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I was strapped into the chair, sitting looking
at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of
the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He was holding the gag.
THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so disoriented. I rolled my eyes
up at him, tilting my head as much as I could. I was panting, my
breath coming in short gasps, my face flushed.
"Wha- What are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather my
wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations continued to
build inside me; without my contact lenses the room looked fuzzy and I
felt like I was under water, everything moving in slow motion, but
still out of control. He held the gag against my mouth, saying noth-
ing. I couldn't think. I just opened up and he put it in. He didn't
even bother to buckle it in back. He stepped to the side, revealing my
reflection: eyes wild and wide over a mouth held open by the gag in a
soundless scream, face framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.
The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:
polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my upper
arms comp
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