Image of January Seraph
I wish I could take the credit for this post, it is so well-written that it actually made me want to try out a gasmask for the first time. I’ve never been interested in it before now. Maybe it will have the same effect on you. It is called, Behind The Gas Mask, and I am posting it here for my friend Tina Peitsche, who is the genius behind the writing.
There are so many ways to begin a story. I could begin at the beginning, reciting from memory the first meeting that started it all. That’s the most logical but so boring. I could drop you into the middle of a scene between two players without any explanation, and if I had the skill enough, keep your attention while you try to figure out what is really going on. Very Shakespearean, but rather risky. Or I could just take the simplest route, and make an introduction - tell you more about me. I’ve chosen to take this path. No need for dramatics- I’ll save those for other stories. So, hi. I’m a submissive who’s just been introduced to gasmasks, and who is madly in lust with her Dominant.
But this article isn’t just about gasmasks, or the fact that my Dom can make me wet with one raise of an eyebrow. It’s also about the imperative of trust. As a submissive, you’re allowing another person full control over your mind and body. You become their puppet both physically and emotionally. Want me to stand just so? Remove my clothes? Straddle that bench? Allow you to whip me till I’m bleeding? How about I give you a blow job? Tell me how you like it and if I don’t do it right, feel free to thrust your cock down my throat so far that I gag. Hell, do that anyway. I’ll admit it, I like it. Don’t fall for it when I show you teary eyes and a reproachful look, as if to say “How could you do that to me?” I’m eating it up. Show me what you’ve got; I’m ready.
Okay, okay, I’m getting carried away. Point is as a submissive I allow myself to become a marionette to the whims of my Dom, because I enjoy it. But that level of submission is not attainable if you don’t trust your Dom. My story of gasmasks is a perfect example. When you have a fear of enclosed spaces like I do- it takes an inordinate amount of trust to agree to strap one onto your head. Only he could entice me to do it. Well, him and the promise of a mind blowing orgasm at the end of it. Here, let me set the stage for you.
So there I am, straddling a caning bench, legs tied to either side and hands tied to the front. My face is being pressed down into the leather by my Dom, facing away from him. He’s growling under his breath and I’m letting loose the occasional yelp as his hand connects with my backside. Damn, that man always knows just how hard to hit me to shock me. It’s always just a bit more than I was expecting, whatever level we are currently at. Despite the pain and surprise, I always find myself arching my back to push into his hand, exposing myself more, begging for him to make contact again. I want him to hurt me. I love it. I’m such a little slut for him. I know it. I’m not ashamed.
Suddenly his hand is pushing down harder the back of my neck, until my cheekbone smarts against the leather. He’s leaning over me and I feel his breath on my shoulder. All of my hair is standing on end. What’s coming next?
“You okay with breath play? Asphyxiation?” He asks me. God, that voice! Low and gravelly and pure alpha male. It never fails to get to me. It sends tingles down my spine and I almost giggle, suddenly envisioning Goldilocks being held down and ravaged by the Big Bad Wolf. On the surface he’s being polite, letting me set my boundaries, and if I say no, he won’t push it. But he has a way of saying things that makes them a command, and I want to obey. I know I will be missing out if I say no. I want to give him whatever he wants. I’m not sure what he has in mind, and I don’t care as long as he’s the one doing it to me.
“Yes.” I answer in a gasp.
He gives me a little shake and I whimper with longing. I realize I’m grinding my pubic bone into the leather bench.
“You’re sure?”
Am I sure? Sudden doubt fills me. He must have something bigger in mind than just strangling me to ask if I’m sure. (Which by the way I love. His hand- my throat… a match made in heaven.) What am I signing up for? I think about it for a split second and decide I don’t care. I’m right where I want to be.
“Yes.”
“Don’t turn around.” He releases me and disappears. It’s always a curious place to reach when he does that. He’s done it to me before. It never gets old. I’m not supposed to turn around. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. I hear strange sounds but cannot place what they could be. The wheels in my head are spinning. I can feel my heart thudding against the beam I’m resting on. My legs are tied to either side so that I’m totally exposed from behind, fully opened to him, and I’m acutely feeling my own vulnerability. I’m so accessible to him in this position. It embarrasses and excites me all at once. It’s making me blush even now, just thinking about it. It’s like that dream where you can’t turn around to see the monster you know is sneaking up behind you. Any second now he’s going to grab you. Except in this situation, the monster is unbearably sexy and you’re going to cum like a train wreck when he grabs you.
He’s back. Again those rough, wonderful, brutal hands are directing me- this time to lift my head, and he’s thrusting my face into a gasmask. That’s not what I was expecting. For a second I balk and he feels it. His grip loosens just a fraction. He’s letting me decide. I’m scared. I don’t know if I can handle being that enclosed- to have my air supply that controlled. A hand can release my throat at any moment. A gas mask…. He’s going to have to unbuckle it to get it off me and when you’re panicking, every second is horrible. This whole exchange takes only a moment, and then I’m pushing my face forward, silently acquiescing to his demands. Yes, I’ll do it. I trust him. I want him. I’m his. Bring it on.
Best decision I ever made.
He kneels down before me so we’re eye level, tightening the straps over my head. With every tug it’s getting harder to draw a breath. I train my eyes on his face- eyes that I know must be huge with trepidation and lust- the quintessential deer in headlights. But he’s not looking at me.
“Breathe…” He commands me, his attention on his hands, and I draw a deep, labored breath so he can hear I’m not suffocating. Well, not really. I’m fighting a mad urge to shake my head- like a tethered wild horse. “Breathe….”
And then, just as he’s getting up, he shoots me one look straight in the eye; dark, severe, and full of intent. I am looking at the Devil. I feel the shock of contact down to my toes. Oh my God, I am really in for it. Then he’s out of my range of sight and my last comfort- the familiarity of his face- is gone. I’m trapped inside the mask, fighting to pull in a full breath, and my body has become his playground. Every sense I have is trained fully on him standing behind me. His hands are pulling me- spreading me open for his pleasure. I’m blushing so hard that my cheeks are burning but it doesn’t matter, because nobody can see it. I’ve become an object. I am a toy. He touches me and I communicate by thrusting myself against his hand. More… More… More… I’m pleading using pure body language.
Whack! I jerk when the flogger hits me. My hips are rolling of their own volition.
“Say ‘Thank you Sir’ when I hit you.” He orders. I whisper the words, but they are lost in the mask.
Whack!
“I can’t hear you!”
“Thank you Sir!” I yell. I’m struggling to enunciate so he can hear me. It comes out muffled and slightly panicked. His mouth is probing me now and I’m writhing in absolute ecstasy beneath it.
The intensity of our play overwhelms me. I’m in tears beneath the mask. He is waging full out war and I am his battleground. The limited oxygen is making my whole body tingle, so every sensation is amplified a hundred times. Then he reaches up and covers the mask with his hand, cutting off my air supply completely. I’m still for a few seconds, holding my breath, but the need for oxygen asserts itself quickly and I suck in desperately, feeling the mask tighten around my face. There’s no air. Again fear surges to the surface and my body struggles against the bonds that hold me still. He hardens perversely inside me in response and drives into me deeper. I grind back against him, taking him in. For a moment I wish I was a fly on the wall so I could see myself as he must see me- bound, naked, vulnerable and struggling.
“Oh, Good Girl…” He rumbles, and I find myself spinning into another orgasm. I can’t remember how many I’ve had already. He releases the mask and I gulp in sweet air, sobbing.
When it’s over, I’m exhausted. I’ve been violated every possible way and loved every minute of it. I lie loosely in my bonds, draped over the bench like a discarded doll. Only my ribcage is moving- desperately sucking in air, trying to still my racing heart. He’s trailing his fingers over my back gently, and it feels like I’m being brushed with the tips of cigarettes. Every nerve is alive to him. When he loosens the buckles and allows me to pull off the mask, it’s a relief and a disappointment all at once. I’m utterly spent but it’s so difficult- returning to myself from the highly sexual object I’d become over the last hour. Then my hot face emerges into the cooler air, and I sigh, closing my eyes. He’s untying the ropes. I lay my cheek against the leather and relax into his care.
It takes an hour for me to stop shaking. The next day, I wake up and run my fingers over the bruises on my wrists and legs, enjoying the thrill of remembering. Two days later, I’m still marveling at the direction the scene took, and how completely I trusted my Dom. I listen to my friends’ stories of mishaps, misplaced trust, and regrets, and I realize how lucky I am to have found the situation that I have.
And now, I’ve reached the end of my story. Again, there are so many ways I could wrap it up. But frankly I’m still exhausted- still processing- and I’ve reached the end of my cleverness for the day. So I’ll give it to you straight. Yes, I am now a huge fan of gasmasks. But I’m particular as to whom I will allow to strap one on me. Surrendering to the objectification and deprivation of your body on that level is a very personal thing. So if I’ve moved you by my story- if you’ve found yourself squirming in your chair and wishing you could duplicate my experience- the best advice I can give you is make sure you find a partner with whom you have the same level of connection. Trust is essential. Make sure your Dom (or you, if you are the Dom) knows what they’re doing and that they have the appropriate level of concern for your well being, both physical and emotional. Oxygen deprivation can be dangerous if not taken seriously. If you have all of those elements you’re going to have one hell of a good time. Take pictures. Or video. Or hell, write an article. I want to hear all about it. Tell me a story….
