Femme Friday — Kathleen Delaney-Adams

A highlight of my femme writing career was touring with Kathleen and other delicious femme writers as part of Kathleen’s BODY HEAT: Femme Porn Tour. Kathleen was an utter delight to work with and her determined yet calm and respectful energy had us writers giving it up over and over and loving every minute.

Along with being tour mistress supreme, Kathleen also loves cupcakes, writing porn, her butch husband, and helping rescue dogs – in other words, she is the essence of femme fantabulousness!

Deep gratitude to Kathleen Delaney-Adams and the sparkle she adds to our world!

            The rope smelled damp, like earth and dirt, a scent that made her pussy swell. She inhaled deeply, inviting her hunger to enter her holes, to chafe her insides, a burning need that bound her to him. eyes downcast as she had been ordered, she relied on other senses to guide and arouse her. Her nostrils fill of hemp, the thickness of its odor, and the sweaty scent of him, a whiff of his cologne, the musk of her own sex wafting up faintly to tease her. Her ears strained to catch a hint of him, his mood, his movements, his breath. She ached to anticipate what he may desire of her, what may come next, listening intently for a whisper of his own dark longing.

            An hour ago, she had wandered the dank rooms of the basement as if bored, pausing now and again briefly if a scene caught her eye, dismissing most. Hard to impress – she prided herself on it, imagining herself as a femme of vast experience, a heavy player among heavy players, and who the hell could top that? None here tonight, surely.

            It was rare to find herself without a play partner, yet tonight she couldn’t quite bring her interest to a peak, preferring to stay on the sidelines of the Dykes at Play party. Truth be told, and you didn’t hear it from her, the last few months had felt like rather a yawner, and she feared her pussy stank of desperation and loneliness. How damn unattractive. She was shaking her head in self-disgust when she turned and found him watching her.

            He exuded butch confidence, reeked of it, leaning casually against the wall, hands loose at his sides, salt ‘n pepper hair, gray-blue eyes perusing the room, packing bulge beneath his jeans. Yum. Her knees weakened and her pussy juiced up immediately. Damn if she didn’t blush like a schoolgirl. His cool eyes and tight jeans nearly incited her to lie down on her back and spread her legs right there in the main room of the dungeon. Sweet Jesus. Instead, she offered a smile, and held her ground when he pushed himself off the wall and crossed the room to her. Even his strut emanated experience. He took her hand smoothly in greeting, his smile warm, belying his hard swagger and the strong grip of his hand.

            “I’m Von.” Yes, confident. Swoon.


            “A pleasure.”

            She vaguely remembered an hour of small talk, escalating flirtation, negotiation. The feel of her hand in his, however, now that was embedded in her memory, as was the rush of wetness on her thighs as she slowly undressed for him before the scene began. His eyes burned her alive as she reached behind her to unzip her dress, letting it slip to her ankles before she stepped out of it. She wore nothing beneath save silk stockings with a Cuban heel and flawless back-seam, and a pair of classic pumps with a razor sharp heel. She decided to leave stockings and heels on for effect, possible rope burn be damned.

            She was a rope virgin, Delilah admitted laughingly, with a hint of fear and shyness, excited to let him pop that cherry, perhaps the last cherry she could claim. And the thought of being claimed by him left her giddy. His and his alone, even if only for a few hours? Divine.

 –from “Tart Cherry” by Kathleen Delaney-Adams, in Beloved

check out her other chapbook, Yield, and her blogs:



Every Friday, I showcase a queer femme goddess. Suggestions welcome!