Puzzle Pieces

I’m lying next to you as we catch our breath.  My hollows and curves fit perfectly into your curves and hollows, like puzzle pieces. Songs about love and desire are playing on the Spotify channel you selected.  We’ve had multiple rounds of sex already, our bodies glazed with sweat and orgasm. I could be done, sated and sleepy, drifting off snuggled against you. Or I could start us up again.

My lips are against your shoulder, neck, the hollow under your ear.  I graze the spot on your neck I know will make you moan and squirm. You shift and press your ass against my groin, starting to breathe a little more heavily.  My hand drifts along your contours, slowly; no need to hurry. I love the feeling of your skin against my fingertips. 

Soon I’m softly stroking your mound, spreading you open to stroke your hard shaft and downward to press against the flesh surrounding your hole. I tease the edge, pulling your wetness out, up, looping around your shaft and then back again. You make an impatient sound as I play just inside you, circling, stroking a few centimeters, and pulling out again. Your continued impatience and the way your hips are already pressing up inspires me to drive my fingers into you, hitting the accelerator hard. 

“Not so far this time, just press up.”

I pull my fingers most of the way out and push my fingertips up with a steady pressure against the corduroy bulge of your G-spot. I begin to stroke lightly, two fingers running. We get into sync quickly; it’s a dance we know well.There is a deep sense of empathy and connection between us, and I feel myself getting wet as I continue to stroke and press against the surging motion of your hips.

It doesn’t take long for you to climax, squirting around the palm of my hand.  You groan with frustration, and curse me “You fucker!” – because we hadn’t put a pad down. I move quickly to remedy the situation and once again we’re catching our breath.

Not long after, you request I get Goliath, your biggest cock.  At your urging, I force it into you and hand you the vibrator. You gesture for me to lie next to you.  Once again, I’m nestled against you, this time with a hand on the base of the dildo, doing my best to hold it inside you.  The strong muscles of your cunt continue to push it out and I’m glad I’ve been working out. I need every ounce of muscle I have!

You give me a prompt, between gasps of breath, something to tell me which game is afoot now.  This is where the magic starts.

“Are you gonna make me fuck all the men?” 

“Yes, all of them, anyone I choose, you’ll open your legs for all of them.” 

“Yes, yes” you pant. I struggle to keep Goliath in place as you bear down.

“In fact, I’m just going to post a sign on the power pole out front – ‘slutty cunt in #3, come up and fuck it’. They’ll line up, one after another, hard cocks in hand.”

“Oh, yes, yes!  I’ll fuck them all for you.”

“Yes, you will.  You’ll spread your legs and let them all in, one after another.  I think I’ll blindfold you, so you only know them by feel – furry bellies against you, heavy breathing and a hard cock forcing its way into your hole.”

There are patterns to these scenarios we build.  Repetition of key words and phrases that push you higher, for the same reason I dog ear specific pages in my favorite porn anthologies. “Forcing”, “hole”, “all the cocks”, “spread your legs”, “using your hole”, “all the men”… I build the sexy, slutty story with a breathy voice in your ear.  

“Are you going to let them come inside me?” 

“Oh, yes, all of them will come inside you and then they’ll leave and the next guy in line will put his cock in you.”

The idea of a line up of men waiting to fuck you raw feeds the slut in you.  You’re pressing the buzzer down and thrusting against the cock and I struggle to keep it inside you, it’s so slick now.  I continue to talk dirty, calling you a slut, a cock-hungry girl who needs to be fucked. It’s a very dirty story and you’re the star; you’re always the star of my dirty improv stories.

“You won’t know who they are,” I continue. “They won’t know you. No names, just hard, squirting cocks. They’ll just fuck you and come in your hole and then leave.” Your whole body lurches and you climax in a series of convulsive thrusts.  Goliath almost comes out all the way this time. 

“Put it back in! Put it back in!”, you cry and I have to use considerable force to follow your instruction. You come again, and then slow down.  Eventually, you tell me, “I can’t push it out, I need your help.”

I pull out the cock as gently as possible, which isn’t easy since your cunt is still holding on tight.  This time we both settle down, my knee over your hips, wetness against your hip.

I could start something up again. Instead, I let myself drift into a satisfied drowse.

This is the first story from what I hope is a series of “Erotica from Real Life” ™.

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Nonbinary: Memoirs of Gender and Identity

This book, more than 5 years in the making, is finally getting out into the world. Around 30 contributors share their personal experiences and journeys in discovering what gender means to them, in defying gender norms and finding a place for themselves outside the gender binary. Contributors have their copies and it will be available to the general public on April 9th, through all the usual places, as well as the publisher, Columbia University Press.

When I opened the package and pulled out my copy, I immediately found my piece, sat down and read it. I don’t think I’ve read it through in over a year. It’s not flawless, of course, I see all the minor mistakes that are left. It is however, true to me and my experiences related to gender from birth to age 53. I winced at some passages, knowing that family and friends might feel a pinch seeing how I describe my interactions with them about my gender. And it’s also all true. This is the beauty and risk of memoir.

The next thing I did was scan the table of contents. I found two friends who I didn’t know were involved in the project – a pleasant surprise. There are a whole lot of other folks I’ve never heard of, which excites me… all these nonbinary writers and thinkers sharing their stories. I want to know them all. I don’t think I’m over selling when I say this is a special book, a special collection. I knew immediately I wanted to make sure it got into the hands of other enby/nonbinary folks I know, as well as to my family and community. I want to see what I can do to get this book into the hands of people who work with gender variant youth and adults, and libraries. I put out an offer on Facebook to do a bulk order for family and friends who wanted to get a signed copy. I’ve been overwhelmed by response – way more people are taking me up on that offer than I’d expect. Some are other enby/trans/queer folks, some are friends from high school, family and other friends I’ve known for a while. I’m sure some want it because I’m in it, which is awesome. I hope they will read the other pieces as well and explore the world of gender questioning as witnesses and allies.

There is interest doing some kind of book tour, based on the locations of contributors. I’m definitely going to organize something in Olympia, so I’ll post info here when I have it. Super excited to get enby folks and allies together to celebrate this book and also the work and words of other nonbinary folks in the area.

I hope you will also order a copy, read it and be as amazed as I am by the quality, quantity and variety of experiences and viewpoints represented by the stories within. It’s available on a pre-sale basis at Amazon or Columbia University Press and other sources until the publication date of April 9th. If you have the resources, please consider buying an extra copy or two for a local LGBTQ+ youth group, PFLAG, educators you know, other folks who work with youth, or, if you are blessed to know an enby youth or adult who may not be able to afford a copy, please do! Spread the love and accessibility of these stories.

CK Combs, aka Kyle Jones, holding up a copy of Nonbinary book showing his chapter "What Am I?"

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Butch for Bears, part 1

I love wearing blue jeans, old pairs stretching to accommodate my hips, greeting me like an old friend whenever I pull them on.  I love wearing boots, love the solid way each step feels, the connection with the earth and to my butch predecessors. I get absolutely giddy about hair cut day, the way my hair feels when I run my fingers through it, the way it frames my face, revealing angles that are otherwise softened. I especially love the way my short hair creates confusion in some and recognition in others. The confused ask questions like ‘mister or miss?’, ‘girl or boy?’.  Recognition is delivered in the form of a chin lift or a knowing wink.

I especially love my jeans when I’m packing. At first, I was so self-conscious about the bulge, I’d push it further down so I could feel it but it wasn’t too obvious. Eventually, I stopped worrying about it and let it sit against the fly of my briefs. The presence of that solid mass of silicone changed my center of gravity, changed the way I walked. I already had a swagger, a confident stride, a “don’t give a shit what you think” attitude. The bulge was like a dollop of whipped cream on that attitude. I went from being afraid of what would happen if someone at work questioned my bulge, to being disappointed that no one did.  

Though, I undoubtedly confused some people with my gender presentation, my people knew exactly what I was. The femmes and other butches, the gay boys and Leather Daddies, trans folks, androgynous people of all shapes and sizes, drag queens and bears – my people had no problem relating to me, seeing me, celebrating me.

I never felt more at home than I did in a queer space with other dykes.  There is something so right about being with people who just understood where you were coming from, without explanation. We were buddies, exes, lovers, soon to be lovers or soon to be exes. As soon as I swaggered in, I got love, recognition and, on a very good night, a make out session in the corner booth. Everything a butch lesbian could want, I suppose.  

So why was I always glancing over at the corner where the gay men clustered?

I could say it was because I was checking out their footwear, or wondering what brand of jacket one was wearing because I thought I’d look great in it. I definitely admired haircuts and imagined going to a barber, though I didn’t have the nerve.  I could explain my fascination in these ways, though that explanation would be only partly correct.

The truth, though, the truth… It wasn’t something I could tell my girlfriends or anyone, really. I barely acknowledged the truth to myself.

I watched intently as big furry bear daddies presided over their cubs.  They were rough, but not cruel. There was something in the way they handled the younger men: mussing their hair, smacking their tightly clad asses, holding their squirming bodies while others took turns squeezing and spanking them. It made my clit swell and my cunt ache.

The truth was that when I saw those gay boys being cuffed and squeezed and fawned over by the bigger, older men, I wanted to be one of them. It was as though my masculinity was pulled toward them, like iron filings to their darkly bearded magnetism. I fantasized and masturbated to scenes where I was in their midst being touched and held, the object of a bear daddy’s sexual desires. I couldn’t get rid of this desire, even as I was surrounded by sexy women, who wanted to touch and fawn over me and pull me into the restroom for a quicky.

One night, when a particular femme showed up in her infrequent way, I should have focused on her and taken up our long-running flirtation. She was certainly in the mood and when we’d last seen each other the evening had ended in a very hot make-out session. I remember thinking that the next time I saw her, I’d invite her to my place. The indications had been good.  So why was I having a hard time keeping my eyes and mind on her when her hand was on my thigh and her breath in my ear? I should have sat facing the other way, because my eyes were tracking Gerry, a particularly handsome and muscular bear. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the bulge in his Carhartt’s. The Femme, realizing I was distracted, turned her attention to another butch.

Heading home later, I berated myself for torpedoing my chances. Instead of going home with a hot femme, I was going home alone.  Part of me was quite upset by this, the other part was looking forward to my nightly session with Mr. Hitachi and fantasies of Gerry, with his hairy chest and big cock.

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I’m writing right now

I’ve gotten started on the next story, an erotic story with humiliation kink. I’m just about the part where the sexy business happens and I’m already feeling hot and bothered about it. Hoping to have it finished for you by the end of the weekend. See you then!

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Humiliation Kink Finally Caught Up With Me

Humiliation play never appealed to me. Even watching it was difficult, though I have been witness to more than one such scene involving people I cared about.  I remember cringing inwardly, trying not to let my discomfort show. I wanted to be cool with my friend’s kink, not judgmental.

I’m not sure judgmental is the right word.  I really wondered why it was something they wanted, why it worked for them. Because I absolutely didn’t want some sadistic top screaming about how worthless I was, or what a sorry excuse of a human being I was or that I wasn’t worthy to lick their boots.

During the time I’m thinking about, my insecurities were too close to the surface, especially after I broke up with my Sir. I wanted tops that would appreciate me. Maybe they’d goad, push, be critical of my efforts or question my ability to in order to challenge me but I didn’t want their disdain or disgust. Even if it was feigned.

I’ve been to classes on humiliation as kink and found the topic fascinating but not attractive. At least, I didn’t until a handful of months ago. But to get to that point, we have to backtrack a bit farther.

During the time I was discovering a change in my gender identity and shifting from primarily female to primarily male, and before I started taking testosterone, I began to explore the world of online male-on-male hookup sites and apps. Adam4Adam was one such where I opened an account and created a profile and began cruising. I was curious about how men interacted with each other when the motivation was strictly hooking up.  I was also monumentally horny about having sex with gay men and at the same time shy and insecure about not being seen as male because of the obvious lack of the standard male sexual equipment.

I cruised and chatted with some of the guys but nothing came of those encounters.  I was very clear in my profile that I was a no-op, no-ho (1) trans guy, a guy with a vagina.  It’s not surprising that I didn’t get a lot of hits from guys eager to sex me up, considering the venue.  Though one guy who was an exception and I likely could have made something happen if I’d gone for it. He bragged to me that he’d fucked dykes before, butch dykes, and taught them to love cock and give blow jobs.  He promised me I’d enjoy it, too, and that he’d have me swallowing come and loving it.

{Writing that got my cock so hard}

I never did more than exchange some emails with the guy.  I got a dick pic and sent him a shot of my cunt and then I chickened out.  I stopped cruising the app and eventually uninstalled it.

Back to the present, minus a few months, and I’m wanking to my usual mix of gay male porn on PornHub when a video featuring a chubby, hairy guy stroking his dick brought back the memory of that guy who was convinced he could make any butch dyke love cock.  With a few embellishments, that memory became a humiliation scene that I have returned to over and over again with extreme success. I get off being told what a bad lesbian I am, how I can’t be a real dyke because I love cock too much. And so on.  

I’ve recently been reminded of another influence that contributed to that scene – Patrick Califia.  One of my favorite smut stories is one he wrote called Surprise Party in which a butch dyke is picked up by three cops and taken to an apartment to be used in various ways.  The top cop, in the backseat with her, forces her to suck his cock, all the while verbally abusing her about her obvious desire for cock, despite her public persona as a lesbian. Though I’ve spoiled a lot of the ‘surprise’ for those who haven’t read it yet, I left a few things for you to discover if you choose to seek it out.  I highly recommend it.

That I’ve found a humiliation kink that turns me on is not the only discovery I’ve made.  The other surprise is that the way I identify in this scene, every time, is very female. I’m not a trans guy, not even a pre-T trans guy, but a female-identified, butch lesbian.  That’s important to the humiliation and definitely ties it to the Califia story. The reason this is a big deal to me is that almost exclusively, even before I started taking testosterone, my masturbation fantasies feature me as male – cis or trans, or some transmorphing combination of the two.  I find it a bit amusing and curious that now, when I always pass for a man in public; now that my body is bear-furry and my head hair is thinning in an unmistakingly male baldness pattern, I’ve rediscovered my female self as an erotic embodiment.

I’ve utilized this fantasy about 90% of my wanking time over the last few months. After I shared this discovery with my Sweetie, we incorporated it a couple of times into our sexcapades.  They did a very good job as the guy who is convinced he can turn my butch lesbian into a cockslut. Hot. So Hot.

Now that I’ve talked all about these wank sessions I have and the scene that plays out in my head, do you want to get even closer, inside my head, inside that scene?  I hope so, because that will be my next post. See you then.

1 No-ho, no-op = no hormones, no operations

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My Multidimensional Lover

Let me tell you about My Sweetie.  After four years of loving, challenging and kinking with each other, we’re still finding new ways to find erotic and sensual pleasure.  Even when we were just a few months into our relationship, I already knew that the sex we were having was some of the very best I’d ever had.  That wasn’t just due to my lover’s dexterity and sexiness, it was due to the variety of ways we had already found to be intimate together. Sure, penetration is intimate, kissing is intimate, snuggling naked is intimate. Telling deepest truths is also intimate as is long, deep eye-gazing.

Almost from the beginning I trusted them with my deepest desires, some mundane, many deeply taboo. They made safe space for me by being completely open with their own desires, as dirty and depraved as mine.  In that safe space, we blossomed and grew and continue to grow.

Another secret to our continued sexual satisfaction is the flexible and mutable way we present and embody ourselves.  One moment I might be myself and the next a younger and more naive self, being led by someone older.  We play liberally with incest taboos and in a short amount of time might slip from me being the older and them being younger, to the other way around.  It’s nearly seamless and we recognize the phase shift from the smallest of cues – body language, voice pitch, terms of endearment.

Wrapped up in the trust and openness is a lack of shame.  We don’t shame each other for our kinks, and if one or the other is not into a particular kind of play in the moment, we just say so.  I still find it revolutionary to be able to make adjustments to what we are doing in the moment, to be able to say “please harder” or “more gentle right now” or to take my lover’s hands and guide them to the location that will send me to the stratosphere. I trust them to tell me what’s working or not, and they trust me not to take offense at the direction.  And vice versa.  We trust each other and that makes all the other pieces of our relationship success possible.

I could write a million words about how we do what we do and I’d never be able to communicate what it feels to be inside the shelter we’ve made for each other.  We can experiment, try something for a few minutes and and then decide to go a different direction.  We acknowledge that what worked last week or even an hour ago, might not work in this moment.  We are always changing, our bodies adjusting to our fuel levels, how full our bellies or bowels are, how much sleep we’ve gotten, the stress or anxiety we’ve experienced that day… all the variables of life can impact the way we feel in our bodies and what we desire in the moment.

They’ve just reminded me that I can’t really separate our sex life from our love life.  It’s all of a piece.  I love them deeply in part because of the trust we’ve established through sexual intimacy. I’ve revealed my deepest self and continue to do so as my personal excavation project continues. And with each reveal, they respond with love and kindness.  I do the same for them, my love for them grows as I learn more and more.

I felt the need to give a disclaimer, something about how ‘it’s not perfect, but …’  What is perfect when it comes to relationships? Is it having all our needs met all the time?  That may be the definition for some, but not for me.  A perfect relationship for me is one that I can relax into, be vulnerable inside. One where I can grow, learn and be loved unconditionally. And that’s why I can say, this relationship is perfect for me.

I think instead of trying to explain my use of ‘multidimensional’ to describe my lover and the sex we have, I should illustrate the concept with a little story.

I arrive in the evening, after saying goodnight to my youngest.  We’ve both had a full day of work and life, leaving us physically and emotionally drained.  We start by sitting on the couch, sharing about our days, sitting close.  Depending on the day, I might lean into them, or they might put their head on my shoulder.  Or their legs across my lap, which would lead to me petting and lightly massaging their legs.  We reconnect and relax by degrees.

Depending on our energy that night, friskiness may or may not make an appearance.  Let’s say it does.  They reach over to give my thigh a poke, making a guess as to where I injected my testosterone that morning.  I grimace or yelp, or both, and give them a soft punch in the chest. We exchange light punches and pokes, until they aren’t so light anymore and we’re both sighing and groaning.  And horny.  The giving and receiving of pain gets our bits hard and wet. We move to the bedroom, stripping in a hurry so we can burrow under the covers and get warm again.  If we’re smart, one of us grabs a pad because we are messy when we have sex.  Gloriously messy.

Skin, skin, skin.  I love the feeling of our bodies intertwined, hands roaming freely, probing, bringing the temperature back up. One of us will take the initiative in giving some direction to our activity.  Usually one of us does, though sometimes we’re both in a receptive mood, and other times we wrestle for dominance.  We are both switches, after all.

I jump up and get my harness and the long cock I love to fuck with. I shiver and curse myself for not thinking of this before I got into bed.  To torment them and make sure they share in my discomfort, I pull the covers fully off as I move between their legs.  There would likely be some tussling, some protest, and when my cock head grazes their cunt, a gasp of pleasure.  I slide in and they wrap their legs around my hips, urging me to go deep, and I do, with long slow strokes.

At this point, I am me, the trans bear making love to his sweetie.  At any moment, though, they might signal the desire for Daddy. Without missing a stroke, I am Daddy, fucking his little girl, telling her what a good girl she is, how Daddy loves her so much, how much better she is to fuck than Mommy, how he wants to leave Mommy and take his little girl with him.  She responds in kind, egging me on, telling me how much she loves her Daddy’s big cock even though it hurts, how she looks forward to coming home from school so she can sit on Daddy’s lap and wiggle while his cock gets hard.

And that might go on for ten minutes or a half hour.  And it may last the entire time we’re fucking or the scene might change mid-stroke.

“Daddy, remember when you said you were going to bring your friends over to fuck me?  I want that, Daddy. I want to make you proud of me and make your friends happy.”

And with that, I’m a friend, someone Daddy knows from work, someone who came over to fuck her tight hole while Daddy watches.

Or maybe I slip sideways into Brother. Or perhaps I’m the pervert neighbor who lives between home and school and I’ve enticed the little girl to come play video games with me while I finger her.

We have amazing orgasms together, the intimacy of sharing our kinks and the ways we know each other’s bodies takes me deep and hard.  Lying together in the aftermath, we catch our breath, get some water and might talk about what worked well, or what we could do differently next time. Or we might lie together in silence, held in place by the energy we created, the warm electric feeling of love and sexual satisfaction.

We probably aren’t done yet.  They will reach over and let their fingers swim in my wetness.  I’ll gasp and squirm, moaning as they stroke my little cock, moaning more loudly when their fingers slide inside me.  Though I was Daddy, or other male entities moments before, in this moment, getting kisses down my neck and across my chest, strong fingers penetrating me, the female part of me comes to the surface.  I whimper, I squirm, I wrap my arms around their strong shoulders and give myself to them.

“You’re beautiful, I see you” they might say.

Being seen is one of the most amazing ways to be told “I love you”. They see me, they see the sometimes subtle changes that signal the shift from masculine top to submissive female.  And even then, more shifts will probably happen.  My soft submission, my quiet whimpers and moans might transform into demanding hips and an insatiable hole.  My grip on their shoulders will tighten or I might grab their hand and hold it still while I fuck their fingers and meet my needs.

“Bite me, go ahead, I know you need it” they might say, after my teeth have grazed their shoulder a couple times.  I sink my teeth in, growling a little, my hips wild and my human thoughts retreating.  I’m wilding, letting the animal overlay the person, with concern only for my satisfaction. They hold on, braving my teeth, encouraging me to use my claws on their back, until my pace finally slows and I drop back to the pillow, spent.

Does that help show you the ways we morph and change within the space of moments? Sometimes at the end, when we are either finally spent or acknowledging the human reality of needing to be finished because it’s a work night, we’ll marvel at the distance we covered, the number of combinations we fit into a seemingly short amount of time.  But you probably know, if you’ve gone into the time warp that good sex can create, that time is truly relative.

I’d like to share more because there are so many more dimensions to the love I share with My Sweetie.  There are the times they are Daddy, and times when they are Boy.  Or Mama to my Boy.  And I barely touched on our Primal moments or the ones when one or both of us is an Animal.  And I have not told you anything about the kink we’ve been exploring, and the local kink club we go to and the conferences we’ve been to and the people I’ve met. And then there are the conversations we have about our relationship, about polyam, about … well all of it. There’s so much going on and so much to share.

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The Return

After a bit of a hiatus, I’ve decided to come back to this blog because I’ve got some new erotic stories developing in my head.

Until a couple of days ago, I thought my hiatus would be permanent, that Butchtastic would be trapped in the amber of its past and available to any new readers who discovered it, or readers returning for hot stories and nostalgia.  Can you believe this blog is 10 years old now?

The break was necessary.  So much of energy and passion I put into the blog was generated by relationships that have ended. Add to that my second child coming along in in 2009 and sapping my energy like a small, adorable vampire and you have a perfect storm to slow, and eventually stop, my blogging.

There’s also been a change in the blogosphere, in my opinion.  Back when I was posting regularly, there was a community of sex bloggers and readers who followed each other, commented and cross-posted.  All of which contributed to a rich and vibrant collective voice.

Another factor has been at play as well.  I started taking testosterone and changed my name and pronouns about 4 years ago.  That process kicked off a storm of changes in my life.  Some of those changes are in the sphere of sexuality, passion, arousal and desire, all balled up with identity (private and public) and  revival of my kink life with my new sweetie.  These are the topics I feel drawn to share with the readers of this blog.

I still get questions about some of the people I used to blog about and I’m going to give you all one blanket answer right now:  I’m not going to write about my exes here, or anywhere. So please no questions about how Roxy or Mrs. Kyle or others are doing.

If you decide to stick around to see what I’m up to these days, I hope you will take a moment to comment or send me an email.  Also, if you want to see a different side of me, you can check out my other blog, Adventures with Words, for information about non-erotic writing projects, book reviews and thoughts on current events.

Butchtastic will continue to be the place I post erotica, and explore kink, gender and sexuality.  Though I haven’t been blogging about any of this for a while, I’ve been going deeper into kink than ever before, thanks in part to my Sweetie.  My Sweetie was previously known as Red on this blog.  They are genderfluid and use they/them pronouns.

Will you come back for more?  That’s up to you.  Either way, I think it’s time to get back to the mission I undertook over 10 years ago… hope to see you here.

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Special Delivery: a Winning Story

For almost 10 years I’ve made good use of an Aslan Jaguar dildo harness.  By ‘made good use of’, I mean, I’ve had a lot of really hot sex.  I’ve been a fan since I first strapped on the supple leather with finished edges and a fit that helped me forget it was there.  Alas, it is showing its age and I must retire it.  That I had a Jaguar at all was not due to my superior shopping skills or bank account (they aren’t cheap).  Rather, I won via an erotic story writing contest.  I don’t know who all of the competitors were, but I do know who came in second place because they are a celebrated erotic writer and long-time friend.  I won my fabulous Aslan Jaguar harness because I wrote an erotic story that edged out one written by Sinclair Sexsmith, of Sugarbutch Chronicles fame. In every other way, Sinclair has edged (or leaped) ahead of me in erotic story success, so it has always tickled me that I won the Jaguar.

I never published the story here, because it was a gift to the sex blogger who sponsored the contest, Agent Ansely.  The rules were pretty simple:  write a story featuring the blogger and the harness and the writer. Write the best one (as judged by the AAagent) and win the harness.

This is the story I wrote:

Special Delivery

I remember arriving home and seeing the box on my doorstep.  I took a look at the label and almost danced a jig of happiness.  I think I giggled, even.  I put it on right away, standing in front of the mirror admiring my new profile.  As advertised, the Jaguar harness put the base of the Goodfella cock right against my clit, with the balls outside the harness.  I tested it with a few pulls and realized I didn’t want to wait to try it out on someone else. Normally this would have the night my girlfriend and I spent together, but she’d called earlier to apologize.  Some emergency had come up at work, and she had to cancel.  The timing was crappy, we’d both been anticipating the delivery of my new gear.  But I decided not to sit around and have a pitty party, instead I got ready quickly and headed out to try my luck.

No cover charge at my local queer bar that night meant I could budget an additional beer, or maybe a drink for someone else. There weren’t many people in the bar yet, it was a mid-week night after all. I nodded to the bartender and ordered my beer and a shot of good reposado tequila.  The tequila matched my aggressive mood. The barkeep gave me a wink along with my change.

I moved through the bar, scanning the few patrons scattered about. Some dykes playing pool, a couple of gay guys in their 20s talking animatedly and laughing loudly with their hands. The pool playing butches stiffened noticeably when I scanned their dates. I liked that, I felt like a shark that night and I wanted to broadcast it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of their girlfriends give me the top-to-bottom once over, pausing noticeably at my crotch.  But I wasn’t looking for a fight, really, so I kept going past the pool tables, along back of the bar.

I took a spot on the rail overlooking the dance floor. A small number of people had positions close to the floor, waiting for the music volume and crowd level to rise. I moved down to my favorite booth, more room than I needed, but comfortable and with a good view of the dance floor and surrounding tables. I glanced around again, noting the groups and singles, wondering which singles were waiting for someone, or like me, on the prowl.

I stretched one leg out on the booth seat, and adjusted myself.  I was still getting used to the harness and cock, but overall it felt pretty good.  Once I was comfortably situated, I took another scan of the room.  A new person had arrived while I was messing with my package. Her eyes met mine directly.  I took a sharp intake of breath, she was literally breathtaking.  White dress shirt, blood-red tie, dark grey pinstriped vest with matching trousers, red pumps, dark grey fedora with blood-red hat band.  I couldn’t tell because of the lighting and distance, but was sure her nails and lips matched her tie.  Hot goddamn, she was turning butch high fashion on its head and kicking its ass.  I always have been a sucker for a tailored suit on a femme.  My clit pulsed against my cock.  I finished my slow appraisal of her and found that she was still staring hard at me.  She had a faint smile, a knowing smile, and I found myself squirming under her gaze.  She took a slow sip of her drink, taking the straw between her lips with exaggerated care. My mind raced, should I recognize her?  She reminded me of Chrissie Hynde in the 70s:  slim, confident, dark-hair and eyes.  Who was she and where did she come from?  She completely out-classed anyone at this small town bar and I wondered if there was a show in town, something that would have drawn this exotic creature to our humble burg.

I took a glance at myself, and feeling unworthy of the attention I was receiving.  I hadn’t done much to turn myself out for the night, just rocking the casual working class butch look I could easily pull out of my closet at a moment’s notice.  With the exception of my new cock and harness, there wasn’t much special going on in my wardrobe, and I wasn’t sure she could tell I was packing.

I looked up again and she had turned her attention to her phone and drink.  She still had that small smile on her face and I was certain she knew I was looking at her, watching her thumbs and wondering who she was texting, if someone was coming to meet her.  She was so gorgeous, so completely out of the ordinary, others were looking her way as well.  She was very casual about it all, as if she was completely accustomed to being the center of attention and completely deserving.

The booths and tables were filling up and the first few dancers were getting warmed up in the center of the room.  I tried to watch her, see if someone came to meet her, weighing the odds that a small town butch like me could get a dance or two with a babe like that.  She was now studiously ignoring me, not looking at me, intent on her phone.  I finished my beer and started to get up, figuring I could make a move toward her, or at least walk by on my way to another beer, when a group of friends swarmed my position.  A flurry of hugs, back slaps and enthusiastic greetings followed and I invited them to share my booth.  By the time I looked back over to her, she was gone.

“Damn,” swore under my breath and cursed my lack of initiative.  One of my friends asked what was wrong.  “Nothin… there was this girl, but she’s gone now.”  As soon as I could, I excused myself to go get another beer and moved away from the group, not at all certain I’d return.

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, figuring I was all dressed with no one to fuck after all.  I was tasting the bitterness of my own insecurity, kicking myself for not going over to her, trying anything to start a conversation.  How about something easy like “Do I know you?” anything would have been better than letting the opportunity pass.  I moved through the crowd along the rail, eyes not really focusing on much when someone grabbed me by the belt and yanked me off my stride, away from the rail.   I turned with sudden irritation, thinking it was one of my friends.  And there she was, hands on my shoulders, pushing me against the wall.  She spoke to me in a sultry, smoky voice, “And where do you think you’re going? Hmmm?”  Her voice was the verbal equivalent of the knowing smile she’d given me earlier.  Again, my mind raced, who was she?  She looked familiar, but I didn’t know if it was just the Chrissie Hynde thing, or something else.

I asked the question and she responded with a deeply amused chuckle, “You don’t recognize me, that’s funny.  You don’t recognize me, but I know who you are, Kyle,” The way she said that name made a shiver go up my spine.  Shit, she knew who I was online, who the hell was she?  I didn’t bother asking again, I had a pretty good feeling she’d just laugh at me and keep the information to herself.  She grabbed my belt, pulling me in a possessive way.  My hands clenched and unclenched with the desire to reach around and grab her, touch her in some way, but she was so clearly pulling top on me that I didn’t dare.  I’d gone out that night as the hunter, but I’d become the prey.

She released her grip on my belt and told me not to move.  She reached around and grabbed my ass as if she were testing its firmness.  Her hands slid slowly around my hips and I bit my lip against a groan.  She held her body close to mine, but we didn’t quite touch.  One hand went between my legs and grabbed my cock.  “Uhhnn,” I groaned out loud that time, the sound drowning in dance music and the babble of the passing crowd.  Silence or sound, it wouldn’t have mattered, she knew she was getting to me, that my knees were quivering and small spasms kept running through my body.  I could barely hold still and she’d hardly done anything to me yet.

She let go of my cock and pressed me into the wall, pushing her thigh between my legs.  I dipped against her leg, wanting to feel the pressure of my cock against my clit.   I automatically reached for her hips, sliding one arm around the small of her back.  She put her lips against my ear “Still don’t know who I am?  Letting a total stranger play with your dick and tell you what to do?”  I stammered something completely nonsensical and she chuckled, a really lovely, if sinister, sound.  “Come with me.”

She turned and began striding toward the exit, leaving me almost stumbling to keep up, feeling the slickness gathered behind the base of my cock and running down my leg.  I was also feeling the effects of that shot of tequila, and the blood rushing away from my brain, into my groin. What was I thinking at that moment?  Thinking, are you kidding me?  There was no thought, only desire.  I didn’t care what she had in mind, I just didn’t want to miss out.  Somehow, this gorgeous, strong, fierce woman wanted me and I wasn’t going to let any insecurity or doubt ruin my opportunity.  We emerged from the bar and she took a few strides down the sidewalk.  I had a chance to really see her move, finally.  The sway of her hips, the strong determined stride, the way she ran her fingers through her dark hair while resettling her hat, mmmhmmm, she was so fine, so put together.  She turned and gave me a once over.  I felt distinctly like a piece of butch meat as her eyes appraised my thighs, crotch, arms, chest and face.  The outdoor air helped my mind clear slightly, and I was feeling a little more like my cocky self when I looked her straight in the eye, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked in an amused tone.

She turned again and walked around the corner, not looking to see if I was following.  And I was, like a moth to a flame, like a drug addict following a dealer.   She went a short way, then turned into an alley.  I stopped at the entrance, she sensed this and looked back, “Stopping now?  Don’t tell me you’re chickening out… I know how you are, I’ve read all about it.”

Oh, shit, I’ve written about this and posted it, sex in an alley, she was playing back one of my smut pieces.  In fact, this was *my* alley, the one I’d written about, but only one person knew this alley specifically.  Who the hell was this mystery woman, how did she know who I was?  I began to have the sneaking suspicion I’d been set up.  Even with that thought hovering in the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop my feet from jogging to catch up with her.

As I pulled up next to her, she turned toward me, pulling my arm and getting me off balance, shoving me in the direction of a dark doorway alcove.  I caught myself before falling and turned toward her.  She pushed into me, grabbed my face and pulled my mouth to hers.  She forced her tongue in deep, easily fighting off my efforts to reciprocate.  She broke contact abruptly, stared at me as I fought to regain my breath and my composure.

“On your knees,” she commanded and I didn’t even question her right, dropping quickly to my knees in front of her.  I could feel the grit and dampness of the pavement, and knew there was a good chance I’d sport bruises by morning.

I looked up at her, trying to read her mind, then looked at her crotch.  The odd way her pants draped in front caused my butch cock to twitch hard and I started to salivate.  She reached down, unzipping.  She pulled the front of her trousers apart and revealed red lace panties straining to contain a thick cock.  “Oh, god,” came out before I could stop it.  I was staring at the twin brother of the gear I was wearing under my jeans.

She grabbed the hair at the nape of my neck and jerked my head back, directing my eyes to hers, “You want it, don’t you?”  I could feel resistance flare up in me, the  hair grab did it every time.  I knew she could see it in my eyes but she didn’t say a word, just pulled my head back farther and stared me down.  I laughed at myself inwardly, who was I to resist at this point, when I was already on my knees in an alley way?  I felt my rebellion pass, and uttered a single word, “Yessssss.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,”

She reached down with her free hand and pushed her panties down, releasing her cock.  She pulled my face toward her, pushing her cockhead against my mouth.  She paused there, apparently relishing the sight of a butch on his knees ready to suck femme cock.  She pushed her thumb into the corner of my mouth, opening it.  I didn’t resist, letting her direct me, feeling the moisture, once again, gather between my legs.   She pushed her cockhead into my mouth, and I had the weird sensation that I was sucking my own cock and felt another pulse as my butch cock reacted to this mental image.

I gave myself over to her cock, sucking, licking, pulling it further into my throat than was comfortable, gagging a little then settling into a rhythm with her hips.  She held my head loosely, but I knew she’d be quick to assert her control if necessary.  I slid my hands up the back of her legs, gripping her ass, pulling her cock more firmly into my gasping mouth.  I opened up and let her fuck me with it, bucking my own hips in an effort to get off with her.  I gripped her cock at the base, thumb against her balls, pushing into her clit, wanting to make her come, wanting some kind of control.  She allowed it, and maybe she was letting herself go a little, I could hear her gasping breath and knew she was getting close.

She suddenly took two handfuls of my hair and impaled me on her cock, holding my nose against her harness, seemingly unconcerned about my need to breath.  I struggled and attempted to inhale through the leather.  My climax hit me then, speared on her cock, struggling for breath, being exquisitely used by this stunning woman.  At about the same moment, she cried out, once, grudgingly giving me what I’d worked so hard for.  She loosed her grip, allowing me to breath, and continued to fuck my mouth in slow long strokes.  I was holding on for dear life at that point, knees aching, jaw forced open for too long, feeling bruised from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat.  But I held on, and she finished, finally withdrawing herself and leaning against the back of the alcove above me.  I shifted, trying to relieve my knees and she reached down, lifting me up.  She pushed the full length of her body against me, and we kissed long and deep.  She allowed me to slip my tongue into her mouth, and sucked on it the way I’d sucked her cock.

She pulled back, slowly this time, lingering over my lips, letting me run my hands across her body.  She sighed and stepped back, tucking her cock back in, fastening her trousers.  I looked her, still trying to figure out who she was, and why I’d had the good fortune of being taken advantage of by her tonight.

She knew what I was thinking, of course, and laughed at the questioning look on my face. “You still don’t know, do you, Kyle?  Well, that makes this all the more delicious.”

She glanced at her watch and then toward the street lights at the end of the alley.

“Hey, uh, so what are you doing now?” I was trying to be casual, desperately trying to regain my cool.

“Oh, I’m going to walk out of here and get into my car and drive away.  You’re going to do the same.  You’re also going to call your girlfriend and thank her for the wonderful time you just had.”

“Wha,wha, huh? Who are you?” I was stunned and confused and stammering like a fool.  I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment, all my confidence and cocksure attitude washed away with the sudden realization that I’d been set up and by whom.

“Oh, you’re cute alright, she said you would be.  This has been great fun for me, too.  You’ve got a great mouth,” She delivered that praise with a leer and then turned, making her way back up the alley.

“But who are you?”

She stopped, looking over her shoulder.

“Ansley, Agent Ansley.  And you’re very welcome.”

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Living up to Our Words

I read this at Olympia’s Equality March for Unity and Pride today:

This is the Equality March for Unity and Pride

Pride … Unity…. Equality….

Powerful words, powerful enough to bring us together today. But what do they mean? I’ve been thinking about what they mean to me…

What is Pride?.. I have been joining my community to celebrate pride during the month of June for a long long time. It’s been awhile since I gave much thought to what that word means to me. Some people equate Pride with Boastfulness. I equate Pride with not being Ashamed I don’t march to boast about being queer and trans. I march because I’m not ashamed that I am a queer transgender man.

I gather with my community every June, because I am not ashamed of who I am and I am not ashamed of who you are either. I am proud to come together with all of you to celebrate our ability to survive and to work for social justice and to see the joy we have in community.

How about Unity?… this one’s a bit trickier, I think. Can we achieve Unity even if we don’t completely agree on everything? Can we be unified on the basis of some overarching truths and goals, even if we don’t agree on how to reach those goals?

For example –

Can we agree that trans women should not keep getting the shit end of the stick any more?
And can we agree that trans women of color should not have a gigantic target on their backs any more?

Can we agree that our gender and sexual minority children and youth should be allowed to grow into adulthood, to be healthy and happy and allowed to pursue their dreams without threat of assault and rejection?

Can we agree that our gender and sexual minority elders deserve to be cared for, cherished and protected as they become more vulnerable?

Can we agree that immigrants don’t deserve to be labeled enemies and that our indigenous people deserve respect and acknowledgement for what they have given up in order for the rest of us to be standing here today?

Can we unify around the fact that this is a dangerous time for all marginalized people and we really do need each other? We need all of our efforts, and all of the methods, tactics and ideas we can come up with to counter the hatred that endangers our most vulnerable people every day. I would like to think we can unify around those ideas.

So what is Equality?… my son and I were talking about this the other day. What does equality mean to you? Does it mean we all get equal portions? Is it about a level playing field, whatever that is? We arrived at this explanation – Equality means no one should get an automatic disadvantage based on the color of their skin
or who they love
or how they relate to gender
or how their brains or bodies work
or their economic class
or where they came from before they were where they are now.

Privilege is advantage. Working toward equality means working toward a time when there are no automatic advantages for being a particular skin color or gender or class.

There are a couple more words I think relate to our purpose in coming together today:

One is Inclusion. What does it mean to be inclusive? Is it enough to put the right sequence of letters on the flyer for your event? What are we doing to make sure people know they are included? Words are not enough, actions speak much more loudly.

Actions like, choosing venues that are accessible to people with mobility and transportation challenges.
Actions like, paying attention to where we are advertising, what publications and media do we choose and what businesses do we post our flyers in. Are those locations being accessed by the people we want to feel included?
Are we choosing venues that allow for participants of all ages to join us?
What message are we sending based on who we choose to be up on stage, with a mic, getting the opportunity to share their thoughts and truth?
Being inclusive is not just about the words we put on our flyers, it’s about the whole process of planning, organizing and advertising.

I have one last word — Connection. This work we are doing for ourselves and each other is hard work. We can’t do it alone so we gather in groups. These groups usually form around similarities, that’s how we’re wired as humans. These groups can do a lot of good and there is no doubt that we need to gather with our peers at times to recharge and be seen. I believe we also need to reach outside of the comfort of those group and connect with others.

Imagine a strong network of people of all ages, all colors, all origins, all abilities uniting behind common goals, even if we don’t always agree on everything. How do we make that happen?

I think part of the answer is by making Connections with each other. Take a moment to look around I’m betting there are people here you haven’t met yet. I’m betting there are people here representing viewpoints and contexts you aren’t well versed in.
Are you up for a challenge?

Before you leave here today, make a connection with someone you don’t know, someone who can teach you something new.

Maybe you’re shy and that seems like a daunting task. So maybe the connection you can make today is eye contact and a smile.
Eye contact and a smile … that’s some powerful stuff right there, even if you don’t exchange a word.

I believe there is great power, even in that simple and brief connection. When I meet someone’s eyes, my humanity recognizes their humanity, and for a moment we are connected deeply, even if our contact is a few seconds of eye contact and a smile while passing each other on a sidewalk.

I invite you to make connections today and to consider what these words mean to you – Inclusion, Unity, Equality and Pride.

I sincerely hope you leave this event ready to take action. I know each of you can make a huge difference for all of us.

Thank you for your time.

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What I’ve been up to

I recently realized that it’s been quiet a while since I last posted, since October 2016. I’ve been busy working on what I consider my most ambitious writing project to date – a full length fiction novel.  I’ve got some very specific goals and in order to meet them, I needed to narrow my focus.  To that end, I’ve gone on a hiatus from actively updating this blog.  While on my hiatus, I’m considering whether I’ll come back, and if so, what I will do with this space. For the time being, I’m going to keep Butchtastic online and available.

I can’t guess at your emotions in reading this, dear reader.  You can certainly tell me via comment or email if you choose.  I want you to know that I’m excited about what the coming year has in store for me artistically.  This project, the one I’m putting my efforts into, it’s a lot of fun and engrossing and I am super excited every time I sit down to work on it.  I do have a recommendation for those of you who wish to have an ongoing source for fresh butch erotica – BD Swain.  There’s a writer to swoon over, for sure.  BD is a regular on eLust and on any list of top sex bloggers in recent years, and will be for years to come.  I haven’t met BD yet, but I know that when I do, I will enjoy that meeting.  It’s going to happen.  Please make BD Swain’s blog a regular part of your internet routine.


Quick direct message to those who have left comments on other people’s blogs asking about me:    Your concern is touching, however I am curious as to why I’ve not seen your questions here, or in my email inbox.  Leaving messages elsewhere and getting impatient at the lack of result is a bit like standing on someone’s door step and demanding they get a message to someone living several streets away, and getting huffy and pissed when that person closes the door on your face.  It’s just not efficient or polite.  As always, you can ask any question you want of me.  Remember that I reserve the right to answer or not answer – asking a question does not entitle anyone to an answer.  Even though this is the internet, people tend to respond best when we act the way we would when meeting someone in person.

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