ardentfemme’s erotic gems

[ardentfemme]

I enjoy erotica not only for the obvious reasons, but also for its power to explore and expand our relationships with desire, power, and gender. For me, erotica represents the nexus of all these concepts. It allows us to feel turned on and tuned in to our innermost needs.

This space is intended to do just that.

Although I am principally interested in the butch/femme dynamic, I want my erotica to be as inclusive as possible. Therefore, I will hopefully have some stories that include all configurations of folks – butch/butch and femme/femme as well as agender, bigender, and genderfluid folks, transmasculine, masculine-of-center, transfeminine, and trans men and women. One of my goals is to represent the diversity and complexity of butch/femme culture, the lesbian community more broadly, and the LGBTQ community as a whole. In a world in which we are Otherized daily, I want to emphasize our humanity.

Some of these stories will be sweet, while others will be rough. Some will be pure vanilla and others not so much. Some will tantalize and others will provide delicious relief.

One of my dreams is to become a published author (a novelist – not necessarily an erotic writer!), so if you enjoy these stories, please let me know. The encouragement helps me keep the faith. With that being said, please note that this is all original material, so if you want to make copies for any reason, please message me beforehand.

Lastly, a general warning: The following texts are certainly not safe for work and will likely include various kinks, which may include but are not limited to bondage, age play, and sub/dom/domme dynamics.

All the scenarios depicted are between consenting adults and aren’t representative of anyone in real life.

Happy reading!

[ardentfemme]

Hi, y’all! As a preface to this piece, I wanted to talk a little bit about the photograph entitled Lesbo Gang Bang by Gon Buurman, published in 1990 (link below). The work is frequently referred to the following story, so I thought I would reflect on its importance to me.

As persistentlyfem notes on her blog (If you haven’t read her yet, please do!), “representation of fems as agents of our own sexual desire is precious and powerful.” This is the driving force behind this short story.

In persistentlyfem’s analysis, she addresses three key elements of the photograph’s erotic charge: 1) Absence of the male gaze, 2) Inversion of the butch-as-predator trope, and 3) The sexual agency of the fem/me.

Firstly, the image was clearly created by and for lesbians. The image was not created by men for the purpose of sexualizing and fetishizing lesbians. This is important because it completely sidesteps the trappings of the objectifying male gaze.

Secondly, the butches flanking the lone fem are positioned as aggressive and eager, open in their lust. This engenders a heady sense of danger, rendering the fem vulnerable. However, it is significant to note that the fem looks directly into the camera as one of the butches yanks up her skirt and begins fingering her roughly. The image is “in a certain light, a wry invocation of the predatory lesbian trope, the sort of image conjured to frighten supposedly straight women away from a dark and sordid world” (persistentlyfem).

Thirdly, and most importantly, the fem’s direct stare into the camera is not one of “passivity or entreaty.” She does need or want to be rescued. “The fem’s agency reassures us, ‘I want this;’ her expression says, ‘and it’s okay for you to want it too.’” That is, she is an agent of her own sexual desire, not a prop, not an object of male gratification. Rather, a human being capable of articulating and fulfilling her desires – this is the type of agency all fem/mes want and need to see depicted in art and the media. We are not damsels in distress and neither are we corrupted straight women. We know what we want.

In that spirit, I hope you enjoy the following story. Warning: It’s long and a slowwww burn, but hopefully you’ll agree the climax is worth waiting for.

Works cited: Gon Buurman (1990) and persistentlyfem.wordpress.com

https://78.media.tumblr.com/b7fc086f...h34o1_1280.jpg

Some things that I try to highlight in the following piece are:
- Enthusiastic consent
- Respecting a partner’s gender identity and pronouns
- Complexity of power dynamics within the butch/femme context
- Sexual agency of femmes

[ardentfemme]

The cold air digs into my skin like a knife as I get off the plane. I was expecting quaint, riverside houses with their vermilion, mauve, and forest green facades like the ones you see in travel brochures. I guess those are deeper in the heart of the city, because the airport is just as grey and industrial as all the others. Struggling with my suitcases against the revolving door, I regret wearing my best heels to travel. Unlooping the belt on my coat, the red fabric unfurls around my pencil skirt, hugs the curve of my ass and then drapes loosely over my thighs.

My eyes scan the crowd at the arrivals gate for a sign with my name. Someone was supposed to come get me, but I don’t see anyone and I’m not keen on venturing out into the December night to hail a cab. This whole trip was such a rash decision. Not my style at all. I immediately begin to regret it. Sure, some artists prefer to meet buyers in person before handing over their creations, but travelling internationally – during the holiday season no less – for a photograph? I’m shaking my head in self-demoralizing shame when a balding man in unironed chinos approaches me. Not exactly what I would have expected for a representative of one of the most renowned photographers of the contemporary art world. He holds a sign that reads “Allison Massaro.”

“That’s me!” I put on a twinkling smile for him. “But you can call me Allie.” It has the desired effect. His posture softens.

“Right this way.” He whisks me off to the car, deposits me in the back, then tosses my luggage in the trunk. The coolness of the leather seats sends a shock through my thighs and up my spine. Anticipation begins to build in my core. I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what.

His name turns out to be Levi, the artist’s brother. She wanted to pick me up herself, but had some urgent business to attend to, although I don’t catch what business exactly. Levi’s accent is thick, but pleasant. I peg him for a nice guy: married to the same woman for decades, eats his wife’s homemade pies, coaches his son’s football team. Or whatever they play in the Netherlands.

“So what brings you all the way to Amsterdam, young lady?”

“I’m buying one of your sister’s pieces. She requested that I pick it up in person.”

“Hey, that reminds me, Gon asked me to give you something before you head to your room. Don’t let me forget. Anyway, that’s a long way to come for a photo.” Levi chuckles and relaxes his hands on the steering wheel. “Which one is it?

I hesitate for a brief moment. “Lesbo Gang Bang.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. Pulling up to the curb of Gon’s castle-cum-studio sends a shiver down my spine. I feel like an aristocrat from some bygone era about to have a rendezvous with my pinstripe-suited lover. At least, until Levi unceremoniously throws my suitcases out of his trunk and tears open my door. Remembering something, he returns to the driver’s side and pulls out a garment bag, shoving it in my hand before driving away wordlessly.

I guess the whole Lesbo Gang Bang thing didn’t go over so well with him. But, surely, he doesn’t act that way with his sister, a vocally out and proud femme? Gon seems like the type of woman who would nip his bullshit in the bud. I, meanwhile, struggle to regain my composure after the rebuff and pick up my wayward luggage, making my way through the intricately carved wooden doors.

“Let me help you with those.” A voice nestles against my ear, seems to caress my wind-bitten flesh. Its timbre is low, playing with the nuances of gender. I would know a butch just from the sound of one. My body snaps into attentiveness. Hands reach out to grab my bags, hands that are attached to the most gorgeous human being I have ever seen. Penetrating brown eyes reflect back to me, framed by crisply cut sandy blond hair. All embodied in a form of formidable size and strength. The bulge of muscles under a dress shirt and blazer belies a hard-fought and hard-won confidence.

All thought, emotion, and sensation stop circulating through my body and rush to my cunt. Lord, help me. I extend a hand to a nearby table to steady myself. The smoothness of its marble surface against the palm of my hand is a blessing, an anchor that pulls me back from my daydream into reality.

“Tired?”

“I’m fine.” My voice takes on an unintended sharpness as I try to mask my arousal. “Thank you,” I add. “I’m Allie.” I extend my hand.

“Jay. Pleasure to meet you.” A smile plays on full lips.

I hesitate. I don’t know how to ask which pronouns this handsome specimen prefers without being distasteful. Should I just assume? “She, her, hers.” I point to myself. “And you?”

“I like they, them. Thanks for asking.” Jay sounds genuinely pleased.

“You’re here to meet Gon, too?” I force my eyes to meet theirs and to calm the heat gathering between my thighs. I shift my weight uncomfortably and hope Jay doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, I’m buying a piece of hers.” A patron of the arts and a gentleman, too. Maybe there’s something more to this than visceral sex appeal. “Gon and I go way back.” A smirk spreads across Jay’s face, so I don’t have to wonder what exactly they were doing together way back when.

“Same. I’ve always been a fan of hers, but this piece in particular really resonates with me.”

“Oh, yeah? Which one is that?” There’s a challenge in Jay’s voice.

God, now I have to actually make the words Lesbo Gang Bang come out of my mouth in front of this divine human being.

I take a deep inhale. “Lesbo Gang Bang,” I say all in one breath.

Jay wrinkles their brow quizzically, Adonis-like. “That’s the one I’m buying. My bid was accepted a month ago.”

“I…” I begin. “Mine too” is all I can manage to say, which I realize belatedly sounds childish, like a little girl about to have a temper tantrum.

“And why does this piece… resonate with you?” Jay asks, something like temptation playing on their lips.

“Well, for one, it eschews the male gaze. The sheer erotic power comes not only from the positionality of the models – the lone femme flanked by two butches and an onlooker in the back, giving rise to a sense of danger and urgency. But it goes beyond that – it’s the femme’s sexual agency that speaks to me. Gon plays with the tired trope of butch as aggressor, as predator, and inverts that idea by having the femme stare directly into the camera, at the viewer. Her gaze lets the viewer know she wants this, and it’s okay for us to want it, too.” I pause, realizing I’ve just ranted. “I’m an art buyer,” I say by way of explanation and apology. “And why are you so interested in the work?” I return Jay’s earlier challenge.

“I like what I like.” Jay shrugs, unapologetic. I can’t help but feel myself gush.

“Well, I’m sure we can resolve this amicably.” I straighten my back and nod, as businesslike as possible.

“No offense, but I think I’m the one who should take it home.”

Suddenly, I’ve descended from Sexy-Butch-Fucking-Me-On-Top-Of-This-Table Land and landed firmly on Planet Earth. “Excuse me?” I inquire incredulously.

“It’s meant for… me. I mean, I think I know more about being gay than…” Jay trails off. You’ve realized you’ve made a mistake, I think. But it’s too late now.

“You think you’re the only one entitled to lesbian art?” I demand. “You think because you look like that and I look like this – ” I gesture to my blouse, skirt, and heels – that you’re gayer than I am?” I’m fuming. “I’ve been harassed, kicked out of places, and near disowned. I’ve spent my whole life loving people like you –” I point in accusation “– and through it all I’ve dressed the way I wanted to, acted the way I wanted to, and fucked the way I wanted to.” I realize I’m shouting, but I’ve crossed over the point of no return. “And I’ll be damned if I let some wannabe art prick in a Rachel Maddow getup dictate to me what is and isn’t ‘meant for me.’”

The ridges on Jay’s forehead furrow together. I sense their whole attitude change. “I… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I feel the sincerity in their voice. “Fuck, I really am sorry.” Their eyes reveal open vulnerability to me, a gift I realize is precious coming from them. “What I meant is that it’s really important to me, too. I grew up in a small town and I didn’t have, you know, exposure to that sort of –”

Just then, their phone rings. Jay’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“Answer it,” I almost command.

“It’s Gon.” After a brief exchange, Jay hangs up and pushes their phone back into their pocket. “She wants to meet us later on. She said she’s sorry for keeping us waiting.” Jay takes a breath. “Look, I feel really bad about what I was implying. You know what? I’ll tell her to give you the photo when she gets here. It’s the least I can do.”

And so, in a matter of minutes, I’ve won. Isn’t this what I wanted? Realization flushes under my skin. No, this isn’t what I wanted. Or, rather, maybe it’s what I wanted, but not what I need. My whole body softens. I may have won the battle, but I’m surrendering even before the war begins. The tension drains out of the air, replaced by my warmth.

“I really appreciate your apology. It’s just that I feel invisible at times. And I’m sorry for the Rachel Maddow comment. “This–” I gesture to Jay’s ensemble – “is definitely more of a k.d. lang look. Not the early years, but, like, once she got more mature and confident in her own skin. The whole thing definitely exudes confidence, which is very important in an outfit.” I realize I’m rambling. “Anyway, we can talk more about the photo later. I’m starving. All I’ve had to eat for the last 24 hours are those little pretzels they give you on the airplane. What time is it?”

Before I can find my phone to check the time, Jay’s glancing at their watch. “7:30.”

“Thank god. Places will still be open. What do you want to eat?” We move away from the foyer and over to the stairs. My hand grips the banister for support.

“You want to have dinner with me?” Surprise registers on Jay’s face.

“Well, we both have to eat. Did you have other plans?” I ask coyly.

“No, not at all.”

[ardentfemme]

Taking the stairs nice and slow, I give Jay an eyeful of my curves. It might have been my imagination, but I could almost swear I heard a groan.
After Jay’s capitulation and moment of vulnerability, I knew I had to have them. Or, more precisely, I knew I had to give myself to them.

Rushing to change clothes for dinner, I toss my carry-on bag on the ample bed in the room I assume Gon intended for me – the lacey curtains and magenta rug don’t exactly seem like Jay’s style. I zip open the bag and pull out bras, panties, skirts, slacks, blouses, scarves, and the one dress I brought. Hmm. Nothing seemed right. The dress was more professional than sexy and, sadly, covered up all the parts of my body that I wanted to put on display tonight. The skirts were even more conservative and pants certainly would not do.

The garment bag lying across a suede chair catches my eye. Levi had said Gon wanted to make sure he gave this to me. Why? Nearly ripping off the zipper, I find a very glam, retro-looking sequined dress. It strikes me as oddly familiar. Not really my taste, but I’m working with what I got. I try it on. The black fabric wraps around my breasts like a lover’s hands. It bunches up at the waist, where the sequined bodice turns into free-flowing satin, melting over my thighs like dark chocolate.

Yep, this one will do.

After I settle on some earrings and resign myself to keeping the same heels on, I walk back down the stairs to Jay, adding a little extra jiggle to my step.

“Wow,” Jay breathes, not smirking this time.

“I know, I know. It’s a bit much, but I thought what the hell.” I’m pleased to see them undressing me with their eyes. Almost as much as I would be if they were undressing me with their hands. “Ready?” I ask.

“After you,” Jay reaches for the golden knob on the heavy wooden door. We walk out into the Dutch night, my heels clacking over cobblestones with sharp insistence. This time, the cold air feels less like a knife and more like electricity, sparking between Jay’s arm and mine as I instinctively draw nearer.

[ardentfemme]

The restaurant is packed and we don’t have a reservation, so we wait and talk about our lives. I learn that Jay’s an architect, which stemmed from their love of drawing. They met Gon during a brief stint in art school years ago and struck up a friendship, although I suspect it was something more. I reveal very little about my life, not so much to create an air of mystery as to bury my emotions about my breakup with AJ. The wound is still too fresh to pick at.

Finally, a young woman in a slinky black dress leads us to a secluded table in the back of the restaurant. I relinquish my jacket and settle in next to Jay. After a bottle of wine is summoned, I feel looser, more present in my body. Entrées are ordered, glasses refilled. My eagerness permeates the air, stifling me, as I pretend to contemplate the stuffed squash on my plate.

Jay’s fork twirls a wayward spaghetti noodle distractedly. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

I can’t help but chortle. “No. I…” If I open up and Jay doesn’t, my vulnerability will have been wasted and any control of the situation I had would go down the drain. “I just broke up with someone, actually.” I opt for honesty. “Found her elbow-deep in my best friend, believe it or not. Sounds like the beginning of a stupid lesbian rom-com, doesn’t it?” I wince.

Jay puts down their fork. Their eyes meet mine. “No. It doesn’t. They don’t make rom-coms for dykes. We always get killed or commit suicide in some dramatic bio-pic.” The words come out gently, and I know the joke is intended to console me.

“Well, I guess life really was rough back in the day. It’s not like they could just show Sylvia Plath getting eaten out for two hours.” I laugh despite myself. “She had a tough life.”

I’m rewarded for my risky cinematic commentary with a bright flash of Jay’s grin.

“So, what about you?” I return Jay’s original question as our empty plates are whisked away.

Jay mock-ruminates. “Well, they found some journals of Plath’s that make her come across real anti-Semitic. Makes me like her poetry less. But if you ever decide to make that movie, I’d watch it.”

“No, I mean, are you seeing anyone?”

Jay’s smile disappears. “Caught my ex sending nudes to her coworker. Some dude named Mike. Who the fuck is actually named Mike these days?”

Rays of candlelight refract through Jay’s wine glass into their irises. Pain is reflected back. Something primal unfolds inside me. I want to take away their hurt, but I don’t know how. So, I say, “Only assholes are named Mike. Guys with tiny dicks and codependency issues. Trust me.”

After the check comes, we dither as the wine courses through our bloodstreams, drawing our bodies closer. Jay’s hand is almost touching my thigh, deliciously warm. As they help me with my coat, their hands brush up against my shoulders. A shockwave reverberates throughout my body, the precursor of many to follow.

[ardentfemme]

“There you two are!” exclaims Gon. She seems genuinely happy to see us. A devilish smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. This is the first time I’ve seen her in person, although we Skyped to set up this trip. Her gaze is penetrating behind wire-rimmed glasses. Silver hair falls down to meet her shoulders. Here is a woman who knows how to inhabit her body, I think. “I see you’re wearing the dress I gave you.” Gon nods approvingly at my ensemble.

“Yes, thank you so much. It’s lovely. I did wonder why –”

“Good, good,” she cuts me off. “Jay, why don’t you go change into the outfit I left in your room?”

“Um… I… Which room is that?” This formidable woman is having an effect on Jay, I can tell.

“Upstairs and to the left,” Gon calls out to Jay, who is already ascending the stairs. “I want to take a photo of you two together,” she says, turning toward me.

“Oh, well, that’s very nice of you. I’m honored. Actually, there is one thing I wanted to talk to you about regarding –”

Suddenly, another handsome butch pops out from behind a metallic sculpture. Buzz cut, distressed jeans, thick black boots, and a leather jacket to polish off the look. I could get used to hanging around Gon’s place, I think, forgetting all about the photo.

I should introduce myself. “Um,” I say.

“Tess.” A hand is extended toward mine, and I can’t help but look down. Strong grip, long fingers, clean nails. Tess’s hands tell a different story than Jay’s – Tess is clearly not used to working with their hands. Instead, I could imagine them crunching numbers all day in an office somewhere, despite the vintage diesel look they’re currently sporting. Still, I like them, and I withdraw my hand reluctantly.

“I’m Allie. Nice to meet you. Did I interrupt you two or –”

Glasses clink together from behind us, presumably from the kitchen.

“What the hell am I wearing this for, Gon?” Jay shouts from the top of the stairs. Soon, I see what they’re referring to – it’s a similar getup to Tess’s. Leather jacket, jeans, and black boots. It looks like they came from a 1950s Harley Davidson ad. Actually, my retro glam dress would look pretty good on the back of that Harley, too. Hey, wait a minute –

“Let’s move to the studio. I would like to photograph you there.” Gon’s voice is all-commanding. We follow her like chicks to a mother hen.

The gigantic studio is staged as a bar – antique stools are situated around a long slab of mahogany. Glasses are neatly lined up in rows beside shimmering bottles of cognac, rum, and whiskey. A younger butch in a bow tie, dressed as a bartender, stands at attention.

“I thought we could recreate that photo you all love so dearly. I’m working on some more… experimental pieces. You would be doing me a wonderful favor that I would surely not forget.” Gon flashes a flirtatious smile.

Jay walks over to me, their boots echoing throughout the studio. “I… Uh… What do you think?”

“Well, it’s just a photo. It’ll only take a few minutes. Anyway, you know how artists are. We should indulge her,” I say, thinking about the possibility of Jay’s hand peeling back my panties, like in the original photo.

We configure ourselves in front of the bar. I sit perched with my legs dangling off the edge while Jay stands to my right, steadying me. Meanwhile, Tess is situated on my left, gripping my upper arm.

Jay turns to face me. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” they ask. “I mean, we don’t have to do anything. We can just make it look like –”

“Jay, pull her dress up,” Gon interrupts.

“She doesn’t look too comfortable, G. Maybe we should just drop it. I – ”

“Jay, pull it up.” Gon selects the lens she wants and aims the camera at the scene unfolding before her.

I nod. My legs part timidly. Jay lifts my dress to the camera. Now it’s no secret to anyone how wet I’ve become. My black lace panties are beaded with desire. Jay gently rests their hand millimeters from my radiating heat. “Is this… Is this okay?” they inquire.

My cunt is throbbing. The full extent of my need blossoms before my eyes. Suddenly, I realize I would do anything to feel those fingers inside me. I would get on all fours. Lick their boots. Beg.

“Touch her, Jay.” Gon’s command rings loud and clear from across the room.