My article about gagging men finally fucking posted. It took long enough. Something about website problems and processing the photos kept delaying it. Whatever. It’s live now, and duckie ensures me the full gallery will publish this evening.

I woke up this morning in my hotel, and for the rare occasion when I’m actually going to tell you where I am, I’m in Texas. That’s all you’re getting. Texas is fucking huge. Figure it out.

I got the publication notice while I was still in bed and was reading through the finished article when Boots came back with my morning coffee. He saw what I was reading and asked about it, so naturally I decided this was an educational opportunity.

Boots is my newest Texas boy. He’s in his mid-twenties, six-foot-seven, muscular as hell, and works in the oil fields. Broad shoulders, thick arms, big hands, cowboy boots, and enough macho Texas swagger for three fucking men. He’s exactly the sort of guy people don’t picture when they imagine a submissive man.

I met him through a friend, and Boots was the one who convinced me he wanted to submit. I’ve been here three days, and except for leaving to fetch my food, coffee, drinks, and whatever else I need, he’s barely left my hotel room. I like having a personal valet.

Breaking him in took some work. The marks on his body are evidence of that. Boots had apparently decided beforehand which parts of submission he was willing to explore and which ones he wasn’t. In particular, he thought pegging was something he could simply exclude while enthusiastically volunteering for everything else. He quickly learned a painful lesson – that’s not how things work with me.

And, that giant macho Texan discovered there were a few things about himself he hadn’t figured out quite as well as he thought.

Anyway, this morning Boots handed me my coffee and asked about my article, so I handed him my phone and told him to read it.

He did. I watched him carefully. He was obviously interested, and the growing bulge in his tighty whiteys wasn’t exactly subtle, but when he finished he gave me this little scoff. I could tell he wasn’t entirely buying my argument that sometimes gagging a man simply makes the experience better.

Okay, Boots.

Time for a demonstration.

I had him strip, put him in position, and used my dirty pantyhose as the gag. Then I strapped on and gave my big Texas boy another pegging session while he discovered exactly what I’d been talking about. His usual noises were reduced to muffled protests through nylon, and I didn’t have to listen to six-foot-seven inches of Texas commentary.

Much fucking better.

I got my morning workout in. Boots got another lesson in submission. And I was able to hear the morning show I had on the TV while I did it.

So yes, Boots, I stand by my article.

Sometimes I just want him to shut the fuck up.