tagBDSMSafeword Games, Game 01

Safeword Games, Game 01


Author's Note: I wrote this in 1993, for a lover who is much as I describe here. Upon reading the story, he said, "Who gave you the owner's manual?!" I assume that was a compliment -- on my understanding of him, at least, even if not on my writing. :-)

Game 1: Anger

He doesn't bottom to me very often, and when he does, it's usually just a flogging. I had told him that I had something different in mind for today, and he'd agreed. He's actually a fairly brave bottom for someone who does it so rarely, but I was going to stretch him pretty far today. I hoped it wouldn't ruin what we have between us.

I asked him to sit in a chair, then attached him to the chair by means of a chain wrapped once around his waist and once around the back of the chair, padlocked shut. His hands and feet I left completely free -- this man could do anything except get away. He looked puzzled at the arrangement, since I usually either don't bind him at all or else restrain him pretty thoroughly. He looked even more puzzled when I put his open toybag by the right side of his chair -- I always use my own toys.

I took his chin in my hand and tilted his head up to look at me. "I want your permission to push somewhat against the boundaries of consent."

He cocked his head to one side and looked at me thoughtfully. "I don't know quite how to read that," he said, "but I agreed to let you experiment on me, and I believe in keeping my word."

I smiled tenderly at him and told him I loved him. Then I put my left hand on one side of his face to steady it, while with my right hand I slapped him hard across the face. "Your safeword," I said, spacing the words out and enunciating every word clearly, "is to get angry."

He gazed at me, as calmly as ever. "And who is to decide whether or not I have gotten sufficiently angry?"

"I am, of course. That means that you must not merely feel angry, your anger must be clearly visible to me."

He smiled slightly. "I knew you were a sadist."

"You're sounding awfully calm and collected."

"I always sound calm and collected. Do you want me to say that I am frightened? Very well. I am. But surely you didn't suppose that I would beg you to stop?"

"No, that isn't necessary. And it wouldn't do you any good, anyway. After all, begging me to stop isn't your safeword."

He gave me a look at that point. It wasn't yet an angry look, but it did seem as if he were starting to appreciate what sort of scene we were doing.

Andrew has problems expressing anger, especially anger at someone he loves. He has been trained by past lovers that getting angry means losing their love, so he simply doesn't express anger and often doesn't even admit to himself that he feels it. I knew, and he knew, that this wall was stifling him, and with his permission, I was about to smash it.

I sighed inside myself. I don't usually do verbal abuse. I don't like to give it, and I don't like to get it. But just beating on the man wouldn't be enough, and I psyched myself up to do what needed to be done.

I wound my hand in his hair and pulled his head back. I love it when he does this to me, but he is not a sub and was sure to find the position vaguely insulting. The main reason for assuming it, though, was to keep his head from moving too much while I slapped him, to keep him from getting whiplash. I didn't want to make my precautions too obvious, though -- it's hard to get angry at someone who's obviously protecting you -- I wanted it to look as if the only reason for the position of my hand was the domination value.

I slapped him across the face, quite hard, alternating forehand against the left side of his face with backhand against the right side. I slapped him as methodically as I could, trying to emulate the machinelike rhythm I had seen a particularly cold top use. While I slapped him, I insulted him. I used the scornful, sarcastic, sneering voice that my mother used to use - I had always gotten angry at the owner of that voice, and I hoped that he would, too.

"It's the big, bad top, isn't it? The one who's brave enough to beat up young women. But you aren't brave enough to face the real you, are you?" I continued slapping him across the face, as insultingly as possible. "You think you're such a grown-up. You say that you were born old. But little boy, you're still in junior high. You're still letting the way your childhood classmates treated you determine who you are and how much you can feel. You may have a man's body, but you left your emotions back in junior high." Using my hand in his hair, I jerked his head back even further.

He was breathing hard and was looking at me with those flat brown eyes that give nothing away. This was actually a fairly good sign -- it is when he is especially inscrutable that there is the most going on inside.

"I used to think that you were so strong. But you're really a coward, aren't you? You're afraid to show me your real self, afraid to give me your true emotions, afraid to love me for real." I slapped his face in time with the "afraid"s -- three times I told him he was afraid, and at each afraid, he got a slap, hard, backhanded across the face.

He looked at me. "You're trying to manipulate me, but you're being pathetically obvious about it."

I smiled. "Gee, Mr. Spock, you almost sounded angry there for a second." The flat brown eyes opened for a second at his childhood nickname, then slammed shut again. Quickly, I continued.

"You've craved acceptance all your life and never found it." Slap. "You've wanted a place where you belonged all your life and only managed to find a bulletin board." Slap. "What do you think stands in the way of your acceptance? YOU, you dummy." I gave him several hard slaps. "No one can accept you until YOU accept you. Mr. Spock had an excuse - he was a hybrid. But you, you don't have an excuse. You've simply thrown your humanity away."

The eyes were as flat as ever, but the voice was angry. "You've won," he said. "I'm angry."

I wanted to grab him and hold him and apologize for all the awful things I had said to him, but I knew it wasn't time. Instead I did something terribly hard -- I sneered at him. "You think this is anger? You really have lost your humanity, haven't you, Spock? REAL anger is not as pale as this, not as tame. Even if you're too repressed to feel it, surely you can recognize it?" I resumed slapping him. "And to think I was first attracted to you because I thought you were smart, but actually you're pretty stupid, aren't you?"

He sat in his chair and glared at me, refusing to speak.

I started calling him names, slapping him across the face with each name. "Stupid." Slap. "Coward." Slap. "Baby." Slap. "You've learned to take a certain perverse pride in being the emotionless one, in being called Mr. Spock, but you're not good enough to be Mr. Spock. He's at least smart and brave."

He reached out with his right arm and slapped me back.

I continued slapping him. "Oooh, look. He's gonna pretend to get angry. Little baby throw an itty-bitty tantrum now?"

He grabbed a hold of my slapping arm and jerked me forward across the chair. I sprawled awkwardly across his lap, and he started to hit me, hitting whatever parts of me he could reach, even as he tried to wrestle me into a more convenient position.

I didn't fight him very hard. I figured that after the things I had said to him that he deserved to hit me until he felt better, and I thought that the more anger he expressed, the stronger would be the lesson that he could get angry at me and still be loved. From the way he was hitting me, it looked as if he were very angry indeed.

He pounded on my back with his fists, and I shrieked with every blow. I twisted around to look at his face, and it was murderous and frightening. He continued beating me, past the point where I was screaming, past the point where I was too hoarse to scream, past the point where I was sobbing, past the point where I was too exhausted even to cry.

When he finally wound down, exhausted himself, he hugged me to him and started to cry, saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again.

"I'm the one who's sorry," I croaked out. "I'm sorry I had to say those things to you. I love you very much, you know."

He looked at me. "You still love me?"

"More than words can say."

He hugged me to him again, and we held each other for a long time.


"I respect you very much, you know."

"So you've said. I can't imagine why. After all, everything you said was true." He sounded bitter.

"Honey." He looked at me. "There was a grain of truth in some of the things I said, but in many cases it was a damned SMALL grain. I inflated little faults until they were enormous, talked about strengths as if they were weaknesses, twisted everything I know about you to suit my own purposes. And some things I just plain made up. There are people I manage to love even though my respect for them is small, but you are not one of those people. I told you that I respect you very much, and I do. In fact, my respect for you is greater than it was before, because I think it was very brave of you to go through with this scene with me."

"Would you have respected `red' or `safeword' if I had actually called it?"

"I'm not sure. I'm glad I didn't have to decide."

"You know, don't you, that this means that I get to do this to you someday?"

"I don't have that much trouble with anger, I don't think."

He smiled. "Not with anger. With something else."

"What, then?"

"That would be telling. Do you agree?"

I considered. "This is as much advance warning as I gave you, isn't it?"

He nodded.

I looked inside myself for a moment, then back at him. "I am yours, beloved."

He smiled. "As I am yours."


This is fiction. Be very careful when actually slapping people across the face.

copyright 1993 by Cory Kerens

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