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

(Content Notes: D/s, verbal humiliation including ableist terms, face slapping, hair pulling.)

Buster sits directly in front of me, naked with one leg hanging off the side of the bed. They’re looking at me, hair in their face, but they’re not really present.

Not that I can find fault in that. I’m also struggling to be present these days.

“Pretty boy,” I murmur, and then strike them across the face.

Buster works in an office, so marks are off the table. To compensate for my inability to gauge my strength, I only use my fingers and keep my wrist loose.

Their eyes flash with instinctual indignation. How fucking dare I strike them? Their lips part as if to object, so I hit them again, snapping that irrelevant thought thread before it becomes a tether.

A pretty boy’s autonomy doesn’t have to apply here unless we say so. And neither of us have said so.

“Too rough?” I ask, but it’s flippant, dismissive. They can take it as an out, or as another sweet smack of humiliation. When they just glare from under their lashes, I grab them by the chin and kiss them in reward.

They probably expect the next strike, so I give them three quick slaps in a row to rob them of that stability. Their glare loosens into the fuck drunk look I see on the back of my eyelids whenever I masturbate.

I love kissing them like this, messy and mean. I pull their hair, drag them around by their chin, smack their face until it’s flushed and the winter sky in their eyes is wet like spring.

“Dumb little bitch,” I croon, licking their mouth, “Dumb, greedy, pretty boy. Look at yourself.”

There’s a mirror on the wall behind me – we’re perverts – but their glossy gaze stays on me. Their mouth is still open, jaw flexing briefly.

Too much on their face, then.

I pull them closer to me by their nipples for another kiss that they hiss into, squirming. The weight of their breasts is satisfying to abruptly drop, their upper body jolting forward just a little.

I grab their face, thumb smushing their cheek like I’m a handsy aunt or a grade school bully. I shake their head, and they exhale a self-deprecating laugh that flutters the hair hanging by their mouth.

When I force my hand under and between their thighs to grip their pussy, my fingers get wet without even needing to tuck between their labia. Their flesh is soft, hot, and soaking, and it’s everything I can do not to turn my nails on them.

“Jesus,” I groan, “You’re so fucking ready for it.” I shove my face against the side of their neck to kiss open-mouthed. I want to bite and claw at the same time, but moving my hand to push two fingers into them while they lift up to accommodate it is good enough.

We barely fuck now, with my brother-in-law living in this tin can we call home. There’s no doors in our RV, and he ignores even blatant requests that he fuck off for a few hours so we can have some privacy.

Buster is tight around my fingers but pliant inside, already so needy for me. It’s an awkward angle and I’m no good at fingering, but Buster makes a broken sound like I’ve drawn them down on my dick, and I have to hit them again just to give myself a second to think.

If this were porn, I’d make the angle work and have them coming down my wrist as I bit crescents across their tits. But this is just us, just sex, so I pull my fingers free and tell them to lay down on the bed.

I lick the come off my hand while I grab a new dildo from the shelf. Their come is thick, a little tangy but sweet, and I’m frustrated we don’t have the time for me to bury my face in their cunt.

The present isn’t just hard to stay in. It’s unforgivingly brief.