Airing Out

[Emotional], [Latex], [Impact play], [Ageplay]

Hannah and I are in the dungeon, that’s what we call the bright and airy room on the top floor of my home. She isn’t strapped to the table. She isn’t dangling from her wrists against the wall, begging me to stop flogging her tits. Though she is well dressed for the venue, in a neon blue, latex catsuit.

Her nails and lipstick match it perfectly. She has taken off the corset and thigh high boots she had been wearing, and we’re cleaning up after her play session. Chatting and decompressing.

“Well, I think he’ll want a repeat visit,” I say conclusively. She didn’t really ask, but I’ve just finished wiping down the PVC surface of the bondage table, and it felt like a natural time for a shift in the subject.

“You really think so?”

“With the way you saw him off, definitely.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t start. That was so awkward.”

I don’t do impressions, so my Hannah-voice is needlessly shrill for comical effect only, “What do you mean am I free next week? Does this outfit look like it has pockets? Do I look like I’m holding my diary?”

“I did not say that!” she protests, but I’m ready for that.

“You did too! I was lying on my bed reading the whole time. I heard the whole thing and you know it,” I continue in my silly impersonation, “You can go home now and wank all the stupid out of your head. Then you can call my voicemail and leave me your apology.”

It’s good practice to clean up after every session in the dungeon, but it’s a hard-and-fast rule when outsiders visit. Hannah’s “John” had been stretched out, face-down and naked on the table, which is why I’d given it a once-over. She was engaged in doing all the fiddly work.

Right now she is taking care of each piece of her own collection of impact toys, currently holding up a transparent lucite paddle to the light so she can spot any unattractive smudges. I take a seat at the end of the table, legs dangling, so I can hang out and chat.

“Are you glad you used every toy in your bag of tricks?”

“It really filled the hour, huh?”

“Yes, but it’s also a good idea for a first play session. Now you both know which toys are for fun, and which ones are extra-ouchy.”

Hannah puts the paddle back in her bag, actually the hard-case for her violin. She used to play in her sixth form college’s chamber orchestra, but the case gets more use than the instrument these days. And any request to hear her perform is shut down with the same joke, “I’m not that much of a sadist.”

She plucks a new disposable wipe out of the package and picks up a simple black riding crop. Each toy had only touched poor “John” four times. Once on each buttcheek, and once on each thigh.

“You’re not helping, you know?” she tells me. Her tone is clipped and I decide that it’s best to be patient. She can elaborate when she’s ready, “With the imposter syndrome shit, I mean.”

“Am I not?”

“No. Not really. You know, that I know, that you did that exact same thing with Shaun when he moved in.”

“So we agree it’s a good game to play with people who haven’t been spanked before.”

“No!” This time I can tell I’m pushing buttons, and I resolve to stay quiet and let her get it all out, “No, we don’t agree. I just copied you. I even borrowed some of your fucking clothes… now I mention it, I feel like a little girl who got into her mum’s wardrobe.”

Oh it’s so tempting to say something about playing the Mama role for her, right now. To strip her out of that catsuit and get her dressed up in something a toddler would wear.

Her hair always refuses to play along, even if she takes the straightening iron to it. I could make her count the passes with the hair brush. Each time it runs through her hair, more of her natural red curls would express themselves. It would take more than four, but less than forty, before I’d be finished wiping away the veneer of Dominance she had created for herself today.

I’d be able to add a few cutsey clips to keep errant locks out of her eyes. Then we could cuddle up and watch a movie together. Or I’d offer to treat her to dinner, but maybe just get dessert. A huge ice-cream sundae to share, with extra whipped cream.

On second thoughts, it’s probably better to focus on hearing her out. I don’t know for sure how to help her get over this nagging self-doubt, but suggesting that she “fake it til you make it” and letting it be wasn’t working.

“Okay babe, tell me how you really feel.”

“You keep trying to get me to do everything exactly how you would do it!”

“And what’s wrong with that?” She’s wrong about my motives, but I want to strike at what’s bothering her, not argue semantics.

“Well, I’m not you Katrin. I’m my own damn person.”

“Sure you are. Am I saying that you’re not?”

It’s worth defusing her growing anger so we can have a productive conversation. I’ve knocked her off course and it takes her a moment to get back on track. She’s been cleaning the black leather tawse for a little too long now, staring at an invisible, stubborn spot on the wooden handle to avoid glaring at me.

“I guess you’re not. But I feel like you only want me to do this on your terms.”

“What? Topping? Hannah, nothing could be further from the truth.”

“But you keep making all these suggestions, and giving me all these ideas, and I feel like you never give me a chance to work it out by myself.”

I just nod. She’s actually right, I haven’t given her a lot of breathing room. She had been so focused on this pro-domme enterprise being her way out of working for minimum wage at a coffee shop. And I’ve been trying to make it easy by giving her a script to follow, but now it feels like I’ve been preventing her from building her own foundations.

Topping her right now would actually be about the worst thing I could do for our relationship. I know that I have to try to be more patient. I have to try to restrain myself, to not use her uncertainty to nudge her into a submissive mood and give her catharsis. Something mindless and easy to focus on.

So I watch her put the rest of her toys away and close up the violin case. I watch her stand up and put it back on a high shelf. And I ogle her ass in her catsuit when she’s facing away from me. I’m only human.

“You know, I just wish it came as easy to me as it does to you.”

“Babe, that’s bullshit. I’m not a natural, I learned how to be the boss bitch.”

“Yeah, but look at…”

“No. I refuse. Think about what Elle says when someone tells her ‘Oh I just wish I was good at computers like you.’ She tells them that she’s been fixing her own stupid problems for twenty years, and if they did the same they wouldn’t need to pay her to fix theirs.”

“I don’t feel like I have twenty years.”

“You don’t need twenty years to understand submissive guys. They’re way less complicated than submissive girls, just as a single example.”

I earned a little laugh for that one. So we’re back on good terms again but she isn’t totally built back up. She’s still standing, just off the washable rug that covers most of the floor. Just her shoulders are pressed against the wall, held up by the friction of her bare feet on the laminate. With arms stiff and boardlike at her sides, this is almost a stress position. She’s giving herself the catharsis I didn’t, and I want her to stop without directing her to quit it.

“Why do you think guys like that catsuit so much?” is the perfect solution to this conundrum. Prompted only by my question, she moves so she can look at herself in the mirror before she answers.

“I dunno… maybe because it reveals everything. But it doesn’t actually show anything? It’s kinda like denial.”

“Well you obviously like it too. The mirror loves you.”

“It feels good to wear, but you know what I like best? It hides most of my freckles.”

“Why would you want to hide your freckles when they’re so fucking cute?” I ask with an expression of wide eyed shock, as if she’d suggested burning books, or drowning kittens.

“Shush. They’re cute. I know they’re cute. Sometimes I don’t want to be cute, I want to be hot.”

“I think you’re always cute and hot,” I confess with total sincerity, “Except when you’re mad at me, then you’re just hot.”

“Then I’m going to stay mad at you.”

I don’t think she means it. But I do think she could still be tipped into believing that she really is mad at me, if I say the wrong thing. Especially if I continue to tell her that what she’s experiencing is pure imposter syndrome, that it’s normal, and that she’ll get over it.

I think I understand why she’s tilting. Something about her first experience as a professional Dominatrix isn’t sitting well with her. Pair that with a moderate case of top-drop, a flood of guilt and other negative emotions, and it’s understandable that she’s in a funk.

So my hope is that I can dissuade her from thinking there’s anything wrong with how she’s feeling, and without having to take the blame personally.

“Hannah, I’m not trying to undermine you, whenever I tell you what I would do in your current situation.”

“It doesn’t really matter what you’re trying to do, or not trying to do. It’s about how it makes me feel,” is her sharp retort. I suppress the urge to throw her over my knee, to tell her that I’ll give her something to be truly unhappy about.

“Did you think about how I feel?” I ask her, “I think you want this, being a pro-Domme, because it seemed easy. Easier than working in that coffee shop. Less hours, better pay, and you can punish rude customers.

“Now you’re acting like the only problem is that I’m giving you some advice, or that you’re imitating me. But I think the real problem is that this still feels like work to you.”

She looks pissed off. In her mind I’ve just called her lazy, and she’s been hearing that for the last ten years of her life. First when she was doing the bare minimum to get through her A-levels. Then again as her interest in University waned, and she stopped going to lectures or turning in papers.

A few years later, and a few years ago, she blagged her way onto an internship program that let her shadow someone in the film industry for four weeks. And I’m truly thankful that she ended up placed with me. Because any other person I’ve worked with would have stuck her in a dark corner with a two-way radio, tasked with reminding idle electricians and assistant grips to not talk during takes.

We ended up becoming easy friends. Then getting closer still, and we ended up living together. And now she’s looking at me like she can’t decide whether she wants to cry, or to scratch my eyes out. Maybe both.

“Hannah…”

“No. Fuck you for talking to me like my fucking mother does.”

“I’m not. Listen…”

“I don’t have to listen to this. I work my ass off to…”

“No. You don’t. You really don’t. And I don’t blame you for this, but you spend your whole life trying to find the path of least resistance, all so you can just survive.”

“You don’t think I work hard? I did fifty hours last week… and one sixteen-hour shift!”

“Sure you did. And if that’s enough for you, I have no judgment. But I think you’re brilliant. I think you’re smart, funny, creative, and inventive, because that’s a different thing entirely. I think you’re thoughtful. And sweet. And genuinely caring towards other people.

“And yeah, you’re hard-working too, as long as you can convince yourself that whatever you want to do is a matter of life and death.”

“Are you done?”

“No. I also think you stink at motivating yourself, and you have grown used to the idea that if you can’t make yourself be excited to do something, then you shouldn’t bother. And when that applies to everything, it eats at you.”

Now she’s on the verge of tears. But she’s not mad at me, she’s mad at herself. All of the old wounds from countless arguments with her parents are open and bleeding. She’s thinking about her forgotten interests, dropped hobbies, at least the ones she can remember. And she probably still wants to argue, but I’ve already addressed her usual talking points.

“I dunno how to fix any of that. Every time I do, I just feel like shit.”

“I can’t fix it for you, but I can tell you what I did.”

“What? What did you do?”

“You’re not following me. I can tell you what I did, when I was in the same position you are now. Though I wasn’t working in a coffee shop, it was a Blockbuster Video.”

“What’s a Blockbuster Video?”

“Oh my sweet, summer child. I’m not that much older than you!”

I’m still sitting on the bondage table. I hold my arms open to her, and I smile at her, hoping she’ll come hug me. She does, and once again I have to stop myself from indulging my base urges and groping her. She really does look great in this outfit, even without the high-heeled boots.

Since I’m up on the table, my chin sits comfortably on the top of her head and her arms wrap tightly around my waist. After all this intensity it’s nice to just embrace her. There’s no ticking clock, nowhere to be. I don’t want to continue until she’s ready, which she eventually signals by adjusting her stance, likely trying to avoid a cramp.

Eventually she pulls away slowly. I’ve enjoyed being close, and it has given me the time I needed to think about how to wrap up my thought without sounding like I’m moralizing.

“I promise you that I did all the same things you did, babe. The bare minimum. And convinced myself that I was working as hard as I possibly could. It was easy to do, because I was physically exhausted all the time.”

“But how did you do it? I mean, how did you do better?”
“I stopped waiting for motivation to arrive, and I figured out how to create it for myself. At the time I fantasized about owning a big house in the city, so I needed money, a real career. I pictured every tiny effort to network, every day on the job, every hard thing as a step towards that goal. Eventually it became my new nature.”

“You make it sound like it was easy.”

“In a way it was. You don’t need to work out every step, or even the first step right now. All you need to do is get changed… unless you want to wear that out to dinner? Or maybe just dessert. You like ice-cream sundaes, right?”