Femme Daddy 4 Femme

Sugar, a pale, fat queer with freckles, black lipstick, and black eyeliner, reclines against the wooden headboard of a bed. Their hair is cyan and short, falling to their ears. They are wearing a black babydoll that is split down the middle and red underwear. They are gazing directly into the camera, head tilted to the left ever so slightly, and holding one tail of a black suede flogger in both hands in front of their face, biting down on the middle of the tail.If you’re looking for something sexy, have a sweet and true story snippet from my first sexual experience as a femme Daddy. (Which is pretty fucking great, y’all.)


[CW: Sexually explicit, DDLG, orgasm control.]

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“Oh, Daddy…”

She’s squirming beneath me, the pitch of her voice octaves higher than usual, her breathing ragged and her hips rotating, supple lips parted, lashes long and dark over her cheekbones, eyes rolled back beneath her eyelids. I press my hand harder into her cunt through her short shorts, applying the pressure to her vulva that I know she craves – firm, unerring rubbing, massaging the legs of her internal clitoris, sending warm satisfaction through her groin and tingles into the head of her clit as it continues to swell.

“You have to tell me when you want to cum, babygirl.”

I shift the layers of my skirt to leer over her, press the Die Cast against her clothed cunt, and lean into it, savoring the feeling of her body shuddering under mine. She immediately takes her mouth off the pillow and tries to muster the words. It’s cute, her incredible responsivity, the soft noises she makes, the way she begins to pant so easily when she’s swamped with lust. I drag the long nails of my other hand up the bare inside of her upper thigh. Eventually that sweet, small voice comes back out.

“Now, please, Daddy…”
“Okay kitten… bite the pillow then, Daddy’s going to make you cum.”

She stuffs the fabric into her mouth as I turn the Die Cast up, squeezing one of her breasts and rubbing the wand up and down her vulva. The Die Cast is already starting to numb my fingertips, holding it as close to the head as I am, but it’s worthwhile – I know it won’t be long before I get what I want from my girl. Her muscles are twitching and she begins to tremble beneath me, her quickening breath beginning to hitch in her throat. I bump the vibe up another notch.

“Oh, that’s a good girl… Cum for Daddy, babygirl.”

She lets go, squealing into the pillow, convulsing under me as I hold the head of the toy against her, watching that sweet expression on her beautiful face – her curls falling over one of her eyes and obscuring everything but the black, sharp tip of her flawless winged eyeliner. When her convulsions slow and she curls in on herself, I turn off the vibrator. We had five minutes to get that orgasm out, and I want us to be prompt about her departure so I can respect my roommates’ boundaries.

If I didn’t have to send her home, I’d keep the vibrator on against her cunt, hitch up my skirt, and ride it down into her until we were both exhausted and soaked. I’d part my outer lips and show her the slick, convulsing, pink parts of me, dripping after the languid and intensely hot making out, the feeling of her tits in my hands, the frustrated, whiny way she whimpered, “Daddy…” when I bit her earlobe. I’d let her stroke and probe, show her how I liked it, let her explore every curve and crevice I had.

And then, I’d give her my Sailor Moon pajama shirt to change into for bed and hold her afterward, my naked body against her, kissing the back of her neck and lacing my fingers through hers until we fell asleep together in a room reeking of incense, make-up, perfume, and sex.

Love For All Seasons

if your fingertips
were rivulets of rain
roping down my chest,
i would close my umbrella.

if your lips
brushed my ear like the
faintest flutter of a butterfly wing,
i would sow milkweed,
fructified by delighted moans.

if you sang me
the verse of your true name,
i would memorize every note
until i hummed it in the shower
and heard it in my dreams.

i will never know how to ask
without shattering fine glass,
so silently,
i entreat you:

be the summer storm
my humidity breaks upon,
whose first peal of thunder
is met with welcome gasps.

be the crisp breeze
between my autumn leaves,
sending branches trembling
with every gust.

be the fireplace
that warms me from top to toes
when winter’s gale is too icy
to untangle our bodies.

be the rivulets of rain
that rope down my chest,
that wash away my anxieties,
and spread me open to greet the spring.

The Gap

I’m thinking I have to stop giving blowjobs before my Tinder dates touch my genitals, if I ever expect to get my vagina touched.


Another (“different”) man
zips up hastily,
kisses me, and
leaves again.

Rides off
on his horse
(of promises),
easily broken.

The asphalt
beneath his tires
glitters (with apologies)
in his wake.

I didn’t want him to stay
forever, but I wish he’d stayed
long enough
to make me cum
(too).

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Rescuer

[This is sexually explicit. CW: Mentions of caning, knife play, chain fisting, watersports, and PTSD.]

*****

*****

to the guy
for whom i was going to write an erotic poem
except
you ghosted me after our 3 overnights:

after you
charmed me with
a calculated sadism
balanced by a wickedly sexy,
affectionate, daddy smile.

after you
vibrated my core,
showed me the secret of
weighing liquid
in troy ounces,
cooked me eggs.

after you said you would
work with me through
my trigger, to
find life past it, where i don’t
have to stop
every time i get so hot
my body rebels.

after you
told me you
“fucked kinky, dated vanilla”
whatever that means…

probably that
you’re actually much
too normal
for me to slut around with after all.

probably that
you give time to the
girls you can take home to mom.
and i promise you,
i don’t wanna meet anybody’s mother
again.

probably that maybe
something didn’t click, that you went
through the motions
(kink dynamo
daddy extraordinaire
sensual sadist)
with amazing efficacy of demeanor
that had me slightly smitten.

probably that
i could see a way
where our two minds could meet
and we could learn
and laugh
and fuck, but
you couldn’t.

but really, i think,
after you saw
red wine, secondhand, on
your white marble floor,
after you saw
my undignified husk,
convulsing, sick and
teary-eyed, on the warm
wood in the bedroom

of your
white picket fence home
next door to soccer moms
who don’t know
you put a chain in my cunt
you put a cane on my ass
you put a knife on my skin.

i don’t think you could un-see it.
i don’t think i could un-feel it:

still, now, retroactively, mortified
that i did this all over again.

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Pinball Wizard

[CW: This is sexually explicit.]

******
******

to the guy
who made me melt by
catching my eyes and
winking
with an affectionate grin
while his cock was in my throat:

when i danced and
shit talked your router while i
adjusted your wifi settings
(only because
i offered)
you stuck your head in from
the balcony, and, with
understated gusto, said,
“i like you.”

the time you spent
plying my nipples with fingertips
while I stroked your cock
in traffic
surprised me with how much
intense pleasure
i derived from
my breasts
alone.

i love the way you deftly
wind my ponytail around your hand
before you pull my hair.
i savored the way
it made my
entire
cunt
tingle
like electrical static
as you controlled my head that way
and sucked my lower lip ’til
i whimpered.

and i love that,
while you didn’t use dominant words,
you still expressed it
with firm, decisive touch,
guiding me to what you wanted,
and never pushing back
if i had to pull away.

i sucked
the shaft of fire
between my lips
as you watched.
trent reznor singing,
“there is no fucking you
there is only me,”

as I pumped my
fist and
moved my
lips and
curled my
tongue
over every vein.

i rode you
until my knees protested,
twisting and writhing
as you squeezed my tits,
making my cunt clench around you,

until there was no you
there was no me
there was only fucking you
and I could live in that moment
forever.

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Tiger

[CW: This is sexually explicit.]

*****
*****

to the guy who kissed
like his presence in my life,
which is
fucking THERE:
occupy as much of me
as you desire.

when you held me
you cradled me
in your arms, with
no stress, no hesitation.
our embrace had
no preparation
no trepidation
only desire
tinged with tenderness,

while your tongue
made your presence known
behind my lips
and in my brain.

every night i
cup my hand over my vulva while I
think about your mouth and
your arms around me as i grew
hotter and
squirmier and
needier and
deliciously small in a way
that almost felt new.

i remember
the quick dip of your hips
as the tip
of your cock
hit delicious places while
filling the hungry, empty spaces
in my cunt,
zones of intense pleasure
i barely remembered i had.

and my thumb traces
my lower lip
as i think about it wrapped
’round the head of your dick,
tightly across the edges of your
latex-shrouded cock
slick with my juices.

condoms would all taste better
if they were me-flavored,
but every night i put my fingers in
my mouth, and I think,
“they’d probably be better
if they were you-flavored.”

Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates: The Freedom Fighter

Hi gang!

One day I will write a long post about my move and my new life. I will not be doing that today.

This evening I did a video interview with Nicholas Tanek of Your Kinky Friends, so check it out here! We discussed gender, kink, my most embarrassing sex story (CW for vomit), my favorite toys, sex blogging (with some advice for new bloggers!), and some delicious word association. Also, if you enjoy the work of everyone taking part in YKF, give them a follow on Twitter: @FriendsKinky

The other thing I’ll leave you with is the start of a new series: Poems I’ll Never Send My Tinder Dates.

CW: this is sexually explicit.


to the guy who kissed
like he wanted to crawl inside me:
i want you inside me too.

i want to relive
the way you seized me
through my anticapitalist melody,
and kissed me like
you couldn’t resist me,
all-consuming –

everything you’re doing is
(so good) on the mouth,
making heat flood every
single
solitary
inch of me
south of the
waist, where your hands wander
up my skirt again.

i want to pull back
your foreskin,
you’ll spread your legs
to let me in
to the warmest,
tightest
part of you,

like i want you inside me too.

Pros and Cons: The Golden Age of Hookups

I have a theory that we are entering the golden age of hookups. Technology has given us the means to find people to have sex with more easily than we ever could have in the past. Twenty five years ago, you went to bars or book clubs. You put out personal ads or bonded over BBS. In the year 2017, you can literally find strangers to have sex with using a phone. I’ve begun fleshing out this theory by examining a few of the pros and cons of hookup culture in 2017.

Photo of a Chinese woman and man in dress clothes kissing on a balcony in front of beautiful orange fireworks.
Photo by Jeremy Wong on Unsplash.

This shit is easy.

Pro: Oh. My. God. This is so easy! I can sign up for websites like sexwithnostrings.com/us/meet-and-fuck from my couch. I can browse Tinder when I’m in the car. I can use text messages to talk dirty to someone from the toilet, if I desire.

Con: Oh. My. God. Does nobody put any effort into this because it’s so easy? Apparently ease of use is a pass to do the absolute bare minimum to get laid. Which, like, that’s fine, you do you, and I’ll do me, but I wish that dating and hookup sites had an option for me to check saying that my potential matches had to at least demonstrate a little effort. Filling out a profile with words that actually tell me something about you is a good start.

The internet is a kinkster’s paradise.

Pro: You can meet some super fucking kinky people. The low-stakes nature of sites and apps during the Golden Age of Hookups means that people are so much more likely to be up-front about their kinks and desires. It’s way easier to ask somebody to drink your piss if you didn’t even have to change out of your pajamas to do it and you’ve got five other matches messaging you. I have way more luck finding people who will admit that they like erotic asphyxiation online than I’ve ever had finding them in person.

Con: You can also meet people who are super boring. Sometimes these people are also kinky, and maybe they’re just otherwise boring. Their interests don’t catch my eye (which is fine, I just don’t match with them) or they aren’t good conversationalists, or they’re bad at sexting.

I haven’t sexted a ton of people since joining Tinder – in fact, only one person has made the mistake of trying to sext me, thus far. It was a mistake because he was super bad at it, and he disqualified himself when he kept bringing up transgender people like they were fetish objects. (Admitting you’re nonbinary on Tinder apparently attracts a ton of chasers.) I don’t know if “you do all the work and I’ll tell you I like it” is standard sexting strategy for cis dudes on Tinder, or if this guy in particular was just really dull, but basically all he did was ask me questions about things I’ve done that he was clearly beating off to in between two word replies. For someone who talks openly about sex on the internet, these conversations are *not* masturbation material for me. This is boring, run of the mill stuff. Me telling him this was no more intimate than me tweeting about it, and I don’t masturbate to the stuff I tweet from Sugarcunt.

If I wanna jerk off thinking about the people I’ve had sex with in the past, I’ll do so without stopping to text some rando the story every few minutes. If someone tries sexting me and they’re bad at it, they’ve ruined their chances of meeting me in person. I’m turned off by boring, low-effort sexting. If you’re a shit sexter who can’t be bothered to say something that will turn me on, why would I want to see what you’re like in person? Exactly.

A wider net.

Pro: You’re not limited to people in your immediate local area. While the point of most hookup apps and sites is to meet and fuck, not everyone is looking to get together in person immediately, if at all. Some people are content to have distance hookups and relationships, and those are totally legitimate too! Not being limited to people in your town, state, or even your timezone can be a super amazing thing, especially if you live in a remote area where you don’t have a lot in common with the locals, like I used to. This allows you to find a relationship that you can fit into your schedule, too. You know what sucks about dating when you’re on the graveyard shift? Trying to get together with daywalkers. You know what you can do in the golden age of hookups? Date somebody in another timezone. You may not fuck together in person often, but I promise you, it is refreshing to find someone that wants to fuck you who is on a similar sleep schedule.

Con: Managing a relationship with a person in another timezone can be difficult, especially if you *aren’t* on the same wake/sleep schedule that they are. Long distance relationships (LDRs) aren’t for everyone, and while it’s awesome that LDRs have been greatly enhanced by modern technology, that time difference will foil even the best-laid plans sometimes. You have to honestly evaluate whether you can maintain a relationship in the face of those difficulties. If you can, it can be an amazing thing. If you can’t… well, set the allowed distance for your potential matches really low.

This golden age idea has been so fascinating for me, and it’s been on my mind a lot lately, especially thinking about how dating has changed so rapidly in the past few years. I’m going to explore this topic further in the upcoming months. If you have any thoughts about this topic that you’d like to share, I’d love to read them! Comment below, tweet me, or e-mail me at sugarcunt [at] sugarcuntwrites.com!

This post was sponsored, but all opinions and experiences shared are my own.

Lavacunt Erotica: Challenge Accepted

Hello, my friends. It has been a while since my last post, because I spent the first two weeks of August at the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit and then at Spacewitch Retreat. You know what sucks worse than con drop? Con crud and double con drop. **Finger guns.**

I finally got my shit together to write a guest post about my nonbinary identity and gender fluidity for my sweet friend Taryn, who runs the blog Ace in the Hole. But I wanted to post here before the end of August as well, so I figured I’d drop a short piece of erotica in for your reading pleasure.

Lately I’ve been writing erotica for the first time in years, because I’m trying to move away from my destructive habit of judging all my writing before I even finish a paragraph, then deleting it all. Examining my submissive and DD/little fantasies is helping me suspend that judgment.

Continue reading “Lavacunt Erotica: Challenge Accepted”

Subsurgence

Content warning: Some of this is sexually explicit.

There is a tiny part of myself I buried for years. I didn’t realize I was doing it… it’s kind of like when you forget what used to be your favorite song. You just don’t hear it for a while. You don’t think about it, or when you do, you can never go listen to it at the time, for whatever reason. You definitely have had other favorite songs since then. One day, you are standing in a grocery store, fondling the watermelons and bananas with your characteristic overzealous lechery, hoping to make strangers uncomfortable while you try to remember how to tell if melons are ripe. Your old favorite song comes on the speaker, and as you catch the familiar strains, you yell, “Oh shit y’all, this is my JAAAAAAM!” and then you’re dancing in the grocery store and they ask you to leave because you have made two children cry. (True story: one time I inadvertently made a kid cry when he accidentally saw my boobs. But that’s a tale for another time.)

Anyway, the song thing, that’s what happened when I had my subsurgence, which I define as a rushing resurgence of submissive feelings that you thought you weren’t into anymore.

This is different from the time my ability to be physically aroused was missing for over two years, which I liken more to when you heard a song on the radio a bunch in childhood, but can’t remember any identifying characteristics that would help you look up what the song was, so you just kind of muddle along wondering if you’re wrong about how it sounded, or if it’s your musical Candle Cove, until one day it comes on while you’re walking down the produce aisle, distracts you, and suddenly you are having feelings in your pelvis telling you that you just slammed your vulva into the corner of a fruit display. You’re like, “Oh, shit, it’s Carmen Songdiego!” You couldn’t remember the song until now, you just knew it existed somewhere out there, probably.

The subsurgence is actually weirder than the returning arousal. The arousal induces bittersweet thankfulness. The subsurgence is weird because I thought those desires were shelved, collecting dust, never to be touched again, until something funny happened.

Funny things happen sometimes in the information age. Like when you friend somebody on Facebook and discover they’re friends with someone you know from another country that doesn’t run in any social circles you both share. Or you and your best friend or partner message one another from totally different places about the same thing at the same time, totally unprompted. Or you say you’re romantically monogamous, hate country music, you’ll never do long distance or date cis men again, and then like 20 days after you meet a cis dude who lives in New Zealand, the realization sinks in that you’re in bed listening to country songs that remind you he’s your boyfriend.

Anyway, this particular funny thing that happened was that I met said boyfriend, whom I’ll call Root, for the sake of some vague semblance of privacy on the blog. Root not only unshelved and uncorked the bottle of my submission, but took the time to shake it up so that everything that had settled at the bottom mixed back in. Suddenly, combined with my bodily arousal being available to me again, the discussion of submission sent a churning flow of molten lava coursing through my pelvis. I’ve grown a greater appreciation of domination over the past decade, but the arousal from submission remains unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Photo of Sugarcunt in a glittery turquoise silicone ball gag. They are looking up at the camera with brows raised and hazel eyes wide with anticipation.Suddenly, I wanted to be a fucktoy again. I was finally back to feeling arousal at the idea of having my hair pulled, my ass slapped, and being verbally put in my place. To be conquered and subjugated. To be teased until I said the filthiest, most desperate things. To worship reverently, to have no secrets or experiences of my own because I’m being mind-controlled through the use of pleasure, temptation, and an extremely persuasive degree of dominance. To be exhibited, mildly humiliated, and be driven further and further into the maelstrom of my desires, fueled only by the throbbing need consuming my entire body. To be forced to come until I cried and begged to stop. No more words. No more thoughts. Just my entire being dissolving into screams of agonizing ecstasy.

My entire life was almost entirely devoid of dominants, except for a very short-lived online play partner and a long distance girlfriend I had tons of phonesex with. It has been a decade of having to always ask people for spankings if I ever want one, or having to tell someone that I like being called a slut, then hearing them say it, but not feel completely comfortable with it. A sub, sub-heavy switch, or vanilla person topping me just to be accommodating results in a level of uncertainty and general lack of enjoyment that bleeds through the scene, for me. I become self-conscious while I’m trying to submit in that circumstance. I do not get submissive arousal from someone doing something they don’t enjoy just to serve me. So I started thinking I just wasn’t into subbing anymore… but then I met Root.

Turns out, when I finally connect with someone who not only likes, but wants, to be dominant, they rattle my cage, and a spark ignites. Is it the flame of self-defense? Or is it something more primal, fueled by an organic, effortless chemistry? I try to resist as the flames engulf me, but they inevitably consume me. I succumb to the fire of his deepening voice, his rhetorical questions, and his deeply erotic threats. I die and rise from the ashes: a malleable, fresh, tabula rasa ready for his will to be writ large across my surface.

That’s what subsurgence feels like.