„I'm not sure it's for me," he said softly, one hand playing with the leaves of the pottet plant he was sitting next to as he stared at it in thought. His chest expanded slowly, and then contracted as he sighed, his chocolate brown eyes flicking towards me for a fraction of a second, then resting on the plant once again. The fingers of his other hand tapped restlessly against the concrete of the stairs he was sitting on.
He made me feel helpless, but not in the good way. Heaven knows I enjoyed the feeling of being tied to his bed, ropes digging in my wrists, powerless to stop him from beating me, or fucking me senseless, or both at once. But there was always the safeword if the pain overwhelmed me, if I couldn't take the scene. I'd never had to use it, but the knowledge was there. Now, I wished someone would whisper the safeword for this scene into my ear, so I could stop it, make it all go away and be happy with him forever. In ignorant bliss.
"You've said that before," I told him. My own voice sounded scratchy to me, almost shaking. I was scared. "What do you mean by it exactly? Has it gotten too intense for you? Or can you... can you still not stand the thought of hurting me? I thought you had gotten over that."
"I have. I did. I... I don't know." He raised his hands and buried his face in them, and I resisted the urge to touch him comfortingly. This was not the time, much as I'd have liked to soothe him. It broke my heart to see him like this, conflicted and torn, and knowing that I was the source of it all.
"It's so complicated," he said through the hands covering his face. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry about what?" I dreaded the answer and closed my eyes in anticipation, my body tense. But the answer didn't come. Instead, I felt his hand tentatively touching my shoulder.
"You couldn't live a Vanilla life, could you?" The question didn't catch me completely by surprise; after all, this was at the core of the entire dilemma. Still, it was a shock to actually hear him ask it. I could feel my pulse accelerating, and it became harder for me to breathe as I struggled to answer.
"I don't know. I could try. Is that what you want?"
"You would be unhappy." It was a statement, not a question, and I nodded weakly. It was no use arguing the obvious. I craved submission. I wanted, needed it to be a part of my life, and I'd told him that before. His hand squeezed my shoulder comfortingly, and I heard him say what I knew was true.
"I don't want you to be unhappy."
"I would be unhappy without you," I blurted out, desperate not to lose this argument. I heard him sigh again and looked up at him, to find him looking back at me just the same.
"You're trying to manipulate me."
"I don't want to lose you!" I was so aggravated that I jumped up, looking down at him with blazing eyes from my standing position. He didn't avert his eyes. He was slightly shocked by my behavior, I could tell, but still understanding.
"Who says you're going to?" he asked me, keeping completely calm, and I immediately felt very silly.
"Well you should have said that," I said lamely and sat back down on the stairs.
He elegantly slid down three steps, until he was immediately behind me, and put an arm around me, pulling me against him. I'd always loved the feeling of protection that his broad chest conveyed to me, and so I leaned against him thankfully, calming.
"I don't want to lose you either," he whispered into my ear, and I turned and slid my arms around him. I clung to him, and he held me, and we sat like this for some time. Not moving, barely even breathing, just together, enjoying the feeling of being close to each other. But it was impossible to pretend that everything was good for longer than a moment when there was still a big issue between us.
"So what is it then?" I finally whispered. "What is it that bothers you about it?"
He let out his breath and relaxed his arms, still holding me, but not as tightly. He closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them and looked into the distance.
"There are parts about it that I like. You know that. But there's been things... things that haunt me at night. Some scenes that my mind just keeps replaying over and over, and they bother me more each time."
"What scenes?" I asked him timidly, and he told me.
Such as the first time he had made me bleed. It had happened quite by accident, during one of those times when I had been moody and stubborn, at my worst. I had been sucking his cock, carelessly, unmotivated, and scraped him quite painfully with my teeth. He had withdrawn, looked down at me for a moment, then slapped me with so much force my head felt like it was going to come off my shoulders. I had immediately suppressed any sounds of pain that I might ordinarily have made, lowered my head, and waited. But when I glanced up at him after a moment, I had found him staring at me in horror.
He hadn't broken scene, but continued on, getting a moist cloth and wiping the blood from my nose and lips. I hadn't realized it was there. He had taken care of me, silently, until the bloodflow stopped, then continued the blowjob despite the fact that I had difficulty breathing. But that had been the punishment for my moodiness, and I had accepted it without complaint or resentment.
"I should have stopped the scene," he said quietly, his hand stroking my back comfortingly. "It wasn't right. I should have stopped the scene there and then, and I should have apologized and held you while I washed your face. Not like that. It wasn't right."
"I didn't mind."
"But I did. I realize that you were fine, that it wasn't a big deal to you. But for me –" he broke off and shook his head helplessly.
"But you're getting better," I argued. "You learned from it, and you know better whether to continue a scene. You won't make this mistake again."
"I'll make others."
"Everyone does though. It'll get better, I promise."
"I hope so." He grimaced. One of my hands travelled upwards to run soothingly through his hair, while my mouth kissed along his jawline, urging him to continue.
