butch/femme Archives

Mr. Sexsmith – Sweet and Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut

Sinclair Sexsmith has a new book for you Sweet and Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut.

In the preface to this collection, Mr. Sexsmith writes, “I deeply believe that the personal is political and that being transparent about one’s life is a spiritual path.” It’s this belief that, in my mind, makes Sinclair’s smut some of the absolute best I’ve ever read. It takes a writer who knows themself to take you here, to the place I find myself after reading these stories. This is a real life introduction to there person behind the stories, a firm handshake from the confident butch who ends one story with the beautiful and simple statement, “My name’s Sinclair.”

Yes. You’re pleased to meet them. Sinclair Sexsmith has a dirty mind and a cocksure grip on their pen, taking you deep inside these sixteen fantasies. This collection is not a quick fix. These are slow stories that burn like booze in the back of your throat and make you just as dizzy.

You will love this because it gets you off. You will love it because it’s sure of itself. These stories were written to suck you inside of each and everyone. Sinclair knows exactly how good they are at doing just that.

You will love the cocky swagger. The control. The quick pull and thrust. But it’s the poetry woven throughout this smoking hot smut that will leave you breathless. “She tastes like the night air in summer when it’s about to turn fall and the trees are beginning to shiver their leaves. I still taste like whiskey.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Several perfectly crafted moments make me want to see the dirtiest, uncensored, queer film noir movie that I always wish existed. The collection kicks off with sweetness. Milkshakes. Fedoras. Garters. The movies. The swinging barstools at the counter. The warm slice of pie. A pretty lady and a cocky butch. And moves confidently into the roughness of calloused fingers, bruising grips, and filthy dumpsters. I wanted to watch a young Humphrey Bogart, or better yet, Lauren Bacall, lean into a dirty doorway and say, “You know how to get fucked, don’t you?” The stories are visceral. Filled with urgent desire and dark wants.

I found myself jotting down quotes as I devoured these stories. I wanted to share so many with you, but I resisted the urge. You have to find these moments on your own. You need to. It’s the way they unfold within the stories. These little moments that pause in exactly the right spot.

It’s silly to try to call out a favorite, but I was incredibly struck by the story “Her Mouth on My Cock.” I felt like I knew what this story was going to be after reading that title. I was wrong. This is a beautiful stream of consciousness work of prose filled with lust and the need to release. Not just sexual release, but a need to be released from your body, the present, everything. This is a story we’ve all lived in one way or another. I read it in a very personal way. I felt myself inside what, to me, was a deep sadness. The rush of thoughts. The clenched desire. So sweet, this story. Incredibly beautiful. A gift.

This is a writer who loves to fuck. You feel it because these stories are sex. The way they build, rush, slow down, observe, swerve off in a new direction, spin out beyond the edges of your fingertips. You will find your mouth hanging open. Your fingers primed. You will want to fuck. You will feel fucked. You will know something intimate about the writer. You will.

Buy it from Mr. Sexsmith and support them directly (and most effectively): http://www.sugarbutch.net/sweet-and-rough.

The book is also available at Amazon.

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Fine Things Destroyed

She called me a brute. It’s fair. I can be a brute. Coarse. She wore her full slip. I call it white. She tells me it’s bone. She says that’s different. Subtle.

Her dress was yellow, a butter yellow silk. I can describe the colors. I can do that. A butter yellow dress. A bone white slip. Her peach colored bra with matching panties. Everything soft. I picked out her clothes for tonight. I laid them out on the bed. Each item held its own place, as if outlined on the bedspread beneath it.

Pearls, a choker, fake but pretty, something she’d always fancied. The yellow silk dress had a zipper up the side and sweet short sleeves that moved in the breeze. I set out a creamy light colored garter and her nice stockings. Everything was special. Everything fancy and rarely worn.

I dressed in my dark blue suit. Dark blue and butter yellow always strikes me as classy. No stuffy black or smoky grey tonight. Let’s be lighter and feel more expensive. My shoes were a fine brown and matched the suspenders worn over a light tan shirt. Everything ironed, crisp, brushed. I waited for her. This is my favorite time. I sit. My legs wide, my pants pulled tight against my knees, I stare at the door.

When she comes in, I take her things. I fix her a drink. I draw the bath. “We’re going out,” I tell her. She eases into it all. I watch the day disappear from her face and shoulders. She sips her drink, slips into the bath. I leave her alone.

I go to my dresser. In the top drawer, inside a lone sock, is my knife. I hold it in my hand and stroke it with my thumb. Wood. It’s shiny from years of handling, rubbing. It belonged to my grandfather and then my father. It’s simple and beautiful. Perfect. A dark, oily brown. Smooth. The blade has been tenderly cared for. There’s not a nick in it. I was taught how to sharpen it, how to keep it safe and clean.

My knife is my dearest possession. I said this once out loud and she asked about herself. But no person is a possession. She is my dearest sweet woman and that is all and enough. I hear the bath drain and slip my knife into my pocket just like I always do.

I bring her the towel and hold it when she steps out of the tub. I wrap it around her shoulders. I rub her back. I rub it on her thighs and behind her knees. I dry her back first. She holds her arms out and I wrap the cotton around her. I dry her. We’re silent. We don’t always do this. But it’s a small ritual on the nights when I surprise her in some way. She surprises me with something every day. It’s a small thing to return.

We went out. She took my arm. I always beam when we walk like this. I look like a drunk with my shining red cheeks and a stupid grin on my face.

We went for a light dinner and then a brandy at her favorite bar. All through supper and at the bar I caught myself fingering the smooth, sweet knife. The feel of it in my hand tonight gave me a lump in my throat. I had trouble keeping up with the conversation. I had to repeat her words in my head to stay focused. Mostly I stared at her and smiled. She laughed at me. She blushed. My absurd devotion made her laugh at me but in the kind way she has. She reached around my shoulders and tugged on my collar. She twisted her fingers in my hair and ran her nail down behind my ear.

Inside, back home, I switched off the lights. The city lights streamed through the window. I stood in front of her, face to face, and walked her backwards up against the wall. I took her wrists and pushed them up, sliding them up the wall above her head. She stared at me, breathing harder. I let her feel my breath on her cheek. “You’ve spoiled your dress,” I whispered in a low growl, “You’ve sweat through your yellow silk.”

I kissed her neck and held her wrists up above her head with one hand and slid the other into my pocket for my knife. I opened the blade between my teeth. The metal in my mouth tasted like blood. She sucked in her breath. I edged the blade carefully under her necklace and pulled towards me. It snapped and the pearls dripped to the floor, scattering everywhere. She squeezed her eyes tight. I licked her where the necklace had been. “Good,” I said, “It’s okay.” I kissed her on the mouth. Greedy tongues. “Turn around,” I whispered.

She didn’t hesitate. She turned and pressed herself flat on the wall. Her cheek turned and I imagined the cool plaster on her skin. I held the knife against the wall and kissed the back of her neck. I dropped down behind her and lifted her dress until it was gathered at her waist. I bit her ass through her panties and felt her muscles tense.

I tugged at her garters. The blade sliced through and the elastic snapped and stung her thigh and my fingers. I pinched her stockings, pulling them away from her legs and ripped the blade down the backs of her legs, sometimes letting the smooth back of the blade graze her skin. I helped her out of her heels and ruined stockings. I licked her ankles, her calves, behind her knees. I jerked at the waist of her panties and drew the blade quickly down. I had to pull them down her thighs to cut them in two. The halves fell away to the floor and I buried my face between her legs.

Her pussy, her scent, her taste made me delirious. She pulled away from the wall to give me room. We moaned together when my mouth took her in. My tongue pushed between her lips before drawing a slow circle around her clit. The edge of my knife pressed into her thigh and I heard her cry out. It was a small cut. A thin, red line. I kissed it and licked it tenderly. “You’re being so so good,” I said, “Trusting me. So good.”

“I want you on the bed,” I told her. I stayed crouched on the floor and watched her walk into our room. I picked up a pearl and stuck it under my tongue. I waited until I heard her body sink onto the mattress before I followed.

She was on her back on the bed with her arms drawn up above her head. I crawled over her and spit the pearl into the hollow of her collarbone. She laughed at me. I laughed. And then I kneeled beside her with my knife and cut the side of her dress. The tip of my knife has a small hook. It stuttered against the silk, pulling out threads like tiny hairs. I peeled the dress off of her and saw her now in her full slip. Bone. I couldn’t destroy it. Too simple and sweet. I balled it up greedily in my fingers and pulled it over her head.

The bra was sliced up last. The blade quickly cut through each strap and then I cut the elastic between her breasts. She was naked. I was sorry to be done. I looked down at my chest and sliced off my own shirt buttons. She tugged my shirt open and pushed my suspenders off my shoulders. I closed my knife and put it on her belly before letting my weight fall on her. We kissed with my knife held between us. Her hands were on my ass trying to get into my trousers. I pushed up on my arms and she slid her hands around my waist to undo my pants. Her hand reached in to find my cock.

I love this. I love it when she’s naked beneath me. My shirt and pants hanging open. Her hand on my cock guiding me inside her. Seeing my knife on her belly made me shiver. “So good,” I whispered. We fucked feeling the wood, smooth and warm, between us. The knife fell off when we rolled and she moved on top of me. I picked it up and placed it on my own belly. She was about to come when I said, “I love you. You know that, right?” She curved over me and kissed me with her tongue deep in my mouth. Our bodies were still except our tongues, almost desperate in their tangling movements. Slowly we started fucking again.

We fucked for hours. We started and stopped and finished and then started again. We fucked until we ached and cried for sleep. At some point I drew my knife in a long diagonal across the sheet. I wanted to buy new sheets knowing why we needed them. Remembering.

She fell asleep first. I stared at the lit up window and felt a little sad. I loved that dress. But it was just a possession. The memory of it and how it got ruined is more than the thing itself. I turned to set my knife on the bedside table. Her book was there. Wilkie Collins, The Woman In White. She was slowly working her way through it. I opened it and made a thin cut in the middle of a page near the end. I smiled at myself. Like a brute.

That Hint of Skin

My friend dragged me to a fundraiser. I hate large rooms crammed with people I don’t know especially when I know the drinks will be watered down and the hors d’oeuvres cheap and skimpy. We walked in and I saw the trays of cheese and crackers with a bunch of grapes propped up in the middle. Fuck. I grabbed a glass of wine and sucked it down as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself.

I smiled a big happy smile and hissed, “I hate you,” through my clenched teeth. My friend smiled. She squeezed my arm. “I know you do,” she said, “but I had to come and you need to meet people.” She was right. I needed to get out. I looked around, “Find her for me,” I said.

We scanned the crowd silently. Right away it was clear that there was a problem. “When did all the lesbians get married?” I asked. “Shit,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

A fundraiser. Shit. This was stupid. I grabbed another glass of wine and some cheese cubes. “Let me get you a plate,” I heard her say. I turned around with my mouth full of cheese and saw this woman, she looked like a silent film star from a different era. Smoky eyes, bobbed hair, she had a natural smirk that sat on her lips like she was just about to laugh at you but knew how to keep her composure.

She was working. Her service uniform made that clear, but she also showed herself. Her white blouse was unbuttoned one button too low, exposing the white lace of her bra. She wore a short skirt like all the other servers, but her stockings glowed. These weren’t standard issue. She was wearing heels at least 2 inches higher than the others with a pair of elegant stockings. My first thought was to wonder why she was working here. My second thought was that she must be an actress.

She handed me a plate. I acted gruff and nodded, trying to hide the fact that I had just stuffed my mouth with cheese. I felt myself start to blush and turned around quickly to shake it off. When I’d calmed down, I turned to look for her and saw her on the other side of the room heading into the kitchen. Her stockings had seams running straight up the back of her legs and I saw a flash of silver as she took a long stride, exposing her garter. “Fuck,” I thought, “She’s stunning.”

I looked down at my clothes, brushing cracker crumbs off my trousers and looking for the white dog hairs that always tend to plague me when I wear dark wool. I tucked in my shirt and tugged my pants just to my hipbones. I pulled the suspenders off my shoulders and let them hang down. I needed her to notice me.

“I need you to talk with me,” I grabbed my friend, “I have to look social.” She laughed at me and started to scan the room. “Holy fuck,” I said, “Over there,” and nodded in her direction. She had re-applied her lipstick. She looked like a dream. She held a tray of wine glasses and made her way through the crowd. “Wow,” my friend said. Nothing more to say after that. We chatted about god knows what and I kept my eyes on my beautiful server. She was near us but looking the other way. “Where can I get a real drink?” I said loudly. She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled before she kept moving.

I headed towards the kitchen. I met her as she headed back in for a fresh tray. “Where can I get a real drink?” I asked again. “We only have wine or water,” she said. “When do you get a break?” I asked. She looked at me, squinting her eyes. I love this squint. It’s true, when you squint at someone you can see their aura – their sane or insane glow shines like a beacon. I passed the test. “There’s no break,” she said, “I’m done when this is over.” And she walked back into the kitchen.

I watched her. I switched to water so I wouldn’t be hammered. I looked at my watch. Fuck. It was only 9pm and this thing was going to drag on until 11. I needed to plan our escape. Clearly this would be my test. I love tests. Every door had to be assessed. There was a door that led to a small waiting room. It must have been a green room of sorts, something used by speakers when the place was set up as a lecture hall. It was perfect – small, private, with a narrow couch and a small desk.

There is only one way to sneak into spaces like this. There is only one way to disappear in a crowded room. Look official. I walked up to her and spoke loudly, “Follow me, please.” I said it in a normal tone. There’s nothing wrong here. Nothing to notice. It’s just business. We walked to the door, I opened it, and she followed me in. “Let me take your tray,” I said, setting it on the table by the door. I kept her there, her back against the door. There was a low lamp on but otherwise the room was dark. My eyes needed to adjust.

I stared into her eyes and felt with my fingers for the hem of her skirt. I lifted it slowly, stopping before I exposed her panties. She looked shocked, frozen, “I don’t do this,” she said. I hushed her before she could say more, “I do,” I said, “You don’t have to.”

My fingers traced the edges of her garters. Slowly, I moved my fingertips from her stockings up her thighs until I reached the edge of her panties and then I traced the other side of the elastic. “Oh god,” I whispered and moved my hands behind her to the backs of her thighs, tracing the edges there, “Oh god,” I repeated. I felt her breath on my neck. She leaned her head back against the door. I slid my fingers under the elastic and gently caressed that hint of skin. I leaned my face into her, but didn’t touch her. I let my breath warm her neck. I let her hear my desire in my breathing.

I kept one hand on the back of her thigh and brought the other between her legs. Both my hands on one leg and then the other, focusing only on this tiny area of exposed skin. My knuckles accidentally brushed against her panties and she gasped and pressed her full back up against the door, “I can’t” she said. “Hush,” I told her, “You don’t have to. I will.” I tried to kiss her but she turned her head. I followed her and moved my lips just out of reach of her own. Her eyes were squeezed shut. I rubbed my lips against her. I teased her with my tongue. My fingers moved between her legs, lightly brushing her through her panties. My tongue teasing her lips and my fingers teasing her clit.

When she couldn’t take any more, she grabbed my head and pulled my mouth onto hers. Her tongue was strong and needy. I almost pulled away. I moved my hands and softly pet her ass while we kissed hard, hungry, for a long time.

She was opening up, starting to press against me. I slowly lowered myself. Slowly, slowly my knees bent. I nuzzled inside her blouse. I kissed the swell of her breast. I put my hands on her hips. My legs burned as I lowered myself so slowly to my knees. I grabbed her ankles and applied enough pressure to make my request. She spread her legs for me. “Wider,” I said. She spread them a bit more. “Wider still,” I whispered, letting her feel my warm breath through her panties. My lips just above her. She was so shy and slow, it took several tries before her legs were wide enough for me.

I let my lips graze against her panties. I could smell her. My lips felt the dampness seeping into the fabric. I ran my hands from her ankles all the way up her thighs. Her stockings were so silky and smooth, her skin so soft. I didn’t want her to remove a thing.

I lifted her skirt a bit more and kissed her through her panties. I let my lips drag against the fabric. I pulled on the edges with my teeth and let the elastic snap back against her. I pressed my tongue into the fabric and felt the folds of her pussy. I licked her from her ass to her clit, my fingers still teasing the edges of her garter behind her thighs. She moved against me now and I sucked on the fabric, taking her clit into my mouth. My fingers slid under her panties and climbed up the curve of her ass. I pulled just enough to expose her pussy and pushed her panties aside with my lips and tongue.

Now we could hear my mouth on her. The hushed party on the other side of the door muffled most noises, but my mouth on her pussy was beautifully loud and disrespectful. It made me sneer as I sucked on her. She seemed close to coming a few times but I backed away. I wanted this to go on and on. Eventually she grabbed my head and positioned me where she wanted me, not letting me wander again. This was divine. This woman who can’t, who won’t, who doesn’t, suddenly demanding what she wants. I licked her pussy slowly as she came. Slow, long strokes of my tongue all along her. Feeling everything. I let my face rest against her and breathed with my mouth wide open while we both recovered before I pulled her panties carefully back into place and tugged her skirt back down.

She wouldn’t kiss me again until I took my folded hanky out of my pocket and cleaned up my face and chin. Then she kissed me and wrapped one leg around me. I put my hands on her ass and felt the lines of her garters through her skirt. “Where can we get a real drink?” I asked. She grabbed my hand and opened the door.