smut Archives - BD Swain

Dark Corners

One night a month in dark little bars way off main street, dykes crawl out into the night in small groups or all alone and knock on that back door to breathe easy. People seem to know each other in these places. People are mostly friendly. Mostly friends. Couples don’t show up. Strangers are rare.

I was traveling. I was the stranger. Who was I? Why was I here? Someone passing through town. I saw heads turn, size me up as someone here tonight and gone tomorrow. The looks quickly died away, but I could feel the curiosity. Or maybe it was more like an interrogation. No one was going to talk to me, but I wasn’t going to be ignored.

I like small towns and hidden bars. I seek them out. I like to wander. I like to stray. I have my spot in every bar, the dark corner that only holds one, maybe two barstools. The seat next to the wall and a little outside of the pool of light that falls around the bartender. The bartop’s always sticky in that corner. The rag never quite reaches far enough at the end of the night. Sometimes the brass pole under your feet is sticky. I try not to lean against the wall. Especially if there’s wallpaper.

I walked into this bar on this night and headed for the darkest corner but it was already occupied. I shoved a hand in my pocket, fingered my loose change, thinking. I didn’t want to look around for a seat. I wanted to know where I was headed first. I resigned myself to sitting off center in front of the bartender. I tossed a twenty on the bar and pushed the stool back as I sat down, feeling for a hook to hang my jacket and looking sideways at her. The girl at the end of the bar. The girl in my spot. I could hardly make her out.

My rye in hand, I took my time staring. She sipped her drink through the tiny straw they put in your glass in bars. I’d never thought of sipping a drink through that little straw myself. I thought that was a stirrer. I always toss it on the bar before I sip my drink. Or I forget to take it out and scratch my cheek with it before I throw it on the ground, cursing myself.

I smiled at her mouth. The way it curled around the plastic. She looked down at her hands. One holding the glass, the other gripping the straw. I followed each articulated knuckle down to the tips of her painted fingernails. Her nails were a light color, maybe gold. It was hard to tell in the dark, amber light.

The bar smelled like piss and stale beer. God, I miss smoking in bars. If nothing else, cigarettes mask the real smells of drunkenness. Stale smoke is nicer than this. I sat there, slow, enjoying my drink. I sucked the ice, letting it rest on my tongue and melt away. I have a habit of it. Freezing my tongue like this. I forget that I do it and feel stupid when I kiss some girl with my frozen tongue. It’s not sexy. But I don’t plan to kiss anyone tonight. I’m tired. I feel lazy. I ask for another whiskey. Rocks. I like the bartender here. There’s no chit chat. She pours my drink with a weary face and rough looking hands. I watch her sinewy forearm ripple as she tips the bottle into my glass. She pours the whiskey to the brim and just over, leaving a puddle around the glass. “That’s right,” I nod to her as a salute with my dripping glass raised eye high. “You know it,” she says lazily and moves on.

I turn my head and look at the girl in the corner just in time to catch her looking at me for a split second before she jerks her head back down and opens her purse, delicately ticking through its contents. She pulls out some cash and flags the bartender over. They chat. Maybe the bartender is a talker after all. She leans her elbow on the bar and laughs as they talk, eventually making her another drink that I’m pretty sure is an old fashioned and scooping up a handful of singles. I like an old fashioned. It’s a good drink. A simple drink. I was starting to like this girl in the corner.

I decided to stare. I watched her while I sipped my drink. I wanted to smoke but I was trying not to, and anyway, I wanted to wait until she acknowledged me. I wanted to smile at her. She kept looking down or straight ahead, staring without focus across the length of the bar. I made up stories about her in my head. She didn’t look lonely or sad. She looked satisfied. I imagined her happily out of some kind of bad relationship. Done with dating for awhile. Something behind her now and she liked being alone tonight, avoiding even her friends. Not everyone likes to sit alone at a bar. Not everyone is that comfortable with themselves. She likes the whiskey and the fact that a bartender is going to make it for her. She likes the buzzing energy around her even when it’s all calm inside herself. She likes to imagine who’s going home to fuck. Who’s getting lucky. Or maybe that’s me.

Impatiently, I drained my second drink and shoved the bar stool back to stand up. Without waiting to think it over, I walked to the girl in the corner and leaned my ribs against the bar, facing her. “Hi,” I said, “You’re in my spot.” She looked at me, opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again and raised her eyebrows before turning back to her drink. “I’d like to buy you a drink,” I continued, “I’m enjoying watching you at the end of the bar I always think of as mine. Not everyone likes to sit alone. I like your sense of ease. It’s comforting to me.” Now she smiled at me, half inviting and half aware that I might be crazy. “Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to bother you here.”

I leaned lower to whisper in her ear, reaching up to tuck her hair back as I moved my mouth closer to her. “I want to buy you a drink, but I’m not trying to take you home. I’ve enjoyed watching you sit here in the half shadows. I’ve imagined why you’re here alone. The way you look and the easy way you sip your drink tells me that you want to be by yourself. I like that. And I’d leave you alone but I’ve got this crazy energy that wants to fuck all the time. Do you know what I mean?” She nodded slightly. “I think you do,” I said.

Her palms had been flat against the bar but now I watched her fingers draw up, her knuckles lifting. She grabbed my index finger and pulled my hand to her lap. “That’s not what I want right now,” I whispered, letting my lips brush her skin, “I don’t think it’s what you want either, is it?” I shifted my hand so that it was on top of hers and slid her own fingers up under her skirt. “I want you to sit here and drink another cocktail. I’m buying.” I dragged my hand slowly away from hers and back to my own pocket where I hid it deep down against my thigh. “I want to go back to where I was sitting and drink my whiskey and let you watch my hands on the bar, itching to feel you. I want you to take a long time moving your hand higher and higher up your skirt, inching your fingers between your legs. Sip your drink nice and slow. Know that I’m watching. You know what I want.” She nodded her head side to side, “No,” she said, “You have to tell me.” So good, this girl. So good. I went on, “I want you to pull your panties to the side and slip your fingers between the wet lips of your pussy. I’ll be watching, feeling you on the tip of my tongue. I want you to go slow. Teasing. Feel your hole open. I want you to squeeze your clit between your fingers, hold it in your knuckles. I want you to come for me while I watch. That’s all.” She sucked her breath in slowly between her teeth. “I hope you do this for me,” I said and nipped her ear with a little tug of my teeth.

I walked back to my seat at the bar feeling high. I nodded to the bartender and ordered her another old fashioned and the same for myself. As she set my drink down, she shook her head at me, “You’re right to try, but she never lets anyone sit next to her. It’s not just you.” I nodded, “She seems good by herself over there.” The bartender left me to my drink and I held my glass, rubbing the condensation with my fingertips. I looked to the corner again. She was in shadows. I watched her closely and couldn’t see a thing, but I knew her fingers were still right there between her thighs. She seemed just the same, looking down at her drink or vaguely across the room, but now and again I’d see her catch her breath. My hands ached, sitting on top of the bar. I wanted to rub my own clit through my stiff jeans. I wanted to touch her panties with the tips of my fingers and rub the fabric against her pussy. I imagined the way her skirt would feel against the back of my knuckles.

I took a drink, resting my teeth against the rim of the glass. She caught a glimpse of me like this and it made her smile for a second. I wanted her to see how much this drove me crazy. I needed her to know how much I want her right now. She needed to feel it. I stared openly. The low rumble of the bar crested and fell in waves around me. People were getting louder, slurring their words. Pool balls cracked somewhere. Butches laughed and loudly slapped one another on the back. It was getting late. Everyone needed to puff out their chests and preen a little more. That’s how it is in a bar as the night wears on. A little more. Come on, now. Just a little more. Roll up your sleeves and let her see that new watch, that tattoo, your leather cuff. Run your fingers through your hair. Tuck your shirt in just right.

I wasn’t bothering with any of it tonight. I had what I wanted. Right here in front of everyone and nobody knew it but me and her. I nodded at her. I wanted her to come. I wanted to know the moment she came. How would I see it? She took a sip of her drink and I watched her fingers slide slowly down the glass when she set it back down on the bar. I saw the tight grip. The control. I searched her face for it. She was slightly turned away, turned towards the wall, when I saw her eyes close and her eyelids shudder. And then she relaxed. Her shoulders melted lower. She rolled her neck a little. Her eyes stayed low, never meeting mine. I felt myself relax too, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

She finished her drink and pulled a few singles out of her purse, leaving them on the bar as she stood up. I hastily did the same, grabbing my jacket and getting in her way as she headed out of the bar. She put her hand up to my face, touched wet fingers to my chin, sliding them to the edge of my lips. “Thanks for the drink, stranger,” she said. I nodded, speechless for a moment, smelling her pussy on my face. I said “Thank you,” too softly for her to hear as I watched her walk out the door. I stared after her for a minute or two before heading out into the night for a long walk. A quiet, cold night. I walked to my hotel. Stripped naked in the bald light of the bathroom. Splashed water on my face and ran a wet hand through my hair. I crawled into bed and jerked off. My back and thighs rubbed raw by the scratchy, over bleached sheets as I kicked, jerking my hips. I held my own wet fingers to my lips.

It’s dizzying what we can know about each other sometimes. Or what we like to believe. I’ll leave it at that. I slept better than I had in weeks that night. A deep sleep. My reward.

Not Fade Away

My back was slicked with sweat in an instant. My soft undershirt stuck to my ribs as I twisted to look over my right shoulder. ”Shit,” I muttered under my breath, the word stretching out long. I steadied myself and eased the clutch in again. The stick shift moved a few centimeters and stuck fast. I heard my own voice in my head, sweet soothing tones telling me to just relax. Take it easy. I can do this. I depressed the clutch twice, let it settle, and eased the car smoothly into reverse. “Finally,” I breathed, “Fuck.” I parked on this busy little block and looked around furtively hoping no one was watching. But of course someone was.

I smiled and blushed hard. I saw her eyes trace the sizeable distance between my wheels and the curb. She flashed me an okay sign with her hand and laughed. “Not bad really,” she said, laughing, as I climbed out. “Hey,” I said, “She’s new to me, this car.” She stopped laughing and smiled, asking “What the hell is it?” I grinned at my little car, patting the hood. “It’s mine. That’s what it is.” I stared at her. The day had been warm but it was starting to cool off a little in the afternoon. She was wearing a simple green cotton shirt with a wide scoop neck, nearly off her shoulders and a thin black skirt that hugged her hips, hitting a few inches above her knees. I smiled at her boots. Thick, tall motorcycle boots. She looked sexy without seeming like she cared about it that much. She looked good. I got hot looking at her muscled thighs as she leaned over to look through the back window. I saw the dimpled backs of her knees and felt a rush that made me clench and unclench my fingers. “Let’s go,” I thought, “Let’s see what happens.”

Listen, I need to tell you something. It’s part of the story. Cars are sexy. I mean, they’re supposed to be sexy. But these modern cars? They’re boring as hell. Plastic bumpers you can poke with your finger that pop back out at you. Dull looking things with room for kids. Safe and relatively quiet with stereos and bluetooth and compartments everywhere including the ceiling. Electric everything. A million ways for something to break. Push button ignitions. A front seat so wide you have to lean way over to grab your date’s thigh, a giant box for storing more shit sits there like a fucking wall between the two of you. It’s no good. Comfortable maybe, but no good. I had one of these comfortable cars but I threw it over for something that feels real. Something I can get my hands dirty with. I’d only had it a few weeks and I was still learning its quirks. Learning how to close the driver’s door just right. Learning how to adjust the choke when I start it up. How I have to feel for it based on how cold the morning is. Learning how a car like this changes everything.

I can’t say I knew what I was doing when I bought it. I didn’t. Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting into. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d dreamed about it. Fantasized. I stared at every vintage car I passed on the streets. Craning my neck to get a better look. I peered in their windows. Beautiful or beat up, I didn’t care. I’d thought about buying my own but it seemed like a crazy idea. Something stupid stuck in my head but not real. The idea felt completely impotent even as I crawled through the for sale ads every week.

It was dumb luck that I found this car. My car. This crazy, little car. It’s a good foot shorter than me and I’m not a tall butch. It wasn’t one of those stylish muscle cars I always drooled over. It wasn’t that beautiful Detroit design, American steel. This car is small. The smallest car in town with an air cooled 600cc engine like a motorcycle and wheels that would look about right on a go-cart. It’s not beautiful but it’s sexy. And I get to talk to a lot of strangers, even if they start out laughing.

She laughed. I don’t blame her. I was stuck in the road trying to parallel park with the gear refusing to slip into reverse. She’d watched the whole messy job. I explained the problem to her as I opened the passenger door to let her take a look inside. “I’ve been figuring it out,” I said, “Reading about it. There’s something different with reverse. Sometimes you have to push the clutch in a couple times before the gears line up right. I’ve only had it a couple weeks so I’m still getting the feel of it.” She reached one arm out to the driver’s side and ran her fingers over the wooden steering wheel. “I like this,” she said, “The wood.” “Yeah,” I nodded, “It’s real smooth.”

I smiled and leaned over her with one hand on the passenger door and the other on the hot metal roof, trapping her there inside the car with my arms outstretched. My chest hovered above her face. I ducked my head down to look at her, “You want a ride? You want to feel it?” I saw her blush at the words. It’s magic the way a car lets you talk to a girl like you’re asking if she wants to fuck. Or let’s be honest, the way a car let’s you ask a girl if she wants to fuck without being explicit. She nodded, her mouth held open but not saying anything. “Let’s go!” I laughed and tossed the keys into the air, catching them again in the palm of my hand as I walked around the front of the car. That bounce in my step. Queer. Butch. Loaded dice.

I rapped my knuckle on the driver’s side, pointing her to the door handle. “Driver’s door sticks,” I yelled through the glass. She leaned over, aware of her body and the angle this put her in, shifting her neck so I could see her tits cupping over the edge of her bra as she opened the door from the inside. “Thanks,” I said, grinning as I slid behind the wheel. Starting up, the car enveloped us with its sweet, low rumble. We shook in the low, vinyl seats. It’s a four speed manual – a dash shifter – beautiful. I take the spindly stick shift in my hand. Gentle. I touch the knob with just the tips of my fingers, guiding it into gear with a light touch. You don’t ever force it.

I love knowing how it all works. Knowing that I push in the clutch to separate the gears, still spinning. Knowing how to glide the gear shift quickly into place, bringing the gears back together, everything still moving. Easing smoothly off the clutch with my left foot while my right lightly touches the throttle. The engine revs up and you’re off.

You don’t drive this car fast. You can, but it’s unnecessary. I reach my left hand low and crank my window down. She giggles next to me, “Oh my god, you crank the windows!” Everyone who’s ridden with me has a moment where they remember their childhood. Sitting next to their dad, rolling down the window, feeling the hot air outside blow by and stir a breeze that felt almost cool on their face. She savored the lever in her hand. Rolled the window all the way down and ran her hand slowly over the frame, her fingers touching the outside of the door, her thumb on the interior.

She’s looking around. We’re not talking. We’d have to shout over the noise anyway. She grins at the people staring. Waves back at little kids on the sidewalk. I feel her eyes on me. I feel cocky. I know I look sharp today. My hair freshly cut. A thick wave in my hair slicked back with pomade, sides tight. I’ve got on a crisp white short-sleeved button down with my jeans. The tattoos on my forearms look a deep black, almost shiny. I let her stare at me and then smile knowingly before I turn my head to look at her and nod. An acknowledgement. I look her slowly up and down and then nod towards her lap. “Your seat belt,” I shout over the engine, “You might want to put it on.” She’s reaches around trying to figure out where the belt is and then struggles to get it on right. “It’s like an airplane belt,” I explain. She figures it out. Cinching it tight across her lap. Adjusting it. She runs her fingers across the dash. Pulls out the lighter. Flips open the ashtray. Cranes her neck to look into the back seat. “I love it,” she says. I just nod and keep driving.

I drive her down the wide streets in the industrial part of town. I wind my way down towards the water, the shipping yards. We pass the idling trucks. At a stop sign, one of the truck drivers yells down to tell us he likes the car. She nods and waves up at him. Looks over at me. Happy. I drive us to an old abandoned park I know. The parking lot is bigger than it ever needed to be by far. It’s a terrible place for a park, out in the middle of nowhere with too many diesel fumes from the trucks that sit idling all along this stretch.

I turn to her, my head tilted down, looking at her from under my lashes. This is how I ask. My eyebrows raised, inquiring. I think we can have some fun. I’m grinning at her, waiting. She looks at the park ahead and gives me a look like she’s the kind of girl who always takes a dare. We’re both grinning now. “Well, alright,” I laughed and she eased back into her seat, reaching her hand across to my shoulder and turned her head to look out the window. I flick the right turn signal on and slow a little as I turn into the lot. This is when it feels real to me. Not the flirting. Not the asking. But the point where you’re looking to land. Finding that place to park, walking into an apartment, easing out the back door somewhere. That’s when my cheeks burn and my hands feel thicker.

I drive deep into the lot. Back towards an old abandoned cement platform with generic looking Greek columns in a half circle. There is no shady spot. There is no clump of trees. There’s stiff looking grass covered in goose shit, the smelly edge of the bay, a few unwelcoming stone benches, and the two of us in my car. I lean over to kiss her at the same time my hand touches the key in the ignition to turn it off. My mouth is on hers before the sudden silence hits us. This old car is so loud. My ears ring a little when the motor shuts off. She’s still leaning back, quietly at ease. I curve my palm around the back of her neck and squeeze, kissing her hard. Her tongue feels lazy in my mouth. That seems right.

We kiss like this. I touch her. I hold my hands up to her cheeks and slowly trace my fingers down her neck, across her shoulders, down her arms, past her elbows and right past the tips of her fingers to her thighs, stopping to unbuckle her seatbelt. I pushed my hands between her knees and pulled her legs a little more open. She slid down in her seat, pushing her pussy towards me. I can see the light color of her panties beneath her skirt but stop before I get ahead of myself and move my hands over her skirt and around to her ass. My hands moved to the small of her back. I gripped her with the tips of my fingers, dragging them back up to her shoulder blades and moving my mouth to her jaw. I opened my mouth wide and pressed into her with my teeth until I felt bone push back against me. Not too hard a bite, just a firm squeeze. Sucking my way down her neck to her collarbone. Slow and lazy. Making out as the car heated up in the sun. She licked beads of sweat off her upper lip and I kissed her mouth again.

“Touch me,” I whispered and pulled her hands to my chest, dragging her fingers across my tits. The feel of her through my shirt cut into me with a sharp pain of desire. I felt my cunt open for this and it made me grab her wrists. “Push up your skirt,” I said and my throat caught on the words. “Fuck,” I said and pushed her hands to her lap, “Let me see you,” I groaned. I was up on my knees by now and curved over her, trying to find a way to fuck her. The seats don’t lean back. It’s not a cramped space, but it’s tight. I could get my hand between her legs but my elbow would smack into the glove box if I really wanted to fuck her. And I wanted to really fuck.

She pulled on my hands, pushing my fingers against her pussy and pulling aside her thin cotton panties. She dragged my fingers through her wet lips. Her face looked angry. Her eyes were closed, screwed up tight. She growled low in her throat. “Fuck me,” she said, spitting the words through clenched teeth. “God damn it,” I yelled and opened my door. I grabbed her thighs and swung her around, pulling at her so she laid down across the front seat before I crawled back into the car, hovering over her. I pushed her knees wider apart, kneeling between them and squeezed her thighs before moving my fingers to her pussy. I wanted to be deep inside her. She was on her back, her arms raised up above her head and draped out the open window behind her. I stared down at her hips and watched, entranced, as she humped the air below me. I watched her stomach clench with each thrust. I held my shaking hand just above her pussy. Watching her rise in waves to find me. “I’m right here,” I whispered, not to comfort her but to tease.

“Fuck me,” she yelled and reached over to hit my chest with a balled up fist. I stared down at her. Spit hanging off my lower lip. Sweat stinging my eyes. I stared and smiled while I pushed the heel of my hand against her clit. Smashing into her. “Fuck me,” she yelled again, hitting me harder. She hit me a few more times. I was grinding my hand against her clit, the meatiest part of my palm, barely feeling her. When she swung again for my chest, I whipped my left hand forward and caught her wrist. “No,” I said, “I’m taking it slow.” I bent over her and sucked her lower lip into my mouth. She gave me her tongue, deep in my mouth and I sucked and sucked. I kept my palm cupped over her. Kept grinding against her clit and sliding my whole hand down between her legs. Her hole opened up for me. I felt it against my palm. I wanted her like that. I wanted her pussy to grab at me and pull my fingers inside her. I wanted to feel her pussy open and then tightly grip around my knuckles.

I steadied myself with a hand on the dash and pushed three fingers inside her. She swung her hands down to meet me and tugged at my wrist, pulling me deeper in and holding me there. I let my weight sink on top of her. My thighs fell on hers. She pushed up against me, my fingers still inside her. “Take it from me,” I said, “I want to feel you come and take it.” She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled her knees up. I heard her leg knock against the steering wheel behind me. She pulled us tight together. My forearm burned, strained in an awkward position but I stayed put and felt her rub hard up against me. We fell into a strong rhythm. I could smell my own sweat. My shirt stuck to my back. My jeans stuck to my thighs. I stopped moving much at all and let her find me. Let her rub and burn her clit against the fly of my jeans. I had to shift once when I thought my fingers were about to break, moving myself lower to stay inside her.

She came with her body clenched and jerking but so quiet. There was a soft whispering sound in my ear. The tiniest whistle of a note on her breath. I held so still. Waiting. Rewarded after a moment by her hands on either side of my head, her fingers teasing the close cut hair just behind my ears. I pulled myself up on my knees. My head curved low in the tight space. “Unbuckle my belt,” I told her. She reached up and moved her fingers fast on the metal. She slid the leather out of the loops, pulled the button on my jeans, and teased the zipper down, leaving my pants hanging open. “Watch me,” I said, spreading my fingers wide and dragging them up my sweat covered belly to disappear under my shirt before pointing my hand down and sliding it into my briefs.

My cunt was so wet, my clit already hard, pushing out to meet my fingers. I stared at her hands. Her fingers still hovered in the air near my zipper. She moved as if she was touching me and stared at the bulge of my hand buried in my boy briefs. She watched me. My hips shoved forward. I imagined her up on her knees, peeling down my pants. Imagined her mouth opening, her eyes looking up at me. I closed my eyes and let my head hang with my chin on my chest. I was so turned on, so close to coming. “I want you to come all over my stomach,” she said suddenly, jerking me right into the moment. Seeing it clearly. I looked down and watched her slide her body lower between my thighs. I groaned loudly. My hips jerked hard. I came for a long time with an intense, deep release.

Her eyes were on me, low. It was so good. So good. I pulled my wet fingers out of my pants and traced her lips with them. She sucked at me gently at first and then harder. “Fuck my mouth with your sticky fingers,” she said to me and I nearly came again watching her mouth say the words and feeling her tongue tease my fingers. I leaned over her, serious, taking her in all over again. “Who are you?” I said, stunned, feeling dumb-struck by this dirty girl laid across my front seat. I pushed my fingers softly over her tongue and snaked my free hand behind her head, lifting her face closer. “That’s it,” I said, fucking her mouth more intensely. Watching her suck in her cheeks. Feeling her tongue tease the tight ridge between my fingers. I stared at her mouth and felt a tugging on my clit. “I can feel you sucking my dick,” I whispered, reverential, “I feel it.” She nodded, keeping her lips wrapped around my fingers. I jerked forward. My hips believing that my cock was seizing, shuddering in her mouth. It felt so real. I didn’t really come or maybe I did. A ghostly shadow of my earlier orgasm, something surged deep inside me. I might describe it as imagined if it hadn’t felt so fucking real.

I hid my face in her neck and opened my mouth against her. “God damn,” I said, “You’re so good.” She laughed, sinking her fingers into my hair. “Start it up again,” she whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” I adjusted myself outside the car for a moment, wiping my hand on my thigh, catching my breath. When I climbed back in, I saw her with her seatbelt on. She was waiting. “C’mon, let’s go,” she said and I turned the key in the ignition, adjusting the choke and letting it warm up before starting the ritual – left foot down on the clutch, right foot hovering over the gas, right hand on the stick. The easing out and off and right into gear. I drove away with a grin on my face that would take a long time to fade away.

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.

—

Me and Her (and Him)

She wanted to fuck a woman. He wanted to watch. Her boyfriend, maybe he was her husband, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter to me, right? It’s an old story anyway. I’d never gone in for that. But somehow, this time, it sounded good. I caught myself thinking about it. A lot.

I was at a friend’s wedding when I met her. Them. Met them. I was there alone. They were both a little drunk. Smiling. Flushed cheeks from the booze and the dancing. They looked beautiful together. In love. Good dancers. We talked a little. Not too much. We danced near each other on the dance floor. All of us. Laughing. I didn’t think we were flirting. Maybe we were. She would turn to me and lift her hair. I watched her hips. I smiled, maybe a little too long. I left late. We walked out of the place together and I got in a cab watching her wave goodbye over his shoulder as he held her tight. I saw her kiss his ear. That was it.

I ran into them again over the next few months. Once, at the bagel place, I came in and they waved me to their table. I couldn’t remember who they were at first. I’m terrible with faces. We laughed and chatted a bit, but I left them alone and sat by myself at the counter by the window. They’re straight. I’m not. I liked them, but I don’t really have straight friends. They waved goodbye through the window when they left.

The next time I saw them, we were at another party. More drinking. Laughing. Dancing. I talked about sex. I always talk about sex. I saw it happen. The looks back and forth. The laughter changed to something slower, more telling. We hugged goodbye that night, exchanging numbers. At home, I took their phone number out of my pocket and put it on the dresser in front of me. “This isn’t a friendship,” I thought, staring at her handwriting, “I know what this is.”

I looked down at my fingers, letting them crawl over each button one at a time. I slid my hand under my shirt, dragging my open palm hard over my chest and feeling my nipples burn. I stood there at my dresser, unbuckling my belt. I felt my clit press against my underwear. I stared down at myself. My boy’s briefs. My pants hanging open. I could feel how wet I was getting thinking about her. Has she done this before? I looked at the number on the jagged white slip of paper and jerked myself off while I stood there, one hand gripping my open sock drawer. I came quickly. Too fast. I kept jerking off through the whole night of restless sleep from the party, the drinking, the energy. I woke up cranky and annoyed with myself. Feeling the day lost after such a sleepless night.

Several weeks had gone by since I had put her number in my phone. Their number. I stared at the phone when it rang. It was her on the line. Her voice shook.

This is awkward… Was I interested… She had always thought about it… He had always wanted to…

I let her talk. I didn’t fill in her silences. She needed to ask for this. I needed to hear her say it. Her words. Her suggestion. Her desire. I let her explain. I listened. I waited for her to stop and then I said, “I’ve been thinking about it, too. I want to fuck you.” I could hear her breathing. I could feel my heart pounding. This was hot. Hotter than I expected it to feel. Such an old story, but there’s a reason it’s still told. He wanted to watch. Of course. I wanted him to watch. It’s only half the story without that, really. I needed him to watch. She needed that. It made all the difference.

We met at a bar near their house. A few drinks. I asked him to kiss her. I watched. I dipped a finger into my glass of whiskey and slid the tip between her lips.

We left. He drove slowly. We were all in the car. I would pick my bike up later. I’d walk, I told them. I would want to walk, I thought.

We didn’t talk in the car. I rode in the back, sitting in the middle with my knees wide. Looking at her in the rearview mirror. Watching her stare at him, smiling. We were all a little buzzed with excitement. Everything glowed with the street lamps. The night air was cool and damp and wet. It muffled the thud of my boots on their wooden front steps. They led me into a bedroom. It looked like a guest room, a bit empty and sterile.

I didn’t want him to say anything. “I don’t want you to talk,” I said, leading him to a chair in the corner that seemed to be there for this. Just for him. He sat down, looking up at me, his mouth stiff. “Do you want a drink?” I asked. He shook his head no. “You can jerk off,” I said. He nodded. He had pretty eyes. He was a beautiful man, really. He sat there so still. “We’re all in this,” I thought.

She stood by the bed, looking fantastic. I don’t think I’d really noticed before. Maybe this was the moment I needed, to see it. Her hair was pulled back. She wore a low cut, wrap dress with boots. She had small tits and I could see her nipples under the fabric. I like that. I moved behind her and slid both hands under her dress. A breast in each hand, her nipples under my thumbs. I held her body towards him. I saw his hands resting on his thighs.

I licked her neck with my tongue just barely poking out beyond my lips, letting her feel my mouth right there, my breath. My hips pushed against her ass and I felt her body move, softening, her weight shifted against me. I squeezed her tits, rubbing my hands roughly under her dress. I moved a little to one side, half of her still leaning against my chest, and grabbed the back of her neck. I brought my other hand up to her face. My thumb under her chin. “I want him to see your mouth,” I said to her, loudly enough for him to hear me, “I want him to watch how you suck his dick. Let him see it.”

She turned around, her eyes searching my face for a second and dropped to her knees with her hands on my belt buckle. “No,” I laughed, pulling her back up and turning her around to face him, “I don’t have a cock.” I held my thumb against her lips until she opened for me. “This,” I said, “Show him.” Her tongue stiffened against my thumb. She tilted her head back, opening her throat for me. I pushed inside her. “You’re so wet inside, so soft,” I told her, “Let me feel your tongue. Show me.”

I saw his hand shift. He gripped his cock, now stiff in his pants. I watched him hold the stiff bulge between his thumb and forefinger, stroking himself. My cunt was so hot and tight. I felt it throb and hang heavy between my legs. I wanted to flip her over and fuck her hard. I felt myself held back. I needed this slow. I needed this to build. I wanted her so hot, burning, gripping my fingers tight as soon as I entered her. I pulled my thumb out of her mouth and pushed two fingers in instead. My wet thumb stroking her cheek with every thrust. “So soft inside,” I said, “So good.”

I let her suck my fingers for a long time. Long enough to get lost in a trance, staring at her mouth. My leg had shifted between her thighs and she rubbed herself slowly against me. I pulled my fingers out of her mouth and moved them, wet, to her nipples. I grabbed the back of her head, my fingers tight in her hair. “You want him to see this,” I said roughly, jerking her dress off each shoulder, “That’s right, isn’t it?” I pulled her dress down, exposing her tits, and went back to rolling each nipple between my thumb and finger, one at a time. I looked back at him. He stared at her tits. He was rubbing his dick through his pants with a hard, flat palm.

I imagined my own stiff, throbbing cock jamming into my thigh and swallowed hard. “Do you feel a little guilty about this?” I asked and moved to face her. I gripped her hair more tightly and gave her a quick slap across the cheek. “Do you feel bad?” I taunted, “Do you feel dirty?” I slapped her again twice, each harder than the last. Her eyes were wide now. Staring at me. Waiting. She nodded. “I understand,” I said and took her hand in mine, leading it to my belt. “Would you like to feel this?” I whispered into her neck, “It’s so thick and heavy.” She didn’t say anything. “I wore it just for you,” I said and gripped her fingers, running them along the edge of the leather, “Is this what you want?” She nodded. “What?” I whispered. “Yes,” she said, softly.

I pulled my face away from her and turned to look at him. He was watching her fingers. We put our hands on our belt buckles at the same time. I mirrored his movements as he slowly unbuckled his belt. I slid mine out of the belt loops as he struggled with the buttons of his fly. His hard on pushing against his pants. “Bend over,” I told her. Her hands were wide on the edge of the bed. I looped the belt in my hand and buckled it before running it across her low back. I pet her ass while I ran the edge of the thick leather slowly up the backs of her legs. Petting her sweetly. Whispering to her. “I know you’re good,” I called to her as I lifted her dress.

She wore peach colored panties. Cotton briefs so simple and sweet, the sight took my breath away. Unexpected. My hands trembled and I felt sweat on my palms. “I like these,” I said, letting the belt fall against her ass. I took the belt in both hands, pulling the loop tight, and ran the rough edge of leather just below her panties on the back of her thighs. This belt smacks with a loud, crisp sound. Harder than it feels. I raised my arm and swung. She shifted her legs. I hit her ass with the belt, only her ass, several times, slowly drawing back my arm before a quick swing and a smack. A dozen times or more before I stopped and pet her with my hand. I ran my fingers through her hair and felt the sweat on her scalp and the back of her neck. The room felt hot now. Muggy.

“Pull your panties down for me,” I said. I stared at her rounded, red cheeks as the cotton slid down. I stopped her hands mid-thigh. “Good enough,” I told her, moving onto my knees for a moment. I dropped the belt and reached my hand between her legs when I kissed her. This first kiss with a finger curved between the wet lips of her pussy and my tongue reaching deep inside her mouth. I wanted her to struggle for breath. “I like this,” I said with my mouth against hers, “Spreading your lips like this with my finger.” And dragged my finger deeper, feeling her hole open up for me. “So wet inside,” I said, “So good,” and kissed her hard again, gripping her jaw. “I want you wetter,” I said, pulling my mouth off hers and grabbing the belt again.

On all fours, I moved behind her, licking my way up her leg until I stood crouched with my tongue just above her knee where her panties were drawn tight between her thighs. I ran my teeth against the elastic edge. I licked at the cotton. “I don’t even have to stick my face in your pussy to taste you,” I said, “Your panties are so wet.” I sucked loudly on the cotton and heard him groan behind me. Back on my feet, I pulled the belt across her bare ass. She sucked in her breath and I took that as my cue to quickly pull back my arm and swing. The effect is beautiful. The leather. The swing. The bright red striped flesh. But it’s the sound I love best. A sharp smack. I was soon done spanking her. I wanted too much to fuck her.

I didn’t want to lie on the bed. I didn’t want to get on top of her. I didn’t want to pump her with a cock. I sat on the edge of that bed and pulled her onto my lap, her back against my chest. I adjusted her dress to keep her tits pulled out and her pussy exposed. My hands squeezed her hips and then dragged slowly up the sides of her ribcage, jerking here and there on the fabric of her dress. “Put your hands behind my head,” I told her. Her arms reached high and long behind her. Her head rested against my shoulder. I was breathing in her ear. I rubbed her body. I clawed my fingers on her thighs. I held her tight, sometimes nibbling at her ear. I pushed my hips against her and pulled her down hard into my lap. “I want you to feel me,” I said.

I looked across the room. His cock was out in his hand. He rubbed his palm in a circle around and around the tip, sometimes pulling at it. He sat so still. His face was calm. I watched the curving movement of his forearm and slid my hand to her pussy. I stroked her slowly with my the tip of my finger from her hole up to her clit, hovered just above her clit for a moment, and started over. I rocked my hips, rocking her with me, as I repeated this again and again. I held her to me with my hand on her chest.

“This is how I’d fuck you if I had a cock,” I told her. “I’d rub it against your pussy like this. I’d rub it so softly between your lips. I’d come on your belly and your thighs,” I slid my wet hand under her dress, rubbing her belly, feeling the soft strip of hair that ran below her belly button. “Like this,” I said. Her arms gripped my head. I moved two fingers between her lips now, stroking her clit in circles. “I like how wet you got for me,” I said and licked her neck. I rubbed harder now and held her with my arm wrapped tightly around her, just under her tits. I spread my legs a little wider, moving hers open with me. I felt myself get so hot. My body tensed and I felt myself humping against her ass, pulling her to me. “I want you to come,” I said and she exploded against my hand. Her arms squeezed me hard and then went limp. She drew one hand down between her legs and held mine hard against her throbbing clit.

“There’s more,” I told her and she laughed. We fucked more that night. I wanted her on her back with her knees up. I wanted to lean into the backs of her thighs with my fingers inside her and watch her jerk herself off. I pushed my hips against her with my fingers slamming into her hole. She was naked at that point. I was fully dressed. My pants were wet from her pussy.

I don’t know if he came or not up to that point. I had stopped paying attention to him. I didn’t want to look at him when she sucked me off. I kneeled on the bed while she undid my shirt. Ran her hands over me. I unbuttoned my pants for her. Unzipped my fly. I took my pants off and told her to suck on my clit through my briefs. Her fingers were splayed wide on my inner thighs and her face was buried between my legs.

She teased her fingers under the edge of my underwear and looked up at me when she reached my wet cunt. So fucking wet. I nodded at her and pulled my underwear down, spreading my legs wide. “Suck me off,” I told her, “I want your mouth right here.” I pulled her head towards me and lifted my hips. She sucked hard with her teeth against me. I felt myself pushing into her mouth. So turned on. I didn’t want to know why. Why was this so hot to me? I squeezed my eyes shut. Trying not to think of him watching. Trying not to imagine a cock, my cock, in her mouth. Shutting away this or that image that came into my head. Finally I stopped thinking and opened my eyes, looking down at her. I squeezed her head in my hands, “I want to come in your mouth,” I said. She nodded and slid her arms around me, holding my ass in her hands, looking up at me. I came. So hard. Bucking against her with such force it hurt. When I pulled her face off of me, her chin looked rubbed raw.

I kissed her. A kind of closure. I got dressed pretty quickly and let myself out. I’m not sure how I’d imagined it ending, but this seemed right in the moment. Let me disappear. Leave my ghost in the room. Something unreal, ethereal. Let this slip away for now.

I walked to my bike, thankful it was still chained up outside the bar. I walked it home, not wanting to ride. Needing to wind my way home at a slow pace in the night air. I felt good. I didn’t question it.