I took this picture about 4 years ago now, not many minutes after receiving my very first gag in the post. I told the story of my first gag at a munch recently to an aghast response: I ordered it from Etsy, from a shop in the US selling handmade leather goods. I bought it because I loved the colour- earthy and Autumnal pumpkin orange rather than the usual black, red, purple or pink- and it’s a lovely piece of work, made well from excellent quality leather. BUT when it arrived the customs label on the package said, in very clear capital letters ‘CONTENTS: METAL AND LEATHER GAG’… which was, I feel, sub- optimal customer service.
There are other photos in my Dropbox from that afternoon- full face photos that I wouldn’t put on this blog, but which I wish I was brave enough to. In these photos I have drool on my chin and wild, kinetic joy in my eyes; I look as if I am shouting with happiness behind that metal ring. I had probably only been on the scene for less than six months at that stage, and a lot of feelings were still new and unfamiliar: that sensation of trepidation that came with the fastening of the buckle behind my neck, which disappeared to be replaced with… I don’t know, it just felt correct.
Metal against my teeth, jaws stretched wide, spit collecting beneath my tongue; all of it felt correct. I forget sometimes, five years later, what a relief those first experiences were. The first time I was tied up; the first time I was put on display in public, my tits pulled out of the bodice of my dress, slapped pink, plump and exposed, my skirt pulled up to show my welted arse; my first experience of being gagged and then toyed with, hurt and made use of in front of an audience of curious and amused strangers. I forget how right it felt, how utterly comfortable. This, I thought. This is it. Yes, this.
So I could write more about the joy that comes from being gagged, rendered wordless and messy, of the amused humiliation that results from having my mouth forced open so the pink of my tongue and the chips in my teeth are on show, of the violent throb in my cunt that will follow when confident fingers intrude past the ring and towards my tonsils. I could write again and again about how I melt at the thought that this gag is just the words ‘shut the fuck up’ written in metal and leather. But I have said all of this before, I don’t need to repeat myself. I talk too much, don’t I? Of course I do, ever prone to the misapprehension that there aren’t better things I could be doing with this busy, dirty little mouth.
I think about that space, when I can’t talk and all my energy is given to waiting and listening, listening for the words that make me ache, never changing, ever correct: open wide, babygirl. Lift up your hair. There, good girl. What? Say that again? No, I can’t understand you. Jesus, look, look at all that drool, all over your face and tits. Aren’t you embarrassed? Disgusting little cunt. I think about it. I crave it, getting more and more horny and stupid and desperate as I write this post. It’s too long since anyone fastened a gag behind my neck, and the lack of it in my life is… incorrect.