Owning my mouth goes beyond fucking it.
You’ll own how I use it, too. You’ll decide how I’ll address you. You’ll decide whether or not I’m allowed to swear. You’ll decide what level of sass is harmless and what level of sass is worthy of a firm slap across the face. That hole will be all yours, just like the others.
Inevitably, I will misuse it. I’ll sass you at the wrong time, but I won’t mean to. Sometimes a girl just needs to be reminded that there’s a time and place for acceptable sass, and my place is not always the place. So, you’ll reclaim ownership of your mouth by ordering me to open it. Slut that I am, I’d be hoping for your cock, but I’d get a harsh black ring gag instead. I’d whimper apologetically, sorry already, but forgiveness wouldn’t come so easily. You’d clamp a clothespin onto the tip of my tongue, and the look of protest on my face would be wiped right off. “If you can’t hold your tongue,” you’d say sternly, “I’ll find a way to hold it for you.”
The point wouldn’t be to silence me; it would be quite the opposite. Much to my dismay, you’d put me on a leash and order me to pant, just like a dog. “Mewl, kitten” would be the next command, and I’d obey with swiftly reddening cheeks. You would order me to repeat after you, to say the filthiest, most depraved things you could think of. “My mouth is a cock-hungry cum bank.” “All of my holes are Daddy’s fuck-holes.” “I was born to be nothing but a slutty little fucktoy.” My words would be unintelligible, garbled so brutally that they wouldn’t sound like words at all. They’d be guttural noises, made all the more humiliating by the drool that would drip down my chin and form a puddle at your feet. Later, my tongue would dry up and my jaw would ache. You’d make me say filthy thing after filthy thing, and all I’d want would be to stop talking. But you’d have gotten your point across, and the lesson will have been burned into my brain. I’d have been reminded that you own my mouth in more ways than one, and that good girls are responsible with how they use your property. And when you’d remove the gag, there would only be one thing left to say: “Thank you for the correction, Daddy.”
Gratitude, however, wouldn’t come in the form of words.
It would come in the form of a sorry little mouth, eagerly accepting your length.