“Is it what you like to see on what you like to see?”
Isabel gulped harder. “You know me too well, Mistress.”
“Oh no, marath’damane. I know you just well enough.” Adalynn had by now slowly panned back up her body to her waist, where the a’dam hung coiled from the slender belt that tightly gathered Adalynn’s sul’dam dress against her hips. She had shifted into a pin-up centerfold pose now, too, one leg forward and bent, with her hip held high and prominent, accentuating both hip and the silver leash and collar hanging there. “You want to feel this on you, don’t you? And not just to see how it looks as a cosplayer. You want to feel it, and you want me holding your leash as you kneel beside me, don’t you?”
Isabel was beginning to lose control of her breath, and the red flags that the tentative red flags she had ignored earlier were waving a big more urgently in the back of her mind now. But she still simply couldn’t look away, couldn’t break the connection—and not just the phone connection, either. “Mistress … you need to …”
Adalynn quickly panned back to her face. Isabel realized that Adalynn probably did not have a date tonight. She had brushed out her midnight hair until it practically glowed dark, and done her makeup, just for this FaceTime call. “I’ll decide what I need to do, Isari. And what you need to do. And what you need to do is clear as day on those adorable cheeks of yours, and the way your tits are moving even under that rag. And your hips, too. My God, Isari, you are squirming, aren’t you?”
Isabel said nothing and just continued to squirm and try to get her breathing under control. The fire danced in her blood and the lightning in her flesh.
“I asked you a question, Isari.”
“S … sorry, Mistress, I know …”
“And?” Adalynn, clearly now slipping back into her role as Mistress Lanfear, panned back down and tapped her fingers suggestively on the collar resting on her hip.
More breathing, more squirming, more lightning and fire, strong enough now that it practically sounded in her ears like a roar so deep it was just on the deepest edge of the range of human hearing.
“Lift your dress, marath’damane.”
The dress was long but not tight, and it was not hard for Isabel to slide it up around her waist.
“Pan down. Let me see. Good. I remember those panties. I got you them. Now get rid of them.”
Isabel knew by now where this was going, and still couldn’t muster the strength to say no. She thought briefly of her safeword, but the part of her that wanted this, wanted the release, wanted to relive the memory even though she knew how it ended, was starting to reawaken and reassert control. Or, more accurately, respond to Mistress Lanfear’s control the way it always had. Consequences were only the concern of those with control, and it was so much easier to give it up.
She slid the red lace panties that Adalynn had given her off her hips. Had she known the night was going to go this way when she dressed for the evening, before the season finale started? It no longer mattered. It never had.
“Still keeping yourself clean down there. Good girl, Isari.”
Isabel’s mouth was dry.
“I said, good girl, Isari.” Mistress Lanfear was clearly prompting her to respond. After another pregnant pause, she continued. “Someone’s Southern manners are slipping. Get off the couch, Isari. Put the phone on top of the TV and start screen mirroring.”
Isabel did so, still wordlessly, her mind still too focused on the chaos inside her to form words. Still, the moment she had actually switched the call to the TV, she blinked at the increased effect of seeing Mistress Lanfear’s powerful face now on a 50-inch screen instead of a phone screen, and hearing her voice in Dolby Atmos.
“Very good. Now, I know you still have some of the little keepsakes I left you two years ago. It’s a special occasion. Bring them out.”
Isabel turned, and with her mistress’ face no longer dominating her view, made one last feeble protest, a last-ditch defense of the red flags that were by now war banners flapping in the storm within her. “Mistress … Addie … those memories … you know how it all …”
The storm was stronger, not to mention speaking with both passion and Dolby Atmos. “Those were the two best summers of my life, Isari. I will have you collared again, marath’damane. You will be mine, and we will be spectacular. What you’re feeling now is only the faintest taste of that.”
“Oh, God, Mistress …” The roar at the edge of hearing deepened, and a single tear for the battle lost, and for the inevitable, leaked from her left eye. She reached under the couch and slid out a small, nondescript storage box of rigid beige fabric. It had a zipper with a lock on it, but Isabel had left the key right next to it the last time she had dared to open it, more than a year ago. Isabel unlocked it.
“Mmm-hmm, and glad to see that you had it so close at hand, too,” Mistress Lanfear’s resonant voice said knowingly. From where Isabel’s phone was perched on top of the TV, Mistress Lanfear couldn’t quite see the contents of the box as Isabel opened it, but she had no need to. She knew everything in there, and had lain awake more nights at MIT than she could count lost in the memories of how they looked on Isabel. “Now, one thing in particular that it looks like the show wised up to was that the sul’dam would definitely want to have a gag on hand to keep a misbehaving damane in line. Or maybe even just to remind them who was in charge. No sense in relying only on the a’dam. Pick it up, Isari. The one with the chinstrap.”
Adalynn had left two ball gags with Isabel when Isabel had broken things off at the end of two summers prior. The first was a dirt-cheap one with an orange foam rubber ball and cord-like strap that Adalynn had bought at a Lion’s Den not long after Isabel had turned eighteen. (Adalynn had turned eighteen a couple of months earlier than that, but neither of them had any money to their name at that point.) The second one was somewhat higher-quality, bought during the summer between their freshman and sophomore years of college. The short straps from either side of the ball attached to small chrome rings. From there, straps with simple roller buckles led both back and down.
“That’s it, Isari. Now put it on. And buckle it as tightly as I would.”
Isabel brought the ball to her mouth and guided it past her teeth, where it settled with a faint pop. The ball was only an inch and three quarters wide, but that was still enough to fill Isabel’s mouth snugly and firmly. Isabel was of average size for the women in her dance club at Emory, but that was not exactly a group of giants. She still could barely believe that this was happening, but since it apparently was indeed happening, there was no room for her to half-ass buckling it just as tightly as Mistress Lanfear commanded. She carefully threaded the strap behind her head, avoiding getting any of her full blond mane caught in the buckle as she buckled it, feeling the straps and the two chrome rings on the sides pull tightly against her cheeks and the ball anchor firmly in her mouth.
“Oh Gaahhhd,“ she mouthed around the ball, savoring the helplessness of her voice already being taken from her even before she buckled the chinstrap, forcing the ball even more firmly down against her tongue.
“Good,” Mistress Lanfear continued, seeing that Isabel had done the job satisfactorily. “Much better. If you’re not going to answer properly when you’re supposed to, this at least gives you a fig leaf of a reason. Though to be clear, I still expect you to do so. I’ll just enjoy the sound more now. And so will you. Won’t you, marath’damane?”
“Hyehf, Mifhwehf.”
“Oooh, I’ve missed that sound so much.” Mistress Lanfear’s voice might not have changed as dramatically as the woman wearing the gag’s had, but it had changed enough from one sentence to the next that Isabel took a closer look at the woman’s face, now screen-mirrored in 4K in her living room. The combination of Mistress Lanfear’s greater emotional control and the greater amount of make-up she had put on for the evening made it slightly harder to tell, but it looked like the other woman’s face was beginning to show a flush, too.
The woman stayed poised enough, though. “Now, on your mat there, kneel and face me.” Mistress Lanfear nodded to the purple yoga mat that Isabel never bothered to roll up and put away, since she tried to do at least 45 minutes every day.
Isabel knelt, naturally assuming the position so familiar from those past summers. Hands resting upright on knees shoulder width apart. Eyes down. Long, loose, blond ponytail draped over her left shoulder. The meditative pose sometimes had a steadying effect on her mind, but with the ball gag she had worn for those wild summers once again wedged in her mouth, and the woman she had always worn it for dominating the big screen in her flat–and her–after so long, the calming effect was as muted at she was. And it was clear enough that Mistress Lanfear had no intention of just watching her kneel, much as the woman had enjoyed countless hours of that when they had months together.
“Let’s do this properly this time. Lift your dress, marath’damane.”
Isabel took long, almost heaving breaths, but she slid the fossil-grey dress up her thighs.
“Keep holding that dress up with your left hand. Draw your right finger along your slit. Start at the bottom, work your way up to your clit, slowly. Do it the way I did. Do it the way you wish I was there doing it right now.”
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