Sir doesn’t punish me much. I’m very obedient and eager to be of service. Sir does like to push me, and I usually welcome it. Except in the case of a Wednesday night a few weeks ago. Sir cooked dinner and I ate way too much and sat on His couch bemoaning my full stomach. As the night wore on, Sir and I settled in the couch to watch some TiVo recorded programs. Sir got up, at one point, and fixed Himself some crackers with quince paste and goat cheese. Ick. He pokes fun at my disgust by saying He’s going to make me eat some. I think He’s joking. He’s nibbling and I’m watching TV when suddenly He says, “Have some, pet.”
I scowl and say that I’m not hungry. “I said, have some, pet.” He says again, a touch more forcefully. “No, I’m not hungry, Sir.” I say polite as I can. For whatever reason, something is boiling up in me; annoyance? Irritation? Whatever it is, I suddenly don’t want anything He’s feeding me, even if it is just one cracker and a bit of cheese.
He comes over to me and I suddenly bury my head under a pillow. He has that look on His face and He’s holding the cracker in His hand. “Eat the cracker, pet. I’m ordering you. Eat it.”
“But I don’t want the cracker!” My voice booms as a whine, which surprises even me.
“Don’t make me get the cane!” He barks, “I should punish you for resisting me this much, just eat it!” He grabs at my metal collar and presses Himself down against me on the couch. He pauses the television show. I’m still trying to bury my head in a pillow.
“I’m going to count to three. If you don’t eat this, I’m getting the cane.” As He counts, I tell Him over and over again that I don’t want the cracker. He stomps out of the room, clearly annoyed. I panic, not wanting to have my feet caned. He comes back with the two canes, the metal and the wooden and throws the metal on the floor, grasping the wooden in His hand.
I bury my feet in the couch cushions.
I don’t know why I wanted to defy Him so badly. I felt frenzied, pretty much like a child throwing a tantrum. He called me a child having a tantrum, later on. He forcibly tries to grab at my legs to get at my feet.
“You’re fighting me on THIS, pet?” He says, exasperated. I laugh nervously. I don’t even know, now, a few weeks after the fact, why I fought Him so much. But I ended up eating it. Bleh. For some reason, my little brain kept going, “don’tWANNAeatitdon’tWANNAeatit…”
Something similar happened in San Francisco. We went out to dinner one night (Foreign Cinema in the Mission district, an amazing restaurant and the best meal Sir and I enjoyed in SF) and He had ordered a glass of red wine. He ordered me to take a sip. I said no. I felt a tiny shift in our conversation as He looked at me and ordered me to take a sip. He threatened to punish me. For some reason I can’t explain, I started to get very rebellious and huffy and didn’t want to take a sip for the reason that I just didn’t want to, just like the cheese incident. I don’t dislike red wine THAT much.
Later in the dinner, He said if I would finish the rest of His wine. I wouldn’t be punished for my earlier transgression if I did, but I pouted and said that I didn’t want to. He finished up the last dregs and warned me that He would punish me had later. (I’ve managed to evade that punishment. Heh heh.)
I don’t quite know why I tend to do this. I’m always such a well-behaved girl. But I’ll just get this little tick in my brain, a little self-righteous itch that makes me pout and flail my arms and want to stamp my feet and scream. Things rub me the wrong way once, and I’m far less likely to comply with them a second time. I think I’m just not used to facing challenge head-on. Sir challenges me. So sometimes I’ll say no just because I can. Which isn’t very submissive of me, I know. But there it is.
“I don’t always want your obedience. Sometimes I want your fire.” Sir said that to me once, and it’s always stuck in my head. I take it to heart.
Sir and I haven’t really had time to play the last few weeks. He came back from a business trip right before I developed strep throat. Instead of playing, He nursed me back to health. (It was very sweet, actually. He took very, very good care of me.) Then He’s been on multiple business trips with very little downtime in between. And then I’ve been busy with school.
I feel that longing, to fight, to be subdued, to be taken down. That itch. To have Him slap me and hold me down while I squirm and bark orders at me. To plead and beg no and have it not mean anything at all. To resist.
To not be so well behaved, I suppose.
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