Safeword

I never wanted to use my safeword. The idea of having one is to give me, a submissive, a way to stop the action if a BDSM scene gets too much for me, and my dominant doesn’t notice. During BDSM encounters I’m likely to say things like “no” and “stop" while not exactly meaning them, so we need a different word that my dominant will understand to really mean “stop”. My safeword is “safeword” which is impossible to misunderstand, but I’d hoped never to actually use it. It was just there for emergencies, like the first aid kit in the back of my car.

Because as a submissive, I like giving up control to my dominant, who I trust to do exciting things with it. Safewording would feel like stamping on the brakes, bringing the scene to an ugly, grating halt. I’ve always been pretty sure I’d feel like I’d failed if I used it — I want my tolerance for pain to be endlessly elastic, so that I’m never the reason a scene ends prematurely. I also don’t want to have a negative impact upon my dominant’s confidence. Firstly that’s for his sake — I want him to feel like everything he does is always right, because I think he deserves that. But secondly, selfishly, I also think his confidence is what facilitates the magical encounters we share. Having him know that whatever he wants to give, I’m eager to receive. Given the choice, I wouldn’t have let what happened next occur at all.

******

It’s the second day, which we’ve spent walking by a sunlit river with rocky banks, and fucking enthusiastically in one of the cottage’s upstairs bedrooms, and occasionally separating in order to type furiously on our laptops, dealing with tasks that absolutely cannot wait, because it is our work that makes it possible for us to lead this extra, part time, perfect life. Sometimes, I watch him clandestinely while he types, trying to memorise his profile, drinking in the lines of his body to remember later, during the long absences.

We’ve cooked together, and eaten at the kitchen table, and now I’m bent over the arm of a chesterfield sofa in the sitting room, wearing a customarily pornographic outfit — white lace stockings, a peach floral babydoll, sheer panties with frilled hems. He removes his belt, and I turn my head to watch him, because I shall never want to miss this tableau. I’ve long been distracted by seeing men removing their belts to be scanned in airport security queues, but this is far better, because this display is specifically for me, and because I’m sure he’s actually going to use his belt to beat me with.

I’ve always loved belt whipping — I like the domesticity of it, and the fact that it feels a little antiquated, as though it could be happening hundreds of years ago, because belts have been made to the same design for so long. And I like the sensation — when I direct my own spanking movies there’s always a belt whipping scene. Compared to hairbrushes (shudder) or canes, it’s a sensation I find easy to process as pleasure. It feels familiar, and safe, and I enjoy the marks it makes. I’m not at all sorry he’s chosen the belt.