“I do own you, you know,” he says to me, running his hand along my side and stomach, squeezing my flesh here, plucking a nipple there. I dare not cringe away, even though it ticles, because he will only keep doing it if he knows that I don’t want that. He has misunderstood me and his role completely, but I give him points for trying, and do not comment upon his technique.
“When I tell you not to do something, I don’t expect to find that you’ve done it anyway,” I hear him say. “I can’t see why you can’t learn that, Mercedes! You know that I don’t like having to discipline you, but you leave me no choice! Why do you keep doing these things? First it was that I found you in my filing cabinet after that test, and now this! Can you say anything in your defence?”
I stand there, smiling to myself. I know that he doesn’t expect me to say anything. This is only his way of trying to psych himself up to do what he must. I know that he hates the role into which I have forced him, but he gives me what I tell him that I need, since he wants to keep me contented by his side; and we both know that I am likely to stray if he does not tie my hands to this hook in the ceiling of our bedroom, and flash the buttons and breasts that he loves so much.
I struggle pretty. I know that it is expected, and it may galvanise him into action. It does. He moves in front of me and slaps my right breast, getting a geneuine sting; and then, too quickly, he reaches around to smack my rump, much less effectively. He hits me, as hard as he dares. It is not nearly hard enough, but his rubbing the sting away is pleasant, and I am grateful that he has started something. I want to ask for more, but I refrain lest I hurt his feelings. He hits me again, and I reflect that though I feel it, it is probably Only because he has hit me in exactly the same spot as the last time. I get no pleasure from that, but it has taken me so long to get him to this point that I say nothing. He strikes mea third time, and all I can think about is his lack of rhythm, and what I have planned for tomorrow.
I know that he is trying; so am I. I want him to slap my breasts again, but I do not ask because it causes him too much angst when I do. I bite my lip and hold on, keeping my disappointment at bay yet again. He has improved his knot-tying technique, I realize. He almost seems like a real Dom in some things, and I am reluctantly impressed. I smile at him fondly. I know that he likes to be reassured that he is doing a good job. I give him that reassurance because, what are my options? He is trying to please me and I feel that I deserve this consideration.
He keeps slapping my rump until I can take it no more. It is not the pain, for I have not yet reached my threshold. It is Because I can no longer bite back my announcement at his lack of technique. I try to remember how grateful I am to him for trying. I try to remember that I loved him once. I think about the times when I feelgeneuine affection still. Those moments are fleeting, since I have given up on him being an effective Dom; the man whom I need him to be.
“What is wrong, baby?” I hear him ask.
“Nothing,” I scream. “I just want you inside me right now, my love,” I whisper.
This is not true, but what else is there to be said in a place like Jamaica?
“Fuck me!” I command.
He smiles, delighted. This is what he wants. He reaches in front of me and ticles my clip, hoping that I have juiced up enough to take him immediately.
I have not, but I dismiss this, and tell him that it must be my fault. I goad him, almost immediately, into another role play. I mean to distract us both from the reality that this fantasy is not working for us. It is not every one of my dreams that I want to see made into reality, but this really is one of them, and I have not been able to live this dream for myself.
I feel his hands on the flesh above my fishnet tights. He fumbles happily and asks me, nicely to bend over a little, so that he can get into me more easily.
I hate him for that, but I do it anyway. I allow him to piston into, and out of, my body, until one of us is happy.
I say all the right things, another faked orgasm; another satisfied customer. He cuts me down, and carries me to his bed, smiling triumphantly. Yet again, I add to my mind’s tally of what he owes me. I say nothing as I cuddle him in his post-coital dozen and contemplate the darkness of our room, wondering if I will ever collect.
It is a bitter pill to swallow; this reality that it really is my fault. We are two actors on the stage of life. I can’t bring myself to acknowledge that we are in two different plays. I kill this thought before it becomes crystallised in my mind. I deflect the truth with another epiphany: I never, ever get what I want; and yet I remain. I ask myself, who is topping whom? Have I become the embodiment of my dreams?
Leave a Reply