S L I C K: Lesson Learned
On the phone late one night, a fantasy begins to take shape in my mind — an obvious and perhaps even cliché possibility given your profession, yet one we hadn’t previously indulged.
Sprawling out across my queen-sized bed in a suggestive pose that showcases all of my curves, I snap a pic and send it off before I can second-guess myself. Perving over my sartorial selection, you praise the perfection of my ass in the dress I’m wearing just for you.
We met on Lex — one of the newer dating apps where queers use their charm and wit to attract potential dates. I had maxed out, having written six ads that poured from one into another like a stream of consciousness — I’ve always been far too verbose for word limits — and you responded, telling me precisely how each of the six had turned you on.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to withstand self-isolating if I didn’t have a top who could make me feel touched during a time when my body was craving the one comfort I was missing. Which is what prompted me to write the ads. Lucky for me, there you were: our desires around sex, kink, and care overlapping exquisitely, our love for the written word and intersectional politics aligning impeccably.
At the start of queerantine I devised a self-care plan that included everything from wearing red lipstick and moving my body to opening windows and one orgasm a day. You’ve been a highly motivating force for that last one — often provoking me to go above and beyond that goal since the very first night we started sexting. That was over two months ago now and despite the physical distance, we continue to bridge the divide with each passing word. Thousands upon thousands of them.
It feels vulnerable to go there with someone I’ve never even met in person, to like someone as much as I like you this soon, but fuck it. We’re in the middle of a global pandemic — and if this hasn’t taught us that life is too short and precious to hold back on human connection in any extraordinary way we’re blessed with, then what will? And what a beautiful blessing it is. You’re the type of Dominant who appreciates my independence and neediness with equal measure, who honors the sacredness of my grown femme self in the everyday as much as my babygirl self within D/s dynamics, who, in the blink of an eye, turns from loving and stern.
“Damn, girl. You are stunning.” You can send me spiraling into subspace. “Now get on your knees for me.” I blush and flounder and I obey. Ever your good girl, I always obey.
But your flattery has gone straight to my clit and I’m feeling inspired. A bit audacious even. I’ve gracelessly shifted into a kneeling position on my bed, drawing the mic on my headphones closer to my mouth as I lower my voice and settle my ass back against my heels.
“What would happen if I were one of your students?” Even through the phone, I can hear your breath catch in your throat, can sense your jaw dangling mid-air.
You don’t think of your students that way. I know how seriously you take your job, your ethics around power imbalances. So the thought would never even cross your mind.
But you can’t help but think about me that way. Our chemistry has taken on a life of its own. I like your post on Insta and you get hard. Your name pops up on my phone’s screen and I’m throbbing. Hell, you even eroticize my giggle. And we play with power as two consenting adults — you see me as your equal, which makes me submitting to your dominance eagerly and with great enthusiasm all the hotter.
Spurred by the tension in your silence, I begin to weave the fantasy. “I’m a student who’s always punctual and clearly gifted, the first few papers I turned in never warranted anything less than an A, but would hide out in the back of the classroom, too timid to speak up during discussions. As the semester wears on, however, you’d notice a shift in me —subtle at first but with a pattern unmistakable to anyone paying attention.”
“I must admit, you’ve certainly captured my attention.”
Emboldened by the fervor trickling from your timbre, I continue. “Each week, I move closer to the front of the classroom and as the hemlines on my skirts continually inch higher, my grades dip lower and lower. After class one day, you decide it’s time to address the matter at hand.”
“Ms. DeLovely, will you please stop by during my office hours?” Your voice stern, but laced with sweet concern. Clearly this is a role you were born to play.
Fuck. What have I gotten myself into? I’m already dripping. “Yes, Professor Luna.”
I’ve never called you that before. We’ve played with other titles and honorifics but never that of “Professor.” And I can tell it’s getting you hard to hear me refer to you in this deferential manner.
“You hear a knock on your office door just as you’re finishing up for the day and check the clock. Five to five. You shake your head and bite back the slightest grin when you see me peek through the cracked door.” My voice hesitant, I begin to ask, “May I…?”
“Yes, of course, come in,” you interrupt, “and close the door behind you.” You’ve slipped into character with ease.
“You can’t help but notice that my skirt rises far too high for polite company as I take a seat opposite you. Had I really changed into a shorter skirt since you saw me in class?”
You’re growing harder by the second — it’s written all over your tone as you progress. “I allow my eyes to linger on your exposed flesh, trailing up to the buttons you seem to have missed on your blouse. I know I shouldn’t…this is so wrong. But I can’t help it. You’re not like my other students. Older and smarter…far more experienced.”
“And still the shyest in the bunch. But, yes. I do know well what I’m doing.” My heartbeat quickens in my clit at this admission. When I close my eyes, I can feel yours roaming over my body.
“Now, Ms. DeLovely,” you clear your throat, attempting to focus. “I can see you have much potential but you simply aren’t applying yourself. Your grades have been slipping and you seem distracted in class.” I squeeze my thighs together, imagining you peering over your glasses at me as you help set the scene. “I can see you’re nervous, shaking a little, so I get up from behind my desk and take your hands in mine.”
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.
“Not notice?” I can picture the expression on your face, you raising your eyebrows at me. You’re getting worked up. “Allow me to show you just what you do to me,” you say incredulously, explaining how you take my hand in yours and guide it to your bulging cock.
Finally! “Mmmmm…You’re packing hard and just the feel of you against my palm has me throbbing.” Clearly I’m not the only one who took the time to put on something new before your office hours.
You tell me how you take me brusquely by the wrist, leading me over to your chair, where you bend me over your knee. I lean forward over a small mountain of pillows on the bed to simulate this action. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson about distracting your professor when they’re trying to lecture.” You describe how you slowly pull up my skirt, pleased with how exquisite my ass looks in those frilly panties. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?”
“Yes, Professor!” I can’t get it out quick enough.
“I begin to spank your ass. Hard. I want this lesson to sink in, want your cheeks as flushed as your face.” I writhe against the pillows as you regale me with details — how pretty I look bent over your lap and just what it’s doing to you, how I recoil slightly with each smack, only to stick my ass out more prominently, how apparent it is to you that I’ve been wanting this.
“I gasp and whimper, wiggling around in your lap. You can smell the need all over me.”
You’ve grown impatient, you say, and so you take me by the jaw, forcing me to look deeply into your eyes as you gently push me to my knees. My lips begin to part on their own even before you describe how you squeeze my mouth into an “O” formation, how you use your free hand to release your cock and feed me the tip.
“I moan around the length of you as I swallow you whole, my palms rubbing against your strong thighs.”
“I guide one of your hands up under my strap to feel how wet you’ve made me.”
“Fuck, you feel sooo good! So wet and hard all at once. Working two fingers inside you, I continue to suck you off while I stroke your G-spot until you’re squirting all over my tits.”
You’re groaning, unable to disguise your hunger. “Look up at me with those sweet brown eyes. Are you going to keep your grades up?”
“Yes, Sir, I promise! I’ll work so hard for you!”
“Good girl. That’s what I like to hear. Now get up and bend over my desk. I want that glorious ass in the air for me.”
“I acquiesce immediately, demonstrating how good I can be.” I prop myself up and slip off the side of my bed, bent over, my ass begging for your attention. “You peel my sticky panties down over my hips and I kick them off.”
“You need a good fucking, don’t you?” Your voice commanding and lecherous.
“Yes, Sir. From you. I’ve been needing you to fuck me.” A good student always has the correct answer at the ready.
You describe in great detail how my glistening pussy and pleading tone makes your cock ache (my cunt spasms in response), how you can’t hold back any longer (I hold my breath), how you spread my lips apart and plunge deep into my cunt as I begin to frantically move up and down on you (I can feel you inside me as I match my movements in time), how watching me ride your cock makes your diclit grow underneath (my clit swelling with empathy).
I can tell this is going to be quick and dirty.
“You grasp me firmly by the hip with one hand to fuck me harder, snaking the other up to grab a handful of tit, pinching my nipple and making me cry out.”
“Reaching up, I wrap my palm around your mouth, muffling your noises. I can’t risk you getting me fired because a lingering colleague hears you. Now, I tell you, I want you to touch yourself for me and come all over my cock before anyone can walk in on us.”
“I reach down and work my clit furiously. The threat of being discovered paired with your unrelenting thrusts has me shuddering against your desk, screaming into your palm, grateful for its silencing presence.” My hips bucking wildly against my mattress, pussy contracting around my fingers, cum dripping down the freshly changed sheets. My laundry loads have increased significantly since you came into my life.
“I slam into you a few more times, riding out my orgasm against the base of my cock, coming so deep inside you before pulling out. I collapse in my chair and gather you up in my lap once again, wrapping my arms around you tightly. You’ve been so very good for me, I tell you, as I kiss your forehead and caress the side of your face, smoothing a few loose hairs behind your ear.” This type of tenderness is my undoing.
“I beam up at you, glowing as much from your praise as my fantasy becoming reality.” I ask hopefully, “Is there any way I can do even better, Professor Luna?”
“Hmmm…I’ll have to see about your behavior in class but for now I feel like your lesson has been both hard-earned and hard-learned.”
S L I C K: Constellations #4 Puppy Pile
This is the fourth installment of the erotica series Constellations, about finding and keeping kink connections and navigating polyamorous love.
Content notes: puppy play, kitty play, group sex, oral sex
Paige shouted “Eureka!” when she found the white kitty ear headband that she had bought for Halloween five years ago. They were in a shoebox in the back of her closet, behind the crinoline, the Red Riding Hood cape, and the empty soft guitar case. Lauren had proposed having a puppy pile scene in full puppy gear, and Paige was excited to try something she never had before — but she couldn’t quite wrap her head around being a puppy.
“That’s because you’re not a puppy, you’re a kitten,” had told her Bennett, while they made dinner together.
Paige had stared at them, blinking. Of course. That made sense. Could she play with Lauren as a kitten? She didn’t really know if Lauren would like that dynamic, or if that was what you were supposed to do, but they could figure it out. The intention was, as far as she could tell, to step away from her day-to-day human headspace and let herself be playful, less concerned with adulting and a little more focused on connection and being present. And Lauren was so easy-going, and excited to see Paige and Bennett.
It turned out, Lauren was eagerly into it, and as they were texting about it, plans became clearer. Paige was getting excited too.
“I don’t get the puppy thing,” Bennett had said during dinner. “Are they going to be a puppy the whole time they’re here?”
“No,” said Paige, putting her phone with the Hello Kitty case away into the pocket of her long skirt. “Well, kind of. They’re kind of a puppy all the time, you know how they just wag when they see somebody they like, or how they make dog noises to express themself.”
“Yeah. That’s sweet.”
“But they don’t stay in it all the time. And they almost never play — sexually — while they’re in puppy mode.”
“I guess that’s why we haven’t really seen their hood much,” said Bennett, grinning. They, like Paige, had very much enjoyed watching Lauren squirm with multiple orgasms.
“Exactly.”
The day Lauren was due to come over, Paige put on the white bodysuit with the snaps that she could feel between her legs when she walked. The ass and hips were cut as high as an ‘80s leotard and she loved how the creamy white color looked on her skin. Her feet and legs were bare, but the kitten ears were perched on her head over her dark brown hair.
Lauren was on their hands and knees at the front door when Paige opened it, and they had their leather puppy hood, knee pads, and paw gloves on. They wriggled their butt when Paige opened the door and woofed, immediately putting their front paws up on Paige’s thigh. Paige squealed and jumped, clapping her hands.
“Well look who it is!” Paige said. “Good puppy!” She bent to pet and scritch Lauren behind the ears and on their shoulders when their hands — paws — were back on the ground. “You know better than that! I know you have manners.”
Lauren soaked up all the pets, then they leaped up to hug Paige, pressing their bodies fully together. Paige warmed all over as they wrapped their long, lean arms around her.
“I’m so excited to see you!” Lauren said, giving another squeeze. They sank back to their knees and, like a puppy, bounded down the hall toward the kitchen and Paige’s plant-covered desk, but turned and came back after investigating. They moved so easily on all fours. Paige fiddled with the three-quarter sleeve on the bodysuit, pushing it up and pulling it back down. She liked dressing up, but was unsure about her kitten-ness. She felt like she should be acting like more of a kitten and less, uncertain.
“No Bennett?” Lauren asked, clearly a little disappointed.
“They’re coming later,” Paige said. “They’re still at work. But they are excited to see you.”
Lauren wagged in response. “I’ve missed you both!”
“Me too,” said Paige. “Want snacks? What do you want to drink?”
Lauren eyed the cheese plate on the table that Paige had hastily put together: olives, cornichons, brie, gruyere, cheddar, Triscuits, almonds, and a little dish of apricot jam. Lauren palmed some almonds and put a piece of the cheddar in their mouth. “Got any wine open? Or beer?”
Paige nodded, stepping into the kitchen to grab a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and two glasses. Lauren didn’t usually give much notice when they came through town, but it was always nice to see them. Bennett and Paige had met them at a kinky summer camp a few years ago, and while they didn’t see each other often, they eagerly hooked up for quick, fun scenes whenever they happened to be in each other’s town — which had happened almost a dozen times, since Lauren traveled for work. If Paige and Lauren were playing, it was a grab bag of delectable kinkery, negotiating what they wanted in the moment, switching back and forth between spankings and wrestling and jerk-off contests with multiple vibrators to see who came first. If Bennett was playing, too, things got a bit more serious, with Bennett and Paige topping Lauren, taking them down in a hogtie or roughing them up with their boots.
The brie was nice and soft, and Lauren was scooping it up with a cracker when Paige returned. Lauren reached over and pawed one of her kitten ears as Paige poured a generous glass for them both.
“Hey!” Paige smiled, waving their hand away. Lauren grinned, popped another Triscuit into their mouth, and pawed her ear again. The headband tipped over her forehead.
“Meow!” Paige put the glasses down and pushed it back up. Lauren woofed, a soft boof boof that clearly meant play with me! as they danced from foot to foot and pawed at Paige’s waist.
Being a kitty was new for Paige, but she found an easy delight to sink into it. She could bat at Lauren with her hands, fingers sticking together like paws, and felt an easy thrill and comfort. She could pounce and twirl and … maybe even chase!
She wasn’t as comfortable on all fours, but she dropped and chased Lauren around the coffee table, swiping at Lauren’s skater shoes when she could reach them, turning in surprise when Lauren suddenly changed direction and scampering away. After a few times around, she hopped on the couch.
Lauren tried to follow. “No puppies on the couch!” she scolded. She made gestures like she was licking the back of her hand and running her paw over her ears to clean them. Lauren sat back on their heels and watched, making a little aroo sound in acquiescence. Paige preened and felt pretty and enjoyed the exhibition, taking her time.
“Ready to wrestle?” Lauren said, reaching for more snacks and stacking cheese and crackers together in a short tower. Paige was a little bigger than Lauren, softer in the middle, but Lauren was strong and sturdy and they always won when they wrestled. They loved submitting to Paige, but they couldn’t bring themself to let Paige win — it felt like lying. Paige didn’t mind losing. Especially when she knew she could make Lauren beg later.
“Yeah!” They moved the coffee table (carefully), took a few gulps of wine (for luck), and Lauren left their shoes next to the front door. They started on their knees and Lauren easily took Paige down three times in a row.
“You’re out of practice,” Lauren said. “You don’t even remember the moves I showed you last time.”
Paige nodded, catching her breath and drinking a little more wine. “It’s not about the moves.” She winked.
A flash passed Lauren’s face. “What’s it about?”
The closeness, Paige thought. Feeling the weight of your body push mine around. Feeling us crash together, pushing against me hard. The physicality of moving together. The moments where we feel in sync.
“It’s hard to put in words,” Paige hesitated. But then she added, “I like how you smell when you start to sweat.”
Lauren grinned. They put down their wine glass. “Aroo?” they said. “Again?”
“Maow!” Paige knelt high on her knees again and dove for Lauren’s waist as soon as Lauren said go. They scrambled together, rolling on the floor, stopping before they knocked into the wall. Paige straddled Lauren, and she rubbed her thighs against their jeans, which were scratchy against her bare legs.
“Not fair,” Lauren said, their arms wrapped around Paige’s waist. “When you play dirty.”
Paige thought it was completely fair, and Lauren was grinning and grinding right back. She leaned forward and kissed them. They were familiar and comforting, and still gave Paige butterflies in her stomach and heat in her… everywhere.
“Hey!” Bennett called as they opened the front door. “I’m home!”
Paige pulled back to smile and get that moment of eye contact connection with Lauren, then kissed them again quickly. Getting up, she said, “Hi! In here.” And she went to greet her lover.
Lauren stayed on the floor, rolling to their belly and sitting back on their heels, but bounded over to Bennett right behind Paige.
“Oh, hi,” Bennett said in a low growl, seeing Paige’s bare legs and feet, doing that swoop of their gaze, which made Paige feel like they were devouring her. They grabbed at her ass, big handfuls with both hands, and pulled her in for a kiss. Paige giggled.
“And hi to you, too!” Bennett said, Paige tucked into one arm, turning to Lauren, who was nuzzling at their knee. Bennett reached down to pet their curly short hair and their leather puppy ears and hugged them with their other arm.
“Good to see you,” Lauren grinned, a little shy, and gave some soft puppy barks.
“Are you packing?” Paige whispered next to Bennett’s ear.
Bennett shook their head with a smile. “Give me a minute.” They squeezed Paige and Lauren both close again, then slipped off to the bedroom.
Paige was starting to get ideas. Last time they all played together, Bennett mostly watched, occasionally offering suggestions — “What if you grab Lauren’s hair? What if you get your shoulder under Paige’s thigh? She likes that big vibrator, go for it.” Bennett told her after that they were more content watching than joining in, and they didn’t feel left out at all. A voyeur was an essential part of a scene, especially to two exhibitionists.
But Paige was hoping Bennett would take part tonight. Lauren was, too. They had asked Paige by text earlier how to better get Bennett’s attention. Paige still thought Bennett should enjoy what was in front of them more, and pine for something they didn’t have less, but she tried not to say that to Bennett out loud. The casual play with lots of lovers was easier for Paige — Bennett once said that they thought her core fetish was novelty, and they might be right.
When Bennett came back out of the bedroom, Lauren had their pup hood off and was making out with Paige on the couch. Paige had one leg pulled up underneath her and the other was in Lauren’s lap; Lauren had one hand in Paige’s hair and one moving along the curves of her breast, flicking her nipple.
Bennett watched for a moment, licking their lips, before joining them on the couch. Paige snaked her hand over to Bennett’s lap without pulling away from Lauren, and she fingered the packing dick that bulged under Bennett’s jeans. Bennett slid closer to Paige and feathered her bare, plump thighs, kissing the back of her neck. They caught Lauren’s eye and they smiled at each other.
Paige leaned back into Bennett. Lauren kissed down her throat and on to her collarbone, little nips and sucks on her skin. “Lauren wants to suck you off,” Paige whispered. “Don’t you, Lauren.” It was only partly a question.
Lauren nodded, mouth still on Paige’s skin, reaching around her to touch Bennett’s arm. Lauren slid down the couch to the floor on their knees, leaning their head on Paige’s lap, touching Bennett’s thighs through their jeans and watching as Bennett shifted, getting comfortable. Paige turned toward them.
The three of them readjusted on the couch until they were comfortable: Bennett leaning back, Lauren on the floor between their knees, and Paige halfway into Bennett’s lap, nuzzling at their neck. She kissed Bennett with her hand in Lauren’s hair, tickling the short dark curls. Lauren, hands on Bennett’s thighs, nuzzled at their jeans until they reached their hands down to unzip and unbutton. Then they took their hand away.
Paige and Bennett looked down at them. “Go ahead,” Paige cooed.
Lauren took a breath, biting their lip. Their big brown eyes were wide and they were quiet. They were often quiet; that was part of what they liked about the pup hood: an easy option to not speak. Their long legs were folded under them as they pulled Bennett’s packing cock out of their dark blue y-front underwear. It was a light peach color and made of supple silicone. Lauren held it in their hand, touching it gently with their fingers. Bennett sighed, and Lauren looked up to see Paige kissing them deeply.
When Lauren shifted to take it on their tongue, Bennett’s hips jolted up with a surge and they moaned. They brought their hand down to feel Lauren’s cheek and chin and lips as Lauren swallowed it down.
Lauren was an expert cock sucker with both factory installed and after market cocks, and knew a variety of options for playing with both. When they pulled back, they went for Bennett’s fingers, sucking them with the same hunger, letting Bennett feel the inside of their mouth, the pressure and suction. They put pressure on the base of the cock, holding it steady so Bennett could rub against it, getting the thrust of their hips going. They swallowed and writhed, sucked and tongued and lapped up all that Bennett was offering.
Paige, meanwhile, had opened the snaps on her bodysuit and Bennett worked their fingers inside of her while they kissed. They both had hands on Lauren at various times: petting their head, lacing their fingers together (Paige), getting their fingers sucked (Bennett).
The three found a rhythm together that flowed between them: Bennett’s hands to Paige’s cunt and Lauren’s mouth; Lauren’s hands to Paige’s ass and the base of Bennett’s cock; Paige’s hands to the small hairs on the back of Bennett’s neck and the muscles of Lauren’s biceps. Paige left small half-moon circles with her nails where she dug in her grip.
Bennett gasped and thrusted, finding a release that wasn’t an orgasm but was as satisfying as an orgasm with a groan. Lauren slowed, licking and swallowing, and sat back on their heels, taking in the blush of Paige’s skin and the way Bennett was leaning back with their eyes half closed.
“I’m buying dinner,” Lauren said, springing up from the floor and inserting themself into the puppy pile on the couch. “Let’s get delivery. Then … maybe we can do that again.”
S L I C K: Sad Girl Cruising
I’m starting the story in the bathroom because I like that image: four horny sad girls in full Catholic school uniform checking out the height of their skirts in the bathroom mirror. I am The Saddest and take pride on etching the tristeza on my face — un poquito de blank stare por aquí, un poquito de indignant air por allá — like I’d seen my tías do. It’s the late nineties, I’m thirteen and, already, as you can see, I’m a professional at the performance of suffering. A professional in reeling you in with with my ayys and sighs and nobody will ever love me — the essentials of Colombian girl world — which brings us back to the bathroom: I take first dibs on the only bathroom stall with a lock and start rolling the top of my skirt so it goes from monja-below-the-knee to chica-chévere-above-the-thigh. I sigh and sigh at the sight of my skinny hairy legs remembering how mami wanted to take me to the wax lady earlier in the week because, apparently, no man will ever love you con ese fur de osito that you have en esa pierna de pollo, nena. But today these chicken legs will win. Today I stare at my chicken legs with admiration because hoy es el día they will get touched, felt, wanted.
I can hear my three girlfriends locking the bathroom door, giggling, opening the back window then lighting a cigarette while talking to their imaginary boyfriends in the mirror. While practicing the cruising that’s about to come, sashaying up and down the bathroom sucking on their cigarettes giving the imaginary boy-audience the sexy look we’ve been working on then making out with their hands, sucking on their arms. Así así es que you kiss, R says to everyone then attacks her arm with that mollusk tongue. Inside the bathroom stall I close my eyes deeply, stick out my tongue and give my arm a full rumbeo —hickey included. My arm, my invisible lover! Where have you been all along!
The goal: we need to get fucked or at least fingered by the boys from the school next door through the fence at the edge of our school that overlooks theirs. We need to be desired, wanted, objectified in our own terms. We need to cut this coy niña de bien routine with cuchillo. There’s no boys in our school other than the bakers from the panadería and the priest. Everyone else—and this is not a hyperbole—wears a skirt, a cross and a terrible cara de longing.
What do we want? To be touched!
When do we want it? Now!
The plan: we cut science or math or history. We hide in the bathroom. We turn our puta lookz: skirts up, mascara on, intentionally messy ponytail. With puta look on, we run along the classroom corridor out of the building and into the back of the school. We hide in the pine trees that smell of eucalyptus, piss and soil. We light another cigarette there on the shade—for what? Because it looks good. And in this monochromatic homogenous bland-ass school—where the most precious item of clothing is a orange-checkered skirt with a green sweater — nobody cares how anything looks. But we do. We care so much. We want a piece of another world, one outside of the confines of the nunnery, the Ave Marías, the kneeling and beating of chests. We want the world from our cunts. The fantasies swimming between our legs. We want that yearning to take center stage and rage. So we walk around the periphery, far away from Sor Inés’ theology lecture, far away from the sanctity of our bodies careful not wake up the security guard.
We’re not the first ones to do this.
We did not invent this game and the four of us are not even good at it. There is Dani G, the most gorgeous girl at school —the girl we all either want to fuck or be. I want both. Dani G gives zero fucks about modesty and rules, she shows up at the school with the uniform all tight around her, fitting her like an outfit, a dress, and not the homogenous trapo de pendeja that we all wear. She sucks on a lollipop so her lips are always candy red. I remember Dani G like a queen. Wavy brown hair, full magenta lips, mascara always on point. I remember she sun bathed on the basketball courts right in front of the panadería, skirt and ass up, making sure the bakers working inside the bakery saw her. Every day rumors of her fucking the bakers circulated during class. Letters passed from hand to hand to hand with details of Dani’s sexcapades. Everyone talking shit about her: ay she’s such a perra, such a puta, and who fucks a baker? Gross. And yet we all consumed the details of her puta life with such intensity. What she wore, how he fucked her. What she felt. In reality, we all wanted a piece of her freedom. Dani G got laid while all we got was a bloody jesus with a six-pack nailed over our beds.
Sobra decir: anyone caught skipping class will be severely punished. And anyone caught smoking, wearing makeup, disrespecting the uniform or The Lord will receive the ultimate punishment. Parents will be called, girls will be kicked out of school. Public shaming will ensue. We’ve all seen it happen: the entire school called upon to witness the expulsion of the heretics.
The inquisition of our cunts is on.
The nuns got eyes everywhere. We got something better: imagination. Although our skirts can be policed, our hands slapped, our bodies shamed in public— our imagination, that boundless space, is filled with orgies.
And we’re willing to risk it
For us is about life and death. Because there’s so much longing at this school. So much denying of the bodies that carry us from class to class to church to class. From 7am to 4pm. Everyone around us— the nuns, our finger-waving mothers, The Colombian Society—surveilling our tesoritos with all the talk about modesty and purity and waiting. But you know what doesn’t wait? Sex fantasies and our bodies pulsating with yearning like a dying animal.That swirling energy that we are barely starting to understand but that pulls us with such force, such energy, the adrenaline of the fantasy—skirts up, fingers in, tongues out— is so potent. We follow the fantasy, we follow the feel pulling us to the edge of the school, that borderland where anything can happen.
Bitch, we’re ready.
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.
Finally, we reach the fence. A circle of eucalyptus trees make the perfect hideout. The grass is tall, unkempt. We hear the barking of the security dogs and our hearts stop. The four of us hold hands and pray that we won’t be found out. I imagine being walked up to the center of the church during mass and chastised by the nuns and made an example of failure. I don’t want to be kicked out of school but I feel like I have no choice. Deseo mata miedo. The dogs eventually leave, we breathe. We light a cigarette to pass time. We help each other with our makeup. Minute after minute passes and the only boys we see are too far from our reach. Should we yell at them? There was no discussion of what would happen once we reached the fence. Do we call them? Do they? How does one really cruise? We knew how to perform for each other but now it was real and nobody seemed to know exactly what to do.
I sigh deeply, bored after 15 minutes so I stand up and begin walking down the fence. Away from my girlfriends but, also, away from our hideout. I am willing to risk it. My girlfriends whisper for me to come back but I can’t stay still anymore, I can’t keep waiting, I need to take charge. I need to be in control of this. The adrenaline turns my entire body into one beating drum. Chicken legs out, I admire them as they walk one foot in front of the other on the dirt path until I see the shape of a boy smoking a cigarette. A halo of curls around his head. By now, I’m far away from my girlfriends, which is both exciting and terrifying: I am only performing for myself now. And maybe this boy. I stand by a tree and look at him. I give him my best mujer bella stare, así. He sits on a rock and finally looks up at me. You made it here, bitch, walk up to him. So I do.
It is not until I hear his hola, do you want a cigarette? It is not until the softest of his voice reaches me that I realize this boy is not a boy, not a boy like the other ones but a girl in the shape of a boy
I look back and catch my girlfriends talking with the boys on the other side, passing cigarettes and alcohol through the fence.
I take the offered cigarette. He lights it. It’s the first time in my life that I see a girl as a boy: almond-shaped eyes and his beautiful brown face cubed by the shadows of the fence. We don’t say anything. We smoke next to each other. The fence both keeps us close and far away from each other. My body is still pounding, harder now. He smiles at me and my cunt becomes a river. All that practice — all that practice! — and now I’m frozen.
For what seems like an eternity nothing happens: birds chirp, cars rush outside, the smoke of our cigarettes blends with that 1 p.m Bogotá sun. I have no idea what I want other than to stay there. Stay there for as long as I can. Stay close to this boy, far away from the nuns, closer to the dirt and the sun and his lips finally blurting a I gotta go to class, here’s another cigarette. He lights it for me, then passes it through the fence. I suck on it, feeling its wetness. I stay close to the fence and watch the boy walk back to class.
S L I C K: Constellations #3 Bennett & Reina Turn Concrete to Sand
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
This is the third installment of the erotica series Constellations, about finding and keeping kink connections and navigating polyamorous love.
Content notes: flogging, restraints, penetration
Reina was Bennett’s longest running play partner. They met at a queer burlesque night in 2005 when Bennett was performing a heavily choreographed lip sync with two other butches and one genderqueer femme to “My Humps,” and Reina surprised everybody by singing “Don’t Cha,” over a karaoke track, even the Busta Rhymes parts. She came out in a long-haired silver wig, curls bouncing everywhere. Her makeup was over the top, and she wore leather pants, a fishnet off-the-shoulder crop top over a silver bra, and silver sneakers.
She shamelessly flirted with everyone, backstage and on stage, but she went home with Bennett.
After she fisted Bennett — and they came, seeing stars — she lay back on the black bedsheets (Bennett was single and 25, and kept their place more like a bachelor pad than they would admit now) with her hands behind her head. Her dark skin was shiny with sweat in the streetlight coming in the un-curtained windows of Bennett’s Telegraph Hill apartment, and with her arms up she was all elbows and wrists, long and lean. It had been a cool summer, and the fog had come in the afternoon, but Bennett’s windows didn’t close all the way, so there was always a slight draft. In their vigorous, part-wrestling part-rough sex evening, the pillows and blankets all ended up on the floor. Now Bennett gathered them and spread the blanket out over them both. In their pillow talk, Reina told Bennett the story of how she got her name.
“I took it for myself, sugar.” That might’ve been when Reina’s nickname for Bennett started. She stared into the foggy outlines of buildings and cars under the glowing orange high pressure sodium street lights. “I’ve reinvented myself so many times, but this name has stuck. This guy I knew, while I was at Stanford, he used to call me ‘the little queen.’ Then Eva — you’ll meet Eva, she’s one of my best friends — she was the one who started calling me Reinette. She was a French major. And they thought I was pretentious!” Bennett laughed with her, trailing their fingers over Reina’s hip. They warmed at the idea of meeting Reina’s friends, already intimidated and excited to have this rock star in their life.
“What about you?” When Reina turned her wide brown eyes with long lashes and full attention to Bennett, they blanked with the intensity, and leaned in to kiss her instead of answering.
But what they were talking about came back to them after a moment. “Bennett is my mom’s last name, my middle name,” they said. “I always hated my birth name, it was always too girly. Even as a kid. Then on the softball team everybody was being called by their last names, but there was another Matthews on the team, so they started calling me Bennett.” They shrugged. “I like it. I like how it honors my mom but isn’t the name she gave me. That one just never fit.”
Reina nodded, not asking about Bennett’s dead name. They talked a little more, then raided Bennett’s fridge and ate cereal in the kitchen barefoot, before Reina called a cab.
They never quite courted for domestic and life partnership, and their connection waxed and waned over the years, sometimes seeing each other more often, sometimes less. Now, ten years later, they were happy together with biweekly dates and Bennett always looks forward to their time together. Reina was easy to talk to, and brilliant, always off on some adventure and bringing back stories to tell. Their rough play was a relief for Bennett, who needed to be taken down every once in a while, and it was easy to bottom for Reina.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
A week after Bennett’s disappointing date with someone they’d hoped would be their new sub, they were still brooding. Reina was doing her best to distract them and work it out of their system, but Bennett had a hard time letting it go. They had texted about it briefly, but Bennett didn’t talk about it when they got to Reina’s converted warehouse in South Beach. They negotiated with the ease of two long-time lovers, putting together the bare bones of a scene where Bennett would take off their shirt and go to the St. Andrew’s Cross, and Reina would get out her best floggers. After that, Bennett assured her they were packing, and Reina smiled her kid-in-a-candy-store smile, and they both knew how they’d wind up.
Bennett could barely feel the flogger’s tails on their back. It was all muffled, hitting the energetic wall that felt like concrete, not actually feeling it make contact with their skin. They loved being able to play with Reina freely; they loved how it added to their partnership with Paige, rather than took away from it. They loved how Paige got excited to hear about as much as Bennett wanted to share. They loved Paige’s open heart and open arms, her soft belly and how people relaxed in her presence. They loved switching with Reina, they loved switching with Paige, they loved living with Paige. So many things were just precisely right about their life and their constellation of intimates. But there was someone missing. Bennett couldn’t shake that. A full-time submissive, someone they could influence and train and control and maybe even daddy. Paige didn’t want that. Reina didn’t want that. Someone masochistic who would love showing off their bruises like badges of honor. Paige didn’t want that. Reina didn’t want that.
By the time Reina fell into a pattern, Bennett was starting to soften. The flogger’s message is love, one of Bennett’s mentors always said. The dense thud was working the concrete back into clay, clay into sand, and Bennett was starting to feel again. I can have what I need, they told themself. They repeated some words Paige had said, and some they told themself: It’s okay to be sad about this. Something is missing. Something I want. It feels like an ache in my heart I can’t get soothed any other way. It’s okay for me to want this.
Bennett didn’t notice when tears started. When Reina came over to wrap her arms around them, pressing her bare chest to their back, she wiped their cheeks.
“Okay, sugar?” Reina whispered at their ear, stroking their hair and their bare arms.
“Okay,” Bennett whispered back. Their body was heavy, they were limp between Reina and the cross. “Bed?”
Reina nodded and peeled herself away, easing Bennett over to her four poster bondage bed. They were soft and alive, every nerve ending electrified. They slid their jeans and socks off, setting their packing cock straight and through the o-ring in their RodeoH boxer briefs. Reina was already topless and took her pencil skirt with the big floral print and boy short undies off quickly. When she came over to kiss Bennett and encourage them both to the bed, Bennett whispered, “Tie me down?”
She nodded, a small, curt, professional gesture, then slid to the under-bed restraints, attaching them to Bennett’s wrists and ankles as they positioned themself on the bed. The tension of limited movement, the vulnerability of their limbs spread wide, and the relief of not being able to do anything flooded Bennett — a confusing, potent cacophony that overloaded their system enough to short-circuit any of the rest of what they were holding. Tears were coming again before Reina even got on top of them.
When she did, she split her thighs and straddled Bennett, tight and hot, scratching down Bennett’s chest and easing up and down. Bennett, a profusion of feelings, gave up on all their process thinking and just concentrated on feeling: Reina’s smooth thighs against theirs, her body weight on their hips, the moans and breathy sighs she was making; and the tight restraints securing them, keeping them safe. When Reina reached for the wand vibrator she kept in the drawer of her bedside table, Bennett was long overstimulated and was pretty sure they weren’t going to come, but they didn’t care. Reina worked her way to a powerful, beautiful climax. She fucked herself on Bennett’s cock, arching her back, head thrown back, with her beautiful long neck exposed, mouth open and gasping. She shook and thrashed, then collapsed down onto Bennett’s chest with their cock still inside.
Bennett was empty, spent, content. Their mind was calm, a rare treat. They knew something was still nagging at them, something more they wanted — from their life, their partners, their intimacies — but at the moment, it didn’t bother them. It was missing, but it would come. They were drinking in Reina’s hot, calculated lust, and Paige’s sweet partnership, and the openness of queerness that defied the rigid expectations and norms, and the other lovers who taught them to unlearn monogamy, and their heart swelled.
And at that moment, it was more than enough.
S L I C K: Come Inside
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
I wake up on Day 15 in the usual way at first: a few naive seconds of general life appreciation followed by a scramble to recall an undoubtedly demented erotic dream about a celebrity or platonic friend I’d not previously considered sexually, which typically overlaps with remembering everything like a ceiling collapsing onto my soul.
But today, a triumphant finale: TODAY I WILL BE HUGGING ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.
On my nightstand next to my alarm clock, a circular cross-stitch reads “ANTICIPATION IS THE PUREST FORM OF PLEASURE,” positioned to replace the empty spot left by the framed photograph of me and my ex-wife Ali in Iceland pretending to be happy. It’s a Flaubert quote I honestly only know ’cause Joey Potter’s professor cited it late in Season Five of Dawson’s Creek, which I’ve recently finished rewatching in its entirety while learning to cross-stitch. Next to it, my phone in its charging dock is lit up with texts:
Chris: i haven’t been this excited about hugging somebody since I met my internet boyfriend at Kinkos in 9th grade
which was, honestly, a bust
for obvious reasons
also he got an immediate boner
but he helped me collate my zine
WHY AREN’T YOU AWAKE YET I’VE BEEN FROTHING AT THE MOUTH SINCE 5AM
Erica: I’M UP I’M UP I’M FROTHY
this is gonna be better than falafel day at camp ranana i can feel it
Chris: don’t talk about food i had a baked potato and a cilantro omelet for breakfast
I make my pour-over coffee and send her a pic of my last egg, frying in a thin sheen of oil, almost ready for its debut on a half-stale sourdough bread-end.
Chris: truly can’t wait to quarantine with a top chef!!!!
Erica: k bud i’m showering and then i’m powering
and by “powering” i mean coming over
which is a power move
Chris: i’ll be jogging in place
Erica: i’m not even gonna wash my hair, that’s how speedy this is gonna go down
I’d originally typed “i’m not even gonna masturbate,” but self-consciously deleted it, although it was true, even if what I said about my hair was not. We’ve been friends for nearly eight years and basically become best friends over the past six weeks as the only “single and living alone” members of our social group, but we’d actually had sex when we first met — back when having sex was still how I met people — but it had ended awkwardly and now we never talk about sex at all. Especially not now. I’m going into a platonic co-quarantine plan (created because we’re both depression-prone extroverts and I was crying a lot and I think she felt sorry for me) directly following the dregs of an eventually-sexless marriage and subsequent weeks of isolation, including this final two of Extreme Quarantine. My desire is reckless and entire. If it incidentally lands on Chris I’m confident she’ll rebuff me, out of disinterest or responsibility — both of us surely knowing that fucking could fuck the whole thing up.
Meanwhile, I’d been spending hours of lockdown in the bathtub with a waterproof vibe, fantasizing about being young and dumb and reckless again. Most of the sex I had in my early twenties I remember barely, if at all, but I always hang on to a few frames: In the private dining room of The Polo Lounge after hours where the sous-chef had told me to wait, the moment her dildo entered my throat and she said I’m gonna throat-fuck you and pulled my hair. The wide-eyed delight in the blue eyes of the scrawny blonde comic when she got her whole fist inside me. Looking in the mirror after getting fucked by a bad writer and realizing I had my period and there were bloody handprints all over my ass from where she’d slapped me.
Chris and I had fucked exactly once. I found her leaning against the kitchen counter at a mutual friend’s house party between me and the bottle of cheap wine I’d come in to fetch, wearing too many shirts and an absent smile — a shaggy burst of dark curly hair falling in her face, her forehead and neck just beginning to sweat, smoky eyes brooding, a vague aura of beer and uppers. But at least she stood up straight, which it seemed like nobody did anymore.
Chris’s frames, which I did not masturbate to: 1. Straddling her on her sofa in just a thong and her, fully dressed including even her shoes. 2. In her bedroom, she drunkenly instructed me to look away while she took off the two too-small sports bras she’d macgyvered into a layman’s binder on account of the process being “undignified,” and I’d rolled onto my bare stomach and, once she’d disrobed, she bent over to kiss my back and I could feel her nipples grazing my skin. 3. A part just afterwards in her kitchen, when she was microwaving pizza naked and I was leaning, staring at her, tasting a tinge of blood on my lip.
The next morning she’d made me pancakes in her underwear and an unbuttoned denim shirt and told me she wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. I’d rolled my eyes and immediately transitioned us into friends mode as some kind of protest against her presumption, refusing even a perfunctory goodbye kiss when I left shortly thereafter. Later that night at a loungey queer dance party I saw her again, as the vague ring of humans who’d eventually comprise my social circle had begun forming with both of us inside it.
I eagerly plop two suitcases — mostly sweatpants, face serums and quiet vibrators — into the trunk of my dented Prius, and drive right out of my head.
I’m anxious on the porch of her sky-blue Craftsman, and when she opens the door, I catch the smell of good weed and maybe cookies before barreling into her like a bull, wrapping my arms over her upper back while she takes my lower quadrant. My God. A body. A real live human body, the reliable slope of shoulder blades, the knots of her spine. Somebody else’s skin and shirt and a smell that isn’t my smell, her softness against my bones and edges. Her hair has grown out past her chin. I look like a lion, she’d said on FaceTime.
Hey buddy, she says to the door I just closed.
Hi, I say to her foyer, squeezing. A body!
I love bodies, Chris says.
Same, I say, and Chris squeezes mine.
It’s time for us to let go.
But I can’t.
If I’m not moving away from the hug I should, at least, change it, let it evolve, justify its ongoing performance and to that end I hold tighter, clasping my forearms with opposite hands while subtly shifting my whole body flush against hers.
The thing about bodies is that they line right up. There are variations based on weight, frame, height, sure. Chris has got maybe two inches on me, for example — a minimal variation. Ali and I were exactly the same height, same shoe size, everything. She was the last person to hug me before now, I realize, the impersonality of it crushing me more than her actually leaving.
What I’m telling you is that it’s hard not to line up — foot to foot, thigh to thigh, chest to chest (breast to breast), mouth to mouth. We are pressing so hard into each other, fusing bits, like the part of that meditation app I barely used, where you think about your toes and then your calves, your thighs, like my entire body is leaving itself and then flooding back in, over and over, like I’m getting a body for a first time, sliding into it (or her) like a sleeve. I want to lick her shins.
Fuck, our indefinite platonic co-quarantine is 45 seconds in and my acute thirst is already fogging the air, wet between my legs where our cunts are so proximate and maybe something’s sparking there
Fuck, our indefinite platonic co-quarantine is 45 seconds in and my acute thirst is already fogging the air, wet between my legs where our cunts are so proximate and maybe something’s sparking there. Should I excuse myself, go hump the Lemon Lime tree in her backyard, a mouthful of sour pulp —
And then.
Her nails, suddenly, digging in — I nearly scream, I nearly come, these erotic sharp digs — she’s grabbing me, she’s grabbing me? I counter, I grab like an animal, trying to scratch her off and crawl inside.
This already feels foolish, incidental, desperate even, but if she’s not gonna stop me then I can’t stop myself. My new body, the one that flooded back in? It’s not like the old one, untouched and contained for so long; first because Ali didn’t want it and then for its asymptomatic potential.
This new body is slick, starved, wanting. I should’ve masturbated in the shower. I need to be pushed against a wall. She smells like the ocean.
You smell like the ocean.
What’s the ocean?
I move my hand from her back to her bicep, guiding her arm off my back, her hand towards my waist and stepping back ever-so-slightly so there’s room for her to slide through but not enough for eye contact. She calls my bluff, tips my chin back to get my eyes right at hers, confirming that I am consenting, willing, open—
That’s — her finger at the base of my stomach, I gasp, she goes further.
I go on: the ocean?
Bless her heart she forgives the metaphor and dives right in, my cunt opening with my legs, and I jerk my head back like being snatched out of the pack by a claw, the thought of what might happen next as thrilling as when it does. I reel forward and look her in the eyes as her fingers glide from teasing my clit into more, my mouth slack and open.
That look on a self-satisfied top’s face when they’ve gotten in there good, when everything’s wet around their fingers (it feels like two) — eyes squinting, closing for one second right when they’re in as far as it can go, like they’ve never felt something better grazing their knuckles than your cunt. The lower lip bite, the deep breath in, the exhale. I almost scream no when she pulls her hand out, but before I can she shoves me against the opposite wall and kisses me like a tiger attack, marking my neck for nobody to see while thrusting back in.
Her fingers rocking inside me, maybe I’m eight years ago, fresh-faced and unhurt, when things felt easy and Ali finger-fucked me in the back row of the movie theater midway through Les Miserables while Chris’s then-girlfriend fell asleep on her shoulder in the row ahead of us.
She slides off her sweatpants before sitting on her expensive couch — get up here — and I undo my drawstring (a frame: drunk, my high school boyfriend put his hand on my thigh and said my pajama pants were his favorite, and Astrid sitting next to me whispered easy access into my hair and kissed my ear where he couldn’t see) and I straddle her. She pushes the crotch of my underwear to the side and I ride three fingers, wanting more already, so much space left to fill.
She is as ample as I am light, a lushness I can sink into that can maybe hold or massacre me or both. Reflexively, losing myself: This was not the plan
Chris laughs and I want to lick her teeth right off. I’m sorry.
No you’re not.
In her bedroom she takes her shirt off but this time, I can watch. Gone are the dark grooves, like tire tracks on her shoulders and around her ribs, where the bras dug in. Everything’s smooth and level, the strain replaced by two scars slightly darker and redder than the brown skin of her chest, almost meeting, still slightly raised, like inverted parentheses beneath an empty clause. I remember the fresh scars from just after; Chris, high on Vicodin while Ali made her dinner and I drank an entire bottle of wine.
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 think i have been inside for so long and I say I 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
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.
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.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
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.
Slowly, of course, at first. One, two, three, four, yes, opening to fill up and she moans fuck you feel so good, and I am agape, surrendered. That’s how I come, eventually: her whole fist inside me, her slack-jawed slippery face enraptured, safe, contained, entire, inside.
“So uh,” I wince, “Should we go to Ralph’s now or…?”
“You know what’s kinda funny but also super embarrassing?” Chris ignores my question to ask. Her fingers are tight around the pillow she’s got one cheek on, looking straight at me, like we’re two girls sharing secrets at a sleepover.
“Uh, my divorce?”
“C’mon,” she smiles. “So like, remember when we had sex a million years ago?”
“Honestly, barely, but yes, of course.”
“I thought you… thought I was bad.”
“In… bed?”
“Yeah.”
“First of all, I mean, was it bad?”
“You were there —“
“I mean, I was drunk and it was ages ago! But I remember feeling good about it, like it was fun.”
“You didn’t come.”
I groan. “Oh my GOD.”
“What??”
“That’s not the fucking barometer of good sex you idiot,” I grab an extraneous pillow and whack her with it, her attempt to block me immediately thwarted. “Anyhow, we had fun! We did what I wanted to do.”
“But then we never did it again!”
“Did you want to?” I squint. “I would’ve! But it didn’t seem like you did.”
“Honestly, back then….” she runs her fingers through her hair. “I probably just wanted you to want to do it again. Like for my fragile butch ego.”
“You do remember that the very first thing you told me afterwards was that you were not looking for a relationship right now.”
She cringes. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”
“It was just so presumptuous! We hadn’t even been on a proper date, we’d just made out in a hallway and fucked on your giant bed—“
“A king for a king, I always say.” A beat. “What do we do now?”
“Grocery store?” I’m starving.
“No I mean, this—“
“Well for starters,” I roll over and start rooting around for my shirt on the floor. She gives my bare ass a whack. I flip back. “I’m not really looking for a relationship right now —“
“I hate you.”
She’s still topless, her skin perfect against royal blue bedsheets. “You know,” I reveal, “this is the first time I’ve had sex in like, a year?”
“But y’all just broke up like two months ago.”
“Mhm, yup.”
Her eyes widen like little plates. “Oh. WOW.”
I grimace.
“C’mere,” she paws at me, and I slide closer to her, facing her now as her fingers tiptoe back to my cunt, still damp and swollen. I breathe in and she breathes out as she slides one finger back in to where she’s recently slaughtered me, her eyes like a dare, and it’s only fair that I reach under the covers and slip into her, like a battle of the bands, rocking fervently, kissing, digging, scratching.
She comes after flipping me over and fucking me while her clit rides the ridge between her knuckles and she lets her full weight over me afterwards, it’s better than the weighted blanket but also more complicated.
“We’ve gotta stop fucking long enough to buy some fucking food.” I hope she doesn’t cut her own hair, I like grabbing it.
“Okay okay,” she rolls off me and nods. “But can I fuck you again later?”
I nod silently.
“Are you nervous?”
I nod again. I don’t know what happens next. About this. About anything. It felt good to not fear the possibility of my body for a minute, to not fear harming somebody else’s with my own, to feel the exact opposite of that. To feel something starting instead of everything ending, or pausing.
I roll over and scamper up to the window, drawing back a curtain. The street below is empty. Across the street, a small woman in a mask is walking a large dog. Not a single car drives by, but an alarm blares softly in the distance, coming closer.
“We’re gonna do the lasagna tonight, right?” Chris is futzing with her hair in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I say, as the woman with the dog exits my purview and everything below me is empty and strange, like in a movie. “That’s the plan.”
S L I C K: King of Cups
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
I pull a tarot card as I prepare for my bike-camping trip with Ozara. The King of Cups. It says “Healing” and has a figure hovering with illuminated blue hands caressing a floating body. I take a bath with honey, coconut milk, rose petals and salts. The playlist is Alice Coltrane, Megan Thee Stallion, Anita Baker. The falsettos of Marvin Gaye and Prince steam up the room, while my titties break the surface of the hot water and bubbles.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
I knew Ozara when we were in our twenties, in the early aughts. Like we oughta had fucked then. But, I didn’t know how to utter, “I want you” to a woman yet. She was a player then: both with the WNBA and amongst the women. We met at a mutual friend’s house party. She came in tall, muscular and cornrowed. We slow-grinded to Floetry, in a tight room with a blue light bulb. I went home and rubbed myself thinking of her. But, now, we’re almost 40 and today we’re biking through the woods to camp for two nights. My pussy gets soft and melts a little every time I think about it.
Ozara was my first crush in awhile. We began flirting after I stepped into her bike shop, Wheels of Steel, a couple weeks ago. I wanted to support a Black queer business in my community and the Outkast reference tickled me. When I walked in, I saw Ozara, an old acquaintance, amidst the wheels and handle bars, tatted up and smiling in her beanie hat.
“Yooooo, Delilah!” she said hugging me tight and lingering a little. She smelled like a mixture of grease, sweet cologne and good weed. My mouth watered.
“Ozara?!” I exclaimed. She showed me around her sweet spot. “We cater to every kind of ass!” she laughed, and my mind traveled. “I had played ball in Amsterdam and rode my bike everywhere. Bikes run that city. And of course the weed,” she says giggling.
“You still read a lot of books? ” she asked, and I was delighted she remembered my nerdiness.
“Sure do,” I say, and then a little flirty, “I write them now, too. Poetry.”
“Niiiiice. Of course you do. I know they have to be brilliant, girl. Imma check that out.”
“What do you do to occupy your time, now that you’re back in the Mini apple?” I ask her, just a tad thirstily.
“Shit, besides hanging with fam, I ride bikes and run my shop,” she says looking at the technicolor stable of bikes. “After years of traveling for ball, I like things to be chill.”
She helped me pick out a periwinkle, Dutch-style bike that was perfect for me. And we exchanged numbers.
We began marathon phone conversations and texting each other non-stop. We talked about everything: compost, meteor showers, shrooming, feminist death rituals, ancestral astrology, traveling while Black and gay. Her voice and mind turned me on.
“You ever been on a bike camping trip?” she texted one night.
“No. But sounds interesting…” I said, as I waited for my face mask to dry. I was watching a problematic, yet highly enjoyable reality show about desperate heterosexuals. I turned it off.
“What do you think about camping with me? Two nights…” she texted.
I sent a poem by June Jordan that said something about reaching for someone in the dark.
“YASSSSSS!!!” I said and started fantasizing.
My ‘fro and dark skin are glistening and all my things are packed in my pannier bag. I’m sitting on my stoop waiting for Ozara, wearing an outfit that is both practical for biking and sexy. Ozara rides up with a trailer and a Bluetooth speaker bumping Minnie Ripperton. She looks good, like a charioteer, maneuvering her bike between muscular thighs. A tank top, showing off the shoulders of an athlete, abstract tattoos adorning her brown, muscular arms. She kisses my cheek, shy and tender.
“Ready, girl?” she asks, and my clit pulses into my bike seat as we ride off.
I watch her legs, flex and cycle, into the winding road of tree canopies with her glorious ass perched firmly on her saddle. We enjoyed avocado and tempeh bacon sandwiches, mangoes and rosé for lunch. We sang nineties R & B for some of the ride, and then settled into the symphony of chirping crickets, birds tweeting, and leaves rustling around us. We got to our campsite, sweaty and buzzing and set up our tent.
“Wanna get a dip in before dinner?” she asks, taking off layers and jumping wildly into the cool lake. Afterwards, we lay drying in the evening warmth, digesting the gourmet salmon and green beans Ozara made. She pulls out a thermos from her bag.
“Remember how you said you were curious about trying shrooms one day?” she asks. “I made you some shroom tea with ginger, tulsi, rose and honey.”
“Oooh… yummy.”
We start sipping the elixir, and eating honey-coconut-cacao fudge. We watch the fire. I lean onto her and she wraps her arm around me.
Talking, snuggling and smoking a joint, we begin to feel each other from within.
“I remember the first night, I met you and you were reading that book Zami at Danisha’s. I thought that was hot. Just in your own little world,” Ozara say. Smoke leaves her lips and dances into the stars and amethyst night.
“You just got drafted to the Lynx, and all the girls were on your tip. You had all of this Big Dick Energy and a pretty-ass smile. Then you asked me to dance…” I said, feeling everything get vivid and then soften. “Hmmm, I think I’m starting to feel it…”
“Yup, It’s like everything went whoooosh. When I close my eyes, I feel it more.” We lie down and snuggle in our sleeping bags. I’m cuddled up into her torso, smelling her sweat, lavender and lake water. A delicious earth, layered and cavernous beneath us.
“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.
She lays me down in the tent, and pulls her shirt off. Everything smooth and rhythmic with our bodies. Her breasts feel nice between my lips and my tongue plays with her nipple as she moans. I feel lifetimes of desire engorge my pussy as I wrap my thighs around her. Ozara grinds her pelvis into me, throbbing with her rhythm. I pull off her boxers and lead her to mound to my mouth. She is so hard and I suck and lick her hotness, holding her by the ass firmly to enjoy every drop of her nectar until she exhales. “Damn, unh, unhhh…” she sighs and shudders, her climax filling our tent. She lies down next to me, soft and wet.
“My turn,” she says as she reaches for my drenched pussy, and I react with a grateful moan. Kissing my chest and shoulders, feathering my nipples with her tongue. Finally holding as much of my big breasts into her mouth as possible, sliding her first finger in my pussy and then two. Her mouth is patient and eager. I lift my hips to give her more access to every morsel of me. She massages my inside with her fingers, and I release with each rub, unfolding around her rhythms as she licks my clit and juices me onto her hands. I clutch her close so she can go deeper as I rock myself into her and then my orgasm radiates all around me.
We shiver into the glow we made. I think of the King Of Cups card I pulled and the healing wetness of Ozara. We snuggle inside, naked, and the sky is blooming in darkness and stars. The night breeze kisses our skin as we hold each other.
S L I C K: Constellations #2 Paige & Tacey A Good Girl
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
This is the second installment of the erotica series Constellations, about finding and keeping kink connections and navigating polyamorous love.
Content notes: mommy/girl dynamics, spanking
Tacey let out a long breath that became a moan as Paige started to pet her cunt.
On the couch in her own cramped apartment, Tacey was bent over Paige’s lap, balanced on her knees, feet kicking the air, face down in the couch throw pillows — the ones she’d found on Facebook marketplace for ten dollars, which she knew were from the Arianna Belle line from a few years ago. Her skirt was up around her waist. The white leather garter belt harness with the double straps around her thighs was on full display, framing her plain pink Calvin Klein underwear.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
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.
Tacey had been in trouble. She had confessed to Paige that she’d masturbated eight of the last ten days since she’d seen Paige, and Paige, after elucidating that masturbation is dirty and bad and Tacey should never touch herself down there, told her a spanking was in order.
It was one of Tacey’s favorite fantasies. And Paige played the role like she’d invented it.
Paige swept Tacey’s long dyed bright blonde hair out of the way. “Sweet girl, you look so beautiful splayed out in my lap,” Paige said, low and quiet, her lips touching Tacey’s ear. “You’re doing a very good job taking your punishment. Are you ready to be a good girl?”
“Yes. Yes!” Tacey’s eyes were wet, some tears coming now, as much from the relief as from the stinging slaps and pinching. “I want to be good.”
“You’re perfect, just how you are,” Paige whispered, scraping Tacey’s earlobe with her teeth and sucking. Tacey turned her head for a kiss on the mouth. Her lipstick wasn’t smeared; she must’ve been wearing the Kat Von D Everlasting Paige had bought her.
“Please, can I come now, please,” Tacey whispered. She opened her mouth for the kiss, hungry, somewhere between panting and gasping.
“Not yet,” Paige said, swirling her fingers over Tacey’s cunt through the fabric of her panties. Tacey wriggled and thrust her hips back, reaching for Paige’s hand, already starting to drip down her thighs.
“Please, I need it,” Tacey whispered, eyes closed. She tried to be still so she could concentrate on the feeling of Paige’s fingers, but her body kept moving, trying to get touched everywhere. “Please, I’m … I’m begging you.”
Paige was waiting for the begging. Tacey could do better, but she’d said please four times now. Maybe she could push a little harder. “Call me Mommy,” she whispered to Tacey. She could feel the shiver of pleasure go through Tacey, down to her curled toes.
“I …” Tacey cried out, thrusting her hips against the air, wishing for better access to Paige’s knee, knowing it’d be taken away if she could reach it anyway. Paige wanted her waiting, building, edging. She couldn’t hold back the come much longer. “I want to! I … I’m going to come, oh please. Please!”
“Please, what?” Paige kept teasing, the light brushes of her fingers focused on Tacey’s clit, which was swollen and big, pressing against the fabric.
“Please …” Tacey trailed out.
“What was that?”
“Please, Mommy! Please, Mommy. Please let me, please Mommy, I want to be good, please let me come, please, oh, oh —“ Tacey was right on the edge, the flicking and stroking Paige was doing was too much, just right, not enough, just a little more.
“Yes, go ahead,” Paige murmured, wrapping her arm around what she could reach of Tacey’s shoulders while she kept her fingers light and soft over the wet fabric. She felt the warm wetness on her palm, starting to drip over her wrist as Tacey moaned and thrust her hips back, alternating yelling out “please, Mommy,” and “oh god.”
Her body quieted and she curled up in Paige’s lap while Paige stroked her hair. Paige closed her eyes and rested her head on the couch.
“Paige?”
“Mmm?” Paige stirred. Maybe she had dozed off a little. It was getting dark out and they hadn’t turned the light on in Tacey’s apartment, as it had been blazing hot noon when they got back from brunch. Now, the light was slanting in through the one big window in the kitchen, and it was getting harder to focus in the dimness.
“I want ice cream,” Tacey said. She stirred and sat up slowly, still nestled against Paige. “Can we get ice cream?”
“You don’t have any?”
“No.”
“Sure,” Paige was not in charge of what Tacey ate, and didn’t need to be giving Tacey permission. Tacey could eat what she wanted. Asking permission, that was new. Paige noticed Tacey’s voice was still high, that affect she took on when she was in little space. “I could go to the corner store.”
“No, let’s go … can we go to that place on College Ave? It’s not very far.”
“Since you were so good, and took that so well,” Paige said, smoothing her hair again and kissing her red mouth. “Yes, we can go.”
“Yay!” Tacey kissed back, sweet, soft, satisfied kisses, and stretched as she got up off the couch.
“Did I push you too far?” Paige asked. They stepped over roots of big trees growing through and shoving the sidewalk into odd angles. Paige offered her hand to make sure Tacey was steady in her short heels. She was, but Paige was still feeling maternal.
“No,” Tacey said, her voice soft. She hesitated, readjusting her hand so her fingers laced through Paige’s. “Not at all. I liked it. I told you I wanted to go there again. I liked it a lot, actually.”
“I thought you might.”
“Yeah, me too.” It wasn’t the first time they had played with the word “mommy,” but it wasn’t common. Tacey was almost always little in their dynamic together, but she was still easing her way into using that word. She couldn’t explain how it made her feel so safe, so turned on, and so confused at the same time, but Tacey craved it, even as it made her uncomfortable.
“It’s easy for me to pathologize it, to make it mean something,” Tacey started. “But I don’t know if it has to. Mean anything. Maybe it just is what it is. Maybe it’s what I like right now, for all kinds of reasons, and what I like is just … okay. Like, there’s nothing wrong with it.” She was coming out of her little space back into her psychoanalytic mind, the over-active brilliant one which strived to make sense of everything, particularly feelings, and desires and shame. What a relief it was to turn that off for a while.
It was easy for Paige to see what relief being little gave her. Tacey had graduated high school and started college at 15, and was now, at 22, was two years into her PhD study of psychology at UC Berkeley. She’d always had an academic interest in kink, but she had just realized that her interest was more than academic.
“I’m happy to talk about it, if you want. I’d be happy to hear where you think it comes from or what it means for you,” Paige offered. They were a block from the creamery and they were dodging people on the sidewalks now, tucking in next to each other to let other people pass.
Tacey nodded. “I appreciate that. I would like to. Talk about it. I’m not sure what I think about it, but it could help. To talk it through.”
They smiled at each other and Paige let her be with her thoughts, saying nothing. The creamery had a line that extended out onto the sidewalk and they joined it.
Paige studied the list of flavor offerings.
“Isn’t that Ella?” Tacey whispered, dipping her head close to Paige and looking toward the door. Ella was out front with a few other people, friends, Paige assumed, all with small cups or cones of ice cream in their hands, smiling and talking. Paige couldn’t hear them.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Is she still dating Bennett?”
“Bennett? What? No.”
“Oh, sorry, I thought they were.”
“No, they’ve never dated. I’m not sure they even know each other.”
“Oh, funny. She’s just Bennett’s type. In some ways. They remind me of each other. I guess I just assumed.”
Paige thought about it. They kind of were alike, and Ella was every bit Bennett’s type — or, the type they were looking for now. Submissive, curvy and round, shorter than Bennett, brunette. And wicked smart, easy to laugh, and very playful. From what Paige knew, she was the kind of person who worked on her trauma and prioritized stabilizing herself. And, she was polyamorous.
“Hey Ella!” Tacey waved as they got closer, then looked back to Paige.
“Go for it,” Paige said. “I’ll order. Hi, Ella, nice to see you.” She waited in line as Tacey went over to talk. There were two more people in front of her and she already knew what to order. She got a small sugar cone with one scoop of chocolate and one of vanilla for Tacey, and a medium cup of earl grey for herself. She didn’t order any samples. She ate spoonful of the earl grey before she paid and the citrus flavor was delicate in her mouth.
Ella and her friends were gone when Paige emerged from the store. Tacey was tapping on her Android, leaning against the building with one foot up, looking like a pin-up. Her leather garter harness peeked out from below her flowy white skirt. She put her phone away when she saw Paige, and her eyes lit up as she reached out for her cone.
“Thanks,” she said, sticking out her tongue for a generous swirl. “Can you stay a little longer, or do you need to get home?” They started walking back toward her apartment.
“I’m not in a hurry. They don’t expect me home at any particular time.”
Tacey nodded. She admired how smooth Paige’s open relationship with Bennett was, but she also knew they’d worked hard at their foundation in the six years they’d been together. “Good. Besides, I think you should come again.”
“Me? I don’t know, that was pretty excellent, before. Not sure if you can top that.”
“Oh,” Tacey said, her eyes flashing with excitement and challenge. “Try me.”
Paige laughed, and they ambled the ten blocks home, savoring the warm evening, the cool, sweet ice cream, and each other.
S L I C K: Constellations #1 Bennet & Paige On A Silver Platter
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
This is the first installment of the erotica series Constellations, about finding and keeping kink connections and navigating polyamorous love.
Content notes: knife cutting off clothing
“How’d it go?” Paige called from her desk in the corner of the kitchen. the one covered in plants, next to the wall of plants, the one that Bennett called her jungle desk. Her hair was messy and held together with various bobby pins in a way that Bennett could only describe as “up.” Paige tipped her chair back so she could see down the hallway to Bennet at the front door.
Bennett took off their leather jacket and black leather harness boots and dropped them in the entry. “Bad,” they mumbled in response. When they turned the entryway light off, all they could see was Paige’s expectant face lit by the glow of her jungle desk lamp.
“What?” she called. But she could already tell what kind of date it was. No bounce in Bennett’s step, no excitement, no rushing in to sweep her into a bear hug and immediately start with adjectives like “luminous” and “luscious” about their new crush. She had been looking at the clock every few minutes, waiting for them to arrive back home, but now that they were here, she was desperately trying not to be too interested. Bennett always got squirrelly when she was too interested.
“Um,” Bennett sighed, a little louder. “Not great. But, you know, fine. She’s…nice. Seems like a great person.”
“No spark, huh,” Paige called, shuffling papers and closing her notebook so it looked like she was doing something. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t just a little relieved, but she was disappointed, too, because Bennett had been so excited about the date.
“Guess not.” Bennett went to the kitchen light and turned on the kettle for tea. They leaned against the green formica counter and stared at the tiles on the floor with their arms crossed.
Paige got up and wriggled into Bennett’s arms, circling her arms around their thick shoulders. She smoothed her off-white slip down her thighs as she took the few steps to them. Bennett, whose body and embrace was such a comfort to her; Bennett, whose kisses never failed to light a fire in her belly. She wanted Bennett to have everything they wanted. Sometimes she felt a twinge of guilt or regret or frustration that she couldn’t do it all for Bennett, but another part of her knew better than to buy into that one-soulmate narrative, and she was grateful someone else could.
Bennett sighed again, mouth turned down in a discouraged frown.
“Dating is hard,” Paige offered softly, kissing their neck, then their jawline, then standing on tip toes, clearly asking for a deeper kiss.
Bennett dipped their face away and Paige kissed their jaw on the other side.
“I want you to have what you want,” Paige said, for the millionth time.
Bennett kept their eyes down, not responding. Paige’s constellation of intimates were so rich, and it seemed like she was always adding more — another pup playmate, another subby girl who wanted a mommy, another switchy genderfabulous genderqueer who just wanted some dates for a while. Paige was so easy-going, flowing in and out of relationships constantly. Bennett felt a stab of jealousy. Why was it so hard for them, when it was so easy for her?
“I know. Thanks,” Bennett said.
“Hey, come back. To me,” she urged.
They made eye contact, brief and open, for just a moment before Bennett leaned down to kiss her. Paige felt it down through her toes, an electricity that made her feel like her skin was sparkling. She felt Bennett relax and sink in to her, return to her like the true north that she was.
They kissed for a minute, Bennett’s hands snaking up her back and grabbing handfuls of her ass, fingertips dancing on the back of her head to add just a little more force, just a little more power. Paige wanted to drop to her knees right there.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
“How can I help, sir?”
Bennett grinned. That ask, that offer, that sweetness was a code phrase of theirs, something that offered service and devotion. Underneath the words, Bennett heard, I’m yours. And they loved it.
“I … don’t know.” Bennett didn’t want to admit it, but they were, in part, still at the restaurant, that kind of nice Italian one with really good gluten-free options and a great wine selection, where their date had been a flop. She just had such potential — they had a few friends in common who all said they would be great together.
Paige wanted a distraction, sure, but also an offering: a reminder that Bennett was the hot butch sir of her dreams. “What about … “ she took Bennett’s fingers in her hand and brought them slowly to her mouth, touching her lips to their fingertips before sucking them in, tonguing them gently. Bennett sighed, and their gaze softened more. Their shoulders dropped another inch away from their ears. Paige swallowed deeper and continued pouring their fingers down her throat, wanting to suck the essence down into her, hungry, eager.
She slowly took Bennett’s fingers back out of her mouth, but didn’t let go of them. “Or, what about … “ and she brought their hand down between her legs, under the slip where she parted her thighs and led Bennett to touch her there. Bennett leaned and twisted their hand to get better reach, stroking the velvety-smooth skin with a few fingers. Paige always could do this to them: offer herself up on a silver platter, not begging exactly, not quite, but knowing the juicy morsel that she was, and, with full acknowledgment of the bounty she had to offer, giving herself freely.
Their mouths came close enough together that Bennett could feel Paige’s breath, could even feel the brush of her lips when she breathed out. “More,” Paige whispered, shivering.
The electric kettle, which Paige diligently kept filled with water, started to whistle. Bennett moved closer, pressing against Paige with a little pressure on her back, pushing her legs open with one of their knees, and pushing the elastic of her panties out of the way to dip in between the folds of her lips.
Paige gasped. “More, you fucker.”
“That’s not very nice, girl.” Bennett grinned, surges of power rolling through them as they felt the wetness between Paige’s thighs.
“I don’t want to be nice,” Paige pouted. “I want you to give it to me.”
“Give you what?”
“Your … you. Your fingers. Your dick. Anything.”
“I like you wanting like this.”
“You would!” Paige cried, frustrated. She liked the games, and Bennett loved to see her frustration, but she could only handle it for so long. Plus, the kettle noise was too much, now it was more of a screech than a whistle. She tried to push Bennett’s arm and leaned over, reaching to turn it off,. Bennett refused to budge their hand, knowing Paige was tethering herself there. “Don’t stop — please!” sh m me said, finally breaking contact in order to flip the button. The noise stopped but Bennett was already withdrawing.
“Don’t go, come back,” Paige cooed, rubbing up against them, her hands on their chest, leaning in close. “Please touch me. Sir. Sir, please.”
Bennett grinned despite themself — grateful, desirous, and turned on. “Up here.” They patted the counter.
“I … what?”
“Up. Here.” Bennett pointed more obviously.
“Oh. Okay …” Paige hesitated, but wanted to try. Her upper body strength probably wasn’t enough to launch her onto the counter but she could try. “Help me?”
Bennett nodded, hands at Paige’s waist, and lifting on the 1-2-3 count. Paige slid onto the counter top easily, feeling weightless and small in Bennett’s hands, even though she almost weighed the same. She liked feeling smaller, contained, taken care of.
They hooked their arm under one of her thighs and bent it so her foot was flat on the counter, spreading her open. Bennett could now see she was wearing the dark blue panties, the ones with the small bow and the slit in the back that were silky. And new.
Bennett kissed her, hard. Paige put her hand up behind her to steady herself on the kitchen cabinets. “I’m sorry,” they said, breaking away.
“Why?” Paige’s lips tingled, and she wet them with her tongue. She wanted more in her mouth, wanted more kisses, fingers.
“This.” Bennett lifted up a knife, and just as Paige saw the light reflecting on the blade as it moved, she felt the cool press of the handle against her thigh. Bennett worked the tip under her panties and sliced them off.
It was so bold that Paige couldn’t decide if she was mad. “You’re replacing those.” She decided it was just hot.
“Deal,” Bennett said, slicing through the waistband of her panties this time. The blue silky fabric fell back onto the counter and Bennett leaned in, wrapping her arms under Paige’s thighs.
Her smell, her taste, the familiar brush of her soft hair all felt like the elixir Bennett needed, and they drank it all in. Their tongue lapped softly in big, soft strokes, until they sucked the delicate bits of flesh into her mouth, swollen and pink. Once, Bennett could feel Paige’s pulse.
Paige didn’t come very easily that way, so when her hand moved from touching Bennett’s shoulder to touching her own clit, Bennett just moved out of the way. They straightened up, swiping their mouth quickly with their other hand before offering more kisses, which Paige eagerly accepted, leaning forward, breathing heavily.
“Fingers, inside,” said Paige. Bennett nodded, their foreheads touching. Their hips were pressed against the counter, between Paige’s legs, and they pressed two fingers just a little deeper into her folds, finding that entrance spot and circling.
“Yeah, like that,” said Paige, still stroking her own clit in a rhythm that made Bennett think she was close to coming. They kissed her again, working their tongue against her lips. Paige pressed against Bennett’s fingers so they slipped in deeper, and Bennett went slowly, with a little pressure pushing up. Paige’s breathing quickened and she started gasping, then yelled out “oh, oh, ohhh,” and moaning louder, her hand moving faster, until every muscle tensed and Bennett could feel her shake and quiver as an orgasm rolled through her. She breathed hard, still quivering, and Bennett leaned into her, head against her breasts, feeling themself unwind with her release.
“Thank you, sir,” Paige whispered into Bennett’s hair, stroking their shoulder. “I needed that.”
“Mm, thank you, too,” Bennett said, lifting their head to kiss her. “I feel high. You are just … intoxicating.”
“After six years, you still want me, huh?” Paige teased, adjusting her legs so she didn’t keep sliding off the counter. She slid her arms around Bennett, holding them close. “I love the way you touch me.”
“Of course. You definitely know how to cheer me up,” Bennett laughed. “Want some tea?”
Paige smiled, eyelids heavy. It was time for bed. Sleepytime tea would be perfect. “Is the water still hot?”
“I doubt it.”
Paige kissed Bennett once more, and moved gently out of their arms to flip the switch on the kettle.
S L I C K: A Date To Remember
S L I C K is an erotica series for A+ members about titillation, torture, fucking and getting off.
Dee stood up as I walked towards her. She was a little shorter than I expected, but just as cute as her profile picture promised. I allowed my gaze to blatantly travel down her body, taking in her small breasts, skinny but muscular arms, and the subtle curve of her hips. A lazy onlooker might have mistaken her for a young guy, but I saw the 30-year-old woman I’d been flirting with online for the last two weeks.
She stepped forward, her arm extended for the polite formality of a handshake. I reached to embrace her instead and, as she leaned towards me, I saw an unexpected bulge in the front of her jeans. We hugged briefly and my breasts brushed against hers while the hard outline of her surprise welcome pressed gently against my mound. Part of me was turned on by her boldness for our first encounter, but another part was irked that she had assumed this might be on the menu. She’d been gently insistent that we met this evening, but I’d not agreed to any more than a drink and a chance to talk face-to-face.
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 base of her dick nestled against her pussy lips, held in place by leather straps that she wore loose enough to allow her to tuck it flat into her jeans. I worked my fingers underneath one strap and delicately pulled it around enough to expose her cunt. I studied her face for a moment, checking she was okay with this switch in roles. The last thing I wanted to do was offend her by ignoring her obvious preference for strap-on play, but I also sensed that she wasn’t limited only to that.
Her nod and breathy sigh confirmed my hopes, and I slipped one fingertip between her folds. I slid over her until I made contact with the hard nub of her clit, stroking over and around her, and feeling the first tremble in her legs. I watched the expression on her face change from pretend poise to palpable need as my fingers explored her cunt, dipping into her opening to draw out more and more of her want.
Her dick butted against my hip and I wrapped my other hand around it. Her eyes flicked open for a moment and she smiled, covering my hand with hers and urging me to grip her tighter. Her smile quickly dissolved back into lust as my hands steadily pulled and stroked. I leaned firmly against her and sought out her tongue with my mouth, adding yet another layer of sensation for her to manage.
Her whole body was trembling now and I quickened my pace, urging her towards her climax. A few more strokes and she was there: knees buckling, fists clenching, breath drawn out in a long ‘oh’. I felt her pleasure as a jolt through my pelvis. I wanted to come too and I pressed myself painfully hard against her hip bone and the length of her dick. A small groan of desperation escaped from somewhere deep inside me, and Dee allowed herself to smirk in recognition of just how hungry I was for her.
Despite my yearning, I didn’t want her to fuck me in the stall. “Will you come home with me? Now?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
The taxi cab ride was excruciatingly playful. Dee insisted on chatting with the driver the whole way while I squirmed under the insistent petting from her hand on my inner thigh. Every so often she’d direct a question from the driver to me, forcing me to answer him with some semblance of composure, all the while drawing suggestive patterns on my skin, just out of his sightline.
We tumbled into my apartment with unrestrained giggles and the relief of finally having privacy. Dee threw herself onto the sofa but, before she could make herself comfy, I hauled her up and led her into my bedroom. “Wanna get naked with me?”
“Do I ever!” Dee scrabbled to kick off her boots and quickly stripped off, only the harness and her dick remaining. She cinched the straps tight.
“Lie down,” I told her. Dee quickly climbed onto the bed, propping herself up on one elbow and watching while I stepped out of my clothes. She kept her eyes on me the whole time, her smile growing broader as each item fell to the floor, revealing more and more of my ample and eager body.
Throughout our online exchanges I’d felt increasingly attracted to Dee: her humor, her playfulness, and her assurance that she was looking for a relationship, not just a casual hook-up. Now we’d met in real life I also knew that the chemistry and the magnetic attraction were there, but I had yet to find out how she fucked.
I grabbed the bottle of lube from my bedside table and liberally drenched her strap-on, enjoying how it ran down her shaft and headed towards her pussy. My cunt was sodden from the previous teasing and from making Dee come, but I wanted to delay the moment of feeling her slide into me just a little bit longer. The weeks of flirting had built to this moment and I wanted to savor every sensation.
Dee reached for me and slid two fingers through the slickness between my lips. “Fuck,” she drawled, “you feel good.” Her fingers found my clit and circled it slowly.
I straddled her and leaned forward, allowing my nipple to brush against her lips, feeling her suck it into the warm wetness of her mouth. Her teeth nibbled lightly while her fingers kept up their steady circles, taking me to the edge of my orgasm and deliberately holding me there, balancing on an impossible apex between coming and not coming.
When I couldn’t maintain self-control any longer, I raised my hips and sank down hard onto her length. I brazenly allowed all the sounds of my pleasure to fill the air and Dee added hers too. Our ecstatic voices urging each other to go beyond the point of no return. Dee’s fingers followed pace as I bucked on top of her. Nothing mattered to me more in that moment than the feelings of rapture she drew from my body. This was alchemy and she was building me an orgasm made of pure gold.
Illustration by Raisa Yavneh
“There. Oh, yes, there. Yes. I’m coming!”
Dee’s fingers quickened as I made my announcement and she called out too, “Fuck, yes!”
My body jerked on top of hers and I let my orgasm flood through me, unsure whether the convulsions I felt were mine alone, or also emanating from her. I collapsed on top of her and she rolled me over onto my back. She kissed me deeply as she gradually drew out of me, and then pulled me into her embrace. I curled my body against hers and let her hold me while we rode out the delicious aftershocks, already thinking about what I wanted to do to her next.
Slip Into S L I C K, The A+ Erotica Series
If you were that kid who sat on the floor of the library skimming books for sex scenes, getting hot and bothered on an old carpet, this series is for you. If you were on google searching various sex terms while masturbating or printing out stills of porn on the family computer to keep in your own personal stash, it’s also for you. If you became a writer by penning scenes of yourself pleasuring your favorite movie stars and television characters, you too. All of you horny queers, we see you. Don’t ever change, keep that pervy energy.
If you’re not an A+ member, this is one of a million reasons to join! There is a story up RIGHT NOW that you can’t read unless you’re a contributing A+ member, and we truly do not want you to miss out. A+ members are the whole reason Autostraddle can even exist. So, go ahead, join A+. We believe in you.
Since you’re here with us on this site, we’ll go ahead and assume you’re queer and quarantined as fuck, and whether you’re alone or living in a poly pod orgy, you deserve X-rated entertainment. So in honor of you, our members who impress the shit out of us and send fat tears of gratitude rolling down our cheeks, we’re launching S L I C K, a weekly erotica series that will bring you sexy stories every week.
“What does erotica mean?” you might wonder. We’re inviting a host of different writers to bring us their version of hot and erotic, in their own styles and voices, in the forms they like best. You can look forward to stories from professional erotica greats, like Sinclair Sexsmith, professional writers who know how to turn up the chemistry, plus specials from team members you know and love. You might even see some erotic poetry! Sometimes it will be about kinky daddies who spank hard, other times a deeply intimate and occasionally awkward masturbation journey. There will be one-off pieces, and also longer series with characters you can get attached to. The name of the game is variety. To keep you at the edge — of your seat, or otherwise.