Kinky queer love, p.1
Kinky, Queer Love, page 1
Kinky, Queer Love
Four Flash Stories
John Theriac
Cover design and cover photo by T.C. Mill
Stories copyright John Theriac 2020
Thank you for purchasing this book! Please help yourself to limited, non-commercial sharing of the contents, such as the use of quotes and reviews. But this book is the copyrighted work of the author and may not be reproduced or distributed for any commercial use.
In the stories in this collection, all characters, events, and locales are figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
These stories contain mature themes and language. All characters are 18 years of age or older. You can totally try this stuff at home, just not with fiction as a how-to guide—detailed and accurate information on real-life kink is available from committed sex educators and can help everyone enjoy such activities with full and informed consent.
Contents
Truth
Gear Queer
Ones and Zeroes
Out On the Inside
Thank You: some words from the editor
About the Author
Truth
“Tell me a truth,” she said.
“Tell you the truth? About what?”
“Not the truth. A truth. Tell me something true about yourself. Something I don’t know.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
“I hated you in high school.”
That got her attention.
We lay together atop the bedspread, not really doing anything, our fingers intwined. I had been looking up at the popcorn ceiling and thinking of nothing in particular, simply enjoying the animal warmth of her hand, her shoulder pressing into mine. Then this question. She had a habit of doing things like this. When we met again – or, depending on how you look at it, for the first time – in college, she didn’t say, “I remember you from Hendricks High.” She didn’t say, “You look familiar, did we go to school together?” She didn’t say, “Why are you wearing that dress, weirdo?”
She said: “I was just reading about sky burials. They sound badass. I’d like to be eaten when I die, how about you?”
I’d like to be eaten when I die. By you, my love.
She sat up halfway, taken aback. “You hated me?”
I thought about it. “Not with an adult hate. Not like I hate abuse or discrimination or people who kick puppies. The way you hate things when you’re young because you’re scared and insecure and things are going on in your downstairs that make you want to dance, or scream, or cover yourself in gasoline and set yourself on fire. Or maybe all of them at once.”
“You have a way with words,” she said, not sarcastically.
“With you I do.”
She snuggled in closer. “Do I bring that out in you?”
“You brought a lot out in me.”
“Yep.” She squeezed my hand. “So why did you hate me?”
I tried to order my thoughts. “Do you remember what I looked like in high school?”
She thought for a moment. “Sullen. Quiet. Bookish.”
“How I looked, love.”
“You were a little heavy.”
“That’s very diplomatic, thank you. I was the fat kid with the babyface reading Stephen King books in the back row. That, and glancing furtively at the beautiful girl with the spiky blue hair who sat a few rows ahead of me. The confident girl who wore leather jackets with Blade Runner and Buckaroo Banzai patches sewn into the shoulders. The girl who was openly, proudly bisexual. The girl who took no shit from anybody, and kissed anyone she damn well pleased.”
“As long as they said ‘yes’,” she said. “I like to kiss.”
I know a cue when I hear one.
We kissed. We parted.
“I’d have kissed you back then,” she said. “If you’d asked.”
“I didn’t want to kiss you,” I said. “I mean, I did – I dreamed of kissing you – but it was more than that. It was this ache...”
She slid an arm behind my head, supporting it. “It’s okay, love. It’s okay.”
And like a perfect idiot, like a machine made to do nothing but angst, I felt myself tearing up. Like I hadn’t done this enough. “I wanted to be you. You were so confident. About your gender, your sexuality, your identity.”
“Love, I was scared to death half the time.”
“I know. But that version of me didn’t see that.”
“Truth?” she said.
“Sure.”
She kissed me again. “You were a little bit of an asshole in high school.”
I laughed, and the tears went rolling down my cheeks. I wiped at them. “Yes, I kind of was.”
“I thought you might be gay, back then,” she said.
“I thought I might be gay, too. Then I thought maybe I was trans. Or maybe I was ace, and all I wanted was to cuddle pretty people, if I could ever find anyone who wanted to cuddle a fat, confused nerd.”
“I’m still not seeing the part where you hated me.”
“You made it look so easy,” I said.
“Made what?”
“All of it. You seemed so together, so...” I hunted for a term. “So one-pointed. There I was in the back of the class, juggling spaghetti. Did I want to be a boy, a girl, nothing at all? Was I gay, or bisexual, or straight, or ace, or just broken? It burned inside me. It burned me up.” Seriously not going to tear up again, nope, seriously not. “It hurt.”
“Truth?” she said.
“Sure.”
“Did you ever hurt yourself?”
“No.” I turned on my side so we were facing each other. “But if there’d been just one more grade of high school...”
“Right?” She mimed wiping sweat from her forehead. “And college?”
“A revelation,” I said. “Suddenly I wasn’t the weirdest person in the room anymore. Suddenly I could tell people I thought I might be a boy and a girl and not be treated like I had the plague. Suddenly I had a future.”
She kissed a tear away from my cheek. “You always had a future, love. Even if you didn’t see it. Want to know the truth?”
“From you? Always.”
“When I met you, I wasn’t sure I had a future either.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “You didn’t?”
“You remember Katie?”
“Your ex? Sure. She came to a few of our parties, didn’t she?”
“Do you know why we broke up?”
“Um. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t.”
She didn’t tear up. That wasn’t her style. But I could feel that energy in the air. Pain has a frequency all its own. “She was emotionally abusive.” She pauses. “That sounds so dictionary, doesn’t it? She didn’t believe in bisexuality. She hated the idea of me being with a man, and she got jealous any time I talked to one. She used to tell me I was hurting the lesbian community.”
“Jesus.”
“I was just about to give up on relationships for a while – I thought maybe for good – when I met you. And then...” She rolled her eyes, then looked into mine. “Then everything.”
“Then everything.”
We lay together in silence for a long moment.
“Truth?” I said.
“Sure.”
“When did you know it was going to be okay? I mean, between us? When did you know we were going to work out?”
By way of answer, she took my hand and placed it on her stomach. “This. When I could let you touch me here, and not flinch away. You’re the only person I’ve ever been with who I trusted that way. Who my body trusted that way. You’re soft and kind and gentle, and I trusted you from the moment I met you. Body and mind.”
“I’m so glad.”
We kissed again.
“Your turn,” she said. “Truth?”
“Truth.”
“When did you know it was going to be okay? For us, for you. All of it.”
I looked into her eyes, eyes I never tired of looking at. “When did I know?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I smiled, and this time the tears that gathered were the good kind. “When you introduced me to your friends. When you said, without hesitation, ‘He’s my girlfriend.’ That’s when I knew.”
She kissed the tears on my cheeks. “Truth?”
“Truth.”
“You are.”
Gear Queer
“How’s that?”
“Good.”
“Comfortable?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And how’s that?”
“Very nice, Ma’am.”
“Not too nice, I hope.”
“Um. What’s ‘too nice,’ in this case?”
“Hands up. Put them behind your head and keep them there. Now what happens when I do this –”
“Oh, whoa –”
“Keep your hands where I put them! And when I do this –”
“Ma’am, I’m getting close – ”
“No unauthorized orgasms, pet.”
“I’m – ah – I’m trying not –”
“Try harder. Pun not intended.”
“Ha! I thought you hated puns.”
“I don’t hate them. I view them with the same detached unease as with which I regard silverfish in the basement. But they’re good for distracting you when you’re about to get in trouble.”
“I’m glad you didn’t use a silverfish.”
“I’m a sadist, sweetheart, not a sociopath.”
“Would you have punis
“I think you’re probably the first person in the history of sex to use that term for an orgasm. Plaything, you know I don’t do punishment. If your self-control hadn’t been as good as I feel it should be . . . I’d just be a bit sad and disappointed.”
“But that is punishment!”
“That’s why I collared you. You’re quick on the uptake. A little mouthy, though.”
“There’s always the gag, Ma’am.”
“You always seem to bring that up. Actually, now that I have you where I want you, let’s talk about that.”
“Do you not want to gag me?”
“Not really. First, I have other uses to which I’m going to put that pretty mouth.”
“You could keep it gagged until you need it.”
“True, I could, but . . . okay, hands down. Cross them behind your back. Where’d I put that sash we perverted?
“Just behind you, on the dresser.”
“Ah, thank you, pet . . . A little higher up your back . . . there. Let’s see if I can get this running knot just right. How’s that?”
“That feels nice and secure.”
“Uh-huh. And how’s . . . that?”
“Um. Okay right now, but in about fifteen minutes it’s probably going to start to hurt.”
“Exactly. That’s reason number two why I don’t like to gag you. Can you guess reason number three?”
“ . . . maybe?”
“Get this right, and maybe we’ll compromise. Maybe. Think hard, pet.”
“ . . . because . . . uh . . . “
“I believe in you, pet.”
“ . . . because you enjoy my conversation?”
“See? I knew I could count on you. The truth is, darling, I love our banter. Even your bad puns. Well, okay, maybe in spite of your bad puns.”
“I love our banter too, Ma’am.”
“So what’s with the gag fixation, then?”
“I don’t know. I think I just like it when you stick things in my mouth.”
“I know you like it when I stick things in your mouth. But what about the other stuff you ask about? Isolation helmets, things like that? I can’t believe I’m saying this while I have you collared, cuffed, and trussed, but I think you have a bit of a gear fetish, my dear.”
“Oh, I definitely do.”
“So. What’s that about? I confess, pet, I don’t get it. Anything that comes between me and you is a turn-off for me.”
“I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Don’t go getting misty-eyed on me, answer the question!”
“Yes, Ma’am. I suppose . . . ”
“Ye-es?”
“I suppose . . . for me, the gear is you touching me. Controlling me. When you lace me into a corset – ”
“Which is definitely not a turn-off, pet.”
“Aww. I’m glad. When you lace me into a corset, I feel your hands around me all day. Your control. I love to be under your control, whether through your hands, your voice, your ropes . . . your gear. It’s your will. If you want me silent, you can always instruct me to stop speaking, and I will. But something about the idea that you haven’t given any instructions, you’ve just decided that you want to gag me, or lace me into the silent darkness of a helmet and chain me in place for a while, maybe for you to admire while you enjoy yourself, maybe not . . . for me, the helmet is part of your will. The cuffs and chains are part of your will. When I wear them, I might not feel your hands on me, but it’s still you who’s touching me. And I find that unutterably hot.”
“ . . . ”
“Is everything all right?”
“Mm? Oh, I was just wishing I’d recorded that little speech so I could play it back while I bring myself off later. You do have a way with words, pet.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
“And now, my erudite plaything, I’m going to prove to you that I’m not completely unreasonable. What drawer did we leave it in?”
“Top left.”
“Ah, thank you. Geez, this is huge. Are you sure this won’t hurt your jaw?”
“Not unless you want me to wear it all night.”
“Not very likely. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You don’t seem to have a gag reflex either.”
“There’s a pun lurking in there somewhere.”
“Then let’s trap it before it can escape. Ropes comfortable?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Cuffs comfortable?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good. I’m going to saunter into the other room and . . . mm . . . lie back on our bed for a minute or two and think about what a lucky sadist I am to have a sub who says ‘thank you’ when I slap them, and means it. And while I’m gone, you’re going to think about how lucky you are to have a domme who knows how to compromise. Then I’m going to fetch my strap-on, and come back in here and replace this with my cock. Now open wide.”
“Yes, Ma—”
Ones and Zeroes
“I know this isn’t exactly news or anything,” I told Del. “But I’m really, really into you. I mean, like, at the moment.”
Del gave me a bemused look. They were sitting, legs crossed, on the chaise lounge. I was kneeling, naked and bound, on the floor in front of them.
“I believe you,” Del said. “And I’m flattered and everything, but I’m getting a weird ‘the lady doth protest too much’ vibe from this. Is there some reason you’re bringing it up?”
I looked down at myself. The English language doesn’t have enough words to describe the states between “completely flaccid” and “utterly engorged.” Let’s say that if I were a flag, I’d be at half-mast. “You’ve been dirty-talking with me—”
“Oh, just me?”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ve been dirty-talking for twenty minutes, and I love it . . . ”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I know everything about you,” Del said. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
“Then you probably know what this is about.”
“Maybe.” Del leaned forward over their knees. “But I’m going to make you explain it anyway.”
“I . . . look, you’re the hottest person I’ve ever met. By a country mile. I’m so into you, it’s ridiculous.”
“I know that too,” Del said. “That’s why your hands are tied until I have use for them. That’s why I like to keep you at arm’s length while I admire you. I’m a sadist.” They smiled again, still bemused, not bothered. “So what’s bothering you?”
“I . . . um . . . ”
“Speak, boy.”
“I haven’t really been erect that much during our conversation, and I didn’t want you to think . . . ”
“What? That I was boring you?”
I blinked. “No, no. You could never bore me. I just didn’t want you to think—”
“That your cock—my cock—was some kind of barometer for how many of your buttons I was pushing?”
“Well, okay, it sounds a little superficial when you say it like that.”
“Sit up!” Del said.
Without thinking, I straightened up on my knees.
Del leaned toward me, until we were looking into each other’s eyes. “Not that I don’t love your pretty little cock, boy, but what if I solved your problem by locking it away, so we never had to—AHA!”
I recoiled in surprise.
“I was watching your pupils,” Del said. “And while I was detailing your fate—and we’ll talk about that later—they grew huge. If they were, say, a cock, I’d have called them fully erect. The pupils never lie. The Ones may go up and down relative to their own schedule, but if I see your Zeroes grow suddenly wide, I know.” Del hooked a finger through the ring on my collar and pulled me back in close. “And I’ll tell you a secret, boy. When we talk about all the things I’m going to do to you, or all the things you’re going to do for me, I’m always watching your pupils. This”—they stroked a finger along my cock—“is very pretty. But it’s not a barometer. I know when you’re excited, boy. I told you, I know you inside and out.” Del paused, amused. “Double entendre definitely intended. Besides which, I didn’t have any plans for this.” Another gliding stroke along my cock. “So why are you worried?”
