The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (29 page)

His voice was charming. ‘Good. Well, since we’ve not
been counting up to this point, I think we’ll assume that I’ve given you twenty smacks so far. Does that sound reasonable?’

I agreed quickly, eagerly, having no idea how many times he’d hit me but thinking this sounded like a suitably high number. There shouldn’t be too much more to endure; I didn’t think he’d ever punished me so extensively before so –

‘If we count on to a hundred, I think that’ll be fair.’

At his words I started trembling again, harder than I had at any point so far.
What the fuck was it with him and the round number one hundred?

It had started with, I thought, a relatively playful spanking. He had me strip and sit on the high-backed chair, spreading my legs wide in the cool seat so he could secure an ankle to each chair leg, leaving me open wide to his gaze – and his hand. He had a definite gleam in his eye when he produced the handcuffs, pulled my hands behind the chair and secured me into place. But it wasn’t until he disappeared off to the kitchen and came back with a wooden spoon and two clothes pegs that the alarm bells started ringing fully, and by then there wasn’t a huge amount I could do other than struggle ineffectually against the chair.

He played with my breasts to start with, running his hands over and around them. His touch was soothing, lulling me into a feeling of security. He lightly pinched my nipples, watching them harden, my body basking in his attention. Then he put his mouth around my nipple, lapping at it and suckling deep until I closed my eyes in bliss at the sensation.

I should have known better. Almost as soon as I relaxed into his ministrations, he changed, grazing my nipple with his teeth, getting harsher, biting, until I cried out. My moans of pain didn’t stop him though, and both my breasts were wet with his saliva and red with marks from biting and vicious suckling by the time he put the pegs on. My breasts were sore by then and since the pegs were household-style robust wooden clothes pegs, they hurt as the springs snapped back into place, making for a whole new layer of agony. I clenched and unclenched my hands in the cuffs, trying to become acclimatized to the pain, blushing at how intently he stared at my breasts, bouncing with the movement of the deep breaths I was pushing through my nose as I tried to withstand the sensations.

I was so intent on dealing with the tight hot pain in my nipples, which was fast becoming the centre of my world, that I forgot about the spoon until he slapped one of my breasts with it. He’d slapped my breasts with his hands before but this, particularly after the biting and suckling, really hurt. The layers of pain were running one on top of another, like conflicting currents, like waves rushing in my head. In that moment my entire world was focused only on that noise – and the pain in my nipples.

Up until the point he smacked me hard between the legs with the wooden spoon.

I screamed. I couldn’t stop myself. The silence after my voice pierced the room felt as loud as actual noise. Everything was still, my eyes were filled with tears and it was all silent for a moment bar the sound of my rasping breathing. He didn’t ask me if I was all right. He just
looked at me very intently, staring into my eyes, while I – undoubtedly – glared back at him, my mind furious at not only him for inflicting this agony but at the part of myself that actually, despite it all, craved it. After a few seconds he must have seen what he needed to see, as the air changed and he moved.

As he shifted closer, I closed my eyes, unable to bear watching the second strike. Of course all that meant was that I wasn’t ready for it. The sound of the impact seemed to echo around the room and the pain felt like nothing I’d ever felt before. In the back of my mind a panicked voice was whimpering, ‘I can’t take this,’ but before I could do anything to stop it (or stop him, even – I was closer to doing that than I had ever been before) the third crack connected and I was gasping through the pain and my tears again. Every fibre of my being was focused on the man in front of me and trying to ride the waves of pain he was inflicting.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but normally after a few strokes of whatever implement I am on the receiving end of my body can start to adjust to the pain, embrace it. It still hurts, of course it does, but something alters in my head and the pain starts to bring with it a delicious pleasure. But as James kept up the relentless spanking rhythm of the wooden spoon, it only hurt, and then hurt more. I shifted against my bound ankles, desperate to close my legs against the onslaught but unable to do so. All I could do was endure, cling on and hope it would get better, that it wouldn’t be the thing I couldn’t cope with, that I would have to call a halt to, disappointing him and myself. I really
wasn’t sure I could get through it, even endure it, never mind enjoying it. But he had a different opinion.

That’s when he set me my deadline.

He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear as he explained what would happen next. And it made the world shift for a second as I tried to understand what he was saying, what he was expecting.

‘The thing is, even while you’re crying and whimpering and shaking this is making you wet.’

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could speak he pressed the curved end of the spoon against my lips. I tasted myself on the wood, blushed and closed my eyes, to hide the truth of my body’s betrayal. As he moved the spoon away I pressed my trembling lips together and swallowed the denial, deciding discretion was the better part of valour and I should probably just shut up.

‘I think if I spanked you for long enough you could come.’

My eyes flashed open and I looked at him smiling down at me, a picture of smugness. The more we’d played the better he’d got to know my limits. This was sometimes amazing, as when he pushed me into the unknown it felt like I was flying. However, at other points – points like this, when he was looking arrogant as he merrily pushed me into the abyss – I could have quite happily told him to go and fuck himself. Except, as ever, the small voice in my head already yearning for the next time this would happen kept me quiet. For a while.

‘So I’m going to give you a deadline. A certain number of strokes by which time you have to come. If you don’t,
I am going to do things to you that will make this feel like a walk in the park. And if you don’t come, well, it won’t matter to me. Because I will, either by having you suck me off or by just giving you a damn good fucking’ – at that he ran a hand between my legs, which made me buck underneath him as much as I could within the constraints of my bonds – ‘and then I will punish you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. You will be begging me and you won’t know whether you’re begging me to stop or continue. But I will use you however I want, for however long I want until you want to just crawl away and recover. And since neither of us has to be back at work until after the weekend now, that could be a very long time. Do you understand?’

I felt fear in the pit of my stomach, excitement, and – ridiculously – the kind of burst of adrenaline that I always get when given something to work to. Yes, I am a journalistic cliché. I was already aching to come and competitive enough that I was going to try and get through this no matter what. I could do this. The pain couldn’t go on too long. My voice was quiet but, I like to think, fairly assured. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Well, since we’ve not been counting up to this point, I think we’ll assume that I’ve given you twenty smacks so far. Does that sound reasonable? If we count on to a hundred. I think that’ll be fair.’

The rhythm was what got me. Even with the pain – and believe me, it was a kind of agony I had never felt before – the insidious rhythm of his strikes began to work its warmth through me. He made me count off the strokes and thank him for them and his pace was so fast that I was gasping out
my thanks as fast as I could speak, as fast as I could process the pain. At stroke sixty-three the sensations shifted. He hit me, as hard as he had up to that point, but the sound of the wood connecting was wet. The sound of my arousal was obvious. And with every hit it got more so, until I closed my eyes in embarrassment. My tears of pain were still streaming from beneath my closed lids, and yet the increasing wet patch I was squirming in, that was coating the back of my thighs and my arse, proved that, despite my brain telling me otherwise, on a cellular level this was working for me.

At stroke sixty-nine I opened my eyes, and saw him pulling away from the stroke I was still gasping at. There was a strand of wetness leading from between my legs to the spoon as he moved away and the visible evidence of how much this pain was turning me on shocked me for a second, freezing my brain. When he hit me again I couldn’t think of the number. Were we on sixty-nine and this was seventy? Or was this sixty-nine? Shit. I guessed, ‘sixty-nine.’ He shook his head in displeasure and told me we’d go back to sixty to make up for my error. I had to bite my lip to stop myself beginning to sob at the thought of nine extra strokes.

By the time we got to eighty-five he had shifted his angle so every strike had maximum impact on my clit. It was the most intense treatment it had ever received and my body was already building up to an orgasm which I feared the strength of. As we moved inexorably closer to one hundred my breathing was ragged, my still-pegged nipples jiggling as I gasped, and my thighs trembled as I built to my climax.

On the hundredth strike I orgasmed. I would have been
rolling my eyes at the fact I had metamorphosed into some ridiculous cliché of slutty kinky conditioning, but, having endured all I’d endured, after every ounce of feeling had been wrung from my body, I didn’t give a toss. I wanted to come so much it consumed me. It was all I could taste, all I could smell, and I felt like I needed it more than I needed to breathe.

My orgasm was vicious and painful and made me thrash against my bonds in a way that left me with marks round my wrists and ankles that I had to hide with long sleeves and trousers for a few days. The keening noises coming from the back of my throat didn’t sound like me and as I came, pulsating around the spoon, James had to grab the back of the chair as I was about to tip both it and myself over with the force of my movements.

As I came back down to earth as if coming out of a trance, still shivering with aftershocks from the intensity of what had come before, he was undoing his trousers and moving over to me. He pushed viciously inside me, putting his weight on to my still-pulsating, puffy, bruised and aching core. I couldn’t hold back a scream. He started to fuck me, a cruel reminder of the rhythm of the spoon just minutes before, the sensations so painful and intense that I was bucking from underneath him, doing everything I could to push him off, which, because of the handcuffs and rope securing my ankles, was very little.

He shifted deeper inside me and then stopped moving for a moment. He anchored his hands in my hair, and kissed me deeply, then bit hard on my bottom lip until I was sure I could taste blood. His fingers twisted on the
pegs on my nipples, adjusting and tightening them until it felt like my entire body was on fire. I was sobbing, tears streaming down my face, and as he resumed fucking me he whispered, ‘You came on stroke 109 because we went back when you miscounted. You missed your deadline.’

Through a haze of pain and intense pleasure I realized exactly what this meant. And I trembled, knowing that over the next minutes, hours, days – however long he wanted – I was going to be pushed further than I ever had been before.

No ifs, no buts, no maybes. You never miss a deadline.

The days that followed were the most challenging of my life. He used me. Abused me. Humiliated me. He made me cry. He made me ache. Pushed me. He never broke me but at times it felt like he was trying to. He fucked me, when he wanted, how he wanted, and when I was so exhausted I could not summon up the energy to do anything more than lie there, a fuckhole for his pleasure, he slapped my face and pulled my hair to make me move my weary body. By the time he finished I was marked all over, like an abstract canvas documenting our time together: the bite marks on my breasts, the angry redness of my tormented nipples; the bruises on the tops of my arms; my arse cheeks criss-crossed with red welts that made me squirm, made me wet thinking of what had happened, for weeks afterwards; his spunk drying in my hair and on my breasts. By the end, the tracks of my tears had washed away my carefully applied make up and my hair was a mess. I was a mess. He had demolished my defences.

It was freeing, cathartic and yet, at points, terrifying. He pushed me to the very edge of what felt acceptable to me. As the hours and days passed all I cared about was him – pleasing him, satisfying him, not doing anything to give him reason to punish me. He was my world and for the first time I truly understood the kind of submission which consumes you as, for the first time ever, the voice in the back of my head, calling out my shame, asking me why I was doing this, was silenced. I felt connected to him in a way that I never had to another person – he understood me completely, even when I didn’t understand myself. As I sobbed, begging him to stop caning me, pleading that I couldn’t take any more, and he continued anyway, I hated him. But he pulled my face to his, his hands hard on my chin and, while I stared at him with loathing in my eyes, he asked me if I remembered my safe word. Through gritted teeth I said yes, and while I battled with stubborn pride and a competitive spirit that meant I then lapsed into silence, he made me beg him to resume before he started again. He caned me until it hurt so much I couldn’t breathe, until I was sure I must be bleeding, and then, when he felt I couldn’t take any more, he ran a leisurely finger down my slit. I came, from this gentlest of touches, and when I came back to earth, sated and yet confused at how the caning could have inspired such a vicious orgasm, I saw him smiling down at me, leaning to kiss me softly before he told me I would have to be punished for coming without permission.

When he finally finished he tethered me to the foot of the bed like an animal, my wrists tied behind my back, and
left me to sleep the sleep of the exhausted, curled in an ungainly way as I unconsciously tried to find a part of my body to lie on comfortably.