My head wasn’t in our game, and I didn’t have a lot to say. I felt like I was waiting for something, perhaps an idea that would set free the heavy weight of emotion that sat in my chest. Or a word from sir that would unlock the chains I had wrapped around the unfamiliar sadness. I was grappling to understand the source of my upset, and even though I knew that I needed to concentrate on our game, I was stuck.
We began on my bed, missionary position, and I suggested that he take off his button down shirt. The shirt was stiff, a barrier, and I needed skin on skin. I lay on top of the quilt, my naked body sprawled over the precise squares of blue and red, waiting for him to disrobe. When he returned, though, the tone of the game had changed. His expression was serious, the smile gone from his eyes. Resolute was the word that came to my mind, and I knew we would be exploring new territory between us. The thought made me nervous.
He grabbed my left breast first, one large hand forming it into a fleshy mound. His other hand drew back and slapped my nipple. The pain made me gasp. It was sharp and immediate, and I barely had time to prepare for the next slap. I struggled to cope with the pain and maintain my position. My nipples were on fire as the edge of his hand dragged forward and backward over my sensitive skin. Breast torture wasn’t new to me, but sir’s intense focus on hurting me was.
I intuited that he was thinking about slapping my face, but I hadn’t convinced myself that he would actually do it. I assumed he played like this with his other partner, but we had never specifically discussed it. Part of me was still shocked that he would want to slap me. It’s an ingrained premise that we don’t hit the ones we love which was why my brain stumbled over the thought. I had always wondered what a face slap would feel like but never had the experience.
I almost didn’t see it coming, his open palm hitting the fleshy part of my left cheek and the backhand catching my right cheekbone and nose. It hurt more than I had imagined, the pain bright and stinging, and I saw stars for a moment. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I wouldn’t meet sir’s gaze as I tried to marshall my breathing.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked as his cock plunged into me.
“Yes, sir.”
For the first time I was. Not in a way that made me fear for my well-being, because I could always say “red.” I could use my safeword and the scene would halt, and I would be swept into sir’s arms for comfort. But I wasn’t ready for comfort. I loved the feeling of anticipation of the next slap while fearing it at the same time. I winced instinctively as he drew back his hand, but there was no way I wanted our scene to end prematurely. Whatever was happening in this moment between us was working loose the vice-like grip I had on my emotions, and I wanted to ride this out for the fulfillment of us both.
When I could meet his eyes again, our game had shifted but it was because of me this time. My engaging, willful self went into the background to be replaced by my slave self. My slave self is calm like the eye of a storm, watchful and enduring. She welcomes suffering and submits over and over again. I wouldn’t describe myself as passive when I’m in this place of deep submission, but I’m less verbal and more watchful.
Sir grabbed my face, keeping eye contact. “I want to see you cry.” He slapped me again, and I did exactly as he commanded. “Now you feel like my slave.”
I remained silent until I asked permission to come, but even my orgasm was a quiet one. Finally sir pronounced himself finished even though he was still hard. I let him roll me onto my side, and his arms came around me.
It took me awhile to come back to myself. Sir held me and murmured soothing words. He described the change in me when I mentally stopped struggling to comprehend the fact that he wanted to slap me and merely endured his attentions instead. Through our conversation I gradually resumed my usual persona. I agreed that our experience had been amazing, and I reassured him that the slapping had been a great experience. Because believe it or not, even sadists need reassurance that they’re not terrible people for wanting to hurt you. The intensity of our interactions had ushered me into the deepest part of my submission, and even though I enjoyed playing in the deep waters, it took me awhile to disentangle myself from the murky depths.
Something emotional had shaken loose during our scene. The sadness that I had felt before was now in full bloom. Its exact definition and cause were still vague, but I could now embrace it. It rapidly became clear to me that the chains I had weighing down my emotional morass were now in pieces, and I was feeling it. ALL of it.
“You seem so sad,” he said when he kissed me goodbye.
“I am, but I don’t know why yet.”
“Please tell me when you do. I want to talk about it,” he said.
“We will,” I promised.
I always try to keep my promises.
