Truth AND Consequences

He lies on top of me, and I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly, both of us wordless for a change.

Part Two: Facing it

"I invited you here partly because you've played with my head, fired up my imagination, seduced me into thinking about things I wasn't sure I wanted to face," he says.

I smile at him apologetically. "That IS one of the perils of being close friends with a psychologist; we do tend to think that rooting around in our friends' heads is a fine and interesting pastime"

"Well, I hope you'll think the result is a fine and interesting pastime"

"What do you mean?"

"You sent me a long e-mail about your childhood, which concluded with the idea that there was something you feared desperately that you thought you needed to face. Do you remember what that was?"

I look down, embarrassed. I have trouble, not just with the concept, but also with the word itself. I've been a feminist for too long to be comfortable with that word, and only the knowledge that Stewart is a vociferous defender of the equal worth of women makes it possible for me to contemplate not just the word but the act. "Giving up power or being controlled by another," I answer him. "Submission, I guess you could say."

"I certainly do say. Yes. Giving up any power at all is hard for you, and giving it all up terrifies you out of your mind. You knew that encouraging, ordering, or forcing people to do things that they're afraid of is an incredible rush for me, but you told me all of this, anyway."

I nod.

"You thought perhaps that a little detail like 3000 miles between us would keep you safe?"

"I thought it would but hoped it wouldn't."

"Ah." The sweet, mild-mannered man suddenly takes on a tougher, even slightly feral, edge. "That sounds like consent to me."

I look at the floor and am silent for a few moments, knowing that he is right and trying to gather my courage, then I raise my head, look him directly in the eyes and nod once.

"You also told me that there was a circumstance under which you sometimes spontaneously went into a submissive frame of mind -- do you remember what that was?"

"When somebody I love and trust asks me to take more pain than I can enjoy as a masochist, sometimes I spontaneously flip from masochist into submissive."

"Love?" He looks disdainful at the mere thought of this emotion -- the look of a man who's been burned too many times.

"Er, am fond of."

"Fond is okay."

He catches my eyes with his and looks into them as if he could see through them to the mind behind them. "And do you remember what you thought *I* needed to face?"

I shudder slightly, knowing what's coming. "You kept telling me that you were a dominant and weren't into inflicting pain, but the way you said it made me think you were afraid of it, which is different from not liking it. In fact, I thought maybe what you were afraid of was how much you liked it."

He smiles. "Partly right. I knew that I occasionally really got into inflicting pain but usually did not, and I thought I wasn't really into it but just enjoyed turning people on. Then you talked about taking pain that was beyond what you enjoy, specifically to show your submission, and I realized *that* was the missing variable. When I'm feeding someone's masochism, inflicting pain isn't that much fun, but when I'm inflicting it to force them to submit or to push them or as a test of their submission, those are the conditions under which I like it so much that it scares me."

I grin at him, wanting to shake him up a bit, given how much the entire week would shake me up. "So I can top you into facing YOUR fear by subbing to you while you hurt me?"

"I wasn't thinking of it in those terms, but I suppose you could if you wanted to. Though since I'm proposing to be the one in charge and I'm proposing that you do any screaming involved, it does seem as if I'll be topping you rather more than you'll be topping me."

I smile. "Just as long as you have to face a fear, too."

"Ah, yes. And isn't it clever of you to manipulate me into facing a fear that involves your being in serious pain?"

I feel momentarily sheepish. "Um, no, actually. When you put it like that, it sounds rather stupid."

"No, I should say rather that you've painted yourself into a corner. Too much enthusiasm for your little hobby of rummaging around in people's heads to see what you might find *will* have its consequences."

"Um, I can't tell if you're mad at me or if you're just teasing."

"Since I prefer to have you slightly off balance, that's intentional."

I look at him thoughtfully. "You always have to win, don't you?"

"I can be a good team player when I need to be, but yes, whenever possible, I prefer to be alpha. I thought I'd hidden that well, though."

I smile, suddenly more at ease. "This is me. You can be in charge, you can make me yours, you can hurt me until your sadism is satiated, but you can't hide from me."

I get a quick flash of Stewart's evil grin. "I think I'll hold you to that."

"Um, so I guess we should talk, about when and where and what we're planning to do and what's off limits, and all that."

"We've already done that, Kate. I know talking is the long suit for both of us, but sometimes you have to let the words go and just have fun."

"Fun." That sounded sort of strange, in the context of facing fears and dealing in pain. "Are we going to have fun?"

He looks at me seriously for a moment and says, "Kate, stripping off layers and getting close is the kind of fun you live for."

That startled me. "You know me too well."

"This head-rummaging isn't a one-way street, you know." He leads me to a chair, and we both sit down. "Now, I believe you were going to tell me what sorts of things are off limits."

"Ah." I frown. These are hard things to say, even though I'd been thinking of them for most the plane trip across the Atlantic. Stalling for time, I say, "Are you thinking of this as being just a brief pain scene, or were you planning to do other stuff, too?"

"I thought we would start with a pain scene, though I'm hoping it won't be all that brief."

I feel the sudden need to take a deep breath. Because our communication has been only through e-mail, Stewart had always seemed both more real and less real than my other friends, and I suddenly realize that I'd signed up for this week with him without quite believing that he was real enough for it to happen. But he's sitting right next to me -- I can see him and touch him. Hell, after what we'd been doing a short time before, I can *smell* him.

"I do want us to explore submission in considerably more detail, though, and if all goes well tonight, I want us to do a number of different things in the days ahead." He looks me over. "You're looking a bit shell-shocked at the moment, so we can talk just about the upcoming scene."

I take his hand, still a bit surprised that I can actually touch him, then close my eyes, thinking that it might be easier to say these things if I'm not looking at him. I'd managed to say all manner of things in e-mail, after all, enough things that he seemed to think that I was braver than I actually am. It's an opinion of me that I'd like to live up to.

"If this is a scene where both of us face something, then I want you to only inflict the kinds of pain that require direct participation from you. That means that electrical toys are out, because you just turn 'em on, so you can kind of hide from what they're doing. And clips and clamps are out, for the same reason. I guess I want to limit things to impact play -- you can hit me with any part of your body or with toys that directly transfer muscle power, something where it's clear that it's YOU doing it."

He nods. "Agreed."

"No marks on the face. Short-term marks -- ones that last two weeks or less -- are okay anywhere else. Long-term marks should be limited to the upper back, at least for right now. It's okay if you draw blood -- the Red Cross will let any healthy person donate a pint, so anything under that is fine." I knew blood squicked him, so I glance quickly at his face, to see how he's taking this. He's looking at me, and my sense of humor kicks in, and I find myself wanting to take most of the seriousness out of the proceedings, which seem in danger of becoming too solemn, so I stick my tongue out at him.

He shakes his head and squeezes my hand. "Oh, you *do* know how to live dangerously," he says teasingly.

I smile. This is my friend -- my very dear friend -- and I need to remember that. "Of course no permanent loss of function, and as for temporary loss, I should be able to climb the stairs from the basement to the living room after half an hour or so of aftercare."

He nods again. "Agreed," he repeated. "How about emotional context?"

"I'm not completely sure what you mean?"

"We've said that tonight's scene is the prelude to several days of D/S interactions between us. Are you going to be laying your submission at my feet like a present, and tonight's scene will be my initial acceptance of that present, or do you want to be forced into submission, and tonight's scene constitutes the forcing?"

"Oh, my." I feel lost for a moment, and he looks at me as if he finally realizes that I wasn't kidding even a little bit about being scared by the very idea of submission, for all that I think I need it. I look down, thinking hard, then look back at him. "If I tried to lay my submission at your feet like a present, I think I could do that for a little while, because I like you so much, but at some level, I'd be pretending."

"So if this is to have a real effect on you, you'll need to be forced."

My eyes tear up, and I felt both scared and ashamed. "Yes."

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't just look scared, though you look well and truly scared; you also look embarrassed, or maybe ashamed."

I nod, then whisper, and he has to lean closer to hear. "When I agreed that I'll need to be forced, I realized just how much I'm asking of you."

"I hadn't thought of that aspect of playing with a switch -- you know how hard it is to do what I must do, not just how hard it is to do what you must do."

I nod again.

"But don't forget -- I'm not you. I'm more comfortable with my dominance than you are with yours, and I *like* forcing people."

I give him a smile that feels a little wavery around the edges. "It's that horrified fascination you have with rape."

He looks momentarily startled, then regroups. "Just so."

"So, my safeword is 'I submit'?"

He shakes his head. "It would be all too easy for you to say that without meaning it. Your safeword is TO submit."

"But what happens if I can't? Or if I do submit but you don't pick up on it?"

"I think that properly stimulated, you'll have no choice but to submit, and I think it won't be as hard to achieve as you seem to believe. I saw the way you were looking at me while we were having our 'vanilla' sex, and I think that you can and will go there, at least with me."

Well, so much for worrying that he wouldn't pick up on it if it occurred. But the idea that he *had* made me embarrassed, as if I'd been caught doing something shameful. No conflicts here, oh, no.

He looks at me and holds out a hand, as if offering to lead me onto the dance floor. "Shall we?" He leads me to the music room, which he'd told me has been soundproofed so that he can play the piano whenever he wishes. We won't have to worry about noise. I still feel nervous, embarrassed, and conflicted and finally realize what I need. "Will you just hold me for a minute, before we get started?"

"Of course." He holds me, surprisingly tenderly, and says in a sweet, soft voice, "Katie, hon, we're doing this because we both want to, and we're doing it partly to get closer to each other. I wouldn't have bothered to invite you to come all this way if you didn't matter to me, and you wouldn't be doing something with me that you've done with no one else if you didn't trust me and care for me. I'll remind you that we're *both* facing fears tonight and that tonight is the culmination of a hell of a lot of talking and sharing."

I hug him tightly, whisper "Thank you," then draw away. I look up at him and put on a somewhat formal tone of voice. "I am your bottom tonight, until you make me your submissive. I want to be yours, I want to please you, and I want you to use me in whatever way gives you pleasure. Stewart, I hereby formally and explicitly consent for you to make me yours."

He blinks, a bit startled by the sudden change.

I abandon the formal tone and speak more normally. "I don't want to be able to pretend later that you misunderstood me, so I thought I'd make a formal declaration. So, where would you like me? I warn you that I have a tendency to fall over if I bottom while standing, so it's usually better to have me sitting or lying down."

He gestures towards the piano bench. "Sit straddling the bench in the middle."

I do so, and he walks up to me, forming a fist. "Fists looks scary, but they're thuddier than open hands, so most people actually find them easier to take."

"Yep, I know." I look at him and realize that he's now the one who's using words to stall, so I say, "Hit me."

Stewart moves behind me, and I feel the first blow land on my upper back. It's hard enough to force me to exhale a bit but not hard enough to feel like more than a hard massage, and I settle myself, grateful for the fact that doms who are nervous about their own sadism are scrupulous about warm-up.

Stewart hits all of my back, from just below my neck to just above my kidneys, except for my spine, with the same level of intensity. His blows are rhythmic, and I reflect that although he may say that he has been conflicted about inflicting pain in the past, he must have done a considerable amount of it, to know exactly where and how to hit.

He does a second pass over my back, covering it completely except again for the spine and kidneys, this time hitting hard enough that it hurts a little bit, enough that one would tell a massage therapist to ease up. I relax into the gentle pain, feeling secure in his skill and enjoying the mild buzz that the mild pain brings.

A third pass over my back, harder again, this time hard enough that I make noise when he hits me. I'm certainly not screaming, but I'm not purring, either, and I know that my noises will let Stewart know that he is hurting me, though not that much yet. I lean forward slightly and brace my hands against the piano bench, knowing that I'll need some support to keep from being knocked over by the next pass.

Stewart punches my upper back, much harder than he has before, and I realize that warm-up is over. He's making another pass over my back, and although the blows are still rhythmic, they're no longer at the same intensity for my entire back -- each blow is harder than the last. His next blow makes me scream, and it feels as if he's not aiming for my back but for the piano bench below me, and my back just happens to be in the way.

He's still going slowly enough that I have time to recover from one blow before the next one lands, and if the last one felt as if he were aiming for the piano bench, this one feels as if he were aiming for the floor, and I feel myself dissolving on the tide of pain. I'm no longer thinking, no longer probing my own fears or analyzing Stewart's technique or psyche. I don't wonder about the quality of the soundproofing or wonder when Stewart will stop. I am a screaming body, and that's all I am.

As Stewart continues to beat me with his fists, my screams become the full-throated, all-out, nothing-held-back screams of the primal human. The civilized veneer falls away, and screaming is what I do, who I am, my entire world.

I sit braced against the piano bench, taking blows and screaming, for a time that could have been five minutes or fifty, then Stewart reminds me that we're not just about pain, here. He leans over and whispers in my ear, "You scream beautifully. I love those all-out screams of yours. I love them -- do you hear me -- what do you think of that?"

I'm snapped back into my mind, and I realize that it's time for me to give Stewart some reassurance. "I'm glad that you love them; it would have been an awful shame for me to be screaming like that for no reason."

Stewart doesn't quite believe me and decides to push. "You're glad I love them. So if I say that I want to beat you for half an hour and have you scream that way the whole time, what would you say?"

I am not quite all there; part of me is drifting, and the part that is there says gently, even lazily, in a voice that sounds rather drunk, "If it gives you pleasure to beat me, then please, Stewart, I beg you to beat me."

Stewart's face changes, as if this answer angers him, and some distant part of me vaguely senses that this is because I'm not letting him off the hook. When he speaks again, his voice is hard, "And for how long should I beat you?"

My not-quite-there mind thinks that the answer to this is obvious and says, in a drunken voice that would be cheerful if it had any energy to it, "Why, until you've had as much as you want, of course."

Stewart comes around to my front, and his face would be interesting if the analytical part of me were there to take it in. He looks as if he himself is in serious pain, yet half of the pain seems to be from an arousal so strong that it looks like a severe strain on the system and half from a conflict so great that it seems as if it will tear him in half.

Even while out of it, I can tell that he's not in a good state, and I am surprised to hear my drunk-sounding voice say, "Give me your conscience; I'll keep it safe for you while we play. You don't need it right now." I have no idea how or why I said that, but it felt like the right thing to say at the time, and Stewart relaxes somewhat.

He stands on my left side and slides a hand under my left breast, then makes a fist with the other hand and hits it, hard. No one has ever done this to me before, and I am surprised at how much more it hurts to be hit on the breast than on the back. I scream, feeling both pain and fear, and he waits for the scream to die down, then hits me again, even harder than before. This time he doesn't wait for my scream to stop before hitting me again, and while his blows are still rhythmic, it's a much faster rhythm than before. He's piling pain on top of pain, and as my breast becomes ever more bruised and tender, his blows hurt more and more. I'm scared that I can't stand it and feel frantic and out of control.

I start begging him to stop, and he looks triumphant. "So, you don't want me to beat you until I've had as much as I want, do you?" He grabs my hair and turns my face up to his. "DO you?"

Everything we've ever said to each other seems to hang in the balance as I try to think and feel through the disorientation that comes from the pain. Finally I find the answer that seems right and say, "You're forcing me into submission, Stewart; that means you have to hurt me until I DO mean it."

A complicated series of expressions flits across his face so quickly that I have trouble seeing them, and finally he settles on one -- surprisingly enough, it's surprise. "We're playing chicken, aren't we? We're seeing who'll break first." He lets go of my hair.

I shake my head. "We've already decided that I'm the one who's supposed to break; all you have to do is hold up your end until I do." I raise an eyebrow and deliberately put the merest hint of scorn in my voice. "Think you can handle that?"

The hint of competition stiffens his spine; no one gets the better of this man, and if it's self-acceptance that we're competing on, then he'll show me. I get the quickly changing expressions again, then his face settles on the ruthless-alpha look. I've never seen it before, but I recognize it instantly. He grabs my hair again, and there's no conflict in his face or voice as he stares fiercely into my eyes and says, slowly and with emphasis, "You are mine. I know that you are mine, and this will continue until you know it, too." He continues staring into my face for a moment, then uses the hand that's wrapped in my hair to shake my head. He speaks fiercely, but without anger or doubt: "Understand?"