We won't be leaving until early evening. The bags are already packed, there's really not much to do now. We've planned on just a light lunch, and there's nothing else until boarding time. I have lots of time.
I've been thinking about writing this for weeks, but haven't gotten around to it. Now is a good time, I guess.
She left around nine. "I don't want your mind to wander, dear. Open up."
She knows I hate the thing, but I doubt she really knows why, nor how bad. I suppose it doesn't matter to her. She knows I hate it, and that's enough for her.
It is straight-forward enough. A medium-hard, smooth-finish, yellow rubber ball, two inches in diameter, with a plastic-coated chain through the middle. When she padlocks it behind my neck, it would take a bolt-cutter to get it off.
She never uses it when we are together -- it is so much simpler just to command me to silence. So I associate the ball-gag with her absence. That is the first reason for hating it.
I get no kick from her D/s games. But I will accept anything from her, as long as there is the promise of her touch, of her fingers running over my cheek, or my chest, or ...
She's only been gone for an hour, and here I am, already missing her. I'm mad about her. Using the word "mad" in the clinical sense. I'm insane about her. Or you might say that I'm insane, period.
But, dear God, when her lips slide over mine, when they flow down my neck leaving a trail of sweet fire... I would sell my soul for that.
Does she love me? I asked her once, while we were lying in that cloudy haze that follows lovemaking. It was a vapid question, unfocussed as is everything at such times.
She leaned over me, taking a nipple between two long red nails. My whole body seized up as the pain ripped through.
"What is this question, my dear? What are you asking? ... Do I love this nipple?"
Her mouth moved to my ear, her breath echoed there. I wanted to flee her teeth, but needed to stay for her kiss. Her nails tweaked my nipple, reloading the pain. Her whisper poured from my ear through my brain. "Do I love your gasp when I pinch?"
Without releasing the nipple -- but lightening her hold all the same -- she moved to a kneeling position beside me. Now she had her other hand available.
It moved over my belly, down my belly. "Do I love your cock?" As always, her slightest touch erected it so hard it hurt.
With a fist around my cock, and nails still on my nipple, she smiled down at me, eyes glittering. I was paralyzed, and not sure if it was from fear or from desire. "Do I love your submission?"
Her lips came down on mine, kissing me hard, filling my mouth with her tongue and sucking my tongue into her mouth. Her face hovered just over mine. "Do you love me, dear? ... If you can really answer that, then maybe I'll try to answer you...
"You want me so bad you will do anything I wish ... But 'love'? ... Do you 'love' me? ...
"And then 'me'? Who is 'me'? Do you love 'me'?"
She stroked my cock a few times, her eyes close to mine, watching me, studying me. As my own eyelids fell, I sighed lightly. Then nearly screamed as her nails closed again.
She spun away, stood by the bed, looking down at me. Dear God, dear God, ...
"Do you love me?", she asked once more. I did not answer, nor did I ever again ask her.
Ten-thirty. My jaws are beginning to ache. The ache is growing, parallel to the ache of her absence, and they will go on growing until I am unable to think of anything else. The two aches will become one. A single need, for the release she will bring from pain of body and pain of spirit.
The chain is short, tight behind my neck, to keep me from getting the ball out of my mouth. So short that I must keep my head bowed or it will pull the ball deeper into my mouth and split my jaws even worse. I don't think she has ever realized that the gag has this effect, and I certainly will never tell her. She'd tighten it even more.
The very inadvertence of being forced to bow to the gag makes it all the more effective. It brought me to think of the gag as a substitute mistress.
As with my mistress herself, I must never resist the substitute. I must submit. Resistance is punished with pain. I know that I cannot remove the gag. The chain is too short. But when the pain in my jaws becomes unbearable, I will try anyway. And the struggling will only tighten the chain and increase the pain even more. As when she torments me to revolt, just for a reason to punish me.
As the pain builds, so does the taste. Rubber. From moderately disagreeable at first, it grows to fill not just my mouth, but my nose, and my soul. Rubber.
My substitute mistress humiliates me in another way. With my head bowed and my jaws wide open, my natural swallowing reflex is blocked. Saliva accumulates behind the ball, until my mouth is full. I can slurp it down, a dismal, dehumanizing sound. Or tilt my head back to swallow, tightening the chain, and causing myself pain. Or lay down to find a position where my chin is on my chest to keep the chain short and yet my throat is downhill from my mouth. Great choice. But if I postpone it too long, I get a splurt of spit all over my chin and maybe all over whatever I'm doing.
My mistress knows that only she can release me from the grip of her substitute. She probably revels in this further demonstration of her power. As she goes about whatever errand has taken her from me, she probably stokes herself on my praying for her return.
I doubt she would be pleased to learn that I enlist her help even when she is not yet back.
There comes a moment when my mind gets muddled with the rising pain. My mind can drift between reality and fantasy. I beseech my mistress to come to my relief ... and she comes. Like now.
She is behind me. Her fingers are kneading my shoulders, relieving the tension that has built there while I type. She bends over me and her soft breasts rest on my upper back. She kisses my neck. Dear God she is sweet.
Her left arm encircles me, and her right hand slides into my bathrobe. She pinches my left nipple, but only lightly. Stimulating, not painful. The electricity flowing through my chest almost covers the pain radiating from my jaws.
My cock is erect, but she does not touch it. Of course I may not touch it without her permission. Her hands glide along my thighs, outer and then inner. The throb in my cock masks the pain in my jaws.
She has me rise from my chair. She is still behind me, and naked now. Her nipples burn into my back. She kneads my buttocks. Her caresses flow all over my body. Up from my thighs, over my chest (with more little tweaks to my nipples), my chin (lightly, not to excite the gag), my cheeks, my forehead (gently wiping away the perspiration).
She is gentle and kind, her magic hands have melted the pain. She is wonderful.
On the far side of my mind, anxiety grows. This kind and gentle mistress cannot continue very long. She has replaced the pain with desire, but she cannot fulfil that desire. Only the other one, the terrible one, can do so.
It is far past noon. Outside I hear her car-door slam. She is home. She is real. She will save me from her substitute.