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I wound my hand in his hair and pulled his head back.  I love it when
he does this to me, but he is not a sub and was sure to find the
position vaguely insulting.  The main reason for assuming it, though,
was to keep his head from moving too much while I slapped him, to keep
him from getting whiplash.  I didn’t want to make my precautions too
obvious, though — it’s hard to get angry at someone who’s obviously
protecting you — I wanted it to look as if the only reason for the
position of my hand was the domination value.

I slapped him across the face, quite hard, alternating forehand
against the left side of his face with backhand against the right
side.  I slapped him as methodically as I could, trying to emulate the
machinelike rhythm I had seen a particularly cold top use.  While I
slapped him, I insulted him.  I used the scornful, sarcastic, sneering
voice that my mother used to use — I had always gotten angry at the
owner of that voice, and I hoped that he would, too.

“It’s the big, bad top, isn’t it?  The one who’s brave enough to beat
up little girls.  But you aren’t brave enough to face the real you,
are you?”  I continued slapping him across the face, as insultingly as
possible.  “You think you’re such a grown-up.  You say you were born
old.  But little boy, you’re still in junior high.  You’re still
letting the way your childhood classmates treated you determine who
you are and how much you can feel.  You may have a man’s body, but you
left your emotions back in junior high.”  Using my hand in his hair, I
jerked his head back even further.

He was breathing hard and was looking at me with those flat brown eyes
that give nothing away.  This was actually a fairly good sign — it is
when he is especially inscrutable that there is the most going on inside.

“I used to think that you were so strong.  But you’re really a coward,
aren’t you?  You’re afraid to show me your real self, afraid to give
me your true emotions, afraid to love me for real.”  I slapped his
face in time with the “afraid”s — three times I told him he was
afraid, and at each afraid, he got a slap, hard, backhanded across the

He looked at me.  “You’re trying to manipulate me, but you’re being
pathetically obvious about it.”

I smiled.  “Gee, Mr. Spock, you almost sounded angry there for a
second.”  The flat brown eyes opened for a second at his childhood
nickname, then slammed shut again.  Quickly, I continued.

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