airport

I arrive in Denver, take the shuttle train to baggage claim, and Amanda is waiting for me. Last I saw her was December, so it’s been several months, but this feels like a lot longer.

This is different now. She kisses me among the crowds, her minty lips linger upon mine, and she savors me as a kind of love-making and slave-making, both.

As we wait for my luggage, Amanda pulls from her bag a shiny new metal collar with an O-ring in front. She takes off my fashion choker and puts — well, given the width and weight of the new metal collar, the word is installs — it around my neck. She retrieves a Yale lock from her bag, coming behind me, lifting my hair, and making a show of locking my collar in back.

This is for presentation, partly. People watch, though with furtive glances of those witnessing a private forbidden intimacy. I blush. I’ve grown unused to public displays of my submissive affliction. What embarrasses me is not the collar — people in airports wear all kinds of strange things — but the act itself: my docile acceptance of her possession of me. It tells the world I am submissive, a word they don’t understand but imagine they do.

I manage to say, “Making the airport your neighborhood too?” It’s a touch sarcastic, but comes out like a purr.

A ritual re-collaring, public as only Amanda has nerves of dominant steel to do, is symbolic, I know, of my return to submissive life under Amanda. Despite my flush, it makes me incredibly happy. At peace. All the hectic whirlwind of my final days in PA has come to this moment of settling back into Mistress-Amanda-time.

I grow into a personal quiet, enjoying the music of Amanda’s voice as she talks about her week and about my week to come. Schedules and such. She has plans for my life, and for the moment it feels amazing that I don’t have to plan my mother’s life and Lucille’s life, much less my own.

Luggage arrives, and we head to the garage for the car. In the elevator bay, Amanda pauses, reaching again into her bag of tricks, and pulls out a red ballgag. She fits it around the back of my head, under my hair, ensconcing it firmly into my mouth.

I note that Amanda does not ballgag me in the busy thoroughfare of baggage claim, but in the more vacant shelter of the elevator bay. Amanda wants my humiliation to be before a few not a multitude. At least this time.

But there are more than a few. People assemble at the elevator doors — a group of persons behind another group, and a third group to the side. People glance at me sideways, my ballgag strange and curious and scarlet-letter red.

The elevator arrives, doors open, and people stream out, only to do double-takes upon seeing me gagged and collared.

Amanda calmly takes my hand, and leads me into the elevator, along with a half dozen others. More looks, glances. Judgments that I cannot argue with. I am obvious.

We make our way down to the garage and walk to the car, passing more people on their way into the airport. One couple is talking, then stops mid-sentence upon seeing me with the red rubber ball strapped into my mouth. As we walk past them, their voices start up again, one muttering, “You see everything nowadays…”

We get to the car and Amanda removes my ballgag.

“Did you enjoy that?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“Very much so,” she says with a sigh. These months have been a deprivation for her as well as me. She needs her dominance, of me, not just anyone, which is a lovely thing. Amanda pushes me against the side of her car, pressing into me, flattening my clothed breasts with her own, kisses me again. My nipples reach for hers.

She dips into her bag of magic once more, pulling out a long dog leash, attaching it to my collar.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Pennsylvania anymore.

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