Beggers and chosers

"Beg for it."

Instinctively, my mouth clamps shut, jaw setting in a familiar (to my day-to-day persona, at least) stubborn position. There's a "fuck you" that I think but don't say - because I'm not quite that stupid. But inside, I'm a begging refusenik. Always have been. It doesn't sit happily with my submission, I have an inherent dislike of the do-me sub, but there's more than that. It's about vocalising need or want, which I'm usually loathe to do, preferring to stay silent and placid - a space for other people's desires, not my own. Begging is also a demand on the dominant and I don't want to demand or require anything. Having me beg also implies, tacitly, that they might not want to give it to me, and frankly, if they don't want to give it, I don't want to have it. Part of this might be the fear of refusal, of rejection. Which is of course, the flipside of wanting to be desired. I've already done my negotiation and discussion, that happened before. Now I'm here. I'm all yours. You want it, you take it. I offer up. I don't beg.

He slaps me in the face and I jerk a little against the bonds. I'm tied in a kneeling crouch at the end of the bed, arms spread out and tied with heavy duty cargo straps to the metal frame of the bed, shoulders pressing down on the cool iron.

"Beg..."

There's a warning in his voice, easily heard. I can't do it. He's playing with himself in front of me and I want him to come. The lack of begging is not a lack of desire, not about a lack of wanting him. Far from it. I just don't feel right saying it. He hits me again, holding my chin up lightly with one hand to get a better aim. First one side, then the other. Then again. One blow catches me around the ear and I get a black flash as my hearing dims instantly. My face is hot, extremely sore and I am welling up with tears. Yelping but not speaking. He doesn't stop hitting me and doesn't stop asking me to beg.

"Please." It's tiny. A voice from far away. A voice that has its roots firmly in "please stop" rather than "please come in my face". It is, however, still "please". He orders me to keep saying it, because he finds it hot and that I can manage. Whispering please, over and over again in a faint, flat, defeated monotone as he orgasms in front of me, covering my face in semen. He ruffles my hair, happily, letting me rest my face against his stomach for a while, chest heaving, starting to come to a little. By this point, I'm happier too. He's come, that's important, so he's sated. I've done my job.

There is a part of me that knows I didn't really, that I didn't quite follow his request as it was intended, which is a small betrayal. But I also can't lie to him - that would be worse. Not with my voice or my body. I can't say things that don't feel right, that don't make sense to me. And begging does not currently make much sense. Obviously I understand it intellectually. But deep down, in my stomach, something flips and keeps saying "no". I anticipate a conversation about this at some point, if this is going to become part of any play we do - to try and work out what it does for him, what was so difficult about that moment and that context, in order to see whether I can choose to beg in the future.