This piece of filth includes nipple pinching, starting-when-half-asleep sex, and my attempts at writing a mind-fucking scene – oh, and peppermint tea. That’s a sensible recipe for late night fucking against the kitchen counter, right? Either way, it was super fun to write.
Content note for consensual non-consent within a D/s dynamic where this has been previously negotiated, and degradation.
I’m half asleep when I pad through to the kitchen. The routine of boiling the kettle and brewing tea is soporific, and when arms wrap softly around my waist and gently grope my boobs I melt into the woman standing behind me. Eyes closed, I breath in the rising smell of peppermint tea, and let the hands drift to my hips and feel hot breath on my neck.
Then they’re biting my neck and I’m squirming but their hands are tight around me now and I can’t move. I’m whimpering and it fucking hurts, and then someone pushes themselves off on to the counter in front of me. I look up and my girlfriend is grinning down at me.
Meaning whoever is holding me isn’t my girlfriend.
I struggle, but they’re holding me tightly and I can’t turn around to see who’s pinning me to the counter. Nala is still grinning down at me, somewhat sadistically, as I beg them both to stop. There’s an arm around my neck and another one around my waist and they’re still biting my neck. I know I’m safe, but the panic and urge to escape is real. As is the arousal between my legs.
“Pinch her nipples. No, harder than that. She likes it and you can get her to hold still for you because the pain hurts her so much. And turns her on. The dirty little bitch will be wet for you.”
There’s something awful – and yet so hot at the same time – about my girlfriend telling the woman behind me how much to hurt me. And it does hurt, I want to scream because she’s twisting my nipples so hard and pulling them away from my body. Her hips are pushing me into the counter, and Nala’s hand is under my chin forcing me to look up at her.
“Is she right? Does this turn you on bitch?” Emily asks, because the pain has woken me up enough to realise who is torturing my nipples while whispering in my ear.
I nod, then whimper. Nala doesn’t let me look away. As writhe in Emily’s grip, I realise why she’s doing this. A few days ago I teased Nala that she loves me too much to truly hurt me nowadays – she won’t go all out with a whip or flogger like she would when we first met and were fucking. I didn’t mean it, of course – I said it after a beating that had left bruises on my ass for days – but I should really know better than to poke at my sadistic girlfriend. This is her showing that whether or not she is able to do cruel things to my body (which she really, really is) she can mind-fuck me however and whenever she likes.
“Say it to her,” she commands, and when I try to turn away she grabs my chin more firmly and slaps my left cheek. I’m sure there’s pain and betrayal in my eyes when I look at her, but Nala just smirks.
“Say it,” she repeats.
“Yes, Miss,” I begin, and she slaps me again before I can finish. There are tears in my eyes as I choke out the rest of the words: “It turns me on.”
Meanwhile, Emily has abandoned one of my nipples in favour of scraping her nails down from my left boob to my stomach. There she digs her nails into the soft flesh of my stomach and the word I shout at them earns me another sharp slap across my face.
“Will the slut be wet enough for me to finger fuck her until she screams?” Emily asks, and I can feel my cunt twitch at the analytical question about my body that someone else is being asked. Questions that someone else will answer, someone who has total control over my body.
“Hmm.” Emily grabs a fistful of my hair, making me look up at Nala once again as she contemplates my fate. I moan as Emily twists my right nipple.
“She will be,” Nala answers the woman who is making me aware of every single nerve ending in the top half of my body and bringing pain to each one; pain that makes me wet. “But shove your fingers into her mouth first, just to make sure. She makes delightful noises when she gags and she gets so embarrassed when she drools. It’s cute.”
“Is that right, little bitch?” Emily asks, one arm wrapping around my neck while her other hand forces my mouth open? I don’t have a chance to answer before her fingers are pushing into my mouth and I’m choking, gagging, struggling to breath. Her fingers are thicker than Nala’s and I even as she’s forcing them deeper into my throat I wonder how they’ll feel in my cunt.
“Oh she is drooling, how cute.” I gag again, but Emily is unrelenting and Nala twists my nipples so I all but scream around the fingers in my mouth. I hate how they’re talking about me as though I’m not even here while drool runs down her hand and my cheek. I hate how I can’t escape and I hate how much I love it. I’m desperate for something inside me, right now.
Nala can tell, of course. I look up at her through watering eyes, and she makes me suffer for a few seconds longer than I think I can take before she says the words that will change the type of pain they’re inflicting on me.
“Now make her scream.”
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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.