"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 tickles, 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 flay the buttocks and breasts that he loves so much.
I struggle prettily. 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 genuine 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 me a 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 realise. 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.
