Page 37 of Look, Don't Touch

I can’t wait any longer. It is technically tomorrow already. It’s going to be a long morning, and I hate sleeping during the day, but desperate times. They lead to these desperate measures.

“Open wide.” My petite concierge holds the black ball gag in front of my face. When I comply, she presses the rubber ball between my wide lips and fastens the strap around my head.

The stretch and jaw pain suck, but it makes my muteness that much easier.

“Ready for the blindfold?” I nod, and the room goes dark. “Remember, you won’t be able to say your safe word.” She slides a silk square in my hand to use as a signal. “Do you still want to continue?”

It would make sense for her to ask that question before the gag and blindfold. When I asked, after my first experience with number four, she told me that people always said yes without the loss of their eyesight and ability to speak. Then they’d freak after donning them or sometimes make it until mid-session before passing out from fright.

I nod once more. “Very well. Option four will enter in one minute.”

Memories of the first time I accepted the total vulnerability of the gag, blindfold, and bondage bench flood me. I’d thought my heart was going to disintegrate. My nerves are still with me, but they are tempered by experience.

Right now, they’re also muffled by the noise in my brain.

The door opens, and option four’s heavy footfalls announce his presence. To my right, the heavy clank of his toy bag meets the ground. Then his hands are on me. Meaty hands knead my ass and spread me wide.

“Fuck yes. I’ve missed this creamy skin and your tight pink center.”

His finger presses into said center without a precursor. It’s an uncomfortable invasion. It’s what I’ve submitted to. It’s what I deserve. It’s what I want…usually. But this feels different. Or maybe I feel different.

My mind refuses to blank. It’s not even opening to my body, keying into the experience. No, I’m still filled with intellect. That scares me more than a ball gag and the dry fingers in my pussy.

“It’s been too long. Your body takes my marks?—”

“…so beautifully. The best of them all,” I mock him. He can’t make out my words, but he knows my tone and that I interrupted him.

It can’t be helped. I’m in a piss-poor mood. My favorite kink partner isn’t available. This guy says the same shit every time as if the script is tattooed on his arm. But really, I’m so fucking pissed that I’m intrigued by Arlo Becker Judge. My body has reacted to him in a way that’s completely off base, that even the guy with his fingers inside me can’t manage.

Those digits dig deeper, wallowing around my vagina as though in search of my cervix. I scream against the gag, not because it hurts, but because I can. It feels good to let a little of the madness out.

“That’s right, sugar. Remember who’s in charge here.”

I laugh.

It’s maniacal. It’s unhinged. I’m a glutton for punishment.

Still, I laugh. He’s not in charge. No matter what he does, I’m in charge.

“You need me to remind you, huh?” His thick voice is edged with authority. It drips with lust. His fingers and heat leave my body.

I’m not playing along like usual. I’m not a good girl. I’m not even a bad girl. I’m the girl who can’t be tamed. No matter how many try. Too many have asked to collar me. They’re never allowed to touch me again.

This rough tumble is my drug.

Option one is an aberration. A nice steak and a bottle of aged wine. A delicacy I’ve indulged in, not enough lately, and at the same time, too much.

As expected, option four skips the floggers and goes straight for the cane. It sounds different as it flies through the air. I can’t tell if it’s the stinging reed or the thudding tohiti.

Either way. It is retribution. It is pain. It is release. I’m desperate for it.

The thin reed connects with the meatiest part of my right ass cheek. Its burn shoots me forward. My hips ram into the bench. The bands at my wrists and ankles dig into my skin. Air hisses from my lungs but meets the rubber ball in my mouth. Saliva dribbles down my chin, and my throat bloats with excess air.

Before I can remember how to breathe through my nose, he lances another blow in the same spot. Then brands me with a matching pair on my other cheek.

“Bet you’ll be a good girl now.” His hand rubs over my bottom, stoking the pain instead of soothing it.

Tears seep from behind my mask. My hands are fists. The bench is forgotten. All that matters is my rage. I’m alive with it. I want to rip from my bonds, chain this man to the St. Andrew’s Cross, and whip him until he sobs.

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