I'm still looking out the kitchen window, facing away from my roommate, a rush of thoughts and emotions surging through my mind and body when I hear the sound of a heavy, metal object being set down on the kitchen counter behind me. It sounds like Mitch has just put the gun down.
What's next? all my anxious voices want to know. My roommate just captured me. I'm standing in my kitchen in a thong, handcuffed. I have no idea how things got to this point so fast, I feel totally exposed, and have no idea what's coming.
Then I hear a soft clinking sound.
I'm still puzzling what this might be, wanting to turn around but too scared to defy my captor, when I feel Mitch walk up right behind me. In a flash, I see him flip something over my head and into my vision. I feel a cool, hard object press hard against my lips as his hands, holding onto the ends of a black strap, pull back firmly towards him.
"Mitch, what arrrgnnmpgmning?!"
Too late, I recognize what this object is and what's happening. As I opened my mouth to speak, the large, red rubber ball was forced in between my teeth. Under pressure from Mitch, it sinks deeply into my mouth and my words become a muffled, garbled protest.
Somehow, Mitch had my ball gag when he walked into the kitchen this morning! Not only that, he's just used it on me! I've just been fucking gagged by my roommate!
How does he even know I have a ball gag? I wonder frantically.
As I think this I feel him pulling the straps tight at the top of my neck and locking them in place. The feel of the gag is massive and overpowering. I can't even speak now. I had thought I would reason with Mitch, talk things through, find out how he felt about my underwear experiment and resolve the matter. Now, however, he's entirely in the driver's seat and I'm the helpless object of his whims. I have no idea what he's planning to do with me, but it's clear that I will be submitting without comment to whatever it is.
"Hrmnng angrmngnnm hrmphhfang?" Though I know there's no chance to articulate individual words, I simply have to protest what my roommate is doing to me. Shock, surprise, and indignation erupt into my mind and surge through my body. Does he really have to make me so helpless? What is he planning that necessitates a gag? Did my little underwear stunt merit such a ruthless payback? Most of all, I want to ask him what's going on and why he's doing it. But all this comes out as a pitiful series of moans.
"You sound surprised," Mitch says. "As if you've never been gagged before." His tone richly implies that I'm a dirty little slut. I respond with another slew of gagged noises. I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say at this point. Mostly, I'm feeling how unfair he is being, which is probably the most complex idea I can communicate at this point anyway.
Still facing away from him, I feel a sudden, sharp strike against my bare ass and a loud crack echoes around the room.
"HRNGmmnm!"
The slap on my ass catches me totally off guard and I let out a loud, high-pitched yelp.
"You love this, don't you? You little pervert," Mitch derides. I'm blushing madly and the bulge in my thong has never been tighter.
The fact is, I am starting to really enjoy this. Or at least parts of me are. In some senses, this is a total fantasy come true for me. I love being tied up and feeling out of control. I crave being objectified and humiliated in front of others. Nothing could be more exciting than being taken captive like this against my will.
As a long-time member of the kink community, I know all about consent and the importance of negotiating in advance everything that will happen in a scene. But if I'm honest, part of me feels bored and disappointed at knowing the full gamut of the experience from the start. I respect how important this is to protect all participants-both the top and the bottom-but when I fantasize in bed it's always scenarios of unplanned captivity that get me aroused without fail.
"Turn around," Mitch orders. I obey, turning to face him for the first time since being bound and gagged. I'm intensely aware of my bright red cheeks and raging erection straining at the skimpy confines of my thong. I'm also aware of my arms bound behind my back, leaving my body fully exposed and on display. He picks up his gun from the table and takes his time looking me over. I can only imagine what the red ballgag must look like, bulging between my parted lips.
"You look so..." he whistles and shakes his head slowly as his voice trails off. "You look like someone just fucked you good," he concludes. Almost against my will, I give a pitiful moan of assent, acknowledging in perhaps the most appropriate way possible that this is indeed what has just transpired. I'm breathing a little heavier than normal, intense energy—humiliation, embarrassment, anxiety, sexual arousal—surging through my body.
Mitch steps toward me, placing the barrel of his weapon against my bare stomach. I'm terribly aware that he could simply pull the trigger—hardly a movement at all on his part—and launch a pellet at high speed into my exposed flesh. I really, really don't want him to, but I honestly don't know what he's doing. Is his goal to inflict pain on me? If it is, there's little I can do outside of begging him not to. I try to catch his glance as I feel the gun contact my skin, a look of panicked pleading in my eyes.
But he doesn't make eye contact with me. Instead, he brings his other hand up to my chest and pinches one of my large nipples between his thumb and forefinger. My whole body flinches as electric pleasure shoots from the tip of my nipple, down my spine to my feet and up my neck to the back of my brain. A helpless, surprised, pleasure-filled moan involuntarily escapes from me as I reel under this new shock. Now he makes eye contact, and I can only imagine the confused, surprised expression he must find there.
"You're mine now," Mitch murmurs. "You've been showing off your body all this time, but I bet you weren't thinking about what I was thinking, were you?" I try to explain everything to him, that it was just a harmless experiment, that I'll stop now and I'm sorry, but of course all I hear is a stream of gagged noises.
And I have to admit I wasn't thinking about how he was reacting. I was so focused on the excitement of being seen by him and keeping up an act of practiced nonchalance that it never occurred to me that he might be feeling or thinking something other than awkwardness and perhaps confusion. I was totally unaware of what my actions were provoking.
"At first I thought it was just innocent carelessness," Mitch continues. He still holds my nipple between his fingers, tweaking it back and forth like tuning a radio dial or wiggling a loose screw. I squirm at his touch and try to pull away, but his fingers are firmly clamped onto my sensitive bit. I beg through my gag, hoping he'll let go. "But as time wore on and your underwear got skimpier and skimpier I began to suspect it was all intentional. It puzzled me; I wasn't sure why you were doing it."
I try to interrupt him at this point with an explanation (or at least communicate to him that there is an explanation, and that I desperately want the chance to explain).
"Oh, I'm sure you want to explain, but the thing is I don't need you to." He pauses for dramatic effect, though he doesn't stop tweaking my tit and my body doesn't stop writhing under his sensual touch. "While you were out last week I walked past your room and the door was open. I glanced in and happened to see something odd."
Oh shit. This can't be going anywhere good. There's a lot of kinky, fun stuff in my room and I confess I'm not always the best at keeping it organized and out of sight. I had been to a rope practice last week and distinctly remember being sloppy about putting my rope away. Here it comes, I think to myself.
"There was a bunch of rope sticking out from one of the shelves of your bookcase." Mitch's face looks more and more triumphant, like the prosecution circling the witness, moving in for the kill. "Normally, I'd respect my roommate's privacy and let them be them. But you clearly don't care for privacy, walking naked around the apartment like you do. So I decided it was my privilege to explore. And boy, the things I found." He whistles again.
I say nothing, just continue to look him in the eye, my bare chest heaving.
"Beyond your impressive trove of toys," Mitch says, winking at me seductively, "your computer was open."
NO!! I really start to panic now. It's bad enough that he saw my rope, ball gag, and the rest. That's embarrassing, alright, but sex toys like that are at least somewhat generic. My computer, on the other hand, has lots of deeply personal stuff on it—the erotica I write, for instance, and my personal collection of bound-and-gagged art that I look at when fantasizing.
"I noticed you have an app that keeps your laptop running whenever your power cord is connected. I use it too," Mitch shrugs, giving a friendly smile, "but I never leave my door open and my laptop open when I'm gone." His smile goes devilish again. "And lo and behold, what did I see but a Google doc open about the cutest, most vulnerable sexual fantasy." My blood instantly goes cold. No ...
"You know," my roommate says, still gently tugging and tweaking my tender nipple. "I thought you were sexy from the first day you opened the door in those boxer-briefs, and I loved checking out your body. But I felt guilty about it at first, when I thought you were just being uninhibited and innocent. But when I realized that you're actually a kinky little slut playing games with me, I stopped feeling bad about it." He pulls his hand away from my chest, dragging my nipple with it. I lean towards him to alleviate the tension and pain, giving high-pitched moans to plead for release. With a final counter-clockwise twist he lets go. I moan gratefully in relief.
