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.)
When they finally escape the office for the day, I text them some instructions. They’re 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 don’t eat fruit often because it’s pricey and tends to get ruined in our finicky fridge, but I know we’ll 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 don’t 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.
“There we go,” I croon, clipping a short leather leash to the collar; it often doubles as a spanking strap, since we haven’t had the budget for a full-size one. Their mouth twitches into a hesitant, slightly self-deprecating smile. They’re definitely not submitting right now – they’re 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 it’s hard to shake off, especially with work stress tangling them up in responsibility mode.
That’s not gonna do.
I get the bowl of fruit I had them prepare. It balances easily on their naked shoulders.
The grapes – both green and purple – 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. I’ve 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 I’ve slapped their face, the way they process the pain and then get chagrined about it. Even collared and on their knees for me, they can’t 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 I’m 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.
“Get me a strawberry,” I say, nudging the bowl closer to them with my bare foot. I smirk as their grin goes slack. I haven’t told them they can move their arms.
“Uh?” they start, the single syllable accompanied by a nervous laugh.
“Every time you give me the wrong fruit, you’ll have to take five strikes,” I continue, undeterred by their half-hearted protest. Five strikes with the leather leash is more of a reward than a punishment – since Buster loves it so much and I won’t be hitting hard enough to bruise – but I have to work within the limits we negotiated.
They bemusedly shake their head, but they’re 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, it’s not gracefully sexy like an erotic painting might suggest – it’s cumbersome and humiliating. They nuzzle through the fruit, assessing it by texture alone.
They’re smiling again. I shove their shoulder to jostle their balance.
When they come up with a piece of fruit in their mouth, it’s 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 Buster’s black-dyed hair and kiss them, it’s messy with strawberry juice.
“Now a green grape,” I say, shoving their pretty, grinning face away with a little grab-smack. Texture won’t provide a lead this time. They’ll have to guess.
They bring me a green grape by sheer chance. They’re still irritatingly handsome when they laugh nervously around their prize. Their hair falls over their blindfolded eyes as they cock their head, hopeful they’ve 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 they’d like that too much. I’m 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.
“Wrong,” I croon, and their eyebrows furrow as their grin turns even more uncertain. It’s a cute expression; a Daddy who did their best and is both scared and not scared of the consequences of their faux inadequacy.
“Heh, sorry,” they say, shrugging a little.
“Up,” 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 I’m 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 isn’t 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:
“One… t-two – oh fuck… three…”
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.
(It’s mutual, but that’s 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 – from bliss, not subspace – and loses count, I start again from the first strike, tsking at them for their impertinence.
Buster’s ‘failures’ aren’t real failures – they’re unlucky guesses – and the ‘punishment’ is as much of a reward as the fruit I let them eat or the sticky kisses we share, so I know Buster won’t actually be lulled into subspace. Crashing is unlikely, but I tailor my language to remind them that this is a game, that I’m not actually disappointed when they give me the wrong kind of grape.
“Ooh, wrong again! Shit luck you’ve got there, honey.”
I keep my strikes firm but light enough that they won’t even come close to bruising. Even if the flushed curve of their freckle-kissed ass just begs to be marked. Even if Buster – back to wheezing out laughter between blows – 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 what’s 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 Buster’s self-deprecating, indulgent smiles are forgotten; they’re begging now, licking my hand in a silent plea for mercy. They can’t come in this position.
Mercy isn’t normally my thing, but again – 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.
“Daddy, please,” Buster grunts like it’s 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, “Fuck, please let me come…”
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.
“Please, fuck, I’ve been good, I’ve been good!” they’re laughing still, head dropping back against the bed as vibrations ripple down to the bone. They’re shaking almost as hard as the toy.
And I let my Daddy come, because we both need it.
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