The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story

by Sophie Morgan

  He moved and began pulling down his trousers. ‘Well move over then. You can kiss your way down. Acclimatize yourself as it were.’ The amusement in his voice was audible and it made me furious. He knew he had asked me to do something that every fibre of my being was saying I wouldn’t, couldn’t, do, and he was settling down against the pillow, arms behind his head, watching with a smile as I tried to process it. ‘Why don’t you start by running your tongue along my cock?’

  OK. This I could do. This I liked to do. Great. I shuffled round on the bed to get into position. He was already hard, but as I began gently licking my way up his shaft he grew further, his cock pushing into my face, almost as demanding as its owner. I lapped at him, diligent and focused, losing myself in something I enjoyed. But suddenly I was dragged back to reality. Literally. Tangling his hands in my hair he pulled me up so abruptly a strand of saliva stretched from my lips to his tip and then broke before I could catch my breath and swallow it back. The lewdness of the visual made me flush with humiliation.

  ‘Very nice, but that’s enough of that.’ He patted my head in the way you’d stroke a pet. ‘Now why don’t you move down and kiss my balls for a little while?’

  Obediently I pushed my face fully into his groin. I suddenly had a flashback to the first time he told me to do this, and how I flushed scarlet with embarrassment and hesitated at doing something so obviously meant to demean me. As I gently sucked him now, I wondered what had happened to me. How did I go from tentative embarrassment to happy, even greedy, obedience? In a few months’ time how much further would my boundaries have moved? How was he able to move me past my limits with such ease?

  There wasn’t time for self-analysis though, as he ordered me to kiss my way down his inner thighs, past his knees and shins and to the top of his feet. I did so, my kisses getting faster and lighter the further down I got in spite of my fears of admonishment. All too soon I was face to toes with him, the room completely silent as he waited. He was insouciant, everything about him screaming confidence that I would do what I’d been told to do eventually. I felt him shift behind me, moving position to better see the war going on in my head and on my face missing nothing. No one was watching, it was just me and him.

  I could have got up and left. I could have told him to fuck off. If I’d made enough of a fuss he wouldn’t have made me do it. Probably. But somewhere along the way stubborn pride and a small corner of my brain were telling me I could do this. I should do this. Even that it’s sexy to do it – after all submission isn’t really submission if you only obey the stuff you like to do. It was a very small part of my brain and as I got closer to his feet it shrank further.

  I couldn’t begin to understand why this was affecting me so much. I knew his feet were clean – he wasn’t evil after all – and they were just feet. No one was watching, it was just us and him. OK, in wider terms feet felt a bit taboo, demeaning, but trying to move past that shouldn’t be this difficult, should it? How is it any worse than kissing his hands? I thought, trying to chivvy myself along, making my conscious thoughts more businesslike.

  I lowered my head to his feet. I can do this. It’ll please him if I do this. If I get it over with quickly we’ll move on to something else and it’ll be sexy as hell. I closed my eyes. Do his feet actually smell? Am I imagining it because I can’t see them? I moved in even closer but I couldn’t quite bring myself to take the final step. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried again. Still no good. My lips were dry, my mind racing. I can do this, I thought to myself. If I did it quickly he wouldn’t realize how much it was bothering me.

  ‘Did I tell you to breathe on my toes?’

  He knew how much it was bothering me. Blatantly. My voice was small. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go on.’

  Tentatively I shifted slightly on the bed and leant down to kiss his little toe. It was a feather-light kiss, I licked my suddenly parched lips and pushed my face back down, in opposition to every screaming instinct. He made a small murmur of pleasure as I connected with his toes again and I knew it was about my submission to his will rather than the sensation of my mouth on his foot. I could almost see him smiling behind me and it made me furious, at him, at myself and the part of me that craved this even while bridling at my own, at least partially self-inflicted, abasement. I kissed each toe, gently and respectfully and slowly – I wasn’t going to have him make me do it again – finishing with a lingering kiss on his big toe. And then I turned back to look at him, breathing heavily, my face and neck red with embarrassment. I was trying not to glare but his smirk made me think I wasn’t hiding my ire especially well.

  Succinctness was what was going to stop me getting into more trouble, so I went for brevity even though my tone was mutinous. ‘OK?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Not quite yet. You’ve got the other foot to do. Lean over me and suck my toes.’

  I turned back quickly, wanting to face his feet rather than look into his eyes, which seemed to see too much. Tom was more experienced in D/s terms than me, and it was a constant source of wonder and irritation to me that he seemed to understand this part of my nature better than I did, leaving me scared and infuriated even while the intensity of the scene was making me wet. I veered between feeling so exhilarated it felt like flying and wanting to smack him about the head for being arrogant, even while a tiny voice inside me knew it was unfair to call him arrogant when most of the time he was actually right.

  I moved over, straddling his outstretched legs to get to his other foot, thinking I could endure this last bit of grovelling. Just do it, don’t think about it. I started by kissing the top of his foot, before screwing up the last of my courage and finally taking several of his toes in my mouth. It actually didn’t taste bad, so I moved along his foot, sucking his big toe. Licking it. Worshipping it. My mind running a mental mantra – this will soon be over. This. Will. Soon. Be. Over.

  Then unexpectedly he put his hand between my legs and I moaned around his foot in pleasure and surprise. Typically he took the opportunity to push his foot further into my mouth.

  ‘You’re very wet. You’re lips are puffy. You’re obviously enjoying something we’re doing right now.’

  I closed my eyes and kept sucking, my body responding as he pushed his fingers further into what was – to my shame – my wetness.

  The room was silent except for the sound of me sucking his toes, and his fingers leisurely frigging me. In spite of myself I was wet, horny and desperate to come, pushing back on his hand as he shoved his fingers inside me.

  He chuckled. ‘After all that glowering it turns out you like being made to lick and suck my feet. You actually like being treated like a slut, even in spite of yourself. Don’t you, slut?’

  I ignored him and his repeated use of what he mockingly calls ‘the “s” word’, knowing he was trying to get a reaction. I reddened even more, but with my back to him and my hair falling in my face I knew he couldn’t see it. Instead I kept licking, thinking it was probably a good idea I was effectively gagged by his foot as otherwise I’d be bound to say something that got me into more trouble. Instead I tried desperately to focus on making him so happy he’d let me move on to something else. Which is very difficult indeed when you’re so desperate to come that despite it all you’d pretty much do anything for release.

  As he brushed my clit with his thumb I whimpered with excitement, so close to coming despite everything. I think that’s when he came up with the idea.

  ‘You seem to really be enjoying worshipping my feet now.’ I huffed my annoyance through my nose, while pushing my tongue between his toes almost viciously. ‘I think I should make you keep sucking them until you come around my hand. That would be amusing wouldn’t it?’

  Amusing wasn’t the word. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to blink back tears of fury and humiliation, knowing that in spite of how much I hated doing this he was going to be able to manipulate my body into getting the utmost pleasure from it. He upped the
tempo, pushing his fingers harder and further inside me, jabbing my clit with his thumb with every thrust until my face was buried in his feet, and I was whimpering round his toes. I was going to ache tomorrow but his vicious, insistent penetration was doing its job and despite it all my orgasm built, then ebbed as he slowed things down, enjoying the power he was able to wield so effortlessly over me, before building it up again. And again.

  I don’t know how long I licked him, although when I came my jaw was aching and my cries were almost croaky my mouth was so dry. By the end I had no awareness of anything but his hand and his foot. I was a primeval bundle of nerve endings, desperate to come, willing to do whatever he wanted, so long as he would let that happen and give me the release I craved. I’d have begged him for it, but instead I sucked his toes into my mouth as far as I could take them, licked the sole of his foot and wordlessly showed him I’d do anything for him, even something that an hour before I’d have said with confidence was a hard limit.

  I once read somewhere that the key to sexual humiliation is not about making somebody do something they don’t want to do, it is about leading them to do things they secretly dream about doing. I can honestly say I had never dreamed of debasing myself in quite such a humiliating way and still blush when I think of it. At the same time, when I came around his fingers my orgasm was one of the most intense I’d had for a long time. And even as he made me lick his fingers clean of the sticky juice which proved how much I had enjoyed the unusual punishment, before pulling me down his body by my hair to suck him, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have to do it again.

  As was so often the case with Tom, he managed to stumble across something that affected me deeply, and that I thought about for a long time afterwards – why are feet such a big deal anyway? The thought of it made me flush, my body reacting like I was right back there in that moment.

  7

  Words are funny things. When I am in my submissive headspace I will grovel, I will beg, I will say whatever it is my dominant demands of me. True, some of the words will flow freely, while others will stick in the back of my throat. Pleading for him to fuck me, punish me, use me, are all things I used to find difficult, but now – thanks mainly to Tom’s obsession with making me say things I find embarrassing for his amusement – my voice is assured despite my debasement, proud and wet at pleasing him by demeaning myself. Calling him sir is harder, my voice then is quieter, and if I can get away with it I hide the humiliation I can’t quite overcome behind the curtain of my hair. But even though it chafes I can do it. I do. And my submission ultimately brings great pleasure and release to us both.

  But the word that grates, no matter how often it is said around me, is slut.

  I know. It’s a little word. And in BDSM terms it is not even a derogatory one. I am comfortable with the dual nature of my personality, the fact that I am independent, capable and in control for most of my day, and yet crave giving power to my top for mind-blowing nights. And afternoons. Mornings too, actually. But there’s something about the word slut that, even immersed in the most arousing scene, will jar me out of the moment like a needle scratching across a record. Men who like sex are studs. Women who like sex are sluts. I know this is the vanilla meaning. I know when I am kneeling naked in front of Tom, sucking greedily on his cock and he calls me it the context and thus the meaning is as different as night and day. But it doesn’t stop my glaring up at him even as I suck him further into my mouth.

  He laughs when he sees me bristle at it. I’m hardly a prude and there are so many other words which wider society as a whole would consider worse and which don’t bother me at all, but slut is the one I hate. And he knows it, loves pushing me, making me explain to him exactly how much of a greedy, grateful, horny slut I am before he’ll let me come. And while in the back of my mind there is a part of me bridling at the terminology and wishing I could tell him to fuck off, I obey. I obey in spite of every fibre of my being saying I don’t need to do this, for the small voice which whispers that I do. It is not the most demeaning thing he makes me do but it is one that stings most. An act of pure submission.

  So when I saw the paddle I had to buy it.

  Tom’s birthday was looming and while I’d bought a couple of great vanilla presents I was looking for something extra. Symbolic. Special. Sexy.

  I was looking at crops when I saw it, pondering whether it was bad form to give someone a present which I was going to get at least as much pleasure from as he would. It was on the end of the shelf, beautifully boxed, and in the split second after I realized exactly what it was, I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach.

  SLUT.

  Well actually TULS, cut into twelve inches of vicious-looking black leather attached to a sturdy handle.

  I couldn’t even look directly at it. I stared at the toys next to it, behind it, sneaking little glances. I knew he’d love it. Love marking me with it. But the thought of walking around with that word emblazoned across my arse like a brand made me shiver in revulsion. It was perfect. But I hated it. And I knew he’d love that even more.

  I stood in front of the shelf for a good ten minutes until a saleswoman came over to ask if I needed any help, presumably fearful I was a demented potential shoplifter. Her approach was the impetus I needed. I reassured her I was fine, grabbed the box – heavier than I anticipated – and almost ran to the till to pay. I’d even stopped blushing by the time I was halfway home.

  In the ten days between buying the paddle and his birthday I thought about it constantly, the carrier bag a permanent reminder on my desk. Half a dozen times I decided against giving it to him, not sure I’d be able to withstand the inevitably intense scene when he finally wielded it. But in the end, I had to wrap it up. I knew he’d love it. And I could withstand this. Right? I had time to get over it. Really. It’d be fine. Probably.

  His eyes sparkled when I gave it to him. His fingers traced the stitching, flexing it and swiping the air in front of me in a way which made me restrain a shudder. He watched my reactions closely, and I did everything I could not to show him how much it bothered me.

  Of course he knew how much it bothered me.

  I’d got myself so wound up thinking about what it would be like to be on the receiving end of it that when he smiled and thanked me and put it on the mantelpiece it felt like an anticlimax. Then he started stroking my breasts, moved lower, and I got distracted with other things.

  It stayed there for two weeks and two days, not that I was counting. Every time I walked into the room and saw it I felt a flutter in my stomach. I dreaded the thought of being punished with it but part of me wondered how I would respond. Would I be able to withstand it physically? How long would the marks last?

  It was a Saturday night when I found out. We’d had a very lovely fuck earlier in the evening and crashed out pretty much instantaneously. I woke from an odd dream and then watched the red illuminated clock change for more than an hour courtesy of the kind of insomnia that leaves you feeling convinced that you’re the only person in the world awake and incapable of switching off. In the end, I decided an orgasm was the only way to get back to sleep. So I shuffled away from him, put my hand between my legs and began touching myself.

  It was a utilitarian wank, all about the release and, hopefully, the sleep that would come afterwards. My strokes were assured, my fingers working towards the delicious friction that would bring the orgasm I so desperately needed. I was quiet, close to coming and utterly focused, which is why when he spoke from the darkness it made me jump.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  My hand stopped abruptly between my legs. Ooops. Belatedly it occurred to me he’d probably find this bad form.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ My voice was croaky.

  ‘I gathered that.’ He was amused but his voice had the tone I jokingly refer to as his dom voice – although only when we’re not actually playing, as when we are I wouldn’t dare. ‘What are you doing?’

  Suddenly I was
very glad for the darkness. It’s easier to pretend indifference at being caught red-handed when you don’t have to look anyone in the eye. ‘I was having a wank. I couldn’t sleep and I thought a quick orgasm would help me –’

  I stopped talking as he moved across the bed to spoon behind me, his hand clamping around my wrist, still nestled – albeit now unmoving – between my legs. The warm breath of his ‘tut’ tickled my ear as he pulled my hand away, making me shiver against him.

  ‘So, just two hours after I give you what, if your moans were anything to go by, was a very intense, very pleasurable orgasm, you’re greedy for another one already?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not like that, it’s just –’

  He pulled my hand up to my mouth, effectively silencing me with my own sticky fingers.

  ‘I think it’s best you stay quiet for a moment now. Don’t you?’

  Tom’s tone was dangerous and made me wetter but a little fearful. I stayed quiet and still, not even risking a nod as I didn’t want to do anything to displease him further. My nipples were hard and my body was trying to process the fact that I had been so close to orgasm and yet apparently was going without for now.

  ‘You are a greedy slut.’ I could see where this was going and my heart was already starting to race. ‘You woke me up with your bouncing because you’re so horny you can’t wait a few short hours before you get to come again.’ I wanted to argue but I knew if I did it was just going to make things worse. ‘You deserve punishment. Don’t you?’

  I was still silent, even in the face of the direct question. I knew what was going to happen now and part of me was thinking I was knackered and not ready for the inevitable intensity, that all I wanted was to go to sleep. But I didn’t dare say that so I remained quiet. Until he pinched my nipple. Hard. I gasped at the unexpected pain.