It started with Tupperware. (But then, all of my scenes start with Tupperware.)
I was helping clean up after a large and tasty dinner created by RP. Another guest was having trouble fitting a warped lid on a container. I was asked to perform my manly duty and force it into the proper position. I managed to prevail after some struggle. All the while, RP made some good-natured dom-ly comments to egg me on during my exertion. “Why haven’t you gotten it yet? Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you can’t.” That sort of thing.
I fitted it, and got it ready for storage. Then she told me: “ask my submissive for her keys, and put it in her car.”
There was no mistaking the tone in her voice. It was an order. And I bristled. I hate being given orders.
I knew RP, but not terribly well. And she didn’t know me, except for my typical get-things-done demeanour earlier in the day. It’d be easy to mistake me for submissive. Or, perhaps she was just seeing how much she could get away with.
Either way, I wasn’t going to play by those rules. But I wasn’t angry; it was a fun spark struck in my mind. I paused, and gave her a look.
She picked up on my disobedience immediately. I think she was hoping for that reaction.
“Ask my submissive for her keys, and put it in her car.” Same tone, more definition. No anger or frustration — just command.
Oh, but I heard you the first time. Stand up straighter. “Now you know I can’t do it when you ask like that.” Big grin.
She came in closer, dark eyes flashing, just below mine. “You are going to do as I say, because I tell you to. Ask my submissive for her keys, and put it in her car.”
“Do you think that I can’t make you do what I want?”
She ran her hands to my biceps, grabbed two fingers full of flesh, and squeezed — hard. It hurt, but it was tolerable. Not backing down was worth the pain. I set the container down.
“I’m not going to do it when you talk like that. Ask nicely.”
She moved under my shirt and did the same to my nipple. Still more pain; still I took it. I made no attempt to stop her. Deep breaths.
“I don’t ask nicely.”
Then when she pincered my raw nipple between the tips of her fingernails. I had to pull away; It was too much. Fuuuuck. Stand up straight again, recompose.
“Ask my submissive for her keys, and put it in her car.”
“No.” Heart and mind racing.
She came at me, grabbed my upper arms with her hands, and began to force me around.
Here’s where the practical part of my mind reared its head. We were in very tight quarters with the things around us: tables, chairs, food, people; no place for a scuffle. But not far away there was an space against the door, out of the way of anything breakable. I locked arms with her and shuffled us off in that direction; she figured out what I was doing and followed along. Once in the right spot we slipped back into the scene.
She held my wrists against the door, above my head. I was in a submissive position to be sure. I had enough strength that I knew I could break out — but why would I want to do that?
She came in close, voice husky and menacing. “I used to bottom for [DW]. I can take any pain, and I know how to give it too. You’re not going to win.” Our noses brushed against each other briefly.
“Maybe not. But I’m not going to do it.”
Then she slapped me across the face.
For a lot of people, face-slapping is taboo, or at the very least edge-y play. It can be very humiliating and emotionally intense. It’s one of those things that you tread lightly around, negotiate, communicate, forewarn. None of that happened here. It came out of the blue.
But it didn’t phase me. Not at all. I recovered immediately, sensing pressure but no pain. Realizing that I could shrug it off made me feel even more empowered. So I let her do it again. I may have even mentally dared her. And she did, several times. Each one brought me an extra bit of pride as it deflected off my ego.
But she had upped the stakes. Now it was time to call.
The next slap I blocked; her arm bounced off mine. I grabbed her arms, forcing mine inside of hers. I squeezed; she didn’t stop. She tried to reverse my hold on her, but each time I pulled out of it. I grabbed her by the shoulders to try and force her back to me — a more submissive position, from which she couldn’t easily fight back. From there, I maneuvered my arm around her neck in the beginnings of a choke-hold (taking care not to actually put pressure on her windpipe; that’s a very dangerous move). I had it, but only briefly; she pulled out of it and renewed her attack.
RP is a buxom, powerful woman. For me, she’s the perfect partner for this sort of rough play. She’s not male, which is important for me; while I’ve improved my attitudes towards men when it comes to sex and BDSM, I’m still not completely at ease with the idea. Had a man tried this scene with me, I think I would have had a very different (and negative) reaction.
She is not dainty either. She’s strong, and knows it. She boasted about her pain tolerance. She threw the first (figurative) punch. That helped remove my trepidation about breaking a woman. She could take it — and so I could let myself go.
We sparred for a while. I grabbed her by the hair (one thing she couldn’t effectively do to me) and pulled her down and away. This didn’t phase her, and she escaped it too. At one point she dug her fingers into my neck, right where it meets my collarbone. This was… interesting. It wasn’t as painful as the attacks she inflicted to my arms and chest. It felt… bright. (It might have been some sort of synesthesia.) And it was somehow pleasant, in a novel way. I’m guessing she hit some sort of nerve bundle. When she did it a second time, I could feel myself letting it happen — and wanting it to happen. But only for the briefest of instants.
When we found ourselves matching evenly on physical jabs, she switched to mental ones.
“Do you think you have what it takes to beat me? I was a bottom for a long time. I can take more pain than you know.”
It was true too, as best as I could tell. She wasn’t flinching from anything I threw at her. I tried to hit one of her pressure points (I had been in a workshop for pressure point play not a week before). This failed miserably, and I earned a laugh from her for my attempt. (Mental note: study this more for next time.) Still, I wasn’t intimidated by this, so she changed tactics.
“My sub is over there, watching and enjoying this. What is yours doing? Are you going to let her watch this?”
This is what got to me. B had seen us start to play, and had given me a quick “Are you OK with this?” when it had begun turning into the scene that it did. I wasn’t at all sure how she was feeling about this scene, and I couldn’t see where she was at the time. I wanted to check in with her — that meant giving up. It caused a conflict in me, and I could manage it — but it was tougher than anything else I’d taken so far. It was the right button to push — albeit a bit of a dirty one. But all is fair in love and war — and here we were, playing at both.
We kept this up for a while, and it was fun, but it ended up in a bit of a stalemate. I wasn’t giving it all that I could, and I’m pretty certain she wasn’t either. (I kept expecting a knee to the groin that ultimately never came. Thanks for that, BTW.) There simply wasn’t room to go full out. And it was starting to get repetitive.
So, eventually, I acquiesced. I stood up, said “you win”, and gave her a hug to show her and everyone else that it was All Good. Then I went over to her submissive, and asked for her keys. End of scene.
She may have “won.” But I sure didn’t feel like I had “lost.” That’s one of the beauties of BDSM; it’s not a competition, but an infinite game where everyone can win.
It was an amazing scene from out of the blue. I was up for hours that night, replaying it in my head — and deciding how I’d write this post.