Two Word-Bits

Being made more bimbo has, until now, mostly been about the look. The body, the face, the hair, the scent, the tan, the clothes. The – no, can’t say that word. Too many word-bits. The… the… no, i can’t think of an instead one. But tonight is the first night W/we are really playing with a limit on my mind, a making more simple. Cut the vocab down and see what it does to me.

The rule is simple – i can’t use any word longer than two… can’t say that one either. Two word-bits. You know, those sounds that add up to make a word. The rule starts when W/we get past the front desk, and ends when W/we get back to O/our hotel room later tonight. In between is a kink event – one of O/our favourites. W/we’re a four hour drive from home and staying in a room at the swingers club where the event is held, up what feel like endless stairs in a room with a view of the rooftops and golden sunlight that i use to do my makeup while Mx takes a nap.

They wake up as i start clipping in layers and layers of plastic hair. i’m dressed in sheer pastel rainbows and my makeup is Barbie pinks and blues. i feel so good – in the headspace i always find when i make myself into the thing that They design. i ask if They’ve decided – one word-bit or two? They say two, for a first try, and soon i’ll find out how hard that really is and be grateful They didn’t go for one.

W/we arrive, pay, check in O/our phones and pick up a locker key, and head down to the bar. W/we’re late in an in fashion way, but the night is still young and people filter in slowly, there’s drinks – mostly the kind without… ah shit, what can i say for that? The kind that don’t get you drunk. Not much play yet, but the spanking benches and St Andrew’s crosses on the dance floor have a draw as strong as the planets to the sun. i stare at them with hopeful eyes. Mx gives them a nervous glance – They like the smaller dungeons and the private rooms much more. W/we agree O/our first goal though – the smoking place.

i notice quickly that there are some very sneaky three word-bit words. Like the smoking place, that’s not what i would say most times. But the four letter version has three word-bits and it catches me out. Mx is holding a nasty rubber ladder looking thing, and when i fuck up They give me a sharp whack with it and i squeak.

And They get plenty of chances to find out how loud They can make me squeak as W/we chat to other smokers. There’s a convo about play with that stuff that comes out of plug sockets that catches me out. i try to get away with “remem” as a way to say that thing when you think about a before thing and that’s not a real word or a common short version like “convo” and “probs” and They don’t accept it. That’s probs fair. W/we have a debate about words where how i say them is two word-bits, but that Mx thinks is pushing it. “Lib’ral” They accept but They are not best pleased by “Febry” or “Wensday” and say i’m taking the piss.

But i’m getting better at it – more sure of myself, with less awkward pauses while i look for the right word. Those pauses never fully go, though – and my slow, broken, simple speech does something to me. The same something i feel when i do my makeup and my hair for Mx – the same thing i feel when i inhale the sharp burn of poppers and watch Them stroke Their cock in front of my face, while i drool and whimper out of reach. i don’t feel stupid but i do feel empty. my head is a room of echoes and floating in it is only Them – Their needs, Their orders, Their body. They take control over my looks, my thoughts, my lust and make those things Theirs.

It gets more tricky when W/we play. W/we play twice over the course of the night – once in a small dungeon where few stop to watch Mx beat me with a wand clamped between my thighs. i cum hard, shaking, hyper aware of a couple playing close by and it’s hotter, better, for having them there. The second time i chase that high, wanting more eyes on U/us, and Mx faces Their fear and agrees. They beat me on the dance floor and i’m dripping and begging to be touched when They’re done. Both scenes are broken up with sudden slaps from the rubber ladder, rudely breaking into nice mostly thuddy beatings, when i forget myself and slur-mumble words of all kinds in my pain and pleasure haze. It’s hard to count word-bits when your brain is melting out of your ears.

It’s hard, too, when tired. After hours of social times, violence (pronounced “vi-lence” – it’s allowed!), and walking around the huge club with its many stairs, i’m yawning and hungry and i start to lose track again. i earn a few more whacks but even they fail to wake me up, and around ten thirty W/we accept defeat and head back to O/our room. i’m sleepy and don’t have much to say, but i feel the weight of the limit lift even so. my words are back – the big and small, and i can feel myself expand back to fit my own brain.

It’s a fun game – one i can’t wait to play again. But oh my god, i don’t think i’ll blog in two word-bits mode again, i have given myself a headache!