Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Contains strong language and adult humour.
I took a risk with my art piece, and it worked.
“You’re risk-adverse” Matt argued.
“I’m a risk-taker” I shot back.
“There’s no way. You’re risk-adverse”
More of a risk-taker than you, chicken shit.
Just because I’m not an adrenaline junkie, doesn’t mean that I’m risk-adverse. Just because you won’t find me at Alton Towers, doesn’t mean that I don’t like dancing with danger. There are different types of risk, and different types of risk-takers. I may not like rollercoasters, but give me outdoor pursuits and I’m there. Sure, the world’s fasted zipline may also not exactly be my cup of tea, but still, I am by no means dull.
If there is one thing I do understand when it comes to taking risks though, it’s brinkmanship. For me, there is nothing that I like better.
Especially as a submissive.
For me, there are two kinds of Dominant. The ones who are confused by it and laugh it off, or see it as misbehaviour and disengage from it don’t interest me. The ones who catch my attention are the ones who fight fire with fire. The ones just like my husband.
I knew that he was the one for me when he didn’t back down.
“If I win, you buy the next round of drinks” I joked, lining up my shot on the pool table.
“Mmhmm, and if I win?”. His tone was serious and his look was intent. If I win, your ass is mine.
Needless to say, pool quickly became a part of our regular dating repertoire, and there were nearly always wagers on the table.
But then, I started playing dirty. Really, really fucking dirty.
First, I opted for wearing the same perfume to play pool that I used to wear for sex. If I could speak to his dick, I figured, then the game was mine for the taking. It was Pavlov’s theory of conditioning at its finest, but whatever, we both wanted the same outcome anyway. After that, I started leaving my hair down, Matt’s favourite way for my hair to be.
In more recent times and certainly in lockdown, dating has become substantially harder. Date nights have largely been swapped for evenings in front of the TV, though sometimes they stretch as far as board games or card games. In most recent times, we decided on an episode of Taskmaster.
In this particular episode, the task was to draw a horse upside down, without manipulating the paper or turning it the right way up.
“I could probably do that” I concluded. Like I said, I’m not one for avoiding risks. In this case, that risk was outright humiliation.
I fetched a metallic marker pen, a piece of paper and a laptop table to lean on. After that, I set about my challenge.
“Very good” Matt mused as he admired my drawing, “I’ll put your artwork on the fridge.”
When I moved to make breakfast the following morning, that was exactly what he had done.
Oh, so it’s a war you want?
I removed the artwork from the fridge door, grabbed the magnetic whiteboard marker from the door and drew a large, moderately-detailed dick on the back with the word ‘Daddy’ underneath, followed by a strong, confident underscore and an emphatic full stop to finish. Satisfied with my new masterpiece, I returned it to the fridge door.
Underline, full stop. Daddy is a dick.
When he woke up, there was a roar of laughter from the kitchen.
“You are such a little shit…” he laughed. Little Shit to one, and Little Hellion to another. I’m sensing a running theme here.
But by midday, my original artwork was facing outwards once more.
No, no, no… this just won’t do. Daddy *flip* is a penis.
I added another decorative fridge magnet for added emphasis. The harder I made, it, the more prominence my statement piece had.
And once again, I found my artwork flipped.
Time to roll out the big guns. The nuclear option, if you will.
I fetched the parcel tape gun from the sticky tape basket and with three confident, messy swipes, I found my dicky-doodle finally and firmly fixed to the fridge door.
Now flip that, motherfucker.
Now, as varied as Dominants are, so too will opinions on how this situation should be handled vary. Some might argue that I should have been forced to remove the artwork, others might say that I should have been left to stand and stare at it until I stopped giggling and feeling proud of myself (and that would be pointless, I was VERY proud of myself!) and some might even call it a deal-breaker. For Matt, then provided that I didn’t use the “super-sticky foam tape” (and I didn’t), there wasn’t much harm done. still though, neither did he remove it.
And on Wednesday, it was still there.
“You might want to remove your portrait, butt. Your father is visiting tomorrow” I called rather smugly from the kitchen. I wasn’t removing it, I was still too proud, and besides, this was brinkmanship at its finest. Ooh I knew that I was flirting with danger, but neither did I care. If anything, I’d even calculated a low risk of reprisals. Little Shit toes the line quite often, and she’s proud.
This morning, not wanting to run the risks of having to explain to his father why there was a picture of a dick on our fridge with ‘Daddy’ underneath it, my artwork finally came down.
He removed it. He finally removed it.
He blinked first and he conceded in our little game.
I took a risk,
And I won.