I was put to bed the night before with wrists cuffs on, ankles cuffed together and a gag in my mouth. A gag was always a part of my little ‘tie myself up nice and quick’ sessions, usually a scarf or two with a piece of towelling to go inside the mouth and stop the drool from coming out. I’ve never found a lot of body fluids exciting and a wet spot made of drool was something I definitely didn’t want on my bed.
Ball gags seem to be made for humiliation- there is no way to stop the drool. I was lying there in bed prodding the thing with my tongue, trying to find a position that was comfortable. My bum was still smarting from its workout and on my side, with head tilted a little down to get some slack in the strap and take the pressure off my jaw -that was how I finally fell asleep.
It’s been plague week (known to everyone else as ‘I’ve got my periods’…lol) so I’ve been getting off relatively easily.I ‘m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing and as he spanked me last night with that hand of his that sometimes feels like a wooden paddle, I was thinking about how ‘hungry’ I felt. As I thought about my hunger, I was less and less inclined to count the spanks that were getting harder and faster by the second. I wanted more. I wanted ‘something’.
Master asked me why I wasn’t counting and I answered with something I had been mulling over for a while:
“I don’t think you should be limited by numbers.”
“I’m not. I’ll beat you as much as I want.”
“Don’t you think it interupts the flow?”
” Well, it makes you count faster, doesn’t it?”
At that point Master decided that I needed to have glowing cheeks.Then the gag was brought out and Master’s comment from yesterday echoed through my head…
“You know now when l gag you l intend to mark you well to let you scream into your gag to hide your tears in the pillow as l work my crop across your cheeks.”
Gag in. Hands behind back. He was going to get medieval on my ass.
I didn’t even do my little mental scorebook tallying that I usually do. I just lay there and took it and breathed and thought, ‘Nothing is forever…it will end,’ which is usually what I say to convince myself. Then he stopped and ordered me onto my side so he could see my face and kiss my gagged mouth (there is something very hot about being kissed while gagged!) I really don’t know what he sees in my face. I’m not thinking about anything at those times, because I know that if I do it will hurt more.
Then it started again and I knew he was going to keep going until he was done.
He calls me things like ‘bitch’, ‘slut’ and ‘whore’. Because I don’t have a name, those are his terms of endearment.
I’m happy to be what he wants at any given moment, but I can’t think about it. I can’t pull back into myself and think about it. I used to worry about what would happen when my fantasy and reality met, but I realise now that they never will. Fantasy is fantasy purely because it will never happen. Nothing will ever happenthat pristinely and so totally perfect-it’s not life, it’s fantasy. We can sometimes get what what we want, learn to live without the rest and discover that some things we have are what we wanted all along.