Don't Move

So.
The other day I got myself into trouble.
I know, what else is new?
What happened was, Husband fell asleep on the guest bed for a late afternoon nap...and I kinda painted his toenails with nail polish.
I gotta tell you, it was a nice color—and sparkly! Very very pretty, if I do say so myself.

Husband did not agree.

Oh, he laughed when he woke up and saw it. He kept shaking his head and muttering "I can't believe you did that." But when I pressed him on it—Oh? You really can't believe I did that? You do know me, right?—he would just chuckle and shake his head some more.
He told me I'd be punished. But...you know...I didn't really worry too much about it.
See, that's the thing about the Brat Brain: it doesn't really let you worry about the consequences of your actions. It keeps fooling you into thinking you'll get away with whatever mischief you want, every time.
Thank God, Husband loves me and my Brat Brain. Sometimes he does let me get away with my shit.
Sometimes, he doesn't.

The punishment didn't come until a few nights later (GOD that man loves to make me wait). He ordered me to get naked and lie face down on the bed, spread eagled.
I thought he was going to take my ass, brutal-like. Which, you know, is painful, but also makes me come.
But then he got the cane out.

"Now hold on," I started to stammer. "You didn't mind the nail polish that much. You laughed, remember?"
"Don't move." Without a blink of an eye, he raised the cane high in the air and swatted it against my butt.
I shrieked. I yelled. He swatted my ass again. I took a sharp hiss of breath, and shifted my butt away.

"Do not move," he growled. He met my look of indignation with his own expression of ruthlessness, paused...and swatted my ass again. "Better bite the pillow."
"No!" I was full of resentment at this point; I thought he was being grossly unfair. Okay, maybe not grossly unfair, but—damn it, it hurt! I tried to scoot away again, and he dragged me back, pinning my legs down.
"Every time you move, I'm gonna add five more." He pressed his hands against my legs, as if pushing his point across. But then, he let go of my legs to smack the cane against my thighs.
I shrieked again, wiggled my hips, remembered his threat, and turned my head to give him a look of cold fury. "You could cuff me down, you know!"
"No," he said, his tone just as cold. "I'm not going to get the cuffs out. You'll keep yourself still."
And that's when I got really scared.

I identify as prey. That means I do not take it like a champ. I do not lie there and submit so easily.
I struggle. I fight. I move. 
It's one of the ways I like to play.
So it makes sense I get cuffed, pinned, or chained down a lot. And I love that. I love being manhandled, thrown down, and forced to stay still.
But the cuffs sometimes turn into a crutch. Of course I'm going to struggle and flail against my bonds, because duh, the bonds will keep me from moving too much to disrupt the scene. I get to try as much as I want to fight as badly as I can; it's not like I'm going anywhere.
In that sense, bondage offers me a unique sense of freedom: freedom to fight within whatever confines he's restricted me. My perimeters are finite and firm.
What he was doing to me now was taking away that freedom to struggle, at least in the physical sense. Now, I had a purely mental struggle to deal with: fight against my own urges to move.
That, for me? That is real torture.

"Hold onto the bars," he said, directing me to the cold iron headboard.
"I don't want to." I couldn't keep the whine out of my voice.
"Up to you," he said. "But you move, and things will go worse for you."
I wrapped my hands around the bars.

The caning went on from there, with neither of us saying much; at least, not directed torward each other. I would shriek and yell; he would laugh. He would mutter to himself about where the next strike should hit; I would release a litany of "no"s.
But every time I lifted my legs, or scooted my butt too far away, or tried to shield my burning ass with my hands, he would add another five swats to the tally. And I would wail.

When he was done with the cane, he got out the hairbrush.
Then he got out the switch.
"Don't move," he kept telling me. "Don't move."

I couldn't sink into subspace; I couldn't let my brain fly away. I had to keep my focus on not moving. Breathe, I told myself, breathe, relax, don't move, breathe—
Every swat felt like another shot of adrenaline right into my blood stream. All I wanted to do was turn over and fight, or roll over and run away—
But instincts can be overcome. Impulses can be controlled, with the right incentive....
Or the right detriment.

When the beating was over, he fisted me and forced me to come over and over again; cause he has that power over me, too.
But that is the topic of the next post.