This story evolved in my brain while I was sitting waiting for my nail varnish to dry – I’m now pretty confident that I can extract any moment of my day-to-day life and work it into a piece of erotica.
“Do you remember why I’m doing this?”
I remember. She’d threatened – or maybe promised – that if I had moved my hands or tried to control me in any way while she was going down on me then she would paint my nails so I wouldn’t be able to next time. I had grabbed her head to direct her, and as much as I’d tried to convince her that she should just spank me – beat you, you mean, it’s a punishment remember J – instead I’d been unable to sway her from her plan.
“I hate you.”
“That’s not your safe word, J. Give me your hands.”
I pout, but she simply holds her hand out, waiting for me to surrender mine.
“Are you disobeying me?”
I hesitate, remembering how hard it had been to sit down for a full three days the last time I said no to one of her little games… I lower my eyes and slip into the chair, spreading my hands on the table.
She nods approval. I yearn for the murmured good girl that I know I haven’t earned yet.
The nail varnish she places on the table next to my hands is a bright emerald green. I open my mouth, and then close it again. Arguing won’t help my case.
Her smirk suggests she can read my mind, and she places a bottles of clear nail varnish next to it.
“You need an undercoat base before I put colour on your nails.”
“But –” I begin, and then bite my lip.
“Any problems?” she asks, and I shake my head.
She sits opposite me, and gently but firmly takes my right hand. I squirm a little. This is so uncomfortable.
“Sit still,” she orders.
It is hard to look away as she starts painting my nails. Each stroke is calm and measured and precise, she wields the tiny nail polish brush with as much confidence as she wields our cane. Even though I’m not fully naked, I feel more exposed than I would if she had stripped me completely and made me stand in front of a crowd of enthusiastic voyageurs while she thrashed me with a riding crop. Even worse she won’t look at me. All her attention is on my hands, as though the rest of me – the embarrassed, humiliated, really turned on rest of me – is of no interest to her.
I move it into place, and blush as she spreads my fingers just as I would if she was spreading my arse cheeks. I hate the way my nails feel cold and how I’m so hyper-aware of my hands. I shake my right hand, trying to make the sensations go away.
“Hands on the table,” she reminds me, without looking up from my nails.
How am I not even able to do this?
“We’re doing this,” – maybe she can read my mind – “because you struggle to follow basic instructions when you get lost in sensations. I’m teaching you that part of the kinky fuckery you love so much is about sitting still and letting me use you. One of the things we agreed we would work on is your control. I gave you lots of chances to show me that you could sit still when I was tempting you with rewards – you knew this was coming.”
I’m still looking at my nails, flushed with shame.
“Hey, look at me?” I look up. “You’re doing really well. Now, sit still while that coat dries.”
I feel a tiny blossom of pride, but she stands up and walks away. With my hands flat on the table, I don’t dare turn my head to follow her in case my hands move even a millimetre. I hear the creak of the sofa directly behind me, and the zloop of a zip opening and the schloosh of lube. A second later she lets out a tiny moan.
She’s touching herself.
If I wasn’t turned on before, I most certainly am now. The tiny sounds of pleasure she makes while fingering herself and rubbing her clit make every minute of sitting still even more torturous. I want to turn around and watch her with her fingers inside herself. I want to be the one making her make those sounds.
Instead I sit still, like she told me to.
Just at the point I’m about to decide to fuck the nail varnish and go over to her, the beautiful noises stop, and she walks back around to the other side of the table. Her jeans have gone, her knickers were never there, and this time when she takes my hand I can smell lube and her own juices mixing with the chemical smell of the nail varnish.
It’s even harder to stay still this time, but she works quickly. It isn’t long until my fingers are covered in shimmering green varnish. I admit it does look pretty, and I can see why she requested I didn’t cut or file my nails for the last week or so. As soon as she’s done, she orders me to my feet.
“Get up. Let’s see if you have any control now, remembering that I’ll be able to tell if you move even an inch.”
I jump up, and this time turn to face watch as she crosses to the sofa. She’s laid a crisp, white sheet over it, and grins at me as she sits down and spread her legs. She beckons me over.
“Get down on your knees.” I obey. She positions my hands either side of her legs, fingers spread, on the white sheet.
“Get me off. And if there is so much as a single mark on this sheet or smudge on your nails…”
This time she leaves the threat unsaid, possibly because I’m already pressing my tongue against her clit.
My nail varnish is dry, so I’m free to link my fingers with hers when she pulls me up to kiss her.
“Good girl,” she tells me. I smile.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.