I was in a weird place.
I’d had a perfectly lovely weekend away with my daughter – an accidental mom-and-daughter camping trip in Sleeping Bear Dunes, Michigan, which happened because both her boyfriend and Adam were unable to accompany us as originally planned. I’m not ashamed to say I was fine with the change. I would have enjoyed their company, but having the Girl all to myself all weekend was a real treat. I’m also not ashamed to admit I had some trepidations: I hadn’t camped in more than 3 years, and not without an able male-bodied person in 10 years or more. We also had an 8 hour drive each way, and I had rented a 4-wheel drive truck to haul our gear. Not my usual mode of transportation. But! We went, we survived, we had an amazing time.
BUT…I’d also left with unresolved issues between Viper and I. Things have been getting better since the Big Bump six months or so ago, but they are still rocky at times. I still have issues trusting his motivations at times, and in trusting that the structure of our relationship is one that will be ultimately sustainable. I have made positive steps to mitigate my own negative reactions, and to deal with unresolved anger since the incident, but distrust and suspicion still crop up, and I still question what I’m doing in this relationship at times; if I should be in it; if it’s fulfilling my needs or will change enough to do so in the future. And, unfortunately, two days before I left for my camping trip with my daughter, things blew up between us again.
I say “blew up,” but it wasn’t quite like that. In fact I was pretty impressed with my anger management. But even so, it wasn’t pretty. I was angry, and didn’t know if what he is able to give in this relationship aligns with what I want/need. The incident that triggered this weekend-long quarrel between us seemed to indicate that he isn’t – and I reacted to that. There was a lot of frosty silence on my part as I worked to control myself in regards to it, and then some terse texting toward the end of the weekend. By Monday, however, and the Missy’s and my long drive back home, Viper and I had finally worked through the confrontational aspect and had reached a place where I could talk calmly about things. By the time I saw him on Tuesday, we both needed to reconnect. There were still raw emotions between us, but we knew we wanted to keep trying to make it work, even though it’s hard and frustrating at times. We value what each brings to the other, enough to work through the difficult parts.
And I wanted to be his kitty.
One of the things that we have not managed to figure out is a way to keep our D/s dynamic intact while we are in conflict. I will own this: it’s me that doesn’t honor it when I’m angry or hurt or frustrated. It’s not that I say, “I’m NOT your submissive!” but when I am in that headspace I can’t do the things, follow the rules, honor the rituals, that we have established. It feels like giving in, even when the argument has absolutely nothing to do with D/s (and it seldom does.) But when we are on the road to relationship recovery, I want nothing more than to feel his control again, to be “in the box” as he puts it sometimes, to be his submissive and his kitty. It comforts me on multiple levels – that our relationship is not damaged beyond repair; that he still wants me, even after a fight; that he still wants to own me. Sometimes this reestablishment of ownership manifests as gentle and loving, with me on his lap being petted and loved. Sometimes it manifests with me being at his feet, supplicant, or serving him in some way. And sometimes it manifests as it did Tuesday night – with sharp rebukes, punishment and suffering to prove I want to be his again.
I didn’t even know this was the kind of reconnection I needed. I just knew I wanted to be his again, I wanted to feel calm and know that he was in control.
From the moment I climbed out of my car Tuesday evening, and he thrust a hand in my hair, pulling my head back so he could stare into my eyes, there was no doubt about how he was putting me back in the box.
“Are you my kitty?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine.
“Yes,” I said. I heard the tremor in my voice.
He held me there, pinned me with his gaze, for a long moment. “Good,” he finally said, and kissed me hard.
Later he pushed me against the countertop, then pushed my face against the counter and held it there, his body pinning me in place. “Whose are you?” he asked.
“Yours,” I said.
He pulled me up, his hand in my hair again, and looked into my eyes as though seeking the answer there.
“Yours,” I said again.
He kissed me, then shoved me away, then pulled me back to him, a pantomime of the weekend’s tumultuous emotional upheavals. “Mine,” he said, against my mouth. He grabbed my hand and placed it against the front of his jeans. His cock was hard.
Still later, he took me to the play room downstairs and stripped my clothes from me. He tied my legs open, brutally tight, my hands behind me, and took out the Viper – a thick rubber V crop that leaves V-shaped bruises and makes me scream. I had bought it for him at an event – it is his name, after all, how could I not – and have regretted/not regretted it ever since. Then he proceeded to mark me with it.
Over and over.
“What are you?” he said.
“Viper’s! Viper’s kitty!” (a sob)
“Whose are you?” and so on.
Over and over until I was covered in V-shaped welts and bruises.
He shoved his fingers into my sopping wet pussy, making me whimper, making me squirm, and eventually making me writhe against the rope in an orgasm, panting, moaning, gasping.
“Whose are you??”
He spit in my mouth.
He pulled my hair. He held me down and made me choke myself with rope and beg to fuck him.
And then, later still, I lay in his arms, listening to his breathing, feeling his warmth, his solidity, his strength, even in the face of the hurricanes of my emotions, and I felt calm and safe.