Wednesday was like many before and likely the same as many to follow. But all the day long, I felt different inside. I was not comfortable in my submission. I have the urge to resist, to kick his ass into next week. It was not the same as the resistance that comes with wanting to make sure the limits are there, that he is strong enough to contain me. It was the genuine impulse to take him on and prove to him that he was not strong enough.
It scared me. I fought the impulse, but he could the flames leap up in my eyes, the tightening of my muscles. He saw me start to lift my hands and push them down again as I mastered the impulse. I wonder if somewhere deep inside his fight or flight reflexes were triggered. I wonder if he knew what kind of danger he was treading so close to. I wonder if he experienced the same little rushes of fear.
I don’t want the freedom… not really. But lately I am the crazy lady gnawing at the bars of my cage.
I don’t know if it was the series of ‘no’s’ that have emphasized my sense of isolation. Or the stress I have been swallowing down by the gallon at work. I know that the shock of terror I experienced when he did that sneak attack that night knocked down a lot of my carefully constructed internal walls. The crazy lady was loose, prowling through my psyche, clouding my perceptions.
I bit him that night. To give myself credit, it was not the savage, primitive, go for the throat and drink down his blood chomp that my gut was hungering for. It was just a nip, a kind of ‘look out, she has sharp teeth’ kind of a warning… playful like… but he was not having any of it.
And he is strong enough to physically dominate me. I am submissive enough to pull my punches, to not quite bite hard, to grudgingly comply even when I am sneering and baring my teeth, I will turn and submit to his punishments. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel sorry. I don’t regret my actions. I send looks over my shoulder, clear, unequivocal looks of ‘go ahead, do your worst, you can’t really touch this, really make me give a flying fuck’.
Yet there is this other part of me, panicked, fearful, needy, weak and profoundly ashamed… I don’t want this rebellion, not really; but I can’t seem to relax, trust, enjoy. There is the irrational wish that he could do something to fix this, some external application to fix this internal disorganization. But the more he exerts his dominion, the more I resist. And I am not at all confident that in this battle anyone can win. I think everyone will lose.
Last night I choked on the word ‘Master’. He did the usual, kicked my chair and gave me the expectant look. I know I am supposed to say, ‘Yes, Master, is there anything I can do for you?” It is our first and oldest ritual. He kicked and I choked. He was shocked and hurt.
“You deliberately did that. You did that on purpose!”
But, you know I inhaled, I formed the words in my mind, I tried to say them and they got stuck in my throat. I was as shocked as he was. I tried to explain, to cry out my sadness but the words were confused and the tears would not come. I don’t know why I am feeling this way.
He ordered me to come and sit in his lap, to talk to him about this but I don’t have a clue as to what is going on for me. He asked a hundred questions, about food, about sleep, about work, about sex… he even asked if this was hormonal, some ten year late echo of menopause. And all he got was sad, defeated, ‘I don’t know’s. He asked if I needed more hugs, more mushy snuggles and attention or harsher, crueler, longer punishments and I said, “Yes”. He laughed and held me close for a long time.
And when I finished my bedtime routines and knelt at his feet, he delayed releasing me to go down to his bed, telling me to wait, looking down at me thoughtfully. Finally he reached down and tenderly gathered my hair into his fist and twisted my head back, forcing me to arch my back. The only thing that kept me from falling was my desperate grip on the front of his shirt. He leaned down and began to bite and kiss my neck, not hard, not painful and for some totally inexplicable reason it tickled. It tickled like crazy and I could not help but squirm and giggle.
He tightened his grip of my hair, pulled me even further out of balance and pushed it further, growling, scrubbing his whisker stubble against my neck, ears and chest, making motor boats, biting, tickling until I was screaming with uncontrollable laughter. He kept me like that until I was weak, my belly aching from laughing, my face wet with tears. And you know, even though I could not cry, could not find my tears… the laughter loosened some of the tension in my gut, freed some of my fears and doubts.
This morning he is extra attentive, extra watchful… his eyes sharp and gauging. He is taking my measure and I sense he is making his plans.
And today is a new day. Work has gradually been getting better, getting less stressful. Being a duck has been helpful. Now I need to focus on what I am here at home, while I am his.
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