We’ve been away for a few days. Normal service now resumed.
I’ve always been a ‘tie me up and fuck me’ type of girl. I like the feel of the ropes on me. I like sex when I’m his captive.
I struggle, though, and he has to dominate me. Not because I want him to untie me – I don’t – but just on principle, because it makes it more fun.
I resist with words. He can do what he wants with me, but I always manage to say ‘sir’ or ‘master’ in the tone of voice that says I don’t mean it. I tell him he’s being unfair and taking advantage of me and I needle him by demanding stuff, like changing the music or the lighting.
When I tell him I want the lighting changed, he laughs. Instead of dimming the lights, he puts a blindfold on me.
That’s even better because behind the blindfold, all I see are my own fantasies, fed by what I can hear. His footsteps. The opening and closing of the freezer door, heavier than that of the fridge, meaning he’s fetching some ice to torment me with. His breathing. The swishy sound of a crop. The light jangle of the chain connecting the nipple clamps. The slight fizz as he lights a candle to splash my skin with wax.
Doesn’t shut me up, though. I ask him if he’s planning on making his little slut howl; if he likes it when I yelp in pain.
Of course he does.
When he puts the nipple clamps on me, I draw in breath, a sharp hiss, but refuse to cry out. He experiments with the riding crop, drawing the flat end of it across my clit and then giving me a sudden thwap. It takes a lot of self-control not to cry out, and then tell him he needs to try harder, but I can do it.
I can sense him close to my ear, close to my face. He tells me he can make things easy for me, so I don’t need to concentrate on giving him a hard time.
Then something hard goes in my mouth.
And straps around the back of my head, buckled tight.
I know this thing – a huge red ballgag that distends my jaw and fills my mouth with silence.
In those two or three seconds, I know I’ve lost the power of coherent speech. I know my only means of communication is a muffled yowl or a throaty ngaagh or gggghh.
In those two or three seconds I know he has me completely under his control and I can’t do anything about it.
In those two or three seconds, my pussy turns to a river of quicksilver. My body becomes as resonant and tuned as a guitar or violin, vibrating under tension. My mind has the gloopy consistency of spunk.
He can do anything at all he wants with me. And he will. And I want him to. I want to mewl and moan and wail and whimper.
But he’ll make me wait. I’ll be trembling with anticipation.
He’ll make me hurt. I’ll hurt so hard the endorphins kick in and I’ll be laughing.
Then he’ll fuck me.
Eventually he’ll take the gag off. With difficulty, with lips and tongue that barely work, with jaw muscles almost seized up, I’ll say Thank you, sir. And mean it.