This is the first installment of Queer Sex Diaries, a series in which I recount recent sexual escapades with my partner Buster. We both consent to be eroticized by readers in this specific space, so feel free to leave a comment to let me know if you enjoyed this piece!
(Content Notes: D/s, light impact play, choking, use of “daddy” as an honorific, food sex, collar and leash.)
Because Busterβs having an especially shitty week at work, we start texting back and forth about doing a mild scene to get them out of their head. Nothing too intense β itβs still the middle of the week, and Buster doesnβt like being in full subspace if they donβt have the next day off to resettle β so no heavy impact play, humiliation, or rough fucking. In other words: none of my doming staples. I have to get creative instead.When they finally escape the office for the day, I text them some instructions. Theyβre to stop at the grocery store on the way home to grab dinner and some fruit. Grapes of at least two different colors, strawberries, and pineapple slices. We donβt eat fruit often because itβs pricey and tends to get ruined in our finicky fridge, but I know weβll be making use of this stuff quickly.
We eat dinner and watch some Master Chef to wind down. I ask Buster to make us a fruit salad according to my specifications (slice the strawberries into halves, section the pineapple rings into smaller squares), and while they do that I take a quick shower to give myself time to get into domspace.
Buster strips when I get out. I blindfold them and then have them get down on their knees with their hands behind their back. They should know I want them bowed, but they donβt move, not yet ready to yield to me. So I shove the back of their head, forcing them lower, and buckle our choke collar around their throat.
βThere we go,β I croon, clipping a short leather leash to the collar; it often doubles as a spanking strap, since we havenβt had the budget for a full-size one. Their mouth twitches into a hesitant, slightly self-deprecating smile. Theyβre definitely not submitting right now β theyβre just indulging me.
Outside of sessions like this, Buster leans into a nurturing dom role to help balance our (actual, non-kink) caregiver/dependent and (sexual, oft-kinky) partner dynamics. Sometimes itβs hard to shake off, especially with work stress tangling them up in responsibility mode.
Thatβs not gonna do.
I get the bowl of fruit I had them prepare. It balances easily on their naked shoulders.
The grapes β both green and purple β are delicious. Each one snaps crisply between my teeth as I take my time sampling the fruit, licking the juice from my fingers and surveying Buster appraisingly as I make them wait.
I really feel indulged now, but in a decadent way. This rare treat tastes so sweet, and Buster looks enticingly unsubby and handsome kneeling in front of me, leash dangling between their heavy breasts.
When I have my fill, I move the bowl to the floor and tip their chin up. Iβve been enamored by their pale, pretty mouth since we met as teenagers; I smooth my thumb over their lower lip, parting their lips to see the impossibly even line of their teeth. Buster licks my thumbprint, smiling.
I smack them three times, barely pausing between strikes.
I watch the little shift to their lips after Iβve slapped their face, the way they process the pain and then get chagrined about it. Even collared and on their knees for me, they canβt help but be a Daddy, gently amused but permissive of my dalliances. Right now Buster is supposed to be my boy, but the knowledge that Iβm theirs is always present between us. Usually that weight intoxicates me; today it makes me want to kick their ass.
I hit them harder, smacking the fullness of their breasts and pinching their nipples to address the subtle dissonance between us. Buster winces with every spark of pain, but that fucking smile creeps back between blows.
βGet me a strawberry,β I say, nudging the bowl closer to them with my bare foot. I smirk as their grin goes slack. I havenβt told them they can move their arms.
βUh?β they start, the single syllable accompanied by a nervous laugh.
βEvery time you give me the wrong fruit, youβll have to take five strikes,β I continue, undeterred by their half-hearted protest. Five strikes with the leather leash is more of a reward than a punishment β since Buster loves it so much and I wonβt be hitting hard enough to bruise β but I have to work within the limits we negotiated.
They bemusedly shake their head, but theyβre willing to play my games.
Buster shuffles backwards, awkward with their arms still behind their back, and leans down in search of the bowl. When their face finds it, itβs not gracefully sexy like an erotic painting might suggest β itβs cumbersome and humiliating. They nuzzle through the fruit, assessing it by texture alone.
Theyβre smiling again. I shove their shoulder to jostle their balance.
When they come up with a piece of fruit in their mouth, itβs indeed a slice of strawberry. I lean forward and brush my mouth over theirs, licking it away from their lips and into my own mouth. I eat it audibly, not bothering to share.
When I grip Busterβs black-dyed hair and kiss them, itβs messy with strawberry juice.
βNow a green grape,β I say, shoving their pretty, grinning face away with a little grab-smack. Texture wonβt provide a lead this time. Theyβll have to guess.
They bring me a green grape by sheer chance. Theyβre still irritatingly handsome when they laugh nervously around their prize. Their hair falls over their blindfolded eyes as they cock their head, hopeful theyβve done well. Earnest, but not submissive. Not yet. I eat the grape and let them lick the juice from my mouth.
Another strawberry. This time I bite it in half after I steal it, and when we kiss, I push the other half into their mouth with my tongue. They groan in pleasure at the taste, licking into my mouth in both appreciation and pursuit for more strawberry.
I immediately want to grind my cunt on their face to put both their moans and their mouth to better use, but theyβd like that too much. Iβm in charge. Or should be, anyway.
A purple grape. They laugh nervously as they nose around in the bowl, lips sliding over the taut skin of several grapes. What are they judging by? Scent? Ripeness? Regardless, they choose wrong. The leash hanging from their collar swings as they lift their head up, presenting their offering with an anxious smile.
βWrong,β I croon, and their eyebrows furrow as their grin turns even more uncertain. Itβs a cute expression; a Daddy who did their best and is both scared and not scared of the consequences of their faux inadequacy.
βHeh, sorry,β they say, shrugging a little.
βUp,β I tell them, and Buster scoots back again to give themselves some room to struggle onto their feet. I help by yanking their leash menacingly, making them feel off-balance even though Iβm actually watching them carefully in case I need to steady their ascent.
I unclip the leash and make them turn around and arch their ass for me. The leash isnβt as thick as a proper impact belt or strap, but it still slaps hard, a red flush bursting in its wake. The strikes come with satisfying leather snaps, and Buster jolts and gasps with each one, voice breathy as they count:
βOneβ¦ t-two β oh fuckβ¦ threeβ¦β
Five, and Buster is back on their knees. Back to nuzzling around in the bowl. Back to timidly offering pieces of fruit with a self-deprecating smile. Back to being an affectionate cross between my Daddy and my Boy, body open but mouth still slanted like this is all a gift to me instead of the other way around.
(Itβs mutual, but thatβs not the point.)
As the scene progresses and I present them with both attainable goals (strawberries, pineapple) and luck-reliant ones (green grapes, purple grapes) at random, I do end up beating them a little bit. When Buster disappears into their head β from bliss, not subspace β and loses count, I start again from the first strike, tsking at them for their impertinence.
Busterβs βfailuresβ arenβt real failures β theyβre unlucky guesses β and the βpunishmentβ is as much of a reward as the fruit I let them eat or the sticky kisses we share, so I know Buster wonβt actually be lulled into subspace. Crashing is unlikely, but I tailor my language to remind them that this is a game, that Iβm not actually disappointed when they give me the wrong kind of grape.
βOoh, wrong again! Shit luck youβve got there, honey.β
I keep my strikes firm but light enough that they wonβt even come close to bruising. Even if the flushed curve of their freckle-kissed ass just begs to be marked. Even if Buster β back to wheezing out laughter between blows β seems like they want me to hit harder.
Another time.
Finally, I make them stand on their knees so I can cram a wand against their cunt while I share whatβs left of our fruit bowl. Their mouth twitches between slack with pleasure and tense with overstimulation as I feed them, juice staining my fingertips and dribbling from their parted lips. I jack up the vibrations, bullying them until Busterβs self-deprecating, indulgent smiles are forgotten; theyβre begging now, licking my hand in a silent plea for mercy. They canβt come in this position.
Mercy isnβt normally my thing, but again β we agreed on an easy scene.
Their chuckle is apologetic as I drag them up onto the bed by their refastened leash. I pin them on their back and shove the wand back into place, the vibrations chopping their laughter up with whined gasps and mewls.
βDaddy, please,β Buster grunts like itβs a safeword instead of an encouragement, a title, a plea. The urge to grind on their face is back, but I push it aside for now. They lick their wet mouth, laughter bubbling up again in a breathless exhale, βFuck, please let me comeβ¦β
I fumble for the buttons and turn the wand to the highest setting to force an orgasm out of them, not yet giving permission as their hips buck to absorb the intensity.
βPlease, fuck, Iβve been good, Iβve been good!β theyβre laughing still, head dropping back against the bed as vibrations ripple down to the bone. Theyβre shaking almost as hard as the toy.
And I let my Daddy come, because we both need it.
1 Comment