textfiles/sex/EROTICA/S/safewrd1.txt

			SAFEWORD GAMES

			Game 1:  Anger

			by Cory Kerens


He doesn't bottom to me very often, and when he does, it's usually
just a flogging.  I had told him that I had something different in
mind for today, and he'd agreed.  He's actually a fairly brave bottom
for someone who does it so rarely, but I was going to stretch him
pretty far today.  I hoped his trust in me would not be weakened.

I asked him to sit in a chair, then attached him to the chair by means
of a chain wrapped once around his waist and once around the back of
the chair, padlocked shut.  His hands and feet I left completely free
-- this man could do anything except get away.  He looked puzzled at
the arrangement, since I usually either don't bind him at all or else
restrain him pretty thoroughly.  He looked even more puzzled when I
put his open toybag by the right side of his chair -- I almost always
use my own toys.

I took his chin in my hand and tilted his head up to look at me.  "I
want your permission to push somewhat against the boundaries of
consent."  

He cocked his head to one side and looked at me thoughtfully.  "I
don't know quite how to read that," he said, "but I agreed to let you
experiment on me, and I believe in keeping my word."

I smiled tenderly at him and told him I loved him.  Then I put my left
hand on one side of his face to steady it, while with my right hand I
slapped him hard across the face.  "Your safeword," I said, spacing
the words out and enunciating every word clearly, "is to get angry."

He gazed at me, as calmly as ever.  "And who is to decide whether or
not I have gotten sufficiently angry?"

"I am, of course.  That means that you must not merely _feel_ angry,
your anger must be clearly visible to me."

He smiled slightly.  "I _knew_ you were a sadist."

"You're sounding awfully calm and collected."

"I always sound calm and collected.  Do you want me to say that I am
frightened?  Very well.  I am.  But surely you didn't suppose that I
would beg you to stop?"

"No, that isn't necessary.  And it wouldn't do you any good, anyway.
After all, begging me to stop isn't your safeword."

He gave me a look at that point.  One couldn't say that it was an
angry look, but it did seem as if he were starting to appreciate what
sort of scene we were doing.


Andrew has problems expressing anger, especially anger at someone he
loves.  He has been trained by past lovers that getting angry means
losing their love, so he simply doesn't express anger and often
doesn't even admit to himself that he feels it.  I knew, and he knew,
that this wall was stifling him, and with his permission, I was
about to smash it.  


I sighed inside myself.  I don't usually do verbal abuse.  I don't
like to give it, and I don't like to get it.  But just beating on the
man wouldn't be enough, and I psyched myself up to do what needed to
be done.

I wound my hand in his hair and pulled his head back.  I love it when
he does this to me, but he is not a sub and was sure to find the
position vaguely insulting.  The main reason for assuming it, though,
was to keep his head from moving too much while I slapped him, to keep
him from getting whiplash.  I didn't want to make my precautions too
obvious, though -- it's hard to get angry at someone who's obviously
protecting you -- I wanted it to look as if the only reason for the
position of my hand was the domination value.

I slapped him across the face, quite hard, alternating forehand
against the left side of his face with backhand against the right
side.  I slapped him as methodically as I could, trying to emulate the
machinelike rhythm I had seen a particularly cold top use.  While I
slapped him, I insulted him.  I used the scornful, sarcastic, sneering
voice that my mother used to use -- I had always gotten angry at the
owner of that voice, and I hoped that he would, too.

"It's the big, bad top, isn't it?  The one who's brave enough to beat
up little girls.  But you aren't brave enough to face the real you,
are you?"  I continued slapping him across the face, as insultingly as
possible.  "You think you're such a grown-up.  You say you were born
old.  But little boy, you're still in junior high.  You're still
letting the way your childhood classmates treated you determine who
you are and how much you can feel.  You may have a man's body, but you
left your emotions back in junior high."  Using my hand in his hair, I
jerked his head back even further.

He was breathing hard and was looking at me with those flat brown eyes
that give nothing away.  This was actually a fairly good sign -- it is
when he is especially inscrutable that there is the most going on inside.

"I used to think that you were so strong.  But you're really a coward,
aren't you?  You're afraid to show me your real self, afraid to give
me your true emotions, afraid to love me for real."  I slapped his
face in time with the "afraid"s -- three times I told him he was
afraid, and at each afraid, he got a slap, hard, backhanded across the
face.

He looked at me.  "You're trying to manipulate me, but you're being
pathetically obvious about it."

I smiled.  "Gee, Mr. Spock, you almost sounded angry there for a
second."  The flat brown eyes opened for a second at his childhood
nickname, then slammed shut again.  Quickly, I continued.

"You've craved acceptance all your life and never found it."  Slap.
"You've wanted a place where you belonged all your life and only
managed to find a bulletin board."  Slap.  "What do you think stands
in the way of your acceptance?  YOU, you dummy."  I gave him several
hard slaps.  "No one can accept you until YOU accept you.  Mr. Spock
had an excuse -- he was a hybrid.  But you, you don't have an excuse.
You've simply thrown your humanity away."

The eyes were as flat as ever, but the voice was angry.  "You've won,"
he said.  "I'm angry."

I wanted to grab him and hold him and apologize for all the awful
things I had said to him, but I knew it wasn't time.  Instead I did
the hardest thing I've ever done --  I sneered at him.  "You think
this is anger?  You really have lost your humanity, haven't you,
Spock?  REAL anger is not as pale as this, not as tame.  Even if
you're too repressed to feel it, surely you can recognize it?"  I
resumed slapping him.  "And to think I was first attracted to you
because I thought you were smart, but actually you're pretty stupid,
aren't you?"

He sat in his chair and glared at me, refusing to speak.

I started calling him names, slapping him across the face with each
name.  "Stupid."  Slap.  "Coward."  Slap.  "Baby."  Slap.  "You've
learned to take a certain perverse pride in being the emotionless one,
in being called Mr. Spock, but you're not _good_ enough to be Mr.
Spock.  He's at least smart and brave."

He reached out with his right arm and slapped me back.  

I continued slapping him.  "Oooh, look.  He's gonna pretend to get
angry.  Little baby throw an itty-bitty tantrum now?"

He grabbed ahold of my slapping arm and jerked me forward across the
chair.  I sprawled awkwardly across the chair, and he started to hit
me, hitting whatever parts of me he could reach, even as he tried to
wrestle me into a more convenient position.  

I didn't fight him very hard.  I figured that after the things I had
said to him that he deserved to hit me until he felt better, and I
thought that the more anger he expressed, the stronger would be the
lesson that he could get angry at me and still be loved.  From the way
he was hitting me, it looked as if he were very angry indeed.

He pounded on my back with his fists, and I shrieked with every blow.
I twisted around to look at his face, and it was murderous and
frightening.  He continued beating me, past the point where I was
screaming, past the point where I was too hoarse to scream, past the
point where I was sobbing, past the point where I was too exhausted
even to cry.

When he finally wound down, exhausted himself, he hugged me to him and
started to cry, saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again.

"I'm the one who's sorry," I croaked out.  "I'm sorry I had to say
those things to you.  I love you very much, you know."

He looked at me.  "You still love me?"

"More than words can say."

He hugged me to him again, and we held each other for a long time.

***

"I respect you very much, you know."

"So you've said.  I can't imagine why.  After all, everything you said
was true."  He sounded bitter.

"Honey."  He looked at me.  "There was a grain of truth in _some_ of
the things I said, but in many cases it was a damned SMALL grain.  I
inflated little faults until they were enormous, talked about
strengths as if they were weaknesses, twisted everything I know about
you to suit my own purposes.  And some things I just plain made up.
There are people I manage to love even though my respect for them is
small, but you are not one of those people.  I told you that I respect
you very much, and I do.  In fact, my respect for you is _greater_
than it was before, because I think it was very brave of you to go
through with this scene with me."

"Would you have respected `red' or `safeword' if I had actually called
it?"

"I'm not sure.  I'm glad I didn't have to decide."

"You know, don't you, that this means that I get to do this to you
someday?"

"I don't have that much trouble with anger, I don't think."

He smiled.  "Not with anger.  With something else."

"What, then?"

"That would be telling.  Do you agree?"

I considered.  "This is as much advance warning as I gave you, isn't
it?"

He nodded.

I looked inside myself for a moment, then back at him.  "I am yours,
beloved."

He smiled.  "As I am yours."