Writer's Block

I’m sat at my computer wondering what to write about, I can’t seem to concentrate. Maybe the reason I can’t think is that my ankle is really hurting, I think it’s because I crossed it over the other one before I tied them to the post at the back of the typing chair and now the very thin cord that I used is rubbing agonisingly on the bone.
My mistress is away this week in Paris and I miss her. So I’m wearing the black vintage Van Raalte nylon slip that she wore to bed over the weekend, it’s creased and warm and smells of her… and me. I find the odd stiffened stain on it, mostly under the curve of my belly and the memory of Saturday afternoon in our bed fills my head. Our legs entwined and our most intimate areas locked together and her hand wound into my hair and tears in my eyes. It can be reactivated with a breath.
I’m smaller than she is and the lace cups of her slip scratch slightly and irritate the already hyper sensitive nipples of my bound breasts with every movement. My wrists are bound in front of my chest with the same thin cord as my ankles and tied to more cord around my neck, which in turn is tied to my ankles behind me. This means that with every letter I type I am cutting off air and blood to my head. I tried to tape my hands so that I could only use one finger on each to type, I couldn’t do it on my own, but I can only type with two fingers anyway (what! I’m an actress)
The two little vibrating balls are still buzzing along inside me and since I’ve been sitting here, I’ve come three times and done a little wee. The mistress’s panties, that she wore at the weekend, cycling, gardening and laughing, marked with her crusty white issue, a slight smell of wee and pooh, are stuffing my mouth. They are held there by an elastic self adhesive bandage that has been wrapped round and round my head. Black electrical tape is wound round and round over that and finally silver/grey duct tape that covers my head from under my chin, all over my face either side of my nose to my eyes. The only noise that I can make is deliciously pathetic and sounds far away.
The pain in my ankle is making me cry, I need the toilet and I’m going to come again and I still can’t think of anything to write…