The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (32 page)

We were silent for a little while, before my brain finally kicked in enough to ask why it hadn’t been a problem before.

Running a hand through his hair he told me he’d never dominated anyone in person as violently as he had me. That he respected me more than anyone he’d played with previously in the sense that I was more capable, more equal to him, and while on an academic level dominating me turned him on, hence him talking a good game via email, in person he increasingly found it difficult whether I was glowering up at him or had my eyes filled with tears. And then he apologized some more. Lots more. To the point where I did just give him a big hug and we drank our coffee. I was still furious, not least because he seemed incapable of understanding that his behaviour over the last few weeks had hurt me more than anything he could have done with the crop, a wooden spoon, or anything else he threw my way, and because, thanks to his behaviour, things had changed between us in a way that I wasn’t sure could ever be repaired, but at least now I knew. I could begin to understand.

He’d been staring into his cup for a little while before I finally got my thoughts in order enough to speak. I wasn’t even sure whether my words would or should make a difference, but felt more than ever that the final piece of the puzzle had dropped into place, and that maybe James
needed to hear what I had to say, even if it was difficult for me to say it. Suddenly I was the one swallowing back nerves, feeling tentative. It felt crazy, to have never really said these basic things in person, but to have felt the things I’d – we’d? – felt. I’d honestly never felt more vulnerable – not when I was crying, powerless, being pushed to my limits. Finally I spoke, my voice soft and, ridiculously, shy.

‘When you hurt me I like it. I crave it even. I don’t know whether you can tell that when I’m glaring at you, when my eyes are filled with tears, when I’m blushing, even when I can’t quite hide my expression of fear at the thought of whatever fiendish thing you’re going to do next. Being so completely on the back foot, being demeaned, being hurt, diminished, does it for me. Feeling your hands at my wrists, at my throat, or in my hair, feeling you overpower me, master me, makes my breath quicken. It makes me wet. I lie in bed at night thinking about it sometimes.’

I took a big gulp of coffee – this was way harder than begging for orgasm and, somehow, felt like one of the most important conversations of my life, no matter what happened. I continued, peeking over my cup to see his reaction.

‘Yes, you hurt me. But you do it with my permission. I beg you to do it, literally sometimes. Hurting me isn’t a bad thing in this context. The fact that you’re you – kind, intelligent, polite, lovely James – is what makes me feel confident and safe enough for you to do that. I wouldn’t give any old person that power over me. I give it to you. In fact, I’ve never given any other person the level of power
over me that I’ve given you, not even Thomas. And I give you this power because of the vanilla you. If you were as merciless and harsh all the time as you are when you’re choking me then I wouldn’t want to play with you.

‘Don’t get me wrong, when you’re doing that, when you’re cocking an eyebrow at me, when you’re making me whimper, it’s hot enough to make my breath catch just thinking about it. But I like the paradox. I like both sides of you. I like the fact I can trust you to hurt me, to take pleasure in having the power to make me cry, and yet still be thoughtful and lovely enough afterwards to give me a hug, make sure that I’m physically and mentally OK, get me a glass of wine or some juice. That is a good thing. These two sides of you aren’t contrary to each other. They fit together perfectly, and both show a considerateness and awareness of other people’s needs. Hurting someone who wants to be hurt is not only not a bad thing, it’s practically a cathartic kindness.’

He was sitting completely still. I put my hand on his arm, trying to make him understand, fearing that actually my words weren’t going to be enough, which all things considered is pretty bloody ironic.

‘As I said, I’m hoping you know this already. And don’t worry, I’m not telling you this because I’m trying to wangle my way into a relationship with you.’ I suddenly realized I was sounding aloof by accident and tried to clarify. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be interested in trying one – it’s not every day I get to meet someone like you. I have so much fun and enjoy being with you, in and out of bed. But I don’t know that you’re
in the right place for a relationship now even if you were interested in pursuing one with me specifically – and I’m not assuming that either. But if nothing else happens between us except us exchanging moans via email and meeting for an occasional beer, I think you need to hear this anyway.’

I put my cup down. ‘Yes, you’re sadistic. And maybe you need to get your head round that, to figure out whether you’re happy being that person. But for me, I’m happy with you being both the man my mum would want me to bring home and the one she’d warn me about, all in one complex, fascinating package. And I’m happy being me – needing to be hurt, craving it, loving being challenged and being pushed and sometimes pushing back.’

We sat in silence for a little while. When it became apparent he wasn’t ready to speak again I decided it was time to brave the traffic home. I picked my handbag from the floor and my coat from the back of the chair. ‘If you figure out that you’re happy with who you are in the same way I am, then give me a call.’

And then I left. Because suddenly it all made sense, even in the context of the fucked-up, messy emotions of whatever was happening with James and me. If he was my soulmate, the person I was to end up with, my dom, my partner, then it would happen as a result of this conversation. And if he didn’t, well, I’d been honest with him, and I knew what I was looking for now.

And I knew it was worth waiting for.

It’s been one of those weeks.

One of those weeks where I haven’t been able to switch off, where the trials and tribulations of day-to-day life have been so overarching that sex has been the last thing on my mind and just getting through without my brain imploding has felt like a real stretch. I’ve been juggling long, busy and stressful work days with evenings spent writing to finish this book in time for my deadline. I’ve been thinking more about my nature – submissive and otherwise – than I ever have before and trying to put it into words that are both sexy and truthful, even when sometimes the self-awareness that comes out of that brings me up short. Ironically, all this has meant my orgasms have been grabbed purely to bring on the blessed relief of sleep.

So when I came into the room and saw him sitting at my PC, reading through a chapter I’d cast aside a few days before, I didn’t see it as a prelude to an afternoon of shagging.

But as every sub knows, often it’s not down to you to decide.

Getting into the sub mindset comes easier sometimes than others. And right now, with my head filled with the myriad of shit that’s been going on for the last week or so, I’m light years away from my obedient submissive
best – and let’s face it, I have a problem with the obedient part at the best of times. If only he didn’t look so damn sexy. It definitely makes what is going to happen next pretty much a forgone conclusion.

‘You’re nearly done with the book, then.’

I nod. ‘Just a few bits left to tidy, here and there. I’m getting there.’

He smiles. ‘It’s an interesting read.’

I blush. ‘Thanks. Surely it’s a bit weird reading all these things that aren’t you?’

He grins and waggles his eyebrows before taking pity on my slightly worried frown. He beckons me over and as I lean in he kisses me, softly on the forehead and then, harder, on the mouth. ‘Not at all. I’d say it was research, but where you’re concerned I don’t really need to read the manual.’

His smugness makes me laugh. He makes me laugh. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. But then, as I stand looking at him, something in his eyes changes. Lust flares, and a little bit of menace. His voice takes on the timbre which makes the butterflies start. ‘Get down on your knees.’

I don’t move immediately. It’s been a long week, and while this is fun and everything I’m not in the right headspace. Irony of ironies, I know, but I’m really not. Of course, kneeling in front of him while he’s sitting in the chair means I would have a really great view. Sod it, I think to myself and sink to the floor.

The thing is, I’m still crap at hiding anything. And being half-arsed about this stuff is just opening yourself up to trouble.

‘You rolled your eyes then.’

‘No I didn’t.’ Shit. Why the hell am I arguing? That was a mistake too. Shut up. Bugger it.

‘Yes, you did. And just then, that sounded like you answering back.’

I swear to god I am actually chewing on the words to argue that I wasn’t answering back. I just about manage to keep them in but it’s touch and go. And I’m fairly sure he can tell, although he looks more amused than pissed off. But then he’s back to business.

‘Take your clothes off, except for your knickers, and get back down on your knees.’

My movements are economical. This is no striptease: I’m conscious I’m in quite enough trouble already so I obey quickly, keeping my gaze down as I drop to the floor so no real or imagined eye-rolling can get me into any more hot water.

His groin is just a few inches from my face. My hands clench at my sides with the effort of not moving, of not touching him.

‘Pinch your nipples for me. Hard. Show me your breasts. Come on.’

I start to pull and squeeze my nipples, lifting the weight of my breasts up. Being naked, on display in front of him, when he’s fully dressed and looking like he’s ready for a trip out for dinner, is the kind of little humiliation he revels in and something, even now, I find difficult to deal with. I close my eyes at the embarrassment of it, can feel myself blushing a little, even as my knickers start feeling damp between my legs.

His hands slap mine away and he grabs and twists my nipples. My eyes open in shock and I can’t stop a yelp at the pain, as he pulls my breasts high, making me kneel higher to try and ease some of the tension.

‘Your pinching is pathetic. This is what I mean.’ He twists viciously to punctuate his point and I breathe deeply to try and process the wave of pain. ‘Now do it properly. And keep your eyes down.’

Now, I don’t know if this is something anyone else with submissive tendencies finds, but I am fine withstanding pain dished out by someone else – I’d even go so far as to say when I’m in the zone I have a fairly good tolerance for pain. But asking me to inflict it on myself? Somehow it’s harder to withstand. I can’t wax my own legs because the thought of the pain leaves me incapable of ripping the wax strips off. He’s mightily pissed off now and so I twist my already red and sore nipples harder, eyes on the floor.

I honestly don’t know how long we stay there. The room is still but for the movement of his hand as he strokes himself just outside of my peripheral vision. I am desperate to see him, but stare resolutely at a knot on the hardwood floor between his feet.

‘It’s a great view. I don’t know where to come though. It seems a shame to come in your hair when you’ve just washed it. Maybe I should come across your breasts. What do you think?’

I sneak a peek to see whether I’m supposed to reply, see him looking at me and am back staring at his toes before he finishes barking the command for me to look down. My voice is hesitant as I try to work out how to say
I want him to come in my mouth. I love having him in my mouth. But with my equilibrium off I feel uncertain of the best way to say it and it ends up sounding like a question, which amuses him if nothing else.

Kneeling here in front of him, staring at his feet, my mindset is shifting a gear. The weight of the week is easing, and all I’m aware of for now is how frustrated this gorgeous guy is making me and how desperate I am to please him so that (and I know this isn’t the point but forgive me for being self-indulgent) he’ll please me. The idea of him touching me, letting me touch him, is something I want so much that in this instant everything else is fading away.

‘Stand up.’

I’ve been kneeling before him long enough that it takes me a couple of seconds to get my balance. He manoeuvres my shoulder so I’m facing the way he wants me to and then his fingers are sliding along my slit, pushing the slick cotton inside me and chuckling at how wet I am. I battle to stand still, looking straight ahead, as he runs his teasing fingers around me. He stops to draw a line down my spine, which makes me shiver, before pulling my knickers down. Thank fuck. I step out of them as they pool around my feet, and as I do so he grabs my hair, which is gathered in a ponytail at the nape of my neck, and pulls on it hard, yanking me to the floor in ungainly fashion. As I scramble to my knees he pulls me back against his hip bone, holding me in place.

‘You’re still doing things I’ve not asked you to do. I don’t want you to show initiative. Right now, I don’t want
you to do anything but what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. When I ask you a question you are to answer it promptly and politely. You’re a clever girl, these are simple things. Do you understand?’

I glare at his patronizing turn of phrase. My throat is dry. ‘Yes. Sorry.’

The silence lengthens. I am held in place by my hair, leaning against him while he stands over me like some kind of conquering hero.

‘Right. What do you think has to happen now?’

I know. God I know. But I don’t want to be too specific in how I answer this in case I put ideas into his head. Is he wearing his belt today? Does he remember where I keep my toys?

He tugs on my hair. ‘Well?’

‘You’re going to punish me.’

‘Indeed.’

Once again I’m moving, manoeuvred into position against the arm of the sofa. He kicks my legs open, so he can see between them, and then turns his attention to my arse, running his fingers along the sensitive curve of it, making me shiver while I wait for the first blow.

Being on the receiving end of the cane and the belt at his hand have both reduced me to tears before. But when he wants to make an impression even a spanking can be painful. And as the sound of the first blow reverberates round the room and I suck air in through my teeth to help me ride the wave, I realize this is going to be quite painful, not some kind of play-acting spank session.