A woman’s worth is measured by what sits between her legs.

It is, without a doubt, her highest virtue.

Greater than the sum of all her parts.

Her most prized possession.

Her ultimate weapon.

At least, it is in the real world, despite what these nouveau feminists would have you think.

And not even her brain, the size of her bank account, or her ability to empathize with another human being can compare to its power.

Those were my mother’s words.

Verbatim.

Yeah.

It was a rare, singular occasion when she said them to me. Abrupt and unexpected. Out of nowhere, really. My “lighthouse”, she’d called it: my own beacon of hope amid the endless ebbs and flows in this often hostile ocean we call life. Her descriptive word for “pussy”, never mind that it actually sounds like a euphemism for “dick”. Well, at least I think it does. But, hell, the woman can’t even bring herself to say “vagina”, even though it’s actually a clinical term, and therefore not technically “born of sin”, as she so loves to tout.

 

It’s nothing short of a paradox: a woman who insists that pussy runs the world, but is so overly religious that she constantly condemns and looks down on sexual freedom and expression at the same time. I suppose my father has a lot to do with that.

 

No…that’s not true.

 

He has everything to do with it.

 

I found—and still find—her once-off, uncharacteristic remark funny because, as far as I can remember, she’s told pretty much every other girl who’s had the misfortune of being even remotely within earshot of her that a woman’s “lighthouse” is her ultimate gift from God so she should “protect it at all costs”. Aka, keep her legs closed—preferably until the end of time, or, at least, you know, until she meets a “righteous, Godly man” to settle down and have fire-baptized children with.

 

Those were among the many “words of wisdom” that I had grown up hearing time and time and time again and had eventually come to expect from strict, overly-religious Baptists, and my father was no exception. Which was why it came as an even bigger surprise when, one day, he absently muttered, more so in passing, that a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, but mine would get me into trouble someday.

 

It was the one and only time I’ve ever heard him contradict the bible in any way, shape or form: a thing I genuinely didn’t think he was capable of, even by accident.

 

I don’t think he meant for me to hear it, but for once…I one hundred percent agree with him.

 

And, turns out…that someday is today.

 

A turning lock cuts into the eerie stillness, creating an all-encompassing echo in the distance.

 

It turns a second time.

 

And then a third.

 

I recognize it.

 

It’s the sound of finality.

 

The sound of freedom.

 

The sound of…fate.

 

The smell of fresh sandalwood and musk wafts through the air, the warm blend of oriental scents colliding with the cool atmosphere, entering and leaving my lungs at a rapid pace.

 

The most formidable, pervasive, unfathomable man in the world stands before me, his expression completely unreadable.

 

A single item dangles from his hand:

 

A ball gag.

 

One with a generic smiley face on it. 

 

Except, instead of yellow…it’s red.

 

His favorite color.

 

His only color.

 

He holds it up to my face, his eyes boring into mine.

 

He doesn’t say a word.

 

He doesn’t have to.

 

I hesitate at the silent command, lingering fear and uncertainty keeping me from doing what I know he wants. But my non-compliance doesn’t even matter because, soon, I feel his large fingers pressing firmly against either side of my jaw, squeezing my cheeks and forcing my mouth open in a silent ‘O’.

 

He immediately slides the gag between my lips, and as soon as he does, I taste rubber on my tongue. I blink rapidly against the invasion, my eyes watering involuntarily as he pushes the large, round object further into the recesses of my mouth.

 

I turn my face away instinctively, trying to move my hands—and am promptly reminded that they are bound by the ox-blood rope he’d tied them with.

 

My protests are in vain.

 

No matter what I do or say now, he’s not going to back down.

 

Because I asked for this.

 

I did.

 

And all he’s doing is giving me precisely that—but on his terms.

 

Just like I’d agreed to.

 

The ensuing, deafening silence is broken only by the sound of my stuttered, shallow breathing. I bite into the rubber ball impulsively, feeling the sheer weight of my boobs as they rise and fall rapidly over my heaving chest, my nipples beading almost painfully at his proximity.

 

His eyes drift downward, a small grin toying with his lips as his gaze lingers on them, but aside from the hand still on my cheeks, he doesn’t touch me.

 

Or speak.

 

I feel him pulling the straps around either side of my jaw, the sensation of cool leather replacing the firm grip his fingers had on them just seconds before, securing them at the back of my head with a soft, buckling sound.

 

My saliva quickly pools at the corners of my mouth with nowhere else to go thanks to my current inability to swallow. I exhale harshly through my nose, my nostrils flaring as they expel more air just to keep me from passing out.

 

Even though I’ve been able to think about little else, a part of me still can’t believe any of this is actually happening; that I’m here, in this basement, stark naked in front of a man so effortlessly compelling and undeniable that I somehow agreed to this.

 

A fleeting yet imperative sensation ripples through me…leaving me wondering where I would be in this instant, in this particular slice of time if I had just said no. If I hadn’t set off the chain of events that would inadvertently lead to this very precise moment. Right here. Right now. With him.

 

I feel his breath on my forehead, trickling softly from his nose and tickling my skin; a stark contrast to my own rushed and labored breathing.

 

Only two words leave his sinful lips.

 

 “Let’s begin.”

 

***

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THIS CHAPTER MAKES ME FEEL...
  • Fascinated
  • Happy
  • Sad
  • Angry
  • Bored
  • Afraid

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