Another installment of Queer Sex Diaries, a series in which I recount recent sexual escapades with my partner Buster. 

(Content Notes: D/s, choking, verbal humiliation, spitting, biting, forced orgasm, consensual eroticism of ownership tropes, period sex, moments of transmasc dysphoria relating to genitals.)

“Do you want to get off?” I finally ask Buster, because they’ve been anxious and cramping all day. I’m not annoyed (periods are hell), but I am genuinely curious. We have period sex all the time, but it’s a carefully planned, thoroughly discussed affair. Like all of our sex. I’m autistic – I thrive when every aspect of my life is locked into routine. We don’t do quickies on the fly.

“What?” Buster asks, surprised. They’ve already started dinner, which means there’s about twenty minutes of time between now and food hitting the plate.

“Right now. With the wand. Do you want to come before dinner is done?” I press, trying to sound nonchalant. Confident. Like I’m not fretting that there’s not enough time, not enough build up, not enough conversation.

“Yeah,” Buster says slowly, still startled, “Sure.”

We slip into familiar characters – role play is the fastest way to plunge into the appropriate headspaces – and I grab them by their hair, which is tucked in a haphazard bun. “You’ve been caught up in your own bullshit all day,” my character says, “You’ve barely paid me any attention. What are we gonna do about that?”

I pull them closer to the bed and force them to lift their arms so I can pull their shirt off, release their bra. Both are tossed aside. Their tits are heavy, swollen and sensitive from their period, and Buster whines as I aggressively grip and knead them from behind. I was planning on blindfolding them to lessen the pressure to appear appropriately domly on such short notice, but I can’t find it after a cursory peek around, so I just suck it up for now.

“Did you think just because you’re on your period, you can keep this from me?” I demand to know, getting my hand down the front of their pants and gripping their vulva through their underwear. Their pad crinkles slightly, and I hide a smile against Buster’s shoulder. Normally I would squeeze their junk until they cry out, but the pad is in the way, and if we want to be quick we can’t get blood all over the place.

I yank their jeans and underwear down at the same time and nudge them into stepping free of the tangle. Our bed is in an alcove, so I can’t shove them over as roughly as I want – too many walls, too close together – but I still get some menacing pushes in as I direct them to sprawl out on top of a discarded black t-shirt. There are old blood stains all over our bedding already, but despite appearances we do try to keep spills to a minimum.

Wands are Buster’s favorite, but I’ve read about the offwhite heads of Magic Wand Rechargeables becoming discolored after frequent period wanking. Until being sent the Kink Power Wand for review, Buster went without. The KPW has a black head, so I plug it in and shove it against Buster’s bloody cunt with confidence, grinning fiendishly as they immediately writhe in… we’ll call it appreciation.

I intend to be verbally rough but physically tender from here on out, but seeing Buster sprawled with their back arching at the abrupt onslaught of stimulation is sadist catnip. I move over them and bite their throat, sucking a mean hickie even though I know we’re visiting my mom tomorrow and Buster has work the next day; I drag my nails down their belly and over their breasts; I pinch and bite their nipples. I want to be nice, but my love is mean, and Buster’s gasps and moans show they know exactly what I’m saying when I squeeze their throat and spit on their face.

I know a slow upward canter through the wand’s settings is ideal, but Buster’s pleased exhales of my name – currently disguised as my character’s – jostle my resolve even more, and I jack the power up before making them hold the wand in place for me. If they don’t like it, they can sneak a few downward clicks while I busy myself with making them gag on my fingers. (They probably won’t turn it down. They’re a chronic good boy.)

I love the half-swallow flutter of muscles as I push my fingers down the back of their tongue, carefully tucking three into the top of their throat. I fit there perfectly, clutched by nervous, delicate flesh, heat and warmth holding my fingers almost like I’ve decided to fuck their cunt instead. Dysphoria hits me briefly – I want a bio cock to choke them on – but I try to push it aside. Buster is the one who needs to fall to pieces right now, not me.

“Turn that up,” I say, because I’m an asshole and I love them.

The wand purrs louder, no doubt thundering far harder than Buster’s dick can take after less than ten minutes and absolutely no foreplay. But Buster does take it, echoing my cruelty as they rock the wand’s juttering head against themself, the coppery scent of blood overpowering the smell of their come.

Dysphoria keeps bouncing at the back of my brain like a particularly clumsy bumblebee, intent on doing terrible things to my domspace euphoria. There’s nothing I want more right now than to fuck Buster, but I don’t even own a functional harness right now. I could do it by hand, but the cooler weather has my wrists acting up, and stopping to find a dildo and lube would take up too much of our very limited time.

I indulge in a couple of short thrusts against their hip then stop.

I focus on fucking their mouth instead, pulling my fingers free to let them breathe whenever they start to legitimately struggle. I smear their spit across their face, flirting with smoothing my palm over their gasping mouth. When I do, I make sure to block their nose as well, calling them names and accusing their illusionary identity of being a greedy slut. Their face is a mess, flushed and wet, and I spit between their parted lips to ease the way as I shove my fingers back down their throat.

“See, the thing is,” I say conversationally, enunciating slowly in my character’s heavily stylistic drawl, “You? You belong to me.”

“Yes,” Buster gurgles, gasping when I pull my fingers free to fuck up their face again.

“Your body belongs to me. Your orgasm belongs to me. You’re here on this bed, fucking up on that wand because I want you to.”

I’m projecting lazy confidence despite still being worried about how long it’s been. Buster’s orgasm generally comes thirty or forty minutes into a scene, and we’ve already used over half of the measly twenty we can risk before our dinner burns.

Which is the bigger sub drop risk: ending the scene without the orgasm it’s built around, or prioritizing orgasm over the dinner Buster so dutifully prepared? We should have sussed that out beforehand, but our improv falls back on previous negotiations – and we’ve never talked this particular scenario out, because time is never a problem.

I decide to prioritize the orgasm, because I’m pretty sure I can cheerfully spin burnt chicken as a funny story we can laugh at, and we’ve got the money to go pick something up if we can’t cobble a new meal out of what’s in the cabinets. But Buster saves me the trouble by gasping “I’m close!” as if this is a conveniently paced erotica.

That sounds like a meta joke, but it’s not.

“That’s my girl,” I croon, because Buster’s character of choice is genderfluid and hungry for gendered endearments from across the spectrum. They groan, and I set to work brutalizing their tits as best as I can before they come. I hold a nipple between my teeth and suck, moving my spit-damp hand to their other breast so I can try to leave fingerprint bruises with all my self-indulgent pawing.

I feel their orgasm coming on as surely as I ever feel my own: Buster’s thighs tremble as the wand forces them through it, their back arching as they reverently thank me with my character’s name. The smell of their come is momentarily noticeable through the metallic tang of blood. I soften my grip on their tits, transitioning into a gentle nuzzle with my mouth and fingers both, listening to their ragged breathing until it’s no longer strained.

“Pretty boy, you did so goddamn good,” I croon, licking into their mouth for kisses that come too soon, the breathlessness keeping them blissed out for a precious few seconds longer. “You were so fucking hot.”

This feels good. We did a thing I didn’t think was possible – that we probably both didn’t think was possible – and it went okay. I’m proud of both of us.

“Mm, I feel spoiled,” Buster says in their character’s silky murmur, visibly glowing with an all-over flush that does more good things for my brain.

“Don’t feel too spoiled now,” I say, petting my hand down their front in slow, firm strokes, “You’ve still got dinner to finish.” Despite the reminder, I don’t let them up for several minutes longer, rubbing their belly and thighs while they zone out.

I don’t want Buster to come down from their haze too hard too fast, so as we get up, I menace them playfully. “Nuh-uh,” I admonish joyfully, still in character as I grab their hand to stop them from fixing the beautiful mess of their formerly pert bun, “Stop fucking with your hair.”

“I’m just fixing it,” Buster says lightly, breathlessly. They’re blushing. Menacing was a good call.

“You don’t have to preen yourself all the time,” I chastise, and go with the cliché because my character’s inclinations are often cheesy: “You’re perfect as is.”

“Mm.” Buster’s lips slide into a half-smile, feigning being unimpressed. They’re charmed by the corniness and we both know it. “Not if I let dinner burn.”

“Can you even make it to the stove?” I taunt, despite the fact that we live in an RV and the stove is less than five feet from the end of the bed. Our chosen characters don’t live in an RV, and the blatant denial of our space’s reality helps maintain the scene for a few minutes longer.

“We’ll see.” But the haughtiness melts into laughter as I grab their hips to haul them backwards and fuck up their balance, kissing their neck and shoulders wetly. I can smell blood still, which means they’ll have to get at least partially dressed if they don’t want to drip down their thighs.

It’s… tempting to not let them. But eventually I stop clutching them against me and let them pull their underwear back on. They’re unsteady, so I keep close, but they’re cheerful as they retrieve our food from the oven. When I ask, they say their cramps are gone.

Dinner turns out perfect.

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