Trite though it is, I’ll mention that film, Secretary; one key-scene as a case-in-point, however caricatured… In order to prove that she really wants to be his property, she is made to wait and wait and wait. I think, kitten, you would have got the hump, said ‘fuck you!’, and left.
One of my main purposes in blogging that is right up there next to venting slave steam and publicly humiliating myself, is getting other people’s views on D/s. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and for every take on D/s, there is an equally opposite take on D/s. But I’m usually very careful not to call other people ‘wrong’ in what they think; I like to call them ‘different’. There is no right or wrong in something as stylistic and personal as D/s and what I may interpret as being ‘wrong’ may actually be just someone else holding up a mirror to me. I may not be able to see myself unless I’m reflected through another’s eyes.
My gut reaction when I read Master Dee’s comment above was to think how ‘wrong’ it was. God, how many times have I said in here that my big kink is endurance? Having to ‘wait and wait and wait’ would be something that I’d love to do! I’d revel in the opportunity to ‘prove once and for all’ my ability to stick it out and do what needed to be done. But then I thought…would I be doing it for him or me?
I think the spirit of the gesture, as shown in the movie, is to not only show her commitment to the idea of being property by doing explicitly what he wants, but to also sacrifice herself-her comfort, her needs-to show him that his wants and needs are the only ones that matter. Sitting in his chair in the rumpled wedding dress with her hands glued to his desk by her will-power alone, she doesn’t care about the urine trickling down her leg from a bladder that can wait no more. She has more important things to focus on.
I thought about myself in that situation. I’d leave my hands on the desk until I keeled over and died if he told me to. Of course, I wouldn’t be so gracious about it and there would be copious amounts of swearing and plotting Master’s painful death, but I would do it. As a matter of pride, for me, I would do it. If I didn’t do it, if I didn’t endure, I’d be a loser. Not a loser to Master, but a loser to me. And I don’t like to lose to anyone- especially myself.
But am I wrong to think like this? As a slave, shouldn’t it be all about him with me sacrificing myself for his wishes? I’m thinking I am wrong because as things stand now, I’m still in control, I’m still ‘giving’ him the right to order me around, and ultimately, the one I answer to is not Master, but myself.
The other night in bed during a ravishing/interrogation he had both my wrists held down above my head in one hand, his body pinning me down with his and his other hand was busily pinching and twisting that sensitive spot between my cunt and back hole. I was attempting to twist out of his grip and shrieking like a fishwife, but he held firm and kept pinching like a vice:
‘Who do you love?‘
‘….(shrieking, moaning and muffled screams)…’
‘WHO DO YOU LOVE?’
‘….( more shrieking, moaning and muffled screams)….’
‘Don’t fight me. I won’t ask you again.Who do you love?’
‘…(after more screaming and twisting)….you…’
I fought the Master and the Master won.
It was another one of those quiet moments where realisation cuts through you like a knife. I had been fighting him, gritting my teeth, not wanting to give into the pain, not ‘allowing’ him to have control of what I said. I tried so hard to keep control, to keep myself intact, not wanting to admit anything….but he won anyway.
There are times I want to say to Master, ‘Fuck you…fuck you for making me do that.’ Those are generally the times when my eyes flash like sharp daggers and Master enjoys it so much. He watches the infinitesimal little struggle going on inside me with amusement, because he knows from the beginning that he has already won and what goes on is merely wasted energy on my part.
But for me, it’s important that I do struggle, that control only goes from me when it’s ripped out of my hands. I don’t know why, I don’t really understand whatgoes through my mind most of the time. But I do know for a fact that three days later I’d still be sitting in the wedding dress, in a pool of my own wee if he told me to ‘stay’.
If I was saying ‘Fuck him!’ under my breath as I waited….would that be wrong?