‘Don’t ever touch my face’ is a phrase I must have repeated to Him ad nauseum.
Point being made….keep the fuck away!
At that point I didn’t explain my why, my reasoning.
It’s my business, damnit, I have no fucking need to explain!
I made sure I kept myself out of reach, physically, metaphorically.
I sigh, softly, as He gently brushes a piece of hair from my face….
Fuck, no, what!? Didn’t you hear me? not near my fucking face!
A caustic feeling of revulsion sweeps over me as the realisation shook me.
He touched my face…he touched my fucking face….
Sickly sweet tendrils of fear cling to my veins, icy, petrifying, paralysis inducing.
He touched my face.
And nothing happened.
No threats, no intimidation, no fear of consequences for not complying.
No flashbacks, or nausea, or clenching of fists as I ready myself to endure/block out whatever was to happen next.
Do it again….
I remember the first time he slapped my face, a stark recollection infused with emotion. It was the first time the tears flowed freely as I failed to hold them back. I’d peered at this kink through metaphorical fingers as my hands cupped my face, wondering what it would feel like, wondering if the resultant purge would be as defining as I imagined it would be.
I met it head on, because I’m stubborn, and because I want(ed) it.
His intrigue matched my own.
Tentative at first, gauging the response, checking for consequential negatives along the way.
I peer up at him through misty, glazed eyes, tears, torrential.
He speaks, I refuse to answer….He tells me He will do it.
Fuck you, Sir!