Scout and I were two butches that were in love and couldn’t keep our hands off of one another. She and I’d been shacking up for a year now, but the bloom was not off the blossom, so to speak. Age makes for passion and the experience to know how to act on it. We were both over 50 with decades of sexual intrigue under our belts, and had a heated sex life, full of intrigue and mystery. One of our earliest surprises had been when I discovered that I wasn’t only a bottom, but I was also a switch. It was all Scout’s fault and it happened early on when we were flirting and trading what turned us on. She told me that she loved having her hair pulled during sex, but neglected to mention that the slightest tug of her silver pompadour sent her directly into subspace. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.
“I don’t understand!” Scout’s blue eyes got rounder and rounder as we snuggled together in bed. She looked so sweetly vulnerable. That lost small animal look in her eyes combined with her come drying on my wrist made me fall even a little more in love. I felt like a paternal, ferocious mountain lion protecting a fawn from the big, bad wolf.
“What’s there to understand?” I kissed her forehead, inhaling the scent of our sweat. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it,” she whimpered. “But I’m the service top! I’m supposed to be topping you, not you topping me” she blurted in a worried whisper.
“I wanted you to bottom. If it’s what I want, then aren’t you being my service top after all?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Scout said. “I was going to beat and fist you tonight. It’s my job!” she whined plaintively.
I squeezed her ass and held her closer. “This is what I like. For real.” I tugged her hair for good measure, then licked the tip of her nose. “You turn me on.”
The truth was that I was more than a little nervous about topping. I was an experienced bottom and masochist, but insecure about topping and sadism. I’d only tried topping a couple times before and not very successfully. At least, my ex had complained that they didn’t like it when I tried topping them, and who wants to fuck someone and have them bitch about your technique afterwards? Although beating Scout for the first time had been incredibly sexy, intoxicating, and nerve-wracking all at once, I’d been worried that I would be inadequate and clumsy, that Scout would only tolerate my efforts.
Things had settled since that night. We’d discovered that we were both switches, she swooned when I topped her and, me being eager to please, I was always looking for new ways to torture her. Little did I dream that one of my beautiful plans and an implement of doom would reveal itself a year later as we talked one Sunday morning over hot tea and omelets.
It was raining that morning, dismal sheets of sooty grey rain that whipped the leaves of the trees in front of our second-floor apartment into a frenzy. I watched, mesmerized, as the trees blew in the wind, the branches looking like seaweed fronds swaying in the ocean. I’d just set the table, and Scout was in the kitchen cooking our breakfast. I heard her pad down the hall to our living/dining room, and I sat down at the table as she placed an oval platter laden with breakfast on the tabletop. There was a fat goat cheese and wild mushroom omelet, strips of crispy peppered bacon, and buttered English muffins topped with homemade ruby-colored quince jam. I poured her a fresh cup of Earl Grey, and we started eating.
This particular Sunday morning conversation started with Rachel Maddow and politics, segued to Lulu and hairballs, then to the likelihood of finding Arts and Crafts-style stained glass at the Alameda Flea Market, before finally meandering toward sewing projects. Scout had a pile of mending and I wanted to make her some shirts. Somehow, between moving in together, writing books, our day jobs, and life, I hadn’t made Scout any clothing and yearned to dress her up like my own wee butch paper doll. Maybe that didn’t come out right. The truth was that she was a delightfully stocky pocket butch and, as such, had a hard time finding clothing that fit. I was determined to make her a stack of the bowling shirts of her dreams. I started planning the first shirt in my head as I crunched into a slice of bacon. I had a length of periwinkle and cobalt striped linen and some coordinating azure linen that would be perfect for a color blocked bowling shirt. Pair that with a set of blue corozo nut buttons, and she would be the hottest butch on the block.
As I was planning the project in my head, I was brought up short when I hit a possible snag. Although she and I were similar in many ways, she had a strong streak of the rather stern and meticulous German hausfrau in her, whereas I was considerably more lackadaisical. This extended to my sewing habits, and I rarely finished my seams. I figured that they were on the inside, so who the hell cares? But I knew that Scout finished her seams when she sewed. All of them. Every fucking time. Would this be a problem?
“Hey, do you know that I don’t finish my seams?” I asked, cocking my head and trying to sound casual, but with my stomach fluttering with nervousness. I nibbled a corner of my omelet.
Scout raised one eyebrow sternly. “I always finish my seams,” she intoned decisively as she buttered a toast triangle.
“Umm, I was going to make you a shirt, and would you wear it even if the seams were unfinished?”
Now it was Scout’s turn to look nervous. She pushed her toast around on her plate. “No,” she said abashedly. “I’m sorry.”
“I could pink them for you. Would that work?” I was hopeful. In my world of careless unfinished seams, pinked seams were fancy-pants.
“My mother always said pinked seams were tawdry and the lazy woman’s seam!” Scout huffed, as she took a dainty sip of tea, pinky up.
I glared at Scout, trying to hide my laughter. “I love you too. Well, maybe I’m just tawdry. That’s it. I’m tawdry.” I ate my last bite of omelet.
Scout chuckled, gathered the empty serving platter to take into the kitchen, and nuzzled my neck. “I forgive you for being tawdry, but don’t expect me to wear anything with pinked seams. I have my limits, and pinked seams is one of them!” I admired her ass as she sauntered off to the kitchen to wash up our breakfast dishes.
I was amused by Scout’s reaction to pinked edges. She was normally easygoing but, like all of us, some things inexplicably set her off. In my case, it was rubber bands; they cause my soul to seize up and shiver in revulsion. It was something about their shape and their stretchiness that I abhorred. I had an ex that was triggered by irregularly shaped holes, so avoided Ethiopian restaurants with their bread baskets full of injera. There was even a word for that last one, trypophobia. I adored Scout and found her aversion to pinked seams endearing, even if it made sewing for her infinitely more complicated. After all, French seams were prissy and a bear to make. Fuck those French seams!
We’d decided to stay in that day since the weather was so ghastly. We turned on some music, Scout wrote out a list of home projects for the day, and I laid out the pattern pieces for Scout’s new bowling shirt on the cardboard cutting mat on the dining room table. I brooded over seams as I pinned the sleeves, and cursed Scout’s mother’s aversion to pinked edges as I cut out the facing interfacing.
I could hear Scout whistling and the clank of metal as she sharpened our kitchen knives. I finished cutting out the shirt, and rummaged in my bobbin case for azure thread. I threaded my sewing machine, and started sewing. I was attaching the contrasting front pieces together and had started pinking the edges of the remaining shirt pieces in preparation for sewing when Scout strolled back into the room.
Scout shuddered as she walked past the table. “I love that color of linen, but must you pink the seams?” she asked querulously.
“I didn’t feel like making French seams,” I mumbled, then plucked a glass-headed pin from between my teeth and pinned the freshly pinked side seam. “Really, you won’t wear it?”
Scout sighed, and with a hangdog look said, “Alright, I’ll wear it even though it pains me.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed through my pins. “You!”
I knew right then that Scout needed to be taught a lesson, and that lesson was to never look a gift seam in the mouth. I started developing my devious plan.
By the time Scout had moved onto re-oiling the cutting boards and had started chopping vegetables for a lunchtime pot of tom kha gai, I was ready for her. I figured that a little Sunday afternoon delight, along with a lesson in gratitude, was in order. I laid out another length of fabric, this one a red and grey ombre plaid cotton and wool blend. This was my lure, my butch bait. I knew that Scout would be drawn to it as a moth to a flame, and this time, I was going to boldly use the pinking shears directly as I cut the pattern out. I picked up my shears, leaned my yardstick against the table and within reach, and called out for Scout: “Baby, could you come in here? I need to measure your neck for this shirt pattern.”
Scout walked into the room, drying her hands on a dishtowel, and froze at the sight of the yellow tape measure dangling from one arm and the pinking shears in my other hand. I smiled slyly.
“Love, come over here.” I tried to look casual, but was getting turned on thinking about my plans. My cunt was already wet, and my cock hard and throbbing.
Scout came over, eyeing my shears nervously.
“Turn around so I can get your neck measurement,” I demanded, holding the tape measure up to her neck for emphasis.
“Why do I have the feeling you’re up to no good?”
Scout turned around to face the sewing table and I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her close. “Who, me? I’m just making my girlfriend a couple of shirts.”
I wrapped the tape measure loosely around her neck and pressed my groin against her ass. “Baby, do you think it was nice of you to demand French seams?” I murmured into her ear. “Don’t you think you should be more grateful when someone offers to sew for you?” I pulled the tape measure a little tighter and reached around to untuck her flannel shirt, slip my hand under her sports bra, and pinch her right nipple.
“Oh, god,” Scout groaned as her nipple hardened between my fingers. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again!” she stammered.
“I think that you’re way too picky about gifts and need to learn to appreciate the beauty of pinked seams.” I nibbled her earlobe until her knees started to buckle, then placed the pinking shears on the table in front of her. “Pick them up.”
Scout squirmed to get away, but I had her pressed firmly against the table. I tightened the tape measure around her neck. “Do it.”
“I can’t!” Scout panted. “Really, this is hard.”
I reached around, unbuttoned her jeans, and pulled them down to her knees. “Baby, you can do it. Be a good boi.” I pulled her plaid shorts down too. Her ass lifted towards me as I undressed her.
Scout shuddered and picked up the shears, her hand trembling.
“Now, I want you to cut out the pattern with the pinking shears.” I hissed the word “pinking” into her ear as I stroked her slippery cunt. “Just think, as you’re cutting out the pattern, you’ll be pinking its edges. Maybe after you do that you’ll appreciate all my hard work.” I thrust three fingers into her cunt at the word ‘hard.’ “Bend over.”
I picked up the yardstick, holding it by its center for balance, eyed her delightfully meaty ass as she bent over the cutting board, and smacked it dead center.
“Ow! What are you doing?” Scout yelled.
“This is what you get for complaining when I offer to sew for you. Start cutting, my little horn dog.” I smacked her again, trying to stifle my giggles.
“This isn’t fair!”
Scout started cutting out the shirt pattern as I spanked her with the yardstick.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck,” Scout muttered as she cut out the sleeves.
“ ‘Thank you, Sir’ would be more appropriate than curses, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Sir.” Scout grumbled as she started cutting the second sleeve.
“Good job. See how pretty those pinked edges are? Go on. Unpin the sleeve that you just finished so that you can admire it. Lickety-split!” I whacked her hard on the left buttock. “And make an effort to sound grateful. No more curses under your breath, my little dog.”
Scout started unpinning the sleeve slowly and hesitantly. “I can’t do this! Please don’t make me.”
I hit her harder, reddening her cheeks with each stroke of the yardstick. I could hear her breath catch. Then I heard the tiniest sob. That was exactly what I was waiting for, that little break, that crack that would let her heart tumble out, shining and sweet. “It’s alright, baby. You can do it. I know you can.”
At that, Scout started crying as she unpinned the sleeve, tears falling on the tissue pattern paper, staining it. Each shiny silver pin that she removed brought out another sob, until she had the entire sleeve unpinned, with the pins stored neatly in the tomato pincushion.
“Now look at your pinked edges. Go on. Touch them.” I commanded as I caressed Scout’s swelling ass, her ass that was now the same shade of tomato red as the pincushion.
Scout continued to cry. “I can’t touch it.”
I reached down to grab her cunt. There was precome dripping down her thighs and she thrust her hips up, back at me. I ran one slippery finger along her cunt, parting her swollen labia, and jerking off her hard clit. Then I slid two fingers inside of her and started to fuck her. “Baby, touch the pinking. You can do it.” I added a third finger. “Do you want my hand inside of you?”
Scout groaned, “You know I do.”
“Then touch it. Now.” I said in my deepest, sternest Daddy voice, as I continued to fuck her, pressing deep into her and hitting her cervix, the way she liked it.
Scout hesitantly let the tip of her forefinger graze the pinked edge of the plaid fabric and I rewarded her with another finger.
“Tell me you like it.” I twisted my hand inside of her cunt.
“Fuck me, Bird.” Scout started to come and I pulled out.
“No, baby. I know you want me to fuck you. Tell me how pretty your pinked edges are.” I grabbed a hunk of her hot red ass and squeezed her bruising flesh.
“Please fuck me, please.”
“Not until you tell me how much you love pinked seams. No fucking for you until then!” I thrust one finger inside of her cunt and out again quickly for good measure.
“I love it, really!” Scout pleaded.
“I don’t believe you. Kiss it and say, ‘I love pinked seams, Sir’! Hip hop!” Teasing Scout had me close to coming myself.
I slapped her ass with my palm. Hard. “What did I tell you?! No cursing. Remember your manners and express your gratitude!”
“Yes, Sir. I love pinked seams, Sir.”
“That’s better.” I slid my fist inside of her eager cunt. Her cunt clenched my hand and we started fucking.
Within minutes, Scout became a messy babble of broken sentences and come. “I love pinked seams, Sir. Oh god. Pinked…yes! Fuck me.” The pincushion toppled off the table and the bobbin case rattled.
I was fucking her hard and deep, my other hand tightening the tape measure around her neck like reins. “Say it!”
“I love pinked seams, Sir,” and she shouted as she started coming hard for the third time around my hand. “Pinked!!!” she yelled, still clenching the shears in her right hand and her knuckles white. Her body collapsed, her pink, sweaty face resting on the pattern tissue and a puddle of drool darkening the paper.
“Oh god,” Scout moaned into the crumpled pattern. “Thank you, baby.”
“Now, will you ever tease me about pinked seams again?” I kissed her neck gently as I snuggled her close to me.
“Never. I love pinked seams. Really, I do,” Scout smiled wickedly and ground her ass and hips against my groin, “except maybe sometimes French seams are better, don’t you think? Perhaps you can remind me again why pinked seams are better.”