DANGER ZOOONE

This is incredibly hard because I’m an over analyzer, but I’ve found that sometimes, distracting myself from my sadness is more effective than trying to make sense of it. :’ ) I hope this little duck comic can help you out a little!

Rachel Eliza Griffiths, from Seeing the Body: Poems; “Cathedral of the snake & saint”

He starts texting me around eight in the morning. I'm not even done making my coffee when I see the phone light up and lean to tug it off of the nearby desk.

h: Are you still mad at me

My manchild always prods and pokes to get reassurances that I'm not really mad, that I care about him, that I enjoy our time together. I am only surprised it took him this long to mention it. Our last session had devolved into fun but very vanilla sex somehow, and he had at the last minute tried to ruin my orgasm because he thought it would be a great joke to play on me.

nm: I pissed in your mouth as punishment. I thought that was enough.

h: yes but are you mad at me

What kind of play partners has he been with? I'm not and tell him as much before wandering back to my chair with the mug, looking for my tablet pen.

h: You never punish me harshly even when I basically violate your consent.

nm: I'm glad you recognize how fucked up that was.

nm: You're not into pain, and I'm an actual sadist. You are too much of a wimp to handle the kind of punishment I wanted to give you.

h: Ha yeah I've never been good with pain

h: You do find ways to punish me without it tho

I can tell that he's trying to bait me into punishing him more.

h: I felt like I got one over on the most powerful person in my life

nm: After you took the chance, did the thought of the chance terrify you?

h: I'm still terrified

h: I thought my heart was going to explode. I've never seen you like that.

h: It was really really hot.

Fuck it.

nm: Come over later. Let me know when you're on the way.

h: Yeah?? Playtime?

nm: Sure. Playtime.

---

A short impact play session later, I see him start to tap one foot. I'd been making sure he was hydrated, constantly encouraging him to drink all night. I started hovering near the door to the bedroom when he started getting fidgety - until he finally stood up.

"I need to go."

"Going home so soon?" It had been a purposefully brief session.

"No, to pee." He approaches the doorway, not watching me directly, assuming I will move. When I don't, bland expression unchanging, he eyes the doorknob past me.

"No."

He blinks, slow to process. It doesn't yet occur to him what is going on. "I, uh. I need to piss."

"Yes." Not an inch of movement. I see him suck in a breath, see his face smile, almost relieved, but like I've shared a joke he is just understanding now.

He crowds me, his body coming to brush mine. "I need to gooooo." His whine is still playful in that way which tells me he doesn't get it yet.

"Then go."

His exasperated sigh begins to turn less patient. "I mean, I'll do it right here if you don't let me through," he says in jest, sealing his own fate.

I back the four steps to the bathroom door and block it bodily. "Alright. Then do it."

The next few minutes are very telling. At first, he tries to tickle me, to kiss me senseless, to trace my cheeks with tender knuckles. He thinks he can buy his way in with affection, and each moment of denial makes his breath less steady, his body language less coordinated.

He walks away and then comes back, pacing, placating, promising, all the while his calm deteriorates, until his trembling body grows obvious, mouth moving in soundless agony. I slide my stiletto nails up his pelvis, pressing gently until I see him choke on his breath and begin to squirm. The muscles along his abdomen flinch at the touch.

His hands find the door on either side of me, and he leans forward a little, trying to find a position which causes the least strain on his bladder. He dwarfs me in this position, towering helplessly over me. My fingers reach to cup his jawline, me looking up at him with a soft smile.

"Princess," I begin, calling him a sugary string of sweet things, and I see his face change to mild panic when he realizes I'm repeating the pet names he called me for his little joke. He had been instrumental in ruining an orgasm for me, the poor idiot.

"Please," comes his strained, hushed plea as his eyes fight to focus, catching mine for a moment of soft fear before scattering up to the door above me, down to the doorknob, at my slight smile. He draws in a jittery breath, lips quivering, and his knee bumps mine once, twice.

When I open the door without turning around, he pitches forward, stumbling as I dart into the bathroom and immediately take up residence on the toilet seat.

"No," he pants, dropping to his knees with an almost tender care. "Please." His twisting expression and crossed and uncrossed arms hint at just how desperate he is and how much me opening the door to the bathroom but still preventing his reprieve is affecting him.

"Don't you dare think of going in the shower." He averts his guilty gaze.

"I need-- I can't--" A few moments pass as we stare at each other, breathing noticeably out of sync. Finally, throwing his gaze to the floor, he bites out miserably, "Please hold my hand."

This is almost unbearably adorable. Part of me wants to get up right now, let him use the toilet like a normal person. I see myself kissing his shoulder blade, rubbing his back, encouragingly mussing his hair and calling him my good boy for not making a mess.

But he's kneeling and trembling in front of me, looking ashamed and frantic, and that eats at my insides like a warm acid. Every movement, every expression dooms him.

It's so easy to slide my fingers between his, his much larger hands enclosing mine. I pepper his face with little kisses until his mouth seeks mine for comfort and feel his fists grip my hands hard. He can't quite do it, is afraid to do it, feels ridiculous to be kneeling on my floor, a foot from the toilet, knowing he can't use it. I kiss him like I'm hungry, like I need whatever he's made of, whatever makes up this shuddering sub.

"Fuck," he says against my mouth, eyes squeezing tightly shut as his face telegraphs discomfort, maybe pain. Sharp little breaths, fingernails digging into the backs of my hands. It's so, so similar to how he is when he's about to make a different kind of mess.

I feel him shove at my boots suddenly with his knees as if to get them out of the way. My considerate boy..! He begins to swear low, very jittery, strained words slipping out without cadence. I pull him forward a little by our linked hands and start to beckon. "Come on, baby boy. Come on, sweetheart. Daddy's here. Daddy's got you."

He whines, eyes shut tight, before ducking his head and hiding his face in my lap, knuckles white as they crush my hands. And then..

I know it's happening because he stops shaking immediately, and I draw hearts on each of his hands with my thumbs, my mouth pressing kisses into his hair. "Good boy," and then repeated, praising him softly, nuzzling against his ear. We sit like this for a minute, quietly existing next to each other.

"Fuck, that was intense," he breathes against my knee, leaning his head against my leg and groaning. "Why was that so intense? Christ."