HER & HER | COMING OUT | KINKY | SQUIRTING
This short erotic story is inspired by two female-led companies (see more at the end of the story). Women empowering women, #womenwhokisswomen, kinky women and the coming out of women.
Two women, their overwhelming emotions, the obscure urge to achieve squirting and an arrangement they both wish to profit from. If we allow ourselves, we can truly achieve anything.
Through a gap in the door I see her knelt, obediently, the candle in her hands with her head and posture as ordered.
My heart is thudding in my ears.
The strong smell of my latex catsuit mingles with my bitter-sweet almond-scented body lotion. I can taste the remains of licorice and a shot of rum in my dry mouth. My clammy hands smooth my tightly pulled back ponytail.
From just this, you must be guessing I’m nervous about what is going to happen next. Let me tell you, I’m not. On the contrary. My day has been building up to this moment.
Don’t for one second think this strong, feminine, empowered woman you are about to read about wasn’t once an effervescent people pleaser. I was. I consider it a phase I have grown out of. Now? Now I am here, standing at the cusp of this hotel room. Leaving behind a little more of my people-pleasing past and filling my body and soul with the real me. The me that will discipline this pretty little plaything; Beatrice.
I’ll have you know, as a woman who likes women, I am very cautious in my choice of bottoms. She is a strong character although she presents herself as a sweet blossom of a girl. Her mind is sharp and she knows what she’s doing. So in many ways we are alike. But one thing differentiates her from me; she is still a people pleaser. I am not.
And so, I invite you to join me in using this character trait against her tonight.
For tonight is all about discipline, darling.
First of all, you must know that there are some very important rules when I play with my doll. We are safe, sane and consensual. We have a safeword (flamingo). We know our boundaries. We meet, we play, we part.
On top of these hard rules, I have imposed my soft rules. I love rules, you see. I love how they present structure, order, safety in an otherwise unstable world for women. My soft rules are easy: you speak when spoken to, minimise all noise, prepare yourself for the occasion (shower, dress well) and my (I believe to be charming) kink: her senses belong to me.
When I ask how she’s doing, I want a full summary of what she sees, hears, smells, tastes and can feel. Why? Because it fucking turns me on to watch her figure it out.
To observe her straining to understand her senses, which increasingly become heightened and raw. My juices run down my thighs as she allows her senses to release pent up emotions and invigorate her soul. And if I’m in a good mood, I will reciprocate.
In some screwed up way, I’m a little like a therapist. Although I’m sure a therapist would disagree. Or perhaps a really good parent. Although they’d disagree too. My methods are alternative but they offer a safe space for us to play and awaken our joie de vivre. A mutual agreement to express our emotions and be accepted fully.
And in case you are wondering, Beatrice thoroughly relishes these encounters. We share not only our bodies, our space, our souls but our experiences of each other’s trauma. Some may see us having a sex session. But it’s infinitely more.
But I don’t want to put a damper on things. That was some backstory, if you will. The rest of this reads like the porn you’d like it to. And it won’t disappoint; promise. You might as well lick those fingers or grab your lube and loosen your pants now. Just saying.
Ah, my agreeable, bijou, beloved Beatrice: her name means blessed; happy; bringer of joy. And, goodness gracious, she fills me with joy.
As I enter the room I am amused to see her body twitch in my presence. The flame on the candle flickers as she exhales a little heavier with nerves. Her knees look incredibly uncomfortable on the dry rice I had laid out for her. A little punishment for arriving late to the hotel. I despise tardiness.
To be fair, I’m somewhat like a husband in the 1950s. And it suits me.
Beatrice, my butterfly, smells intoxicating. I don’t mean her skin or hair. I mean her juices. Reaching down between her thighs, I swipe my fingers over her pubes. She is wet. What a delight.
How very wild. She is enduring a considerate amount of discomfort, her knees probably sore from the hard rice on the shiny tiles. Yet the thought of me and our night ahead has given her pleasure.
Her juices smell as always; like a warm summer afternoon, lounging around, embracing a boring, mundane childhood where magic was in the small things, like an ice cream on a hot day. The fondest memories I own.
The balmy smell of the candle enhances this feeling of nostalgia in me. Hydrangeas, figs, sunshine on my skin. Relaxing within myself, I take in how resplendent she looks this evening. A soft, silky camisole dress in salmon pink envelops her tanned skin, sinking into her soft back rolls and caressing her breasts. I am infatuated with her breasts. So unlike mine, hers are round, pert and straining against the soft fabric. They are like desserts for me.
As her breathing slows again, I commence our greeting ritual. This is how we establish our trust, inebriated from one another. Guiding her chin with my finger she stands up, the rice crackling as it falls off her chafed knees.
“Beatrice, it is you and me. Me and you. Will you give me your senses tonight?”
“Yes, my lady.”
What do you think of my erotic name as a femdom? My lady reminds me of flowing gowns, high castle towers and dark, cold dungeons. It combines all the things I love.
With her eyes lowered, I can smell the top of her head; an invigorating blend of rosemary and mint. I lift her chin so her face is level with mine; she is only a little shorter than me. She is hesitant. She knows not to look me in the eye. That will break the spell. Like stepping on the cracks between the floor tiles when you’ve vowed not to. It would spark a fury in me.
Deep down I know, if I stare into her eyes too long it might move things in me, like leaves flailing in an autumn storm. Basically, if I fall in love with her, the world might end. No joke. I am one breath away from becoming besotted with her and my heart would not be able to cope.
But, there is magic in this moment. I press my forehead against hers. This is the intimacy I have always craved. In the little moments. We breathe in each other’s breath. Hers smells of caramel, toffee. The candle hisses slightly as we exhale.
If we were in a cartoon, our feet would lift off the ground and the camera would spin around us as swirls of colour twisted our bodies together.
This is not a cartoon though. I catapult my mind out of the eventualities and what ifs and catch myself feeling angry. Again, she has managed to lure me into her aura.
“Have you equipped yourself?” I ask, snapping out of it and stepping toward the bed.
Ah, let me briefly fill you in on where we are so you can get your bearings. Imagine a hotel room, and now imagine mirrors. Everywhere. The ceiling, the walls. You can see yourself from all angles.
Why have I chosen this? You know better than that by now. My senses. This way, I can see her from all sides. As she whimpers and moans, stretches and arches. Here, she has nowhere to hide her feelings. And neither do I.
I’ve always wanted to know what happens if you push feelings too far. Or prevent them from happening in the first place. As a child with an emotionally unavailable mother I know too well what can make you snap. How tucking my arm back under the blanket in the night was the closest thing to her expressing love for me.
But I digress. This is about her pleasure and pain, not mine. As you can tell, I flit between emotions. Beatrice will too tonight.
As she nods her head in answer to my question I can see she is squirming. What is causing her discomfort? The remote-controlled vibrator I ordered her to insert? My presence? Perhaps, like a dog, she is unsure how to read my mood tonight. Will I be gentle? Will I not?
I offer words of comfort to her:
“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”¹
Lifting the remote control to her vibrator off the bed I circle her.
“Show me where you are feeling nervous.”
Her hands immediately move between her legs.
“Ah, ah, ah,” I tut, “you know better than to touch yourself.”
She opens her mouth to respond. As you would, when asked a question. Answer your peers, mother taught us. But not here. Not with me. She knows better.
“My sweet Beatrice. The cat didn’t get your tongue tonight. I guess I will have to take care of that then. Can’t have you talking back, can we?”
Can you hear me blossom in my disconcerted role of strict mother come macho come school teacher come therapist? It feels like warm rain to me.
She doesn’t answer my last question as I fasten the open mouth gag around her head. I don’t like the balls, too much dribble and not enough access to her tongue.
“Right, now let’s see how you are feeling today.”
Switching the remote controlled vibrator on, I watch her shiver. Yummy. Ofcourse, she’s not going to orgasm from this alone. Oh no, we’re going to need more than that here.
The candle wax is dripping down her hands now. She isn’t flinching though. Too distracted by all the other emotions in her body. I can’t wait to touch her. Somewhere, anywhere. But I too need to withhold. Be calm. Be cool.
Squatting in front of her I dust the remaining rice off her knees. Just a courtesy. A morsel of love for her.
I can smell her wet pussy from down here too, which is a perk. The silky camisole dress brushes against her thick pubes. Who needs underwear? You just end up taking them off anyway. I want to get started straight away. My senses are fervent.
“Sit on the bed and spread your legs.”
She obeys. I watch as the wax drips on her dress.
“Beatrice, that is no good. We will have to remove it.”
Her eyes are large as she stares in fear at the candle. Why? I’ve ordered her not to let go of it tonight. She’s in a predicament. God, it feels good when the worries aren’t mine. Shall I help her? For a price, yes.
“Alright, I will help you. But it will cost you.”
As she slips out of the camisole and sits on the edge of the bed with her legs agape, I kneel behind her with the candle. This is where the soundtrack of this session sets in for me. A calm mist of mischief surrounds us. The air crackles with our lust.
Peering into the mirror before us I carefully take in her vulva. She is unshaven but tidy. Her slit is visible beneath the landscape of brown curls. If I’m not mistaken, I can see her shiny juices too.
I stare a little too long at the soft fold of her belly above her pussy. Her skin makes me believe heaven exists. The candle is making it appear as if she is wearing a halo. Heaven. Angels. Nothing of the sort this evening.
Again, she has bewitched me.
I hold the candle above her big, caramel nipples and lean it so that one, two, three drops of wax cause her to twitch. Mustn’t leave it one-sided. The other, larger breast too is punished for her divine distraction of my emotions.
Moving in front of her she holds the candle once more. How much more time has she got before it burns her hands? What delicious danger I am putting her into.
I kneel before her (something you might believe to be very submissive of me but on the contrary, wait and see). The vibrator is peacefully buzzing inside her. I stroke my fingers down her slit. Her labia part gently, willingly.
Another large drop of wax drips down, this time on me. Her eyes widen. Her heart quickens. Her moment of panic is my adrenaline.
It is time, don’t you think? I’m ready to use her. Tonight, I have one mission. This is the night I will make her squirt. I want good grades from us both. She will have to give it her all. No mistakes.
It’s been one hell of a build up and I can feel her entire body wanting me.
Perhaps I was too rash to take her words. I untie the gag and vow not to use it again. Her words are too precious to me.
“Beatrice. Give me your senses.”
Clearing her throat, she recites: “Sight; your discomfort. Sound; my heart. Smell; your skin. Taste; dry mouth. Touch; you. On me. Now.” Her words trail off in unease.
“Lie down.” Whilst still gentle, my voice no longer retains any mild sweetness, authentic or otherwise. I am in full teacher mode now. Judge, jury and let’s not go as far as executioner, but you know I’m going to have her whimpering one way or another.
“You will only come once for me tonight, Beatrice. On my terms. When I say so. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lady.”
I am tired of the remote controlled vibrator. Getting my hands dirty is what I like. Spanking. Fingering. Thrusting. Teasing. Torturing. With my whole.
Removing it, I know she is watching in the mirror. The candle slowly burns down as she holds it above her stomach, a splat making her writhe every now and then. With the vibrator exits a first gush of lust. The wave I am about to ride in on.
Retrieving my box of paraphernalia, I generously squeeze lube over her vulva and inner thighs. Have you ever heard of a tantra massage? That’s what’s on the menu tonight. Body and soul at ease. She may be wet and longing but that doesn’t mean I can’t feast on her before the big release. And who cares about orgasm anyway. Does it need to be at the end? As if you can’t have a praline before dinner. Does it need to happen at all? Again, I digress.
Whilst excited like a puppy to get stuck into her lady parts, I know it’s going to require more hard graft on my behalf tonight.
And so I smooth the lube out over her and begin working it further into her mound. She does her best not to buck and move but I know it’s difficult. We have a special kind of chemistry. Our looks, words and movements collide when we are around each other.
The candle is already quite burnt down. Time is running out.
Next: massage oil. It spreads smoothly over her stomach, breasts and thighs. I’m a sucker for massages. Softly at first, then I increase the pressure. Her plump nipples look succulent. Like a cactus. Pert. How I wish to suck on them. Nibble, lick, bite. But I mustn’t. That will only allow more emotions to consume me. Her spell would devour me. I would have to succumb to heartbreak, pain and grief.
Instead, I tweak them. Twist them. Pinch them. Hard. All my frustration, mingled with lust is released through a tug of her nip. And – oh my – she is stoic today. The candle barely quivering. I am unimpressed.
“Whilst I admire your detached manner this evening, excessive resilience does not appease me, my dear Beatrice. I am clearly not working hard enough.”
Now I have her attention. I am most spiteful. It is irrelevant what she does, I will find a fault, a reason to discipline her. That’s the thing in life; sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you still get slapped in the face.
Moving between her legs again I look up into the mirror. This moment, etched into my mind forever. Her golden, glistening skin. Anticipation crackling in the air. She is almost panting now, so keen not to drip wax on herself and remain obedient. Waiting for me to allow her that big release she is so desperately seeking in her life.
Kneeling down I slide my fingers over her slit again. Perfect. Ripe. Ready.
“I want you, my lady.”
Ah. Beatrice did not understand the assignment.
She knows it, too. Catching her breath and sensing my disgruntlement she attempts to rectify the situation.
“Erm, smell, er, the oil, my lady … the, er.”
This won’t do. Back to the gag and up my game. Shift up a gear.
With her now truly gagged I grab a dildo. Let’s fill her pretty mouth. So smart yet faltering. Swiping her juices I glide my fingers in her mouth.
“That wasn’t so eloquent now, was it my little butterfly. Keep that candle still now, won’t you?”
Beatrice’s eyes prick with tears. I slowly fill her mouth until four fingers are causing her to choke. The urge to stick my tongue in her mouth is overwhelming. Enough, I order myself. These cravings have been getting worse.
The physical urge to grab her by the neck, push her against the wall and then kiss her with all my senses festers in my mind. Each morning it has consumed another inch of me. My masturbation furious and fueled by the memory of our sessions.
She can feel this energy in me growing. I do not care for how she feels. I think. ARGH!
Between her legs I take a minute to compose myself, surveying the scene. I stick a finger in. Angrily, wearily. Keen to caress her and love her but steadying myself. This is not what we signed up for. Leave emotions at the door.
I tease her. In. Out. In. Out. Just the one. I rub my fingers entirely around her clit, alongside it, over the labia, hovering over the hole and then another finger in. Two. Three. Twisting to rub over her g-spot. Out again. A pinch of her clit. Scraping my nails down the sides. This is a full blown mission now. Distracting myself from my own emotions.
She’s having difficulties keeping still now. This doesn’t surprise me. She can feel the shift in the air. The intense compulsion to unite our bodies.
The stupid cartoon floods my brain again. Four fingers. A steady tempo. Out again. Teasing her lips, her clit. My whole hand on her vulva, the heat and pulse filling me with agonising passion.
I wiggle my hand. She is giddy. There are splotches of wax over her now. A pretty pattern is forming on her soft stomach folds. I reach up underneath her arms and massage her breasts. How I long to kiss them.
In I go again. Four fingers. Twisting to reach her g-spot. Pummeling it with a come hither movement. If only she knew. How much I want her to come hither. Her body is spasming now. Not long to go. Am I ready for it to end already? I want to savour every moment.
Removing my fingers, rich with juices and lube, I spread her lips.
Suppressing the excitement of perhaps one day being able to bury my face in this image, I order her to scooch up on the bed and put her feet up. They are now next to her ears. This gives me even better access. How clinical. How cold. How delightful. Dungeons and gowns, remember?
Grabbing a glove, I pour lube on her anus. I can not end our session yet. The candle is low. So much to do, so little time. She is excited and gaping even though she hasn’t come yet. My fingers run along the rim, gently pushing down over it. One finger slides in already. And another. I need a tool. The narrow, vibrating cigar slides in easily. She resists slightly but I push her abdomen down to calm her. Within seconds it has disappeared, a long string now dangling from her and a gentle buzz filling our ears.
Sensory overload is nigh.
My fingers run back over her clit. Rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. She is close. I need more. I need to fill her. Fill me. Fill this void in my life. Fill this hunger for her. The pink dildo glides in effortlessly. Peering in the mirror above me our eyes meet for a fleeting moment. We both know, this session has been an eye-opener. We can no longer go on like this. I want to punish her for making me feel, all these things.
Before I return to her clit, I consider further punishment. I want to spank her. I want to crop her feet. Run a pinwheel over her nips. Clamp her labia. But I can’t. Believe me, I want to.
But I want nothing more than to hold her in my arms and it’s destroying me. Caught in my head, I notice her head lift. She gazes wide-eyed at the candle. Her hands are covered with wax.
Perhaps this role does not suit me after all.
Overcome with guilt, hurt pride and admitting defeat I swallow hard.
I can not leave her like this. It looks breathtaking. Her vagina full, her lips swollen. And so I do what I can not resist doing. I bury my head between her legs. I lick her clit. I suck. I trail along her lips beside the dildo. I sink my nose into her smell. Juices covering my face. And as I raise my eyes, I see her gazing at me. Her mouth wide with the gag. But I find what I have been looking for the entire time. I see love. The bad L-word I daren’t ever say.
“You may cum for me now, my love.”
Her head falls back, the candle lifts as she strains to keep it straight. I nibble and lick and suck and give it my all. The dildo falls out and I fill her with my fingers. One hand on her abdomen as I rub her g-spot. In. Out. Teasing. My mouth over her vulva, savage with love. Inhaling her.
And then we both feel it. The pinnacle. Of her orgasm. Our relationship. A lifetime of keeping emotions pent up. A history of not allowing ourselves to feel.
Merging of two hearts, two souls and two lives, so painfully aware of our new found empowerment.
As I pull my fingers out, she indeed squirts. Over me, the bed, the floor. I am in awe.
Her scream is guttural, primal. A release like no other. Her voice tears through decades of pain and anguish. No BDSM session equates to the pain we have gone through. No release feels like this one. My mouth is open, my heart is agape.
Beatrice, my butterfly, has turned me.
Looking up at her I notice the candle is no longer burning. Was it her breath? Did she blow it out? The flame may be extinguished but excuse me for being poetical; our fire has only just been lit.
It feels like hours go by as she lays on the bed, me knelt before her. When she finally sits up, still trembling, she removes the gag and sighs. We both know there is no longer power play present in this room. Kneeling down with me, both of us uncomfortable on the remaining rice, so symbolic of all we’ve endured, she looks me straight in the eyes.
“Not on the floor,” I whisper, lifting her onto the bed with me.
It feels natural as she curls up into my arms. Always aware of the guidelines of our session I know she will be experiencing a drop any time now.
“Give me your senses, Beatrice.”
“Sight; the tranquillity on your face. Sound; your heartbeat. Smell; your sweat. Taste; your lips. Touch; you. It’s always been you. Give me your senses.”
And then I feel it. It is not Beatrice who will feel a drop. It is me.
“Sight; your divinity. Sound; your name in my mouth. Smell; your lust. Taste; your lips on mine. Touch; you and me. Today. Tomorrow. Right now.”
As the tears begin rolling out of my eyes we both look up at the mirrors on the ceiling. Curled up within each other it is as if we are one.
And if you are now disappointed that I did not spend the entire story spanking my sweet Beatrice then I must say I am not sorry. Because sometimes, when you commit to something, you suddenly realise how much potential it truly has.
So perhaps next time, with this released love for each other, our session will be even steamier.
But you know you can only join me for that if you give me YOUR senses.
This short erotic story was inspired by the females-only, exclusive member’s club Skirt Club where women have a safe space and community in which they can explore their sexuality. Check out my article about it and why women empowering women sexually is what the world needs right now.
Additionally it was inspired hugely by the adult card game knkplay.me where I put together a scenario involving a (or more) mirror(s), candle, floor and discipline.
In this story I talk about squirting. Female ejaculation is characterized as an expulsion of fluid from the Skene’s gland at the lower end of the urethra during or before an orgasm. It is also known colloquially as squirting (or gushing), although research indicates that female ejaculation and squirting are different phenomena, squirting being attributed to a sudden expulsion of liquid that partly comes from the bladder and contains urine. (Source: Wikipedia)
Certified sex coach Gigi Engle, author of “All The F*cking Mistakes: A Guide to Sex, Love, and Life“, says, “it’s usually from G-spot stimulation, or clitoral and G-spot dual stimulation.”
“Squirting has been getting a lot of attention in recent years. Accurate information and conversation about the sexual realities of female-assigned folks—whose bodies are still often subject to myth and mystery—is fantastic. That said, squirting is sometimes presented as something to “achieve” or an essential part of being sexually liberated. That creates a lot of unnecessary pressure!”
— Kitty May, Director of Education and Community Outreach at Other Nature, a feminist sex store in Berlin
PS this room actually exists. It’s in a little hotel in Berlin called Propeller Island City Lodge and let’s just say I’m speaking out of experience.