Oh. Yes.

I don’t remember how it started.

Oh. Yes.

He was talking to me and as I was watching his face I suddenly found myself imagining his mouth, hinged open like a screaming puppet. He kept talking as I got up and walked towards the rack where the gags hung. I found the fish hook gag, but instead of anchoring the hooks at the sides of his mouth, I placed them on his lower jaw and pulled down, using a length of white clothesline rope to hold the position. More rope unspooled and I bound his arms, his hands and left him standing.

I stared at him. He couldn’t look at me. When we’re like this, he never can.

Moving a little closer towards him, I smiled and jerked my knee hard, fast, and rough into his balls. He fell to his knees and pressed his face in my stomach. I stroked his hair and waited for him to collect himself.

I don’t remember what happened next.

Oh. Yes.

My fingers, jammed into his mouth, prying his jaw open wide. Wider. I drooled copiously into his maw. Later, I’d notice the imprint of his teeth on my fingers. My knees in his chest. My feet kicking against his crotch. I feel wild. Feral.

Then more rope. He’s stripped and writhing in pain under my feet and no matter how much he squirms, the end of my whip keeps landing, searing and true, on his ass, thighs, cock. He is begging me. I do not stop.

Until I do.

He’s panting, crumpled on one corner of the carpet. I’m sitting on the floor on the opposite corner, watching him again. My legs are stretched out and there’s a crumpled paper towel (how did that get there?) on my lap. I smooth it out, slowly, precisely, while I catch my breath. “Put your hands here,” I tell him, pointing to a spot to the left of my lap. He immediately understands and scrambles over, to lie across my legs. He knows what’s coming. I don’t.

Up and down my hand falls against his cheeks. The smacks are rhythmic and sharp. At some point I remember thinking of this, and wondering if I would keep going that long. And as soon as that thought entered into my head, I reached for the broad wooden paddle. Whoosh. Then the narrow, rapping stick. Thwack. Then the rawhide cane. Whicker.

He howled and squirmed as I pelted him with cane strokes, welts rising on his ass as soon as my arm lifted so that it might fall again. Crying, delirious with pain, he scrambled off my lap and to the other corner.

I cocked my head. Looked at him. Smiled a tiny bit. And smoothed the paper towel on my lap again just so.

With a shake of his head, as if to deny the undeniable, he resumed his place across my lap.

Oh. Yes.