He was on top of me, which is usually very enjoyable to me because I like to feel the man’s weight and warmth and to smell him, but this time it felt claustrophobic. His thumbs were grinding into the nerve that runs under the arm and the armpit, and it hurt.
“I love your expressive face. I want to see what you look like when you cry,” he said.
“I…I don’t know if I can.”
“Did your last master ever make you cry…?”
Not exactly the happiest thought to have while in bed with a different man, but I was, as always, honest (besides, he would have known if I lied): “Many times, but not from pain. If it gets very intense, my eyes tear up sometimes, but that’s an involuntary physical reaction, not from emotional distress.”
“That is a barrier I want to break with you,” he said. His hands were grinding, grinding, grinding away and his face was right in front of mine. I couldn’t look away from him.
“I’m…I’m not sure if I can; if I’m even capable. I don’t think I even want to,” I said. The pain and the warmth of his body were starting to make me sweat. At the same time, my mouth was dry, and when I swallowed it made a clicking noise.
“We’ll find out together,” he said, and gripped the nerve in my armpit as tightly as he could.
The pain was too much and all at once, and I couldn’t process it, I couldn’t transform it, as I am usually capable of doing–doing automatically, even.
He lowered his head and started to bite my shoulders. Hard. The impressions from his teeth were gone in a few hours, but his probing fingers left bruises in the morning.
I started to squirm and writhe around, making screechy little noises. I couldn’t help it.
“What will it take?” he panted against my neck. “Do I need to hurt you from inside? You know I am learning all your tricks, Margo.”
With that his hands relaxed, and he lifted himself up onto his arms, looking down at me. He was smiling–I could see it, even in the dark.
I shuddered and relaxed. Assuming it was over, and now we’d just have sex. I don’t know if I was aroused, per say, but I was certainly geared up: adrenaline going, heart pounding, the long muscles in my thighs twitching.
He slowly bent his head, and I thought he was coming in for a kiss. I opened up my mouth and pressed my body up against his.
Instead, he spat onto my upturned face. Laughed. And then reached back and slapped me upside the head.
When I dominate men, I never slap them in the face unless they specifically request it, because, as I’ve written in one of my very early blog posts, it’s both extremely intimate and psychologically loaded. It’s humiliating. And, like being strapped by a belt, a lot of people have negative memories associated with it from childhood.
He reversed hands and slapped the other cheek. Seemed to know what he was doing–his aim was true, and he avoided my nose and orbital bone–but it was a hard slap. It made a thunderclap in the room.
He pulled back and did it again, his other hand pinning my shoulder down on the bed.
Besides the emotional distress, in my experience, being hit in the head causes one’s thinking to short out. I can think–to a greater or lesser extent–when I’m being hurt on any other part of my body. Not so on the face. When I’m being hit on the face, all I can do is have the experience and the feelings.
“I want to see you cry. I want that part of you. I am greedy, and I want it all,” he said, smiling. He pulled back and did it again.
He did it again. And again.
The first emotion after disbelief was rage. I screamed at him to stop it, baring my teeth, all the tendons in my neck standing up.
To his credit, he stopped immediately. He was always in control of himself, this one. He didn’t slap me again, but instead turned my head to the side and pressed it down, hard, into the pillow.
“What will it take…?” he asked.
“More than that!” I snarled.
“We will learn together. I like puzzles.”
He hasn’t solved this puzzle yet.