Bondage Babe to Sunday-Afternoon-Mom in Five Minutes

Or, “Why Not to Let My Top Keep Track of the Time.”
In his defense, he thought I said I had to be there at 4:15, not 4:00.  Still, standing in my slut dress in 4 inch heels, pressing myself as close to his body as I could manage and enjoying the warmth in my just-beat ass and the throbbing in my finger-fucked pussy is not the time to hear, “What time did you say you have to leave? Because it’s 3:50.”
I got to the Bondage Babe part because another Top that I play with requested a special photo of me in shoes that he’d purchased for me while we were in Chicago.  In case you haven’t read this post, W’s all about taking pictures, so he was more than happy to fulfill the request.
I arrived at W’s in running clothes and under a tight timeframe. I jumped in the bath and dressed quickly, which was easy enough to do: black sleeveless tube dress, thong panties and strappy black heels do not take long to get into. Thirty seconds from naked to Bondage Babe.
He tied my legs to a spreader bar, put breast presses on my tits, tied my hands behind me, shoved a ballgag in my mouth (“blue to match your eyes,” he said) and bent me over his (gleaming) desk (I noticed at one point that my hair matches the color of his desk. ~grin~)  Then he flogged, spanked and paddled my ass into a glowing pink color (or so I think-I know that was what he was going for.) And took pictures. And then he pushed his fingers inside of me and made me come, several times, while I slobbered drool onto his desktop…not part of the photo request, I don’t believe.
So honestly, was I in any shape to check the time, or even to know how long we’d been playing?
Still in a post-orgasmic haze, I ran up the stairs, stripping the dress over my head and pulling off my shoes as I went. Jeans-tshirt-normal-shoes-and-a-hairband later, and  I was transformed once again, from Bondage Fucktoy to Sunday-Afternoon-Mom.
Shopping with the GirlChild a half hour later, she peers at my cheek. “Were you napping?” she asks.
“Um, no,” I say, wondering where this is going.  Was there dried drool on my cheek? “Why?”
“Because you have a mark, a stripe, on your cheek, like your pillow or something…”
“Huh,” say I. “Don’t know. Maybe the weight bench…” Glancing in the mirror surreptitiously I see the distinctive shape of the ballgag strap on my cheek.
Okay, so maybe from Bondage Babe to Bondage Mom.