It’s spring, folks. The calendar may not agree yet, but the snow is melting rapidly and the rivers are flooding just as fast. It’s muddy and gloomy and wet, the wind dances from side to side, there is the undefinable scent of shifting seasons in the breeze.

i’ve always been a person tied to the seasons. Summer finds me optimistic, energetic, raring to go. Fall charges me to stock and hoard, canning and drying food, digging out blankets and cleaning the house in preparation of cold weather. Winter creates a sluggish me, reluctant to leave the warmth and safety of my cozy hidey-hole, introspective and dark.

Spring, however, has it’s own clutch of fun. i’m excitable and fractious, prone to hi-jinx and sassy misbehavior. A slap on my ass might find me quickly returning in like kind. A command from Up High is often met with teasing compliance. And, just sometimes, i get mired down in mental mud and really don’t know when to shut up. (i know, me, being disobedient? perish the thought!)

i could sense the spring tora rising this weekend. He’s been in an ass grabbing mood lately, sometimes lil pinches, sometimes caresses, sometimes big ol swats that make me yelp and jump. i never know which of those it will be until He’s already done it, so i’m a little twitchy right now when He walks behind me.  Saturday He had been a monster, molesting me whenever the chance presented itself, and i was becoming quite annoyed with the whole deal, especially when trying to get supper on the table while avoiding 6 busy children. So, He cracks me on the ass as i’m pulling dishes out of the dishwasher, and without even realizing it, i shot up and thrust my arm out to hit Him back.

i just about died as i came to my senses.

It must have been funny to see, i shoot straight up with every unthinking intention to hit Him back, and right before the point of impact i come to and flap my hands stupidly, trying to shake the stupid uprising out or something, flashing my smile of appeasement and avoiding eye-contact. He watched the whole thing, laughed and sauntered off.

i don’t know what was worse, the fact that i still have a section of my brain that will try and clobber Him, or that He finds that amusing. Not threatening, not interesting, amusing. Is there anything more infuriating than staging an coup and being brushed off like a pesky fly?

i’ve been trying to lure the slumbering sadist out of Him again. It’s like there’s this tiger sleeping in its den, quietly dozing, and i’m prancing about in front of the entrance wearing a ground beef bikini. While washing my hair with bacon grease. Can i scream “i’m stupid and want You to hurt me a lot!!!” any louder?

Teh dumb. i haz it.

i’ve promised Him that at some point this summer, i will wait until we are outside and He is busy with something. i will come up and haul off and crack Him as hard as possible. Then start running. Again with the infuriating, because He just smiles. There’s a gleam in His eye that tells me He will relish that moment. A bit of a smirk around the edges of His sensual lips that suggests He doubts i have the balls to do so. A whole history’s worth of experiences that promise me any action on my part will be ruthlessly crushed on His.

Change is good, wakes us up and reminds Him why He took me. A certain ground-line of stability is also nice.

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.