Playing the Game/Dancing the Line

It's one of those days. I know it's one of those days. I can feel my blood thrum under the surface. I want you. I want you so damn badly but you're always so cool. So smug. So fucking self-assured. You expect me to submit to you, like I always do. You expect me to beg you to fuck me. To beg for every teasing touch. You expect me to beg for you to hurt me, the way I deserve, telling you what a whore I am. I should crawl on the floor expressing gratitude for the honour of your attention and afterwards, I should thank you for it. And I want to. God knows I want to. But not today. Today, on days like today, it's all about the line. Dancing the line. Playing that game. Showing you that I can play that game. Showing you that it doesn't matter how cruel you are, how smart you are, how sexy you are, because I can be just as nasty. It's that temporary madness, that desire to hurt you back.

"I believe I just gave you an instruction girl." Girl isn't in your usual vocabulary which means you are giving me a warning. You're watching me very carefully with that focused stare I usually find intimidating. I step backwards, sideways, out of range and I grin.

"Girl? Really?" I laugh, just a little "who says girl? Girl?!" And then serious again. "I do have a name." I start to manoeuvre myself towards the door but with two steps you position yourself between it and me. "And I expect you to use it."

It's that final line that settles it. A nervous thrill goes through me as you start to smile. Your twisted sense of humour loves this as much as I do.

"Of course," you say smoothly, as though testing out a new theory, "a name is really only something that you respond to. And you respond so well to so many don't you? Whore. Slut. Stupid. Pig. Worthless fucking piece of meat." The names hit me in the cunt, just like you knew they would but I refuse to let you see it, glaring at you with scornful eyes.

"Oh you do have a way with words," I say thick with sarcasm. "I can see that the ladies must be falling at your feet with charm like that." It's not the best comeback ever but your stance is unnerving me. Altogether too amused. Infuriating. And actually, I don't need to be too clever.

You smile shortly. "When they do fall it tends to be because they've tripped over you grovelling at my feet, where you belong." Your fingers dig into my arm as you drag me painfully closer to you and speak in my ear. "What is this about? Don't tell me my whore is developing a bit of backbone? Whole species evolve faster than you do."

Wrenching myself out of your grasp I spit "I'm not your whore."

"Really?" you say "In that case you'd better tell me whose whore you are because I owe somebody a lot of money." There is a flash of a moment where my irritation rises. Why do you always have to be so bloody unruffled? I need you to care more than this. I'm worth more than your indifference. Unthinking I lash out, slapping you around the face. Instantly I recoil, wide eyed. I never struck you before.

"Oh shit." I scramble to get away from you but you grab me pushing me hard against the wall. You look angry which only makes my cunt clench in betrayal. How do you do this to me? You raise your hand and I flinch automatically but you softly start to stroke my hair, pulling me gently towards you and you kiss me. I'm so surprised to find you kissing me that I respond and you become more intense, passionate, pushing my top up over my breasts making me moan. You start kissing my neck, a path of kisses up to my ear as your hands start to unbutton my jeans.

"Darling?" you say pushing them down to my ankles and then running your hands expertly over my half stripped body. You kiss me again on the mouth and I feel breathless as you pull away biting my lower lip gently and then start kissing my neck again. "Who makes you feel like this?" I moan in response to the onslaught of your hands on my body, voice in my ear and you twist my left nipple sharply, painfully to get my attention. "No really darling, who makes you feel like this?"

"You do," I breathe moving my hands to start to unbutton your jeans. Your hands immediately fly up to my throat, restricting my air flow and you push your body harder up against mine, against the wall.

"That's right," you say coldly "I do." Snapped out of the daze of my lust I can see that your face is still angry. You look seriously pissed and a jolt of fear rushes through me. "So what the fuck do you think you are doing?" I'm struggling to breathe and you spit on my face before releasing me and stepping back.

In my effort to simultaneously get my breath back and get some distance between us I forget about the jeans bunched around my ankles and I trip, sprawling across the floor at your feet. I look up in time to see the kick you aim but not soon enough to avoid the blow to my side. I try to shut out the pain, kicking off my jeans so that I can scramble to my feet as quickly as possible. Instantly, you knock me back as I try to rise and pin me down, your body weight making it impossible to move.

You look smugly amused as I struggle to move my arms, your hands digging into my wrists.

"What's the matter little whore?" you mock "Don't try to tell me your cunt isn't wet, I know it is. It doesn't matter what I do to you, you'll take anything and beg me for more. Won't you honey?" Your cool, blue eyes are laughing at me but actually I know I haven't lost yet. You're still playing the game and I know it.

"You're a fucking wanker," I say taking care to clearly stress each word. Your eyes narrow although you hold onto the mocking smile. Suddenly you jump up and grabbing me by the hair you drag me up and over to the mirror. I hate it when you pull me by the hair, I hate the sharp, wrenching needle pain on my scalp. You know it too. You push me up to the glass, the cold a smart shock to my skin and I try to pull away but the hand grasping my hair brings me back to where you want. I see my eyes in the mirror and hastily look down, away.

"Look at yourself," you snap "Say that again."

Inwardly I wince as I look up to see you glaring at me in the mirror. I try to turn around to face you but you don't allow me, shoving me back with your body weight. "Say it again," you repeat.

I know what you're doing. You think that if I can see my disrespect I will lose my resolve. That I will feel shame and self disgust. I'll meet my own gaze in the mirror and the realisation of the seriousness of my offence will hit me, my eyes will widen and I will start to plead with you for your forgiveness. And usually that would happen.

I thrust back with my elbow into your chest, pushing you back so I can turn around. There are so many ways you can stop this, I know because you've used them before. Any number of words, phrases, actions. It really must be like training a dog. But I don't want them to affect me. I don't want you to stop this. I want to make you passionate with anger, love, lust. I want your touch, rough all over me, scolding with hatred, love, desire.

"So," you say, as though disappointed. "You don't want to be my good girl today." You're just looking at me, with those eyes. My throat tightens and I know I need to shut down my ears. I can't listen to you when you do this. I'm weakening and I can't afford to lose this.

"No girl could be your good girl every day," I say, which isn't really what I mean, I'm getting this all wrong. I shake my head, physically trying to clear my confusion and you laugh.

"Darling, you struggle to be any good, at all. If it wasn't for the fact you are so desperate to degrade yourself I would have got rid of you long ago." You turn around and walk to the other side of the room to pick up a book and then you sit down on the double leather sofa, opening it to read. All I can feel is the empty space around me and I know what you are doing. I know what you are doing but I don't care.

"No, please," the words gasp out my mouth before I can think about it. I can't take you ignoring me. I take two rushing steps towards you before your words snap me still.

"Please what? What the fuck do you want now? You aren't in the mood to be good – fine, but don't expect me to be in the mood to pay attention to you."

"No, please," I feel like I'm crashing into a cold, dark ocean. I rush the rest of the way to you, collapsing onto my knees against your legs. "I will be good, I promise, I'm sorry."

"You don't know how to be good," you say lazily, stroking my face and then pushing me away. Your rejection hurts but I immediately scramble back up to you.

"Please let me -"

Suddenly you sit up and you slap me hard, cutting off my words.

"Sir," you say calmly. "Please Sir. It's only three little letters, even you should be able to manage it." I feel my blush hit my cheeks. I can't look at you, I can feel my heart thumping as I hear the sound of you putting your book on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry Sir," I say, trying to swallow the hurt in my throat. "Please let me try to be good."

You shake your head, slowly, reluctantly. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"

I shake my head wordlessly, my eyes on you. I wish I didn't always forget how you do this to me. Slowly you reach over and grab the empty wine bottle from last night from the table and you give it to me.

"Strip first," you say coldly, sitting back, getting comfortable. I know what you want me to do. You love watching me do this but I hate it. My hands trembling I pull my top up over my head and throw it to the corner out of the way. "Bitch, you'd better not be wasting my time. Get on with it."

I feel a bit sick but I peel off my underwear quicker, feeling the sudden cool air stiffen my nipples. I take the wine bottle and kneeling before you I slowly insert the neck into my cunt. It's cold and hard and I know my face has turned bright red as I start to fuck it.

"Look at me," you say and I take my eyes from the blank spot I was focusing on to look at you. Your eyes send a jolt through me and suddenly the intrusion of the bottle starts to feel pleasurable and I moan in shame. This is what I hate. I hate fucking myself for you. I hate you watching but I hate it more because I like it and because I can't hide that I like it. "You like that don't you slut?" I nod, not trusting myself to speak, trying to keep the noise in. Your eyebrows rise questioningly. "Then where are your manners?"

"Thank you Sir."

"Better. Now get on your back and fuck yourself properly, like I know you want to." I reposition. It's easier to fuck harder like this, which only makes it harder for me to hold onto some self control. "Faster," you snap "I know when you're holding back on me." Instantly I start pumping faster and harder. I'm aware that I'm writhing around and moaning and a separate part of me cringes in embarrassment as you watch me calmly as I start to approach orgasm. I'm getting louder and louder, closer and closer when you suddenly take the bottle out of my hand. I didn't even realise you'd moved. Disorientated I look at you between my legs looking at the bottle in your hand. You look mildly disgusted.

"You've made it filthy, clean it up." You drop it on my belly and eagerly I snatch it up and start to lick it clean. You know I love the taste of my own cunt juice. I know you like to see how much. I only really register what I'm doing once it is clean and suddenly shy I duck my head away from you, blushing. I don't know how you do this to me. Make me forget myself. I sneak a sideways look at you and when I see your face I remember. Shit, I'm still in trouble.

You sit back down on the edge of the sofa with your legs apart. The look in your eye makes me think briefly about running and I twitch unconsciously.

"Oh no," you say, your hand shooting out and grabbing my hair "don't even think about it!" You pull me up so that I'm kneeling between your legs and then you let me go. I can't really think clearly. I feel dizzy, I want to run but then I also feel ashamed and want to stay to make amends and being so close to you, naked while you remain clothed makes me feel so deliciously vulnerable.

Softly you put your hand under my chin and raise my head up so that I'm looking at you. For a moment you just look at me. I'm totally unprepared for the slap that knocks me sideways onto your knee. You've never slapped me so hard. My cheek is burning and I can't breathe. I choke, trying to get my breath back. You haven't moved.

"Kneel. Back. Up." Jerkily I kneel back up, my palm pressed tight against my face, as though that would help. "Lose the hand." Reluctantly I lower my hand, I can feel the tears start to prick my eyes and I blink trying to stop them. You turn my head so that you can see your handprint and then you smile. "Good." You pause a moment, gently twisting a long length of my hair. "So, you want to be my good girl now do you?"

"Yes Sir, please Sir," part of me hates how you make me this desperate for you. But only part.

"You do know you'll have to pay for your attitude earlier, don't you?" I shiver, lowering my head. "Or maybe that's what you want little whore? Maybe you enjoy pissing me off since it means I have to whip your ass?" You laugh. You know I hate being punished. "Or did you not think of that honey? Did you not think there might be repercussions for disobeying me? Did you not imagine there might be an issue with being an insolent smart arse?" I flinch as you grab my hair to bring my face closer. "What about for hitting me?"

I lower my eyes, replaying that moment in my head. Unexpectedly I feel my former mood rise again.

"You deserved it!" I spit "You hurt me."

"I'll hurt you all I want." You grab my arms tightly, preventing me from rising. "And you'll thank me for it. Won't you?" Your fingers dig in but it's the force of your eyes I can't take.

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir."

"You're always sorry, you'd do better to try to do right in the first place." Tears prick my eyes again and you gently wipe them away. "Mind you," your voice suddenly turns soft, baiting me "it's so sweet how you always think you can win."

I guess the game isn't over yet.