Body Talks

Body Talks

♫
Shake your hips
(Ooh ooh) It’s on your lips
You don’t need to say a word
’cause
Ooh-ooh, your body talks ♫

I’m always nervous when using a gag. Not being able to do more than moan or squeal makes me feel caged, more so than a real cage ever could. The reminder that the use of words has been taken away pushes heavily on my jaw, the rubber ball sitting against my tongue tastes like desperation. Saliva drips freely from my open mouth, pooling somewhere around my chin. The inability to suck it in, to control that involuntary action flushes my face in a rosy hue.

“You talk too much, little girl,” Mister K’s words come from behind me.

I’m in awe of his ability to speak, to tell me what he wants to say with simple words. He presses a small bell into my bound hand, a reminder that I haven’t been completely muted. A safeword, without words. How quaint. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“You need to learn to use your body to tell me what you need, not your words, no matter how elegant they are. You’re too good at hiding the truth, tonight we fix that.”

I hear the smile in his voice. He’s enjoying this, and why not? I’m bound and gagged, presented for his pleasure. While his words say one thing, the smile I hear in his voice says something else. What? I do not know.

The chair is hard against my bottom, the cushion removed to enforce unpleasantness. My ankles are bound to the chairs’ legs, my own spread eagle, putting my moist flesh on display. Through my discomfort, I can feel arousal coating my femininity despite my argument that I’m not enjoying this. I squirm against my bonds, trying to deny what he can clearly see.

“Say still!” His sharp rebuke halts me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Following commands is not new to me, that is something I know well. I feel myself surrender to his will, to his desire that I play nice. He must see my release of control, the way my body relaxes, for his next words would bring a smile if only I could.

“That’s better slut, you know who you belong to.” There is no question here, this is a statement.

Those words have a different meaning then they once did. In the beginning, I fought against his claim, his desire to make me solely his puppet, but now… Now I relish in the warmth those words possess, the feeling of security they blanket me in. I sigh internally, relishing the thought of his greediness.

He pets my hair gently, rhythmically, until I lean into his touch. His gentle caress relaxing me bit by bit, reducing the ache that has begun in my jaw to a minimum. My eyes close as I lean heavily into his hand, absorbing the softness of that intimate gesture. His tenderness a contradiction to the tight bindings and limiting mouthpiece.

My nipple is tugged fiercely, pain exploding from its point. My eyes open and become big, too big for my heart-shaped face. Mister K’s eyes are alight with mischief, his dark thoughts displayed for me to see. His fingers twist mercilessly, pull harder, distending my tender rosy tip. He tugs until I pull back, only to abruptly stop, the action meant to relieve creating a new level of pain. He releases his fingers and asks, “Did you like that?”

I begin to shake my head but stop. Which is he asking about? The petting? I nod. Yes, I did like the petting, and if I’m honest, I liked the sweet torture of my nipple too, even though it hurt.

“Which is it? No, or yes?” he asks, looking at me squarely.

I nod again, aware that I need to answer, although I know that he already knows.

“So, this doesn’t hurt?” He asks as he grips the other, distorting my breast into a cone-shaped peak. My eyes close tight, but I refuse to answer, breathing through the agony created at his whim. He pulls harder, grips the fragile skin tighter until a small whimper escapes me.

Like he was waiting for this reaction, he releases me as he stands. Taking a step back, his hand dives into the pocket of his perfectly pressed pants, removing clover clamps. These are new, and I can feel trepidation begin to fill me. His smile tells me he can sense it too. He lets one end dangle as he sways them back and forth in front of my eyes, like a hypnotist putting me in a trance. I can’t deny that I’m mesmerised, even as my traitorous mind is screaming “no”, my too needy body is roaring “YES!”

My eyes follow him as he walks away, to where I’m unsure. The clamps still dangle from his fingertips, the muted light reflecting off the silver-plated chain. His return to my side showcases the wand that he carries. This is also new. Having used one once before, he knows my aversion to this specific device of torture. There is no control here, the wand takes what it wants, chewing you up and spitting you out.

My eyes race to his and they tell me he believes this will be my undoing. He thinks I will drop the little bell and he will have won. Mentally, I calm myself, wanting to see what else he has in store for me, how far he’s willing to go. But part of me knows that the instant the wand touches me, I will have lost. Lost my fragile hold on composure, on self-control.

I push bravery into my gaze, silently telling him I am ready, that I will endure what he gives. His smile is the only answer I need. The pearly whites clearly say, “I accept your bet, and raise you.”

The wand is placed between my spread legs, the bulbous head pressed against my flesh. The ease of movement confirms my fears and his low chuckle reignites the red hue on my face. I avert my eyes, not wanting him to see my chagrin. The chuckle turns to laughter, and I know he saw what I tried so hard to hide.

The humming encompasses me. I can feel it, hear it, taste it as my teeth rattle. Vibrations blur my vision and within seconds I am squirming anew. The wands’ head has moved, no longer pressing directly on my center, but it does not matter. The pulsing spreads out to the surrounding areas, driving me to a plateau I am not ready to reach. My body tries to arch as the impending orgasm approaches. It’s too soon, the missing build up causing my body to resist the infiltration. I shake my head to fend it off, but it’s no use. I fly over the edge to ecstasy.

Before I have recovered, my breathing still ragged, my hair damp with perspiration, the clamps close tight over my sensitive nips, the sudden pinch making me cry out. The sound is muffled behind the gag and Mister K takes the opportunity to pull on the delicate chain holding the imposing tool together. The wand builds me up to the next crescendo, forcing me to accept what I’d like to refuse. I’m not opposed to orgasms, but I like them to be on my terms.

My breathing has become erratic, heavy pants pulling in and pushing out. I cannot get enough air and as the next wave of euphoria surrounds me, I feel the clamps being pulled farther than I ever would have fathomed. The impending orgasm rushes to the surface, the mixed sensation of pleasure and pain creating a feeling of pure rapture. My eyes roll back to expose their whites as a low keening sound is ripped from me.

I’ve only taken a few short gasping breathes when the third orgasm is approaching, and I’m reminded why the wand is my enemy. The ball of pent up energy is sitting deep, buried within me. But it’s growing, expanding, shooting out towards my limbs. It’s too big and yet nothing at all. Before I can brace myself, it washes over me, an explosion of fluid escaping around the wands crown, soaking my legs, the chair. The clamps are removed as the peak of climax overtakes me, my head falling back to rest against the chair, as if it’s suddenly too heavy, the situation too much for it to take in.

Blood rushes back to my chaffed nipples, prolonging the jubilance of my release. Wave after wave drowns me, the sensations too much, too soon. I’m thankful for the gag then, the lack of words being able to form. My mumbling is drowned out as blackness rushes to meet me.

I become aware that I am no longer tied, no longer gagged. During my height of bliss, Mister K has released me from my restraints. I’m tucked gently against his chest, his strong hands rub my arms, my back with soft strokes. I purr in contentment.

I lift my head and look at him, a question forming in my eyes. He smiles then and grips me tighter.

 “How do you feel, little girl?”

“Good, Sir,” I reply, my words slightly slurred, my smile crooked.

“I know you do, keep your fancy words.”

To see who else contributed to #wickedwednesday, click on the badge.

For more erotica starring MrsK, see Real-Life under Fiction by MrsK.

For Kinky pictures, see Photography.

Looking for info on D/s and BDSM, give Let’s Talk About a try.

Recent Posts