was serious between us. If this was a game, nobody was smiling. I took out a black scarf that I had standing by and blindfolded her. I held her face firm and the conversation went like this:
ME
Listen , I own you. You are my object. Do you understand?
She nodded "yes." Then I squeezed her face firmly:
ME
I didn't hear you.
REGINA
(Eager to please)
Yes, Ma'am! I'm your object!
ME
And from now on, you'll address me as "Mistress". Understood?
REGINA
Yes, Mistress.
I released her face. Then took her hand and told her to follow me. I guided her along as she was blindfolded. Holding her hand was incredible. Touching her hand elicited so many emotions. Her hand was warm and she squeezed back. As small as it was, the connection of holding her hand meant more than almost any contact I had with any other human. It was real. Our game was fake. But her hand was real. I knew Regina was in there. She was playing my object, but I knew she was in there… with me.
And maybe the game wasn't so fake either. It was real to us. For example, if you point a fake gun at someone and say they are going to die, they would think it’s real. There would be a huge physical and emotional response from increased heart rate to shortness of breath and panic. Even though the gun is not real, the thought creates all the effects of a real event.
I led her to the kitchen area next to a vertical support post at the edge of the room, telling her to stand there and not move. I went to the garage and got a heavy chain that my dad had left behind after working on a car once. I wrapped the chain three times about the post and her neck together. I thought she was going to orgasm as I was doing it. Then I took out a padlock and locked it firmly.
So there she was, spaghetti strap dress, blindfolded, chained at the neck to a post in brand new, high boots. I loved looking at her like that. Remember when I wanted Boyfriend X to treat me heavy? Like the Eleni Mandell song? Well, that’s what I was doing to Regina. She’s heavy. She was starting to mean something to me. She’s beautiful… and heavy.
But I wasn't done with her. I quickly dashed upstairs to get my belt, then came back down and tied her hands behind her back. For some reason, that really works for me. The image makes her look so vulnerable! I grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter and some strong cotton rope (formerly a clothesline) from the junk drawer. I wedged the handle of the spoon between her lips like a bit on a horse and snugged it all the way back as far as it would go against the corners of her mouth. Then I took the rope and secured the spoon tightly by tying it to each side of the spoon handle and going around the back of her head. I cinched it tight… and there she was with a stiff gag in place. When I was pulling it tight, she was making gentle moans, like the kind when the massage therapist hits the golden spot.
But I couldn't take it. I tiptoed away in my bare feet so she wouldn't know where I was. I went upstairs to take a shower. I needed to take a freezing cold shower to calm the hell down. But instead, I just let the warm water sprinkle over my face as I meditated in bliss. When I felt the urge to touch myself, I tried to shift my focus; I wasn’t ready to satisfy myself and miss what might else be coming later with Regina.
To calm down my id, I tried to think of her as Regina… in yoga class, having coffee, pulling up on her electric Vespa. I like thinking of her as a woman who was my friend. She exudes poise and grace and charm and fun and smarts. She's silly too. One time during yoga, she was making these crazy faces when the teacher wasn't looking to mock how hard the poses were. It was like we were in 5th grade and doing shenanigans. One time I actually busted out with a laugh in the dead quiet yoga room. The whole class turned to me as if to say, "Shut up, we're trying to be important here!" Isn't
Jack Norris, Virginia Messina