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Your breath comes faster and faster as she lays out a variety of toys on the foot of the bed. It’s only been a few minutes since she ordered you to kneel on the bed, but you’re so needy already. It would be so embarrassing if you didn’t know how much she loved it.
Your attention is captured when she holds up a wooden paddle, lightly slapping her palm a second later. “Yes or no?”
“Not tonight.” The sound the paddle makes as it cuts through the air sends shivers down your spine as always. But tonight, you want something gentle. You want to be worshipped instead of being broken, though both are equally pleasurable in their own ways.
“That’s fine, sweetheart.” She cups your cheek gently, and you preen, secure in the fact that she still loves you, even when you say no.
A black, velvet blindfold dangles from her slender fingers (fingers that will be in you later oh god), distracting you so you barely hear her question. “How about this?”
Just the tantalizing promise of being blind shouldn’t be enough to make you blush, but it does. You want it. So, so badly you can barely wait.
“Hey, honey, there’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s just you and me, okay?”
You offer a muted nod, fingers digging into your own thighs. Even when she’s going to fuck you into next week, she’s so tender it almost hurts. You don’t know how to not crave her whispered words, her caresses that make you burn from the inside out. Only her touch is enough to sate your hunger, but even that’s not enough sometimes. You don’t simply want anymore, you need.
Your heart nearly stops when she unwinds some restraints. Oh god. Your thighs shift, rubbing uncomfortable against each other. She spots the movement (of course she does) and smirks. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”
“Mhm.”
The last item she offers is a rather thick custom-made collar. The colour—cerulean—would be enough to make you laugh, but your nerves rebel against your will. You want, you need, but …
When you search her eyes, you see patience, tinged with gentle fondness. A big part of why you agreed to all this (the toys the sex the love) was because she convinced you that you were free. You’re free to choose whatever you want.
Ultimately, that’s what prompts you to nod and lower your head—not out of shame, but liberation. You want everything, and she’ll give it to you. All you have to do is ask.
She beams at you, caressing your cheek as you turn so you can kiss her palm. Her smile is enough to make you agree to anything. It’s brighter than the sun, and ten times warmer. No, a hundred times.
“You are the most beautiful girl in the world, my love. Just so gorgeous.”
Oh, no. She can’t say things like that. She can’t just say that and lull you into security. Again, your nerves (or is it your habit of self-sabotage?) makes your courage falter. Your head snaps up, and it’s panic that floods your body. Not lust.
Your fists clench as you bite down on your lip, brow furrowing. You’re not supposed to want this. (But you do.) It’s weak. You’re weak, and she’ll humiliate you once you trust her. (She would never do that to you, you know that.) You don’t know anything, silly old woman. Who do you think you are, acting like a teenage girl who doesn’t know—
“Hey.” She hooks two fingers under your collar and tugs, bringing you crashing down into reality. Reality. That’s where she will never hurt you. Another light tug forces you to meet her eyes. “When I put this on you, what does it mean?”
It takes a couple of seconds for you to focus and reply, “You … you take care of me.”
“Good girl.” The hushed way she praises you makes you relax. She’s not mad. She still wants you. “What else?”
“You love me.” This time, your answer slips off your tongue easier.
“Exactly as you are.” Your reward is a soft kiss paired with a tender smile. “I love you, so that means I take care of you. I don’t judge you for your needs; I don’t belittle you, understand?”
You nod. Of course, she doesn’t. It all makes sense now. You can be so foolish sometimes.
She tilts her head, searching for something in your eyes. She must find it, for she nods her head and runs her hand through your hair, playing with your forelock. “So when I tell you you’re gorgeous, what do you say?”
Ah. “T-Thank you.”
“And don’t forget that pretty blush too, sweetheart.”
Oh. Right on cue, you do blush, and it deepens when she pushes you back on the bed, her elbows cradling your head. In other words, she pins you down. The feeling of her clothed form against your naked once makes you let out a whimper. You arch up and she does nothing but raises her eyebrow and smile. She’s so smug. You love it and hate how you love it.
“Please, darling.” Grinding against her does nothing to soothe your ache.
“Please what, honey? Please tie you up? Please take off my clothes? Please fuck you?” At her last question, her voice deepens into a growl and you nod frantically, unable to keep your hips still.
“Yes—everything. Please.”
She laughs. How infuriating. “Now now, don’t be greedy, my love.”
Don’t be greedy? How is that possible? She gives you the finest five-course meal, and you’re expected to only eat the appetizer?
She must see the outrage on your face for she laughs again and lowers her head to your ear, licking the lobe. “Ask me to tie you up. Nicely.”
“Darling, please, please tie me up. I need it so bad.” She’s the only one you’d beg for anything. She knows that, and you know it pleases her. So you don’t stop because whatever she wants, you do too.
“Good girl.” The praise leaves you weak, makes your breath shallow as she wraps the restraints around your wrists, then attaches it to the bedposts. To your surprise, she has another pair. For your legs.
A cross between a moan and a whimper leaves your mouth as she effectively stops you from moving. The cool air hardens your nipples and though it’s a welcome respite from how your blood thrums, it’s not enough.
She praises you again. You close your eyes, listening to her steady pacing. You can imagine what you look like, hair mussed, a constant flush on your face, all vulnerable and exposed.
“You’re so beautiful, honey, all tied up and open for me. I hope you haven’t forgotten about our other toy.”
You test the restraints, biting your lip. You certainly haven’t.
You don’t need to close your eyes because she places the blindfold snugly around your head. Your breath hitches. You can’t move and can’t see. It would be frightening if you didn’t know she was right there with you, all warm and steady.
“All good, sweetheart?”
“R-really good,” you croak. Because it is. You have to lay still and take whatever she gives, and you don’t have to think. That’s the best part. You can ache and plead and scream because she’ll take care of you. She always does.
“Take your clothes off, please?” you ask into the darkness.
“No.”
Your brow furrows. “Please—“
“I said no. Good girls don’t ask again, do they?”
You frown. That’s not fair. You can be good for her. You simply want some incentive first.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question.” She brings her hand down on your cunt. Hard. You register the sharp pain first before she rubs you, leaving a steady, constant throb that demands to be answered.
“Ah!” That’s new. And very pleasurable. You wish you’d known about it before so you can stop clenching around nothing, lifting your hips. “N-no, they don’t.”
She lets her palm rest on your cunt, cupping you gently before giving you another firm spank. You gasp and tremble, tilting your head back. Christ.
“Did you like that, sweetheart?”
You inhale. “N-no.”
That’s such a blatant lie. You feel, rather than see, how her mouth curves into a grin, how her eyebrow raises.
“Oh, yeah? Then why is your pretty pussy clenching? Why can I feel how wet you are?”
You stammer, too turned on by her words to come up with a reasonable explanation. Your mind is already wandering to what she’ll do to you tonight, though you’ll probably find out sooner, rather than later. She chuckles, scooping up some of your wetness that runs down your thighs.
“You know, baby, I was planning to reward you with so many orgasms, but I think I’ll have to punish you instead.”
“Oh, no, please.” You sag against the restraints, already resigned to being tortured all night long. You can say no, but she’ll break through your half-hearted protests as easily as the first time you tried to pretend you only had a professional obsession with her.
“Oh, yes, my love.” She trails one finger up your body, stopping at your left breast.
You clench your teeth, keeping your body tensed like a tightrope. Please don’t stop, you mentally chant. Don’t stop. You can’t take it anymore.
She doesn’t. You don’t know if that’s an improvement from not touching you. Her finger is absolutely wicked as she circles your nipple like she has all the time in the world. Once you’re properly hard for her (which isn’t that difficult), she switches to your other breast. Her nails provide a dash of sharpness that makes you hold your breath, straining to figure out what her next move is.
Turns out, it’s sucking your breast. In a foggy haze, you dimly note through your choked moans and gasps that she has a sinful mouth. You’ve always been too aware of how she sucks on the tips of pens or teases her plump bottom lip with her teeth and when she makes a sly, witty comment—god, you can’t help but imagine putting her mouth to better use.
Well, that’s what she does. She flicks your right nipple, alternating between pinching and rubbing, her mouth working non-stop on your left. It feels nice (nice meaning shaking the foundation of your world and still not being enough), nice enough to have you quivering on the brink of orgasm.
“Oh, god, darling, I’m going to—”
“No, you’re not.”
You can’t help but whine and flop back onto the bed as she backs away, leaving you teetering, needing one last push. “Why? Please, I can be good.”
“You’ll have to prove it to me first.”
What does she have in store now?
“I’m going to eat you out, Miranda. But I’m not going to let you come. I’m going to edge you maybe once or twice. However many times I want.” You squeeze your eyes shut, knowing she can see how you’re dripping wet and how you’re trying to pretend you’re not. “Have you ever been edged, honey?”
“N-no.” Your answer is faint, barely a whisper.
“Well!” Her tone is bright, too bright for your hushed room and darkness you see. She’s amused. Happy she can tease you. That really shouldn’t arouse you as much as it does. “I’m going to edge you, and you’re going to like it.”
With that, she lowers her head and thoroughly licks through and at all the wetness she finds. She’s right, you do like it. You like the way she starts off slow at first, playful until you whine, then increases. You like how her nose brushes against your clit. You like how tight her grip on your thighs is, leaving half-moon crescents. You like the way she follows your every moment, face pressed to the juncture of your thighs. You like how she devours you, stopping only to rub your clit with two fingers in a frenzy. “God! I’m close, Andrea—”
As soon as you gasp out your warning, she stops. It’s both merciful and horrible. You’re left hanging by a thread, a thread so thin it’ll snap with one touch.
“That’s one.” You know she’s grinning. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
Do you even want to know what she has up her sleeve next? It’s certainly not wise, but you do.
There’s nothing but silence for a few moments. You test the restraints, thankful that it, and your blindfold, is velvet. Small comforts for the ah, situation you’re in.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” she asks.
“Not really.”
You’re expecting a slap (even wanting it), but she laughs instead. “Oh jeepers, you’re hilarious, you know that?”
Even though this probably isn’t the time or place, you smile. Her spontaneity and intriguing vocabulary (who says “jeepers” nowadays?) only contributes to the depth of your love for her. It’s an insignificant, silly thing to laugh during sex, but she’s the only one you’ve had fun with. That’s how you realized this was more than “just sex.”
She interrupts your musings by (and well, there’s no tactful way to say this) shoving a vibrator in you and turning it on to its highest setting. You can’t help it.
You scream.
And you squirm, hating and loving how your restrains keep your legs wide open. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because she holds your hips down so you can’t help but beg. For her to put a stop to your torture or to keep continuing or even to a God out there, you don’t know. But your chest is heaving and you’re so close again when she sets the vibrator to the lowest setting. A filthy long moan leaves your lips. The almost violent rush of pleasure is replaced by a slow, steady wave that’s always present.
For a moment, you’re still, reveling in the break; and the wave keeps coming and coming until it’s reached its crest and—
“Oh, God.” You’re practically weeping at this point. “Why did you take it away? Andrea, please, please, I need it!”
“Hush, baby. Just calm down. You’ll get what you need, alright? I promise. I always take care of you, don’t I?” She rubs your body, making sure not to stray too close to anything that might set you off, largely avoiding your breasts and thighs for the most part.
“Yes,” you mumble, in a daze. “But still.”
“Shh, I know. You’re doing so well for me, honey. So, so well.”
You smile and relax, trying to focus on the pleasure her praise gives you instead of the jolts of arousal that come and go. It’s easy to, if you just focus on her saying, “I’m so proud of you, Miranda.”
That really makes you blush and preen. She caresses your cheeks and in one swift movement, takes off your blindfold.
The first thing you see is her. Of course, it is. How could you ever keep your eyes off her? And she’s not unaffected, either. She’s taken off her shirt, and you can see the pretty flush on her neck. Her eyes are dark as she watches you watch her. God, those eyes. They eat up your every movement.
The second thing you see is how aroused you are. Logically, you know you’re wet enough to flood a small city, but seeing the mess you made is another thing completely. And you haven’t come yet. Wonderful.
You lick your lips. “Can you undress all the way? Please?”
She chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that makes you shiver. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you more than anything in the world.” Her demand doesn’t surprise you; you’re tempted to say the same every day.
“I suppose you’ve deserved it for listening to me.” She doesn’t simply take off her clothes—she gives you a striptease. You’re transfixed as she unhooks her bra, leaving it dangling off one arm before she finally tosses it to the side. Her breasts sway as she takes an eternity to unbutton her pants, exposing toned legs that go on for miles.
Your head falls back. You’re so goddamn wet. It only gets worse when she plays with the waistband of her lace underwear, as if deciding if you truly deserved that.
“Please?”
She grins but does as you request, leaving her completely nude.
One of the most famous paintings in the world is Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. It depicts Aphrodite naked and newly-born standing on a shell, her figure barely covered with a tasteful arm. Barely. You should’ve figured out you were gay when you insisted on buying the painting, but alas.
Though you stared at the painting for months, it was nowhere close to how beautiful she is. For one, she’s unabashedly bold in showing her neatly trimmed curls, toned body, and heavy breasts. Not only that, but she completely outshines Aphrodite’s pure beauty. She is more than a goddess; she is beauty personified.
“Can I touch you now or would you like to keep looking for a while longer?” Her teasing voice grasps your attention and you blink.
“Please touch me.”
“You’re very well-mannered tonight, beautiful. I think you can come now.”
There is no way to explain how relieved you are. You honestly don’t think you can survive another edging, even if she orders you. But you smile, biting your lip. “Thank you, darling.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She massages your arms, then touches your collar. “How are the restraints? Not too tight?”
“They’re perfect.” She's so good to you.
“You’re perfect.” That makes a blush bloom from your chest up to your cheeks. There’s no hiding that. “You’re so cute. I love you so much.” Before you can stammer out a reply, she drapes her body over yours.
Your mind goes blank. Her warm skin is pressed tightly against yours, and the contact is enough to send you bursting into flames.
Fortunately, you don’t do that. Instead, you gasp and hold your breath when her hand slides down your body, one finger entering you.
After being teased for so long, the pressure feels exquisite. She pumps in and out, but that’s not enough for you. Another finger is added, then another until you’re filled with three fingers. By this point, you’re practically hyperventilating.
Her rhythm is slow at first, but at your whine, she increases until she’s thrusting at a frenetic pace. You can’t last. Not like this. Not after being edged, not when her body is rubbing against yours, not when her fingers are deep in your cunt, not when she’s biting down on your neck so hard she’ll leave marks and oh God oh God oh God—
You come. A half-mangled scream claws its way up your throat, but no noise escapes you, surprisingly. Your toe-curling orgasm makes you arch your back for a good while, eyes slammed shut, mouth half-open, body exploding with pleasure. It’s a quiet one, but a monster that demands to be felt.
When you muster enough energy to open your eyes, you realize she hasn’t stopped. She’s switched to using her mouth, little licks that bring you closer and closer to orgasm again. You can’t come again. Can you? “A-Andrea, I don’t know if I can …”
“You can,” she says clearly. “And you will.”
Well, fuck.
You stare wide-eyed at the ceiling as the possibility that you’ll come again creeps up on you. You don’t know how she’s doing it. Though, you can guess it’s the way her agile tongue licks your folds in long strokes. Or maybe how she simply won't stop fucking you. Quite possibly it’s how she takes your clit in her mouth and sucks. Hard.
That makes you scream. “Ah! Andrea, I’m, oh God, darling— “
“C’mon, baby, I know you can do it. Make a big mess for me. Now. Right fucking now.”
As if her words aren’t enough, she snakes a hand up your body, around your neck, and squeezes. She chokes you. It doesn’t hurt, but the pressure, combined with her touches, makes you lightheaded. You come. Again.
You can tell that this isn’t going to be like the previous one. A monster, yes, but certainly not quiet.
You don’t scream—you sob. You sob as something is wrenched out of you, like your soul is leaving your body, something big and good and all for her, the love of your life. You can’t do anything but shake and ride out your pleasure for as long as it lasts, and then some.
When you come to (did you pass out?), you’re released from your bondage and collar. Not only that, but there’s a massive amount of moisture drenching her hand and the sheets below you. That could not have come from you. But it did. It must have. You must have ...
“Oh my god, you squirted.”
Usually, the post-coital state is extremely blissful, but right now, you’re about ready to die of embarrassment. “Did I?” you whisper before rambling like only she can, “Darling, I’m so sorry, now we have to get you cleaned up—”
“Are you serious?” She caresses your flaming cheek, smiling gently. “Honey, there's no need to apologize.”
“There is a need, Andrea. I’ve made a huge mess—“
“Just like how I asked. You were perfect, my love. Absolutely perfect. Just relax, alright?”
She continues to soothe your shame, pressing kisses to your nose and forehead every so often. You sigh, content. Absolution at last.
She must take this as a signal that everything is settled, for she withdraws and gets up from the bed. On instinct, your hand shoots out, grabbing onto her arm. She can’t leave you. Not after what you shared. Not now, not ever. It’s Paris all over again.
“Wait, wait. Don’t leave.” The “please” goes unspoken as you stare into soft albeit worried brown eyes. “Stay?”
“It’s okay, honey, I’m not going anywhere.” She slips back into bed, tossing the duvet over you. “I was just going to change the sheets, but we can do that later. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving.”
You nod once and lay your head on her chest, reveling in the feeling of her drawing nonsense patterns on your back. She’s not going anywhere. Everything is fine. “Since you … did all that to me, you can’t leave now. You’ve ruined me.” You softly laugh. “Ruined me, I say, for everyone else.”
“Well, that’s good.”
You raise your head, taking in her bright, sparkling eyes. “How so?”
“Because you can just be my Miranda. The woman that I love.”
You settle back into your position atop her chest, mind working rapidly as she plays with your hair. Hmm.
She’s distracting you. You’re trying to think of serious matters, like your place in the world, but she’s luring you to sleep by scratching your scalp and rubbing your back. That’s your closely-held weakness, and it’s not fair that she’s using that against you.
“Go to bed, my love. Stop thinking.”
You sigh. “Fine. If you say so.”
But that’s the thing. You don’t have to think with her. You can just be.
Yes, that’s right. To everyone, you’re supposed to be La Priestly, Ice Queen, Dragon Lady, and Devil in Prada, but with her … With her, maybe you can be just Miranda. Her Miranda. Forever.
“ My church offers no absolutes
She tells me, ‘Worship in the bedroom’
The only Heaven I'll be sent to
Is when I'm alone with you” — Take Me To Church, Hozier