With all there is to hate about the panic-demic, one thing I appreciate is that all of the office-holding tyrant-toddlers get orgasmic by forcing peons to follow groundless diktats. Including the wearing of cloth masks, which stop a virus like a chain-link fence stops a mosquito.
Because when I wear a mask in public, it hides my mouth. Which means that He can fit me, discretely, with one of my gags.
We’re out shopping. He put my second-largest ring gag in, finger-fucked my mouth until I was drooling like the devoted cocksucker I am, and then tied on a pink gingham mask. As He leads me around the store, taking His time, any other shopper can tell at a glance that my mouth is open. At two glances, that my mask is spit-soggy, clinging to my face. At a careful look, that I’m a gagged, messy, obedient, aroused, submissive girl.
He has struck up a conversation with a stranger in the home improvements aisle — people tend to ask Him for advice and directions, somehow sensing His authority. She’s listening to Him, but since she first looked at me she hasn’t looked away. She is staring. She can see the shape of my gag beneath the wet mask. She knows what it is, what it means. Her nipples have grown erect.
My panties are cream-soaked, my thighs slick. If I’m not careful, I’ll cum right here.
I mustn’t. But I might.
— Frenulum
