Note: The story is entirely fictional. The characters are inspired by the real persons Little Puck (Pucka), Brittany Amber (Amberis), and Serene Siren (Sirenna). All characters, names, and events are fictional. Pucka, Amberis, and Sirenna exist only within this story. The Orient, the temples, the palace, and the Nile are merely a stage for a fantasy of power, seduction, eroticism, porn, and gleaming leather outfits.

This is an exclusive story for my moment of the year Little Puck. Here we go. Cum into my world of fantasies and lesbian porn.

LITTLE PUCK - ORIENT LESBIAN PORN STORY 

Chapter 1 The Night of Hathor

Thebes never truly slept, but on the Night of Hathor it became something else entirely. A living, breathing creature made of torchlight and whispers. Incense rolled through the courtyards like warm silk. Myrrh clung to stone. Wine sweetened the air. The columns of the temple glowed, and every shadow looked intentional, like the gods themselves had arranged the angles so desire would find its target.

Behind a curtain of fine linen, Pucka stood still and listened to the city wanting her.

She did not dress for modesty tonight. She dressed for impact.

Her leather leggings were the first truth. Black, glossy, flawlessly fitted, high waisted, so smooth they caught the firelight and returned it as a quiet, hungry shine. The leather hugged her thighs with a precision that felt almost rude, curving around her hips as if it had been made with her body in mind and no other. When she shifted her weight, the leather made a faint sound, a soft friction that promised how close everything would get later.

Over her ribs she wore a leather top cut like an elegant armor piece, structured and sculpted, tight enough to define the lift of her breasts, soft enough to move with her breathing. Under it, leather lingerie pressed warm against her skin, a private layer that only mattered because she could feel it with every pulse. A thin leather harness traced her torso like deliberate lines, not decorative, purposeful. A leather choker sat at her throat with a polished ring at the center, a detail that suggested ownership while still feeling like power.

No linen. No cotton. No jewelry that jingled. Just leather, heat, and control.

A young temple attendant knelt in front of her, hands respectful, eyes lowered. She adjusted the straps at Pucka’s waist, checked the fit of the harness, and smoothed the leather at her hips with slow, careful palms, as if she were tending to something holy. The touch was professional, but Pucka felt how the room reacted anyway. Leather did that. It made even innocent contact feel intimate.

The attendant whispered, barely audible. They are waiting.

Pucka answered softly. Let them.

The drums began outside, low at first, like a heartbeat deciding to become a storm. The crowd’s murmur gathered, then thinned, then sharpened again. People shifting. Breathing. Anticipating. Pucka placed her fingers against the linen curtain and felt the texture, then felt her own leather under her palm, the contrast of cool smooth surface over hot skin.

Tonight was not just a performance.

Tonight was her Moment of the Year.

She stepped through.

Torchlight struck her like a kiss. The courtyard was packed. Priests and merchants, palace messengers, temple singers, guards whose eyes were trained to miss nothing. Faces turned. Voices died. It happened in a single wave, the moment everyone realized the rumor was real.

Pucka did not rush the beginning. She raised her arms, slow, elegant, letting leather stretch over her shoulders and chest in a way that made the movement feel expensive. The harness at her waist caught the light. Her leggings gleamed along her thighs. The hush deepened.

Then she started to dance.

She moved like she was writing with her body. A small turn of the hip. A controlled sway. A pause that held the crowd by the throat. The leather made every motion sharper, more defined, as if the shine outlined her shape for everyone who dared to look.

She felt the audience lean forward. She heard the faintest catch in someone’s breathing. She knew exactly what they were seeing. The curve of her waist under the harness. The smooth tension of the leggings. The way her chest rose and fell inside the structured leather top.

And then she searched for the two presences she had felt even before she walked out.

Amberis stood among the palace guard cluster, and she looked like she belonged there the way a blade belongs in a hand.

She wore a leather jacket fitted tight across her shoulders, sleek and immaculate, the collar shaped to frame her throat like a threat. Under it, a leather top pressed close to her chest, and her leather leggings were darker than midnight, polished enough to mirror firelight in thin lines along her legs. Leather gloves covered her hands. Not for warmth. For discipline. For touch that could be withheld or delivered with precision.

Amberis did not stare like an admirer. She assessed like an owner deciding what she could take without asking.

Pucka kept dancing, but her pulse changed anyway.

Near the edge of the courtyard, where the shadows thickened around a water basin, Sirenna watched with the calm of someone who never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed.

She was a priestess of the Nile, and she dressed like a ritual.

A long leather coat hung from her shoulders like a quiet curtain, matte black with a subtle sheen that looked like wet stone. Beneath it, a fitted leather dress shaped her body with understated cruelty, hugging her waist and hips, and leather lingerie lay under it like a secret. Leather cuffs wrapped her wrists, polished and smooth, and a narrow leather band circled her upper thigh, just visible when she shifted.

Sirenna’s expression was serene, almost gentle, but her gaze was not gentle at all. It was patient. It waited like water waits.

Pucka let the drums build. She let her dance sharpen. She let her leather catch the light, and she used the shine as a language. A turn that offered her back for a second. A lift of the chin that exposed the choker ring at her throat. A slow bend that made the leggings stretch across her thighs and made the crowd forget how to behave.

She met Amberis’ eyes for one heartbeat.

Amberis did not flinch. The smallest change came at her mouth, not quite a smile, more like recognition. Like a decision had clicked into place.

Then Pucka’s gaze slid to Sirenna, brief, precise.

Sirenna lowered her eyelids slightly, a gesture so subtle it could have been respect. It was not respect. It was invitation.

Pucka ended her dance in a slow, deliberate bow, like a hand sliding down silk. For a moment, there was silence.

Then the courtyard broke into sound. Cheers. Praise. A rush of voices. Flowers thrown. Coins tossed. A few people dared to call her name.

Pucka smiled for them, but inside she stayed sharp.

Because applause was the easy part.

The real night began after.

Back behind the linen, a messenger waited who did not belong to the temple. Her posture gave her away. Too controlled. Too careful. She knelt and offered a small wooden tray.

Two items rested on it.

A gold ring marked with the seal of the palace.

And a tiny glass vial of black ink, sealed with blue wax, stamped with the mark of the Nile temple.

Pucka picked up the ring first. Heavy. Cold. Certain. Then she touched the ink vial. The wax seal was perfectly smooth, as if someone had pressed intention into it.

The messenger spoke in a whisper. Tonight.

Pucka slid the ring onto her finger.

Not surrender.

A signal.

Then she took the ink vial too.

Not contradiction.

A warning to anyone who assumed she would choose a single cage.

The messenger vanished with the speed of someone trained to disappear.

Pucka washed her hands at a basin, water slipping over leather cuffs, and when she looked up, Amberis was already there in the corridor like she had been summoned by Pucka’s pulse.

Amberis’s gaze dropped to the ring, then rose to Pucka’s face. You took it.

Pucka’s voice stayed calm. And you still came.

Amberis stepped closer, and the sound of leather moving with her was quiet but unmistakable. A soft, controlled friction. The kind that made a room feel smaller.

Her eyes traced Pucka’s outfit with a slow thoroughness. The harness lines. The glossy leggings. The structure of the leather top. She looked like she was memorizing how everything would feel under her hands.

You also took the Nile ink, Amberis said.

Pucka tilted her head. I like having options.

Amberis’s mouth shifted, a restrained amusement that felt almost dangerous. Come.

She led Pucka through temple corridors that were not meant for crowds. Reliefs of goddesses watched from the walls. Torchlight moved across stone faces and made them look alive. Pucka followed, not because she had to, but because she wanted to feel what it was like to be pulled into Amberis’s gravity.

They entered a small chamber where the air was cooler, cleaner. Less incense. More stone. One torch burned, painting everything in gold.

Amberis shut the door.

The click was soft.

Final.

Now, Pucka said, we are alone.

Amberis turned slowly. Her leather jacket caught the light along the seams. The gloves on her hands looked almost ceremonial. She studied Pucka the way you study something you intend to keep.

You dance like you take orders from no one, Amberis said.

Pucka stepped closer. Maybe I do not take orders at all.

Amberis lifted one gloved hand and placed her fingers under Pucka’s chin. She guided Pucka’s face up with calm certainty, like she owned the angle of Pucka’s attention. The leather glove was smooth, cool at first, then warm with contact. Pucka felt the pressure through her skin and it went straight into her stomach.

The ring suits you, Amberis murmured.

Pucka’s lips parted slightly. I wear what I choose.

Amberis’s thumb brushed Pucka’s lower lip once, deliberate, testing. Pucka did not retreat. She brought her hands up and rested them on Amberis’s waist, feeling the tight fit of Amberis’s leather leggings, the hard shine, the heat underneath.

Amberis’s breath changed, just a fraction.

You do not scare easily, Amberis said.

Pucka’s eyes held hers. I have taste.

That was the moment Amberis leaned in.

The first kiss was slow, controlled, almost clinical in its patience. Like Amberis was measuring how Pucka responded. Pucka responded immediately. She kissed back with equal intent, and the balance of power shifted, not away from Amberis, but into something shared. Their mouths moved in a rhythm that felt like agreement. Their breaths mingled. Leather creaked softly as their bodies closed the distance.

Amberis’s hands slid down Pucka’s sides, palms shaping her waist over the harness. The leather straps pressed between skin and glove and made the touch feel sharper, more focused. Pucka’s fingers moved over Amberis’s jacket, tracing the line of the collar, then sliding down to the leather top beneath. She felt the strength of Amberis’s chest under that smooth surface and the way Amberis held herself back.

Pucka broke the kiss for a heartbeat, lips warm, voice quiet. Is this a command.

Amberis’s mouth curved slightly. It is an offer.

Pucka’s answer was immediate. Yes.

Amberis kissed her again, deeper now, the patience turning into hunger. Their bodies met, leather against leather, the shine catching torchlight in flickers. Pucka pressed closer and felt the difference between the cool leather surface and the heat rising underneath it. She loved the contrast. Loved the way it made every touch feel intentional.

Amberis’s kiss slid to Pucka’s jaw, then to her throat. She paused right beneath the leather choker and exhaled warm air against Pucka’s skin. Pucka shivered, not from cold, from anticipation. Her hands pulled gently at Amberis’s jacket, not to remove it, but to feel it shift, to feel the leather tighten across Amberis’s shoulders.

Amberis lifted her head and looked at Pucka as if she could read her in the torchlight. Tell me you want it, Amberis said. Tell me clearly.

Pucka’s voice did not waver. I want it.

Amberis’s gloved hand slid up and cupped Pucka’s breast through the structured leather top, firm enough to make Pucka inhale sharply, slow enough to keep it from becoming rough. The leather between them made the sensation feel maddeningly refined, like luxury designed to provoke. Pucka’s fingers tightened at Amberis’s waist. She traced the seam of Amberis’s leggings with her fingertips, then slid one hand up to Amberis’s ribs, feeling how Amberis’s breath deepened.

You are made for this shine, Amberis murmured against Pucka’s mouth.

Pucka’s lips brushed hers. Then show me what you do with it.

Amberis guided Pucka backward until Pucka’s shoulders met cool stone. Heat in front, cold behind. Pucka loved the contrast again. Loved the way it made her body arch toward Amberis without thinking. Amberis kissed her with a steady rhythm, and Pucka answered with equal focus, hands roaming over leather, touching, holding, pulling closer, then easing off, playing in the exact space that turns desire into ache.

Leather whispered with every movement.

Gloves slid.

Straps pressed.

Torchlight glittered.

Amberis rested her forehead against Pucka’s for a moment, breathing the same air. Say it again, she murmured.

Pucka’s eyes were dark. I want you.

Amberis’s smile was small and dangerous. Good.

What happened next did not need the temple’s approval, or the palace’s seal, or any god’s permission. It belonged to the private law of two women who understood how to take control and how to share it. The chamber filled with the soft sounds of leather moving, of breath catching, of kisses deepening into something that made time feel irrelevant.

Later, when the torch outside had burned lower and the festival noise had thinned into distant echoes, Pucka lay in warm silence, her skin still humming. Amberis lay beside her, close enough to feel, steady enough to feel safe. The leather jacket had been shed to the side, but the presence remained. Amberis’s hand traced a slow line along Pucka’s shoulder, almost tender, almost possessive.

You are not a moment, Amberis whispered. You are an event.

Pucka turned the ring on her finger and smiled. And you are the kind of woman who thinks she can own events.

Amberis let out a low laugh. Maybe I can.

A knock interrupted them.

Not loud.

Not polite.

Precise.

Amberis sat up immediately, control snapping back into place like a blade returning to its sheath. She opened the door a narrow crack. A temple attendant stood there with her head bowed.

A message from the Nile temple, she said. For Pucka.

Amberis stepped aside without taking it, as if daring the message to matter.

Pucka accepted the small papyrus. The ink was deep black, written with a hand that valued elegance.

Only one line.

The water waits. And it forgets nothing.

Pucka read it twice, then folded it carefully. When she looked at Amberis, something new lived in the space between them. Not jealousy yet. Something sharper. The knowledge that Sirenna did not invite. Sirenna summoned.

Pucka placed the message down with calm control, even as her body remembered the Nile priestess watching her in the shadows.

Amberis’s gaze fixed on the folded papyrus. You are going to go.

Pucka’s voice was quiet. I am going to choose my own story.

Amberis studied her for a long beat, then reached for Pucka’s hand and brought the ring to her lips, kissing the gold once, slow and deliberate. It felt like a promise. It felt like a claim. It felt like a challenge.

Then Amberis stood, leather leggings catching the torchlight again. Wear that shine for me, she said.

Pucka’s smile was soft and wicked. I always do.

Outside, the temple corridors held their shadows like secrets. Thebes still breathed. The festival still flickered. And somewhere beyond stone and incense, the Nile waited with a patience that could drown anything careless.

Pucka touched the leather choker at her throat, felt the ring, felt the press of the harness at her waist, felt the memory of Amberis’s gloved hands, and felt her own hunger turning toward water and moonlight.

The Night of Hathor had given her the applause.

Now the Nile would demand the rest.

End of Chapter 1