The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (24 page)

I felt a surge of rebellion and fury. For god’s sake, what was his compulsion with keeping me on the back foot, did it have to be
all
the time? Balls. I looked at him warily, mindful as well that, thanks to the vagaries of predictive text and an ill-informed bet on who the next England manager was going to be, I was now at a hundred points on our little scorecard. I didn’t even know what it was a hundred of, but it made me very nervous indeed. I was at least hoping for a night’s sleep first.

‘Do we have to do it now?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Nah, if you want to wait I’ll just fit in with when you decide you can be arsed.’ I glared at him and he shook his head, even while he stroked my face.

‘You’re just making it worse for yourself. Do you want to see where this goes or not Sophie? Seize the day, remember?’

He was smiling, joking a little I think, but I still felt stung. And I knew that the choice I made was important.
The problem is, I already knew I was going to do what he wanted
again
and it was still annoying me. How could it chafe this way to submit to someone I actually like, find attractive, would like to date? He was watching me intently. I sighed.

‘Fine, OK, what do I have to do?’

His smile made my stomach flip. He looked so happy, and that made me happy. At least until he spoke again. He led me across the room to a rug in front of his fireplace. ‘I’d like you to bend over. You can put your hands on your ankles or your knees, whichever is more comfortable. But once you’re in position you stay there. You’re going to count to a hundred for me and thank me for every strike. Is that clear?’

My voice was muffled by my long hair falling into my face as I moved my hands to my knees, my mind whirring as to what he was going to use if he was intending to hit me a full hundred times. For the first time ever I felt genuinely scared at having pain inflicted on me in this way. How on earth would I be able to withstand so much?

He tapped me on the arse in warning, stirring me out of my rising panic. ‘Sorry. Yes, I … Yes, I understand.’

I tensed myself for the first strike, but he had come round to face me, was leaning in, searching for my eyes under the curtain of my hair. We stared at each other for long seconds. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calming, oddly soothing. ‘I’m going to use the crop on you, Sophie. You’ll be able to withstand it, I promise, but if for any reason you want to stop, just use your safe word. You remember it, right?’

I nodded, feeling now wasn’t the time to point out my
subconscious was already screaming it. He smiled at me, and in that moment he was James and I was Sophie and it was all OK. Then he began.

The first ten didn’t hurt at all. I counted them off, thanking him for each one, generally not really bothered about the taps on my arse, thinking instead with anticipation about what would happen once we’d got this daft punishment out of the way, relieved it wasn’t hurting as much as I had feared.

Then suddenly something clicked – the angle he was using changed imperceptibly, or he found his rhythm, or something, and suddenly it hurt so much it took my breath away. I kept counting, stayed upright – just – although at one point he caught me with such force at the point where my arse met my thigh that I stumbled slightly and had to use my hands to right myself. I did so quickly, apologizing desperately lest he decide to add more for me moving from position. Fortunately he didn’t.

With every stroke I thanked him, although by the time we reached fifty my teeth were gritted and my voice didn’t sound very thankful at all. It hurt so much more than I had expected it to, and sheer bloody-mindedness was the only thing keeping me upright and counting. His rhythm was relentless, focusing purely on my left arse cheek, and as he kept hitting the same spot the pain began to build until I was finding it harder and harder to force any thanks from my dry throat.

At sixty he stopped for a moment. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my face up so he could look into my eyes.

‘Are you crying? You sound like you’re crying.’

The part of me that is all stubborn pride and no self-preservation answered before the rest of me could even think. ‘I’m not.’

He looked closely, his eyes searching mine to assess how close he was to breaking me – something which actually made me feel safer and more calm, despite the pain I was processing. He nodded slightly at what he saw in my face. ‘Do you need to stop?’

My chin raised and I heard my voice as if from far away, sounding more assured than I felt. ‘No. I’m fine.’ What an idiot.

As he let go of my hair and moved behind me all I could think of was my mum’s continual warning that stubbornness would one day be my downfall – although I don’t think this was exactly what she had in mind. He started on my arse again and – thankfully – thoughts of Mum disappeared as I began desperately trying to process the pain once more.

By the time we got to eighty it was all I could do to stand. I remained in position – a victory for pigheadedness – but with every stroke my inner monologue was screaming ‘Twenty to go, nineteen to go, eighteen to go.’ My legs were wobbling and I was in agony. When we got to a hundred the relief rushed through me. So much for it not hurting that much.

James allowed me to stand upright and moved in front of me, kissing my forehead gently as I trembled in front of him, the pain and adrenaline thrumming through me.

‘Good girl. Well done. You were very brave.’

I bit back a grimace at the hated endearment and he ran
a finger between my legs. I moaned in pleasure, leaning into him and enjoying him exploring me with his fingers. He chuckled at how wet I was, how my legs started to shake as he pushed me – ridiculously easily – to the brink of orgasm. Then he pulled away. I managed to bite back a whimper – I had no intention of doing anything that would see him picking up the crop again – but I’m sure my eyes betrayed my frustration as he sat down on the edge of the bed, undid his trousers and beckoned me down to kneel in front of him.

I looked at him hopefully, unconsciously waiting for his nod of approval, then finally opened my mouth to take him. I licked him greedily, loving the feeling of his hands in my hair, feeling him clench and unclench his fingers as I began to worship him with my mouth. I lost myself completely in the task. Even the pain of my left arse cheek receded as I sucked.

But then he pulled me away by my hair, took my arms and lifted me up from my knees and back towards the rug. My brain actually short-circuited for a minute. I could see the direction he was trying to manoeuvre me in, and all I could think of was the crop and the pain. But I couldn’t form words, much less sentences, and instead I heard myself making a desperate mewing noise in the back of my throat. It was both a plea and a refusal. For a few seconds as he spoke to me I couldn’t understand what he was saying, such was the depth of my panic at being made to return to the punishment. But then he kissed my forehead again and stroked me with the same tenderness he’d shown his cats earlier, and somehow I knew he was trying
to alleviate my fears, even through the rushing noise in my head. Finally I understood him.

‘I’m not going to punish you again. I want you to stand over there so I can fuck you.’

Oh.

I let him help me to my feet and returned to the position I had been in a few minutes before. He rolled on a condom and began to fuck me, grabbing my hips to ensure he could fuck me as hard as possible, hitting my stinging arse with every thrust. It felt amazing. I was still on an adrenaline high from the punishment; I wasn’t thinking about anything, I was just responding to him, reacting as he mastered me. He reached round and began frigging my clit and I came around him.

By the time I returned to earth he had moved us both to the bed and I was lying (on my side, as putting any pressure on my arse was going to be uncomfortable for at least the next week) alongside him. I looked up, suddenly a bit embarrassed at exactly how out-of-the-moment I had gone, to see him smiling down at me. He stroked my hair and pressed another kiss to my forehead.

‘You were wonderful this evening. Good girl.’

I smiled, closing my eyes for a second to savour the gentleness of his lips. I can honestly say I wasn’t bothered about the patronizing tone now. Instead all I felt was achievement, a kind of pride at having pleased him, the thought of a job well done.

Little did I realize this was just the beginning.

I pride myself on not getting caught up in the clichéd etiquette of dating. Most of my friends are the same. There’s none of that ‘these are the rules on when to call or not call’ bollocks; we’re all straightforward, sensible people. If you like someone, what’s the point in bullshitting?

So you’ll never see me worrying about when I’m going to see someone again. If I want to see someone I’ll ask. If they want to see me too then ace. If not, well, that’s crap and my confidence will take a knock, but I’ll get over it.

Except it wasn’t that way with James.

I’m honestly not hung up on gender stereotypes and try not to turn into that blithering cliché –
should I text, or is that too keen? If I text how many kisses should I put on the end? Hold on, he hasn’t put a kiss on the end, but he did before, what does that mean?
But if I thought the etiquette of dating was bad, that’s nothing compared to what happens when you throw in a D/s power element. Is suggesting we meet again pushy? Unsubmissive? Should I be waiting for him to arrange something? If he doesn’t, do I just keep waiting? At what point should I give up and assume that actually he’s not interested? Is the fact I’m the most impatient person I know likely to cause me a problem?

Meeting James coincided with the kind of time at work
that made for a Sophie of all work and no play. Various people were on holiday and the big launch of a new publication was in the works, and that translated into the kind of hours that made sleeping under my desk seem like a tempting prospect. It also meant I was a bit, well, disengaged. I talked to James by email every day and found him as interesting as ever but over a period of a week or two things went from being steamy to, well, a bit tepid. I’d be bouncing work moans back and forth or linking him to stuff coming in on our newswire, but the smutty stuff? Somewhere along the way it dissipated in a way that left me thinking, ‘Damn, obviously he’s not as interested in me that way as I am in him.’ So in characteristic fashion I decided the thing to do was to not address it, pretend everything was fine and leave it be. Until, erm, I couldn’t any more and it burst forth like a slightly frightening torrent. Great.

It was a Thursday afternoon. The Thursday afternoon before The Big Project™ launched and the point in the process where all the problems seemed insurmountable, except you know they’ll be resolved because they have to be and you’ll just keep going until your eyes fall out of the back of your head and you can’t think of another decent headline pun.

I was on Messenger in part because I was discussing final colour choices for headers for the different sections of the magazine with our chief designer. But I’d been chatting to James in another window as he sat wrestling with some dry financial gubbins.

The conversation had started incongruously enough but a passing comment that normally I’d have been sensible enough to leave alone started me off.

JAMES SAYS
: We’ll have to see what happens when we next meet.

SOPHIE SAYS
: Indeed. Although when will that be? Because we’ve yet to set anything up … :P

Ah, yes, a little jaunty tongue hides the neediness oozing from every syllable of that sentence. Oh dear. Must make it better.

SOPHIE SAYS
: Not that I’m moaning.

SOPHIE SAYS
: Just saying.

SOPHIE SAYS
: And if you don’t want to meet again – cause it has been a while now – then that’s fine too. Really.

Shit, do I now sound like I’m not interested in him?

SOPHIE SAYS
: I mean obviously I’d *like*; to meet again.

Why is Vera Lynn running through my head now? How have I dug myself such a big bloody hole? How do I get out of it?

SOPHIE SAYS
: But if you don’t then that’s fine, I’d just rather know.

Wow. You’d think it was difficult to sound both standoffish and needy at the same time, but I appeared to have managed it. Brilliant.

As I pondered whether disconnecting and blaming technical difficulties (and possibly partial lobotomy) was the best way of stopping this conversation without making it worse, I heard the ping of a response. I was fairly convinced it wouldn’t be about whether green or purple best portrayed ‘lifestyle’ but could hardly bring myself to look at the screen to see.

JAMES SAYS
: Of course I’d like to meet. What made you think I wouldn’t?

JAMES SAYS
: I just figured, bearing in mind how stressed you sound every time I speak to you lately, that looming over you like some überdom was perhaps not the most supportive course of action.

JAMES SAYS
: I take it this is a subtle hint that you might be free and inclined to play some time soon then?

Oh. Suddenly even the shittiest day at work wasn’t bothering me at all and I caught myself grinning at the screen in a way that may well have terrified my co-workers, since it was the first time I’d cracked a smile in working hours for about a fortnight.

And that’s how I ended up spending a full twenty-four hours under James’s control. At his suggestion I booked a day off work for the day after the big, big project went to press – on time and with my sanity still intact. It was a great idea, as the morning after something comes out all you do is sit at your desk drinking coffee and praying the phone won’t ring, as if it does it’s usually someone telling you something’s gone wrong, which you now can do nothing about anyway. So spending a day alone with him,
not knowing exactly what would happen, and burning off some excess energy was an idea that sounded relaxing and brilliant. At least it did until I realized exactly what I’d let myself in for, and that ‘relaxing’ was never in a million years going to be an adjective to describe it.