Silence is Golden. Duct Tape is Silver

He told me I would be punished... but not to the extent I would need the perfidious "punishment panties" again. Thank gods. I hate that red pile of thread; those panties, once so hot and fun, now meant only pain, shame, darkness. Even the word "punishment" - on its own - when coming from Deviant makes me shudder because my first thought is of that unwanted underwear.

Even with the caveat that they were not required for our session, I couldn't get the image of the panties and what they put me through out of my head. It definitely had an effect on my headspace going into our session.

It all started a week before. I was out enjoying a mid-week happy hour with a girlfriend. The bartender liked us and our personal happy hour extended far past what other patrons were offered. We had such a good time, in fact, that I ended up taking her home to my apartment because there was no way she could drive home. (No, don't ask. As much as the innuendo sounds good, we did not. Settled? Good.)

 

So, out and about with a girlfriend, liberally lubricated with a decent amount of liquid courage, I was... well, I was a cocky bitch. It wasn't horrible, my snarkiness, but it was definitely to the wrong person. See, during my night out, I was chatting with Deviant over text and IMs. Sometimes my girlfriend would be involved, sometimes not... but it was fun, entertaining, and we had some fun with it. We discussed BDSM play, piercings (I had four fresh labia rings), and more. We talked about my upcoming trip to San Francisco with Apryl. I was... braggy. Cocky. Tough. Even baiting. I have read and reread that conversation a few times. Banter, yes, but I pushed it. I was feeling... brave? No, that's not it. I was testing, for sure, I know that now.

I was tentative the next few days. I questioned my behavior, both within myself and to him. One thing I told him after that night was that I was glad I had to occasionally apologize for my attitude... because it meant I still had one. That will never change. And I still hold to that night not sounding as bad as it was made out to be. However, my relationship with him is not like my relationship with other people, and I have no problem being aware (or being reminded) of lines that need to be drawn to respect that. Hell, I usually have to draw them for other people because it is not easily understood what or why I submit to him when I am usually such a Type A. Add to all of this that we found ourselves, almost by accident, in a position to discuss our relationship moving forward, I was... nervous. I was a little jumbled.

I was also reminded, though not to the larger degree we've needed to work through before, how forward-thinking is a smart idea when we say and do things. In other words, it sounds fun now, but what effect will it have on people and actions moving forward?

So, groundwork laid... I was to be punished.

I was also going to receive a gift. Deviant was excited about it, and reminded me every day that week that he had something for me. He said I earned it. It was a gift, a reward, and something that would make me cry. I imagined all sorts of things it could be. Toys for my ass, implements to inflict pain, another shared session (see previous journal wherein Apryl helps to make me cry). I imagined photographs or artwork, wine, and porn. I told a friend of mine that I wouldn't care if it was a Cheerio - the point was that he was honoring me by gifting me - and for me it truly was the thought that counts. (Side note: to make me laugh, she immediately sent me a picture of a bag of Cheerios on her desk. It worked.)

When I arrived at the house, he hugged me, led me into the kitchen, and tossed to me the - what I consider my - orange plastic cup and I filled it with ice water. He was pleased that I wore his shoes, our shoes, the black patent stilettos with the red corseting at the heel. We chatted briefly but almost immediately went upstairs. As I set my things down and started lighting the candles, he instructed me to light a new one, too. A fresh, large, yellow pillar candle with three wicks that stood on the highboy dresser. I lit it and another pillar candle behind it, and then made sure the others on the smaller dresser were lit. I wondered, Am I the only one who thinks like this? That there was something ceremonial about adding the other candles to the mix? A fresh candle, a fresh location. The act of lighting it and the light provided by it were new. Bright.

When he met me in the play room he hugged me and asked if I was ready. I told him that I wanted to say yes but I wasn't sure. Then I said I was ready, I knew I could do this. He asked me if I was nervous. I said that I was. He took a moment to look at my earrings, thin, silver hearts that fit my ears like hoops. He contemplated a moment and put his hands over my ears to feel their position. He didn't say anything, but I offered to remove them. He said that was a good idea, just in case. I removed them and placed them on the dresser.

"Get your butt plug out."

I pulled both of them out of my bag, the red one I owned when we met and the larger black one he gave to me. He said the smaller red one would be all I needed. For now.

I was instructed to lie on my back on the floor, legs high in the air.

"Remove your panties and put your legs back up."

I did.

"Spread 'em."

I spread my legs wide and he leaned in to look at my new piercings. He checked their placement and then flicked them a little. He said he loved them. He said they were pretty. And he reminded me that I said I wanted more. I affirmed. He called me a whore.

I smiled.

"Now, put your butt plug in." He offered to me Crisco and other lubricants. I chose a lube and generously massaged my plug, coating it. He sat on the stool, facing me. I then leaned forward and added lube to my asshole before I lay back down. He wanted my legs in the air, knees slightly to my chest, so that he could watch me. I crossed my ankles and pulled my knees in, our shoes shining in the candlelight as I prepared to plug my ass.

Slowly - it's not a large plug, but certainly not a small beginner plug - I began pressing it into my ass with my left hand. I watched him a little as I started, his body framed by my open legs, his face looking down at me from his seat on the stool. I would breathe, relax my muscles, and bite my tongue. "Take all the time you need," he offered to me. I pressed a little more and moaned, both from pleasure and a little pain. I had not worn this plug in quite some time and he knew I was pushing it to please him, to do as I was told. I pressed further and cried out a little. "What did I say," he asked me.

"To take my time,” I replied, breathy. It felt so good, slightly painful, and the situation and position I was in had me not wanting to change from this moment in time.

"I said," he corrected me, standing and moving across the floor towards my head "to 'take all the time you need.' This isn't a race."

"Yes, Sir."

I relaxed, I breathed, and I pushed the shiny red plug, little by little, into my ass. Slowly, both enjoying it and trying to avoid hurting myself. As it went in fully, I felt relief, I felt it sitting just right, and I felt like I just wanted to be fucked. It felt so amazing!

"It's in already?" he asked, sounding surprised. I thought I had taken longer than I did.

I smiled. "Yes, Sir."

"What kind of whore can take a plug like that so fast? Jesus!"

I smiled wider.

He told me to stay on the floor and put my legs down. I did and he straddled my face, his crotch at my chin, his ass on my chest, placing his knees over my arms to pin me down. The material of his jeans was rough on my chin and arms. I did not complain. He looked down at me, locked eyes with me, and asked if I felt vulnerable. I said I did. He asked me about submission, ownership, referencing our conversations leading into this night, and asked me if this was truly something I wanted.

"Yes, Sir."

He looked down at me for a moment, contemplating, making me think as well. Respecting the time and the intent of this position. "Is this position humbling, humiliating?"

"Yes, Sir."

He asked if this position, literally and figuratively, was something I was comfortable with.

"For you, Sir, yes, Sir."

He asked if I was a whore.

"For you, Sir."

"Good girl."

He got up and moved to the bondage chair, instructing me to sit at his feet, kneeling, hands on the floor.

I moved into position. He leaned forward on the chair, bringing his face down to me, and put his cheek to mine. His hand was on my chin. He breathed. He sighed. He sounded disappointed. It was a very personal moment; it seemed he was debating, considering, and his hand moved to the back of my neck and held me there while he thought for a minute. He breathed in.

"Someone was running their mouth last week, eh?" he said in my ear. It was more a statement than a question. He firmly, but not too hard, moved his hand back to my chin and squeezed it.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you have a mouth guard?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You do?" he sounded surprised. He had reminded me that day that I needed one.

"Yes, Sir. It's not a very good one, but I did bring one."

"Hmmm..." He grabbed my chin again, pushing my lower jaw into the upper jaw and using his hand to confirm that it was tightly shut.

Then he slapped me.

First, a hard slap. I grunted against it. I am still not a fan of face-slapping, but that is why this is appropriate. It is, after all, a punishment for me and my smart mouth. Then came a series of smaller slaps, taps, feeling out, I assumed, where the next one should land. He slapped me hard again, two or three more times, peppering the strikes with the smaller hits, the gauging moves.

"Is this humiliating, sitting like this?"

"No, Sir." I meant it. The slapping aside, I didn't feel humiliated in that moment; I felt protected - disciplined, of course - and safe. That's not to say that the position couldn't be humiliating at other times. I know he understood.

That also doesn't mean he wouldn't change the situation.

"You will, on your hands and knees, go through that door," he motioned to the closed door of the play room, "and go down the hall, turning on the light, and get my socks."

"Yes, Sir."

I crawled to the door, opened it wide, and made my way down the hall on all fours. Reaching up for the light switch, I turned on the light and saw his socks outside his bedroom door. I also saw his heavy, tall black boots. They are almost as bad as the punishment panties, at least tonight, considering I was told I never wanted to see those boots in the play room again. I feel as if I may have gulped... an overly-loud, cartoonish gulp, but it may just be my emotional reaction. My heart started pounding in my chest and I sucked in my breath in nervous anticipation.

I grabbed the socks in one hand and made my way back to the play room. I crawled back to him, resuming my kneeling position in front of him. At his command, I put his socks on his feet. While I was doing this, I said nothing. I made no noise other than the inherent noise in moving his jeans out of my way so I could be sure the socks were on properly.

I checked my plug at one point during this activity and he saw me. He made sure I was OK and I explained that I had felt my skirt move against my ass, the fabric caught on itself in a way, and I just didn't want to take any chances. All was well, and I continued.

"Did you see what else was set out by the door?" he asked me, his voice stern. My heart sank.

"Yes, Sir," I whispered.

"You will now go and get my boots."

I made the trip again, on my hands and knees, and returned with his boots. This time I was slower, having to carry the boots but remain on my hands and knees. I resumed my kneeling position and put his boots on his feet, lifting the legs of his jeans and tying the boots, one at a time, all the way up his shins. My hands were shaky doing the right boot. His foot planted firmly on my left thigh, pushing into me, I could remember what happened last time he wore these with me.

And I remember - again - him telling me that I didn't want to see them in this room ever again.

Yet, here we were. So soon after.

My heart was breaking. I could barely lace and tie the boots up. He told me to slow down, once again reminding me I was not in a race. I was nervous, a little scared, and felt a little like I was learning to tie laces for the first time. I was sure that I was doing that poor of a job. Last time he wore these he literally kicked me while I was down. Stepped on me, stood on me. Dug his heels into my body, pushing me into the floor. I felt broken then... I felt I could break now. Association is undervalued; if it was any other shoe or boot, I don't think I would be so nervous. But this, now, these boots.

sigh

I got the boots laced up, fixed his pant legs, and hung my head, palms on the floor.

"Now, I want you to go out, turn off the hall light, come back in and close the door."

On my return trip, as I stopped to reach back and close the door, he told me to then open the closet door, allowing me permission to stand if needed, and grab the duct tape and plastic bag I saw there. I did not need to stand. I grabbed them both, closed the door, and made my way back to the kneeling position at his feet.

At one point during last week's evening of verbosity, I was sharing with Deviant, via cell phone, pictures (not mine) depicting duct tape bondage. He said he had something in mind similar to what I had shown him. My response? "Have fun with that."

Yeah. Not the brightest bulb that night... sigh me and my mouth. What have I said so many times before? Oh, yeah, "cocky bitch."

sigh

True to his sense of humor he says - mocking me, of course - "Let's have some fun." He tells me to grab a pair of handcuffs from the rack. I stand, I pick a pair, and I kneel in front of him again. My wrists are cuffed in front of me and he warns me that he does not want to hear them ratchet any tighter. This is a warning to how I react to things, grab things, and pull against them.

"Yes, Sir."

"Are you ready?"

gulp Am I? I am a smart girl. Given the items retrieved from the closet and the banter shared from the week before... it would take a real idiot to not have some clue as to what was going to happen next. I flash the pictures of my friend's tape bondage in my mind and I think of my comments to him. Then I see the boots and remember their last appearance in our session. I begin to wonder if I will be, again, his human doormat. Had I really gone that far?

"Yes, Sir."

The plastic grocery bag is placed over my head. At first, it is just over my head, reaching down to my shoulders, loose. I can breathe just fine and the bag moves with the movement of my breath. His hands, warm through the plastic, run over my head and face. He then holds the bag against me and I cannot breathe in. Breathing out slowly, very slowly, helps me avoid the need to breathe in again too quickly. Controlling my own breathing while he controls my breathing. I gasp less... or at least, I try to gasp less.

Soon, however, I need to breathe. While I can prolong the panicked gasping - at first - I do need oxygen. At some point, of course, the body's instinctual, mechanical need to breathe takes over and I try to do just that. Breathe. But I can't. I can't bring anything in. Once I start, I keep trying, regardless of a forced delay, the body will try to correct the situation. I try for a third time and Deviant releases the bag. It hangs loose now... and I breathe.

"Good job," he tells me. "Very good."

He pulls the bag tight again but not before I can get a decent breath in. I wait, I do my slow release, trying hard to keep it even, steady. I work on my ability to prolong my need to breathe again too soon. Before I am ready.

Correction.

Before he is ready.

We do this a few times before I start to have issues managing my control. I don't panic, per se, but I am having trouble prolonging the inevitable and my body tenses, I gasp prematurely. I am gasping in earnest now, trying to breathe and I cannot. The plastic sucks into my mouth but only reminds me that it is a barrier. It is obvious that I need release. I have clenched my jaw shut, trying not to gasp.

"Open your mouth," he tells me.

I do not. I wish I could tell him that I am trying not to gasp, I am trying to control. I am...

"Open. Your. Mouth." It is a stern command. I open my mouth and he immediately punches a hole in the bag, his finger pressed into my mouth. I breathe.

He releases me and tells me to relax a moment. A moment is truly all I am given as I hear the first shriek of duct tape being pulled away from the roll. The metallic, harsh, sharp sound that is unmistakably duct tape rends my ears and makes me cringe. He begins to wrap my head, over the bag, with the tape. He leaves it intact, connected to the roll, releasing more as he works. He firsts surrounds my forehead and then covers my eyes and ears. He makes his way down my face, covering my nose and upper lip, leaving open only the hole he punched in the bag at my mouth.

The noise is the worse part... so far. I cannot get it out of my head. shriek, scrape, wrinkle, shred It sounded worse than fingernails on a chalkboard coupled with the rubbing of balloons over the sound of a car with bad brakes. I have goose bumps, chills are traveling up and down my spine, and my eyes are tearing up. I am clenching my hands into fists and I wish I could cover my ears.

He continues to wrap my head in silver horizontal stripes, then changes the positioning of the tape and adds vertical bondage. This keeps my jaw tight, though he doesn't clench it shut. My mouth is all I have open from the neck up... I need some, ahem... breathing room. When he is done, the tape is set aside and I feel his hands pressing over my head and face. He is squeezing, checking his work, and testing me.

"Are you going to panic?" he asks me. I shake my head to say No.

"Are. You. Going. To. Panic?" I again shake my head to say No.

"Good."

I don't have to wait for what comes next. Using his hand, he closes the small gap between my lower and upper jaws... and he slaps me.

"Feeling ornery last week, weren't you?" I only nod. He slaps me again.

"You're a cocky little bitch, aren't you?" I nod again. He slaps me. He slaps me a few times in succession and I realize that I have yet to make a noise. This is unlike me. I have just taken it like... well, a bit of a cocky bitch.

He slaps me harder and I gasp a little; he broke the barrier, he was looking for a reaction. "Aahhh," he sounds happy about it. "That's better."

"On the one hand..." he starts.

slap

"...the pictures were fun."

slap

"Sounds like you had fun last week."

slap

"However..."

slap

"...that mouth of yours..."

slap

I cry out, gasp for air through the small opening in my duct tape hood, and even begin to cry a little. He covers my mouth and presses his hands tight against my face and head. I try to calm myself, push through this. I holds me tight for a moment then lets me go, lets me breathe. At least for a moment. We practice breath control for a few more minutes and I feel as if my lungs are on fire. I cannot use my breathe-out-slow technique in this homemade silver hood and so I am forced to hold the air, concentrate on calmness, and trust him.

He releases me again and I gasp.

His hands rest on my shoulders and he reminds me that he said before the session I would have an appreciation for breathing tonight, if I didn't have one before.

I nod.

I breathe.

I breathe slowly, savoring it, feeling his warm hands on my shoulders and hoping they stay there while I relax. breathe in, breathe out I hope that I have time, I hope that I have a moment or five to refresh my lungs, refresh my mind.

He covers my mouth again and slaps me. He releases me as I gasp, as much from the need of air as the pain from the slap. I make a sound that I cannot even describe. Pain, humiliation, sadness, defiance... all rolled into one.

"That's what I want to hear." He continues slapping my face and jaw... and I continue to grunt, groan, and gasp. He grabs my chin hard between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes."Ownership, huh?" An answer is not required.

"aaaauuuggghh!" is my best answer. I am in pain. My head hangs a little, but I dare not move too much.

I begin to cry. Quietly, but I cannot hide it. My shoulders shake a little and my breathing is slightly more rapid.

Deviant, on the other hand, makes a contented sound.

"You're sure this is what you want?"

He is referring to all of this. The scene, the dynamic, the relationship that we have built. We've been talking for almost a week now about what it would mean to formalize our feelings on this. He had questioned, during our discussion, something more formal because I was such a free spirit. But they are not mutually exclusive, I explained. We talked that weekend and week about what we wanted, and what each of us considered an appropriate definition of a formalized relationship.

I only nod, I think I say 'Yes, Sir,' but I am not sure I actually say it out loud. I want this. I want this with him. I told him, before tonight, that I didn't know I wanted something so formal it until we began to discuss a scene that was offered to me by someone else... and Deviant was, immediately, my first concern, my first thought, my first consideration. Once it was out there, however, I knew it... without question, without hesitation.

I stay in my kneeling position.

I want this. Right here, right now.... everything that led us here, and everything to which it will lead.

He grabs the shears and tells me not to move. Carefully, slowly, he maneuvers his fingers under my bindings to guide the scissors and cut the hood off of me. It takes a few minutes; he does not rush nor would I expect him to. He is cutting near my ears and hair mostly, both of which we are keenly aware don't need to be cut off. He is meticulous, safe, and focused.

Once I am free of the silver hood, he hugs me from behind - I am still kneeling, never having stood up - and then he brings me some water. I drink the cool water, my face and head warm and sweaty from the hood and activity thus far. He smiles, he laughs. "Yup, a hot mess."

I can't help but grin, if just a little. uuuugh Maybe I shouldn't have done that. My jaw already hurts. I wince and hope he doesn't see me. It's nothing more than what I would expect, and everything is still hinged correctly. I drink some more of the water and hand the cup back to him. I thank him again.

And then I wait.

He brings to me a different hood, a cloth-mix hood that allows me to breathe and doesn't cling to my skin in the same way that the plastic bag did. I feel lighter already, and I am grateful. He tells me to close my eyes as he places it over my head and adjusts it. I am to keep my eyes closed, he says, as he works behind me in the room. After a few minutes he helps me to stand and moves me to the bondage table. I keep my eyes closed. I am again hooded and still bound in the handcuffs, so he helps me to lean forward and he tells me to spread my legs.

He tucks the hem of my black cotton skirt into the waistband and exposes my ass. "Now what shall I do with you?" It is a rhetorical question, of course.

"How many sessions have we had?" he asks me. I feel the sting of the acrylic paddle (I think, I can't see it) against my ass. Hard, but not "punishment" hard. Not "here we go... oh shit.." hard. But it got my attention, definitely. It made a point. I growl through the pain and then say that I believe this is our sixth formal session. And then I think, in the split second before the paddle lands again, 'only 6?' We talk every day, we have been through so much already, and it's been... wow, we've been talking and sharing and playing and relating for a while now. We have also spent time together without a session. It seems like the number is too low, but we are both people who value quality over quantity... so it is also appropriate that it's "only" six.

smack The paddle lands, as I expected it to. He spanks me to a count of six, by my recollection at least. On some hits I gasp, on others I am on my toes. There is something held back tonight... though it is careful, calculated. This is not because of anything lacking. Tonight, in general, has been different, and I can feel it even now.

Then he warns me that I will not be expecting the next toy. I cringe. I flex my legs, my ass, and my back.... anything that can be affected by this "toy" while in my current position. Not that he couldn't move me around, of course, but I was still leaning over the bondage table, ass and back him.

WHACK

I am up on my toes, crying out. It is heavy, leather, and I want to cry almost immediately. My body pushes into the bondage table, my Achilles' tendons are aching, and my toes are cramping from standing on them. The cuffs dig into my stomach and I bury my face into the leather pillow he had positioned there for me.

Oh. My. Gods. What the fuck was THAT?!

He hits me one more time and then tells me to relax for a moment. Suuuuuure, I think, easy for you to say. I practice my breathing. I try and process. My ass is on fire now with the quality (over potential quantity of) hits. He moves around in the room behind me and then tells me to stand. He tells me to close my eyes. I do and he turns me around, removes the hood, and removes the handcuffs.

We stand there for a moment, he tells me to look at him, and he hugs me. He gives me some water. His hands on my arms, he comments on my streaked makeup and mussed hair. He loves what he does to me, I can hear it in his voice. I am his hot mess.

He tells me to kneel again, looking at the floor.

I do.

He tells me to move to the wall and put my back against it, still kneeling, still looking down, and place my hands on the floor.

I do.

Deviant tells me to close my eyes and sit straight up. He instructs me to place my hands on my knees with my palms up.

I do as I am told. I hear him moving, but I keep my eyes closed. I wait.

"Now," he says, his voice soft, gentle, "open your eyes."

In front me, held in both of his hands, is a beautiful, red-brown - almost mahogany - leather-bound, hand-sewn book. It is large, 12 inches by 12 inches at least, and obviously very heavy.

He was right about the crying he anticipated. I immediately started crying, almost sobbing. My heart was pounding, my head was spinning, and I was, for one of a handful of occasions in my life... speechless. I had no words to express the wave of emotion coming over me. He placed it carefully on my hands and leaned down towards me. I tried to look at him, to thank him, and while I hope that I at least said "Thank you," I am not sure I said anything at all. I looked at the book, touched it, looked up, and cried even harder when I saw his eyes, his smile. I hope I expressed to him, with more than just tears, how amazing I felt... but I just know that I cried. My heart was full, the tears were joyful, and to say I was overwhelmed is an understatement. I knew, even before he told me, that he had made this by hand. Cut, sewn, and bled on (he showed me a bit of my Master's blood on the spine)... this book represented more than our journals together, more than my desire to write and document and share, more than just a pretty gift. There was time involved, energy. There existed in this tome a dedication to me, to us.

He knelt with me, showed me his work. It was detailed, careful, purposeful. He reminded me about asking me if I ever journal by hand. He had given me 100 pages to do just that and, if I needed more, he told me we would snip the binding, collate and save the written pages, and add new ones as needed. This was ongoing.

We were ongoing.

I had never in my life received something so unique, so perfectly thoughtful and appropriate and, literally, made for me.

This was my gift, my reward, my dedication, my appreciation.

This was my collar.

"Thank you, Sir."