Author's Note: I wrote this in 1993, for a lover who is much as I describe here. Upon reading the story, he said, "Who gave you the owner's manual?!" I assume that was a compliment -- on my understanding of him, at least, even if not on my writing. :-)
Game 1: Anger
He doesn't bottom to me very often, and when he does, it's usually just a flogging. I had told him that I had something different in mind for today, and he'd agreed. He's actually a fairly brave bottom for someone who does it so rarely, but I was going to stretch him pretty far today. I hoped it wouldn't ruin what we have between us.
I asked him to sit in a chair, then attached him to the chair by means of a chain wrapped once around his waist and once around the back of the chair, padlocked shut. His hands and feet I left completely free -- this man could do anything except get away. He looked puzzled at the arrangement, since I usually either don't bind him at all or else restrain him pretty thoroughly. He looked even more puzzled when I put his open toybag by the right side of his chair -- I always use my own toys.
I took his chin in my hand and tilted his head up to look at me. "I want your permission to push somewhat against the boundaries of consent."
He cocked his head to one side and looked at me thoughtfully. "I don't know quite how to read that," he said, "but I agreed to let you experiment on me, and I believe in keeping my word."
I smiled tenderly at him and told him I loved him. Then I put my left hand on one side of his face to steady it, while with my right hand I slapped him hard across the face. "Your safeword," I said, spacing the words out and enunciating every word clearly, "is to get angry."
He gazed at me, as calmly as ever. "And who is to decide whether or not I have gotten sufficiently angry?"
"I am, of course. That means that you must not merely feel angry, your anger must be clearly visible to me."
He smiled slightly. "I knew you were a sadist."
"You're sounding awfully calm and collected."
"I always sound calm and collected. Do you want me to say that I am frightened? Very well. I am. But surely you didn't suppose that I would beg you to stop?"
"No, that isn't necessary. And it wouldn't do you any good, anyway. After all, begging me to stop isn't your safeword."
He gave me a look at that point. It wasn't yet an angry look, but it did seem as if he were starting to appreciate what sort of scene we were doing.
Andrew has problems expressing anger, especially anger at someone he loves. He has been trained by past lovers that getting angry means losing their love, so he simply doesn't express anger and often doesn't even admit to himself that he feels it. I knew, and he knew, that this wall was stifling him, and with his permission, I was about to smash it.
I sighed inside myself. I don't usually do verbal abuse. I don't like to give it, and I don't like to get it. But just beating on the man wouldn't be enough, and I psyched myself up to do what needed to be done.
I wound my hand in his hair and pulled his head back. I love it when he does this to me, but he is not a sub and was sure to find the position vaguely insulting. The main reason for assuming it, though, was to keep his head from moving too much while I slapped him, to keep him from getting whiplash. I didn't want to make my precautions too obvious, though -- it's hard to get angry at someone who's obviously protecting you -- I wanted it to look as if the only reason for the position of my hand was the domination value.
I slapped him across the face, quite hard, alternating forehand against the left side of his face with backhand against the right side. I slapped him as methodically as I could, trying to emulate the machinelike rhythm I had seen a particularly cold top use. While I slapped him, I insulted him. I used the scornful, sarcastic, sneering voice that my mother used to use - I had always gotten angry at the owner of that voice, and I hoped that he would, too.
"It's the big, bad top, isn't it? The one who's brave enough to beat up young women. But you aren't brave enough to face the real you, are you?" I continued slapping him across the face, as insultingly as possible. "You think you're such a grown-up. You say that you were born old. But little boy, you're still in junior high. You're still letting the way your childhood classmates treated you determine who you are and how much you can feel. You may have a man's body, but you left your emotions back in junior high." Using my hand in his hair, I jerked his head back even further.
He was breathing hard and was looking at me with those flat brown eyes that give nothing away. This was actually a fairly good sign -- it is when he is especially inscrutable that there is the most going on inside.
"I used to think that you were so strong. But you're really a coward, aren't you? You're afraid to show me your real self, afraid to give me your true emotions, afraid to love me for real." I slapped his face in time with the "afraid"s -- three times I told him he was afraid, and at each afraid, he got a slap, hard, backhanded across the face.
He looked at me. "You're trying to manipulate me, but you're being pathetically obvious about it."
I smiled. "Gee, Mr. Spock, you almost sounded angry there for a second." The flat brown eyes opened for a second at his childhood nickname, then slammed shut again. Quickly, I continued.
"You've craved acceptance all your life and never found it." Slap. "You've wanted a place where you belonged all your life and only managed to find a bulletin board." Slap. "What do you think stands in the way of your acceptance? YOU, you dummy." I gave him several hard slaps. "No one can accept you until YOU accept you. Mr. Spock had an excuse - he was a hybrid. But you, you don't have an excuse. You've simply thrown your humanity away."
The eyes were as flat as ever, but the voice was angry. "You've won," he said. "I'm angry."
I wanted to grab him and hold him and apologize for all the awful things I had said to him, but I knew it wasn't time. Instead I did something terribly hard -- I sneered at him. "You think this is anger? You really have lost your humanity, haven't you, Spock? REAL anger is not as pale as this, not as tame. Even if you're too repressed to feel it, surely you can recognize it?" I resumed slapping him. "And to think I was first attracted to you because I thought you were smart, but actually you're pretty stupid, aren't you?"
He sat in his chair and glared at me, refusing to speak.
I started calling him names, slapping him across the face with each name. "Stupid." Slap. "Coward." Slap. "Baby." Slap. "You've learned to take a certain perverse pride in being the emotionless one, in being called Mr. Spock, but you're not good enough to be Mr. Spock. He's at least smart and brave."
