The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (12 page)

Over the months Tom and I kept playing. He kept pushing my boundaries, introducing me to new things. But then, as we got closer to the end of the year things slowed down a little.

Working in newspapers means Christmas and New Year is a busy and hideous time. While the paper’s pagination gets smaller so the amount of news we have to write gets less, no one wants to work longer than necessary, and with schools closed, your local MP more often than not nowhere to be seen and businesses away for a break, it gets harder to actually find stories. Combined with the fact that early deadlines and all those bank holidays mean you’re effectively writing two papers at once, filling them with the least lame features you can come up with and the much-loathed ‘Review of the Year’ when all you want to do is finish early and go to the pub, all in all it makes for a pretty stressful and annoying time.

By the time I’ve finished up at work and headed home for Noël en famille I’m usually ready for a rest, which is a bummer really, as a few days in close confinement with my nearest and dearest is many, many things, but restful is not one of them. After a lot of food, some great presents and a lot of trips round the various parts of my family, I was ready for a holiday from my holiday. And that was
when Tom invited me to come and stay at his place for a while in the lull between Christmas and New Year.

Honestly, the idea of spending five days lounging around his house fussing his dog, reading, watching his big screen TV while he was at work (oh yes, he was even more unfestive than me), catching up on some reading and eating Quality Street – plus some inevitably stress-relieving sex – sounded brilliant to me, and I was in the car as fast as I could explain a hastily made-up work emergency, pack my stuff and kiss the family goodbye. I know, I’m a bad daughter.

When I arrived we hugged hello – we didn’t tend to kiss, it felt wrong and too relationshipy somehow, which makes us both sound worryingly like prostitutes although it made sense to us – but as soon as I curled into him, relaxing into his familiar scent, he pulled away. Without speaking he pushed me to the floor, kicking the front door shut as he moved, undoing his fly.

His hands in my hair pulled me into position, I opened my mouth, and suddenly the thought of nativity play write-ups, Christmas party organization and anything other than the taste of him were far from my mind.

He moved to lean against the front door, and I crawled with him, unwilling and (technically, since his hands were in my hair dragging me along) unable to let him out of my mouth. As I sucked my way up and down his length, enjoying his reactions, he came hard, coating the back of my throat in a way that made me think he was looking forward to burning off some festive-season steam too. All too soon his breathing slowed and he pulled out of my mouth.

‘That was great.’

I smiled at him as he zipped himself away and helped me up, pleased and aroused at how we – apparently – weren’t wasting any time getting started on the amazing sex portion of the break.

He slapped my arse. ‘Come on, let’s go get some lunch.’

Oh. OK.

I was wet and my nipples were visible through my top, but I could see the glint of humour in his eyes and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much I wanted to come. I could wait. I’m fairly patient. OK, who am I kidding, I’m not. But what’s a couple of hours between friends?

The rest of the day passed pleasantly. We went into town and looked at the sales, and I bought books and a handbag which I loved so much I could barely restrain my glee. We had lunch, went to the cinema, walked the dog, crunching along in the frost. Generally it was wonderful, restful and everything that that time between Christmas and New Year should be – all with the additional sexual tension resulting from my awareness of the possibilities of what would happen when we got back to his house.

And then we did get back to his house. Drank tea. Watched telly. Cooked some supper. By the time we headed up to bed my patience had pretty much faltered. As we snuggled into bed he kissed me on the forehead. And then went to sleep.

Brilliant.

After the ‘waking him wanking’ debacle of a few weeks before there was no way I was going to risk that, so I lay
quietly in bed, watching a chink of street light reflecting on the wall and listening to his soft, rested breathing, restraining the urge to smother him with a pillow. Finally I dropped off to sleep. My final thought was,
tomorrow morning
.

I woke up to feel Tom’s erection pressing against my elbow. Hoo-blimmin-rah. Being the antithesis of a morning person, there are very few things that will cause me to smile early in the day but this was definitely one of them. I rubbed him tentatively, trying to ascertain how awake he was.

‘Good morning. Is there something in particular I can help you with?’ His voice was wry although a good indication he was actually awake, which was pleasing all things considered.

‘Good morning. There might be something I’m in the market for.’

His chuckle vibrated his chest under my cheek. ‘I can tell. I get the feeling you’re a bit horny this morning.’

There really wasn’t any way to deny this, so I didn’t.

‘Why don’t you put your lips round me then?’

I didn’t need asking twice, and turned round to lean over, licking his tempting tip before beginning to suck him properly.

He lay back, doing very little but moaning gently when my tongue touched a spot which felt especially good. I enjoyed having control of the pace and took the opportunity to tease a little. As he began to buck in my mouth I pulled back and licked and sucked his balls for a while,
something he loves but which wasn’t going to be enough to make him come just yet. I half expected him to complain, but – for once – he seemed happy to let me play, although he began stroking the curve of my arse, before running his fingers along the edge of my knickers. I felt myself get wetter, desperate for him to move his hand just the tiniest way, to slip in under the fabric and begin to finger me. It seemed he was good at teasing too.

Little did I realize how good.

As he began stroking me through my knickers I moaned round his cock, a wordless plea for him to stop playing with me. He ignored me, though, tracing my slit up and down the outside of my knickers until I was, admittedly rather unsubtly, pushing myself down on his hand to try and get him to give me the friction I needed.

In the end, I broke away from him for a second.

‘Please, can you just touch me? Properly?’

He laughed, and kept on with his torturous almost-stroking. ‘You are desperate this morning, aren’t you, poor slut?’

I managed to withhold any response to his use of the ‘s’ word, I was so desperate to come, although I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice. ‘Well you did get to come yesterday. I didn’t, remember?’

He laughed again, the kind of laugh that makes my stomach dance. ‘You’re quite right. And you will get to come eventually, when I’m ready for you to. In the meantime I suggest you go back to doing what you were doing.’

I harrumphed quietly to myself and obeyed. If he wanted a blow job I was going to give him the best damn
blow job he’d ever had and then he was going to make me come.

I sucked him to the best of my ability. I used every trick I knew about his body, did all the things I know he loves, from gently stroking his balls and then kissing them to licking the length of his cock and then breathing on the wetness to make him tingle. I worshipped him. His cock was the focus of my world, and I was going to make him come and it was going to be great and then I was going to get my orgasm. Because, well, while it’s not all about me, a woman has needs.

Suddenly his hand was pinching at my hip as he came. I let him rest for a moment in my mouth before licking him gently clean. And then he started to move. To get up.

I couldn’t actually form words but there was a kind of grumbling noise in the back of my throat that I couldn’t stop.

‘What? I’m going to make us some coffee.’

‘But you said –’

‘I know, I said you’d eventually get to come. And you will. But not this morning.’

Don’t get angry Soph. It’ll just last longer if you make a fuss
. Then I had a thought.

‘Can’t I just –?’

‘No. You can’t. I’ll tell you when. For now you wait.’ He tweaked my nipple. ‘Now get up. Come on. If you’re lucky I’ll make breakfast.’

I got up. Grumpy.

Now the first thing to bear in mind is yes, I could have had a wank myself. But, well, what’s the point of that? He obviously had something he was plotting and, well, as I’ve said before, only submitting for the bits you actively
want
to do is pointless really. I wanted to prove I could wait, and was curious as to what he had in mind for later when he would let me come. And I was stubborn. I know, I hide it well.

And so, after a breakfast that normally would have left me completely satisfied, the day unfolded. We pottered around. I did some writing and played some online poker, we walked the dog, I cooked a massive roast, we watched some DVDs, argued about the news. And through it all I didn’t think at all about the fact I wanted to orgasm. OK, that might be a slight lie. Mainly I thought about not showing how much I wanted an orgasm and, for the most part, I think I managed it, except perhaps for the odd moments when Tom brushed my arse or the side of my breast accidentally. Actually, I wasn’t sure it was accidentally, but I didn’t want to draw his attention to it in case it was and I sounded like I was hyper-sensitive about it. My nipples were aching most of the day. But I absolutely was not going to show it. No way. Ha. That’d teach him.

I was fast realizing I wasn’t the orgasm-denial type. Now, this wasn’t a decision I had come to lightly. If the first night had been difficult, and the morning after set me up for a day of distraction, then that night – a lengthy blow job with me knelt on the floor between his legs while he watched the news and played with my hair like I was
his pet, followed by him coming across my naked breasts, leaving me to go to sleep unfulfilled again – made me sure.

Don’t get me wrong, I am definitely not averse to some anticipation. But two days of abstinence – made worse by the fact Tom was still taking his pleasure in lots of different tempting ways – was making me seriously grumpy.

I lay in bed waiting for sleep to claim me, which – let me assure you – is actually quite difficult when, barring the odd night in a room share, I have tended to fall asleep following an orgasm either at my own hand or someone else’s every night of my adult life. I was a little sticky and so frustrated I was trembling, and pondering physical violence against Tom, who had tucked himself up happily and was laid on his side smiling widely at me.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, knowing full well I wasn’t.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. Usually when I say I am fine it means I am about as unfine as it is possible for me to be without me either bursting into tears or going postal with a cricket bat.

‘So this whole orgasm denial thing isn’t bothering you at all?’ He knows it’s bothering me. But he also knows I will chew through my tongue before I admit that.

‘Nah.’ I am a crap liar, and I’m hoping keeping my responses short will at least make it less obvious I am lying.

‘Oh good. Because I thought it would be fun to explore this a bit while you’re staying. I’ve decided, you can’t come until the new year.’

As he turned over and went to sleep I felt my jaw drop
open like a cartoon character. When I worked out how many days that was – four more days of torture and unreciprocated play, assuming he let me come on New Year’s Day – I wanted to despair.

‘If it’s not bothering you so far then I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

He had his back to me but I could imagine his smile anyway and it made me want to push him on to the floor. I didn’t though. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t trust myself. And as I – finally – fell asleep my last thought was,
He’s joking. He’s got to be joking
.

He wasn’t joking. By the time I had spent two days trying not to think about not orgasming I was pretty much climbing the walls. I had never really understood how fundamentally important I held being able to come whenever I wanted to and, alas, to paraphrase the song, I really didn’t know what I’d got till it was gone. Every casual touch felt torturous. Tom brushing my elbow with his arm as he walked past me made me wet. Showering was a kind of torment with the pressure of the individual droplets of water feeling both amazing and yet, well, frankly not quite amazing enough, thus ultimately just adding to the frustration.

Over the next days Tom came up with ever more exotic ways to orgasm. The amusement he derived from me giving him blow jobs while trembling in frustration seemed to pall a little after the first half a dozen times, so he moved on to different, more fiendish, plans. I was lying on my back on the bed, gagged with knickers wet because I’d
been wearing them all day, glaring up at the sexy yet irritating view of him wanking in my face when I realized: I am not a naturally abstemious type. While I wouldn’t call it a hard limit – mainly because I wouldn’t give Tom the satisfaction – orgasm denial was not something that I was going to be encouraging as an ongoing part of our sexual repertoire. As he came across my face and in my hair, stroking my cheek in a gesture that would have felt tender at any other time but actually made me clamp my teeth down on the damp fabric in my mouth to try and restrain my inner fury, I made a decision that one way or another I was not waiting much longer to come.

I was also realizing that the thing about Thomas that made him simultaneously fun and irritating to play with was that he knew me so well, sometimes even better than I knew myself. He knew how far to push – usually just further than I would have been comfortable going – and he watched intently as I did every sexy, demeaning thing he demanded I do, to see the feelings playing across my face as I battled with whether to submit or not, secure in the knowledge that eventually I would. He could also read me better than most people I know. In part because I’m fairly forthright, although the fact I’m a terrible liar and find it difficult to hide my feelings at the best of times probably helped. So I should have known really that he was pushing me, raising the stakes. If I’d thought about it logically it made perfect sense. However, after four days without orgasm I was so distracted I had regressed to a sometimes-weepy, sometimes-furious bundle of nerve
endings. Stringing a sentence together was difficult, something particularly embarrassing for someone whose job relied on just that. I was blunt to the point of rudeness, grumpy, and probably rotten to be around, but for all that Thomas kept smiling – and was blatantly enjoying having such power to mess with my equilibrium, which just made me more cross again.