Drew said when we got to LA he wasn’t going to give me any choices as to what he wanted to take from me or do to me. That kind of talk makes me nervous. While I crave someone taking control from me, I also like holding on to it. Like a security blanket. I end up using it as a shield to protect me from things I might not otherwise have the nerve to do but really want to.
Being able to let myself go there with him is sort of a chicken and egg thing, though. He used to ask me if he could do things, specifically around pain. He’d ask if I could take more. He still tends to defer to my mood on things. But I don’t want to be asked or deferred to. As nervous as losing my own agency makes me, it’s also ridiculously hot. So I told him to stop asking. Start telling. Start doing. Take what you want. In essence, his declaration to me as we arrived in LA was an extension of what I asked him to do. Logical in that we’d be together for longer than a few hours. We were going to be together for two nights and most of three days.
The only hard rule, besides that he could do to me whatever he wanted, was that I had to be naked in the hotel room. There was a line where the tile met the carpet and I couldn’t cross it in clothing. Being forced into nakedness pushes me down into my sub headspace. Several times (most of the times, actually) when we got back to the room I wasn’t much in the mood to be naked but I allowed myself to follow his rule and, each and every time, I took everything off (except for the Holy Trainer, of course). Usually, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look. It was just what I had to do, so I did. Quietly, it put me in my place. Enough that I found myself asking his permission to get dressed before we’d leave the room.
Of course, I am submissive, but I do not always feel submissive. He didn’t care. He’d reach over and twist my nipples or grab my balls and squeeze them or slap them or he’d shove a finger (or three) up my ass or shove his cock in my mouth, whenever he felt like it. He never asked. I never said no, even if I wanted to. Even if I wasn’t in the mood to be pinched or squeezed or slapped.
At the beginning of our relationship, Drew and I made it too prescriptive. Too rigid. Too many rules. We had to throw them out as I couldn’t live in two worlds like that. But when I got to know him and like him and trust him, all those rules boiled down to “he’s in charge when we’re together.” But only when he allows himself to be that way. If he prevaricates or allows me too much freedom and self-determination, it starts to falter. It’s OK if that’s also what he wants. No Dom can be in Dommy Top mode 24/7, after all. But I’ve learned to allow myself to believe I don’t have any say over what I’m forced to do or endure when I’m with him and, as long as he also plays along, it’s kind of magic.
This played out several times over the weekend, but most explicitly on the last day. I woke up with the very beginnings of a cold and wasn’t at all in the mood for sex or anything else, really. But Drew was. I tried to avoid his advances and play coy, but he kept pushing. In my head, I had visions of resisting. Of making it stop. And, truth be told, I did resist a little. I didn’t open up to him as quickly as I might have otherwise. I hoped he’d stop. But he didn’t retreat.
Part of my issue was my nipples were very sore and puffy from two days of abuse already. They fucking hurt. But it didn’t matter. He wanted them to hurt more. I complained and whined and squirmed, but that didn’t do anything but make his inner sadist’s hard-on as hard as it could be (he’s never harder than when he’s hurting me). The more I pulled away the more he advanced and the harder and more cruel he was. I said to myself this wasn’t what I wanted. That I should make it stop. But the illusion held. At one point, with his fist gripping my nuts in a vice and his other hand twisting my poor abused tits, the magic flip happened. My whiny protests turned into moans of pleasure. I found myself in subspace’s neighboring suburb. The one where, if I’m not careful, I can get lost in the caverns of masochism. Where I cannot get enough pain. I cannot be hurt. Pain and pleasure merge and become something else. That’s when he has to be the one to watch out for me because I will never make him stop whatever he’s doing. I will always ask for more. Always be able to take more.
And, of course, he fucked me. Hard. Not in a way that was meant to provide me pleasure. Whatever I did eek out was a byproduct of him using me for my holes and taking his pleasure from them. It was difficult to endure at times. It went on longer than I would have liked. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask how I was doing. He just pounded me until he came.
What I don’t really know about myself is where my illusory resistance to his dominance ends and is replaced with real resistance. If I didn’t know him and trust him, it seems to me this would be recipe for abuse. But I do know him and he knows me. I don’t always want to be pushed and hurt and fucked but, if he takes those things from me with enough tenacity and force, I end up liking it. It’s weird and hard to digest, if I’m honest.
But it didn’t matter in LA. He took what he wanted when he wanted. He hurt me and used me. And I think back on all of it through a gauzy haze of contentment and pleasure.