For Dommestic Use Only - Erotica - Bellesa - Porn for Women

For Dommestic Use Only

Category Kink
By Jayne Renault
Time 8 minutes


single hand dangles out the open window of a black sedan. Ash flakes away from the smoking end of a cigarette pinched between two unforgiving knuckles. The bright morning sun glints off the dark lenses of the driver’s sunglasses. She is waiting.

The driver invites the cigarette to her mouth and purses her lips around the yellow filter. Her cheeks hollow when she breathes in deep. It’s almost as if she is teasing the smoke with the idea of release only to suck it sharply back down her throat. As she stares intently across the street at the pine green door of a townhouse that looks the same as its neighbors, a flume of blueish smoke snakes out from her mouth with no particular haste. She is in no hurry; it’s still early.

She grips the car’s side mirror in her palm and turns it to face her. She sees her lips, painted a deep, dark plum. She turns to study the sharp line that connects the curve of her earlobe to the tip of her pointed chin. Her lips pull apart to drag the tip of her tongue across the underside of her front teeth; she likes what she sees. She musses her dark hair for no reason and plants her eyes back on the pine green door across the street.

The door opens and a woman steps out. Her honey-hued hair gleams in the sunlight when she turns her back to the street. She faces a smiling bespectacled man standing in the doorframe. He is taller than her, though not by much, and his black hair is a stunning contrast to hers. They are what some might call a smart-looking couple. The honey-haired woman kisses the man goodbye and walks down the steps to the sidewalk; he leans his hip into the frame and crosses his arms as he watches her go.

The woman in the car takes another long, sultry drag and watches the honey-haired woman on her path down the street, around the corner, and into oblivion. The man has since retreated inside and closed the door. The woman does not rush the rest of her cigarette. She enjoys every burning breath until it’s done.

She rolls up the window before she fully expels the lethal drag and opens the door. She climbs out of her shiny black sedan with a nicotine cloud trailing behind her and flicks the dying cigarette to the ground. She snuffs it out with a single twist of her heavy sole as she walks over it.

Key fob in hand, she directs the device’s beep over her shoulder as she strides into the street without regard for traffic. Her long beige trench coat is open wide, revealing a black swooping neckline that plunges daringly low. Her sternum is fully exposed to the day; the black fabric seems to defy the laws of science to keep her modest breasts modest. 

The beige trench coattails flap behind the woman as confidently as she moves. A nondescript silver car that is driving a little too quickly meets her in the middle of the road. It honks its horn at her to voice its dismay for her jaywalking. Without turning her chin, the woman flips the bird with her ring-bearing hand to the silver car and keeps on walking. Her demeanor unfazed, her gait unaltered, she smirks to herself when she hears the screech of frustrated rubber on the asphalt behind her.

She walks up the steps to the pine green door and presses the button that tells the doorbell to serve its purpose. While she waits, she runs her fingers through her heavy bang, pushing the dark fringe back toward the crown of her skull, and scrubs the ends into the back of her head. She shoves her hands into her coat pockets and swivels on the balls of her feet to look back towards the street. Nothing out of place. She musses her hair back down to where it was before.

She is getting tired of waiting now.

Languid footfalls approach the door from the inside now. Her heart beats in time with the click-click-clack of the latch coming loose. The pine green door opens to reveal the smiling, black-haired man. The man who just kissed the honey-haired woman goodbye. The man who would kiss this dark-haired woman next. 

“Veronica, I’m sorry I—

The woman walks her stoic boldness right into the man’s house, brushing past him to cut off his apology. He lowers his head and swallows hard. He looks out into the street. Nothing out of place. He closes the pine green door.

She hears the door click again behind her, followed by soft footsteps as the man approaches her from behind. She doesn’t turn to look at him.

With her back to him, this woman, Veronica, pinches the corners of her sunglasses on both sides of the frame, pulls them from her face, and folds the arms neatly to tuck them into her coat pocket. She shrugs the trench from her shoulders, letting it slide down her slender arms and off her body, to reveal another swoop in the silky black fabric that puts the length of her spine on display.

She lets the man take her coat. His breath is long and curious behind her. He clasps his fingers around the nape of her neck and rubs his thumb in a strong circle once, twice… at the base of her skull. His fingertips are cool while the rest of his palm is warm. She closes her eyes, bites her lip, and shakes her head. He doesn’t take notice of this subtle response; he drags his hand down the length of her bare spine and leans into her.

Nose buried into her dark locks, he breathes the whisper into her scalp: “Oh, Veronica. I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure you have,” she says sternly, not acknowledging his touch. “How is your lovely wife this morning?” 

“Gone for the day while I work from here. How’s your husband?”

“Boring beyond all reason and utterly ambivalent.”

“Good thing you have me then.”

Veronica’s chiseled brow is already arched high when she pulls away and turns to face him. His smug smile wavers when he meets her serious gaze and crossed arms. “Yes. Until you turn into a bore too, at any rate.”

“You always have to take me down a peg, huh?” The man crosses his arms to mirror her body’s message. “You never let me have a win.”

Veronica purses her lips and glares black daggers into him. She says nothing while she scans this man from head to toe and back again. He wears a simple black t-shirt and dark denim jeans that hang off his lithe frame in all the ways goddess intended. He wears nothing on his feet. His dark hair is combed back, still damp from the shower that delayed his greeting. A thin, sculpted brow enhances the thick black rims of the glasses that frame his dark eyes, and the smooth V of his jawline points down towards the slender neck that holds the whole system steady. 

Despite his aesthetic allure, what Veronica notices most of all as she surveys him is how much his breath has quickened since she walked in. The longer she watches him in harrowing silence, the further his crossed arms push away from his chest with every giveaway heave.

“Oh, Brendan…” she says, shaking her head again. More noticeably this time. She uncrosses her arms and lifts her feet one at a time to her hands to remove her brown leather ankle boots.

“It’s true that you are a strong player.” She lines the boots up neatly beside each other on the floor mat. “That’s why I still like to play with you…”

But Veronica’s words are growing more stern with every break between them. She reaches down to the button on her black jeans. She pries the material apart, leaving her fly open wide to reveal the panties that match her lovely top. 

Veronica glares at the man, Brendan, standing sheepishly now in front of her. His arms have loosened; his eyes are pinned to the triangle of shiny black peeking out at him between the open flaps of dark denim.

She dips her head low enough to find his eyes and reclaim his undivided attention. “But never forget, my dear… This is my game,” she says as she points down at the floor. Brendan seems to understand and obeys this gesture: though somewhat hesitantly, he lowers his knees towards the floorboards in front of her as she continues to speak. “We may be in your home, but the house always wins.” 

Brendan averts his eyes, avoiding hers completely.

“Brendan.” Her tone when she says his name burns like dry ice held too long in a stubborn fist. “Do I make myself clear?”

Brendan nods his assent.

She grabs him gruffly by the chin between her thumb and claw-like forefinger and forces him to look up at her. She repeats her question with more space between the words this time: “Do I make myself clear?”

She feels the hearty gulp pass from his tongue to the rock in his throat before he speaks. “Y-yes, Veronica. I should have—”

“That’s enough,” she says cutting his excuses short. “Now,” she tickles under his chin with the tip of her painted talon and rises up to her full height, “I don’t have all day. I have a lunch reservation at noon and you know how I feel about punctuality.”

He nods again and lowers his eyes back to the floor. Veronica shimmies the waist of her pants past her hips. Brendan resists his urge to look up at her.

“It’s okay, pet,” she says. “You may watch.”

The tip of Brendan’s tongue darts out to trace the thin pink line of his upper lip upon receiving her permission. Veronica takes obvious relish in stripping away her layers to reveal her inherent power. She peels the black denim husks from her legs and kicks the jeans aside. She pulls her top overhead and stands before him in nothing but her black panties. A sculptured goddess, all smooth dark curves and hard edges borne of the metamorphic black marble from which she was carved.

Veronica clucks her tongue at Brendan and shakes her head. “You know, I really was looking forward to today. But it seems we have other work to do. Because you also know that I don’t come here to be neglected.” She scans down the length of her own body and looks back at him. “I can’t believe you’ve made me do all of this myself. I mean, really - how many times are you going to make me punish you?”

“I’m sorry, Veronica, I didn’t mean…” From his knees, Brendan scrambles over to her and bows his forehead into the soft cushion of flesh at her abdomen. He looks as though he is praying. 

“It’s just been so long, I…” He trails off, getting lost in the scent of her.

“My poor, sweet Brendan,” she says, stroking the sweet fragrance from his freshly washed hair. “I understand how overwhelmed you must be. It has been much too long since our last time together.” 

She crowns him with her hands on either side of his head, weaves her fingers into his thin black hair and holds him there, gently. Almost nurturing. 

“In all that time though, it seems you have forgotten your place. Again.” She snarls into the last word and clenches a fistful of Brendan’s hair without warning, craning his head back to force him to look up at her once again. 

Veronica is smiling through her sneer because she felt the tiny burst of his breathy whimper on her before she pulled him away. 

“You’ve grown cocky, my dear. It’s almost…” Her sneer turns to a wry, crooked smile as she shifts her gaze back and forth between his dark hazel eyes. She isn’t searching for the answer; the answer is obvious. “It’s almost as if you do it on purpose.” 

Again, Brendan gulps down hard. Still holding him in place, Veronica takes a half-step forward and nestles her foot under the strained crotch of his jeans. His pulse is hot and heavy in the fold of her ankle. She traces strain in his neck with her gaze while she leers over him.

“You deserve every bit of this.” Another pathetic excited whimper sneaks out between his breaths when she says it. “You know this, don’t you?”

Brendan tries to nod, but her grip is too strong.

“Answer me properly, slut,” she barks. She feels his shameful erection thump down into the top of her foot.


“Yes…” She echoes and reiterates her hold on Brendan’s roots. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, I deserve this.”


“B-because… I have been insolent today.” The heat on Veronica’s foot rises when she gives him another warning tug. “Again, I mean. I have been insolent again.”

“Mm.” Veronica loves that word: insolent. “Tell me, pet. In what ways have you been insolent, specifically?”

“I—” He sucks the air quickly through his teeth when she pulls his neck to its limits. His voice is ragged, rasping. “I… I made you wait outside on the step too long…"

“What else?”

“I-I-I didn’t ask permission to touch you…”

“Mm, quite. And?”

“And I…” He nearly chokes on the words he knows Veronica has been fishing for.  “I-I’m a filthy slut.” The shameful words she knows he loves and hates to say. “Because I sleep with you when my wife isn’t home.”

“Exactly. So, Brendan. If you already know all of this, then why, instead of being able to enjoy myself while I’m here, am I always wasting my precious time having to remind you?” 

Brendan lowers his eyes even further away from her like a naughty dog who knows exactly why he is being scolded.

Veronica relaxes her hold on him and takes a step back to abandon the desperate pulse between his legs. Brendan had been holding his breath; the air hurries out of him to fill the new space between them. 

“Well…” she coos, almost to herself, as she walks past him, back towards the pine green door, to the front hall closet. She keeps the rest of her thought to herself and sifts through the coats until she finds what she’s looking for. 

Brendan, who is still knelt, facing away from her, not daring to steal an uninvited glance now, can’t see the long, thin, black scarf that now rests over her palms like a wicked priest’s stole. 

“Let’s see to it that you don’t forget again, shall we?” She rubs the fabric between her fingers as she speaks. “Take off your shirt for me.”

Obedient and silent, Brendan crosses his hands to opposite hips and pulls his black t-shirt up overhead. Veronica watches as he gives himself to her, one vertebra at a time, until the entirety of his golden torso is exposed. She crouches down behind him, pressing her bare breasts into his shoulder blades. A great, sighing exhalation falls from Brendan’s nose. Veronica strokes his throat with the cup of her palm and breathes anticipation back into him. The strain on his breath tightens again.

“Give me your wrists, sweet.” Her purr is menacing, but Brendan willingly joins his wrists behind him at the small of his back.

Veronica wraps the thin, black scarf around his wrists, binding him in place. 

“Not too tight?” she asks, brushing her lips on the outer curve of his ear. “You would tell me if it’s too much, yes? I want to punish you, not hurt you."

“No, Veronica. It’s not too tight.”

“What do you say then?” Her tongue is like a knife slicing through every hard consonant. 

“Thank you.”


Veronica stands and circles around to face Brendan again. She waits for him to overcome his sweet embarrassment and find her eyes. This was one of her favorite kinds of moments: when she could almost taste their shame—heady and sharp. When they reeked of their overwhelming urge to share it with her.

“You are so beautiful like this, you know that?” He tries to hide it from her when she tells him so, but Veronica still catches the sweet rosy hint of his blushing cheeks. “It’s just such a shame I won’t get to taste your cock today.”

Brendan’s head snaps back up. His face is washed with an expression that is both confused and imploring. Veronica scoffs and rolls her eyes with disdain.

“Don’t look so pathetic. Come now. Stand up and take me to the bedroom.”


Jayne Renault is a self-proclaimed reckless lover, boisterous laughter, voracious reader, and long-winded sex-positive smutty wordsmith. She likes the play around with beautiful strangers, anonymous narrators, smug masturbation sessions, and the sometimes darker undertones of sexual deviancy. A good metaphor will turn her on more than a pretty face ever could, and one of her alter-egos is the resident Smut Madame and erotica editor at

Other notable titles from Jayne include:

The Birthday Bash
Comings and Goings
Compliance Risk
Condemned Desire
Conservation Area

The Edge of Glory
Hey, Babe.
Just Dessert

The Slap Bet
Strangers on a Train

Stroke her ego and follow her on 
Twitter and Instagram.

Posted on Jul 31, 2018


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