Balancing Acts

Balancing acts

One finds one balancing on the razor’s edge… Master likes a challenge… Master likes a lively give and take. If one argues back or is a bit bratty… if one pulls away at first when he reaches for a handful of flesh… if one feigns rage and pique and calls him names… if one fights back and must be vanquished… Master joins such games with a fervor and enthusiasm. He loves the battle and savors that victory. It emphasizes the ownership; it adds a zing and a rush to the game. It makes him feel like fricken Khan the barbarian or something. Testosterone… go figure.

Anyway, this one naturally is a bit feisty, naturally has a bit of fight in her… this one must feel vanquished so we are a good match… up to a point.

The trouble is this one can easily get a little too enthusiastic in ones “mock resistance”. One has a very impulsive and quick sharp wit… and one is built like a brick shit house and if one forgets that it is “token” one could easily injure Master. One can easily be a rough and tough bitch at times. If the game goes on too long, the play too rough, one loses perspective, one gets infected with rebellion. It tends to pervade her every action and it begins to poison her thinking. And she takes it too far… and then Master is no longer amused… at all… and one realizes she lost her balance and is falling off the far side of that razors edge. One can very quickly find oneself in deep, deep shit… and one is no longer laughing, one is squealing, crying, pleading that “I was just playing… I thought we were playing… I am sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…” as she is being taught one more time that it is possible to go too far, to get beyond that point.

The other day one had such an experience. One had been “playing the game” with Master all day. Endless little struggles and laughter, verbal sword fights… snotty comebacks… big brave ‘you don’t scare me’ taunts, wrastling, titty grabs, smacked butts and pussy pokes… It was all good. Then during a lull, one of those sweet moments of peace between bouts, he walked by he reached out and touched me. Just a gentle touch, an acknowledgement of my presence, a gesture of affection; he can’t not touch me as he passes by. It is automatic and unconscious and natural. But this time, due to the cosmic balance, the low humidity, or just his naturally electric personality, he was intensely charged with ions… positive or negative? I have no idea, but long story short, I was attuned to the opposite charge and he discharged a mighty surge of static electricity. Oddly, my toe is either immune to the sensation or perhaps it was just cosmic justice, but I felt nothing, but I heard it… a loud snap. And he leapt back, yowled then began to laugh sadistically.

Obviously the game was on… and I retorted that I had felt nothing, that it was nothing, nothing at all… but it was obvious that he had felt it all… I went so far as to suggest that not only did he feel it but from his giddy case of giggles that perhaps he enjoyed it… perhaps he was the masochist, not me. I even offered to give him an opportunity to try it out.

Suddenly he was not laughing. Obviously my Master does not appreciate the inference that he might be masochistic. Sensing that the tone of the game may have changed one ducked, and focused back onto the computer in her lap. But alas, it was too late to lay low.

Master was gone for a second and for that second I though perhaps I had gotten away with those words but then he was back, a big handful of zip ties in his paws. The foot rest was kicked out on my chair, and he yanked my feet out onto either side and looped a zip tie onto each big toe and began to cinch my feet together underneath the recliner’s foot rest. I studiously stared at my computer, determined to ignore him. I was still infected with the game, still determined to “win,” and to prove that I could take whatever he had to dish out.

And, really zip ties? Those silly things… I could break them in half it I really fought. But fighting like that, fighting the ties, that is not the kind of resistance I enjoy. I like to feel my bonds, but I hate it if I can break them or escape. So I did not fight. I just sat there as he tightened them, my legs twisting and complaining, my big toes starting to feel like they were getting cut off. It was terrible, the sides of the foot rest cut into my calves, my muscles threatened to cramp, my toes were screaming… and I refused to take my eyes off the computer screen. There was no place of comfort… no tensing or loosening of my muscles could find a bearable position. I am sure my face was a mask of stubborn agony, but I refused to look up and meet his eyes.

I don’t know how long I sat there, dealing with a new balancing act. Trying to find a place in the middle, a place where the pain in my toes equaled the pain in my legs, straining to hold still, fighting the urge to beg him to stop. Finally when a tear slipped lose from my eye, he asked his voice soft, “Had enough?”

And I nodded, suddenly profoundly sad… sad that I have to balance, sad that is it sometimes so fucking easy to screw up… sad that I had done something that had angered my Master. Sad that he loves the resistance but that the resistance tears away at my wish to be good, wish to be obedient… sure it is fun to be snotty… sure I love to be vanquished… but I love the safety of his approval more.

For many days after that, I did not play. When he reached for me, I would relax, offer up the flesh he reached for, pressed it cooperatively into his grasp, willed him to hurt me and welcomed the pain. And he sensed the change, repeatedly questioning if I was sad, angry, depressed I just would smile, shake my head, and murmur, “no, I am fine.”

It was hard to put into words, my intention of replanting the seeds of obedience, to weed out the unwelcome rebellion that had taken root in my heart. And still, when the impulse to pull away rises up, I resist the urge to fight and instead offer up myself to him, whole, happy and oh so sweetly obedient.