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Two friends fall in love; mad science and lesbian sex ensues

Samantha leaned forward and spat, a sticky white string dangling briefly from her mouth before breaking.

Humiliation, she thought, her mouth full once again, her breasts swaying with the vigorous back-and-forth motion of her right hand.

Lost in thought, she’d been brushing her teeth for a full six minutes.

No, not just humiliation, degradation, she reflected. Nina doesn’t just want to feel embarrassed, she wants to feel less than human. She wants to feel like an animal. Absent-minded, she rinsed for the third time. How did we even get into that conversation?

Oh, yeah, that’s right. She remembered the purple-gray froth in the sink. Red wine. Lots of it.

Samantha spat, again, and grinned in the mirror. A bespectacled, bed-headed brunette, with the world’s cleanest teeth and a tendency to overthink things – especially interesting rabbitholes like this one.

For a moment she wondered what she’d look like, all dressed up in leather and holding a whip – no, a riding crop. No. No, a boxing glove, big and red and shiny and exaggerated, like in a cartoon…

…or not. Sexy, Samantha, think sexy. Not functional.

But why not both? You wear boxing gloves so that you can beat each other up without doing too much damage. Why aren’t boxing gloves sexy?

She lifted the lid, slid down her underwear and sat down. And so now you get an intriguing, sexy idea, and give it a turn for the ridiculous – something you’ve been trying to avoid. Also, why are you even ruminating on this in the first place? What are you going to do, go up to Nina and say “Hey, have you ever thought about getting a pair of big red boxing gloves and just letting someone beat you up with them?” What’s the expression, backseat quarterback?

Break it down, Sam. Why boxing gloves? I imagine more along the lines of whips and gags and stuff when I hear “Bondage” or “Erotic humiliation,” why am I thinking about boxing gloves?

Samantha always found the sound of running water conducive to any sort of contemplation. Pee works too, albeit for very brief sessions. She sat and followed the thought back towards its hidden origin, brow furrowed, chin resting on her upturned fist.

An observer would have noted the resemblance to Rodin’s famous sculpture “The Thinker,” except, you know, on a toilet.

Boxing gloves.




Shock wave.

The path of the shockwave from a downward-angled impact over the solar plexus. The sensation of air being forced out of your lungs, so similar to laughter that it makes you smile out of pure reflex. The shockwave rushing downwards, through your insides, your tummy, your crotch, your thighs, you don’t feel it so much in your calves – but then rebounding through your feet from the floor and rushing upwards, angling strangely and dissipating, losing cohesion. The sensation of a phantom force rushing up your inner thighs, a strike now turned to a caress, maybe the slightest ghost whispering underneath your vagina, then it’s gone, faded to nothing. And then you’re standing there, still alive, stunned but surprised to feel fairly unhurt, knowing that you absorbed that much force, that much of an impact, without even falling over. Knowing that you’re a red-blooded animal with a skeleto-muscular structure evolved to spread out incoming blows.

Knowing that you’re an animal. Knowing it for sure, without a shadow of a doubt. Knowing it in your bones. Being aware of it, for that moment.

Wipe, flush. Is that sexy? I can’t even tell. Is spanking sexy? Or is it just something that they put in porno films so that you can tell if your audio is properly synced up? Like a clapboard, only made out of butts.

Samantha stood up, pulling up her underwear. And I didn’t answer my own question. Never mind the boxing gloves; what’s the deal with this train of thought? She headed back to the bedroom, to dress for the day.

Is this a purely intellectual exercise? Purely hypothetical? Purely rhetorical? Why analyze it so much, then, if nothing will ever come of my analyses?

“Because I love her, of course,” she muttered, and paused for a moment in dressing, the realization sinking in.

Huh. Of course. Silly of me not to notice. I love Nina – platonically, but very deeply, and for a long time. She opened up to me about her problems in her love life. Her happiness is essential to my own, so now I’m thinking about ways to make her happy.

Samantha frowned. But am I even capable of that? Could I, Sam, do that sort of thing with Nina? Could I make her happy?

Could I…

Samantha stared into the wood of her dresser, seeing nothing, testing waters with an image of Nina, her freckles, her smile, her lips, parting. Eyes gently closing, Samantha pressed her mind’s lips to Nina’s.

Detail. Detail, to be sure.

The pores of Nina’s skin. Her eyelashes. Her lips. Soft lips, slipping tenderly, shy, curious, between Samantha’s.

Samantha breathed, deeply, and questioned herself.

Yes, came the reply. She smiled, feeling the beginnings of joy bloom in her, spreading out from her stomach like warm, slow sunlight. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, I could kiss Nina. And I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!”

Samantha pulled her jeans up the rest of the way before realizing they were on backwards.


Nina growled, cords standing out on her neck, pajamas damp with sweat. In her mind’s eye, Samantha held Nina’s hair tightly in one hand, grinding her cunt into Nina’s face – her labia enveloping Nina’s nose, leaving slick trails between her eyes and over her lips. In Nina’s fantasy, Samantha gripped her hair with both hands and used her, like Nina used the Special Toy right now.

As they usually did, Nina’s fantasies had started so innocently – imagining Samantha’s eyes closing and moving forwards, their lips touching in a close, tender, nervous first kiss. In the buildup to her first orgasm, Nina disrobed Samantha, kissed her, held her, touched her, made love with her – now, as she approached her second, things were different. Her imagination jumped in brutal, incoherent cuts from scene to lustful scene, deepening and intensifying.

Nina on hands and knees, butt in the air, naked save for her collar and leash, cleaning Samantha’s toilet while Samantha smokes and reads a magazine, her feet propped up on Nina’s back.

Nina’s legs spread wide by a steel bar, Samantha’s eyes on her exposed genitals, while her fingers push knuckle-deep into Nina’s ass.

Nina bent over Samantha’s knee, bare-bottomed and squirming in a public park, receiving a sound spanking while strangers watch, her cheeks tanned red.

Nina holding Samantha’s hand, a little drunk, telling her… telling her about…

Telling her about wanting to be tied up… Telling Samantha about her cuffs and collars… Telling Samantha about the gags and the paddles and the chains and the files and…

Telling Samantha everything except how wet she was getting telling Samantha everything…

Telling Samantha…


Nina’s back arched, her teeth clenched together, her thighs squeezing tight, the shockwaves flowing. After a few months, she collapsed back to the bed with a little shudder, a little squeak, and remembered to breathe again.

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