Chapter 3: The Penis Gag
The single lamp cast a greasy, amber stain across the mirrored walls, turning the infinite reflections into a gallery of golden nightmares. Sasha stood before the open cherrywood case, her fingers trailing over the neat compartments of foam. The scent of leather and silicone was cool and artificial in her nose.
Her body still hummed with the aftershock of her orgasm, a trembling in her thighs, a deep, satisfied ache between her legs. But beneath that, running colder, was something else. A new wiring. The terror of the afternoon—the helplessness, the gag, the stranger’s weight on her mouth—had burned away a layer of herself. What remained felt harder, sharper, capable of holding the four remotes in her hand like a set of surgical tools.
Morgan lay silently on the steel frame, a sculpture in scarlet and black. The only movement was the desperate rise and fall of her chest. The vibrators inside her were silent, but their presence was a tangible echo. Sasha could see the slight, wet glisten at Morgan’s entrance where the black toy had been.
“You have so many things we’ve never used,” Sasha said, her voice cutting the thick quiet. It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.
Morgan’s hooded head turned slightly toward the sound. A wet, muffled sound escaped the red ball gag. It might have been Sasha’s name.
Sasha ignored it. Her gaze settled on a toy nestled in its own cutout. A penis gag. The shaft was a deep, flesh-toned silicone, thickly veined, the head a pronounced, leaking bulb. It was larger than the red ball. The straps were wide, black leather. Beside it lay a pair of chrome nipple suckers, small bell-shaped cups with a tiny pump mechanism. A compact bullet vibrator, no bigger than a lipstick, completed the set.
Sasha lifted them out, the objects cool in her hands. She turned and walked back to the bed, the flogger she’d picked up earlier now forgotten on a chair. She placed the new items on the nightstand, next to the remotes.
She unbuckled the red ball gag first. The straps released with a soft hiss. She pulled the sodden rubber from Morgan’s mouth. Morgan’s jaw worked immediately, her lips red and stretched, slick with saliva. She drew in a shuddering, deep breath.
“Sasha… please. Untie me. Baby, please, we need to—”
“Open,” Sasha said, picking up the penis gag.
The words, so familiar yet so reversed, hung in the air. Morgan stared up through the narrow slits of the hood. Sasha could see the frantic green of her eyes, swimming with confusion, pain, and a dawning, horrific understanding.
“Sasha, no. Listen to me. That woman, she—”
“I said open your mouth.”
The tone was flat. Absolute. It was the voice Sasha used with difficult clients. It was not a voice she had ever used with Morgan.
A tremor ran through Morgan’s bound body. The defiance that was her core flickered, then guttered under the weight of the ropes, the memory of the forced orgasm, and the unrecognizable woman standing over her. Slowly, her lips parted.
Sasha guided the broad silicone head between Morgan’s teeth. It was wider than the ball. Morgan gagged immediately, her throat constricting as Sasha pushed it deeper, filling her mouth utterly, stretching her jaw to a new, obscene width. The shaft jutted out, a rigid, mocking phallus. Sasha fastened the straps behind Morgan’s head, pulling them tight until the buckle clicked. Morgan’s eyes watered, her breathing reduced to frantic, whistling snorts through her nose.
“Good,” Sasha murmured, almost to herself.
She picked up the chrome suckers. Morgan’s nipples were a ruined landscape—pierced, bruised from the clamps, the skin around the silver barbells an angry pink. Sasha placed the cold metal cup over the left one and pressed the tiny pump. A hiss of air, and the flesh was drawn up into the bell, suction tightening instantly into a deep, constant ache. Morgan jerked, a choked scream vibrating the silicone cock in her mouth. Sasha repeated the process on the right nipple. Both stood now, trapped and swollen in their shiny prisons, darkening under the pressure.
Lastly, Sasha took the bullet vibe. She spread Morgan’s lips with her fingers, finding her clit, swollen and exposed. She pressed the small, smooth device directly against it, then secured it in place with a crisscross of medical tape from the nightstand drawer. The tape pulled at her pubic hair. Morgan whimpered, her hips trying to twist away, but the silk ropes held her fast.
Sasha stepped back, looking at her work. The bound figure was transformed again. The phallic gag was violently pornographic. The chrome suckers looked like industrial fittings. The tiny silver bullet was a malignant seed taped to her most sensitive flesh.
“Now,” Sasha said, her own breath starting to come quicker. A familiar heat was pooling in her belly, but it was different now. It was mixed with the cold, metallic taste of control. “You’re going to fuck me with that mouth of yours.”
She climbed onto the bed, her robe falling open. She swung a leg over Morgan’s chest, positioning her knees on either side of Morgan’s hooded head. She looked down at the silicone shaft pointing up at her, glistening with Morgan’s spit. She lowered her hips, guiding the blunt head to her entrance.
She was already wet. The scent of her own arousal, mixed with the earlier climax, was potent in the air. She hesitated for a second, hovering, watching Morgan’s eyes through the slits. They were wide, pleading, terrified. This was the woman who had invented all their games. Who had whispered about helplessness and trust. Sasha felt a fracture inside her, a clean, irrevocable break.
She sank down.
The invasion was immediate and profound. The gag was thick, unyielding. It stretched her, filled her in a single, deep plunge as she took the entire length until her ass met the base pressed against Morgan’s mouth. A sharp gasp tore from Sasha’s throat. The sensation was brutally direct, a mimicry of penetration without the warmth of a body. Morgan’s muffled groan vibrated up through the silicone, a weird, internal echo.
“Oh, god,” Sasha breathed, her head falling back.
She began to move. A slow, experimental lift of her hips, then a downward grind. The veined texture rubbed against her inner walls with a ruthless, artificial friction. It was good. It was relentlessly, mechanically good. She set a rhythm, steady and demanding, using Morgan’s face as her anchor, her seat.
She looked into the mirrors. The sight was almost unbearable. Herself, back arched, riding the gag in her lover’s mouth. Morgan, trussed and used, a living sex toy. The infinite reflections multiplied the depravity, made it a universal principle.
“You feel that?” Sasha panted, her hands braced on the headboard above Morgan’s bound wrists. “You feel how deep you’re in me? You’re gonna make me come on this fake cock you bought.”
Morgan’s eyes squeezed shut. A tear leaked from the hood’s slit and traced a path through the sweat on her temple.
Sasha’s pace increased. The slick, wet sounds of her cunt taking the silicone filled the room, a raw counterpoint to Morgan’s ragged breathing. The power was dizzying. Complete. She owned this moment, this body, this room.
She reached down between her own legs, her fingers finding the base of the gag where it met Morgan’s lips. She could feel the vibration of Morgan’s attempts to form words, to beg. It only fueled her.
“No talking,” Sasha gasped, grinding down hard in a circular motion, milking the sensation. “Just fuck me. Work that tongue if you can. Make it good.”
Her free hand groped for the remote on the nightstand. Her fingers fumbled, found it. She located the button for the bullet vibe taped to Morgan’s clit and pressed it.
The effect was instantaneous.
Morgan’s entire body went taut as a bowstring. A shattered, nasal shriek escaped her. The vibrator was a high-pitched, furious buzz directly on her oversensitive nerve. It wasn’t pleasure. It was torture. Her back arched off the bed, her bound hands clawing at the air, her hips bucking wildly against the silk ropes. The sudden, violent convulsions made Sasha cry out, the internal motion of the gag becoming erratic, unpredictable, intensely stimulating.
“Fuck! Yes!” Sasha shouted, losing her rhythm, simply riding the storm of Morgan’s agony. She could feel Morgan’s scream through the silicone in her cunt, a raw, physical tremor. She turned the bullet vibe up to its highest setting.
Morgan’s world dissolved into a white-noise of pain and overload. The suction on her nipples was a deep, throbbing burn. The vibe on her clit was a dentist’s drill of sensation. The weight on her face, the gag fucking her girlfriend’s cunt, the taste of latex and Sasha’s fluids—it all fused into a single, unbearable reality. Her body, trained by years of consensual play, reacted against its will. A sharp, painful, involuntary climax was ripped from her, a dry, wrenching spasm that seized her cunt and radiated out in waves of anguish. She shook, her cries reduced to wet, hacking sobs behind the gag.
Sasha felt the clenching around the toy inside her, saw the violent tremors in Morgan’s stomach. The sight, the knowledge that she had forced this, broke her own control.
Her orgasm hit like a systemic crash. It was devoid of sweetness, all sharp edges and release. She slammed down onto the gag, her cunt gripping and pulsing around the silicone as she came with a guttural, tearing sound. Pleasure and power and vengeance fused into a single, blinding current. She rode it, grinding herself against the base, coating Morgan’s chin and the black leather hood with a fresh slick of her release.
She collapsed forward, her forehead pressing against the cool metal of the headboard, her body trembling. Slowly, the world crept back. The hum of the bullet vibe. The wet, ragged sounds of Morgan trying to breathe through her nose, through her tears.
Sasha pushed herself up. She was slick with sweat. She slowly lifted off the gag, the silicone slipping free with a obscene, wet pop. Morgan lay utterly broken, her body still twitching with aftershocks.
Sasha reached down, her fingers finding the tape on Morgan’s clit. She peeled it off, the pull eliciting a fresh whimper. She flicked the bullet vibe off and tossed it onto the sheets. Then she took the chrome suckers. She didn’t gently release the vacuum. She pulled them straight off, the seals breaking with a soft, wet plop.
Morgan cried out, the sound finally finding a clearer path past the penis gag. Her nipples were swollen into dark, puffy peaks, the skin around them a furious red.
Sasha swung her leg off the bed and stood, her legs unsteady. She looked at the remote for the internal vibrators. She picked it up, her thumb finding the dial. She turned the one in Morgan’s cunt back on, setting it to the lowest, most teasing hum. A persistent, inescapable reminder.
“Not yet,” Sasha said, her voice hoarse but soft. It wasn’t a taunt. It was a decree. “You’ll come when I say you can. And I’m not saying it yet.”
And I’m not saying it yet.
She lay down beside Morgan’s trembling form, her own skin cooling in the room’s static air. Her hand rested on Morgan’s lower belly, feeling the faint internal hum of the vibrator through the warm, damp skin. In the mirrors, their reflections were a study in contrast: one figure curled, observing; the other splayed and vibrating, a captured insect pinned by silk.
Morgan’s breath hitched around the penis gag. A thick strand of saliva connected the silicone shaft to her chin, glistening under the lamp. Her eyes, visible through the hood’s slits, were fixed on the ceiling’s endless replication of her state.
Sasha watched those eyes. The sharp green was clouded, bruised by tears and shock, but a familiar flicker of calculation was returning. Assessing. Planning. Morgan was never just a passenger, even here. Especially here. That flicker ignited something cold in Sasha’s gut.
“You’re thinking,” Sasha said quietly. Her fingers drummed once on Morgan’s stomach. “Stop it.”
She pushed herself up and walked back to the cherrywood case. She hadn’t truly looked at all of it. The previous selection had been driven by a hot, immediate need for reversal. Now, a colder curiosity took hold. She peered into the foam cutouts.
There were paddles of smooth, polished mahogany. A coiled leather dragon’s tail with a flared tip. Several glass wands, cool and heavy. Then her gaze landed on a set of items nestled together: a long, narrow silicone sleeve lined with internal nubs, and a sleek, metallic pump with a digital gauge.
She understood their function instantly. She lifted them out, the pump cold and weighty in her hand.
“Found something else,” Sasha said, returning to the bedside. Morgan’s eyes tracked her, the calculation dissolving back into dread. “You bought a fucking speculum. A vaginal pump. Clinical.”
She placed the pump on Morgan’s sternum, its metal base cool against her skin. Morgan flinched. Sasha picked up the silicone sleeve. It was translucent, a pale flesh color, and unforgivingly textured inside.
“The gag stays,” Sasha stated, answering the pleading groan Morgan made. “But this other thing has to go. I want to see what this does.”
She reached between Morgan’s bound legs. Her fingers found the base of the black vibrator. With a firm, slow pull, she extracted it. Morgan gasped around the gag, her body clenching at the sudden emptiness. Sasha tossed the wet toy onto the floor with a damp thud.
She lubricated the narrow silicone sleeve generously. Morgan’s thighs trembled as Sasha guided the tip to her exposed entrance. It was a tight, intrusive fit, the internal nubs dragging against her oversensitive walls as Sasha worked it deeper, until only a flared base remained outside.
“Now,” Sasha said, picking up the pump. She connected its hose to a valve on the sleeve’s base with a soft click. Her thumb hovered over the power button. “This sucks the air out. Creates a vacuum. Makes everything swell. Makes everything… more.”
She pressed the button.
A low, mechanical whir filled the room. The digital gauge flickered to life. The silicone sleeve tightened visibly around Morgan’s sex, conforming with brutal intimacy. Morgan’s back arched, a muffled shriek trapped behind the gag. The sensation was not pain, not at first. It was a profound, escalating pressure, a deep-tissue claim.
Sasha watched the gauge’s numbers climb. She watched Morgan’s labia, framed by the flared base, begin to darken, to puff outward under the negative pressure. The inner lips were slowly, relentlessly drawn into the tube, swelling around the nubbed texture.
“Fucking hell,” Sasha breathed, mesmerized by the clinical yet obscene transformation. The machine whined. Morgan’s hips jerked in tiny, helpless arcs. Her cunt, now a swollen, captive shape inside the clear silicone, looked utterly alien and possessed.
Sasha released the button. The whirring stopped. The vacuum held, locked in place. The silence that followed was thick with Morgan’s panicked, nasal breaths.
Sasha’s own cunt throbbed in sympathetic response, a wet, hot ache. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Morgan’s thigh this time. The rough silk of the rope brushed against her. She needed friction, but not from a toy. She needed to feel Morgan’s muscle, her heat, her living tension.
She ground herself down against Morgan’s bound leg, her soaked folds smearing moisture on the taut skin. She set a slow, grinding rhythm, her eyes fixed on the pump, on the swollen flesh it displayed.
“You look owned,” Sasha panted, her hand groping for the remote. She found it, her fingers clumsy. She turned the anal vibrator, still buried in Morgan’s ass, from a hum to a sharp, insistent buzz.
Morgan convulsed. The dual assault—the deep, spreading ache of the vacuum and the sharp intrusion behind it—unmade her. Her eyes rolled back, her body seizing into a rigid arc. A continuous, guttural sound vibrated through the cock in her mouth.
Sasha fucked Morgan’s thigh faster, the pressure building at her clit with each grind. “You like your toys now? Hmm? You like being the fucking experiment?”
She reached down and twisted the pump’s release valve for just a second. A hiss of air. The vacuum lessened marginally, blood rushing back in a tingling flood, before Sasha sealed it again and hit the pump once more. The machine whirred, pulling tighter, drawing more tender flesh into its grasp.
The cycle of relief and intensification shattered Morgan’s last fragments of control. Sasha saw the exact moment her orgasm was torn from her, not as a wave but as a seizure. Morgan’s body locked, every muscle corded, her screams muffled into a wet, desperate drone against the gag. Her cunt, monstrously swollen in its tube, pulsed and fluttered visibly around the nubbed sleeve.
The sight tipped Sasha over. Her climax was a swift, brutal punch to the gut. She cried out, sharp and wordless, riding Morgan’s leg as her own cunt clenched around nothing, spilling wetness across the ropes and skin beneath her.
She slumped forward, spent, her forehead resting on Morgan’s hipbone. The machine still held its vacuum. The anal vibe still buzzed. Morgan’s body continued to twitch in small, post-traumatic jerks.
Slowly, Sasha pushed herself up. She dismounted, her legs weak. She looked at the pump, at the digital gauge, at the beautifully engineered cruelty of it. She turned the vibe off. She opened the release valve fully.
The hiss was long and relieved. The silicone sleeve went slack. She gently worked it free, revealing a puffed, darkly engorged sex, the inner lips prominent and trembling. Morgan made a sound like a wounded animal.
Sasha disconnected the pump. She placed it and the sleeve on the nightstand, next to the growing collection. She looked at the penis gag still strapped in Morgan’s mouth. She didn’t remove it.
Instead, she leaned close, her lips near the hood where Morgan’s ear would be. Her voice was a raw whisper, carried on a breath that smelled of sex and salt.
“The case is still half-full,” she said.
She curled her body around Morgan’s bound, used form, one hand possessively on the swell of her hip, and waited for the trembling to subside. The amber light gleamed on chrome, on silicone, on wet leather, on watching glass. The night was long, and the silence now was filled with the promise of more tools, and the terrible, growing skill of the hand that would wield them.
The night was long, and the silence now was filled with the promise of more tools, and the terrible, growing skill of the hand that would wield them.
Sasha slept, but it was a thin, shallow thing. She awoke not to sunlight but to the persistent, low-grade ache between her legs and the weight of the remotes on the nightstand. Morgan’s breathing was ragged, uneven. The penis gag was a constant obstruction. Sasha had slept curled around her, a possessive spoonshape, and now she peeled herself away. The room smelled of sweat, sex, and the tang of fear.
She stood, her body protesting. She walked to the far wall, past the mirrors, to a draped shape in the corner. She pulled the cloth away. It was a bondage bench, polished black steel and padded black leather. It was a kneeling bench, really, designed to present and immobile. She had never seen it used.
“We’re moving,” Sasha said, her voice sleep-rough.
Morgan’s head lifted. A frantic, questioning sound.
Sasha approached the bed. She didn’t speak as she began untying the scarlet silk. She worked with a quiet focus, her fingers undoing the beautiful, intricate knots Morgan had taught her. She freed ankles, then wrists. Morgan’s limbs collapsed, useless. Sasha removed the penis gag, the straps leaving deep impressions in Morgan’s face. Morgan worked her jaw, coughing, a string of saliva breaking and dripping onto her chest.
“Sasha, stop this. We need to call the police. That woman stole—”
“Get on the bench.”
“Listen to me! The client files, the Autumn campaign drafts—she took everything. This isn’t a game anymore!”
“It never was your game today.” Sasha’s voice was quiet, final. “It’s mine. Get on the fucking bench or I’ll drag you.”
The coldness in Sasha’s eyes was a new country. Morgan, shivering, naked, and sore, pushed herself up. She staggered, her legs numb, and hobbled to the bench. She looked at it, then back at Sasha.
“How?” she whispered, her voice shattered.
“On your knees. Chest down on the pad. Ass up.” Sasha picked up a handful of wide, supple leather cuffs from a hook on the bench’s frame.
Morgan obeyed. The position was one of utter offering. The padded rest supported her torso, but her ass was elevated, exposed, her cunt and asshole presented between the spread of the bench’s supports. Sasha fastened a cuff around each of Morgan’s ankles, buckling them to rings low on the frame. She pulled Morgan’s arms behind her back, crossing her wrists, and secured them with a third cuff to a central ring. It was efficient, clinical, and inescapable.
Sasha stepped back. The sight was perfect. Morgan was pinned, a captured animal on a sacrificial altar. The bruises, the swollen lips of her cunt, the red marks from the suckers on her nipples—all were on display.
“You left me,” Sasha said, walking to the case. She selected a simple, heavy glass dildo, cool and smooth. “You took that call. You left me wet and tied and waiting. You made me vulnerable to her.”
“I didn’t know! For god’s sake, Sasha!”
“You created the opportunity.” Sasha knelt behind the bench. She ran the cool glass up the inside of Morgan’s thigh. Morgan flinched. “You built this room. You bought these things. You taught me about helplessness. Now you get to learn.”
She didn’t use lube. She pressed the blunt, cool head of the glass against Morgan’s entrance, which was still puffy and sensitive from the pump. Morgan clenched shut.
“Please, no, it’s too dry, it’ll hurt,” Morgan begged, her face pressed into the leather.
“It’s supposed to hurt,” Sasha said, and pushed.
The resistance was fierce, a tight, burning ring of muscle. Sasha leaned her weight into it, a steady, unyielding pressure. Morgan cried out, a raw, scraping sound, as the unforgiving glass began to penetrate, stretching her brutally. It was a slow, cruel invasion. Sasha worked it in by millimeters, feeling the internal clutch and tremble around the shaft.
“Fuck! Oh god, stop, please Sasha, stop!”
Sasha pushed until the entire length was buried, the base resting against Morgan’s swollen flesh. Morgan was sobbing, her body trembling violently against the restraints. Sasha left it there, a deep, cold, occupying presence.
Then Sasha leaned forward. She placed her mouth near Morgan’s ear, her lips almost touching the sweat-damp skin. “Now I rub your cunt.”
She brought her hand around. Her fingers found Morgan’s clit, engorged and throbbing from the earlier vibes and the painful fullness inside her. Sasha began to touch her, not with teasing circles, but with a slow, deliberate, grinding pressure of her thumb. It was the exact rhythm Morgan used when she was feeling particularly cruel, when she wanted to draw things out. It was a ruthlessly effective rhythm.
“No, don’t, don’t do that,” Morgan gasped, her hips trying to jerk away, but the bench held her fast. The movement only shifted the glass dildo inside her, drawing a muffled scream.
“Why not?” Sasha asked casually, her thumb maintaining its steady, slow grind. “You’re getting wet. I can feel it. Your body’s betraying you again. Just like it did for her.”
“I hate you,” Morgan wept, the words choked.
“No, you don’t.” Sasha’s thumb moved faster, just a fraction. “You’re dripping down the glass. I can see it. You’re a fucking mess.”
It was true. Despite the pain, despite the terror and the humiliation, Morgan’s body was responding to the relentless, familiar stimulation. The deep pressure of the dildo, the slow, building friction on her clit—it was weaving a treacherous thread of pleasure through the agony. Her breathing hitched, becoming shallow, anticipatory. Her cunt began to flutter around the cold intrusion. Sasha felt the change, the gathering tension under her thumb.
She knew Morgan’s signals intimately. The subtle stiffening of her thighs. The catch in her breath that wasn’t a sob. She was close, hurtling toward an orgasm that was part pain, part shame, and all-consuming.
Sasha increased the pressure, the speed. She leaned in, watching the muscles in Morgan’s back cord, hearing her moans lose their shape and become one continuous, desperate note.
“That’s it,” Sasha whispered, her own cunt aching in sympathy. “You’re gonna come. You’re gonna come on this glass I shoved in you dry. You’re gonna scream for it.”
Morgan’s body was a bowstring, thrumming, seconds from release. Her world narrowed to the fire between her legs, the impending detonation.
Sasha removed her hand completely.
The denial was so absolute, so physiologically violent, that Morgan’s scream was one of pure, animal anguish. Her climax, yanked from the very brink, recoiled back into her body like a snapped cable. The sensation was a nauseating, full-body convulsion of unfinished nerve signals. She shook, she vomited a little bile onto the leather pad, she wept without sound.
Sasha sat back on her heels. She watched the aftermath: the shuddering, the hopeless struggle against the cuffs, the absolute devastation. She pulled the glass dildo out with a slow, slick twist. Morgan didn’t even react.
Sasha stood. Her hands were steady. She looked at the used toy, then at the woman broken on the bench. The silence was no longer filled with promise. It was filled with a completed fact.