Queen of Love

They said nothing. Genevieve couldn’t have said a thing, anyway, and Aya was so focused on her movements that the only sounds she made were the feminine grunts that captivated Genevieve’s imagination. But the thrill surged between them. Genevieve challenged herself to not look away or close her eyes to that gaze piercing her soul. As her fingers fumbled behind her back and the handcuffs sweated against her skin, she gave herself to Aya – and, in turn, left a piece of herself behind.

She held off as long as she could, though, for she intimately understood the drive that haunted a dominant like Aya. She needed to crush the urges that consumed her. Get on top. Fuck her. Make her happy. Genevieve had once been like that, back when she best expressed herself by calling all the shots and spoiling her partners with physical sensations. Now she wanted to be that woman. The one obliterated and left behind in a million happy pieces.

When she heard Aya come, that was the end of it. Genevieve joined her in catatonic bliss.

Isn’t it funny how a few seconds can feel like an hour when you’re in love? Genevieve loved that about sex. It was a gift from whatever creator took pity on the souls bound to the rollercoaster that was human life.

Aya rested atop Genevieve, their heavy breaths a sign of camaraderie. Even when she reluctantly pulled out and fell slightly to the side so she could unlock the handcuffs, Genevieve still felt like she was bound to the universe Aya constructed for them.

“Tsukareta,” Aya said with a sigh. “Pinch me so I don’t fall asleep.”

“Would it be a bad thing if you did?”

Aya freed herself from the straps around her body. She ran the back of her hand along Genevieve’s arm and left a lazy kiss on her shoulder. “I want to show you one last thing.”

Genevieve laid still as Aya removed the collar. When it was turned over, Genevieve beheld what had been etched on the soft and comfortable material.

“???.” It was Aya’s name written in Chinese characters. While Genevieve had always admired the balance of such a short and colorful name, she saw it as something more now.

It was always with her. As long as she wore her partner’s gift, that name would rest against her throat. Distance wouldn’t matter. Circumstance meant nothing.

“I love you,” Aya said. “I hope I can make you happy.”

Genevieve curled against her, reveling in the shadow of a warm and intimate embrace. “You already have.”

The statement was so simple, yet it impacted Genevieve more than three words ever had.