Collecting real stories about real queer sex. Selected stories will be illustrated and feature in a new book by me, Sophie Crow
*By submitting your story you agree that it might be quoted, illustrated and published in my book titled "Real Queer Sex".*
To find out more about Sophie Crow: www.theoysterknife.co.uk
I met a new lover about a month ago. Hesitantly he told me of his interest in BDSM. It sounded… intriguing… and so I said I would try.
How, in 35 years had I not discovered sex could be like that? So good, so exciting, so more-ish. He leaves me feeling completely fulfilled, and yet insatiable at the same time.
Now I am on holiday, away from him. I’ve been looking forward to this holiday for months. Yet I am finding myself very distracted. A trip to the bazaar has me staring at the handmade, thick leather belts with a whole set of new ideas. And when the salesman, catching me staring, unexpectedly snaps the belt to show me the quality the sound catches me unawares and catapults me back to last week, when a similar sound was made by a different man, that time wordlessly snapping the belt to let me know what was landing, hard, on my naked ass next.
Who knew the erotic potential contained in the window of a knife shop? Or that a visit to a candlemakers would leave me weak at the knees with lust?
A trip on the vintage tram seems like a safe bet. I climb aboard, settle my friend into the last remaining seat, and look up as I put my hand through the loop above my head to hold on. On this ancient tram, the loops are made of leather, sturdy, but warm and supple from years of use. They are attached at regular intervals - not to the ceiling, but to large silver brackets, rather like those you use for hanging baskets, fastened just above the window.
The passengers on the tram, my friends, my shopping and tiredness, all of it fades. I see my hand, thrust right through the leather loop up to the wrist, turned back on itself and gripping the loop higher up. But it is no longer my hand, my wrist, my arm. It is his. And his other arm is in exactly the same position, gripping that loop over there. His naked body is turned away from me, he is facing out of the window, presenting me with his ass. In my hand is the belt from the bazaar, and I am the one snapping it now. He flinches at the sound, and I smirk, thinking of how much more I will make him move and jump and dance before I’m done.
'I'm not going to tie you there' I whisper in his ear, and he shivers as my breath tickles his neck. 'I want you to hold yourself there. If you move your hands away from the loops for even a second, I will stop.' Gently I begin to run my fingers down his back, lightly, caressing his ass, cupping first one cheek, then the other. 'Your submission to me must be completely willing, renewed every second. I want you compliant and bending to my will, not fighting me and struggling to get away. Your mouth can say whatever it likes, but keeping your hands up there shows me you are giving yourself to me. If you move them away from the straps, even for a second, I will stop. Do you understand?'
He swallows and nods, but that isn’t enough. ‘Do you understand?’ I ask again. ‘Yes’ he murmurs ‘I understand’. His knuckles turn white as his grip on the leather tightens in his determination not to disappoint me. I run my fingers along the line where leg meets buttock, my favourite target for spanking. So sensitive, and leading to such beautiful places. I wonder if I can hit it as accurately with this belt as with my hand? Only one way to find out…
I begin to knead the flesh of his ass, lightly slapping it. The noise makes my breath come faster, and I feel a tugging in my belly that makes me want to dig my nails into him. So I do, dragging them down his back, all the way from his shoulders to his thighs. He squirms, moving whichever bit of his body my nails are attacking as far away from me as possible, which means pressing himself against the cold glass in front of him. He has been determined not to make any noise yet, and indeed my nails have coaxed nothing from him verbally, but the cold glass on his nipples makes him gasp, and brings a smile of satisfaction to my lips.
Using my whole hand, I start at the top of his buttocks, and land slap after slap all the way down them, one cheek after the other. At the end of each cheek I give that lovely sweet spot an extra hard slap, and leave my hand there, pressed into the giving flesh, savouring the feeling of warmth growing under my palm.
His ass is a lovely rosy pink now, and I am ready to try my new toy. ‘Spread your legs wider’ I murmur quietly, and as he does, I catch sight of a glistening wetness at the very top of the inner thigh. That’s all the sign I need that he is ready for me to try it too.
I snap the belt again, revelling in how powerful and connected I feel, telling him in this wordless way exactly what is coming next. Knowing that in that one sound, I am turning his stomach upside down - fear and apprehension of the pain about to happen; memory - others have done this to him, and he knows it will hurt; uncertainty - I’ve never done this to him, and he has no idea how hard I will strike him, how fast the strokes will follow each other, or how long they will go on for; excitement - that glistening patch of wetness between his thighs is shining brighter as I watch it. He wants this, wants it so badly that if I told him now I’d changed my mind, he would experience it as pain, an unfulfilled relentless aching hole that no gentle orgasm could fill. And a desire to please - he has done this before from my end, the buckle end of the belt, to me and other women. He knows how good it feels to be the one in control. How the power to decide whether to land just one more stroke is such a rush. The completely free choice - shall I lay this belt across that ass with all the strength of my arm, right in the spot I laid it just seconds before, or shall I stroke that ass gently with my fingertips - the completely free choice is a turn on beyond any I’d ever dreamed before. He knows that, and wants to give me that, and offers his flesh to me as a gift that I might feel those feelings.
I take his gift. Intoxicated with power, I take it greedily, as he probably feared I would. I beat his cheeks till they are red, enjoying every slap of leather on flesh. Soft flesh. Yielding flesh. Sore flesh. I move over the cup of his buttocks and onto the upper thigh, because there simply is not enough ass for me to hit. I feel heady as I watch him dance, squirming just slightly at first, accompanied by little intakes of breath, which become grunts, then moans. Then he is thrusting forward with each stroke, and the grunts and moans have changed to swearwords, let out singly, loudly, involuntarily with each stroke. Finally his feet are moving, dancing around as each blow becomes less tolerable than the last. His entire ass glows. He is begging me to stop now, but his hands grip the straps above him, and I feel proud of his determination not to give in. I suspect he is on the edge of what he can take, but I want more. I want so much more. I could do this all day and my arm would never tire. How could it with this gorgeous man in front of me, begging me with his body to break him, whatever his mouth is saying?
I know I should stop now, change pace or at least implement. But it is so hard to not just continue, lost in the sensation of so much power, so much control, watching this glorious figure in front of me giving me his most intimate self, his body, his desire, his pain, just for me to satisfy my lust with.
I hold my hand over his butt cheek. I can feel the heat radiating from it. I did that. I turned that skin red, made it hot, made it sting and burn. As I lower my hand to his ass he flinches away from my touch, and suddenly I lose the desire to beat him further. I don’t want him dancing and flinching away from me now. I want him dancing himself back against me, pushing into me, desperate to get to me.
I stroke his buttocks gently, tracing with my finger down each side of the cleft between them, along the line between ass and thigh, drawing lines from outer thigh to inner, lines that all point straight between his legs, where I know he’d like me.
I know his ass is sore - when I finish a line and replace my finger he still twitches slightly each time. I like the power in this too, and deliberately vary the gaps between strokes, and the pattern of where each will land, to keep him guessing. He is moaning and pleading again, but the pleading has changed from ‘Please don’t’ to ‘Please do’.
'What's that?' I say. 'You can't take any more? Didn't you say that just a minute ago about my belt?'
He is silent for a minute, unable to engage in a discussion, then just quietly murmurs ‘Please, please’ again.
'Please what?' I say.
'Please touch me' he begs.
'I am touching you' I say. I know what he wants. He has forced his legs even wider apart, and every cell of his body is begging my finger to go between them, to dip into the pool of moisture I can clearly see there, to touch, to rub, to grasp and pull and tug, to go inside, to fuck and explore and stretch and fuck some more. But I want to hear him say it. I want to make him say it. I want to hear from his own lips how turned on he is. I want to know I have the power to give him what he wants, or deny it to him. And I want to hear him acknowledge that his pleasure or frustration is simply at my whim, as his pain was a few short minutes ago.
'Please' he whispers. 'Please touch me. Please touch my clit. Please go inside me. Please fuck me.'
I hear those words, I hear his begging, and I know, above all, that he could end this, but isn’t. He could remove his hands from the straps, touch himself, and get himself off. But he won’t. If I choose not to touch him for another five minutes, fifteen minutes, or not at all, he will submit to that. I could stop right now, tell him to get dressed and leave, and he would. Because he wants me to feel this dark and savage pleasure that comes from this thing we do, this odd collection of pain and power and control and submission, that excites me and turns me on more than I have ever known was even possible. And knowing that, knowing how much he would subdue his own pleasure to mine, I am filled with a lust that can wait no longer. A lust to take him, to possess him, to fill him and fuck him and make him come till he cries out and his knees give way beneath him.
I slide my fingers forward, between his legs and inside his cunt. He gasps at the suddenness, the abruptness of shift between being teased beyond endurance and then fucked with no ceremony. Before he can recover I have drawn my fingers out again, leaving him empty and gasping for their return. In and out I drive my fingers, first two, then three, then adding a fourth. I move them quickly, deliberately going a little faster than the rhythm I can feel his body craving, keeping him off balance, with never quite enough time to adjust.
His cunt is dripping wet, but with my free hand I squeeze lube over the knuckles of the hand which is fucking him anyway. I don’t need the lube to get my fist inside him - he would open for me anyway. But I need the lube to get inside him easily before he is ready for me, and that is just what I plan to do. I tuck my thumb in just under his asshole and push, straight up, my fist passing the ring of tight muscles and gliding right into his cunt. He is gasping, shaking his head slowly from side to side and muttering something incoherent but that definitely has ‘No’ in it. I grin, feeling wicked again, and twist my fist inside, moving it from the narrow way round I entered him to the fat way round, feeling him stretch round my wrist and my knuckles. He is so tight, so unready for me, I can feel his clit being dragged down to meet my wrist with every moment I make. His upper body is thrashing around now, head moving from side to side, his arms tensing and releasing. His bottom half is quite still though, as he desperately tries to open to me, adjust to me, to my fist filling him so completely and stretching his cunt wide.
I don’t want him still. I want him writhing on the end of my fist like he was writhing on the end of my belt. I know one way to make him move…
He squeals and jumps as the open palm of my free hand meets the tender flesh of his already sore buttocks, and bucks back into me. He doesn’t mean to, but he forces himself further onto my fist, rubbing his clit hard against my wrist too. Oh yes, I like that. Who cares what he likes? I fuck him firmly and hard, leaving him panting. He soon realises I am not going to match his rhythm, and fucks me back in time to mine, still trying so hard to catch up and get to where I am. I slowly spank him too, which keeps him nicely out of rhythm, stopping him from easily catching up with me, and as an added extra it makes him clench and squeeze my fist tightly each time my hand lands hard on his sore ass.
In no time at all he comes on my fist. He comes loudly, surprisedly, still not quite ready for the fucking he has already received. His cunt spasms around my fist and wrist, clamping down so hard it’s painful. His body jerks, twitching again and again, until he is still. I rest my head on the small of his back, exhausted, spent, exhilarated. Almost…
One last thing I want to do. He is panting now, waiting for me to recover enough to uncurl my fist, rotate my hand and slip out of him as gently as possible. That’s not quite what’s going to happen though. I have discovered a love of pushing people just a little further than they can go, especially just after they’ve come, when they are so vulnerable. He is a particular delight when he’s just come, every nerve ending over sensitive, so easy to over stimulate.
'Breathe out' I say, and blow out gently myself, blowing right into the cleft between his buttocks. Trustingly he does, not realising till too late that I am withdrawing my fist still clenched, knuckles spreading and stretching his now contracted and tight muscles far further than he can bear. Oh yes… He cries out sharply in pain, but too late, I am out, and that last sensation has brought me to the edge of orgasm. I look up at his hands, still obediently tucked through the leather straps above him. Still trusting me to take him where I need him to go, still submitting his whole body to my lust.
Only it isn’t his hand, small, short nails, smooth skin that smells so good. It’s mine. And when I look down again, he is gone, and everyone else is back on the tram with me.
I shift my stance. The wetness between my legs is real alright.
A week to go till I’m home. I think I’ll send him a postcard…
I’m sure a lot of people won’t even consider this ‘sex’, but it’s your book so you can be the judge in this case! ;) It also might exceed your ‘too kinky’ limit, but again, your choice. It’s not something I tell friends or other lovers about because I’m sure they would freak the fuck out (so anon please!). This is something I’ve done with a few different guys but I will describe my favourite. I’m a very tall guy, fat (not crazy fat but fat, ‘chubby’ wouldn’t cut it), hairy chest, beard and shaved head. He was shorter and slim but with a really big arse, bit of stubble, hair done up at the front in a big feathery quiff thing. Conventionally very handsome, the kind of guy people would notice on the street I imagine. We met up specifically to do this stuff. We got to his place and sat on the couch having a couple of beers to relax and chat for a bit. I go the toilet for a douche. Then we kick off, and start using an enema bulb he’s got to pump air up our arses and fart it out. Really. It’s hot, the sound and the power and the ‘mates just having a laugh together’ feel of it. We literally fart around for a while, in each other’s faces, having contests. We laugh and talk about our farting fantasies and how weird we both know it is. We agree that we like being weird (I mentally substitute the word ‘queer’ because as far as I’m concerned this is queer as fuck, queerer than fuck). We strip to jocks and make out while letting rip. I sit on his face and fart while he roars his approval (muffled!). We take videos of ourselves ‘for later’. After about an hour our jocks are soaked with precum, and we get our cocks out and wank ourselves off. It only takes a few moments to cum because it’s not the important part and we’re not particularly savouring that. The high points have already been hit, we’re just finishing off. No penetration, barely touched each other’s cocks. Best sex ever.
The first time I slept with a guy I had taken a considerable amount of mushrooms. This isn’t a “I was so high-I didn’t know what I was doing-really-I’m-straight” story. Although I didn’t put a label on it I’ve been attracted to guys as long as I remember, certainly as long as I’ve been attracted to women.
He was a friend of mine from early childhood but I don’t think there were feelings between us till our teens. A couple of weeks prior to this we were camping in a tent in his mum’s garden. I don’t think either of us was quite ready to be honest with each other so we talked at length about females we fancied at school before watching each other masturbate.
But this time we went much further. And actually the mushrooms intensified the experience. When he came in me it was like a multi-coloured explosion, almost synesthetic. It was sound, like an orchestra reaching the climax of a sonata and the taste and feel of it in my mouth was absurdly vivid.
Something that bothers me is when straight people think that sex between 2 guys is somehow really disgusting whereas a man and a woman is so pure and ‘normal’. This was as dirty, as fun, as trusting, as intense, as natural and as life affirming as any sexual experience I’ve had with a woman. Our bodies intertwined, making each other cum in as many ways as possible. I refuse to feel guilty for it! We never fucked again after that night, in fact it pretty much killed our friendship (which was probably based on sexual tension anyway, with hindsight) but it was a hell of a way to end it.
Submitted by Anon
"I’ve often got excited about people being able to see me having sex, my partner at the time was up for it too. And there is nothing quite like being spontaneous, so walking home from work one evening he pulled me into a phone box. Sitting on the small shelf was a bit awkward, legs open wide trying to support my self, with condensation running down the windows. But the biggest thrill was the cars driving pass beeping there horns at us, it was one to remember to say the least."
Anon trans man.
This blog has been set up to collect real stories about real queer sex. Selected stories will be illustrated and published in a new book by me, Sophie Crow.
My first book, entitled WANK, sensitively illustrated real stories about female masturbation. W*NK tries to readdress the images of women’s pleasure that are prevalent in modern life: either portrayed as bad girls, with sexually explicit, crude and exploitative imagery that target men, or as innocent girls who are coy about their sexual awakening and who must be delicately handled. The book portrays ordinary women. There are no super-skinny models in these drawings, but a cross section of body shapes and appearances.
The same ethos of inclusivity, sensitivity and honesty will be applied to Real Queer Sex, I want to represent the range of forms Queer sex can take and the range of people who engage in it of every age, gender identity, sexuality, shape, size, race…
No story is too short or long to share here, or too “vanilla” or kinky…
*By submitting your story you agree that it might be quoted, illustrated and published in my book titled “Real Queer Sex”.*