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.

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 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.

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.