Black Panther

Zaawaadi slips heavy gold chains over her breasts, fastens a diamond collar at her throat. The stones catch candlelight as she crosses the room. Christina kneels, wrists bound behind her back, thighs parted. Blonde hair spills across one shoulder like liquid honey. She keeps her eyes lowered, nipples tight, already slick between her legs. Zaawaadi uses the point of her stiletto to tilt Christina’s chin, drags the heel down her chest, presses it against the soft cleft of her cunt until she trembles and leans into the pressure. Zaawaadi talks low, almost a whisper, but every word lands sharp. She makes Christina repeat her position in the household. Slave. Servant. Plaything. Each term earns another slow thrust of the heel, spreading slick heat up to her clit. Christina’s breathing turns ragged. She thanks her, breath catching on each syllable, voice hoarse with need. The game lasts until her thighs shake and she’s begging, empty and dripping. Then the clock strikes the hour. Zaawaadi lifts her heel, unbinds the wrists, and begins to strip the jewelry piece by piece. Christina stands. She straightens her shoulders. The air shifts, precise and unmistakable. When Zaawaadi hands back the collar, Christina clicks it around her own throat instead. She unpins her hair, watches Zaawaadi drop to her knees without a single spoken order. A slow smile curves Christina’s mouth as she presses two fingers between her housekeeper’s lips. The real game has only just begun.