Fulcrum

Something happened the other day. In this little dance of power we’ve been doing, learning where our dynamic balances best, something shifted.

A coven member had thrown out a request for some advice for managing dysphoria and penetration, Max and I were in bed together discussing possible solutions when she said penetration was inherently dominant, and I spat back “that’s a pretty fucking suburban opinion”.

There was a tension in the air. Country girl and city girl. Blue-collar locker room vs queer discourse. She knew she was being provocative, and I knew I was too. She liked “getting a rise out of me”. We both smirked. I argued that it wasn’t black and white, of course, that everything is context. We threw arrows back and forth, but when I leaned back to reply to the group text with my suggestions something inside of me escaped.

I rested against the pillow and put my bare feet on her face while I was texting, not taking my eyes off of my phone. She didn’t move, but she she asked what I was doing. I brattily replied that I was her top now, since rubbing your feet on someone’s face was inherently a dominant act. And then I wiggled my toes against her cheek and looked at her innocently asking, “Isn’t that how it works?”

I don’t remember exactly what happened next but she was on top of me, making a point, and instead of listening to that well made point I sassed again and said “Look how quick you had to set things right huh?”

She called me a Bad Girl. For the first time, it stung because she always calls me her Good Girl, says it sweetly with so much love in her eyes. “I’m good!” I insisted from underneath her, she looked down at me, her brow furrowed. “I made you a sandwich for lunch! That’s exceptionally good!!!” I was scrambling a little, I’d never seen her quite like this. I liked it. Something flickered across her face and she smiled wickedly, pinning down my wrists “Aw, such a good little 1950’s housewife.”

I could feel my blood boiling a bit. I huffed. She liked this. She felt compelled to put me in my place. I pouted, feigning sincerity, “Is this all because I put my feet on your face?” And with that some threshold was crossed and she flipped me into a vulnerable position, held me down, and tickled me mercilessly.

Tickling has always been a hard limit for me, I get claustrophobic and panicky. But it’s something we’ve discussed, thoughtfully, that I gave her permission to play with at her discretion. She isn’t so comfortable with hitting and impact, but she likes to be a bug and tickling is a kind of torture that feels fun for her. And here she was using this license exactly when the situation called for it.

And I did panic, and it scared me, and I loved it. And afterwards my heart was racing and tears were streaming down my face and she held me. “I can feel the steam coming off of you, you’re so warm, do you want me to open the window?” She was soft again, tending to me, kissing my cheeks, worried she’d gone too far. She watched my face, careful and concerned. I basked in her gentle attention and assured her. She promised to make me feel all better and we fucked and she did.

We unpacked it all afterwards, what exactly happened and how. It was that excited conspiring chatter, the organic thrill of discovering something new together. We were both on a high.

We talked about limits, and how dominants have to find their limits too. She felt bad when she saw me upset, even though she knew I wanted it. It’s hard to understand, I know. It’s complicated wanting difficult things, I try to explain, “It’s not the tickling I like, I hate the tickling, what I like is seeing you snap, pushing you, seeing you lose control just a little.”

“Ahh...” it dawned on her, “So you like getting a rise too...” I never would have put it quite that way but she’s right. We both like playing with fire. It seemed volatile all of a sudden, knowing she liked my snark, knowing I liked her authority, understanding the parameters of the game a little better. I smiled, “I guess somethings aren’t so black and white after all huh?”