Take Me There

by Tristan Taormino

  More hair against his lips, spreading out even thicker than before, and then the flesh in front of his mouth sloped down away from him. In his panties, his cock started to stiffen, and Oscar extended his tongue.

  There was just hair for a second, and then he slid past it, and—oh. There it was. Gloriously soft skin on his tongue and the taste of salt, and Hayden tilted his hips upward to meet Oscar’s mouth.

  “Suck it between your lips.”

  Oscar did. It fit so perfectly, sliding between his lips so the hard tip settled on his tongue. He wrapped his teeth automatically and began to suck like he would on any cock. The motions were smaller than usual, that was all. And usually they didn’t make his blood hammer in his ears from fear and arousal and joy. Usually it was just sucking cock. But this, this was Hayden. He wiggled his tongue over the tip and was rewarded with a groan that made him twitch, shift his stance, lower himself stiffly in the corset and curve his neck upward so he could take the other man better. He wondered what would happen if he extended his tongue, but didn’t dare try. He hadn’t been given permission, and he had no idea what he’d find.

  Pins and needles prickled his fingertips and he realized his hands were going numb where they hung limp in the cuffs. Oscar flexed them into fists, squeezed; sucked; bobbled his head; heard Hayden’s breath speed up, grow shallower and turn into a sigh of “Ahh—ah—yes, yes, just like that—such a good boy….”

  Oscar had never been harder in his life. He could do this all day, and wanted to; had never wanted anything so much as he wanted this now. Hayden had both hands in his hair, clenching and unclenching them and rocking his hips into Oscar’s face. Oscar couldn’t count the number of times he’d fantasized about finally, finally being able to do something for Hayden.

  “You’ve always been such a good cocksucker—so good—Jesus, Oscar—”

  Oscar whimpered. His prick curved along his left hip, caught under the lace so he couldn’t even rub it between his thighs. Not that it mattered—he didn’t have permission. This was for Hayden, not him. He moaned again, tightened his mouth and gave it everything he had. And it was so easy, so natural, so right.

  He had never, ever heard that tone in Hayden’s voice before—sometimes the man had moaned and whispered dirty things to him before when Oscar had sucked Hayden’s cock, but never this cock, and his voice had never sounded like this before.

  The grip in his hair became painful, and Hayden cried out, harsh and loud, and Oscar knew; knew he’d been a good boy, that he was beautiful, and that for the first time, he had made Hayden come.

  The grip loosened, but he was pulled away from the other man. There was a second of his mouth being empty, till Hayden kissed him and held his face like he was precious.

  “So good. You’re so good.”

  Oscar was flying in his beautiful shoes.

  ON HYS KNEES

  Evan Swafford

  On hys knees, yes, on my lap, yes, but what I really want is hym spread naked before me, on hys back; lying back not quite all the way, eyes wide, nipples hard, as they always are, ready for me—always ready for me. Palms pressed against the bed, fingers together, in invisible bondage. So calm. Anticipation, but calm, trust.

  I would be hard, stroking my harnessed cock, kneeling over hym, staring down at my boi. I would tell hym, “Spread your legs for me…farther apart.” Hys dick would bob as hy slid hys heels across the bed, giving me a better view of hys pussy.

  The color might rise in hys face: dusky skin becoming flushed. Hy would press hys lips together, perhaps moan a light protest, a quiet, “No, Daddy.” But at the same time, hy would raise hys hips and I know that if I let myself touch hym, hy would be soaking wet.

  I want to rub the head of my cock against hys wet hole, sliding around while hy whimpers. I want to spread hys wetness, rub it around hys hole and over hys swollen cock, but I know that I would lose my patience and shove in, right away. I want hym on my cock, for sure, but I try to take it slow.

  Maybe it’s because I know that it’s hard for hym to be exposed like this: parts hy keeps hidden lie bare before my eyes. No fear; hy knows that I accept hym, desire hym, feed off of this. Still, the naked female sex, which this boi usually hides under baggy jeans and men’s clothes, is uncovered for Daddy. I warrant this trust and take it seriously. Because I see my boi as hy truly is. And hy knows that I’ll protect hym, keep hym safe. It’s what we both need.

  Hys submission makes my power surge, my dominance, my patience, my steel. Maybe the way hy submits to me, surrenders hys will to me, is what got me hooked. It’s a feeling in my gut, not just in my cock: a safe, satisfying, steady feeling: Clear. Clean. I become calmer, steadier, stronger, more myself, when we’re like this. It’s like I could never fail. I’d never drop hym.

  I’d never hurt hym, not really—just in the way hy needs. And when hy cries for me, hys tears are precious. Hy is strong enough to allow this vulnerability, strong enough to let me hold hym for a while. And I am strong enough to make it all right, to keep hym safe, to soothe hym as I hurt hym, to fuck the pain away.

  Hy’s tight, muscled, toned. Hy pushes hys small frame to its limits. Hy’s ready for a fight but doesn’t want one—not on the street.

  Hy tries to push me off, but I hold hym down. Sometimes, hy needs to be held down. Hy tries to be a good boi, but it’s hard to take, to submit completely. So, hy has to be held and pushed and pulled and forced. I take hym where hy needs to go. Hy struggles, fights me but never denies me.

  Hys tattoos tell stories, etched across hys skin: some about hys past, some about hys future. Who hy is, what hy desires, is spelled out across hys skin in symbols. There is a double woman turned trans symbol on hys forearm. Those who understand see the evolution of the tattoo and know it means that hy once identified as a dyke but now identifies as a trans man; outsiders see an interesting design. A black band permanently encircles hys right bicep, marking hym as a bottom. Scars hy bears signify rites of passage; visible reference of past pain endured, rituals of healing, marks of ownership.

  When hy is dressed, hy wears leather cuffs and flags right black, hunter, and red. Hy packs a cock: soft for daily, hard for action. Hy dresses boi: all male clothing—boxers, jockstraps, dress shirts and ties, hats, schoolboy uniforms, black leather. Hy keeps hys head shaved or cropped short, like Daddy prefers, and hy feels natural this way. Hy’s been told that hys septum piercing “distracts from hys pretty face” and that’s just the way hy likes it. Hy would rather look tough.

  Hy’s on hys knees, head bowed. I grasp hys chin and trace hys mouth with the head of my cock, running the slick silicone tip across hys shiny lower lip. Such a pretty mouth. I savor the anticipation, the moments before I enter hym. My cock throbs as I brush against the perfect silky mouth. I thrust inward, pushing past hys teeth.

  Hy opens hys mouth to receive me like a benediction. Hy receives me on hys tongue like the host. I see the reverence in hys eyes, wide and innocent. And I worship hym with all my spirit.

  I feel hys throat, hys tongue, hys mouth working at me. Hy opens to me in seemingly impossible ways. Hy gags and hys eyes tear, but hy swallows and continues sucking, with renewed vigor. Hy can’t take the entire shaft, but hy gives it hys all, opening hys mouth and throat to my assault.

  I attempt to hold off on having the first of many orgasms. I close my eyes, because the sight of hys sweet mouth on my cock is too much stimulation. My hips move involuntarily as I fuck hys mouth, clutching at hys head, lodging my fingers in what I can grasp of hys short-cropped hair. I cum in hys mouth, spewing ejaculate down my legs.

  And because I’m a cock-hungry queer, as well, I haul hym up onto the bed and onto hys back. I swallow hys rod with one breath. Hy gasps and moans. Between licks, I tell hym hy’s a nasty boi, a horny fag, a dirty cocksucker. Hy arches up to meet me as I suck hym.

  I slip my hand underneath hys harness and feel the wetness streaming from hys front hole. The large hands I once thought too big for a girl, serve well to
stretch hym open and fill hys need. I shove three fingers inside hym and hy moans and clenches, as my hand becomes my cock, Daddy’s cock, pulsing inside hym. I push on, deeper inside, closer to hys core, and I feel it all in my cock.

  I like to use my strap on hym, especially hys faggot ass, but in hys hole my hand is the best cock. I can feel hys pulse, breath and heat; feel hym opening to me. I can feel hys need and where hy needs me to touch; push deeper, harder; hurt hym, love hym, giving hym exactly what hy needs.

  I stop and yank off hys harness, uncovering hys flesh cock—swollen, attentive. I plunge my mouth down onto hys cock, as I continue to fuck hys hole. Hy swells in my mouth, grunting and thrusting against my face. Hys hole opens to me, as I thrust deeper and harder. Hy takes more of my cock, and I make a fist and enter into hym fully, making hym howl. Hy bucks and I can no longer keep my mouth on hym.

  Vowing to tie hym down next time, I move forward over hym, between hys splayed legs. I grab and push hys legs up onto my shoulders as I begin to fist hym deeper.

  “Deeper, Daddy, I need your cock,” my boi begs, face so sweet and full of longing.

  “Please, Daddy, hurt me.”

  How can I resist? I begin fucking hym as hard as I can, with the full force of my arm. Hy yells and screams, as I slide deeper and deeper into hym, burying my fist: my cock, my psychic cock, my actual cock, my real cock.

  TEL AVIV

  Jacques La Fargue

  I will meet you in the small park on Shenkin in Tel Aviv.

  It’s a summer’s evening, the air is cool with a breeze that has flirted across the Mediterranean before kissing our faces, which is a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Shenkin is closed to cars and the street teems with trendsetters in their finery out for the evening. Gay men are the majority of the crowd, but it is hard to tell for certain here: gay or Euro-trash? Of the two young men in uniform sitting on a bench across the park I have no doubts. They are obviously off duty, their fingers entwined, legs touching, their eyes on each other, their cigarettes abandoned beside them, smouldering on the bench.

  You come to me direct from the airport, from the harsh scrutiny of Israeli security, from the cramped cabin of some crowded plane. Your name, your sex, your belonging have all been thoroughly questioned by a young woman in a uniform so tight it may as well have been painted over her pert breasts and tight ass. You were not supposed to enjoy her absolute power over you quite so much, nor her confusion. You were not what she expected when she was paged to the little grey room in the women’s area of customs. You tell me that she bent you over without a word, one hand firmly on the small of your back, the other pushing into your ass, like she did not want to see your bearded face, but that she redeemed herself taking her sweet time with your front hole. Like she wanted to remember, like she wanted her hand hot with your heat, like she could not believe how sweet you are right there. I promise to make good use of any lube she left.

  You are happy to be here, but not at home; you’re on guard against the newness of this place. I have already benched gomel for your safe passage and am savouring your discombobulation, your lack of familiarity. I, with oh so slightly more experience, get to show off places I have known and celebrated. I have spent the day basking on the beach, being slapped around by the salty surf, and now it is your slapping I want, your salt water I want on my face, your glory I bask in.

  “Meet me in Tel Aviv, fully loaded,” I had commanded into the phone and here you are. My cock is hard and pressed against the inside of my pants, fully loaded and fit to burst with your touch. There is Hebrew in the air around us, G-d’s language being used to seduce married men, to inquire as to how another likes to be fucked and to ask directions to the nearest leather bar. Tradition says that after death, G-d will ask if we have tasted all the pleasures of this world, and with a smile on my lips I want to be able to answer, “Ken, ken, ken, ken.” You are one of these pleasures that at this moment I have but tasted, but I will gorge myself on you—eat without devouring, offer myself without being consumed. And I, the cocky bastard, am torn: do I take you out and show you off, or do I take you back to where I am staying and fuck North America out of you? I might tease you first, lingering here, steeping in this mixture of gayness and Jewishness all at the same time, but tonight I’m going to fuck coarse Sinai sand into your precious big-man’s ass.

  I have rented a room in a small hotel at the top end of the street. It’s on the third floor of the building, up tight narrow stairs, and I lead you through the crowds in that direction. We stop to buy halva and ruggalah, sweet things that will melt on the tongue and further sweeten this already delicious occasion. I have in my room a small bowl of figs, dates and pomegranates, fruits of the land with which to welcome you.

  While you are tired after the flight and the stairs and seven time zones out-of-place, I will make you say the braha before I feed you, every time. I will make you wait, learn the new blessing, press your lips to mine and G-d’s before every bite. I will tell you this is how it is done here. I will bite the tops off the figs and open them with my hands before presenting them to you, open and juicy, like a woman’s sex spread wide by knowing hands. I will spill open the pomegranate seeds, their bright red juice staining my hands, their turgid forms shining and glistening in the light off the street which enters through the open door to the balcony. I will feed you just enough to revive you, before I offer you my fingers, wet with my juices and not the fruit, for your pleasure. I will sit on your lap, my cunt pressed against your cock, pressed through our clothes and ride you gently as I strip off my shirt and binding. I go from fresh-faced yeshiva boy to breasted bride as the layers come off, and I don’t care. It’s your cock I want. I will unpack it from your suitcase and let you settle it in place before dropping to my knees before you to clean it with my mouth. You told me that you knew I was gay by my blow jobs, and I won’t disappoint.

  Your belt undone, your fly open and your cock released to the air, my need is too dire to take things slowly, too desperate to wait. My fingers play at the base of your cock, and my lips take you in. You lean back in the chair, your head rolling up; a deep throaty roar escapes your lips. “Welcome to Israel, brother,” I say, keeping my lips so close they brush your cock with every word. “Welcome home.”

  You’re watching me as I work your cock. I know I have you when I feel your hands on my throat. You bring my face up to yours and my attention is torn between your moving lips and my need to breathe. You however are steady. I feel the heat of your words as much as I hear them. “If I had my knife, faggot, I would have slit your throat by now, but you’re in luck.” You pause and I wait for the threat I know will follow. “The cock-tease in customs took my blade—I’ll have to split you with my cock instead.” You keep one of your massive hands on my throat as the other strips my pants. You don’t bother to get me out of my briefs, you just wrench the fabric aside. You raise the hand on my throat, drawing me closer, and you bring me down on your cock. “Now,” you say, with your hot breath in my ear, “would be a good time for you to say the blessing for cum.” I don’t know a blessing for cum, but I also don’t have air to breathe. I let you slam me down on your cock, and I take it, take it in me, over and over again, until your pants are soaked with your cum and mine, until I beg for mercy, and until you have made me cum a good seven times after that.

  You won’t break me tonight, and when you finally let me off your cock I strip you down. I open your shirt and kiss your chest, teasing your new nipples with my teeth, keeping them high, hot and hard with my fingers when my lips move elsewhere. Tonight I will fuck you, with my tongue, with my fingers, with my cock. Tonight I will fuck you until you cum dry, until you lose count, until the people outside go home and the street quiets and the night is still. Until the time that people stir in their sleep and husbands and wives whisper to each other, past the watch when babies cry and dogs bark, until the devout rise from their slumbers to say the morning shma. And when we are through and fully spent together we wi
ll say a shekianu.

  Tomorrow I will tremble before you and make demands that you mark words on my flesh with your power, ask that you speak things into being and believe you Abel, but tonight is for fucking and fucking alone. Welcome home.

  TAKING THE TOLL

  Kiki DeLovely

  My eyes flutter open immediately. No time for this gently waking up business—conscious thought pouring like honey into my leftover dreams, slowly mixing together until cognizance fully takes hold and I contemplate getting up. No, there’ll be none of that. Today’s Sunday.

  10:37 a.m. Good. I have just enough time to get this started.

  We may have been out late last night but now is no time to worry whether she’ll be sleepy, cranky, too tired… No matter what, I will make this happen. Usually I insist on being dropped off on Saturday nights or at least fucking at her house and then going home to mine. Sleepovers can happen on Friday, Thursday; shit, even Monday, for all I care. Sunday mornings are mine—ever since I was a little girl. But we had reached that point—the three-month mark—and she requested a Saturday night stay.

  Normally this would be met with an immediate and firm, “No,” but this one might be a keeper, so I figured I’d have to let her in eventually. And there’s something about her that has quickly gained my trust. Something about the way she holds me—my hand on the street, my body in bed—it’s charming and chivalrous. Something about the way she makes her way through the world, whether alone or with me by her side: exuding inward confidence, outward audacity. It’s all so comfortable and natural with her, even encouraging. She enjoys existing in a duality—challenging masculinity while continually tugging on the boundaries of the box labeled FEMALE—and I enjoy eroticizing everything that makes her genderqueer. I like this thing we have. I like her. And I want to see where we could be going, so I grant her this one wish, warning, “You know I’m a morning person…”