By
Lisabet Sarai
Two weeks ago, I wrote about how the maxim “Opposites attract” tends
to apply much more often in stories than in real life. However, BDSM
provides an exception. In a real-world D/s relationship, as well as
in fiction, the erotic tension between the top and the bottom depends
on their diametrically opposed interests and needs. The dominant
wants power and control – the freedom to tease, torture, use and
abuse the sub for his or her own satisfaction. The sub craves the
experience of giving up control, surrendering agency to the Master or
Mistress.
A
power exchange relationship wouldn’t work if the two participants
had the same needs. Of course, in actuality few people are pure tops
or bottoms, and the dynamic can shift from one moment to the next.
Fictional BDSM tales rarely acknowledge this truth, but actually the
two roles are closer than you’d expect.
A
skilled Dom understands at the gut level what the sub is
experiencing. And a submissive can only give herself (or himself)
fully if she can intuit what her Master wants. In fact, people who
end up as “tops” in the BDSM lifestyle quite often spend some
time in the submissive role first. Likewise, depending on the
partner, a normally submissive person can switch and act as the
dominant. Even my Master admitted that he had fantasies of bottoming
to a powerful woman. Meanwhile, I have frequent dreams in which I’m
the Mistress commanding the obedience of a younger female.
In
my most recent release, The Heart of the Deal, I explore the
paradoxical duality of power exchange. Ruby
Maxwell
Chen,
lovely
and
ruthless
CEO
of
a
huge
British
business
empire,
has no qualms about playing dirty – very dirty. She’s happy to
use sex to help her close a deal, especially when she’s the one on
top. Ruby loves the game, and she expects to win. When
she
encounters
the
oddly charismatic
American
entrepreneur
Rick
Martell,
though,
she
wonders
if
she
hasn't
met
her
match.
My
two protagonists, Ruby and Rick, are both extremely dominant
characters. Yet both secretly yearn to let go, to surrender to a
powerful top who will open them to the parts of themselves they keep
hidden. This isn’t really a common theme in BDSM erotica/romance.
However, based on personal experience, I’d say that it adds a
realistic complexity to what has become a rather stereotyped genre.
Here’s
an excerpt from early in the novel that illustrates this. It
takes place after Ruby’s first business meeting with the man who’s
challenging her in a deal she’d thought was long settled.
* * * *
My
palm tingles long after he has left. Alone, I allow all the feelings
to wash over me. Frustration at being thwarted. Gratitude that,
through self-control, I managed to neutralize his advantage from last
night. Admiration for his devious business skill. Perplexity
regarding his real motives and plans.
And
lust, fierce and pure, pouring through my veins like potent liquor.
Now that he has gone, I allow myself to feel the tightness in my
nipples, the ache between my thighs. The tension reveals its true
source. My chic fitted suit holds me in bondage. I cannot reach the
places that cry out to be touched.
This
at least I can control and remedy. My fingers shake with eagerness as
I unbutton my jacket and unhook my bra. My skirt I simply crumple to
my waist, heedless for now of the wrinkles I am creating. I reach
into the secret drawer under my desk and retrieve the stainless steel
vibrator that I keep there. For emergencies such as this.
An
orgasm rips through me as soon as I feel the cool metal sliding into
my depths. This does not satisfy me, though. I work the slick rod
among my swollen folds, seeking relief that does not come.
Why
does Martell have this overwhelming effect on me? Chemistry?
Pheromones? It feels like something biological and irresistible.
Or
perhaps telepathy, empathy, some psychic force that allows him to
catch and shape my thoughts. This I understand, a bit. This is what I
do when I play the dominant, intuit the form of my partner’s
fantasies and reflect them back in my words and actions.
Oh,
to have him in my power! Everyone, I believe, has some trace of the
submissive, some secret desire to surrender, hidden perhaps even from
themselves. If I could find and speak to that core in him…
I
picture him naked, remembering even in my fantasy that I have never
seen him so. Tanned, taut, nearly hairless except at his groin. He
stands, as I command him, spread-eagle before the plate glass window
of my thirtieth floor office. “Anyone could see you,” I remind
him, tapping my ruler against one shoulder and then the other.
“Anyone who happened to look up.”
He
is nervous, now that he sees that I have the upper hand. His mocking
grin is gone. “You seem to enjoy the exposure,” I comment,
pinching his thickening erection. I survey him from one side and then
the other, close enough that he can feel the heat of my body, catch
the scent of my rising excitement.
“Place
your hands on the glass,” I tell him, “to steady yourself for
what comes next.” He swallows the lump in his throat and obeys. I
sense his increasing arousal. I don’t need to check the state of
his cock.
I
am clad in a suit, of a more provocative cut than I would ever wear
in a real business meeting. A suit signals power. I wear no knickers.
I can feel dampness on my thighs as I strut before him on dangerous
heels.
“Now,
Rick,” I say, emphasizing the familiar nickname. “I am going to
teach you a lesson about respect.” I snap the wooden ruler smartly
against one muscled buttock. He gives a little yelp. Before he can
recover, I apply the ruler to the other cheek, then repeat my blow to
the first.
He
is panting and his face is red. Meanwhile, his swollen penis points
obscenely toward the ceiling.
“When
you were a little boy, in Malaysia, Rick”—Swat!—“did your
teachers beat you with a ruler to keep you in line?” (Smack!) “We
British set up the educational system, after all, and we have always
been great believers in corporal punishment.”
I
slash the ruler across his butt three or four times in quick
succession. His bottom looks like tartan plaid. I check his face, and
sure enough, see arousal as well as discomfort. His lips are parted;
his breath comes in little gasps. Since his first exclamation of
surprise, he has made no sound.
“How
do you feel, Rick?” I ask sweetly, murmuring in his ear.
“Sore,”
he says, softly.
“And
is that all?” I ask, raking my fingernails lightly across his
inflamed rump.
He
is silent, stubborn. “Well?” I ask, and slap him with my open
palm.
“Horny.”
He almost whispers.
“What
do you want, Rick?”
“I
want to come.”
“Ask
me nicely, then.”
“Please,
Ms. Chen. Please, let me come.”
“Perhaps
later, if you behave. Right now, though, I have something else in
mind for you.”
I
hold up the silvery vibrator and watch his eyes widen in horror.
“No…” He starts to speak, then breaks off.
“Don’t
you want to please me, Rick?” I slather lubricant across my palm
and run my hand suggestively over the length of the metal shaft. “I
thought that you wanted to be my partner.”
He
does not speak. His penis jerks as he tries to control himself.
“Push
out your butt, now, and spread your legs a bit more.” I position
the greased vibrator against his tightly curled sphincter. “Now,
relax.”
I
am fucking myself furiously, deep into this mental scene, when
something shifts.
Suddenly,
I am the one who is nude, splayed before the window with my arse
stuck out. I feel rebellion, fear, anger, and incredible excitement
as Richard Martell inches the vibrator into my rear hole. I hear him
laugh. “Come on, Ruby, you can’t pretend with me.” And finally,
I explode into orgasm, cursing Martell and my own traitor
imagination.
*
* * *
By
the end of the book, both Rick and Ruby have learned how to give up
erotic control to their opponent.
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