It's Charming. You're Charmed.

"Now that I have your full attention, princess, you might actually listen for once, instead of plotting while I talk. You think that you've won, getting me to fuck you before I'd originally planned. Maybe. I prefer to think that you've reminded me of what my ownership of you means, my pet. It means that, no matter what I may take first, it's all mine to use as I see fit. You may wish you hadn't distracted me.

"You may have also begun to realize, at this point, that I can hold this position much longer than you can, so I think that, in order for you to get the fucking you are so clearly begging for, you should probably be thinking of ways to make me very happy, very quickly. Now, while you've convinced me that taking you pussy first is a good idea, I'm tired of your spoiled mouth. If you want me to fuck you, it's the gag for you, and you'll beg for it, and none of the 'knotted scarf' shit, either. It's the drool gag, or something you'll like even less."

You may have a point in that you can hold the position, but the simple fact is, you're inside me. I squeeze you, the walls of my pussy gripping your shaft, all of that time spent with the smart balls paying off. I was dripping before you rammed home, and now, with the tiniest of strokes up and down your cock, I am close to orgasm. I want you pounding away, but this will do just as well, especially if it means I can avoid the drool gag.

"Oh, no, you don't," you laugh, as you pull out, disappearing from me as quickly as you'd entered, just gone, when before you'd been everything. Tears actually come to my eyes, so profound is your absence from my now seizing cunt. I decide that I can live with a drool gag; it's one I can still talk around. Now I can consider begging. By pulling the bar away from my chest a few inches, you pull my hands and legs forward and form a kind of tripod out of my feet and hips, sitting me up, allowing me to balance upright while staying spread.

You step away and come back from the table holding a ring gag, a surprise, as it's not a toy I own. You must have brought it with you, and I understand now that you weren't bluffing when you'd called the drool gag the best of my options. I automatically start shaking my head in objection, and you silence me with eight simple words.

"I have heard enough from you, pet."

You hold out the gag, "You may say one word: please."

We both know what that one word will mean. "Please, no." "Please, yes."

A tear actually slips past my lashes and falls, a byproduct of the chemical stew these little scenes can stir up, part thrill, part disappointment, part anxiety, part game, all anticipation, all this, all you, all now. "Please..." and the gag goes on, silencing me without giving me a place to hide, mouth still wide open and waiting for your use.

"That's my girl. You wanted me reminded that there was more than one way to use you. Silly thing. As if I could ever forget that. But now you're reminded, aren't you? It might actually be sinking in that you are mine to use, that it's my preference to be more carrot than stick with you, but that I do have a very impressive stick at my disposal. Pardon the pun."

All I needed was to get you to fuck me. After that, I could win. I had counted a substantial gag, and I had counted on a blindfold to follow, thinking that I could goad you into gagging me, then goad you into blindfolding me, limiting you on the ways you could use me, letting me forget that I'm poised on a padded dais like a Maltese while you have your fun with me, but you've thrown me. The ring gag is a curve ball.

I banked on the notion that by running the filthy mouth from which you usually derive such pleasure, I could distract you, plucking at your hormones like a rutting teenager in the back of a borrowed car, pushing you to gag me out of necessity, blocking your access to that hole, and winning myself a small victory and buying more time. Knowing that being gagged can be intimidating for me, you'd pay attention to my reaction. I would play to inner Lancelot most men carry around with them somewhere, the one that can't resist a damsel in distress, who can't help getting it up to the sounds of "helpless" little moans and whimpers, who want nothing more than to steal her away to all new heights of "distress," just to see what kinds of delicious little sounds she'll make then. Furrowed brow, eyes clenched in what might be ecstasy, before snapping open, locking onto yours begging you for more, before rolling back and fluttering closed again, eagerness muffled but no less apparent. You'd be distracted by the bound, speechless, teary-eyed, helpless, submissive girl, the one spread and gagged and clearly begging to please you, and you'd start to forget your intended punishment of your uppity sub.

That was my plan.

Instead, I find myself just as open and vulnerable as when we began, only now I can add off-kilter to the balance. I'm naked, I'm spread, I'm elevated, and thanks to my own machinations, I'm horny as fuck. I'm also feeling the stirrings of soreness from your weight pressing the bar down, pressing my thighs apart, black ropes forming a frame for the bits of me you've served yourself on a glittering platter. The gag in which I'd sought refuge further opens me, making it clear to me that if my mouth is to be open, it will be at your choosing, for your use.

I start looking for the blindfold, and your thoughts follow mine, "Oh, no, princess. I had planned to use the blindfold, giving you that little bit of escape from your performance tonight, since I know you're not happy about being so proudly poised for me. Instead, you wanted to play hardball. I can be hard, as you well know. Just remember that this was your choice, my pet. On that note, let's put on a show."

You turn me over, forming a new position of three-point balance from my arrangement. If my hands were free, I'd be widely spread on all fours. Instead, I rest on my bound arms and legs, stretched out to either side of me, my face and shoulders providing the last point of support, ass in the air at what has to be eye-level for you. I feel you slip first one, then a second, then a third pillow underneath my hips. Normally, I'd assume you were concerned for my comfort, but I know that tonight, my comfort is so far down on your list of worries, it aspires to be the least of them.

With no warning, the Hitachi is suddenly there, pressing hard against my clit. I moan, only the second genuine reaction of the evening (the first being the gasp of shocked pleasure at your one-stroke assault on my pussy moments ago), part in expectation and pleasure, part in dread. I know that if I'm getting the benefit of the Hitachi, it's because you're planning to push me past my limits with it, making it a device of pain through extreme pleasure, that without a doubt, there will be one orgasm after another until I cry and plead for them to stop. Again, the extent of my pushing you hits home, and I wonder if perhaps I should occasionally think before acting. I attempt to settle on to the Hitachi, but the bindings and the mound of pillows underneath me leaves very little room to maneuver, undoubtedly your intent.

While I manage what little wiggling I can, I hear you walk over to one of the computers to fiddle around. I assume camera, but instead, music starts, one of my own playlists. You skipped over "Hot and Bluesy" with Janis Joplin and her growly "Summertime" where the livin' is easy. I thought I'd at least hear a chuckle over "If the Van's A-Rockin'" with some Jimi, some Zeppelin, and Dark Side of the Moon, meant for marathon sex, a winding variety of speeds and intensities. No, instead, it's "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails.

It may be clichéd and obvious, with the "fuck you like an animal" line over and over, but the classics are considered classic for a reason, and for this song, it's especially true. I'm not surprised by the collection you choose, aptly named, "Mine," one that I specially tailored for my own personal use as a dominant. Each entry in the list tightly bound to a very dominant memory or fantasy. I frantically search my recall of our conversations, trying to remember how much I've told you about this playlist, trying to figure out if you understand just how strongly you're setting the scene for me. I cannot imagine that you are ignorant of the effect these songs will have, that your choice is as calculated as every other moment of the night has been.

With every word and deed, you are claiming ownership, pride of property, and your choice of this soundtrack is the biggest yet, the bright, blinking, neon, Welcome to Las Vegas sign that I am fully yours, a mere extension of your will, if you wish it. I know it's an intentional choice because I know that playlist like I know the feel of my own fingers on my clit. It's well-worn territory, with a story and a rhythm and a climax and a denouement and a shortcut to the money-shot when time is short. By starting with Mr. Reznor, I know you set the player to random, and with that you set me on edge. The songs are mine, but the mood is yours. The memories they evoke are mine, but the order is yours. The nervous submission is mine, but the giddy, giddy dominance—that is all yours.

And now I really know it. You're sending the same message you've sent since you walked in the door, really, but I've been too dense, too think-y to notice. We're finished with the game-playing for the evening, and it's time for me to be taken in hand.

With that thought, I orgasm for the first time tonight.

We begin.