The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story
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Authors: Sophie Morgan
The Diary of a Submissive
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Sophie Morgan is a journalist working in South East England. She lives with her boyfriend.
You might have slipped outside to take a call on your phone when you first saw us, or, if you’re so inclined, have been finishing a crafty cigarette before heading back into the warmth of the bar. Either way, we draw your attention, standing in a gap between the buildings, across the street and along a little way from where you’re standing.
Don’t get me wrong, that’s not to say I’m especially stunning, or that he is. We look like any other couple on a night out, neither unusually dressed nor especially loud, not even remarkable in our unremarkableness. But there’s an intensity, something brewing between us that stops you short, making you look in spite of the fact it’s bloody cold and you were actually getting ready to go back inside and rejoin your friends.
His hand is clenched around my upper arm in a grip so visibly tight even from this distance that you wonder fleetingly if it’s going to bruise. He has pushed me up against the wall, his other hand tangled in my hair and holding me in place, so when I try and look away – for help? – I can’t.
He isn’t particularly big or broad, in fact you’d probably describe him as nondescript if you were to bother describing him at all. But there’s something about him, something about us, that makes you wonder for a minute if everything
is all right. I can’t take my eyes off him and the obvious depth of my awe means for a second you can’t either. You stare at him intently, trying to see what I see. And then he tugs on my hair, pulling my head closer to his in a sharp movement that makes you instinctively step a bit closer to intervene, before those stories in the papers about good Samaritans meeting sticky ends flood your brain and pull you up short.
Closer now, you can hear him talking to me. Not the full sentences – you aren’t that close – but enough words for you to get a sense. For these are evocative words. Vicious words. Ugly words that make you think perhaps you really might have to step in at any moment if this escalates further.
Slut. Whore.
You look at my face, so close to his, and see fury glittering in my eyes. You don’t see me speak, because I don’t. I’m biting my lip, as if I’m restraining the urge to respond, but I remain silent. His hand tangles tighter in my hair, and I wince but otherwise I stand there, not passive exactly – you can feel the effort it is taking for me not to move as if it were a tangible thing – but certainly self-controlled, weathering the verbal onslaught.
Then a pause. He is waiting for a response. You move closer. If someone asked you’d say it was to check I was all right, but in your heart you know that actually it’s curiosity, pure and simple. There is something feral, primal, about the dynamic between us that draws you closer even as it almost repulses you. Almost. You want to know how I am going to respond, what happens next.
There is something dark and yet compelling about it that means while normally you’d be horrified, instead you’re intrigued.
You watch me gulp. I run a tongue along my bottom lip to moisten it before trying to speak. I start a sentence, tail off, eyes flickering down to break from his gaze as I whisper my response.
You can’t hear me. But you can hear him. ‘Louder.’
I’m blushing now. There are tears in my eyes, but you can’t tell if they are of anguish or of fury.
My voice is clearer, even loud on the night air. My tone is defiant yet the flush on my cheeks and running along the collarbone visible under my open jacket betrays an embarrassment I can’t hide.
‘I am a slut. I have been wet all evening thinking about you fucking me and I would be very grateful if we could go home now and do that. Please.’
My defiance cracks by the last word, which comes out as a soft plea.
He runs a finger idly along the edge of my shirt – low cut enough that there is a hint of cleavage, but not exactly slutty – and I shiver. He starts to speak and the tone of his voice makes you restrain the urge to shiver too.
‘That almost sounded like begging. Are you begging?’
You see me start to nod, but I get pulled up short by his hand in my hair. Instead I swallow quickly, shut my eyes for a second and answer.
‘Yes.’ A pause, turning into lengthening silence. A breath which might almost be a quiet sigh. ‘Sir.’
His finger is still running along the curve of my breasts as he speaks.
‘You look like you’d do pretty much anything right now to be able to come. Would you? Do anything?’
I stay silent. My expression is wary, which surprises you bearing in mind the obvious desperation in my voice. You wonder what ‘anything’ has encompassed in the past, what it’s going to mean now.
‘Will you get down on your knees and suck my cock? Right here?’
Neither of us speaks for long moments. He removes his hands from my hair, steps away a little. Waiting. The noise of a car door slamming a distance away makes me flinch, and I shift to glance nervously up and down the street. I see you. For a second we make eye contact, my gaze widening with shock and shame before I look back at him. He is smiling. Utterly still.
I make a sound in the back of my throat, half whimper, half plea, and swallow hard, gesturing around vaguely. ‘Now? Wouldn’t you rather we –’
His fingers press against my still-moving lips. He is smiling, almost indulgently. But his voice is firm. Imperious even.
‘Now.’
I cast the quickest glance possible your way. You don’t know it, but in my head I’m playing a very adult version of a childish game – if I don’t look at you directly you’re not actually there to witness my humiliation, can’t see it because I can’t see you.
I gesture nervously in your general direction. ‘But it’s still quite early, there are people walking –’
‘Now.’
You are transfixed watching the battling emotions flit across my face. Embarrassment. Desperation. Anger. Resignation. Several times I open my mouth to speak, think better of it and remain silent. Through it all he just stands there. Watching me intently. As intently as you are.
Finally, face crimson, I bend at the knees and drop down to the wet cobblestones in front of him. My head is bowed. My hair falls in front of my face and makes it hard to tell, but you think you can see tears glistening on my cheeks in the light of the street lamp.
For a few seconds I just kneel there, unmoving. Then you watch me take a deep, steadying breath. I square my shoulders, look up and reach for him. But as my shaking hands make contact with his belt buckle, he stops me, patting me softly on the head the way you would a loyal pet.
‘Good girl. I know how difficult that was. Now get up and let’s go home and finish there. It’s a bit cold for playing outside tonight.’
His grip is solicitous as he helps me to my feet. We walk past you, arm in arm. He smiles. Nods. You half nod back before you catch yourself and wonder what on earth you’re doing. I am looking studiously at the ground, my head down.
You can see I am shaking. But what you can’t see is how aroused this whole experience has made me. How hard
my nipples are in the confines of my bra. How my trembling is as much from the adrenaline high of everything that has just played out in front of you as it is from the cold and humiliation. How I thrive on this. How it completes me in a way I can’t fully explain. How I hate it yet love it. Yearn for it. Crave it.
You can’t see any of that. All you can see is a trembling woman with dirty knees, walking away on wobbly legs.
This is my story.
The first thing to say is that I am not a pervert. Well, no more than anyone else. If you came to my flat you would be more struck by the piles of washing up in the sink than my dungeon – not least because the cost of living in the city is such that I’m lucky to have been able to find somewhere with a living room which I could rent alone within my budget. Let’s just say a dungeon wasn’t really an option.
So, to address some of those pesky stereotypes, I am neither a doormat nor a simpleton. I don’t yearn to spend my day baking while someone hunts and gathers for me and I keep the home fires burning, which is just as well as apart from a decent Sunday roast I’m a bit of a crap cook. I also don’t look like Maggie Gyllenhaal in
Secretary
. Alas.
I just happen to be, at points when the urge takes me and I have someone I trust to play with, a submissive. Not that you’d know that if you met me. It’s just one facet of my personality, one of the plethora of character elements that make me, well, me – coexisting with my love of strawberries, compulsion to continue arguing stubbornly even when I know I’m wrong and tendency to heap scorn on 99 per cent of television programmes and yet become obsessive about the other 1 per cent to a level that frightens even me.
I work as a journalist on a regional newspaper. I love my job, and – not that it should really need to be said – being submissive doesn’t impact on my work. Frankly, if it did I’d get lumbered with tea making and picture stories about infant-school book weeks, which really is a fate worse than death. Also, newsrooms are bantery places. It’s a dog-eat-dog world and you need to give as good as you get. I do.
I consider myself a feminist. I’m certainly independent. Capable. In control. To some that might seem incongruous with the choices I make sexually, the things that get me off. For a while it seemed jarring to me. In fact, sometimes it still does, but I’ve come to the conclusion that there are more important things to worry about. I’m a grown woman of usually sound mind. If I want to relinquish my personal control to someone I trust so that they can lead us somewhere which proves thrilling and hot for both of us, then as long as I’m not doing it somewhere where I’m frightening small children or animals I think that’s my right. I take responsibility for my actions and choices.
It has taken a while for me to get to this stage though. I would, if the word hadn’t been appropriated by reality television and turned into something that sounds both nausea-inducing and in need of a soft-rock video montage, go so far as to say it’s been a bit of a journey, which is really how this book came about. This isn’t a manifesto or a ‘how-to’ book, although I like to think if you’re into this kind of thing and wanting to explore you might get some ideas. It’s just what happened to me, how I discovered and explored this side of myself, my experiences, my thoughts.
Ask another sub their thoughts and what being submissive means to them and you’ll get a whole other book.
Looking back on it now my submissive tendencies started young, although I wouldn’t have called them that then. I just knew there were certain things that made me tingle, that I would find myself thinking about wistfully without ever really being able to put my finger on why.
