The Perfect Storm

If you follow me on Twitter, you'll know that yesterday afternoon was bad for me. Like, really bad. I was in a shit mood. My head was a roiling tornado. I was running on instinct and emotion and a need so powerful, I wanted to scream. I felt like I was going fucking nuts.

I knew what was triggering my mood, the circumstances surrounding it, but the problems I was dealing with only acted as the catalyst. Strong, heavy emotions like that often end up feeding themselves, spiraling out of control, until it becomes irrelevant what triggered them. The priority becomes calming the fuck down.
I couldn't. It was simply beyond me. I was filled with rage and desperation, I was dancing in a maelstrom of emotion so powerful it felt like I was being blinded, choking on its dust. I was so afraid, not that I would do something dangerous to myself, but that I would say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up hurting them badly.

Twitter came to my rescue. @Sirstompsalot, specifically, took up the gauntlet, and let me set my white-hot wrath upon him, at least as much wrath as one can fit in 140 characters at a time. I did my best to goad him to a fight, ready to release my fury. Smart Dom that he is, he scoffed at my brazen attempt, laughing at my (now I know, lame) Twitter bluster. In fact, he actually used the word "giggle." He was giggling at me.
Finally, I was able to see how silly I looked: like a child having a tantrum in the middle of the floor and all the authority figures in the room rolling their eyes and snickering at the ridiculous show of defiance.
It calmed me down, a bit.
Not enough to stop me from sending a very rebellious, and downright obnoxious, email to Husband, mind you. But enough to keep myself in check for the rest of the night, while I made dinner for the kids and sent them to bed.
Let's be honest, if I'm going to send a nasty email to anyone, it had better be to Husband, who is my absolute and ultimate authority figure, and has not just the right, but the responsibility, to handle me and my tantrums, however ridiculous they look to the outside world.

I wish I could say he came home, dealt with me, and everything was okay. Unfortunately, his meeting ran late; consequently he was home late. He couldn't stop at the supermarket to buy anything to assist him (like ginger or horseradish) in his disciplinary actions against me and my derriere.
He spent as much time as he could with the kids before it was their respective bed times, and then he had to eat dinner, which meant by the time he called me upstairs to chastise me, it was deep into the evening. But he could tell right away I didn't just need a scolding. I needed to be broken.

He asked for an apology for the email; I offered none. He didn't really need the apology, he was just drawing the line in the sand, a way to know when I'd had enough of what was about to come. When I could bring myself to apologize, (and sound sincere about it,) then I was beaten down and broken, and he would help me to pick up the pieces of my mood, calmly and rationally. But until then, my rage was in control, and no apology would be forthcoming.

He started on me with his belt. He didn't even have to hold me down. I braced myself against the bed, and dared him by wiggling my ass. He clenched his jaw and set to work, spanking me with heavy strokes.

And then: the belt snapped. I kid you not, the belt snapped against my ass, and broke. He held it up and just kind of stared at it for a minute, shocked.
I was beside myself. I trust him to know his implements, to keep control over every move and every stroke, and when I saw the broken belt, my first reaction was to blame him. Which, even then, I knew was ridiculous. Accidents happen. Leather breaks. I was just too far gone to think logically. So I yelled at him.
He didn't take too kindly to that.

He picked up the hairbrush next.
As you know, the hairbrush is pretty high up there on my pain scale. But if nothing else yet has given you an idea how bad my mood was last night, then this will: he used that hairbrush on my ass for half an hour. I don't know how many swats it was, I didn't bother keeping count, but I knew it was half an hour because it only stopped when I happened to look at the clock, sigh, and tell him he'd better put up or give up because it was getting late. His eyes practically bugged out of his head, I can tell you. I was just in such a foul mood, there was no way he was going to break me that night, not with something like a hairbrush.
A hairbrush? Pffft. No way.
So he fucked my ass with very little lube, lasted as long as he could while I scowled and sighed and rolled my eyes, looking as defiant and unaffected as possible, and when he was done, he looked just as mad as I did.
"You didn't break me," I said. I wasn't proud of it. I was sad.
"I know." He seemed surprised, and embarrassed, and rather ashamed.
"You'd better do a better job tomorrow," I said over my shoulder as I sauntered into the bathroom. I was giving him an out, and we both knew it, but I didn't want him to feel personally hurt, like he'd failed in his duties as my Dom. There is a fine line sometimes between being a smart-mouthed sub, and being a hurtful bitch. I had come awfully close, but had not crossed that line, not yet. Now I was backing away.
"Oh, I'll do a better job tomorrow," he growled. "Your ass won't just be blue. It'll be bleeding."
"We'll see."

This morning, in the warm light of clarity, I realized why I had felt so desperate yesterday.
I am a sub, and I am a masochist. These two characteristics do have overlapping needs, but sometimes, those needs have to be met in different ways.
When my smart-assed sub side overwhelms me, I need to be controlled. I need to be put into cuffs, ordered about, and basically have my every movement controlled by him. When he gains that level of domination over me, he controls my head, too. My very thoughts are dictated by him. And sometimes, I need that: for him to decide what I can think, and what I cannot. To focus on some thoughts, and banish others away. For him to tame the turmoil in my head.
When my masochist side overwhelms me, I covet the pain. It becomes a craving, an addiction-like need, and I'm willing to do whatever he wants, beg, cry, crawl on hands and knees, and kneel at the alter of his sadism, just to get the kind of satisfaction that only pain by his hand can bring me.

Yesterday, I was being overwhelmed by both sides, the sub, and the masochist parts of me. I wanted to be ordered about, but I also wanted to be punished. I wanted him to make me writhe in agony; I also wanted him to turn me into a quivering, timid, broken down slave. I wanted his Dom side to make me kneel at his feet, and I wanted his sadist side to give me that endorphin rush, that pain-induced high.

The conflicting needs were too much, almost like the perfect storm. I was overwhelmed by the rampaging hunger for both. It pulled me into a place I don't think I've ever been before, and Husband, certainly, didn't know what to make of my surging craze. He couldn't break me, not because he didn't try, but because he just...couldn't.
He came ill-prepared for the battle at hand.

I don't think he'll make the same mistake again tonight.
Tonight, he's calling in the troops, and stopping at the supermarket on his way home.