Checklist J, K, L

Davina stared peacefully into middle distance, moving when he told her to, breathing deeply, if a bit unsteadily. She knew what
this feeling of peace and clarity was—this is what she strived for, yet feared. Some called it subspace, but she had a private
name for it. Serenity.
This was her serenity.
Grif had helped her find serenity many times—usually while she was in suspension bondage or during impact play. As much as
she liked—no, longed for—this feeling, she couldn’t bring herself to give in to it without strong BDSM play.
The woman she was now had trouble letting go enough to find this kind of peace for the same reasons she didn’t like to cry.
One of her best friends loved to cry. She would purposefully watch sad shows or movies, and happily sniffle and sob. At the end
she’d wipe her tears and say “that was amazing.”
Davina thought that was insane. Crying was for the shower, where no one could hear you and where the tears could mingle with
the water, being washed away immediately.
And yet, here she was, in her serenity, with no rope or flogger in sight.
A small voice was insisting that should bother her. That she was now the one sobbing and sniffling while watching a Lifetime
movie.
She ignored that voice, the same voice that had freaked out when she’d called Grif “Master.”
“Last one,” he murmured.
She’d lost track of how many chains he placed on and around her. He’d attached so many clasps to the nipple cages that the
filigree was all but obscured. The chains leading from her breasts hung loosely around her torso, crossed her back, and draped
over her shoulders. More chains were anchored in the ring of the plug. Those wound between and over her thighs, or snaked up
to wrap around her waist.
It was as if she was swathed in a loose weave of jewelry. Only the collar and the center chain that crossed over her clit were
pulled tight.
Grif walked around her, his gaze so intense it was almost a physical touch.
“You look...” He made a sound that was both possessive and proud, almost a growl. “My beautiful minx, bound with jewelry.”

He reached up and untied the twine connecting the cuffs on her upper arms to the lattice above.
“We’re done, Master?”
“No, but you can’t stay like this anymore.” He was efficient, and in no time had the leather cuffs off. “Flex your arms. Good. How
do you feel?”
“Stiff. My shoulders hurt a little.”
Grif massaged her arms and shoulders with firm squeezes. “Thank you for telling me.” He pulled over the other chair, stood on it
—hunched so he wouldn’t hit his head—and then unfastened the chain suspending the jewelry wrist cuffs to the lattice.
He took her hands in his as he got down, lacing their fingers together and lowering her arms to her sides. As stiff as she was, his
controlling her movement helped.
He lifted their interlaced hands, kissing each of her wrists in turn. “You look lovely,” he murmured against her skin.
He lowered her arms to her sides, then without pause grabbed the chains dangling from the cuffs and connected the ends to the
web that draped her body.
Again he took a step back, looking at her. There was an expression on his face she’d never seen before, an expression she
didn’t know how to read.
She wondered what he saw.
“One more piece.”
“I thought you said that already, Master.” Finding her serenity didn’t mean she couldn’t be a little bit sassy.
“Last chain. I have one more thing that’s not...okay, well, it’s made of chain, but it’s different.”
He reached back, into a pocket—how there was any room in his pockets with his hard cock taking up all the space in his pants
she didn’t know—but he pulled out one last thing.
He walked around behind her, but now, with her arms at her sides she was able to turn her head and watch him.
“Face forward,” he commanded.

With a little smile she obeyed, letting her lids slide half closed.
Had she ever been this aroused before?
Her serenity sometimes distorted her sense of time. What felt like several hours had probably been no more than a half hour.
Any longer and her shoulders and back would hurt, rather than just ache a bit as they did now.
In that time—be it thirty minutes or thirty hours—she’d become so achingly aroused it was like a new state of being. A state of
being that fit well with her serenity.
Yet the arousal made no sense.
She and Grif usually had a sexual component to their play. It was one of the many benefits of a private club, that penetrative sex
was allowed, with the club taking care of logistics like regular STD and STI checks.
Yet there were times when their scenes, particularly rope bondage or impact play scenes—those most likely to allow her to find
her serenity—weren’t exactly arousing. It was one of the things many people didn’t understand about BDSM. It wasn’t always
sexual. That was why friends could be scene partners. Flogging—giving or receiving—could be an amazing release, without any
sexual stimulation.
Because she and Grif had played for years, and there usually was sex at the end, she’d become accustomed to having some
sort of sex serve as the climax of the scene. As a result, things that were not necessarily arousing were arousing for her,
because she was with Grif. On the occasions she’d been flogged by someone else—as an experienced switch she was a good
bottom for beginners or those learning a new tool—she would enjoy it, but not find herself wet and needy.
With anyone else, after the flogging she’d shake it off, smile, and then thank her partner, with the same tone and level of intimacy
she used with her masseuse.
Her current state of arousal, let alone the almost blissful state of serenity she found herself in, seemed disproportionate with
what had happened up until now. Though she enjoyed anal in its own right, the plug wasn’t sexually stimulating enough to justify
how wet she was, how her body flushed hot and cold on alternating breaths. Her nipples, which were a major erogenous zone
for her, were bereft of stimulation, trapped as they were within the abnormally large cages. True, the vertical midline chain
occasionally touched her clit, but with her arms down it was no longer as tight as it had been, and she was fairly certain she was
so wet the thing was all but glued to her labia, and therefore not moving enough to be the root cause of her current state.
Maybe it was because they were mid-scene. Maybe this was just her normal sex-is-coming-soon arousal, but it didn’t feel like it.

He’s your Master, and that makes it better.
Not for the first time, unease slipped through her, but it was a fleeting thing, quickly burned off by the conflagration of her need.
Grif placed something on her head, sliding it into place. It was cool metal, and sat on her head like a circlet, or a Rambo-style
headband. “This matches the cuffs,” he explained. “It’s made out of the same metal squares.”
She glanced down at her wrists, where the relief embossed vignettes on their small panels caught the light.
“There’s another part to it. Close your eyes.”
Chain—of course there was chain—jingled, and then something was placed over her closed eyes. Cool metal settled on her
upper cheeks and nose, then something brushed her lips.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“It’s a chain blindfold. Two sort of half circles made up of a bunch of chains are covering your eyes. Kind of like upside down
rainbows, I guess. They’re attached to the crown.”
“A crown. A bondage crown?”
Lips brushed her shoulder. “For my minx.” There was a definite emphasis on the word “my.” She shivered.
“You’ll still be able to see, though not well.” Grif’s hands cupped her waist, pressing links to flesh. “Now step back off the chair.”
With him guiding her, she slid off the chair. Her knees protested for a moment, but without her saying or doing anything, he knew.
Her Master reached down to massage them as he had her shoulders.
It was then that she tried to open her eyes. Her eyelashes brushed against something, an odd sensation, and she blinked
rapidly, which only made it worse. Finally she widened her eyes, holding them open to stop the instinctive blinking.
Her field of vision was mostly obscured by dark blobs and lines—the links of the “blindfold.” She could see a few things clearly—
the door to one of the stalls across from where they were and a light fixture. The rest was blurred colors. She could see enough
to tell where she was, and probably could walk unassisted, though that was in part due to her familiarity with the venue.
“Last bit,” Grif said as he rose from tending her knees.
“You’ve said that several times.”

“And I mean it each time.” Grif thumbed the underside of her breast. “Anything else to say?”
“To...say?”
“I’m going to gag you, too.”
Davina’s breath caught.
“Exhale,” he commanded.
“I don’t...don’t love being gagged.”
“Why?”
“I like to talk. No, I don’t mean it like that. I like to be able to communicate with you.”
“And you think talking is the only way to do that?”
Davina brought one hand to her stomach, pressing it there to still the anxious butterflies. She was startled by the feel of the
necklace lengths under her palm.
“Hand down.”
She obeyed—without question or resentment.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Anxious.”
“Anxious, not just nervous?”
“Anxious,” she confirmed. “This isn’t...we don’t use gags.”
“They’re not a hard limit, for either of us. I checked.”
He’d checked. He’d planned this. He wanted her gagged.
The anxiety released, like air gushing out of a deflating mattress.

“I’m okay. I’m ready, Master.”
Again he touched her breast, and she hated the cages for stopping that touch from moving up to her sensitive nipple.
“Open your mouth.”
When she did, he touched something not to her lips, but to her top teeth. “Now close, slowly.”
She did, and to her surprise found her bottom teeth sliding into what felt like a groove in a very small gag.
“This is part of the crown.” Grif made adjustments to the piece on her forehead, chains tinkling quietly. “It’s a one-and-a-half-inch
wide stainless steel ball with a rubber lined channel carved into the center. Your teeth are in the channel. To keep it in place you
have to keep your mouth closed and hold it in. It won’t be strapped or anything like that. If it gets too heavy, spit it out. It won’t fall
on your toes or anything like that. It’s connected to the crown with a chain.” He wiggled one chain, the one that fell over her lips.
“From now on, we use nod for yes, shake head for no. If you are in pain, need to use your safe word, or have something you
need me to know, drop the gag and tell me. Do you understand?”
She wanted to say that she wouldn’t need to use her safe word, that it wasn’t going to be like their other scenes where she would
make suggestions or changes—she trusted him wholly and without reservation. He was her Master. She was his lover, his
submissive.
She was his.
“Do you understand?” he asked again, a thread of concern in his voice.
She nodded.
“Good.” She both felt, and saw—though it was blurry—Grif reach out and gather a few of the chains from her stomach area. Who
needed a leash when her entire body was dripping with possible leads?
“Follow me.”
Gagged, half blind, naked, and draped and wrapped in chain like some fantasy slave woman from the covers of a 70’s novel,
Davina followed her master out of the Conclave.