This story is about a bored housewife who is trying to add some spice to her marriage. Needless to mention, I abhor uninvited violence against women; whatever the perpetrator’s story. – GB
I watch you sort through my bag of toys, trying to select one. I roll my eyes because I know that this is only a delaying tactic. Handcuffs or flogger, clamps, plug or vibe; it doesn’t matter; you want none of it; we both know this. Eventually, you select… nothing.
“I do own you, you know,” you say as you skulk over to me, running your hand gently, along my side and stomach, squeezing my flesh here, plucking a nipple there. I dare not cringe away, even though it tickles, because you will only keep doing it if you know that I don’t want that. You have misunderstood me, and your role in this story, completely, but I give you points for trying, and do not comment upon your lack of technique.
“When I tell you not to do something, I don’t expect to find that you’ve done it anyway,” I hear you 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, despite the fact that your mock sternness sounds more like an irritating whine in my ears. I know that you don’t expect me to say anything. This is only your way of trying to psych yourself up to do what you must. I know that you hate the role into which I have forced you, but you give me what I tell you that I need, since you want to keep me contented by your side; for we both know that I am likely to stray if you do not tie my hands to this hook in the ceiling of our bedroom, and flay the buttocks and breasts that you love so much.
I struggle prettily. I know that it is expected, and it may galvanise you into action. It does. You move in front of me and slap my right breast, getting a genuine sting; and then, too quickly, you reach around to smack my rump; much less effectively. You hit me, as hard as you dare. It is not nearly hard enough, but your rubbing the sting away is pleasant, and I am grateful that you have started something. I want to ask for more, but I refrain lest I hurt your feelings. You hit me again, and I reflect that though I feel it, it is probably only because you have 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 you to this point that I say nothing. You strike me a third time, and all I can think about is your lack of rhythm, and what I have planned for my day tomorrow.
I know that you are trying; so am I. I want you to slap my breasts again, but I do not ask because it causes you too much angst when I do. I bite my lip and hold on, keeping my disappointment at bay yet again. You have improved your knot-tying technique, I realise. You almost seem like a real Dom in some things, and I am reluctantly impressed. I smile at you fondly. I know that you like to be reassured that you are doing a good job. I give you that reassurance because, what are my options? You are trying to please me, and I feel that I deserve this consideration for tolerating my disappointment in you so passively.
You keep slapping my rump until I can take it no more. It is not the pain, for I have not yet reached my threshold. It is because I can no longer bite back my annoyance at your lack of technique. I try to remember how grateful I am to you for trying. I try to remember that I loved you once. I think about the times when I feel genuine affection still. Those moments are fleeting, since I have given up on you being an effective Dom; the man whom I need you to be.
“What is wrong, baby?” I hear you ask.
“Nothing,” I sigh. “I just want you inside me right now, my love,” I whisper, inhaling your particular aroma.
This is not true, but what else is there to be said in a place like Jamaica? You can’t insult a man’s manhood here, and live to tell the tale.
“Fuck me!” I command.
You smile, delighted. This is what you want. I try not to think of how pathetic you look to me. You reach in front of me and tickle my clit, hoping that I have juiced up enough to take you immediately.
I have not, but I dismiss this, and tell you my usual story, that it must be my fault. I goad you, almost immediately, into another role play. I mean to distract us both from the realisation that this fantasy is not working for us. It is not every one of my dreams that I want to see made into reality, but this really is one of them, and I have not been able to live this dream for myself.
I feel your hands on the flesh above my fishnet tights. You fumble happily and ask me, nicely, to bend over a little, so that you can get into me more easily.
I hate you for that politeness, but I do it anyway. I allow you to piston into, and out of, my body, until one of us is happy.
I say all the right things, through another faked orgasm. You are, after all, another satisfied customer. You cut me down, and carry me to our bed, smiling triumphantly. Yet again, I add to my mind’s tally of what you owe me. I say nothing as I cuddle you, feeling the burn of your beard on my skin, in our post-coital doze. I contemplate the darkness of our room, wondering if I will ever collect anything on the tab that I feel you owe me.
I stamp down on my sadness with a sigh.
“What is it baby?”
“Nothing,” I say cuddling you, reassuringly.
It is a bitter pill to swallow; this dawning realisation that my unhappiness with this situation really is my fault. We are two actors on the stage of life. I can’t bring myself to acknowledge that we are in two different plays. I kill this thought before it becomes fully crystallised in my mind. I deflect the truth with another epiphany: I never, ever get what I want; and yet I remain. I ask myself, who is topping whom? Have I become the embodiment of my dreams?