Helpless – SFD

“Lia…”

I set my jaw stubbornly and swipe open the news story.  People shot, politicians, at a baseball practice, government leaders reaching across the aisle to express sympathy, shared calls for unity and humanity.

Sir has already warned me twice.  I’m not to be on devices today.  “No screen time,” he said this morning, “You can read, you can clean, you can write, you can lie on the couch and sleep, but no screens.”

I had already broken the rule twice.

“Lia!”

“Just a second!” I snap back, skimming through the article, clicking a link to another.

I see Sir’s movement from the corner of my eye and jerk my phone away from his reaching hand.

In a single movement, it seems to me, Sir is off of the couch and in front of me, his hand comes down so hard on the outside of my left thigh that my brain registers the sound, like a gunshot in the room, before the pain sears through me.  My phone is already in his hands, turned off, shoved into his pocket, and for a moment I lose touch with my sanity.

I kick out at him, my foot making glancing contact with his leg, “Fuck you!” I scream, kicking again, this time at empty space.  “Fuck you!  Fuck you!”

Again my brain blurs his movement until it seems supernatural, effortless, his foot comes down on the edge of the recliner, tilting it forward and me with it.  A painful grip around my bicep propels my forward momentum and I am on my feet, stumbling.  Then somehow we are both on the couch, my hips across his left thigh, the pressure of his right against my stomach, pushes the air from my lungs for a moment and I gasp, then gulp a sip of air, and another, a jerky, shallow rhythm.

It feels as if my brain couldn’t keep up with my reality, and only after several breaths do all of the previous minutes become a cohesive memory.  The dark, smooth surface of the couch is warming under my bare forearm.  Sir’s arm is pressed firmly across the backs of my thighs and I close my eyes for a moment, waiting for him to begin, to continue, to extend the still burning, smarting sting on my outer thigh across my ass.

Probably the backs of my legs for this, too.  The thought is loud and clear, as if I spoke inside my own mind, and I feel a knot of anxiety in my belly, and squirm slightly, feeling the immovable strength of his arm around my waist, the other still against my thighs.

For another breath, I wait, dragging the air into my chest, ragged and hitching.  I wait.

I wait.

And then my next breath gets stuck on the way out, catching as if its path has become grown over with thorns.  My stomach tenses, jerks against Sir’s leg, and I curl my chin toward my chest, my air trapped, hot and stale, against the couch.

And then my voice claws free of the thorns, squeaking, helpless, sobs.

Helpless.

Sir’s hands haven’t moved, but I cry, deep, messy, ugly sobs.  Grieving for all that I can’t control, finally surrendering to my helplessness, the last flames of my anger dissolve into grief, into tears.

When I start to make hiccuping choking sounds Sir gently pulls me up and I slide to my knees on the hard floor.  Ignoring the pain, I sink onto my heels, letting my forehead rest against his knee, my arms clinging desperately to his thigh.

I feel his hand, gentle, on the back of my head.  Then he reaches down to disentangle my arms and scoots himself off the couch onto the floor beside me.

I crumble, sliding down until my head is in his lap, hands still seeking the comfort of his leg.  I feel his stomach shift as he sighs, his hand once more stroking my hair, my shoulder, my back, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the wetness now trickling across the bridge of my nose.

He says nothing, just pets, soothes, breathes slowly, steadily, until the rhythm of his breath slowly becomes my own and I turn, painfully, onto my back, my hip protesting too much time against the wood floor.

My head still in his lap, but now able to look into his face, he looks down at me.  I see no anger in his expression, but my belly still twists.

“I kicked you,” I say finally, tentatively, my breath catching as my body prepares itself again for tears.

“Mmm.”  His response is noncommittal, his fingers trace a looping pattern over my chest, my breast, my belly, and back.

“And I cursed at you,” I don’t know why I press, I don’t understand, my belly tries to crawl behind my spine, even as my traitor mouth spills out my litany of sins.

Sir only nods slightly, his eyes following the path of his fingers, now circling the nipple of my other breast.

I lick my lips.

“And I was on my phone when I wasn’t supposed to…”  my breath hitches, and suddenly the tears are pressing again at the back of my eyes.  “I’m sorry…”

“I know,” he says softly, still making ever smaller circles over my left nipple.

“Are you going to punish me?”

Finally he brings his eyes to meet mine.  “For the phone.  Not for the rest.”

“Why not?”

His lips set into a firm line.  “Because I said so.  If you need a better answer you may ask again tomorrow.  Not before then.”

I blink, open my mouth, then close it again.  The tone of authority in his voice is unyielding and I know the only possible outcome of continuing to push against it would be painful to both my body and my heart.  Yet the traitor part of me can’t let go.

“But I kicked you, and cursed at you…”  I see the warning in his hardening expression, but like a child in a tantrum, I can’t stop my momentum, “I’m a terrible sub…”

Suddenly Sir’s fingers are wrapped around my jaw, pressing painfully.  “Keep it up and you will lose permission to speak for the rest of the night.”

I blink at him in silence, wincing at the bruising pressure of his fingers.  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper, finally, stunned at the harshness of the threat.

“You will not manipulate me.  We will discuss it tomorrow.”  I nod slightly against his grip, and he loosens it, his voice softening.  “Lia, I promise you will feel very punished for using your phone against orders.  The rest will wait for tomorrow.”

I nod again.  My heart feels bruised by the threat of forced silence, and the accusation of manipulation.  I want to protest my innocence, that I really do believe I’m a terrible sub.  It is true, but I also know, deep in the shadowy recesses of my heart, I said it at that moment because I couldn’t let go, because I felt guilty, because I felt I deserved a punishment he had withheld, because I wanted control…

Control…

Of anything…

I take a shuddering breath, turning my awareness inward, finding the fish hooks of helplessness snagged in my soul and plucking them, one by one, allowing myself to sink into surrender.  Surrender to Sir, surrender to my pain, surrender to the world, to what is… and finally, sighing, and snuggling into the warmth of Sir’s body, I am able to find the relief of simply sadness.

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