Except it’s not that simple, I’m not sure it’ll ever be that simple.
I wonder if people ever stop and consider just what a precious commodity consent is? It’s significance is monumental, yet I sometimes feel that, because the majority adhere to it’s fundamental rules, that it is taken for granted, overlooked as being a given.
I don’t think I’d ever said an empthatic ‘No!’ to Sir until a few days ago. I don’t remember ever having called a halt to proceedings because I either couldn’t go on full stop, or couldn’t continue with/agree to a particular activity, yet, I unexpectedly found myself facing that exact scenario, and I was in no way prepared for the sudden emotional impact it had upon me, and to a degree is still playing it’s perversely dark tune in the deeper recesses of my mind.
“Are you saying no?”
answer, expected (immediately?).
Endorphins cavorted drunkenly throughout my body, I was in a very happy place.
He’d hurt me (with unadulterated delight), made me flinch, made me scream, made me crave it, made me wet. He’d made me into an incoherent, slutty mess, got me to the point where I thought I couldn’t take any more, but I(He) knew I could. I’d been on edge all day, I needed this. But out of nowhere, I crashed, the impact of the collision almost (painfully) tangible.
“Are you saying no?”
louder this time.
He required an(my) response.
Tongue paralysed, I couldn’t speak, fear, intense, causing a synaptic short.
Head bowed, face purposefully hidden, suddenly ashamed, I couldn’t breathe.
There was a time, years ago, before I even knew Sir, when the word ‘No’ was, if acknowledged at all, met with guilt trips, negative reinforcements, attempts to coerce and break down. I came to learn that no matter what I said, no matter what I wanted, or rather didn’t want, it didn’t matter, it was going to happen anyway. There were always consequences should I have the audacity to resist.
There’s an irony there, ofcourse, given these days a major part of my kink, what gets me off, what gives me a huge amount of enjoyment, is resisting, being made to do whatever Sir wishes. And at the centre of that irony is that word, consent, and the respect, or historical lack of, for it.
He waited, still, for a response, and I wanted to speak, wanted to add voice to my decision, but I couldn’t, I just froze.
“Answer me! Are you saying No?”
Archived consequences come back to taunt me, and for a moment I hear their malevolent whisper carrying me back to a time I thought forgotten, a hair trigger, invisible to the naked eye, tripped.
Heart races, tears form in angry rivulets cascading down my face.
I’m scared, beyond scared, I’m fearful, but not of Him…..the reality of that pulls me back from the edge, from the place where only panic resides.
Tentatively, I nod my head, whisper the word
I hold my breath then, expecting………
I don’t know what to expect, territory new, a path freshly trodden.
History tells me I’m right to be fearful,
Heart tells me to stop, think, trust.
Arms encircle me, pulling me close.
Reassurances whispered, a haven offered.
I consider resisting, pushing, breaking free, retreating to a place to hide, from my shame, from my tears, from everything I’ve faced in those few brief moments.
But that would be a retrograde step, and I don’t want to travel that road again, where default response is to run.
I allow the comfort to surround me, breathe it in, find solace and calm away from the tumult which assaulted my occasionally fragile mind.
He finds other ways to hurt me, other ways to make me His.
I know this game, I know how it ends, and I pour myself into it, once more become maleable, dancing to His deliciously sadistic tune. He offers me pain, and I gratefully take it, He claims what is His for His own dark pleasure, and I consent to it being so.
I said No. He stopped. The end.
Except it’s not the end, it’s the beginning, of something even more precious than I ever imagined it would be.