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‘WHITES’ A Short Erotic Lesbian Love Story by NELLSKITCHEN

whites, erotic short stories, vintage sensuality, fbsm


     By Nellskitchen


‘Exquisite,’ I thought as I wandered around her small, but smartly attired apartment.

Seeing how another lives is always illuminating. At first blush, it was clear Paige lived an orderly life.

“I wish mine were half as organized,” I whispered. Glancing at the kitchen’s legion of culinary gadgets, I added, “I see you like to cook.”

“Mmm, I like to eat even more,” Paige replied.

With a sprinkling of devilish laughter, she looked down at herself. Her hands drifted over wide hips and came to rest on her buttocks with a firm slap. 

Turning to face me, she asked, “Does it show?”

“Does what show?”

“Eating; does it show that I like to eat?”

Having scrutinized her willowy body, I knew otherwise. “No,” I said, “it doesn’t show. You’re so trim. I’m super jealous.”

“You’re just being nice,” Paige remarked as this pretty raven-haired creature backed me up against the countertop.

“But I like your answer, Jordan. Tell me, do you like to eat—to be eaten?” She planted a sultry kiss and slipped her tongue into my mouth.

She tasted good, a blend of champagne and affection. Finding no resistance, she probed more. Her assertiveness affected me. Breathing heavily, I held onto Paige’s slim shoulders as our mouths disengaged.

“Come with me. I have something to show you,” she ordered.

Taking my hand, Paige led me to the next room, where I caught sight of the bed whose covers she had turned down in anticipation.

“So wonderful; I love them,” I whispered.

“What do you love?” Paige asked.

“Satin sheets,” I replied.


Sitting on the shiny sheets, she crossed her long legs and asked, “Tell me what you love about them.”

Leaning, I ran my hand over the glossy smoothness. “Satin is slippery; it’s like cum—only fabric.”

Laughing, Paige said, “I’m in love with your sense of humor, Jordan.” Grinning, she repeated my comment. “Like cum—only fabric—such a mouthwatering description!”

Paige’s smile was total; it lit up her ‘CoverGirl’ face. “Come here,” she dictated, “sit next to me.” She patted the spread with her hand. Compliant, I sat.

With her dazzling blue eyes filling with impishness, Paige moved closer and curled back a lock of my hair before brushing it aside.

Then, as if divulging some hush-hush insight, she said, “After today, when I slip between my sheets, I’ll conjure wicked images of ill-fated bukkake girls swimming in a sea of yucky man-batter.”

The thought of being covered in gobs of sperm made both of us screw up our noses.

Although our eyes stayed locked on each other.


Paige stood and, hurriedly stacking pillows against the headboard, announced, “I need to change; I’ll just be a minute, stay put.”

I reclined and followed her shapely butt as she retreated to a walk-in closet.

Daydreaming and only half-listening, I took little notice of popping snaps and hangers bouncing along the closet’s steel rod. Relaxing, I reflected on this afternoon, to an annoying exchange from the party.


There, Paige, skilled at detecting hidden meanings in otherwise harmless conversation, latched onto a thinly veiled revelation from earlier in the evening when she toyed with a trifle from a parting exchange between my former lover and me.

Like a cobra snatching up an unsuspecting bunny, she pounced, and I worried her mental prowess might be too much for me. Now with her, things were moving quickly.


“You comfy?” Paige asked.


“Yes, dear, I’m good. Why don’t you dress out here so I can watch?”

Conveniently disregarding my question, she called to me, “Am finishing up; give me a minute.”  Her voice seemed distant, muffled by the closeted enclosure. Suddenly, her voice rang clearly, “Because I want to surprise you, that’s why.”

Her declaration was as posed as the feminine form standing in the doorway through which she had vanished moments ago. “So,” she suggestively asked, “Is this what you had in mind?”

Upon reappearing, my thoughts quickly reordered, my deficient reaction—a startled grin. Paige’s shapely body radiated white light; her fluorescence poured through my senses.

I replied, stumblingly and inhaling her feminine splendor; I gasped, “My God, Paige, whites—so…so beautiful! Yes, that’s it—exactly as I wanted—pictured.”

Her whites were erotic—and frightening. She had read me perfectly and left me uneasy about a relationship still raw.

In minutes, Paige had transformed from the starkly contrasting black-bow mini dress of Wenda’s party to the crisp majesty of an accomplished Registered Nurse.

Though initially regarding myself as the evening’s convenient stranger, now, I accepted her gesture as welcoming.  A nurse in whites is the image of purity, and Paige glowed, as might Mary Immaculate.

Her meaning was clear; I was special.


Steadying myself, I searched her tight-fitting uniform, which highlighted firm breasts and nipples, struggling to escape disagreeable confinement. Her skirt extended to mid-thigh, her white stockinged legs long—imposing.

Statuesque, she was the image of an accomplished professional in polished white pumps and authoritative nurses’ cap. Mysteriously, her latex-sheathed fingers balanced a menacing surgical tray whose contents lay hidden beneath a fluffy white towel. With her stethoscope draped about her neck, Paige was both nurse—and seductress.

“Ready for your examination, Jordan?” she asked. Ready or not, the sight of her made me wet.


Part II of ‘Whites’ – “You’ve already had her, haven’t you.”


Via sneaky glances, that evening, I spotted her at the party. Once, she caught me staring. Women were everywhere; some I even knew—not her. Our eyes eventually met; mine flitted away—and then returned. To my delight, hers stayed fixed.

Reluctantly, I sauntered over to Wenda and, looking floorward, hissed my standard inquiry. “Don’t stare,” I said. “She’s already caught me looking once, so give it a second, and then tell me the girl’s name, the one with her butt against the piano.”

“Which girl?” Wenda disingenuously asked while batting her eyelashes and tossing her thick brunette hair off her shoulder.

“Don’t fuck with me, Wenda,” I warned. “The one wearing black standing near the fucking black fucking piano—the one with the black fucking hair! Who is she?”

Wenda’s smile turned savage. She sipped her champagne, then coolly pretended to search the crowded room for my would-be keepsake. “Ahh…that’s Paige de Villeneuve.” Her tone dripped familiarity. “Do you want her?” she asked.

“Slut,” I replied. “You’ve already had her, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” Wenda allowed. Her rapid blinking confirmed the notion. As she turned away, I put her on notice: “I need to meet her, Wenda—introduce me.”


Part III of ‘Whites’ – “Your place or mine?”


Everyone was drinking pink champagne from fluted glasses, the ten-inchers that snap if someone sneezes.

Three nude waiters, the only men present, sprinting about, lubricated the evening’s mood with alcohol while dodging grabs from increasingly intoxicated lesbians.

‘Nude’ is relative, however, since the boys wore tasteful red bow ties. They were engaging additions to the party’s ambiance.

Most grippingly, it was clear they had been selected based on their dick size. Each one amplified courtesy of the efforts of a marginally attractive, topless fluffer peeking out at the crowd from behind the bar. She was evidently skilled as the guys’ floppy appendages swayed deliciously as they walked about, their cocks drawing attention from all but the most hardened Sapphics.

Of the three waiters, Hernan’s uncircumcised package was the cutest. Some Freudian thing, I am drawn to uncut manhood. Though there is little about males that speaks to virtue, a malleable foreskin is something to draw back, to lick under, to taste.  

“Can you believe these guys?” Shara Winton asked, tapping Jorell’s butt as he darted by. “I love balls,” she sheepishly added.


College kids, the boys courteously endured the gaggle of wayward women. Comically, twice, trays brimming with flutes crashed to the floor as some half-looped female grabbed a waiter’s scrotum. I did it once, then offered the good-natured fellow a fifty-dollar tip.  

It was not until shortly after ten that it finally occurred. Simultaneously and possibly quite by accident—although I would not swear to it—Paige and I reached for a solitary flute on a passing tray. Our fumbling fingers entangled at the stem, our eyes met, and the room transformed into the scene from “West Side Story,” where we, like Maria and Bernardo, found ourselves alone in an eerily silent crowd.  

A momentary lapse of reason, our attraction was instant.


I inhaled her deep blue eyes, her red, lipsticked mouth, and long legs, the riddle of whose confluence I straightaway determined to unravel. Her black hair and delicate features highlighted a stunning presence. Did some modern-day Victorian corset cinch her elfin waist? The urge to find the truth overwhelmed me.

Paige smiled, I smiled, and we blundered nonsense. “Be my guest; you take the champagne, no, you,” we each insisted, laughing gleefully.

An hors d’oeuvre tray happened by, and cat-like, I snatched up a caviar-smothered wafer.


In what proved an audition, I nibbled it, then handed it to her. I hoped she would taste the same corner. Holding the brittle crucible, Paige fixed her eyes to mine, consciously rotated it to the exact spot I had bitten, and raised it to parted lips. She snapped it in half between perfect teeth and said, “So fucking good.” 

“Forbidden fruit,” I conjectured to a mild nod. The erotic moment proved a second step along our communion path. “Wenda says you’re a nurse and work at the clinic; you’re Paige, right?” 

“Yum, you know my name—a promising sign,” she retorted. “I like it when a pretty girl knows my name. Will I like you, Jordan?” she asked. Swaying her hips in sensuous undulations, she nipped the cracker a second time. “Anyway, yes, I’m a nurse at Eastside Medical.”

“Gynecology, right?”


“Ooh, correct again! So you’re familiar with my work. Interesting.”

“Surely,” I stuttered, “I mean, I asked about you after our eyes met. Nurses are hot, but tell me something…”

“…you do? Why do you think we’re hot?” Paige already knew the answer; the twinkle in her eye betrayed it.

“Why? Well, we’re vulnerable and place ourselves in a nurse’s hands. The thought of being your patient gives me goosebumps. And, there’s the uniform. Things are so casual now, but traditional whites are, you know—do you wear whites?”

“Rarely,” admitted Paige, glancing about the room, “Scrubs, mostly. For you, I don’t know, maybe I’ll wear mine. However, you didn’t answer me. Do I like you, Jordan?”

“I think so,” I said.

“If you want whites, we need to blow this joint.”


Our chemistry was commanding. I had not hooked up in months, but a hook-up was not what this felt like. It was more; at least, I chose to believe so. For appearance’s sake, we stayed put, miring ourselves for another few minutes in party small talk. Throughout, however, we plotted our escape, and finally getting up the nerve, we approached our evil hostess. “We have to run,” I called to her.

The crafty Wenda detected the scheme and interfered. “Leaving already? You two haven’t had dessert! Jordan, everyone knows how you lust after fragrant desserts!”  

Obviously, the party’s worst kept secret, my affair with Wenda, dating back months—to the bottomless Christmas party. Together, we had slipped from the ballroom to my hotel suite. There, to my tongue’s delight, Wenda spread her legs.

Now, and at just the wrong moment, our shared memory resurfaced. Paige sensed it in a flash, and I feared losing the day’s catch to Wenda’s double-dealings.


However, before I could react, Wenda addressed Paige, whose search engine had already ransacked the motive behind Wenda’s thinly veiled leak about our Christmas party fling.

Wenda, though still eyeing me, directed her knifelike words to Paige. “And Paige, surely you understand that Jordan will do anything for a creamy dessert—isn’t it true, Jordan?”

I glared at her and then looked pleadingly at Paige, whose lazy eyes betrayed that she already knew the details of my indecency.

Looking us over, Wenda raised her voice and added, “And how sweet the two of you are; all dolled up and ready to strip down!”


Blinking her eyes in friendly mockery, she deliberately drew unwanted attention to what was supposed to be a discreet departure.  Annoyingly, the raucous party atmosphere hushed. The meddlesome Wenda had done what she did best—meddled.

Everybody gawked, but by then, I had turned away, and glancing back at Wenda, I smiled and, calling to her, said, “You’re a fucking jealous twat, and I hate you!”

Abandoning all subtlety, I opted for straightforward escape, and jolting Paige, I grabbed her hand, declaring, “Let’s get away from this cunt!” Seconds later, we descended the steps of the brownstone.  

Outside, the night was warm and rainy; the street was slick and passing cars added a hiss to the city’s enduring background racket. “Your place or mine?” I asked.

Already hailing a cab, Paige called out, “Mine; I have something to show you.”


Part IIII of ‘Whites’ – “Shyness, Jordan? It’s a little late for that.”


Once at her apartment, Paige, now adorned in whites, tugged at the belt of my tight-fitting denims. “Take these off. I need to examine you.” I fought with my zipper as she stepped back to watch.  In a moment, I was naked.

“Such a nice body, Jordan.”  In appreciation, I turned three-sixty and twerked for her. “It’s not a compliment,” she added, “just a professional opinion. Now sit back and open your legs.”

The polished satin sheet registered cool against my bottom, which I lifted as I parted my legs. “What’s next, nurse?” I asked with faux-naïveté.

Paige strode forward and placed the mysterious, towel-covered tray on the nightstand. Producing a thermometer, she lubricated the tip with surgilube. “Turn over,” she instructed, “I need access to your rectum.” 

She inserted the thermometer, took my wrist, and watched her watch.  Acknowledging my healthy heart rate, she withdrew the glass probe. “Ninety-nine-point two, you’re perfect! Let’s check your breasts. I assume you do self-exams?” Guiltily, I shook my head—Paige tutted.

I rolled a second time, intuitively covering my nipples with my palms. “Shyness, Jordan? It’s a little late for that.” Embarrassed, I dropped my hands.

“That’s my good girl,” she said.


My nipples hardened as she moved the tips of three fingers in overlapping circles over my breasts. I reached for her, but she pulled away, looked askance, then admonished me. “You’re a naughty patient, Jordan. Be still, or this exam will include an enema. Now, let me finish.”

She pressured the spongy tissue against my ribs and varying the insistency; she compressed here and poked there. I looked at the partly concealed tray, wondering about its frightening surprises. She anticipated my concern, paused, then reached over and drew the downy cloth aside—I panicked.

“An internal?” I asked, looking up. “A pelvic?” my eyes locked onto the stainless steel speculum, resting inches away. “Goodness, Paige, we just met! Tonight is more than special, yes, but honestly, this?”  

Paige abruptly stood and stepped back, her soberness contrasting against my prepubescent unease. She crossed her arms over her breasts and said, “You’re behaving like a spoiled teenager. Let me complete my exam, and I’ll see you get a creamy dessert like the one you had with Wenda at the Christmas party. Let’s be honest; it’s what this is all about, correct?”

“Wenda had no right to tell you,” I insisted.


“I’ll make you whipped cream,” she informed. Her practiced bearing and self-assurance transfixed me.  Cautiously, I nodded agreement.

With that, Paige returned to her task and planted delicate kisses on my neck.  Her gesture converted the agonizing moment from starkly clinical to softly loving. “Just relax,” she continued. “You’re tense. Loosen up and get those legs back up where they belong.”

Submissively, I complied, and Paige carefully parted my vaginal lips. Lightly tugging at the folds, she pressed my mons. Reaching for the speculum, she added, “This may cramp a little—be a good girl.”  

Paige manipulated the speculum after rubbing it with olive oil poured from a glass beaker. Spilling the warm liquid along the inner lips of my sex, she inserted the fearsome steel bills. 

Were it not for her business-like calm, I might have jumped from the bed and run naked into the street.


Instead, I lay there, trusting in the unknown as she efficiently locked the speculum with a few clicks and a swift spin. In seconds, I was open.

“Your pussy, it’s so perfect. Don’t be afraid,” she insisted. She peered into me with a slim penlight and then pressed down on my stomach.  “There she is!”

“There, what is?” I asked. “And…and who is ‘she?'”

“Your cervix; I can see her now,” Paige answered, her voice filled with childish joy. Lowering herself, she expertly moved her tongue over my distended clit.

Moaning, I reached for her. “It’s perfect,” I groaned. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Paige, pausing between licks, replied.

“Not a compliment, just a professional opinion,” I teased.

Paige giggled and asked, “Want to see what she looks like?” Not waiting for an answer, the nurse reached to the nightstand for a mirror and efficiently positioned it to reflect my yawning vagina. “There now, isn’t she pretty?”

“Pretty? I’ll need to give that some thought,” I answered shyly.


“Nonsense. You’re just like every other woman; you’ve never looked in. Anyway, I think she’s perfect.” Craning my neck, I eyed myself, spotted the little donut, and quickly averted my eyes.

Paige laughed at my innocence and, removing the mirror, returned her attention to wet-nursing my clit.

She prodded my anus with her thumb, and I lifted my bottom, allowing her deeper entry. With a firm push, she slipped inside.

I loved how she handled me. Never resting, with her tongue, she wandered from breasts to nipples, to anus, to navel to mouth. Hers was a woman’s gentle forcefulness, and I grabbed her hair as I might a mustang’s mane. Breathing heavily, I drew her close.

Paige searched the tray again.

Feeling about, she clenched an unusual-looking utensil, a surgical device of some kind—also, stainless steel. I had never seen anything like it. It was a long, thin steel rod whose tip was pear-shaped.

She raised the slender object and, without breaking from her clitoral attendings, dangled it in front of me as if to say, ‘See this? I’m using it next.’

Surprising myself, I did not protest as the R.N. introduced the prying stick deep into my sex, pushing it until it touched the entrance to my cervix.

I shrieked, and my intellect came unglued. Sending shockwaves through my body.


I gasped as pleasure flooded my senses. Paige ran the spherical head of the stealthy stick over my virginal cleft—and the dam burst. I lifted my hips and cried between pounding breaths, “Paige, do it, Paige, don’t stop…put it in…there, yes, put it there—deeper!”

As she pressed the device into me, I instinctively reached for her as orgasmic shudders coursed through me.

A moment later, I drifted back from the heights to which my nurse in whites had taken me. Struggling to raise herself from my sticky clit, she eyed me—and grinned. I looked at her chin, a smudge of womanly juices and battered red lip-gloss; it was evidence of my expert clinician’s exertion through a freakish hour. Serenity followed.

Through a final kiss, during which, almost unnoticed, she removed the speculum and cervical probe, we held each other in a warm embrace.   

Another moment of quiet followed. Then, as if prompted by some inner clock, Paige stood and announced, “I’m off to the kitchen; it’s creamy dessert time!”




Thank you for reading – Have a Sensual Day!

Contact Dyann –


Listen and Read another of NELLSKITCHEN’s sexy stories here…


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Contact Dyann to get your story listed on The Body House (FREE!) –

More info on the submissions Page here…

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