. The tips sought our nipples, our belly buttons, the soft spaces between our thighs. We caught our faces in each other’s hands and kissed and kissed.

Ari’s breath hitched and they grasped my thighs as we came together, our attachments spasming between us in big waves that made my legs shake and forced the breath out of me. We lay side by side, panting and gasping, as our attachments went slack and limp. The tips rested in a puddle of lube on the comforter, the ends twining their way into a heart. We both giggled.

“What else is in your bag of tricks?” I asked.

“No tricks. Just me,” they said, running their hand over my thigh.

Hank was just getting out of the shower when he saw his phone light up. An image of a girl in a white fluffy robe showing off a large amount of cleavage and a cheeky smile flashed across the screen. Melanie. Hank grinned, pulled on his own robe – plain grey terry cloth – and wiped his hands before grabbing the phone and swiping to pick up the FaceTime call. He’d been looking forward to his date with Melanie all day, could feel himself getting hard just anticipating what Melanie would be wearing and what they’d end up doing together tonight, each in their own bedrooms, connected only by their WiFi connections and the glow of their iPhone screens.

Hi sir, Melanie greeted Hank in her singsong voice, and Hank struggled to keep his cool as he took in the scene: Melanie, wearing a tight pink velvet dress, sitting on her couch sipping a glass of pink champagne. The dress was skintight and low-cut; Melanie’s tits, pushed up with a lacy black bra, were practically spilling out. Her long brown curls framed her face and cascaded down her back, her long nails were painted shiny pale pink, and her mouth – god damn it, her mouth. Hank was obsessed with Melanie’s mouth and she knew it; they’d been dating long enough that Melanie knew lots of things that drove Hank wild, that made him almost lose his cool. He never quite lost it, but Melanie could get him close to the brink. Hank secretly liked that, and Melanie secretly knew he did, but they never acknowledged it out loud.

Melanie grinned when she saw Hank’s hungry expression at the sight of her. She took a sip of her champagne, clearly pleased with herself, and Hank allowed himself to openly stare at her mouth. Her top lip was shaped like a perfect Cupid’s bow and her bottom lip was full and soft, with an almost imperceptible freckle right in the center. She was always wearing shiny gloss and licking or biting her lower lip. But the best part of her mouth was how she opened it to take Hank’s cock… fuck. Her lips stretched open farther than Hank thought was possible as she relaxed her jaw, letting him all the way down her throat… Hank shook his head, not wanting to get ahead of himself.

Hi baby, Hank said approvingly, smirking at Melanie through the camera. You’re so dressed up for our date.

And you’re not dressed at all, Hank! Melanie pretended to pout.

Work went late, Hank explained. Let me put the phone down so I can throw some clothes on.

Don’t put the phone down, Melanie begged, let me see you get dressed on camera!

Hank laughed. No way, he said. That’s what you do on our dates, not me! I just get to watch.

Melanie giggled. You love watching me Hank, she said.

I do, baby, Hank allowed, and Melanie beamed at the understated compliment. Hank more than loved his FaceTime dates with Melanie and they both knew it. Hank put the phone down and slipped into sweats and a basketball jersey while Melanie waited patiently on the other end of the line. She drank her champagne and eyed her sex toy collection, wondering what she’d use tonight, wondering how red Hank’s face would get while he watched, wondering how it would feel to finally be able to have sex in person with her boyfriend again, wondering how fucking digitally from afar managed to feel so good in the meanwhile.

Hank and Melanie had met right before the pandemic. Melanie flew to New York for a friend’s New Year’s Eve wedding and met Hank at the reception. They hit it off, first on the dance floor, then over dinner, then at the after party, then in a cab on the way back to Melanie’s hotel room… she had never met someone who could keep up with her quite so well, both when it came to sex and when it came to everything else. She had ended up extending her trip just to spend more time on all fours and on her knees for Hank; she was high on the way he fucked her, she never wanted it to end.

Neither one of them had been sure what would happen next. Sometimes a weekend of hot sex is just a weekend of hot sex. But the morning Melanie left New York to fly home to Portland, she’d told Hank to call her if he felt like it. Somewhat to her surprise, he did. He called that night to make sure she’d made it home okay. He called a few days later just to talk. He kept calling. Soon enough, they admitted they were dating.

Melanie flew back to New York in late February to see Hank. Things in the city felt different; some people seemed poised for catastrophe while others were oblivious. It seems impossible to believe now, almost one year later, that they didn’t pay attention to the undercurrent of what was coming. But they were falling in love; they’d never lived through a pandemic before. It was easier to focus only on what was happening inside Hank’s tiny studio apartment: Melanie bent over his couch, legs spread, gagged and holding as still as she could as Hank took his time tugging back her ponytail, resting his hand at her neck, learning all the ways she reacted to the promise of his touch. Melanie tied down to his bed, her wrists and ankles snug in his under-the-bed restraints, whimpering from embarrassment as Hank made her come again and again, holding a Hitachi against her clit as her hips bucked and she squirted, first a little and then a lot, cheeks reddening as Hank smirked and muttered about her making a mess. Hank at the stove in the morning wearing his grey terry cloth robe, taking a pause from making them breakfast to take her chin in his palm and kiss her good morning. Hank on the couch, patting his lap and inviting her to curl up with her arms around his neck and her cheek resting against his chest, stroking her hair and tucking it behind her ear while the two talked and talked. Hank teased Melanie that it was a good thing she lived on the opposite coast – I’d never eat or sleep if we lived in the same city! I’ve never met someone who never gets tired out like you! – but by the end of that visit, they were both starting the queer long distance fantasy game: what if, what if, what if, what if.

When Hank called Melanie to make sure she had gotten home okay, she asked him if he wanted to be her boyfriend as soon as he picked up the phone. She could feel his smirk through the phone, guarded but pleased in spite of himself. I feel like I already am, he said. But yeah, let’s make it official. They started talking about Hank taking time off work to visit Melanie in Portland in March, but then the pandemic hit the city with full force, and suddenly no one was leaving their apartments, let alone flying across the country. Not knowing when they would be able to see each other next, Melanie had floated the idea of FaceTime sex.

It turned out that was a very, very good idea.

Melanie was skilled at putting on a show. I’m very obedient, she told Hank the first night they spent together. They’d negotiated boundaries and hard limits, and the more they fucked the more they found that they were very well-matched. Even with distance, it seemed as though they were always finding new things to try, new ways to turn each other on. Hank never let himself come on camera – too vulnerable! – but he promised her that watching her got him off. She believed him; everyone experiences sex differently.

Tonight, Melanie’s phone was propped against her largest houseplant – a monstera that desperately needed to be watered – and she perched across from it on her couch, making sure to position her sex blanket under her ass. She intended to make a big mess for Hank, and she wanted to be prepared. She knew Hank had noticed the deep purple absorbent blanket under her right away, but he hadn’t said anything. She loved his patience; he was so good at making them both wait.

She started slowly, just how he liked it: she sucked on her fingers, first her pointer and then her middle, let her long nails graze her bottom lip as she traced her mouth, then put both fingers as deep down her throat as she could before gagging. She moved her fingers in and out of her mouth slowly, leaning in to the camera so the frame was almost entirely taken up with her lips.

I love your mouth, Hank said, and she bit her lip before reaching for her favorite cock, a thick sparkling pink toy about six inches long. She lingered in that position slightly longer than necessary, knowing Hank would be enjoying the image of her tits across the screen, feeling her nipples getting hard already. She missed the way he touched her, brushing his palms back and forth against her nipples to rile her up – I’m barely touching you, he’d taunt as she squirmed under him – before he rewarded her with his strong hands pinching and pulling at her tits. She tried to replicate the way his hands felt on her body, but she was so much more impatient than he was… it was hard to remind herself how good it felt to savor the build up. Fucking herself for him on FaceTime forced her to slow down.

Take off your dress before you suck my cock, Hank commanded, and Melanie felt herself getting wet as she obeyed. She loved the way they could make eye contact when they fucked like this. She stared at the camera as she slowly took off her dress; she liked the way Hank looked at her through the screen, his mouth parted, his eyes wide. She could hear his breathing, and she loved the way he gasped when she did anything that made him particularly proud. FaceTime sex was full of its own cues and rhythms. It was hot.

Do you want me to take off my bra too, sir? And my panties?

Keep your panties on for now. But I think those tits need some attention…

Melanie’s face lit up with excitement. May I tie up my tits, please?

Hank suppressed a smile of his own; he knew she would ask that but he didn’t want to let her have everything tonight. Making her wait, making her beg… that was all part of the fun. I don’t think you need to tie up your tits… but maybe you should put your nipple clamps on.

Melanie nodded solemnly. If I do a good job may I tie up my tits next time?

We’ll see. Put on your clamps, baby.

He liked watching how hungry her eyes got when he said no to her, how she seemed insatiable. He hadn’t been kidding when he teased her in his apartment last year – he wasn’t sure if he ever would find time to sleep or eat if they lived in the same city. But he hadn’t anticipated not seeing her for months and months, hadn’t anticipated not knowing when he would next be able to hold her – to fuck her, yes, but also just cuddle her and kiss her and make her breakfast… he missed her.

While he’d been lost in his thoughts Melanie had been following instructions. Now she sat cross legged on her couch, breathing through the painful sting of her silver clover clamps biting at her nipples. He could see her pussy through her pale pink panties; a damp spot was forming and the visibility through the iPhone camera was impressive.

You can go ahead and suck my cock now, baby.

She opened her mouth – god damn it, her perfect fucking mouth – and moved the cock deep down her throat, swallowing it all at once, anxious to show him what a good job she could do.

Lean forward so those clamps pull on your nipples.

She moaned around the cock and seemed to take it even deeper as she leaned forward, letting out a small yelp as the heft of her tits swinging forward encouraged the clamps to tug tighter. She held the cock at its base and continued to move it in and out of her mouth, hugging her lips tightly around the shaft so it made a popping sound every time she pulled it out. She closed her eyes as she kept sucking on Hank’s cock, letting drool collect and drip down her chin, getting messy on purpose, making the whole endeavor as visual and exaggerated as possible.

Fuck, baby, Hank said, his face filling the phone screen as he watched her, and Melanie glowed. She loved when Hank took that tone, almost a growl, like he was mad how hard she made him, how hard she made it for him to remain in control.

Melanie opened her eyes and was surprised to see Hank licking his lips, his face more flushed than she was used to. She was suddenly shy, witnessing her own face: lipstick smudged, lips swollen and wet.

I need you to fuck yourself, baby, Hank told her. Push your panties to the side and let me fuck you with my cock. You made me so big and hard, I need it. I need to see you come around that cock…

She did as she was told, shifting so her legs were spread wide open and Hank had a clear view of her pussy on his screen. He loved to see how excited she could get just from sucking his cock, how the act of performing really did turn her on. No other girl had ever put on a show for him like this.

Melanie took the glittering pink cock, still covered in her spit, and positioned it between her pussy lips, guiding it up and down, moving her hips to meet the tip, letting it hit her clit and sighing to herself in anticipation.

Does that feel good baby? Hank asked tenderly, even as he felt himself straining against his briefs. He wanted to touch himself so badly. He’d never done that before on FaceTime; Melanie could tease him and herself for hours, coming over and over again in the course of one night, but he always waited until after they hung up to make himself come. But tonight felt different.

The cock was buried inside Melanie now and she was fucking herself hard, rocking against it and losing herself in the moment. He knew as she got closer to orgasm she’d start babbling, keeping up a stream of dirty talk mixed with moans and pleading. Hank I’m so close, please, I want to come so badly, may I use my vibrator on my clit, may I tug on my nipple clamps, Hank please, fuck me deeper, I need your cock inside me, please, please, please…

He didn’t take his eyes off the screen as Melanie kept begging, but with his mouth open and his breath caught in his throat, he shifted and pushed his hand into his own briefs, stroking himself in rhythm with her words. His cock moved in and out of her in her apartment in Portland, and his hand moved up and down on his cock in his apartment in New York, and he stared in awe at his girlfriend as she came hard, like always, her cunt clenching tight around his cock and then, as she pulled it out but kept the vibrator on her clit, she started squirting in a strong continuous stream, liquid pooling underneath her ass and making a mess, exactly the way he liked it.

When she opened her eyes, expecting to see Hank composed and pleased, she instead found him close, so close to his own orgasm. His eyes were wide open and his face was flushed, his mouth parted and relaxed — it was all so different from the tight control he usually kept over his facial expressions and over his emotions. She knew she always turned him on when they fucked like this, knew he was always building up to an orgasm that would take place once they hung up and he was not longer on camera — he told her often, he was so effusive in his praise, he knew exactly what she needed to hear to feel sexy and special — but it was a rush to witness it, to know that Hank was allowing her to see him this way… she was deeply moved. And also… she was really turned on. Hank was hot, and he was her boyfriend, and she was watching as he made himself come all over her body from miles and miles away. I’m the luckiest girl in the world, she thought, getting lost in Hank’s red cheeks and the way his chest heaved under his jersey.

Not wanting to disrupt the moment – though her excitement that he was finally comfortable enough to come on camera with her was enormous – she egged him on, going back to begging, Hank come for me, come all over my tits, please, please, my tits are so sore, come all over them Hank… and then he came, hard, and she heard him through her screen for the first time like this, and watched him come back to himself, and they looked at each other in shared disbelief and joy. She waited until Hank smirked and said, Okay don’t get used to that, and then she took his cue and said, I would never, sir. He offered to tuck her hair behind her ear, like he always did to take care of her when they were done fucking on FaceTime, and she grinned and said, just because you’re done doesn’t mean I am, and then he grinned for real, comfortable again, in charge again, and he took a deep breath and said okay, what other props do you have for me tonight baby, and she grabbed her bright pink rope and said, I think I deserve to tie my tits up now, don’t you think, sir?

This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Malic White.
Content notes: friend sex, masturbation, oral sex

I looked in the mirror.
I was wearing a crisp, clean white button up shirt delivered to me from the dry cleaner at Fran’s request. I’d paired it with fitted cigarette pants that showed off my ass. A pair of loafers. Fran really knew how to spoil a girl. They even had my initials monogrammed on the left breast pocket. I felt as if I was playing dress up.

Who, me? Oh, I’m just the last remaining baron at the peak of the revolution. I’m making my case as to how I can service the new proletariat ruling class of big-titted academics on my hands and knees. My palms are bloodied, but my pressed white shirt remains untouched — a uniform to show that I am ready to work. I am ready to please.

I buttoned the top button. My tits just barely warping the pinstripes. My nipples just a whisper.
Wise beyond my years. Arrogant. Powerful. The graduate student Naomi goes to for tutoring. Spouting philosophy — quoting great minds as Naomi places her fingers to my lips and offers to blow my own great mind.

I unbuttoned the top button.
Unbothered. Unpredictable. Naomi’s tongue to my lips, she can already taste her own pleasure. She is reaching around behind me while she kisses me and fishing the keys to my yacht out of my back pocket. We’ll take turns servicing one another as we captain a ship around the world, docking only to stock up on food and lube and to make love in the sand.

I buttoned the top button back.
The patriarchy has fallen — call me mommy. Lick my boots. Wait, will we still say that? We outline the terms of our sexual agreement in a hurried, but diplomatic fashion. I can barely steady my hand to the paper as Naomi describes in detail the ways in which she wants to drink me one sip at a time until there’s nothing left of me.

I unbuttoned it again.
Who, me? You want me to what? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my vibrator. Please, I’m just a simple citizen. I’ll fall to my knees for whomever can promise to distribute orgasms in abundance.

I unbuttoned a second button.
Naomi is leaving scratches on my chest, grasping for anything to hold onto while she sits on my face. Grinding her clit into my mouth, trying to decide if her goal is to use her hands to choke me or to twist both my nipples. Too enraptured to make big decisions. Her clit engorged growing between my teeth.

I unbuttoned a third button.
This is the me that says “Pack a bag. Bring an evening dress, a bottle of wine, rope, and nothing else. We’re going on a trip.” This is the me that blindfolds Naomi, feeds her, fingers her from behind while she tries to do her hair to prepare for dinner at a restaurant that neither of us can afford.

I buttoned one button back up.
This look was me. The me that she’s always known. Her doting designated driver. Her ever-available service bottom.

“Naomi, I will clean your gutters, and you don’t even have gutters. I will buy you a house. I will wait for Autumn and then beg you to let me do the honor of vacuuming your gutters while you touch yourself on the sheets that I just laundered. I promise not to come until enough leaves have collected for me to work up a sweat removing them. I will, however, touch myself and think of you each morning that the leaves yellow.”

I buttoned back up the third and final button. I affixed a short gold chain around my neck.* Drip a string of pearls beneath. I imagine those pearls in Naomi’s mouth. I imagine pulling them out pearl by pearl from her asshole as she giggles. Her eyes roll back in her heard. Every tooth in her grin — holding me by the back of my neck as I carefully count the beads aloud.

“Fifteen.”
She snorts

“Sixteen. Seventeen.”
She chirps, surprised as I increase speed.

“Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”
She moans deeply.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three”
“How the fuck are you doing that, Halle,” she demands breathlessly.

Fuck.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just a shirt. With any luck, it won’t be on for long anyway.

Or what if it is? I thought. What if I strip her down to nothing upon arrival and eat her out on my knees fully dressed in business casual, cum dripping down my chin and onto a double-breasted sport coat. The sport coat only comes off to roll up my sleeves just far enough to plunge my finger inside of her while she screams out in pleasure.

I imagined her begging me to take my clothes off so that she can kiss my nipples, put her warm wet mouth on the small of my back, lick down my spine, bite my ass. I imagine my forceful refusal.

I pictured myself growing so wet that it seeps through my Calvin Klein underwear, through my fitted pin-stiped cigarette pants. My toes curled so deeply beneath me that it creases my sharp black leather loafers.

I saw Naomi swimming naked through her silk sheets.

It’s just a shirt, I thought to myself. Maybe it’s too much after all.

I considered wearing my little spandex bodysuit and a pair of jeans.

That’s it. That was more than enough. Just a casual look that says “Naomi, please cuff my writs together and instruct me not to dare reach for your body while you pleasure yourself until you come no less than eight times.”

I imagined my nipples protruding from the sleek black bodysuit, destroying any chance that I had of concealing my excitement to see her. My chest exposed, goosebumps blossoming. My chest rising and falling faster and faster with anticipation.

Naomi’s manicured fingers hooked in the two front loops of my old, faded jeans that frame my pussy, hungry for her mouth.

She can feel my waist drifting towards her own — belly button to belly button, clit to clit. I want her so badly.

Okay, I thought. I’ll split the difference. I put on my button-up shirt over my body suit, leave it completely unbuttoned. Zipped my jeans up. Wiggled my ass. My clit was already so sensitive that just this act increased my heart rate. I slid each foot into a loafer. I grabbed my bag and got in the car.

Just as I pulled out of my parking spot, Naomi texted me.

“can’t wait to see u. bring yr pussy and oj. making mimosas.”
I smiled.

When I arrived, Naomi was in just her bra and shorts. As I opened the door, she ceremoniously uncorked the bottle of champagne — a few bubbles kissing her chest. She put the bottle to her lips slowly.

“Pour some OJ, won’t you?” she said with a laugh.

I could barely keep steady as I sift through her cabinets for a pair of glasses.

I was floating above myself as I absentmindedly poured orange juice into each glass.

She snuck up behind me and put her hands around my waist.

My focus thrown, I crashed the orange juice into the glass splashing it all over my chest.

She cooed and quickly took my white button up off and ran it under cold water in the sink. I was too dumbstruck to be of much help so when she finally turned around, satisfied that the pigment wouldn’t hold, I was still standing there my spandex bodysuit stuck to me with orange juice.

“Take that off!” She laughed.

I tried to take the top off, forgetting that it was one piece. I clumsily unbuttoned my jeans and started to take them off. I remembered to take off my shoes, and then wriggled out of the pants. My bodysuit so wet and sticky that any chance of concealing my nipples was a distant memory.

She watched me still giggling. She pulled the straps of my bodysuit down ,revealing my breasts. She took a swig of the champagne, tsked, and licked my breasts, slowly inching closer and closer to my left nipple. Her free hand sliding under the crotch of my body suit. The scene so comical even from the inside that I couldn’t help but laugh.

She laughed along and asked, “May I?”

I nodded.

She pulled the body suit off of me and placed it gently on the kitchen counter.

I countered, “May I?”

She nodded.

I took the bottle of champagne out of her hand and as quickly as I could press it to my lips, she was on her knees, her tongue on my wet pussy. She moaned into me. Touching herself while she ate me out. I couldn’t decide what I wanted more — to remain in my own ecstasy or to be Naomi’s own left hand, feeling her getting warmer and wetter as my own sounds grew.

Luckily, Naomi is as fair as she is generous. We spent the day taking turns giving and receiving, heaving sighs of bliss and hunger into each other. Inflating and deflating with sensation. Hairs standing up on parts of my body that I had yet to discover. At some point I fell asleep in her arms so saturated with pleasure that I felt a mile north of my own body.

* This one is another gift from Fran. This gold chain was a peace offering from the time that they fell asleep without returning the favor after I pleasured them for six straight hours. They came first in their elaborate marble shower trying desperately to meet my eye through the thick steam. Their hair stuck to their face, my fingers pruning. What was steam and what was sweat as muddled as the line between one orgasm and the next. While I toweled off and put my clothes back on they wrote “one more time?” in the steamy bathroom mirror. We barely made it downstairs to their living room, my hand already down their pants. I ate them out on their coffee table. Fran trying so hard not to scream that they tore pages from the oversized book of art that they’d swept off the table as I laid them down. I draped them over the sofa, my face in their ass cheeks while I inched farther and farther inside them. One more time? Too many to count. They breathlessly promised again and again to suck gently on my clit in exchange, but they conked out promptly after a finale of an orgasm, their back stuck to their yoga mat with sweat. The next Sunday that we spent together, Fran gifted me a dainty gold chain with a tiny pendant in the shape of a mouth. Fitting.

Powdered hemp cutting into soft, bruised flesh. Jax tries to hook a finger between rope and skin and finds there isn’t room. It excites them, knowing that she’s grown since last time. With a sigh they press their face against the shelf of her ass where it dimples against her back and inhale her smell — milk and lilacs, and beneath it the faint musk of sweat from her walk over. Her inner thighs are slippery with sweat. They savor the way she tenses when they touch her there, trailing a finger from the dimple of her knee up and around the leg to the slick, fragile skin in the hollow of her thigh where it meets her pelvis. Inches from her cunt.

“That tickles,” she says, tension at the edge of her throaty voice. She hates to be tickled. For a moment the temptation to do it anyway — to scrabble at her warmth, her softness, until she convulses in rippling, helpless anger and laughter — is almost overwhelming. A thin body only has so much surface area, so much broadcasting equipment to communicate emotion. Laura’s temper is like the sea. They take their hand away and bring it to her lips, letting her taste her own exertion and the first whiff of her arousal. She strains to suck their fingers. Rope creaks. The whole rig shifts, the six cabled leads testing their knots, the bar above dipping ever so slightly. Her face is flushed as they pull their fingers, spit-slick and glistening, from between her lips. Her shadow drifts ever so slightly over the scuffed hardwood.

“Please,” she begs, a quiver running through her like a breeze over a bowl of cream. Pale ripples eddying through yielding flesh.
Jax licks the wetness from their forefinger. They make a show of enjoying it. A cat bathing itself in the sun. “Please what?”
“Please, daddy.”

They let her lick the back of their hand, pressing their knuckles to her full lips, against her cheek and the worn black leather harness holding her head in place. With a swift jerk of their wrist they seize her chin and bend to kiss her. She whimpers as they take her lower lip between their teeth. The bar creaks again, and the oak frame that holds it. They lean into the kiss and thrust their tongue deep into Laura’s mouth, lapping at her molars, her pointed incisors, the Giger arches of her palate. I want to make a map of you, they think as they reach to knead her teacup breast, small and heavy in their hand. The running thunder of her heartbeat pulses down through their finger bones into their metatarsals. I want to kiss the soft, wet fat beneath your skin, the muscle squirming under it. I want to kiss the jumping fibers of your heart and lick unprocessed toxins from your liver.

They pull back and Laura cries out, a bead of blood welling from her lip where they bit her. It runs fat and red down to the corner of her mouth. They watch, breathless, as it grows heavy and falls. Llicking the bead’s crimson trail, fingers digging hard into her tit. Pulse jumps. I love you. They’re so hard it hurts. A susurrus of conflicting emotions as they touch themself. Sticky strands of joy and guilt and burning shame. They pace around her, drinking in the sight of her body partitioned by boundary lines of tripled ropes and sailors’ knots. Her soft forearms pulled in between her little breasts. Her belly, red where it presses against skeins of hemp, elsewhere soft and white and striated with rivers of pale silver stretch marks they have traced with tongue and fingers enough times to memorize.

Tying Laura up is like putting the sea in chains. Reverently, they touch a finger to the dimple of her right knee, suspended level with the tops of their thighs. She whispers, “Daddy, daddy,” and they let the word run over them, let it flow like oil over the crown of their head and down through the wavy curtains of their auburn hair. Not dad, who kissed your scrapes and sent you running back to play, who took you fishing upstream from the moss-covered bridge and flipped the river rocks to show you crayfish scuttling through clouds of stirred-up silt, but daddy, who had eyes like cinders and whose breath smelled of strong cinnamon and cigarettes, whose body is wrong and irresistible. Daddy. Powerless and full of crushing strength.

They kneel, their open robe pooling around them, and stare into the just-parted lips of her cunt, guiding her left thigh to rest on their shoulder while her right sways, even with the top of their head. The little toes they so adore stretch and pop beside their ear as Laura flexes a dainty foot, the motion echoed in the clenching of her asshole, the sudden tension of the great thick bands of muscle underneath the quivering curve of her wide hips. They squeeze cold lube from a bottle on the floor into their palm and rub their hands together, warming it. Cold winter sunlight slanting through the water-spotted window panes to bathe Laura’s back and cast a shadow along the deep cleft of her ass. They lean forward to kiss the swell of her cheeks, one lube-slicked finger pressing down on the hard arch of their — what? — no word feels right. Their mind flits away from names and cleaves instead to raw sensation.

My body is a machine, and if I touch it right I will have pleasure. They lick her, tongue darting close to her anus. Taste of salt and sweat. The civet stink of sex. Ropes creak. They feel for the flushed lips of her cunt with their thumb, running it along the seam where her labia meet, up to the hooded bud of her clit, that delicate tendril of flesh and nerves that is all that remains of what the surgeons cut and folded with Cronenbergian ingenuity into the organ that swallows their first two fingers and clamps tight around them. They stroke her, tracing the paths of her cunt’s hidden musculature, imagining as they do what it would be like to have one, to dissolve into anesthetized nonbeing while masked and gowned attendants grasped the thing between their legs and split it open like a flower, a tubular lachenalia spreading its petals to the sun.

Laura bucks as they press the flat of their tongue to her cunt, licking their own fingers and the length of her lubricated slit. Taste of iron and salt. Her right thigh strikes the back of Jax’s head and drives them deeper, pressing their nose inside her. She lets out a thin and desperate cry and they seize hold of her, clinging to her warm and reassuring bulk as she sways away from them. Lurching after, hungry for her fat, flushed lips and the dark heat behind them. Their own spit on their chin. A thread of drool glistening. Swinging. Then, with a groan of wood and rope, the return. Her velvet weight enveloping them. Sound lost in the rushing beat of her pulse. Clutching handfuls of her belly like fresh dough. The sublime, almost totemic height of dykedom. Eating your lover out, which has always sounded to them like an attempt at cannibalism. Like she has something you want, and you’re going to chew and tear and rip it out of her.

She always thrashes when she comes. Even trussed and suspended she throws her whole body into her climax. They weather it, moving with her, still hungry for the heat of her cunt against their face, for the soft pad of fat above it under their fingers. For the faint taste of piss, hot and acrid on their tongue. The places where their bodies meet and deform against each other. They love to feel her bound strength jerk and tremble. They love knowing what it feels like when those huge thighs slam together in ecstatic release, and that they can’t because of them, because they decided that it wouldn’t happen and she let them render it impossible.

They come in their own fumbling hand, spilling on the floor with a half-numbed rush of nauseous relief.
Later, as they lie in bed, the red marks of the ropes still livid on Laura’s pale skin, Jax holds her close and dreams of something else. Not a cunt, and not the nameless thing between their legs: A star. A flower. Soft bioluminescent light and delicate fronds like a moth’s antennae. Anemone fingers moving lazily in a slow current. They reach down to finger what they have, to trace its aching, stiffening length and press their thumb against the slit at its end where precum wells against the whorl of their thumbprint.

The word for what they want doesn’t exist yet, but they can feel its ghost on their tongue and under their thumb, and in the way it feels to curl against sleeping Laura. They close their eyes and lay their cheek on the pillow of her upper arm, dreaming of new flesh and flashing steel, of the gender that is making, the body that is being seen. A point of white light burning hot between their legs.

If you’re an avid S L I C K reader, then you are already familiar with the breath-catching, lean-in-a-little-closer moments that our writers have delivered to us in this dirty little queer erotica series. While I’m out finding new writers to whip up some hot action for us, I wanted to give you a reminder of what we’ve experienced so far. Life moves fast. It’s possible that some tension-filled moments have slipped your mind. And it’s always the slow, tight tension right before the frenzy that I love.

Every week when I’m reading these stories and making edits, there is a moment where I understand the premise of the hotness that will unfold. I live for the moment of surprise in everything — food, art, conversation, fashion, sex, humor — and so these stories and the small worlds of desire I get pulled into are so delightful. They encourage me to take a turn I might never have taken on my own. So that if I’m open and willing (and I pretty much always am), I find myself standing at the edge of a lake, being slightly aroused by a breeze drifting through my clothes, and suddenly understanding the concept of wanting to wanted by a very horny, very insatiable, very large werewolf.

Like I said, I like a surprise.

Anyway, I’m going to share my very favorite turns and moments from the stories that we’ve posted since April, and as always I want to hear from you about what makes you pause and go, “Oh, mmhmm.” Join A+ if you want to luxuriate in the full length of these stories.

“You think Audre Lorde ever ‘shroomed?” I ask the universe. I feel so grateful for my body, for my erotic, for her erotic. For my ass on this ground and my heart facing the sky. I feel Ozara’s and my bodies blending.

“You think you would have kissed me that night, if I would have asked you? I always wondered,” she says her eyes gazing at the sky and into me somehow at the same time.

“I would kiss you now,” I say and we start giggling. “I think I’ve made love to your ass in multiple lifetimes, Ozara. And fucked you good too.”

Closing my eyes, a pink haze and indigo softness and a golden hum to the rhythm of Ozara’s breathing and body heat.

“I can see that,” she says, her hands gliding over my skin.

“I distinctly remember you eating my pussy on the banks of the Nile river, ” I say and we both waterfall into each other’s bodies. I climb on top of her and straddle her hips while she grabs my ass.

“You tasted good too,” she says, the fire glistening on her nose ring as she guides her hands to my hard nipples, pushing out through my turquoise lace bra. She plays with my heavy titties, while I grind my clit into her pelvis.

“Damn, girl, you can move them hips. Can I taste you?” she says kinda high, kinda shy. I bite my lip and nod yes.

Every day after school I undress in front of my Salserín posters. Door locked. The posters are taped inside my closet: boys with long hair, baggy jeans, hand signs and ridiculous sunglasses. I also have posters of The Velvet Underground, The Ramones and The Cure — those are my background. The crowd that cheers me on. The music as I wrap a blanket around me, as I walk slowly with a mirada fija, holding my cigarette, staring at the eyes of the salsa teenagers like I’ve seen every mujer bella at every telenovela since I was a kid. This is my moment. I am the fanciest hoe. The most desirable. I let them wait for me. I walk slow, sure to showcase my legs, my shoulders, all curls down and flowing about to devour the pieces of paper meat in front of me. They all whisper amorcitos to me. They all want me. And I do too. I devour them so much the boys’ mouths have all faded from so much kissing. In my room they’re all alive, pleasing me as I say.

Tacey let out a long breath that became a moan as Paige started to pet her cunt…

She gasped as Paige’s hand came back down, slap slap slap, in quick succession on both of her cheeks. Paige murmured, “Good girl,” and smoothed her palms over Tacey’s wide ass, using her nails to scratch and tickle. She’d asked for her nails to be extra sharp points when she’d been at the manicurist this week because she knew how much Tacey liked the different sensations she could make with them.

Continuing to whimper, Tacey was also already dripping wet. She was the kind of girl who had never ejaculated when she came — until she found kink, the psychological play of being a little, and the shameless exploration of toys and desire that came with it. And, of course, Paige, who had been the first person she’d squirted with. But now, she couldn’t come without squirting, and she would dribble as she got more and more aroused. Paige loved to watch her soak through her panties and drip down her thighs, and tease her for it.

Now, the wetness was starting to flow. Now, Paige’s hand teased Tacey with slaps and scratches, caressing her labia and the crack of her ass, touching everywhere she could reach. Paige kept her other hand in Tacey’s hair, stroking it and cooing to her about what a good job she was doing

….And check out Constellations #1, #3 & #4 for more of Sinclair Sexmith’s polycule tales.

I’m deep in my role now too, feeling breathless and, yes, even a bit shaky. I can envision your office in my mind’s eye, can conjure the feel of the chair’s woven fabric embossing the backs of my bare thighs. “I gaze up at you with big doe-like eyes, an innocent expression beaming with longing.”

“I get so fucking hard when you look up at me so shy and coy at the same time. You’ve snapped my last lingering threads of resolve and I pull you up to my mouth, offering you my tongue to see just how capable you are.”

“All my shyness falls away in that moment and my instincts take over as I wrap my lips around your tongue and begin to suck.”

“Sucking me off like that makes my cock rage with envy.” I can tell you’re unsure how much longer you can hold out but you want to draw out the tension just a bit more. “I pull away despite your protests and take you by the shoulders. You know, Ms. DeLovely,” you continue, “I’m very concerned about your performance in class as of late. Do my lectures bore you?”

“No! Just the opposite, Dr. Luna! I-I…” Stammering over my words, I barely manage to explain myself. “When you get going about the atrocities of the kyriarchy or the pleasures of queer theory, it…turns me on. I’m entirely captivated…but you gesture so emphatically that I can’t help but fantasize about your sizable hands on my body. My fantasies take that thought and…run wild with it.”

“Ah, so is that why I’ve caught you eyeing my cock? Do you know how hard you make to keep my composure?”

I’m blushing deeply now. “I-I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t know you noticed…” I trail off.

Beneath her collarbone, tickling the top of her now-muscled chest, a Gloria Anzaldúa quote in block letters:I Change Myself, I Change the World.She descends, the soft electricity of her fingertips teasing my nipples, circling like a stakeout, and I’m breathless with how much better this moment is than any recent memory.

Then she sucks on one nipple, the other, they harden and I thinki have been inside for so longand I sayI need you inside me.I have been entirely contained I have been safe I haven’t let anybody in now I need her whole hand.

I want her to break me open so I can go from feeling nothing to feeling everything at once, every light on the Operation board buzzing, every body part and every minute up for grabs. She yanks at my hair with hunger like a thing she might eat so I can’t move, her mouth hot on my mouth, her leg shoved between mine, rubbing me, we’re drenched in sweat and come, which is fine, this already feels like swimming and also trying to swallow an entire swimming pool, but in a good way, and everybody’s hair in the sun afterwards will be perfect

Between my thighs she bites me, soft at first and then firmer, getting closer.

I haven’t um, in a while I say when she reaches to slide my boyshorts off. Surely she knows what I mean.

She laughs,I could not care less.

Pretend to be into it, I request, say you have an enchanted forest fetish

I don’t have to pretend, are her words before the tip of her tongue is at the tip of my clit and it is as cool and precise as my cunt is sweltering and everywhere as she takes me into her fully, palms seizing my ass like lifting a bowl to drink from,

I want all of you inside me.

Her whole body seizes in delight, like I’ve handed her an unexpected gift, twitching and aching to unwrap —

Are you sure?

I can take it.

Daddy and I had kissed plenty of times before, and we’d spent countless nights cuddled against each other in dimly-lit bars and in the backseats of late-night Ubers. I’m sure somewhere along the line I had slipped in a topless photo or two. But this was the first time I was actually about to show my bare breasts to her in person. I got up and pulled my dress up gingerly, slowly exposing my supple chest.

As I threw it over my head, Snow gazed down at my tits, sizing up their round shape, as a tent unmistakably pitched in my underwear.

“My, my,” Daddy laughed. “Your tits are adorable.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes. Very soft and cute. They look perfect for pinching.”

I squirmed. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Daddy read my cue. She plucked my nipples and watched me wince in pain. Another slap rippled through my flesh, this time across both tits. Daddy laughed and flashed that same sweet smile. She adored the way my breasts jiggled from the force, stinging just as much as her own initial smack.

“Now, lift your arms up,” she said.

In what seemed like just two, maybe three movements, Rylen had her pinned to the ground by both arms. The full weight of their wolf-like body bearing down on her exuded a heat that made her sweat even more than her desire already had. Looking down, Dee saw that their click was completely erect, dripping with excitement, and hovering just above her panties. The warm damp tip of it pressed firmly against her vulva, making her shudder and moan while a feeling of aroused exhilaration swept over her. Their eyes met briefly, hers silently begging for them to slide deep inside her, theirs only too glad to oblige.

Rylen opened their jaw wide and bit down onto her dress with an almost surgical precision, managing to hook one of their big, sharp teeth under the front band of her bra. All it took was the one chomp and a firm pull to completely shred her clothes. Her breasts spilled out into the open air, the chill hardening her nipples almost instantly, a shiver of delight running down her spine.

They then bore down on her with an animal lust. Their enormous, warm, wet tongue licking her now bare body from between her legs, all the way up her stomach to her neck in one fluid motion. It was warm, wet, and made Dee tremble with longing. She raised her hips, and pulled her panties down to her knees. Then she lifted her legs in the air to pull them off, but Rylen beat her to it, taking a deep smell of her pussy on the flimsy cloth.

I watched the way Dee moved as she went to the bar for our drinks: the confident swagger was there, but I also noticed a slight hesitation as she set down my wine glass. Conversation and laughter flowed easily and I was both entertained and intrigued by Dee’s presence. As she spoke, I gradually shifted closer until my thigh touched hers and noted that she applied just a little bit of counter pressure to my leg in response.

When she came back with our second round of drinks, I reached into her lap and cupped my hand over the shaft of her strap-on. Her breath caught in her throat for a split second before she regained her composure, placed her hand on top of mine, and molded my fingers more firmly around her. Her eyes sparkled hopefully and I saw her lick her lips: she thought I was going to let her fuck me.

“Come on then,” I challenged her and headed towards the restroom.

I stepped into a stall and Dee quickly followed me in. Her mouth covered mine and she maneuvered me up against the wall, her hands pressing against my shoulders and her thigh encroaching between mine. Our tongues danced in time with the low thrum of the muffled music from the bar outside. I reached down to undo her zipper, and her lips stilled for a moment as her brain registered the movement of my hand drawing her out. When her kisses resumed they were even more eager than before and her body began to rock rhythmically against me.

I let go of her dick and moved my hands onto her hips. We were matched in height but I had the weight advantage: one quick shove and I’d positioned her against the opposite wall, my thigh now pressed between hers. Before she could protest, I took hold of her dick again and gave it a playful tug. She groaned deep in the back of her throat and closed her eyes. I can’t help but get wet for a chick with a strap-on and Dee was no exception. I wanted to feel her slide inside me, but first I wanted to make this butch go weak at the knees.

The late winter breeze ruffled my hair as I walked downtown. I was just 10 minutes away from our first meeting, and my entire body was electric. I thought back to all those late Saturday nights over drinks after your shifts. Wouldn’t it be fun if I visited and we finally locked a collar around me? Wouldn’t it be so cute to see me on my knees, drinking out of a water bowl?

I only meant it half-seriously, followed shortly after with an invitation to slip into the bathroom and see what happens. But eventually half-serious turned into serious, and when I proposed the idea for real, there was no weirdness about it, no apprehension, no unspoken boundary crossed. I wanted you to dominate me, Daddy, and you relished the chance.

When I finally reached the place, I was dumbstruck. I had imagined an underground sanctuary hidden deep below town. Not, as it turned out, an old office building with about a dozen floors. I punched the number in the elevator and waited, my heart pounding. No turning back now, right?

The elevator parted and I was greeted by a brick wall with large brown doors and torches. To my surprise, an older woman in a long, loose t-shirt greeted me. She looked a bit more like a high school parent than someone you’d find in a dungeon.

“Hi. You must be Ana?” she said. I nodded. “Right this way.”

I followed her into a wooden hallway. To my left I heard a group of girls giggle among each other. What was happening behind there? A humiliation scene? A cuckolding session? Before I could figure out, we stopped at just one of many unmarked rooms. She turned a key, opened the door, and let me in.

“Mistress Snow will be in to see you soon,” the hostess said, and she quickly slipped away.

I was left alone in a room that unmistakably looked like a dungeon bed chamber. Off-white tiled stones lined the walls to the very top of the ceiling. Small, rectangular barred windows let outside light trickle in, as if I was underground in a queen’s castle. I ran my hand against the wall. It felt scraggly and rough, like real stone. What time was it now? Where was I? I started to forget.

I sat patiently on a chest up against a window and looked myself over. I was wearing black stockings, Docs, and a sleeveless floral dress that left the very top of my cleavage exposed. My blonde hair was shaped in a messy bob that stopped right at my shoulders. As far as sex workers go, I was always the boy-next-door turned girl-next-door. Four years of estrogen had sculpted me into a modestly curvy girl with perky tits, round hips, and a soft femme cock that, Snow would later tell me, was bigger than some of her amab male clients. I proudly refused to get rid of it, like an old Little League cap repurposed for hipster wear.

A knock at the door. A gorgeous woman in dark lipstick greeted me with a huge grin. Her tight white dress shirt clung against her chest, and her hips jutted out slightly (just slightly!) under a black pencil skirt with matching stockings. If I hadn’t known better, I’d assume she was a professor. That, of course, was the point. I had specifically requested Mistress Snow to dress like one. I always was a teacher’s pet.

“Hello!” I cried as we ran to each other and hugged, laughing.

“Feeling nervous?” she giggled.

“Not one bit.” I paused. “By that, I mean, a little bit.”

“You sure did look nervous when you came in,” she said. “It was adorable seeing you on the camera.”

I froze. “Wait. There’s cameras here?”

“No, no, no, not here,” she explained. “When you first walked in. All the other girls were so jealous. ‘You brought a girl in here Snow? How’d you pull that off?’”

So that’s what I heard when I came in. I imagined Snow hanging out with a gaggle full of dominatrixes in between work shifts, cackling and blushing as I followed the hostess down the hall. My heart soared. I was the hot catch of the night, and I was all Snow’s.

Snow quickly excused herself and came back into the room, this time carrying her basket of toys. There were paddles and floggers and a riding crop inside. My stomach filled with butterflies as I looked. I was so very eager to do an impact play session, in part because I had never done one before. But now that her instruments of torture were in front of me, I was wondering if I could handle what she had in store.

“I really wanna try my single tail,” she laughed. “We’ll see if we can work you up to that.”

Snow sat on a throne chair and giggled, eyeing me up. I followed, standing ready and waiting. The anticipation was getting to be way too much for me now. Was this all part of the game, I wondered? Did she want me to feel this hot and bothered?

“So,” she said in a sultry voice. “I’ve been very stressed recently over a certain someone. Tonight I need to vent a little frustration. And then when I’m done, these boots of mine could use a proper cleaning. Does that sound good, dear?”

I looked down. Snow chose Docs too. How fitting. “Yes, it does. What should I call you?”

Snow paused. “Hmm. How about ‘Daddy’?”

Daddy ran her hand down my face, and I shivered. Her skin felt so soft. But I knew underneath that gentle touch there was so much power, so much strength, so much capability to cause pain. I adored it. She smiled, patted me on the cheek, and struck me right across the face.

I took the slap in stride. It stung hard. She laughed as the pain rocketed through my head, and she rose her hand again, teasing me, threatening me. This was all fun for Daddy. Striking fear into the heart of other girls almost turned me on as much as it did her.

“Now,” she asked, stroking my face, “what do good puppies do? Show me.”

I immediately fell to the ground on my knees, dress and all. She towered over me like an owner looking at her brand new pet. Sadism and puppy play were two kinks Snow and I most certainly shared, and I was eager to indulge her.

“What a good puppy!” she said in a sing-song voice. Daddy scratched my ears, and I leaned in like a dog.

“Stay right there for me. I have a gift for you.” My knees ached against the cold tile as Snow rummaged through her toy basket. This time, she returned with a silver, metallic leash in tow. It was almost like a chain.

“Now,” she said, snapping it to my neck. “What else do puppies do?” I placed my hands on the floor and rested on my knees, holding myself up. “Hmm,” she continued. “I think you’re missing something. What are puppies supposed to say?”

I blushed. “Arf!”

“Say it again!”

“Arf arf!”

“Very good girl. Now, let’s go for a walk.”

Snow tugged on the leash like an impatient dogwalker, nearly dragging my knees with her. I tried to keep up, scurrying on all fours, but my body wasn’t accustomed to four-limbed movement. The tile scraped against my legs and roughed up the skin as my face grew red. We had only moved a few steps closer to Daddy’s toys, and I certainly was not up for the task.

“Is someone having trouble there?” Daddy asked in that same sing-song voice.

“I think I am,” I said.

“Is the leash too much?”

“Right now, yeah.”

Snow smiled and nodded as she undid the leash, freeing me from what was undeniably, albeit accidentally, a humiliating first attempt. I stayed on the floor as she instead remedied a new contraption for me: a silver bowl.

“Now, what else do puppies do? They need to drink up all their water, don’t they?” Snow dropped the bowl in front of me. It was filled with water, enough for me to see my own reflection staring back: a grown woman red faced and panting like a mutt. I felt my hardness grow between my legs. I was almost surprised how much the idea turned me on.

“Drink,” Daddy commanded.

I pressed my lips into the water and slurped it up. Cool water dribbled down my face and across my breasts. I stopped only now and then to catch air, barking and woofing for Daddy to show my immense gratitude. She erupted in giggles again, staring down at her obedient plaything. “You know,” Snow said, “you can get undressed if you want.”

I paused. “Can I?”

She nodded. “I mean, I can’t tell you to. But if you happened to…”

We were both sex workers, I could read between the lines. My skin goosebumped. Daddy and I had kissed plenty of times before, and we’d spent countless nights cuddled against each other in dimly-lit bars and in the backseats of late-night Ubers. I’m sure somewhere along the line I had slipped in a topless photo or two. But this was the first time I was actually about to show my bare breasts to her in person. I got up and pulled my dress up gingerly, slowly exposing my supple chest.

As I threw it over my head, Snow gazed down at my tits, sizing up their round shape, as a tent unmistakably pitched in my underwear.

“My, my,” Daddy laughed. “Your tits are adorable.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes. Very soft and cute. They look perfect for pinching.”

I squirmed. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Daddy read my cue. She plucked my nipples and watched me wince in pain. Another slap rippled through my flesh, this time across both tits. Daddy laughed and flashed that same sweet smile. She adored the way my breasts jiggled from the force, stinging just as much as her own initial smack.

“Now, lift your arms up,” she said.

I did as I was told. Snow stepped away and adjusted a contraption hanging over my head. She explained to me that she was about to bind me in place in her stock. I was stuck, arms in the air, my bare back exposed. Helpless to whatever Daddy decided to do with my body.

“I really do want to try that single-tail,” she teased. “But how about we start with a flogger? Stretch that back out for me and let me see that ass.”

Like I could resist if I wanted to. I leaned forward and exposed my rear, waiting in both excitement and fear. Snow ran her hand across my butt and rubbed it, feeling the blood rush across my tush. I moaned, and she replied with a smack. A shiver, a giggle, another smack. Another. Blood rushed to my rear as the pain ran through me. And then, a sharp pinprick sensation cut across my back, slicing into the skin. I cried out as Daddy struck me again. And again. And again. The leather straps twirled through the air as the pain grew sharper and more familiar. It stung hard. It was merciless. And it felt so fucking good.

“Oh, Daddy,” I moaned.

Snow paused and relished my whimpers. The pain went away just as quickly as it came, although my back was still reeling from the trauma inflicted on it.

“How does that feel, puppy?”

“Very good, Daddy,” I said.

Snow swung the flogger again. It snapped against my flesh, sting after sting sizzling across my back. The initial shock I felt subsided with each twist, like music playing in the background. Snow kept going, harder. I started moaning, crying, “Thank you, Daddy, thank you!” with each blow.

“How’s that?”

I whimpered. “It hurts so good.”

My breathing slowed as my muscles relaxed. The floggers’ leather tails barely felt like a pinprick now. I was calmed and soothed by the sensation, as if my mistress’ unwavering punishment had freed me from the earth. Freed me from the inside out, freed me from the pains of the world beyond. Where was my nervousness and self-consciousness now? It was Daddy’s. She had struck it out of me. It was her reward for my obedience.

Snow swung one last time and paused. The whip reverberated through the air. “How hard did you go?” I asked.

“Pretty hard.” Snow unbound me from the stocks, and I felt the weight return to my arms. She ordered me on my knees again to drink more water, and I complied. “Oh.” She laughed. “Your back is all fucked up.”

“Really?”

“Take a look in the mirror.”

Torn flesh adorned my back. I realized now just how much my skin ached, and I cherished it. Where was the bad pain from earlier? Gone. All I could feel reverberate through me was this good, warm, loving harm. Snow came behind me and we stood in front of the mirror, beaming at each other, my eyes glazed over with love and affection.

“What would you like to do next, Daddy?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “these boots of mine are quite dirty.” Snow laid down on the chamber bed and put her hands behind her head. “Why don’t you be a good girl and clean them for me?”

I got down on my knees and pressed my lips to Daddy’s leather boots. “Oh Daddy,” I whispered. My cock hardened again as I stared at Snow’s long, gorgeous legs. “I’d love to worship them.”

“Good puppy,” she said. “Now get started.”

Dee wasn’t sure what to make of her enboifriend, Rylen, suddenly going radio silent on her but the half-hour drive up to their parent’s cabin was giving her plenty of time to think, and to worry. Luckily she had gotten hold of one of their co-workers and apparently they had left their car behind, were not answering their phone, and ran away, barefoot from the office. This awful communication and recklessness would normally piss her off, but in this case she was scared more than anything else.

Of course, logically speaking, the chances of them having actually made it all the way out to the lake, especially without any socks or shoes, were very slim. It was at least an eight hour hike by foot. But she just knew, somehow, they had made it.

So much of what had been happening in the last month alone, was enough to make her believe anything at this point. Rylen was changing, and not in the ways either of them had anticipated. It was overwhelming, and Dee felt an uncomfortable distance growing between them as Rylen struggled through these changes. Rylen seemed withdrawn, agitated, and tense. They always felt on edge.

At first she thought it was maybe hormonal. Her enboifriend had started on testosterone the previous fall and finally gotten their mastectomy done just seven weeks ago, however, neither of those things could really account for the odder aspects of their personality that had suddenly started to spring up.

Not that any of it was bad per se, just…odd. Things like catching them standing out in the yard, barefoot and topless, late at night whenever the skies were clear. Or how she had started to notice them sniffing her, often taking a handful of her hair into their large grasp and deeply breathing her in. It was like they were hungry for her scent. And the eating — they were constantly ravenous, their need for food knew no end. Then there was the growth. It wasn’t just “a little” like the doctors had mentioned that there might be, it was a lot, and it wasn’t just in the places one would expect to see it.

Rylen was much taller, by nearly an entire foot. They once had been nearly the same height, they now towered over Dee. She wasn’t used to feeling quite so small in their arms, and she couldn’t deny just how good it felt. Their chest had quickly developed muscle unlike any that had been there before, they looked completely ripped. Their shoulders had grown wider, thicker, the muscle evident as their clothes shrank against their growing frame. On top of that, their top surgery scars had completely vanished, as if they were never there in the first place. Even the size of their hands and feet had nearly doubled — both of Dee’s hands fit in one of their open palms, which had made even just holding hands feel brand new.

That growth also extended to other things, too. Rylen’s click, or sometimes “clit dick”, had extended by a number of inches. And thickened as well. She never had the chance to measure them but it was… substantial. The doctors had mentioned that one, but not anything like this. Just a few weeks ago she could maybe fit her lips around the head of their click but now it extended well into her mouth.

Now, Dee scanned the sides of the road during the whole drive out to the cabin, trying to convince herself that they couldn’t possibly have moved that fast. Although the alternative was terrifying to her. What if they had been hurt? Or worse?

It was already dark when she finally pulled up to the property, a well kept gravel road leading up to the two-story, wood and brick cabin that Rylan’s father had proudly built with his brother several years ago. It was a point of pride for the family, which was understandable given how gorgeous the getaway home had turned out.

Getting out of the car, Dee stretched, her long brown hair falling over her round, soft face. As she headed nervously for the front door, sweat started to bead and drip down her chest. She hesitated before knocking. The lights were on and she could see through the living room window, into the sweet country style cottage. The once charming building, now felt ominous. Everything was pristine, except for the kitchen. Dee could see that the fridge door had been pulled off the entirely. The cupboard doors too were either ripped off or hanging precariously from their hinges, and the floor was littered with broken bottles, shredded wrappers, torn boxes of cereal, and crushed cans of food.

Dee took in a deep breath and reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand. Just as her fingertips grazed it, a yell from out by the docks made her jump back. Sheer panic struck her as she took off in a sprint toward the noise — certain that it was Rylen. When she rounded the side of the cabin, she was shocked to see them standing stark naked by the lake and staring up toward the night sky.

She hadn’t really realized just how much they had grown until that exact moment. They looked like a giant, their strong arms hanging at their sides, their broad shoulders flexing with each deep breath they took in. The sheer power exuding from Rylen was almost overwhelming. Dee felt her heart beat faster in her chest, the air around her was electric and made the hairs on her arms stand up. Before she could even get a word out, Rylen lurched toward her a little, fully extending their arms out to either side. Large pointed claws began to emerge from their fingertips and their spine appeared to elongate right before Dee’s eyes.

Rylan began to moan with pleasure. Their back arched upright, their muscles rippled in the moonlight as sweat dripped down their now hulking frame. She watched in awe as their jaw and nose elongated into an animalistic snout. Thick, voluptuous deep silver hair flowed from every pore of their body. From her intimate knowledge of Rylan’s proclivity for pain, Dee knew it was likely an orgasmic experience to them.

Rylen fell forward onto all fours, their furry clawed hands thudding hard against the wood of the dock. Each claw dug in, cracking and splintering the boards with each step. That’s when Dee noticed why they had lurched forward. There, between their back haunches, she saw it. Rylen’s click pulsated, growing longer and thicker with every hard throb until it finally seemed to stop at a good eight, maybe nine inches.

Dee knew that she should run, but seeing Rylen like this filled her with desire. She had already been enjoying the sensation of their enlarging click in her mouth over the past couple of weeks but this! Dee couldn’t ignore the excitement building within her. It started as a warmth in her stomach before extending outward up through her chest and down to her damp cunt and sweaty thighs. It was their eyes. As ferocious as this form was, she knew those eyes, and now they stared into hers hungrily, as a lustful desire took hold. Her breath quivering, Dee traced her fingers down her neck and over her chest to between her breasts. It felt as if she couldn’t control her desires anymore. With her other hand, she pulled her dress up, bunching it around her hips before beginning to caress her soft inner thigh, slowly working up toward her now slick slit.

Rylen let out a deep, guttural growl of pleasure, threw back their head and howled out into the night. The sound was so intensely loud that Dee felt it like a shockwave. The water before them violently rippled in waves across the lake, the grass between them flattened and a warm gust of air lifted Dee’s dress to above her waist. She did not resist it though, instead allowing her cute pink cotton panties to remain fully exposed from the warm breath of Rylen’s howl.

They seemed to have noticed it too.

With their snout still pointed into the air, Rylen took in two deep breaths through their nose before spinning their head back to look at Dee. They sprung up from all fours onto their back legs, quickly standing upright and casting a long shadow between them. To her surprise, they did not immediately act. Instead they made little movements forward, pacing back and forth along the water’s edge as if they were excitedly awaiting a command. With each stride they took, Dee was transfixed by their engorged click bouncing between their legs with a formidable weight to it. She knew it was going to fill her up in a way that they never had before, and that thought made her drip.

After a moment they stopped and lowered their snout a little, looking up at her with a deep, wanting gaze that still radiated a surprising warmth. Now, it was obvious to Dee that they both craved the same thing. Swallowing hard she lifted up her dress once again and stretched out her open hand in their direction.

“Yes, come,” she said.

In what seemed like just two, maybe three movements, Rylen had her pinned to the ground by both arms. The full weight of their wolf-like body bearing down on her exuded a heat that made her sweat even more than her desire already had. Looking down, Dee saw that their click was completely erect, dripping with excitement, and hovering just above her panties. The warm damp tip of it pressed firmly against her vulva, making her shudder and moan while a feeling of aroused exhilaration swept over her. Their eyes met briefly, hers silently begging for them to slide deep inside her, theirs only too glad to oblige.

Rylen opened their jaw wide and bit down onto her dress with an almost surgical precision, managing to hook one of their big, sharp teeth under the front band of her bra. All it took was the one chomp and a firm pull to completely shred her clothes. Her breasts spilled out into the open air, the chill hardening her nipples almost instantly, a shiver of delight running down her spine.

They then bore down on her with an animal lust. Their enormous, warm, wet tongue licking her now bare body from between her legs, all the way up her stomach to her neck in one fluid motion. It was warm, wet, and made Dee tremble with longing. She raised her hips, and pulled her panties down to her knees. Then she lifted her legs in the air to pull them off, but Rylen beat her to it, taking a deep smell of her pussy on the flimsy cloth. Their drool dripping down Dee’s thighs, before biting down on the cute pink panties and tearing them viciously from her — eyes locked on her as they swallowed the tattered remains, greedy for more of her taste. Dee grabbed onto Rylen’s click with both of her hands, feeling it throb, the thick veins bulging and straining, and guided it exactly to where she wanted it. All it took was a single, firm thrust for them to completely fill her, making her gasp in shock and delight from the sensation.

They grasped her around the waist and lifted her up with muscular arms, bending their legs while they worked their hips upward to fuck her as deep as they possibly could. Dee leaned back into their embrace, which allowed Rylen to tear more at what remained of her dress, the tattered remnants of which fell into the mud beneath them both leaving her fully exposed just as they were.

This was enough to push her over. With Rylen’s engorged click still deep inside of her waves of pleasure began to cascade through Dee’s body. They clutched harder onto her waist so that their claws dug in just enough to sting, but not break her skin. Letting out a content growl, Rylen seemed to calm down for a moment only to get another boost of energy, and picked her up yet again, this time pushing her against the side of the cabin.

Like their hunger for food, Dee realized that this appetite too would not be so easily satiated. She would have to give them so much more. But out there under the full moon by the lake, having just felt the pleasure of being taken by Rylen in their new form, Dee was fully prepared to help her enboifriend satisfy their carnal lust as well as her own.