Looking through old photos as I kick off a new project. You like pictures? You like dirty stories? Stay tuned…
Anonymous asked: "she wiped her mouth after every sip" it is those simple details that pull me in so deeply to your stories. For me, reading has always been difficult. In grade school I hated reading time and now as an adult I am still plagued with the inability to trudge through most books. I blame it on ADD, I can barely sit through a 30 minute TV show. But, on rare occasions, I find an author who can capture my seemingly elusive attention. I read your stories with laser like focus that astounds me. Thank you
Oh my, thank you for telling me such things.
It was the sound of her boots on the sidewalk that buckled me. God damn her. Coffee. Seemed innocent. “Let’s talk,” she said, as if we could manage that without the sudden swerve and crash. Big fucking joke. Every time I saw her face, I thought, “Too much damage,” and then fell right into the middle of it all again. Over and over. The swerve. The crash. All that damage.
We sat there. She stared at her coffee. Poured too much milk and too much sugar in. “Candy coffee,” I said, like I always said, and kicked my own goddamn shin under the table for saying something I always said. I drank my tea. Fuck her and her coffee. She mumbled. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She’d stare up at me, sad eyed, and mumble something about how things were good with her and her new girlfriend. And I’d think, “Fuck you and your fucking girlfriend,” and say, “That’s cool. I’m good too.” And then she’d stare back down at her coffee and maybe stir it and sip it a little and wipe her mouth. She wiped her mouth after every sip. Every bite. I used to think it was adorable. Now I wondered what the fuck was wrong with her.
We held our dialogue close to the script.
"How’s your job?"
"It’s stupid. It’s not my real job."
"Are you quitting?"
"Yeah, I need to quit."
"But are you looking?"
Silence. She looked out the window pretending that she recognized someone which I knew was just a bullshit way of avoiding the question.
"Fuck it. Find something else."
Silence. A sip of coffee and her napkin across her mouth.
"I’m serious. You hate that job. You should find something else." I kicked myself again. What the fuck do I care? I’m not her goddamn mother. I’m not her girlfriend.
"I’ll work it out."
It went like this. On and on. Pointless. Irritating. Me saying shit I didn’t really want to say. Her avoiding my stupid questions. Rubbing our raw wounds up against one another. Stupid. I got another cup of tea. We sat there mostly silent. I tried to remind myself why I was sitting here. “Let’s stay close,” we decided, “Let’s not be stupid and ignore each other and pretend this never happened or feel like we have to hate each other.” I was so sick of that bullshit. The scene was too small for that crap. So many people you had to call up before a party and tell them, “So and so, your ex, will be there,” and blah blah blah and then phone call after phone call about what a shit this or that person was and how they can’t stand her anymore and won’t be in the same room and fuck that fucking crap. Fuck it.
Right. Okay. That’s why I agreed to go sit down over coffee and watch her stare silently and mumble about her new girlfriend and pretend that we’re all casual with each other and it’s cool. I blew out my breath and ran my fingers through my hair. I leaned way back in my chair and spread my knees wide. Butch to butch. Here we are. We can be buddies, right?
I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side. Boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curve of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head towards one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here.
It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t 10 in the morning yet and I felt the buzz hit me half way into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me, saying, “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I’m pretty sure what she’d do without me is exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said, “Me too.”
"You’re my best friend, you know," she said and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the barstool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. "Fucking jerk," she said and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guess. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff. Just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.
"I need to piss," I said and slid off the barstool, walking slow towards the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in these jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelein sink that would pull right off of the wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. "Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go," I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot. Really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirt tails. I looked at my teeth. "I’m stalling," I said out loud and turned to go back.
"Rudolph Valentino," she whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. "Errol Flynn," I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, spit covered fingers shoved into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do.
The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.
I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.
She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I am going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.
I moved slowly as I turned around and put my palms flat on the door. My boots slid apart as I stuck my ass out for her. I closed my eyes and opened my throat when her arm snaked around me, her hand grabbed my belt. All the anger left me. All the frustration and hurt melted. I had her. Now. Right now. She wanted me and I was right here. Any thought of how she didn’t love me disappeared. All my tortured images of her fucking someone else vanished. Whatever pain I had would be made physical.
She punched at my clit through my jeans. Her head pushed into my back between my shoulder blades. I could hear her crying. “Shut up and fuck me,” I said. I needed her angry or desperate, not sad. She shoved my head against the door. Pain shot through my head. We were both suddenly struck as if by lightning. She unbuckled my belt but left my jeans buttoned as she scraped them down and off over my thighs. My underwear was pulled down too. She left them just below my ass. The elastic bit into my thighs. One hand held my head against the door and the other jerked my ass back against her. She slammed her hips against me. Slamming her jeans, her cunt up against my bared bottom. Without warning, her fingers jammed into me. Her other arm gripped me tight around my middle. Her head sunk against my back. I heard her boots scraping the wood. I heard her grunt. “Fuck me,” I spat out anytime I wanted to say something else.
I rolled my ass higher for her. I wanted her to see how I craved her fingers deep inside me. “Don’t you want to fuck this ass?” I snapped. She pulled her fingers out of my pussy and grabbed my neck, starting to drag me down the hall. I straightened up and stumbled toward her bedroom. Shuffling with my pants still around my knees. I crawled onto her bed without being led and pulled my jeans down to my ankles for her. “This,” I said and wagged my ass at her on all fours, rolling my back. I heard her open the closet. Her box. The glove snapping onto her hand. The wheezing sound of her nearly empty bottle of lube. “This?” she said hoarsely and I felt her in my ass. “Yes,” I said and now my own big fat tears rolled down my face. I buried my hot, shameful face in her blanket and brought my fists to my chin. I pounded my ass against her as much as she slammed into me. “Harder,” I spat through my teeth, “Harder. Harder. Harder.”
I wanted her to hurt me until I couldn’t feel anymore. None of the pleasure was there. Nothing left of the way it feels when you’re in love or think you’re in love or at least aren’t in that category of ex, lost, already used. That’s how I felt. Already used. The empty wrapper of something that tasted good a long time ago. I was crying. She was yelling. No words, but something animal. Something hurt.
This is what I needed. This last fuck where everything felt desperate and wrong. The one that would remind me not to do it again. This is what I wanted. I don’t know about her. I didn’t care.
She fucked me hard in the ass for a long time. I finally reached down between my legs and jerked my aching clit off for an orgasm that hurt like a pulled muscle, a deep cramp. I doubled over on my side and held my knees to my chest. I felt the snot dripping on my upper lip. I didn’t care. She was on her back in front of me. Her chest heaving up and down. I saw her smile. Her wide grin. Her eyes open and darting around. That clean look she gets after she fucks me.
I fucked her too. Her knees thrown up by her shoulders. All of my fingers and nearly my whole hand inside her. I leaned my weight onto her shins. She held her knees. I fucked her hard and fast. Nothing mattered but her feeling the ghost of me in her cunt after I left. The raw places on her skin.
She holds her breath just before she comes. The veins bulge in her neck. I watched her. I waited. It was time. She jerked her whole body and nearly knocked me off the bed. I slid off the mattress onto my feet, pulling up my pants. I didn’t say anything as I turned to go. “Wait,” she started to say but the word cut off halfway, “Yeah, nevermind,” she ended.
Walking home, I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag and very suddenly felt more drunk than I thought I was. My stomach pulled back into a tight ball and I knew what was coming. “Just get home,” I said to myself. A mantra I chanted block by block until I turned the key in my door and ran to the toilet to throw up. “Fuck,” I said to myself, my head in my hands, and let the tears cleanse my sweet face. I was okay. I really was. I knew it.
Anonymous asked: I was thinking about break up sex. I think it'd be really interesting to read a story with your twist on the end of relationship feelings.
Yes! Break-up sex! Interestingly, I also got a request for a story about the very first time. And I’ll be getting to that story soon. But let’s start with the end.
Hi. You read my blog. At least sometimes you do. And right now you are. Thank you.
I’m working on a few things off-blog. I’ve got some exciting ideas and something cool in the works. I’ll tell you about it all as soon as there’s a little more meat on the bone. But in the meantime, you might have noticed that I’m not posting new stories as often as usual.
But… is there something you’d like? I always love it when someone asks me for a particular fantasy. Some really sexy stories came from reader requests, including one of my personal favorites - Gone Daddy Gone.
Go ahead and ask me. I love it when you know what you want.
Nobilis Erotica : Quiver and Arch Moment 002: Get In Me Daddy by B D Swain -
Quiver and Arch feature my story Get In Me, Daddy in a podcast. And I love the way it’s read. I hope you enjoy it.
Let me know.
BUTCH is a beautiful portrait project from Meg Allen Studio in Oakland @megallenstudio:
BUTCH explores the contemporary butch aesthetic, identity and presentation of female masculinity. It is a celebration of those who choose to exist and identify outside of the binary; who still get he’d and she’d differently throughout the day; who get called-out in bathrooms and eyed suspiciously at the airport; who have invented names for themselves as parents because “Mom” nor “Dad” feels quite right; and who will generally expect that stare from the gender police trying to figure out if they are “a boy or a girl”. It is an homage to the bull-daggers and female husbands before me, and to the young studs, gender queers, and bois who continue to bloom into the present.
Because Meg Allen is a beautiful soul…
I first met Meg when we sat down over a meal to talk about this project. We talked about a lot of things that resonate deeply with me. We talked about embracing the word lesbian (as well as butch). We talked about that fact that we are women. We talked about breasts. Our breasts. Butchness. What is uncovered when we unbutton our shirts. How we are laid bare. And butch. And ways to hold onto whatever it is we mean when we say it.
I told her to close her eyes. She wanted it to sting. #veryshortstories
I want to touch her pussy every day. I want my fingers inside her. I want to sit down next to her and unbuckle my belt and see how quickly she slides to the floor between my knees, her fingers on the buttons of my fly. “Fuck me,” I say.
I want to see her bent over the bed in a short dress with white cotton panties peeking out. “Let me see how wet you are,” I say and push my fingers into the cotton, in between her lips, wetness soaking to the surface. “Let’s get you soaked,” I say and lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, her bottom exposed, before I swing the palm of my hand down onto her ass. I spank her, feeling the soft cotton of her panties.
"Come here," I say.
She asks me, “Where?”
I never answer.
I tug her panties down over her sweet, reddening ass. “Let me do what I want,” I say and she so readily, so sweetly nods her consent. I swat at her flesh. I kiss her curves. I watch. I watch for that arch of the back, for the thrusting hips. That moment. When I see it, I smack her several more times, staring at the red fingerprints that surface, and then I gently pull those sweet, cotton undies back up. “Let’s check,” I say and spread her thighs. I pull the cotton hard between her legs. I run the tip of my nose up and down the length of her pussy. “I want to smell you,” I say and reach my tongue deep into the cotton, between her folds of flesh, tasting her. I suck the cotton into my mouth. I stay like this for awhile.
"I’m going to jerk off on you," I say and stand up, lowering my pants to mid thigh. I rest one arm across her shoulders and let my hips fall against the backs of her thighs. My boots slide out from under me a little. I scramble against her. One hand moves under the elastic waistband of my underwear. I let her feel the back of my hand as it pulls on my clit. I can taste her pussy in my mouth mixed with the light scent of her detergent. I suck on her exposed skin. Her upper arm. Her neck. "Climb up," I say and she adjusts herself so she’s fully on the bed. I climb onto her back, rocking my hips against her. I’m too jacked up to come. I picture my cock inside her.
I pull my wet hand out of my pants and press my knuckles against her panties. I slide them up and down. The cotton is wet. Wetter. I keep pushing against the cotton. Feeling for her hole, hidden beneath. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say, pleading. I want to beg now. I want her to let me. I push these fingers, my cock, against her and let her feel my hips. All my weight leans into these fingers. This stiffening part of me. “Let me, baby,” I say and run a finger against the edge of fabric that’s cutting into her inner thigh, “I want to be inside your sweet, little pussy. Let me in.”
I push and rub. I beg. I plead. I whisper all the things. How much I want her. How good I know I’ll feel inside her. How I’m crazy for her. How I want to come. Want her to come. Want to feel it all.
She doesn’t lift a finger. She doesn’t move. Sweat stings my eyes. I need her. I can’t wait. I grab her wrist and pull it hard down between her legs. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say and finally, slowly, she pulls the cotton aside. I see her sweet hole. I linger, knuckles grazing her slick, swollen lips. Until, with a hand flat and pushing her deeper into the mattress, I jam my fingers into her. “Yes,” I hiss, my arm pumping hard. Nothing sweet. Everything ripe and being plucked. Taken. “Let me take everything,” I spit at her, wild and heartless now.
I roll her over onto her back. “Let me know you like it, baby,” I say and she sucks on one hooked finger and nods. Eyes wide. I pound my fingers inside her over and over. Her panties still held to the side, the elastic cutting into my hand. Tentatively, after what feels like so long a time, her hand crawls down to her clit. I see it, pink and waiting. She looks at me and I nod. We nod at each other. My hair sticks to my forehead. She jerks at her clit and I feel her body stiffen and stretch. Shaking. Shaking. The room trembles with us and her low, animal moan. Her howl. It crawls out of her throat with its belly close to the ground as we come. She comes. For me.
This is how it sometimes is. This is how I like it.