We'd never switched before. Huri always took the submissive role and I the dominant. He was soft, serious, and quiet, took everything I dished out -- my slaps to his face, my exacting tasks, my harsh tongue-lashings when he committed the most minute oversight. He liked to be forced to do very small, tedious chores, like polishing the silverware piece by piece to where I could ply my make-up in the reflection of any spoon.

In the bedroom, it was pain. Soft, sweet and slow: nipple torture, cock and ball torture, while he was tied tight and thoroughly immobilized to the bed. I liked slapping his face then, too. And while he was coming -- two or three hard slaps to the fat of his rosy cheek so I could watch his black Asian hair, drenched into thongs by his sweat, whip his face.

He knelt at my feet. And when we were done, he drank in my embraces.

But in our conversations sometimes, when he talked about hating wife abuse, and about how he identified with the woman, I saw it, there in his eyes. That thing that makes a sadist, that full-circle thing we sometimes do when we create a victim we can adore because we identify -- and yet, not us¡K

Yes, when Huri and I talked, I saw the little lust come up and I knew we'd have to enact that sometime. And I would be the victim; he, the sadist. He would have to take me.

When I first brought it up to him, he simply got angry. But a few months later, he just refused. No. I can't. I don't want to.

But I saw that he did want to. It was in his eyes like a fire. It was in the way he breathed after the subject came up. I only let it out there every now and again. I wasn't all that anxious to venture into sub territory myself. Except that his need drove me. We are in love, Huri and I. And that seems to take me to incredible places sometimes, even to the bottom.

After a few months we were talking more and more about what the scene would be like, about how to make it safe, about why. And it started to excite me, partly because of the powerful way it excited him. We were both excited and afraid. And then, hungry. Over the months of talking and planning, we became hungry for this scene in a way that was writhing and alive as the snap of a bullwhip.

The first evening we tried it, it did not go well. We were to stage it so that he wanted sex and I didn't want to have sex. He was the drunken, abusive husband who would not let some bitch control his dick. But he balked almost right away. He could not "get into character," he said. I let it go. No biggie, I said. I was both disappointed and relieved. We didn't talk about it much. Just once. "You'll do it when you're ready," I said. In between, I beat him rather soundly, till he was red and raw, before we made hot love. But I noticed an odd respect for him had crept into me as I beat him and as he submitted. A different kind of respect from the usual appreciation of his gift, his submission. It was more like the respect one might have for a nearby asp as it is sunning or a nearby tiger held in your gun sights.

Shortly after that beating, the evening came. The evening when the tables turned.

I was in the bedroom, pretending to read. I could not focus on the words, I was so nervous. He slammed the door opened.

"Ready to fuck me, bitch?" he said, his eyes black.

"I don't feel like it," I said. My voice was trembly.

"Did I ask you if you feel like it?" he said.

"I'm not going to fuck you," I said. "Leave me alone."

"Oh, you're going to fuck me, alright. Whether you want to or not."

"Fuck off!"

"You think so? You think that's what I'm going to do, cunt?"

He approached me, his eyes smoldering. I could see a tiny twitch just under the soft skin of his cheeks. It was scary this power that drove him, alive, separate from him. He put his hand around my throat, but most of the pressure was on my jaw bone as we had practiced. He was letting me know that he was in complete control -- of me, of himself, of the energy. And I relaxed just a tiny, tiny bit.

"You can take your clothes off yourself, or I can rip them off. I'll give you to ten to make up your mind. One...two..."

As he counted I grabbed his arm and pulled, I tried to slap his face. He pinned my arm; it surprised me.

"Five... six..." He kept calm and steady, against my pretend struggle, but then he slapped my face, very deliberately and the sting made my eyes water, and put the fear back in me. "Seven..." Another slap. They weren't brutal slaps but sudden and precise, as if dismantling me was just another of his precision tasks and he intended to devote great care to it. "Eight..."

"Let me go, you bastard!" I said. He was undoing his belt now. "Nine..." I heard it slide easy like a snake through the over-large loops. The clasp tinkled. "Ten."

He said it low, like an animal in a dark place. "So this is how you want it," he whispered. He reached into the neckline of my blouse and pulled downward, ripping. I tried to grab his hand. I had never felt his force before -- he was always withholding. Now it came through him with such authority, I didn't want to go against it. He ripped and pulled until buttons spit all around me and my shirt flew apart and my bra groaned and ripped and I was clutching his action arm with both mine and it was still exacting its will with ease, pulling down my black bra after the straps had ripped off, and viciously pinching my nipples. As I grabbed at the hand that was ravaging my clothes, his other hand had dropped the belt and grabbed a rope from the dresser. With speed I never expected, he wrapped the rope around one of my hands and spun me around, grabbing my other arm with his, and as he tried to get the length of rope around that wrist too, I struggled against him. He overpowered me -- it was such a different feeling because he always kept his physical energy so gentle when we played -- I never actually knew his strength, more than enough to overpower me. (No I did not struggle life and death; I trusted him, and I wanted to keep the fight safe.) The role reversal was exciting enough, all on its own. I felt him exerting control in the same way; when he forced me down to the bed, he braced my ribs so I wouldn't twist my spine the wrong way. And when I felt that, I also felt the hot flow of juice from my hole. He was doing this forceful ugly thing and he was doing it with such care; I could feel the tension and the paradox of his actions in the heat of his body and it made me wet to think of him carrying that bitter tension inside himself.

And then I realized that my hands were bound behind my back and he pulled me up off the bed and spun me around by that cord. My bare breasts swung around for his inspection; he could do what he wanted to them. He addressed each nipple with his fingertips, with two quick, crisp swats, catching the nipples so close to the edge that the sting was actually sweet and sent tiny sumersaults through my clit. Then he crowded me up against the wall with the force of his body, shoving his knee up my thigh, under my skirt, and buried it in my crotch. "Lying bitch," he growled. "You're wet as a whore. Tell me you want it." As he pressed into me, he squeezed the tips of my breasts and twisted just a little. Another sweet sensation. "You want my cock up your hot little cunt. Beg me for it, whore."

"Fuck off!" I said.

"Fucking hole," he muttered. "You don't get to tell me to fuck off." He ripped the button off my skirt, ripped at the zipper. He tugged it hard over my hips. He ripped it more. Ripped my underwear as he pressed his body into me. I could smell the herbal scent of his body, his sweat. He spun me around and pressed me into the wall as he dropped the skirt and torn undies to the floor and slapped my ass very hard, over and over. It grew warm under his hand, and I began to think he was in a trance. I couldn't see him, but the strikes were so rhythmical, so machine-like and persistent. "You get to do one thing and one thing only," he said as he hit me. The words came through gritted teeth. "Open wide and take what I give you. Right?"

"There's no way you're going to fuck me, you piece of shit" I shouted. But my ass was getting really sore. He hit me in exactly the same place every time, allowing no time to recover and no space to find relief in. He had brought the same obsessive precision that made him such a worthy sub into his dominance as well.

"Get on that bed and spread your legs for me, cunt!" he shouted, striking harder. "Make my dick feel welcome -- give it a big open hole."

"No!" The sting on my ass made me start wanting to give in, but at the same time, I wanted to push it to the limits. To see how far I could go and what it would feel like, getting fucked hard while my ass burned. As I cowered against the wall, vaginal juices dripping down my legs, there was a slight pause before I heard a new sound and felt a new sting. He was striking the same raw spot at the fatty underside of my butt cheeks with the end of his belt. Shortly it made me tremble and my thighs start to quiver. It began to feel like carving instead of slapping and suddenly I let out a hiss of pain.

Dead silence from behind me. I was afraid to turn around. I was afraid he would get me in the face with the belt, or that I'd see he was out of control. So I just waited, feeling these sharp daggers shooting over my ass. I waited...

[to be continued...]