Note: This is some beautiful fem-fem BDSM erotica by Hana Jynn Whitefield (pseudonym). She is one of the amazing members of the twitter writing community and is so kind and generous to guest post her writing on my blog. I enjoyed this a lot. First, you are struck by the elegance of her writing then the erotica hits you like slow release poison, except it is far virulent than any poison. Enjoy. Twice. Or Thrice. NSFW and all Mature flags apply.
In Deference to the Queen
Hana Jynn Whitefield
You are stunning, in a pale pink saree with golden trim, golden bangles on your wrists, your thick hair loose around your shoulders. I feel underdressed in a plum-colored v-neck blouse and hip-hugging black slacks.
“Kavitha, you look ravishing tonight…my Queen.”
Your soft brown eyes sparkle at my use of our Go word, and a small, seductive smile tugs the corners of your lips. “The Queen is here, Elise.” You extend your hand, palm down, and I drop to one knee and cradle it in my own. Warm. Soft. An electric spark at your touch. I brush my lips against the back of your hand, but you pull it away swiftly before I can linger. “Did I give you permission to kiss?”
“No, my Queen,” I say. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of my bowed head. You do not stroke or caress. You let it lie there, heavy. Symbolic. “My apologies.”
I stand and take a step back, watching you. You seem to be thinking it over, deciding your next move. We’ve only ever talked about what we would do, how we would play the roles. This is our first time turning the fantasy to reality. I think neither of us know quite what to expect.
“What is your pleasure, my—“
“Shush.” You cut me off, a finger to my lips, a spark of playful fury in your eyes. “Silence.” I nod, and you slap my cheek lightly. “If you forget, you will be punished.”
A rebellious thrill. I want to test your threat. I want your punishment. “Yes, my Qu—“
Your hand comes against my cheek again. Harder. Stinging this time. I feel the blood rush to the surface. “Silence!” You take a step back, and sit gracefully on the edge of the mattress, crossing your legs. I stand still, awaiting your command.
“Take off your shirt.”
I do as you ask, crossing my arms and pulling the blouse over my head in one swift motion. When I drop it to the ground, you say, “No. Bring it to me.”
I stoop and retrieve it, approach you, and place it in your outstretched hand. You put it to your face, close your eyes, and bury your nose into the fabric. Your chest expands, breathing deeply of the mingled scents of Tide laundry detergent, shea butter lotion, body spray of lemongrass and honeysuckle, and the faint, unmistakable, unique essence of my skin.
“Mmm.” Your eyes come open, and I see the longing in them. But you’ll hold back. You’ll make both of us wait. “Pants off too.”
My fingers slip the button free, draw the zipper down slowly. Thumbs hook under the waistband and ease them down over my hips. This time, when they fall to the floor, you don’t say a word. Your eyes roam over my body, the lacy black bra, my bare midriff, the lack of panties. Trimmed, neat hair, and shaved folds hidden between my thighs.
When you catch me watching, my eyes on your face, you shake your head and reach into a fold in your saree. Your hand comes back out, and between your fingers you hold the elastic band of a sleep mask. Black satin, with the word “Bitch” stitched in hot-pink embroidery across the top. “Put this on, bitch. And if I catch you peeking, your punishment will be worse than a slap.”
I take it from you, slip it over my head and fit it across my eyes. I will not peek. This time, I will obey your order.
I’m waiting for you to give a command, to lead me to the bed, to touch me. But as I stand there, you do none of those things. My senses are heightened. I hear fabric rustling. Are you undressing? Pulling down the covers of the bed? Preparing something for me to wear? I cannot tell, but my mind runs wild, and I feel the wetness of desire start to flow. A metallic click, and then another. And then I feel my bra unclasped. You do not allow your fingertips to graze my skin, I feel only the sensation of the article removed, my breasts freed.
You take my hand, and the feel of you makes my breath catch. You pull me forward, and I step blindly, putting my trust in you. When my thighs hit the mattress, you say, “Get onto the bed, and lie down on your back.”
I crawl up, feeling for the pillow, and when I find it I roll onto my back and lay my head down. You have pulled back the covers, and I feel the cool, crisp linen beneath me.
You pull my right arm away from my side, and something encircles the wrist, tightens, clicks. A fur-lined handcuff. I start to tremble with anticipation. You take my other arm and bind it as well. Then my ankles are bound in Velcro restraints, one by one, my legs splayed slightly apart, so I can feel the chill of the air against the wet heat between my thighs.
“Comfortable?” you ask.
My mind is swimming, my nerves tingling. I forget myself. “Yes, My Queen.”
“Bitch, did I give you permission to speak?” A smack on my hip, bristles pricking the skin. Your hairbrush.
I bite my lip. Shake my head.
“That’s right. Make no sound.”
The mattress bows beside me. I sense your presence. Hear your breaths. Feel the heat in the space between us. I’m yearning to touch you. My desire is a wild animal clawing to escape these shackles, but I resist the urge to pull against my restraints. It would do no good and only serve to anger you.
Your breathing quickens. With my sight blinded, my hearing sharpens, and I think I can almost hear your heart beating faster. Where are you looking? My breasts? Lying like this, without the dragging force of gravity, they must be round, full, plump. Just thinking about your eyes on them makes the nipples harden. Are you looking at my cunt, wet and glistening? The thought makes me ache, and I feel myself swelling, rising. You’re breathing faster, heavier. A sigh. Are you touching yourself? I want to see…oh God, I want to see you. I want to feel you.
And then, a soft brush across my cheek. Too material to be breath, too solid to be a feather, too ethereal to be a fingertip. It can only be a lock of your hair. My chest rises and falls, my body flushing hot as you run the silky hair down my neck, slowly, teasing. It tickles. I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a giggle. You bring it to my left nipple, draw it around in circles, slow at first, then faster. Then the right nipple. And then…oh then, it’s not just one little lock of hair. A cascading curtain falls over my body. Starts at my face, draws down over my breasts, my stomach. Beneath the hair, I feel the heat of your face, your breath. I think you are headed for my cunt. I think you will kiss me there. I want you to do it. I need you. A little moan rises and rumbles in my throat.
You stop and move away. The hair disappears. Another hairbrush slap. “Shut up, bitch,” you say. “Shut the fuck up.”
I feel you leave the bed. Your closeness evaporates, the sensation of your nearness is gone, leaving only a hollow emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I want you back. I’m sorry for making noise, but I can’t apologize, for I’m not allowed to speak. Please, come back.
But when you speak again, there’s no anger or annoyance in your tone. Your voice is throaty and hoarse, charged with excitement. “Fire or ice?”
I do not respond.
“You have permission to speak. Only to answer my question.”
“Fire, please,” I say. “My Queen.”
“Very well,” you say, and I hear the smile in your voice. “Fire it is.”
I smell a whiff of sulfur, hear the sizzle of a match struck. Then all is quiet and still. Slowly, the scent of a candle fills the room. It’s a heady, musky scent, the kind that a candle store might label “Moonlight Walk,” or “Midnight in Paris.” Sexy. Irresistible.
You come near to me, standing at the side of the bed. I feel the warmth of your bare thigh press against my restrained hand, and my fingers twitch and then clutch for you, squeezing, digging my nails into your flesh. The tacit permission to touch sends little jolts of pleasure into my fingertips, through my chest, and down into my wet, pulsing cunt.
And then you pull away, cool air instead of sweaty skin against my palm, and I exhale a sigh.
The first drip of wax comes without warning, while my mind is still on the feel of you in my hand. It falls above my left breast, over my heart. A searing heat. It catches me off-guard, and I draw a sharp involuntary gasp, hissing through my teeth. My fists clench. My mind falls through a jumble of simultaneous contradictions: It hurts. It feels good. I want more.
“Permission to speak,” you say. Your tone is still playfully commanding. You have not broken character. And yet, your voice holds a tinge of underlying worry.
It’s OK, hon. I would have said the word if I needed to.
“Do it again,” I whisper.
You release a half-laugh, half-moan, and the next drips come faster. I’m prepared for them now, craving them. Each one is a fiery lick of pleasure. They fall over my breasts, hardening on my nipples, down my stomach. Over my hipbones and down my thighs, it drips. The skin pulls taut beneath each daub of cooling wax. Holy shit, it feels good. My flesh tingles, split open with desire and heat.
And then you are over me. On your hands and knees, I think, for your body is not on mine, but I feel your arms and legs on either side of me. One arm lifts and your nail scrapes against my flesh, prying the drip of wax from above my heart.
“Aww,” you purr, “It left a mark. Let me make it better.” I feel your soft, moist lips press a gentle kiss to the spot. A groan of pleasure rises in my throat, but I swallow it before it can escape. You move on to the next drip over my right breast, and then to the nipples, peeling and kissing, sucking…biting. It’s agony and ecstasy. Involuntarily, my back arches, pressing my boobs up, straining for you.
You put a hand on my shoulder and push me back against the mattress. “Stay still, bitch,” you growl. I’m breathing hard, struggling with the effort of staying quiet, staying still, containing my overwhelming urge to tear through these chains and devour you. But you are my Queen. I must obey.
You work your way downwards, peeling one drip at a time, one kiss at a time. By the time you get to my thighs, I am trembling, shivering. I cannot stop.
When the last drip is removed, the last spot kissed, you pause. “You’re wet. And hard. I can see it. Would the Princess like a kiss as well?”
I nod vigorously, and you release a melodious laugh. Oh God, I hope you’ll really do it this time. I can’t take much more of this torture.
And then I feel your warm breath, ruffling the curly hair, blowing over my swollen clit. Your tongue dips in, tastes me, and you groan with satisfaction. “You’re delicious, my Peach. Sweet.”
I’m panting hard, my hands clenched, nails digging into my palm.
“Do you want more?”
I nod again, and open my knees wider.
“Hmmm…I don’t know. You seem like you’re ready to come. You can’t come yet, bitch. It’s not time.”
Fuck. I thrust my hips up, a silent plea.
“Fine. Just a little more. But don’t you dare come. Don’t you fucking dare.”
I nod, though I am so close already I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back. I don’t give a shit. I’ll take your punishment. I fucking need you, right now.
And then your tongue swirls faster, presses harder. My painted toes curl, my limbs tug against my restraints. I grit my teeth, but a moaning gasp escapes, and a wave of heat rushes—
You stop, remove your mouth and roll away from me, laughing when I buck in protest. “You almost came, you naughty bitch.” Another slap of the hairbrush on my hip. The hardest yet, but I barely feel it. You pinch my thigh, your black-lacquered nails biting into the skin, but the pain only serves to intensify every other feeling coursing through me. It’s pleasure veiled as punishment, and I swear it feels like that alone could push me to climax. My slippery cunt pulses, and it takes every ounce of strength to hold myself back. You pinch again, and I moan in agony.
Something is stuffed into my mouth. Fabric…it smells and tastes of you. I don’t know what article of clothing it is…an undershirt, a slip, your panties…but I bite down and breathe it in, and it does nothing to quell my fervor.
“Shut up, bitch,” you say again. “This is your last chance. One more time, and we’re through. You’ll get nothing more from me.”
Oh damn, I’d better fucking be quiet. I’ll cry if we don’t finish this.
You leave the bed again, and I lie there trembling, my cum dripping down. What are you doing? You’re gone a while, and I hear disconnected sounds I can’t piece together. Something unzipped. Velcro ripped. Elastic snapped against flesh. A clinking sound of plastic on plastic. Fabric rustling.
And then the restraints on my legs are removed, the Velcro cuffs ripped free. I let my legs fall open, offering myself. But that’s not what you want. Not yet. You push my knees together, closing me off from you.
A click and my left hand is free. I know better than to reach for you, and let it lie limp on the bed. And a moment later, there’s another click…but my right hand is still shackled. I feel the other end of the handcuff dangling loosely from my wrist.
You slap my hip. “Put your hands above your head, bitch.”
I do as you say, and you cinch the other cuff down around my left wrist, my arms resting high against the headboard of the bed.
You grab my legs and pull me down, roll me onto my stomach. You drag me sideways until my feet touch the carpet, and I’m bent over the side of the mattress, my arms still above my head, my cheek resting on one sweaty bicep. My wet, hairy pussy presented to you as you stand behind me.
Your hand slaps my ass. Once. Twice. Fuck, it hurts. Harder. I want it harder.
And then I hear the humming chatter of a vibrator, and my whole body clenches with anticipation. From the sound of it, probably a bullet vibe. My clit throbs, waiting…but I feel nothing. Instead, behind me, you give a crying moan of pleasure. Fucking bitch. I’m not allowed to call you that, but I’m sure as hell thinking it. You make me listen. Your sighing moans intensify, rise in pitch…but you stop before you come. The vibrator continues to buzz, but now it’s muffled. What the—
OH FUCK. You pound through me, flaying me open, the dildo hard and thick. I’m so wet and slippery with cum, and you slide in deep. My cuffed hands grip the sheets, my grunting cry muffled by the fabric in my mouth. I can feel the vibration in the dick, you must have slipped the bullet inside the harness, pressed between the base and your own clit. You fuck me hard, sliding in and out with feverish speed. With every thrust, you give a cry of pleasure, while I am screaming inside my head.
“Don’t you dare come,” you command, digging your nails into my fleshy hips. “Don’t…fucking…come.”
I try not to, but it’s impossible. It’s almost here. You’re hitting just the right angle, my G-Spot, and in just a few more—
“Now, bitch! Scream for me.” You push in deep, your thighs pressed against mine, and I feel you go rigid.
I spit out the cloth and let out a high, keening wail as the orgasm crashes through me. Battering me, breaking me, I’m tossed asunder. A geyser gush of hot liquid rushes from me, soaking our legs, dripping onto our feet, mingling with your own wet stream of ecstasy. Fuck…fuck…
I fall against the bed and you collapse on top of me, shaking, fumbling to turn off the vibrator, but you’re too slow and clumsy to stop it. You come again, moaning into my hair, your breasts and stomach and dildo pressed down on my back, squirting your juices over me.
Finally you manage to shut it off, and you slide the harness down. The blindfold comes free, and I blink and squint into the candlelight. I close my eyes again, wait until the handcuffs are unlocked and my hands loosed. Then I turn my head, and find you. Beautiful and glowing, the Queen of my body and soul.
You lie beside me, stroking me gently, tender now. You kiss my lips for the first time that night, the signal that the game is over, and we are ourselves again.
“That was incredible,” I breathe. “You’re incredible.”
You smile shyly. “It wasn’t too much? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I laugh. “Oh, you hurt me. And I fucking loved it.”