”Where’s your collar and leash?” in that quiet, firm tone that always lets me know he means business. His voice tugged my mind awake just long enough to croak out their last known location before I rolled to face the wall, snuggled back into the blankets, and drifted off to sleep.
I barely heard the rattle of cold chain being piled next to my head, and somehow managed to buckle the leather around my own neck while M watched with a smile on his face. I curled the chain around my fingers, and started snoring. It wasn’t until M was tugging on the leash, that I came fully awake. I climbed out of bed, and He said, ”Down.” so I knelt before Him. And then He lead me to the living room on my hands and knees.
”You’ve been a really good girl.” he said. ”And as a reward, you’re going to get slapped.”
I tried to keep my thoughts off my face. Although M insists on knowing what I’m thinking, it really wasn’t the time to interrupt him with my concerns. And I don’t know if he could see my confusion. But he may as well have read what I was feeling from a book, because he immediately began explaining why my reward would be to get slapped.
He said that part of being a sadist means that sometimes, he just wants to hurt me, whether I want him to or not. That I should always be grateful for any attention he shows me. Any reward he allows me. He said I should learn to enjoy anything he does to me, if only because it’s pleasing him. This is not a new lesson.
Years ago, acceptance was easy. Everything was still new, and exciting. ”New and exciting” always turns me on a little bit. And acceptance is always just a little bit easier when I’m turned on.
I knelt there, between his feet, never lifting my eyes above his navel. He ran one hand over the still sleep-warm flesh on my shoulders and back, and tangled the other in my hair. And then he slapped me across the face.
I’ve never disliked being slapped across the face. Matter of fact, one of my earliest kinky memories with M is of the night that he kept slapping me, expecting me to eventually use my safe word, or finally stay down. But even when he hit me hard enough to knock me back onto the mattress, I sat up, eager for another one. I won that round. He gave up long before I stopped bouncing back.
It’s delicious during sex. It’s more than a little hot to feel my head tugged back, and my cheek sting before I know what happened, and find M grinning wickedly when I open my eyes. But as a reward for exceptional behavior?
And why not? I like to be slapped across the face. I enjoy being hurt and humiliated. When I stop worrying about losing myself, and just allow myself to lay back, comfortably, in my slavery, and the depth of my masochism, I’m happy. Almost giddy.
A couple days later, he did it again. When he was finished, he asked what I had to say. And I couldn’t think of the right answer. I stuttered out a quiet, ”Thank you, Master.” hoping it would suffice, and he slipped his hand inside my shirt. I took that to mean I’d gotten it right.
He asked me if it stung. And I told him it did. He asked me if I liked it. And I said I did.
There’s something about being made to admit, verbally, that being slapped turns me on. It’s… I’ve been considering calling it humiliating. But it’s more that it’s humbling. Reaffirms my place. Puts me at ease. And of course, turns me on.
He’s since taken to occasionally asking me if I want a slap or a kiss. It’s such a difficult decision. Both are fulfilling in their own way. But I usually go with the slap. I get kisses all the time. He doesn’t slap me anywhere near as often as he used to. And he loves that I’ll happily ask him to slap me. So it’s win-win!