The truth was that while I stood in the shower, punishing myself with water so hot I almost could not stand it, I was desperately contemplating my options. If I hadn’t left my car at home, if my dog was not waiting on foot surgery, if we didn’t have plans for a road trip with his daughter, who was gleefully anticipating the event, I would have gathered my things and left.
Hell, if it wasn’t for my dog and his daughter I would have taken my things and walked, but as hurt as I was, as much as I needed to get away from his disgust, I couldn’t hurt them. Instead I took my time, showering, drying, getting dressed, the longer I was in the bathroom, the longer I could avoid his gaze.
When I finally felt brave enough to exit my sanctuary, I paused for a minute. I thought back to the few times I had tried to explain to my ex how I felt about sex; how I had asked him to do some things for me and I had been met with that same disgust, that look of revulsion that I believed was behind my Doms anger.
When I found my own anger, I held onto it with an iron clad grasp; if he couldn’t handle this, he never should have agreed to this. If he really thought that was what I wanted, then why were we here, doing this, and why would he have said all the things he had up until that point? Stepping out of the bathroom I wouldn’t look at the bed where he lay waiting for me, I moved as quickly as I could out of the room.
“Are you going to come and talk to me?” he asked when I reached the doorway.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, my voice as unsteady as my emotions. I told him I was angry and turned away from him and went to the couch.
Trying to find a comfortable position after the numerous sessions we had over the last 24 hours was more than a little difficult. Finally I sucked it up and lay on my back, using the pain as a distraction for the torrent of overwhelming hurt that was welling up inside me.
A few minutes later I heard him call my name and I ignored him. The second time he called my name he added, “Come here”. Petulant as I can be some times, I waited a moment or two before I got up and went into his room.
He asked me to join him on the bed; I lay down stiffly, focusing on a spot on the ceiling. He asked me to look at him, and I refused. After a few minutes he asked me to talk to him, and in my anger I refused again. I felt like everything we had been working towards was shattered in that one horribly defining moment; every agreement and negotiation reached was broken the moment he made me feel like my kink was wrong.
Looking back on it now, that was the night I stopped wearing my amulet. I had been without it for only a few hours the day before, but I stopped intentionally reaching for it that night. That would lead to its own set of problems.
It took a few minutes, and one or two more firmly worded requests but finally I explained. His words hurt, they made me think that he thought I was perverted, fucked up and broken, asking for abuse. I felt like he had judged me, and found me severely wanting. It reminded me of how my ex had looked at me, sneered at me and been turned off by me and my desires. I was angry, I was hurt, and I didn’t believe him when he apologized.
There was a silent pause, and then he apologized again. I rolled my eyes and tried to move away from him but he ordered me back. I still refused to look at him and silently cursed myself for my weakness.
It took him some time but he was able to explain that he wasn’t mad at me, he was mad at his reaction to the marks he left behind. That he didn’t like hurting the people he loved, and he didn’t like seeing me in pain. What scared him was how much it turned him on, how much he wanted to cum all over the marks and bury himself inside me.
It took a while for that to sink in, and even when it did, I didn’t believe him. I was too hurt, too upset to think straight, and when he asked me if I would sleep beside him I said no. At that he gathered his pillow and his blanket and followed me out into the living room. Whether I liked it or not he would sleep beside me, and if I was going to sleep on the couch, then he would sleep on the floor in front of it.
No matter how much I argued he wouldn’t budge. When I protested too much he turned around and snapped at me. Part of me thinks he was scared I would get up and leave in the middle of the night, and that same part of me thinks that was a pretty realistic fear.
So I lay on the couch doing my best to muffle my tears. My backside was throbbing and my clothing did nothing to ease that. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, it never does.
I lay awake for what seemed like hours. When sleep finally came it was filled with night mares.