Chapter Text
Chuuya’s chin is pressed against the hard, smooth surface of the ebony coffee table in front of the plush chair currently occupied by Amos, who’s wearing his trademark self-satisfied smile. His owner’s dress shoes are hooked into Chuuya’s bound wrists on his lower back, his legs crossed at the ankles, transferring the low rumbling of Amos’ amusement and having it travel up Chuuya’s spine in small tickles. Amos is having his favourite drink, a Gin & Tonic; people leave and come and there’s always someone there, talking to Chuuya’s owner.
Chuuya feels Amos’ attention like little pin pricks on the back of his neck, nonetheless. Ironically, the thick collar does nothing to shield him. The music’s bass is a vibration in his knees where they pick it up from the concrete floor, tangible rather than audible, with he and his owner being in a room a bit off from the heart of the party. He sighs around the inflatable latex butterfly gag, firm straps holding it in place, the pump lying in front of him with everyone invited to use it, as the little sign on the table expressly states.
His jaw aches, the drool trickles out of his mouth, slides off the table’s edge, drops onto his thighs, warm at first, then cooling. Embarrassment and pain fight for his attention. With every pump stroke the gag presses tighter against his teeth, his gums. The latex leaves a dryness against his palate, pressing the tongue down with nowhere to go, and no way to escape that rubbery taste. He can’t imagine his jaw opening even wider, yet he desperately needs to prove he’s a good boy and stay silent. Take the pain.
His stomach burns hot at having the pump in plain view, everytime a party-goer stops, his heart beats painfully in his throat with fear that this time the gag might finally burst - yet also needing them to do it lest Amos lose his patience and think up something even worse. There’s something comforting to the evil you know.
With every pump he salivates worse, the headache almost splitting, his jaw a mess of pain without location, nearing the end of Amos’ game. And with every pump of air spreading open his jaw even more he can’t help but agree with Amos, Talking is overrated anyway. All it does is get you into trouble, pet.