You know, there’s too many buttons in the world. There’s too many buttons and they’re just- There’s way too many just begging to be pressed,they’re just begging to be pressed,you know? – Lisa Rowe, Girl Interrupted

I’m trained to keep my hands down.

I’m not allowed to hit back.  I’m not allowed to jerk away.  I’m not allowed to cover my boobs or grab His hands or yank the toys away.  I’m sure I’d never throw another thing if I ever threw something at Him, and I’d probably, at the very least, wish I were dead if I ever tried to choke Him up.

But I really like pushing buttons.  One could say pushing buttons is my kink.

Emotional buttons, mental buttons, physical buttons…  Buttons that do things.  Buttons that don’t do anything.  Buttons that make people happy or mad or excited or sad.  Buttons that make things go up or down or right or left.  Buttons that make noise and make messes and cause trouble and…

I really like pushing buttons.

Especially buttons I’m told not to push.

So when He pins me to the couch, looks deep into my eyes and says things like, “You’re going to be one hurting puppy if you ever hit me back.”  my cunt contracts almost painfully and it takes extreme self control to relax my fist.

I wanna know what happens.  I’m desperate for consequences.  I want to take huge risks and come crashing down to Earth when I have to face the repercussions.  I want to soar on the adrenaline of having tasted revenge, only to be snatched from the air and thrown to the mat.

And the more He tells me the ending, the more I want to watch the rest of the movie.

So I push.  And push.  In little ways that won’t get me hurt more than I usually am.  No more than I can handle.

I catch the crop mid-swing before it connects with my thigh.  I push His hands away when He’s pinching me over and over.  I cover my tits and bite back when He bites them.

And I’ve been getting mad.  Annoyed.  Frustrated.

If you’re gonna hurt me, hurt me! Cut this piddly little pinch and nibble shit out.

And He loves it.  The annoyance and anger.  He watches me to see what I’ll do.  Like the serial killer who puts his prey in an unsolvable maze and watches her on a huge color television in a room blocking the single exit.  Taunting me.  Baiting me.  Drawing me in.  And then sitting back to see if I’ll control myself.

He lives for the aftermath.  The times, few and brief though they are, when I break.  When I’m thrashing at the chains and sawing my teeth into the gag and stomping my feet.  And then the acceptance.  The complete one-eighty.  The moments when I hang limply in my binds and sob, unabashedly, at the floor.

I want to be knocked down so bad.  I’ve been waiting so long.  I’ve been so good.

And yet, I continue to behave.  Except the little buttons.  I’ve stayed away from that huge red one.

But I fantasize.  And obsess.  And wonder.  And hope.

And I push.