(continued from “A Retrospective: Part 4“)
J kept pushing and it bothered me—not just because he was pushing, but because it seemed so damned important to him. I didn’t want to talk about it, so I ignored his “requests.” But he kept on pushing.
I was enjoying all sorts of other kinds of play and I would have preferred to avoid oral sex all together. I didn’t want it and I didn’t want to talk about it.
I mean I did want to talk about it, I do, someday, with the right person. I didn’t want to talk about it then because I knew it would be an uncomfortable conversation with a lot of self-disclosure on my part. It felt like it was too soon for a conversation like that, especially in a casual relationship. Besides that, I didn’t want too reveal my insecurities and lack of confidence to J for fear he would realize how not-dominant I really was. If I broke “role,” he might lose interest, and I’d lose the relationship and the opportunity to “play” Domme in those ways that felt natural, exciting, and deeply satisfying.
But he pushed… and pushed… and pushed. One night, winding down after some intense play, J started talking (again) about how much he enjoyed oral service and he linked it to a reward for his good behavior. I wish I could remember the specifics of the conversation, but in my head, it sounded like he felt I wasn’t rewarding him for being a good boy, or perhaps, that I was punishing him by not allowing him to perform oral service.
It made me feel terrible, because he was a good boy in so many ways–a willing, patient, and pliant boy–and he deserved to be rewarded.
But linking a request for reward to my allowing him to perform oral service–it didn’t feel right. Isn’t pleasing me supposed to be it’s own reward? Are we on some sort of points system here? Besides all that, his pushing so hard didn’t feel like submission. It seemed selfish and a little manipulative. (I know, I know. I wasn’t explicit with J—that’s my responsibility and my fault. Still, after a dominant ignores a “request” time after time after time, wouldn’t an experienced submissive know to stop pushing?)
He seemed to be waiting for a response. I avoided an awkward silence by kissing him instead, and I tried to avoid letting my internal debates show on my face. We fooled around, and I was physically present, but I couldn’t stop worrying about it. At some point, I sat up on his chest, panties on, inches from his mouth. Generally, I enjoy teasing him, but this time, I was stalling and trying to build up the courage to do it, to shove my pussy at him. I just couldn’t gather the courage to do it.
He wasn’t bound and he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me towards his mouth. Sometimes I like a little push and pull, but this was different. I wasn’t really teasing, but my pulling away was halfhearted–part of me wanted to see if sharing this with him might be different, part of me wanted to get it over with, and part of me didn’t want any of it. After some time “teasing,” (really, trying to talk myself into it,) J became visibly frustrated with me–not the good kind of frustration that I enjoy–but a kind of frustration that made me feel terrible. He looked angry and annoyed.
The expression on his face hurt me and made me angry. It felt as if all of my pretending and wanting and confusion and insecurities converged in that moment. I was furious that he would push so hard, hurt that he didn’t seem to notice or care that this wasn’t what I wanted. I felt inadequate for not being Domme enough, not exciting enough, too “vanilla” for my hesitance and my disinterest. I felt as if I was reduced to the sum of my insecurities and flaws. I felt anything but dominant—I felt like a little girl and I hated that feeling.
I hid it well enough, or at least, I hid it long enough to grab a blindfold and vet wrap and ensure he couldn’t see—I thought I was going to cry. I took a swig of vodka straight from the bottle, slid off my panties, straddled his face, and let him “service” me. (God I hate that term, “oral service,” it’s as if I’m a broken automobile in need of “servicing.” Perhaps I hate it because sometimes I do feel as if I’m broken.) I moved as I had seen in pornography, I was rough with his head (half mimicking what I had seen in porn and half out of actual anger), and I moaned when I thought I was supposed to.
I fought back tears and at some point, I tried to pull away. His arms tightened around my thighs and he kind of held me there. I didn’t fight him. He stopped long enough to say “You’re fine. You’re beautiful” in a near monotone that was one of the emptiest, most condescending things I’ve ever heard. I tried to shut down my brain and detach.
After some time passed, I assumed I should have been approaching orgasm, and I dramatized my movements, moans, and words accordingly. As I pretended to “orgasm,” tears welled in my eyes. Despite my efforts to blink them back, big fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I hated every second of it and I just wanted it to be over.
I didn’t say anything that night as I curled my body into his and fell into a dreamless sleep. I loved him and I fucking hated him and I quietly decided I’d end it the next day. None of it was working out for me—not the Domme thing and not the J thing.
continue to Retrospective, Part 6: Oh… Hell No!