Sometimes being a switch bites
#1 of Snippit Stories
A short story that came to mind during a time of severe frustration.
Some days it fucking bites being a switch. Lately she had been growing surly and foul-tempered under my paw. Disrespectful. So I thought maybe she needed to be in control for a while. So I took off my clothes and put on the collar and leash. That went nicely for a couple of days; she clearly appreciated the gesture. But soon enough she was irritable and withdrawn once more. So there I knelt, collar around my neck, feeling like a double failure, as a dom and now as a sub.
Like I said, some days it fucking bites being a switch.
I think the worst part is that I couldn't see how things could have gone differently. Sometimes you can look back on a situation and, with 20/20 hindsight, be able to say yes I see now that if we had done X or not done Y we could have avoided this. But not this time. This time it seemed to be inevitable. She got overloaded. Between work and home life, she couldn't escape the piling up of responsibilities and the accompanying stresses. So obeying me as her master just added to it. And domming me as her sub wasn't any better. I was watching her crash and burn in this death spiral of frustration and anxiety and I was helpless to do anything about it. But I had to try.
I watched her expression grow more and more bitter as she talked on the phone, arguing (yet again) about some work-related issue, her pinnae flat against her skull in anger. Simultaneously, she furiously pounded away on the keyboard, slamming out a news release for a client whom she found to be personally annoying and professionally incompetent. Oh no, I thought. She's going to lose it.
As she sat there in her ratty t-shirt and panties, for you see she worked from home. I laid a paw on her bare leg and looked up at her with concern. She growled, GROWLED at me and pulled the paw off. "Not now, mine," she whispered firmly, distracted by the phone conversation. Under normal circumstances I would have let it go at that and waited. But I knew if something didn't happen soon she was going to end up screaming obscenities at her boss and get herself fired. I laid the paw on her leg again, murmuring, "Miss--"
Before I could get another word out, she grabbed my paw in her hand and forcefully flung it away, in the process smacking me across my muzzle and bowling me back in surprise. She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "NOT NOW!" she hissed at me, not looking, probably not even noticing what she had done. She went back to the conversation, her eyes squeezing shut to keep the rage-tears from flowing.
Inside me, something snapped.
I rose to my hindpaws, an icy fire frost burning inside. I reached out and grabbed the phone in one massive paw, yanked it from her hand, and hung up on her boss.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??" she shrieked.
I dropped the phone to the desk and grabbed the back of her t-shirt. Without a word, I yanked her off her chair and began dragging her down the hall to her bedroom. I ignored the foul, horrible things she yelled at me, the names she called me, the threats she made about me. The volcano was erupting.
I reached the bedroom, slammed open the door, and yanked her up onto the bed on her back. I let go of her t-shirt and pinned her down with my other paw, firmly pressing down on her sternum. I looked down at her silently as she continued her tirade. That was a difference between us. Her anger was always expressed in roaring fire; mine in silent steel. And if this had been purely a battle of wills I couldn't have said which of us would have won. But it wasn't; it was physical as well. And I happened to be stronger than her. I grabbed her right wrist in my left paw and switched the paw on her chest with a knee instead. She struggled. She kicked. She clawed at me mercilessly. Yet still I was able to stretch her arm up and to the side...
Right where the cuffs she had installed on the bed lay.
She looked up, saw what I was about to do. "Don't. You. Fucking. Dare. DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!"
I dared. As I held her down I wrapped the leather around her wrist, locking it tight with the buckle and padlock. If anything, she yelled louder. No matter. I was doing what I had to do. I turned and grabbed her right leg, stretching it down to where the ankle cuff lay. She kicked at my arm with a vengeance. Came very near to breaking it once or twice. But in the end, her ankle was just as tightly bound to the bed as her wrist had been.
More threats. More curses. More struggling, spitting, clawing. And soon enough all four limbs were pinned down to the mattress and she lay spread-eagle before me. There was only one more thing to do.
I reached into the drawer of the nightstand, pulled out her favorite silken blindfold. And though she shook her head and nearly begged me not to, I tied it firmly around her head, covering her eyes, rendering her as blind as she was helpless.
And then I sat down in a chair next to the bed, placed my paws in my lap, and quietly waited.
She thrashed about, cursing and screaming, far longer than I had expected. I assumed as her strength left her, the shouting would die down. Instead if anything she seemed to be ramping herself up. Yelling about my insolence, my "stupid fucking timing" (her words), her work, her obligations, how she needed to get the news release done and didn't have time for this. She demanded I release her, insisted that I obey her. It kept climbing and climbing in volume and intensity until words failed her and she let out a long, loud, feral shriek of rage...
Which turned, suddenly, into racking sobs and a flood of tears.
I nodded to myself, hating the necessity of all of this. She was incoherent now, the strain on her body and mind that had been building for weeks and weeks finally bursting forth from her. She cried, wailed, howled like a child, the tears soaking the blindfold. Her thrashing slowed, replaced with twitches and spasms as the pent-up frustrations were leached from her body.
Eventually her wailing decreased to crying, crying to quiet weeping. I rose from the chair and sat on the bed beside her. I reached out a paw and softly touched her cheek. Her body leaped in surprise. But she couldn't fight back. Not now. Not even if I removed the cuffs. Her muscles were drained of any strength. She sank back into the mattress in a puddle of helplessness, and I began to stroke her headfur. Slowly. Evenly. The way that always calmed her down.
Every stroke quieted her sobs further. With each breath she breathed in, she seemed to breathe even more back out, as though she were being emptied of breath itself. I watched her entire body as each muscle relaxed further and further. She went from hellcat to weak kitten to completely immobilized. Finally, she lay there as one dead.
She was, in a word, powerless. Right where she needed to be. Because sometimes being a sub means being helpless to do anything but obey. And sometimes it means being helpless to do anything whatsoever.
And I sat there, patiently petting my bound and paralyzed Mistress-slave, for over an hour. I think she might have dozed off at one point. I just kept petting. Eventually she stirred. Her lips moved ever so slightly, as though she were trying to say something but didn't have the breath to do so. I had emptied her. Now it was time to fill her once more.
I rose to stand beside her. I looked her over one more time, top to bottom. Then I bent down, pressed my muzzle up against her ear, and quietly whispered, "Who am I."
At the same time, I slid my paw between her legs, pressed a single finger against the fabric of her panties, and began to stroke.
She jerked.
She gasped.
She breathed out the word, "Master."
And I smiled...