A quiet revolution

I've always hated gags. I could feel the panic rising in me just thinking about being gagged - not being able to communicate, not being able to say 'stop' or 'no'. Or those O-ring gags that make you drool - I hate those too. The humiliation they produce in me isn't the nice, hot kind of humiliation I enjoy - instead they produce the feeling that the whole situation is deeply unsexy and I wish that I was at home on my own, or almost anywhere else, in fact.

And so I've invested quite a bit of energy and imagination in avoiding gags over the last couple of years. With Mr L, though, my excuses were always going to run out eventually. I can understand his desire to use a gag on me: I never shut up. And while he swears blind he loves my responsiveness, my dirty mouth, my wheedling and pleading and begging, it's good to mix things up now and then.

And so, as the weeks flew past, and my excuses gradually gave way to honest discussion about why gags scare me, my fate slowly began to close in on me. My concerns about safety, about not being able to tell him that something was wrong, were dealt with adequately - I  could tell him with my hand, and he'd never leave me alone, and he'd be watching me closely. Those were the logical concerns that I had layered over a much more deep-seated and less rational concern, the one that was at the core of my fear. I was afraid that this would give him the last vestige of my power. He would really be in control. And I would be trapped in my head with no outlet for my thoughts. The communication would be one-way: in, but not out.

It almost makes me laugh when I look at this logically. I don't turn a hair at the thought of him physically overpowering me, tying me up, beating me, making me inflict pain on myself, controlling my behaviour, my orgasms, and even at times my appearance. All of those things are massive forms of control, and you could argue that the physical restraints are really the nail in the coffin for whether or not you can get out of a situation or not, not your voice. But at all of those times he was still doing those things to me - and I was able to talk to him, tell him how I was feeling, squeal, beg, say sorry and thank you... And he was able to tell me to shut the fuck up and carry on what he was doing anyway. And that was fine.

Staring down the barrel of how I really feel about gags has made me realise that I attach an unbalanced amount of importance to the voice and brain parts of me as the bits that are really me. I kept thinking, 'if he's doing this to me gagged, he could be doing this to just anyone - it's not me - it's just a piece of girl-meat.' But it is me he is doing this to, and it is my mind he is fucking, he just doesn't need the constant chatter of feedback to do it.

I accepted that I trusted him enough to do this, and I knew that if I panicked, he'd have me out of that situation in seconds, so there were really no protests left. What I wasn't prepared for was how much fun, and how playful the experience would be, this time, with someone I truly trust and connect with. When the ball gag came into view, I felt that familiar urge to bolt, or to beg him no, but I didn't - I acquiesced. Because I wanted to please him.

I had feared the communication would be gone, but it wasn't: he used it to tease me, asking me questions, deliberately misunderstanding me, goading me gently, laughing softly at my ear as I tried to protest, as he hurt me - tied and helpless. And? I loved it. It made me squirm in that good way - I didn't once wish I was curled up somewhere else with a mug of cocoa. I was here, in the moment, and loving being his foolish slut, the girl who couldn't make him understand, his willing victim, his silly entertainment.

And so I think we have had a quiet revolution. Another line I drew between us is scuffed away, for once through silence (or muffled protests at least), rather than through talking.