The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (4 page)

‘Please, let me just be inside you.’

I nodded quickly and moved on to my back as he grabbed a condom. It seemed rude to quibble when my own orgasm was still dissipating after all. He pushed inside me and that first moment of connection made me clench. He moaned and buried his face in my shoulder. I moved my hips, pushing him deeper, but before he
began to move he undid my top and pulled my breasts out of my bra with a groan.

His eyes were hungry as he stared at my hard nipples, but he couldn’t restrain a comment: ‘No matching spotty bra? I’m disappointed.’

I stuck my tongue out at him and began moving more insistently underneath him, inadvertently making my breasts bounce more. He leaned down and cupped them in his hands, stroking them and kissing them, taking each nipple into his mouth in turn as he began to – finally – move himself.

Our breathing grew ragged as we fucked. Everything else was unimportant but our movements, our connection to each other and our pleasure. Watching Ryan’s face lose its seriousness, to see him completely with his defences down was incredibly hot, and watching him come made me so close that my fingers sliding between us to touch my clit for just a second pushed me over the edge too.

The next morning the only blot on the horizon was knowing that our relationship, even in these early stages, had a time limit. I was disappointed, upset even, but having spent the entire evening lying naked in his room, watching TV and drinking with pauses to kiss, grope and then fuck, I was absolutely adamant I was going to make the most of every moment he was here. Making hay while the sun shines.

We began dating casually, although with his return to the States always hanging over us we had no plans for it to be a serious thing. He was a considerate lover, infinitely patient both when giving and
receiving pleasure. He patiently let me explore him and I grew confident as I licked and sucked his cock, stroking him for as long as I wanted, learning how to please him, what I enjoyed doing. However, I would never in a million years have picked him out as being into anything remotely kinky, which made what happened next my first lesson on not making assumptions about people.

My first taste of kink, like many people’s I suppose, came from a good, sound spanking.

I like to think I have a fairly good imagination. I certainly have, and I say this not so much with pride but as a statement of fact, a very dirty mind which means I’m more than happy to come up with alternate uses for innocent-looking objects. That, paired with my financial priorities at university – books and beer, not necessarily in that order – meant a lot of my favourite sex toys were repurposed household items.

So I liked to think that surrounded by my own stuff, in my own room, there was nothing which could be picked up and used for nefarious purposes against me that I hadn’t already thought of and quite possibly played with, thank you very much. Which was why the hairbrush was such a big surprise.

I have very thick hair and a lot of it. Not in a werewoman way – at least not when I ensure my daily routine keeps all the key parts shaved bare – but in a way that means first thing in the morning, when I’m warm and sleep-flushed, my sartorial style often owes a little something to the wild woman of Borneo.

As it often does after a good fucking.

At that point though, we hadn’t even got that far. We’d been kissing for what felt like hours, the kisses of two people wanting to tease out the tension a little longer, each kiss and movement of the mouth a prelude to and a promise of something more. Finally, we surfaced in an unspoken agreement to move on, my face raw from his stubble and nipples visible through my top, he with an obvious bulge in his trousers. As we broke apart he untangled his hands from my hair, with some difficulty.

As I tried to finger comb it into some semblance of order he pulled my hand away and kissed each digit, his dimple flashing as he gave me a smile which was on the very edge of wolfish. ‘Forget it. We’re just going to muss it up again anyway. And it’s OK. I like to see you mussed.’

I stuck my tongue out at him as I began unbuttoning my shirt. ‘I can’t help my hair. And anyway, yours is looking pretty unkempt at the moment, too.’ I gestured vaguely over my shoulder, gently mocking. ‘There’s a brush over there you can use if you need to.’

Ryan’s hair was as dark and at least as unruly as mine – even before I had anchored my fingers in it while we kissed. It was significantly shorter, but the front continually fell in front of his eyes, causing him to do an unconscious ruffling thing to pull it away from his head when he was saying something important. I found it, and him, adorable.

I turned away and pulled down my trousers, bending down to pick them up from the floor where they were pooled around my feet. That was when he hit me.

It was the sound that did it I think. That and the fact
that I wasn’t expecting it. When someone smacks you so hard on the arse that the room echoes with the noise of it and it’s totally unexpected, it hurts. Even if in the back of your mind you’re thinking, ‘that was only one bloody slap for goodness’ sake’, you can’t quite resist the urge to rub your arse. Or I couldn’t, at least.

I turned round, my fingers still on my stinging arse, to see his eyes wide and innocent, his smile wider, as he waved the paddle brush in front of me. ‘You said I could use it.’

Ah. The age-old caveat of being careful how you phrase things. Feeling like I was standing on the edge of something amazing that I had been waiting for years to experience, I smiled back at him, screwing up my courage, giving him the permission he was hinting for. ‘You’re right. I did.’

Serious hair needs a serious hairbrush and that is what it was. As he pulled my knickers down, pulled me across his lap and started smacking me with it, the noise ricocheted across the room, leaving me worried about what on earth my flatmate would think from next door, at least until he’d been going for a few seconds, after which point I really didn’t give a toss.

I had often wondered what a good hard spanking would feel like. But in a million years I would never have expected it to feel like this.

It hurt, obviously. A lot more than I was expecting – you can tell I’m of the generation that didn’t get corporal punishment in school. The air whooshed from my lungs with each impact for the first few hits, and all I could think
of was how much it hurt – definitely not the sexy paddling of my secret fantasies. In a panicked inner monologue I was trying to decide whether to put a stop to it proactively or just try and withstand it until he moved on when, suddenly, the sensation changed, blossomed almost. It still hurt, but the sting of my arse melted to a pleasurable ache in the seconds after the impact and, as the adrenaline pumped through me, suddenly even the pain of the initial hits was blurring with the warmth of the pleasure I was getting out of it.

He’d started on my left cheek, hitting me in a regular rhythm until my heart was practically beating in time with his tempo, my body responding to the beats of him beating me. He varied where the brush landed until the whole of my arse cheek was warm and I was squirming across his lap in an incoherent bundle of nerve endings. In that moment my world was him and me, the stinging warmth of my arse, the wetness between my legs and the feeling of his cock hard against my thigh as I squirmed against him. If he’d asked me what I wanted him to do, if I was capable of forming words, I’d have been begging him to stop as the pain was on the edge of being too much. But at the same time the warmth between my legs meant I knew with utter certainty that if he had stopped within a few seconds I’d have been bereft and pleading for him to continue. I didn’t actually get the choice, which to be honest is just as well as by that point there was no way in hell I was capable of speech anyway.

He switched cheeks, and the process began again. But as I tried to temper my reaction to the pain, I felt a finger
slide between my legs, and easily – so easily that I was glad I was facing away so he couldn’t see the sudden blush on my face – he pushed inside me.

By this time I was practically writhing on his lap, my breathing heavy, tears behind my closed eyes. He didn’t hold back on hitting my arse with the brush, and as I turned to look up at him, I saw the flush of exertion and excitement on his cheeks, and an expression that made me whimper. He looked so sexy. The look in his eyes, the way he held his head, had changed from the Ryan I had previously known. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was power. Control. He made me feel warm and cold and excited and nervous and like the whole world was being turned upside down and all I could do was hold on for the ride and trust him to lead me through it.

As our eyes met it was like a spell was broken. We were both more than ready to fuck, and while he wasn’t going to leave a job half done the last three smacks with the brush were at least quick, albeit hard enough that I gasped at the pain. My mind was spinning as I couldn’t breathe enough in between hits to in any way prepare for them. I rode the waves of pain as best I could and was still gasping as he manoeuvred me on to all fours ready for –
please please please
– us to fuck.

He filled me and I moaned in relief. But relief turned to confusion when it became apparent that it wasn’t his cock filling me. I turned round, eyes blinking and trying to focus, to see him smiling at me again and holding the brush from the wrong end so he could show me my juices glistening on the handle. He tucked a strand
of hair behind his ear as his dimple flashed again, a glimpse of playful Ryan. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’

I harrumphed and opened my mouth to try and formulate a response, only to be stopped when he pushed himself deep inside me. As we fucked, me grinding down on him as feverishly as he pushed himself up into my wetness, the pain from the already forming bruising of my arse, the stinging heat of it, was a harsh reminder of the punishment.

He leant forward, frigging my clit as our movements got more frenzied and desperate, both of us close to coming. Just at the point where I felt like I couldn’t go any harder, or take any other stimulus, he ran the brush, metal bristles side down, along the full length of my still-throbbing arse. It was like running needles across my flesh. I couldn’t help it, I screamed. If I could I would have begged him to stop, purely because the sheer force of feeling was so much I thought I was going to shatter. But as fast as my brain shorted out, saying I couldn’t cope with this and it was all too much, my orgasm came and with it the flood of warmth that makes me want to curl up and rest for ten minutes before doing it all over again because it feels so amazing.

We lay there, tangled in the sheets, the sweat from our exertions drying as our breathing returned to normal. And as I looked at him, his eyes closed and his long eyelashes making him look so angelic, it was almost impossible to reconcile him with the man who had just ensured I would be feeling the evening every time I sat down for days. I couldn’t figure out how I’d never thought of a hairbrush
that way before. Suffice to say I haven’t overlooked its possibilities again.

I also never looked at Ryan in quite the same way again. As we both came down from our respective adrenaline highs there was a moment of embarrassment. He ran a gentle hand over my arse, assessing the damage and enquiring politely whether I was in a lot of pain. In a way that seemed very British somehow, I said I was fine, thank you, and then we fell silent. I think he felt disconcerted by how much he enjoyed hurting me – and looking back I wonder if he made a discovery about himself that night as he wielded the hairbrush.

He certainly helped fit one of the earliest pieces of the puzzle for me. By the time he was preparing to go back to the States a few weeks later my arse had become intimately acquainted with that brush – and his hand – several more times, including one notable occasion when he got so aroused punishing me he came across my buttocks and then rubbed his spunk into my still-stinging bum. We had danced the beginning of a dance of dominance and submission but neither of us seemed quite sure what the next step was, or even knew to phrase it that way. During our last night together before he returned to the States I got a glimpse of what that next step might have been, and even now – years on and with the experiences I’ve had since – I still think our relationship had the potential to be amazing. It was just one of those things that ended sooner than perhaps in hindsight I would have liked it to.

Before it did end, though, he really did pull out all the stops.

I wasn’t a fan of outfits. I’d dug out my old grey gym knickers and netball skirt for a fresher’s week school disco night and kept the peace for the occasional fancy dress party. But all in all I was still just too self-conscious to enjoy dressing up. I felt ridiculous and it’s not rocket science to point out that when you feel ridiculous it’s hard to feel sexy.

But the corset was different.

That last night, as I kicked my shoes off, chucked my keys down and headed into my bedroom to get ready for my farewell dinner with Ryan, I found the box on the bed. It was one of those boxes so understated and discreet that despite its lack of label it screamed ‘ridiculously expensive boutique’. As I fingered the edge of cream ribbon bisecting it, Catherine, who had accompanied me down to reception to collect it when it was delivered earlier in the day, plonked herself down on the stool in front of my dressing table, mug of tea in hand, waiting to see its secrets. Ryan had told me he was giving me a goodbye present that he didn’t want me lugging home from the restaurant, but I had no clue what it was.

Being both impatient and a big kid at heart when it comes to giving and receiving presents, there was no hope of me waiting till after the date to open it. And, as I rationalized to Catherine, he obviously wouldn’t mind, or he wouldn’t have brought it round. Well, that was my excuse and I was sticking to it.

When I first opened the box all I could see was tissue paper. And then as I pulled back the folds and pulled out the gorgeous corset nestled within I took a little breath of
wonder. It was a rich vivid green. The kind of green that reminds you of lush countryside and summer and fucking outside amid the smell of fresh cut grass and sunshine.