Explore Black BDSM Erotica with ‘Push the Button’ [EXCERPT]

6:17 p.m.

She put the key in the door, but not before she could smell dinner simmering on the stove and dessert baking in the oven. Sighing heavily, Nicole turned the key and opened the door to an even more overwhelmingly delicious aroma. Her eyes closed instinctively as she inhaled deeply. How much longer can I stand this?

1 week.

3 days.

19 hours.

She looked at her watch.

17 minutes…

This was the longest period she’d ever been on punishment while serving Him. While she knew she deserved every second of this agony, she still lamented the loss that came with it. She was in the final stretch, however, and she knew she had no choice but to endure it until the end.

_______

“No sex, no service, no submission. Two weeks.”

“But—”

“Don’t you DARE talk back to me, woman. Not…now. Two weeks. Two weeks to think about how keeping things from each other is detrimental to this relationship. Two weeks to think about how embarrassing it is for My Bitch fighting MY fights. Two weeks to think about everything I’ve shared with you, every way in which I’ve opened up my entire soul to you, every way in which I’ve cared for you, honored you, trusted you, and tended to your every wants and need. Two weeks to figure out how to never break my heart in such a way again. Two weeks to remember who you serve and why you’re in this with me. Do not dispute me, woman, or I swear before God and everyone we hold dear, you will regret it.”

_______

F*ck His cooking for being so goddamned good. Sh*t, she thought to herself.

“Sir?” she called out. No answer.

“Sir?? Where are you?” she asked again. No response.

Sighing again, she removed her coat, hung it in the coat closet, and called out, “David? Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom, Nicole. How was your day?”

“It was busy, as usual, but good. What’s for dinner?” she asked as she made her way towards the kitchen. “Smells delicious,” she commented.

“Pork tenderloins, collard greens with ham, and bacon-wrapped scallops,” he answered.

Nicole rolled her eyes up to the heavens and shook her head. She stopped eating pork six weeks prior and David was well aware. The mindf*ck. He’d mastered it. Not only did He disallow her from cooking, He forced her to fend for herself to find sustenance. Nicole’s lip involuntarily snarled.

After being temporarily “out of service,” she found some of her old habits and ways slipping back into her standard behavior. Not many, but enough to be reminded of why being controlled was essential to her being. He wouldn’t let her cook, forced her to watch Him clean and iron His own clothes, and when His back was hurting the other day, He refused to let her massage Him with Tiger Balm. This hurts me just as much as it hurts you, He’d said.

Bullsh*t.

F*ck.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, her forehead connecting with the door of the refrigerator. She didn’t hear David walk towards her, so He startled her when he spoke.

“What? You’re not going to eat?” At that moment, Nicole’s stomach betrayed her, grumbling loudly.

“Aww, you must be hungry. Here, let me fix you a plate,” He offered, taunting her, punishing her.

“No, thank you, David. I’ll just grab a snack,” she said, opening the refrigerator and looking around for a container of yogurt.

She stole a glance at Him while pretending to look for the yogurt. Damn, He looks good. Dammit, dammit, dammit, she chastised herself. She was insanely horny and was not allowed to release, not just with Him, but not even by herself. He’d made that clear too. What made it worse was that this was a stretch of time when neither of them had any traveling to do for work, so they were in their home together, torturous day in and excruciating day out.

“Have you seen my yogurt, Sir?” she asked, casually.

“It’s on the door,” He responded, without thinking. She smiled. He slipped.

“I don’t see it, Sir,” she continued, feigning ignorance, pleading with the most subtle hint of seduction.

“Star, it’s right…”

He caught himself before He turned around to help her out. He knew He couldn’t give into her, even with the slightest connection that might go against her punishment. He focused, instead, on the food in the pots in front of Him.

“Look at me,” she softly requested.

He didn’t move, not beyond a slight stiffening of His body, which was preparing itself for the inevitable battle brewing.

“I said, ‘Look at me,’ David,” she repeated, louder this time. Urgency creeping into her voice.

“No.”

“You must…”

“No… Again.”

She descended from her bent over position in front of the refrigerator completely onto her knees. She placed her hands on the cool tiles of their kitchen’s floor. She began to crawl towards Him, kicking off one shoe after the other. She licked her lips. She’d had enough.

“David…”

David slowly turned around, away from the food, to see His beloved on her knees crawling towards Him, the unmistakable mask of pure lust spread widely across her face.

He swallowed. “Get up, Nicole.”

“No.” She moved a couple of feet closer to where He stood.

“You must…”

“No… Again.”

“Woman, do not do this.”

By this point, she was in front of Him. She leaned her head forward, forehead touching the tips of His bare feet. She kissed the top of His left foot, then the top of His right. She gingerly placed her hands around His ankles and massaged them a bit, as she noticed they were swollen. He’s been on His feet all day, she acknowledged to herself.

“Get. Up.”

She shook her head, disregarding His command, and elevated herself, still on her knees, so that her face was directly in front of the battle-losing bulge in His pants. In the next instant, her expert fingers unbuckled, unbuttoned, and withdrew Him from His pleated prison. He grabbed her arms, but it was too late; she drew Him into her mouth as soon as He’d sprung free. She drew the entirety of Him into the deepest reach of her throat, right where He belonged.

He groaned.

She won.

Push the Button is available at FeministaJones.com and Amazon.com.

Feminista Jones is a sex-positive Black feminist, social worker and blogger from New York City. She writes about gender, race, politics, mental health and sexuality at FeministaJones.com. Follow her on Twitter at @FeministaJones.



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