Free Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair Sexsmith, Miriam Zoila Perez, Wendi Kali, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Dilo Keith, Vie La Guerre, Anna Watson Page B

every conceivable unassuming queer to darken the doors of the bar tonight.
    “It’s just like flirting,” I continue pontificating to no one in particular. “You have to be available without coming on too strong. You have to make the bottom think it was their idea all along.”
    We are raising money for some sex-positive organization; I can’t remember if they even told me which one it is this time. Regardless, if there are two skills I am happy to volunteer for the cause of my community, it’s my superb kinky talents and my capacity to work a crowded room.
    My cohorts and I have had a wildly successful night, of course. We offer penetrating kisses, ruthless tit torture, face slapping, verbal humiliation, and for the more adventurous, flogging, caning, and strap-on sucking.
    Although I delight in dishing out all of these activities, my personal specialty is spanking.
    I am sitting in the room’s place of power—the James Bond seat, I like to call it. From this chair, I can clock the movements and motivations of everyone in the room while keeping my back up against the wall. No one surprises me, and I keep an eye on everyone who is even considering working up the courage to approach us and ask for what they need.
    My leather pants are skintight but comfortable, and my white tank top clings to my torso with just the right amount of sweaty exertion. Many people think of soiled boots as sacrilege, but mine stomp too much dirt, kick too much shit to stay clean for long. When you see me filthy, you know I mean it. While others devote time to moisturizing their leather, I have my hands full beating twice as much ass. But hey, there’s no accounting for taste.
    Speaking of taste, from my vantage point I can see a clutch of tacky little twinks causing a commotion.
    “What do you think that ruckus is about?” asks my colleague Jeremy, a barrel-chested bear who will tweak your nipples like it’s going out of style.
    “Based on the time of night…”
    “Morning!” he corrects me with a grin and wet-lipped swig of foamy beer.
    “Duly noted. The time of morning and the pitch of their squawks makes me think: peer pressure.”
    “No doubt.” We laugh together.
    Our laughter turns to wry amusement when the boys drag over the object of their pressure, and it turns out to be:
    A very sexy, very ambivalent-looking tough girl.
    Years of experience have given me a good sense of whether butch or femme presentation indicates a cisgendered, transgendered, or genderqueer person. Not that it makes any particular difference to me; we all have asses, after all.
    From this femme’s lack of Adam’s apple, and her apparent fag-haggery, I would peg her for the pussy-having variety.
    Of course, I am never unhappy to be proven wrong.
    Her faggot friends have all the attractive attributes of well-trained dolphins. They are sharp and sleek, but also eager to please and susceptible to suggestion.
    “We have a client for you!” the queeniest of them sings.
    Tough Girl and I size each other up.
    She is wearing jeans so skinny they are practically tights, a black bustier, and an oversized leather jacket. It’s the perfect combination of “Look at me!” and “Fuck you for looking at me!” Her eyeliner and hair have seen the effects of the evening.
    “Don’t you feel bad about taking the hard-earned money of drunken queers?” she sneers.
    “No,” I answer levelly. I have been asked this question before. “If I wasn’t the recipient, then the bar, or the corner store, or the man selling onion-stuffed bacon-wrapped sausages on the street would be.”
    She stands slack-jawed. Perhaps she is used to being the intimidator with little resistance. Perhaps it has made her soft.
    I actually offer her quite a chance to think of a clever reply before sipping my scotch and continuing.
    “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of hustling, it’s that people enjoy parting with their money even more than they enjoy earning it. They