Considering Patreon

After looking over some similarly themed writers, specifically Sinclair Sexsmith, I am considering starting up a Patreon account.

Here is how I imagine things going. Does this sound like something anyone out there would do?

$2 a month

At $2 a month you will get access to my special Patreon blog posts. These may be little flash fiction bits, updates on whats going on in my life and work, reposts of older stories, etc. There will be 1 post a week. You also get the warm satisfaction of knowing you are supporting a working writer.

$5 a month

At $5 a month you will get a fresh new short story every month. The stories will range in topic, but they will be erotica of some form. Those who know my work know that I try to write things that are thoughtful and character driven, but also hot and edgy. These works will be from 1000-3000 words.

$15 a month

At $15 a month you will get two short stories every month. One will be the $5 story and the other will be something a little more unusual. It may be a non-erotic work, science fiction, fantasy, non-fiction, general weirdness. These works will be from 1000-3000 words.

$50 a month

At $50 I will write a special brand new story every month just for you. You can give me a specific scenario, kink, fetish, plot, gender combination, emotional palette, genre what ever. I will write up a couture story based on your desires. These works will be from 1000-3000 words or more.

Note: All stories will be unpublished and you will be the first people reading them! These stories may show up in ebooks, magazines, anthologies, my webpage, etc at some point, but you will get first dibs.

Stretch Goals

Not sure if it will go any farther than that, but audio version of stories could be a good thing, photo essays, things like that. I will look and see what other writers are doing out there.


Putting Things Together

Here is one of the pieces I read last night at The Dirty Boys reading. Again, it was such a lovely evening. I’m still swooning over the audience and the emcee and my fellow readers and that hot door girl.

Putting Things Together

She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

You could always tell the state of Amanda’s life by the state of her lips. As she moved in to kiss my cheek, I saw that that those absurdly plump lips were bitten, chapped, and raw.

"I broke up with him," she said, walking to the window as I sat on the broken futon.

Read More

After a lovely evening at Suspension, I decided to revamp my FetLife profile. A few positive hours of spanking very pretty strangers will do that to you.

About me
Writer, New Yorker, hedonist, poly, dandy, kinky, daddy, top, switch. Man of letters. Man of great hungers. Man about town.

I’m interested in doing complicated things with complex people who have diverse tastes.

I am most comfortable topping. I am good at being mean. I am a caring sadist. I like figuring out how people work and then taking advantage of that knowledge. I enjoy leaving marks, making people make funny noises, and basically controlling someone’s pleasure, pain, and comfort.

I am far more picky about bottoming. I bottom to pain and enjoy being in service to those I have a strong connection with. I am an able valet and a considerate service top. Being queened is one of my top kinks, though more the physical act than the associated humiliation play.

I love co-topping and middling. I am most comfortable as a hired thug.

I enjoy ageplay, as a big. Dirty uncle, bully older brother, and other mixed dynamics are fun. I am only a daddy to my girl.

Most of what you want/need to know about me can be found on my erotica site, Erotica, true stories, rants and sex toy reviews. Buy my books.

If I’ve violated anyone’s boundaries, as a top or a bottom, I’d like to know about it so I can apologize, and help resolve conflicts about boundaries and safewords and power.

Note: With few exceptions, I only friend people I have met or plan to meet in the NYC area.



I write notes on my phone a lot. Every few months I take those notes and either trash them or move them to text documents in my Writing folder of my Dropbox.

Sometimes there are weird gems that I am not sure what to do with. Sometimes they are the start of stories. Sometimes they find there way into stories I’ve already started. Something they just hang around. Here are some.

The tale of the wounded bird collector.


Lucy had perfected the bored look years ago. Ideally, she needed a martini in her hand. She dressed like it was 1962 and had fire engine red lips and a body that could make a man sell his soul or even his house.


She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.


There was nothing to do but fall into her arms, trapped in her honeyed gravity well.


You could tell the state of Amanda’s life from the state of her lips. That morning they were chapped and bitten and in general all fucked up. It was going to be a long morning.


They met in line to tour the Vatican. She was with her parents for that last vacation before you are too old to go on vacation with your parents anymore. Barely twenty. Could there be a more inappropriate place to pick someone up?


He touched the ring on her bellybutton. “Was this your first little rebellion?” he mocked.

Her mouth turned into a frown and as she pouted she wished he would smack her already.


I gave in. I gave all of myself. I surrendered to the Power Point presentation.


Naked, he looked very different than the man in the suit she had gone home with. His chest was broad and strong and as she moved closer she wondered if this was what it would be like to put your hand through a cage a pet a lion.


Sometimes he would place his hand on her forehead, as if checking her for a fever, and the comfort it brought frightened her. How did he have the power to turn off her thoughts and stop the shaking and the fear? How did his hand become such a powerful sedative?

"That’s right," Adam said, holding on tightly to the scruff of Henry’s neck while he slowly jerked the shorter man’s cock.

"You just keep watching her touching herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off," Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

"I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my dick."

- From one of the stories I will be reading with The Dirty Boys on September 7th.

Smut as Art

nomakesknots asked: Mr. Stratton, of all such arts in which to delicately unfold and write upon why does smut appeal the most?

Maybe we all gravitate to the language we learn first.

As a kid wandering around the burgeoning internet, I found erotica pretty early on. It took less time to download a story than a picture. They were scanned smut novels, fan fictions, wild tales where people wrote about the most outrageous things they could think of just to stand out.

At the same time I spent most of my school days in the public library. I wondered if there might be dirty stories on the shelves, like the ones on the computer.

So I found Anaïs Nin who has been a lifelong guild. And the Beauty series and De Sade and the Story of O. And then Nabakov, who shook my world up. Henry Miller, then the beats. Later I ended up inheriting a box of discarded pulp novels from the 70s with every manner of fucked up kink.

So with those things as my guides, it always seemed natural for me to write smut. Plus from early on it has been a way to meet like minded people and seduce them, which is really the greatest goal of art in my opinion.

I really do consider what I write here and in my books to be art. Sometimes they are silly or serious or very direct and graphic, but these little tales actually mean a lot to me and I’m trying to say some important things with them.

I write smut because it is the art form that can stir the body and the emotions at once if done right.

I Can’t Wait All Day

A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.

The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.

The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.

The expensive watch was there, on his somewhat hairy wrist. Thick heavy silver and a broad face with nimble hands moving with imperceptive accuracy. Just before the watch, further along his arm, the line of his dress shirt’s crisp cuff, which sparkled with a small silver cufflink, lead to the line of his suit. The shirt was white with fine blue pinstripes. The suit was a dark charcoal gray.

The girl with the curly hair looked up at the man with the expensive watch. Her eyelashes caught the light, a dark auburn. Her face was an explosion of freckles, nearly so many that they overtook the tan of her skin. Equally, her hair was an explosion of dark brownish red curls.

She wore a simple white cotton summer dress, which set off the dark tan of her skin. Her freckled legs were muscular. She wore long white socks that came perfectly to her knees. The white of the dress matched the white of her socks and the black of her patent leather Mary Jane’s matched the short string of black Tahitian pearls around her neck.

In the distant hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away.

Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl

I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.

It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.

Part 1: The Negotiation

Kay stood in front of the full length mirror and slowly slipped the Batgirl Underoos up her freshly shaven legs until they were half way up her thighs. She paused, looking at her reflection. She was naked except for the purple and gray fabric suspended between her open legs. Her fingers moved over her dark brown skin, pausing to touch at a tiny stretch mark on her hip.

What the fuck was she doing?

She pulled the comic book themed underpants the rest of the way up, watching the very naked looking triangle of her recently hairless pussy get replaced by a little yellow bat symbol on a swath of boy-cut whimsy.

The t-shirt went on next. It was purple and gray like the panties, with very short sleeves. It was far too tight over her bra-less chest and it didn’t quite cover her torso completely. A thin embarrassing line of belly shown between the shirt and the panties and she pulled at both to cover it. In the center of the shirt, right between her breasts, was another bat symbol, this one slightly stretched.

She felt like an idiot.

Was she really trying to be a little girl? She was thirty years old. She had five gray hairs and big tits and little wrinkles starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a little girl. She had thick hips and a big ass and a career. She was a full grown woman who was stuffing herself into silly little kid clothes and the most confusing part was that it was making her wetter than anything she could remember.

She picked up her phone for the hundredth time that morning and looked up his list again. How could a bullet list make her blush?

The worst part was that she had asked for all of it.


He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.

He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.

She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.

The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.

She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.

She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.

She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.

She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.

Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.

She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.


Tips accepted here.

Excerpt from an Untitled Thing

"This isn’t exactly how I thought it would go," he said with a nervous laugh like a cough. 

With wickedness in her eyes, Kay smiled her toothy grin and tousled his hair. 

“Oh no? Do you want to stop?” she teased, moving her hand down to his throat. 

"N-no sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean what do I call-" he said, his cock now hard and bobbing against his stomach as he tried to squirm out of her choke hold. 

"Sir sounds pretty when you say it, why don’t you stick with that."

Emma kneeled next to them, her eyes huge as she watched. 

"Doesn’t it sound pretty when he says it?" Kay asked Emma, who nodded emphatically. 

Kay took Alec by the hair again. 

"Now are you going to suck my cock like a good boy?" she said through her clenched teeth. 

His whimper was like that of a hurt puppy. His cheeks were on fire and his face twisted with confusion. 

“Don’t be scared. How about just a kiss to start? That would’t be so bad would it?” Kay said, her hand moving to his face, nails digging into his cheek.

He swallowed and she forced his head around, his lips inches from the thick purple cock. 

He licked his lips, animal fear in his eyes. 

Emma moved closer and pressed herself against both her boyfriend and Kay. 

"Just kiss it, Alec," Emma whispered into his ear.

“Kiss it once for me,” she said and let her lips brush against his neck. 

He closed he eyes and his lips touched her cock. Kay felt an electric shock shoot from her crotch up her spine. 

He seemed to be trying to hold himself back, but once his lips touched it, the animal instinct was let loose. He opened his mouth and pushed himself forward, taking an inch of the cock, his tongue slipping under it.

The way his eyes closed and his mouth opened reminded Kay of a thirsty man taking a first sip of water. It took all of her will to pull him off her cock, but it was worth it to see the want and the disappointment.

“Say please.”

He let out more puppy whimpers.

“P-please,” he said straining against her hand in his hair.

Emma was nearly jumping out of her skin as she watched, her thighs squeezing together rhythmically and she bounced on her knees.

“No, Alec, you have to say sir. You have to say ‘please, sir can I suck your cock,’” she explained with a tattle tale girlishness in her voice.

Kay held the boy’s hair tighter.

“Why don’t you show him, Em,” Kay said sweetly.

Emma smiled wide, licking her red lips. She took Kay’s cock into her mouth expertly, with the pride of a birthday girl who had gotten the most cake.

She is known as “the Catalyst.”

In the moments before 2am, when the party is made up of nothing but whiskey fumes and nervous energy, she wiggles out of her little black dress, tight as a snake’s skin, and with a bright smile and bubbly laughter invites the party to follow suit.

You can see the invitation ripple through the crowd. Ties loosen, blouses open, breasts spill out of the dangerously precarious grasp of bras they had been fighting all night. Then the hysterical image of boxers and blazers. Half dressed playboys are pulled onto couches to make out with strangers and old friends. Greedy hands closing around bodies red from corseted bondage.

The shy debate, making eyes with those they hoped might convince them. Those on the fence throw their knickers to the four winds with resolve. The ones who have been waiting all nights for a sign, strip naked and hurl themselves into the fray with abandon.

The Catalyst does not gloat over her effect. She is in the thick of it, bent over a table, possessed by the woman behind her who is pulling her hair and her strings beautifully.

And the party has only just begun.