The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (8 page)

I’ve always loved giving blow jobs – but never more so than with Thomas. Even during the most vanilla of shags he seemed so in control, and I loved shaking that up a bit, seeing his reactions, hearing his breathing quicken, feeling him grow in my mouth, tasting him as he came. I may have been giving up my control, submitting to his power, but with my mouth round his cock I had a different kind of power and it made my heart sing and my cunt wet. And right then, tied down, his cock pushing between my lips as I lay on my back on his bed, that felt reassuring.

As I began to suck harder, he grabbed my hair. I moaned round his cock, glancing up to look at his face as I sucked deeper, moving eagerly, quickly, quickly, relentlessly, until I tasted him at the back of my throat. He sat back to regain his breath, running his hands lazily around my thighs. By then I was gagging for it. I’d learned that moving didn’t work in my favour though, so I lay
passive as he ran his fingertips up and down, coming closer and closer to where I was aching for him to be. If I hadn’t been tied down I’d have been frigging myself senseless just to get some release, but instead I had to lie back, submit, as his finger slipped over my clit, an all-too-brief burst of pleasure, before going back to stroking meanderingly around my thighs.

Suddenly the whole issue of begging or not begging didn’t matter. I was so desperate to come that I’d have said pretty much anything if it meant he’d let me. My hands were clenched into fists, I was biting my bottom lip and finally through a dry throat I was able to say, ‘Please.’

His finger moved back to my core, gently stroking. He was definitely looking smug now. ‘Please, what?’

The tone of his voice was different, darker, and it thrilled me and yet left me uncertain. This wasn’t easy-going, laid-back Thomas. It turned out my fuck buddy was a man of surprises. But not a man of patience.

He pinched my nipple again, twisting it viciously. Tears filled my eyes and I gasped in pain. His voice was steely, not to be disobeyed and made me wetter, even as nervous butterflies moved in my stomach.

‘Please, what?’

My brain locked. I’m someone who’s never lost for words, but I had no idea what I was supposed to say and was terrified that if I got it wrong he’d draw it out even longer. Or, even worse, stop. In the end in spite of myself I went for every variation that might do it.

‘Please, push your fingers inside me. Please touch me. Make me come, let me come. Please.’

As I finished on the final plea he began to frig me – strong, long strokes which I’d been yearning for. He slid two fingers inside me and began fucking me with them, rubbing, harder, faster, until I couldn’t contain my cries. I shuddered, moaned, and came, pulsating around his fingers, my hands bashing against the headboard with the force of my orgasm.

As he pulled the knots so my hands fell free, he smiled. And as I rubbed my wrists I smiled back, knowing that I’d found a kindred spirit in the oddest place, that we’d be doing this again. That it was even worth begging for. What I didn’t realize, not then at least, was that actually that was hardly begging at all, and only the beginning.

We still had no plans to date, but in a way that made discussing what turned us on easier – telling your boyfriend that you fantasized about him caning you until you were sobbing and then fucking you hard against the marks even as you fought to push him off could potentially be a bit awkward. But Thomas listened closely to everything I said and, although I didn’t realize it at the time, was mentally making notes for things to do at some undetermined future point which would make me wet and my head spin.

It started on a Saturday night with punishment for a spurious host of reasons which, if I was feeling argumentative, I would have queried. Except, of course, when his voice and mannerisms changed from easygoing to implacable and it became apparent exactly where we were headed, I really wasn’t going to quibble. I ended up naked with my arse in the air, bent over the arm of his sofa.

He began with a relatively gentle spanking, which left my arse tingling and warm. I’d learned early on that Tom was a fan of spanking, and he had soon developed a penchant for putting me over his knee to punish me relentlessly while his erection grew under my squirming body. My knickers half way down my legs felt somehow more embarrassing than if I had them taken off completely, and proved helpful for hobbling me a little if I couldn’t stop myself struggling. Previously, once my arse was hot and stinging he’d push me to the floor and fuck me, his hips anchoring me hard to the floor as he pushed inside me, ensuring no respite from the rough carpet against my stinging arse, but this time things were different. He asked me a question which I didn’t answer with what he deemed to be quite the correct level of respect and I heard the sound of his belt slipping through the loops on his trousers.

When you have spent so long thinking about something, fantasizing about it, the prospect of actually being on the receiving end of it is terrifying. Not just because it’s going to hurt and suddenly lovely, kind, just-finished-helping-me-do-the-crossword Tom has shifted into an alternate-universe version of himself. Not just because I’m desperately trying to control my nerves, to ensure that I don’t chicken out, that I can withstand whatever he doles out, please him and acquit myself with courage and stoicism – ah yes, Maid Marian would be proud. Not even because, having spent the best part of a decade lying in bed at night fantasizing about what it would be like for someone to give me a good old-fashioned thrashing
with their belt, I’m concerned that in practice it might not be arousing and instead it might just hurt so much I have to get him to stop. It’s terrifying because not only would asking him to stop be a disappointing enactment of a long-held fantasy, it would also be a form of surrender, a failure, a defeat too far.

I turned my head, which was dangling down towards the floor, giving me a headrush to add to the dizziness of my anticipation, to see him standing in front of me, still fully dressed, holding his leather belt in his hands, pulling it, looping it, getting ready to hurt me, and the look in his eyes made my stomach lurch with the same mixture of fear and excitement you get on a rollercoaster. And then he moved behind me and all I could do was wait and try not to tremble. I didn’t have long to go.

The first strike didn’t hurt that much; the noise was more of a shock than the impact itself. I felt a moment of relief that actually the pain was bearable, and then he hit me twice more in quick succession and I yelped loudly – it would appear he’d not got the aim or the strength of his swing right with the first hit as it was hurting a damn sight more now.

He told me the more I yelped the harder he would hit me, so I bit my lip to try and silence myself, until I was convinced I could taste blood in my mouth. The crack of each impact on my arse sounded like a gunshot and the pain after the impact was a wave of agony. If it wasn’t for the arm of the sofa under my abdomen holding me in place my legs would have buckled till I was lying on the
floor in front of him. As it was, when the flick of the end of the belt curved round to catch one of my arse cheeks in a place it had hit several times before the white hot pain caused me to wobble, sliding halfway to the floor anyway, until he grabbed a handful of my hair to encourage me – in unrelenting and rather painful fashion – to scrabble back into position.

My tiny gasps were almost sobs by the time he asked me to count the blows. The pain was so much more than I could ever have imagined, but it didn’t occur to me to ask him to stop. Instead, my mental focus was on withstanding the impact, stifling the moans and whimpers bubbling up into my throat with every lash, although trying to control my breathing to work through the pain must have given away how much he was hurting me even if the angry red stripes on my arse, the tears streaming down my face and my shaking legs didn’t.

After ten strokes he put his hand on my clit, frigged me hard and then pushed his fingers up inside me, laughing softly at how obviously, audibly, aroused I was.

‘Oh yes. You are quite the little pain slut, aren’t you, Sophie?’

I shut my eyes, even as the noise of his fingers moving between my legs proved his point.

As he rubbed me and I began to moan in pleasure, he explained to me the concept of the carrot and the stick – and how I wasn’t in line for the orgasmic carrot just yet. He pushed me back up into position for punishment without removing his hand from inside me and I felt a moment of fury at being treated like a
fucking hand puppet. I could almost see his smile as I strained on tiptoe across the arm of the sofa, his fingers pushing cruelly up inside me. I counted another ten hits with the belt through my dry throat – plus ‘one for luck’, which I’m sure he inflicted just to amuse himself at seeing my visible relief at the end of the punishment be replaced with shuddering nerves as I waited for the final – and hardest – blow.

Before I could even gather my wits his fingers were back on my clit. He was frenetic, rubbing me so hard that even with the lubricant it was bittersweet pleasure. I came hard, and my legs gave out from under me, leaving me slumped across the end of the sofa.

After I’d recovered sufficiently, I knelt at his feet, sucking him until he spurted in my mouth and then slept the sleep of the exhausted, on my side because my arse had taken such a battering that even the whispering movement of a duvet on it made me wake in pain. It took days for the welts to go down and every morning, after my shower, I checked the changing colours of the bruises in the full length mirror, prodding to see how much it hurt and smiling to myself at the same time.

Yup, I was beginning to understand the full extent of my masochistic tendencies. And in Thomas I seemed to have found someone who not only recognized them too but enjoyed giving them a good workout, although I was soon to realize that it wasn’t necessarily the pain that was the most challenging element of playing with my incongruous dom.

The day after my intimate introduction to his belt Tom and I headed into town for a spot of lunch and a trip to the cinema, experiencing the joys of a mid-week day off when it feels like everyone else has their nose to the grindstone while you’re bunking off.

We’d grabbed the papers and headed into a restaurant. As my bum hit the hard wooden bench – why are they so popular? They’re horrible and the interior designer of Wagamama has much to answer for – I grimaced slightly. Tom noticed and smiled but didn’t say anything until the waitress had taken our order.

‘Is your arse sore?’

Pride? Stubbornness? An urge to wipe the undeniably sexy but still damn conceited look off his face? Probably. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Really? You looked quite uncomfortable when you sat down.’

We shared a look that said he knew what I was thinking and I knew he knew but was going to do my best to ignore it anyway.

I didn’t get much peace. We chatted about film possibilities for the afternoon, a woman at work I fancied, the latest in an ongoing love/hate saga between two mutual friends, and ate our lunches. Then once we’d finished he
took a sip of his drink and looked over at me for long seconds without speaking.

‘What?’ I asked.

He put his drink down on the table. ‘Nothing, it’s just every so often you shift on that bench and when you do your face changes and I can see it hurts.’ He smiled. Bastard.

I tried to act like it was completely normal to be discussing the thrashing he gave me over the remains of two club sandwiches. ‘Actually, I thought the cane would have been more painful. But last night …’ I shifted without thinking to find a more comfortable way to sit, only becoming aware of it when I saw him smiling at me. ‘Well, the belt was a lot more painful. I don’t know why really.’ I raised my chin. ‘But it doesn’t hurt that much.’

He raised an eyebrow and I realized that I’d just unwittingly given him a challenge that would come back to haunt me.

‘To be honest, I did hit you hard, because I knew you could take it, that you love it in fact. But I was only giving you about 75 per cent of what I could – because we were so near the wall I couldn’t get as much swing as I wanted.’

My arse clenched at the thought of being beaten any harder with the belt, now an innocent fashion object round his waist once more. I suddenly couldn’t drag my eyes from it.

‘Of course I don’t know if you’d be able to take much more. Your arse was looking pretty battered by the time I’d finished. And you could hardly stand to lean over the arm of the sofa, your legs were shaking so much. I’d have been worried except for the fact your juice was running
down your thighs so I could tell exactly how much you were enjoying it. Dirty girl.’

I was lost for words. I think I may have managed a ‘guh’, but that’s about it. As I looked round the restaurant – ladies who lunch with a gaggle of small children a table away, a couple of teenagers making a smoothie last while rummaging through a bag of purchases – I tried to regain some semblance of control and ignore the warmth pooling between my legs. It was working too, sort of, until –

‘The thing I love with the belt is how it flicks round the side of your arse with each lash. I’m sure it’s painful on impact but it’s the last flick round the curve that seems especially harsh. The marks it leaves are great though. And I love how you shudder when I run my fingernails over them. I could wank just looking at your punished arse. Although that could leave you ultimately pretty frustrated.’ He smiled in a way that showed he really didn’t care. I aimed once more for the bantering coherent-ish conversation we’d been having a few short minutes ago.

‘It’d be OK, I’m sure I could sort myself out if the need arose.’

Another wolfish smile. ‘Ah, now there’s an excuse to tie you down. Not that I really need one.’

My breath was getting ragged and I was definitely wet. I crossed my arms on the table in front of my breasts so no one could see my nipples, which were, inevitably, tight in my top.

I laughed quietly, with a faint air of desperation I couldn’t disguise. ‘We should stop talking about this now.’