He Doesn’t Need You To Throw Yourself Over His Lap

Some people like to play and that is wonderful. They can go throw themselves over laps, they will have fun and play and all is good. I think I would like to have been like that. It would be less fraught with emotional danger. But I say that as an outsider and even as I type it I know that is not for me.

But then there are other people – I don’t know the names everyone has for these things and I am sure there are names, people like me and I would suspect (because you are reading here) maybe you.

This, below, is how it works for me. I am starting to like it. I am starting to see all the benefits of it. It is messy, difficult and life would be easier if I were not like this. But still, I am starting to like it. So today I just want to write about it what it is like for me, maybe it is like this for you.

*
He knows things that I need him to know. And he knows what I don’t need him to tell me. I don’t need to be told how to do my job, manage my money or park my car. He knows that and is quite happy to let me do my thing. But there are about twenty seven thousand other things that I need him to tell me, explanations I need, maps in this strange new world.

Curling up into him she wept. He didn’t say a word, just pulled her closer, her head fitting into the place where his neck met his shoulder. When she was able to speak she gulped out, “Why? Why were they so unkind? Why did they lie? Why did they hurt me like that?” For once he let the incorrect pronoun slip by him. He kissed the top of her head, slipped his fingers into her hair stroking his fingers in circles and in gentle whispers started to explain. He told her how people are, how they are hurt too, how to keep safe and how not to let the wrong people so close that they make such wreckage. He made her safe again with what he knew.

*

He has the harder job I think. He has to be tough and decisive, even when I am being my most difficult. He has to know the answers no matter how much I hide he has to work out where I am and what I am doing there. I can’t explain how I feel to him at the time. I may grow into that. I think some of the ladies that I read can explain themselves to the men they love. For me, for now, he has to know without me telling him just what is going on and what I need him to do about it.

She clutches her eyes shut and pulls herself inwards from her skin, pulling as far from him and from herself as possible. She knows she irritated him, she knows she has spun her tale with skill. She knows she has done all she could to make him pity her and comfort her. He should fall for it. Any other man would fall for it. “Please, please.” She pleads to herself, to him, a silent prayer. “Please come and get me. Please don’t let me get away with this.” Her face shows nothing of this. Silent rage seeps out. He thinks the rage is for him and feels concern and guilt just for a moment. He remembers himself then. He knows himself, he knows her. His determination takes form. His hand, firm with love, reaches out for her.

*

He is stronger than me. He has the ability to control me and himself. When I am annoying, when I won’t let it go, when I get tense and frazzled and snap at him or at myself. But aside from all the emotional and psychological stuff he is just stronger than me. I need that.

Her eyes were narrow and cold. Her shoulders were back and her chin jutted forward. She knew that her behaviour had lacked certain finesse but so had his. “He is no great shakes. And why the hell is it always me that is wrong? This is infantile and simplistic. This is no time for this ridiculous solution. I want to talk about this. I want to row about this.” All this was in her head. She was too angry to speak coherently, too confused at her own rage to commit to words.

Hazel eyes met blue eyes in what she imagined was a Mexican standoff. Nothing for a moment.

And then she was moving forward and down. Every muscle she had was tense and committed to escape. Skirt up, knickers down before she had one moment to understand the speed of it. With outrage she realised that he must have done that a thousand times before to have it down to such an art. She was manoeuvred further forward still, tipped to present her at the perfect angle for his retribution, tipped so she could not push off or away or anywhere. The burning pain she felt in her cheeks matched perfectly the rage she felt in her head. She knew he would never be able to change her. She would wait until he was tired and then tell him what she thought. Harder still he smacked her sore and swollen bottom, all of it red and stinging. He stopped. The moment settled. Flickers of argument still in her although the rage was gone. He told her to stand. She did so stiffly. She did not want a hug, did not want to be soothed. Happy to have freedom of movement once again she would not meet his eyes. Without a word, he bent her forward over the bed.

Too stubborn to look she heard the sound of leather through denim loops, a sound of authority taking its time, knowing it will achieve its aims. She knew, they both knew that soon it would be over. She would submit and he would take her further still, to what is just beyond submission. But neither of them would stop until she was there. Two chins locked down. Two wills set in stone. He raised his arm and began.

*

He has to be strong enough to over ride my will no matter what aspect. This makes me shyer than the other. The other is spanking, the “this” is what I do not write about so easily. I think that is because I don’t have the words, I wish I could swirl my emotions, my sensations onto the page so I could explain it. I wish I was not scared that it makes me bad to have such strong sexual feelings. But he says it is good, that I should not be ashamed. I will trust him.

“Please, don’t” she whispered into his arm. Hard muscle pressed against her lips as she traced her tongue over his skin, skin that she adored, skin that was warmth and home. It was skin that she wanted against hers without pause, without a splinter of light between them. She wanted to kiss his neck, his chest, his stomach, she wanted to rest her head there and take him into her mouth as she had been moments before. Her tongue darted around her mouth, tracing her teeth, the edge of her lips. “But can’t I ….?” She pleaded. She did not have the word. He knew what she wanted as he always knew. He had taken her up from there, guided her head away ignoring her inarticulate protests. She found herself embraced but on her stomach. Heavy with longing she did not know what he designed but when she felt his hand start to explore her, her back, snake like, started to twist and turn. “Please don’t” she whispered. He answered with her kiss to her neck and parted her legs with his fingertips. “But this is wrong,” she told him, “This is not what …” Too ashamed to say more she pushed her face harder against him and gave in. Shame melted away, transformed into something new.

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