With every stroke I thanked him, although by the time we reached fifty my teeth were gritted and my voice didn’t sound very thankful at all. It hurt so much more than I had expected it to, and sheer bloody-mindedness was the only thing keeping me upright and counting. His rhythm was relentless, focusing purely on my left arse cheek, and as he kept hitting the same spot the pain began to build until I was finding it harder and harder to force any thanks from my dry throat.
At sixty he stopped for a moment. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my face up so he could look into my eyes.
‘Are you crying? You sound like you’re crying.’
The part of me that is all stubborn pride and no self-preservation answered before the rest of me could even think. ‘I’m not.’
He looked closely, his eyes searching mine to assess how close he was to breaking me – something which actually made me feel safer and more calm, despite the pain I was processing. He nodded slightly at what he saw in my face. ‘Do you need to stop?’
My chin raised and I heard my voice as if from far away, sounding more assured than I felt. ‘No. I’m fine.’ What an idiot.
As he let go of my hair and moved behind me all I could think of was my mum’s continual warning that stubbornness would one day be my downfall – although I don’t think this was exactly what she had in mind. He started on my arse again and – thankfully – thoughts of Mum disappeared as I began desperately trying to process the pain once more.
By the time we got to eighty it was all I could do to stand. I remained in position – a victory for pigheadedness – but with every stroke my inner monologue was screaming ‘Twenty to go, nineteen to go, eighteen to go.’ My legs were wobbling and I was in agony. When we got to a hundred the relief rushed through me. So much for it not hurting that much.
James allowed me to stand upright and moved in front of me, kissing my forehead gently as I trembled in front of him, the pain and adrenaline thrumming through me.
‘Good girl. Well done. You were very brave.’
I bit back a grimace at the hated endearment and he ran a finger between my legs. I moaned in pleasure, leaning into him and enjoying him exploring me with his fingers. He chuckled at how wet I was, how my legs started to shake as he pushed me – ridiculously easily – to the brink of orgasm. Then he pulled away. I managed to bite back a whimper – I had no intention of doing anything that would see him picking up the crop again – but I’m sure my eyes betrayed my frustration as he sat down on the edge of the bed, undid his trousers and beckoned me down to kneel in front of him.
I looked at him hopefully, unconsciously waiting for his nod of approval, then finally opened my mouth to take him. I licked him greedily, loving the feeling of his hands in my hair, feeling him clench and unclench his fingers as I began to worship him with my mouth. I lost myself completely in the task. Even the pain of my left arse cheek receded as I sucked.
But then he pulled me away by my hair, took my arms and lifted me up from my knees and back towards the rug. My brain actually short-circuited for a minute. I could see the direction he was trying to manoeuvre me in, and all I could think of was the crop and the pain. But I couldn’t form words, much less sentences, and instead I heard myself making a desperate mewing noise in the back of my throat. It was both a plea and a refusal. For a few seconds as he spoke to me I couldn’t understand what he was saying, such was the depth of my panic at being made to return to the punishment. But then he kissed my forehead again and stroked me with the same tenderness he’d shown his cats earlier, and somehow I knew he was trying to alleviate my fears, even through the rushing noise in my head. Finally I understood him.
‘I’m not going to punish you again. I want you to stand over there so I can fuck you.’
Oh.
I let him help me to my feet and returned to the position I had been in a few minutes before. He rolled on a condom and began to fuck me, grabbing my hips to ensure he could fuck me as hard as possible, hitting my stinging arse with every thrust. It felt amazing. I was still on an adrenaline high from the punishment; I wasn’t thinking about anything, I was just responding to him, reacting as he mastered me. He reached round and began frigging my clit and I came around him.
By the time I returned to earth he had moved us both to the bed and I was lying (on my side, as putting any pressure on my arse was going to be uncomfortable for at least the next week) alongside him. I looked up, suddenly a bit embarrassed at exactly how out-of-the-moment I had gone, to see him smiling down at me. He stroked my hair and pressed another kiss to my forehead.
‘You were wonderful this evening. Good girl.’
I smiled, closing my eyes for a second to savour the gentleness of his lips. I can honestly say I wasn’t bothered about the patronizing tone now. Instead all I felt was achievement, a kind of pride at having pleased him, the thought of a job well done.
Little did I realize this was just the beginning.
13
I pride myself on not getting caught up in the clichéd etiquette of dating. Most of my friends are the same. There’s none of that ‘these are the rules on when to call or not call’ bollocks; we’re all straightforward, sensible people. If you like someone, what’s the point in bullshitting?
So you’ll never see me worrying about when I’m going to see someone again. If I want to see someone I’ll ask. If they want to see me too then ace. If not, well, that’s crap and my confidence will take a knock, but I’ll get over it.
Except it wasn’t that way with James.
I’m honestly not hung up on gender stereotypes and try not to turn into that blithering cliché – should I text, or is that too keen? If I text how many kisses should I put on the end? Hold on, he hasn’t put a kiss on the end, but he did before, what does that mean? But if I thought the etiquette of dating was bad, that’s nothing compared to what happens when you throw in a D/s power element. Is suggesting we meet again pushy? Unsubmissive? Should I be waiting for him to arrange something? If he doesn’t, do I just keep waiting? At what point should I give up and assume that actually he’s not interested? Is the fact I’m the most impatient person I know likely to cause me a problem?
Meeting James coincided with the kind of time at work that made for a Sophie of all work and no play. Various people were on holiday and the big launch of a new publication was in the works, and that translated into the kind of hours that made sleeping under my desk seem like a tempting prospect. It also meant I was a bit, well, disengaged. I talked to James by email every day and found him as interesting as ever but over a period of a week or two things went from being steamy to, well, a bit tepid. I’d be bouncing work moans back and forth or linking him to stuff coming in on our newswire, but the smutty stuff? Somewhere along the way it dissipated in a way that left me thinking, ‘Damn, obviously he’s not as interested in me that way as I am in him.’ So in characteristic fashion I decided the thing to do was to not address it, pretend everything was fine and leave it be. Until, erm, I couldn’t any more and it burst forth like a slightly frightening torrent. Great.
It was a Thursday afternoon. The Thursday afternoon before The Big Project™ launched and the point in the process where all the problems seemed insurmountable, except you know they’ll be resolved because they have to be and you’ll just keep going until your eyes fall out of the back of your head and you can’t think of another decent headline pun.
I was on Messenger in part because I was discussing final colour choices for headers for the different sections of the magazine with our chief designer. But I’d been chatting to James in another window as he sat wrestling with some dry financial gubbins.
The conversation had started incongruously enough but a passing comment that normally I’d have been sensible enough to leave alone started me off.
JAMES SAYS: We’ll have to see what happens when we next meet.
SOPHIE SAYS: Indeed. Although when will that be? Because we’ve yet to set anything up … :P
Ah, ye
s, a little jaunty tongue hides the neediness oozing from every syllable of that sentence. Oh dear. Must make it better.
SOPHIE SAYS: Not that I’m moaning.
SOPHIE SAYS: Just saying.
SOPHIE SAYS: And if you don’t want to meet again – cause it has been a while now – then that’s fine too. Really.
Shit, do I now sound like I’m not interested in him?
SOPHIE SAYS: I mean obviously I’d *like*; to meet again.
Why is Vera Lynn running through my head now? How have I dug myself such a big bloody hole? How do I get out of it?
SOPHIE SAYS: But if you don’t then that’s fine, I’d just rather know.
Wow. You’d think it was difficult to sound both standoffish and needy at the same time, but I appeared to have managed it. Brilliant.
As I pondered whether disconnecting and blaming technical difficulties (and possibly partial lobotomy) was the best way of stopping this conversation without making it worse, I heard the ping of a response. I was fairly convinced it wouldn’t be about whether green or purple best portrayed ‘lifestyle’ but could hardly bring myself to look at the screen to see.
JAMES SAYS: Of course I’d like to meet. What made you think I wouldn’t?
JAMES SAYS: I just figured, bearing in mind how stressed you sound every time I speak to you lately, that looming over you like some überdom was perhaps not the most supportive course of action.
JAMES SAYS: I take it this is a subtle hint that you might be free and inclined to play some time soon then?
Oh. Suddenly even the shittiest day at work wasn’t bothering me at all and I caught myself grinning at the screen in a way that may well have terrified my co-workers, since it was the first time I’d cracked a smile in working hours for about a fortnight.
And that’s how I ended up spending a full twenty-four hours under James’s control. At his suggestion I booked a day off work for the day after the big, big project went to press – on time and with my sanity still intact. It was a great idea, as the morning after something comes out all you do is sit at your desk drinking coffee and praying the phone won’t ring, as if it does it’s usually someone telling you something’s gone wrong, which you now can do nothing about anyway. So spending a day alone with him, not knowing exactly what would happen, and burning off some excess energy was an idea that sounded relaxing and brilliant. At least it did until I realized exactly what I’d let myself in for, and that ‘relaxing’ was never in a million years going to be an adjective to describe it.
I arrived at 7.30pm after a schlep through the rush-hour traffic, and any curiosity about how this would all start was ended rather abruptly. I followed him into his flat and bent down to pet the cats hello. As I stood up, I swapped my overnight bag to my other hand. As his eyes took it in, he moved towards me and plucked it from my grasp.
‘You won’t be needing that,’ he told me as he led me into the living room, chucking it on the floor. He plonked himself down on the sofa and I stood in front of him, feeling awkward, not entirely sure what to do as he was sprawled across it in a way that left no space for me. At least I was unsure until he spoke, and then it all made sense.
‘Strip for me. Now.’
I looked at him, relaxed and smiling like someone in a sofa commercial, secure in the knowledge that I was going to do what he asked. As ever, the beginning of the scene remained the most difficult part for me and the picture of arrogance he made lying there, waiting for me to move, knowing that I would, made me grit my teeth as I slipped out of my shoes and began undoing my shirt.
‘Hold on a second, stop.’
My hands stopped on my third button at his order. I looked over at him, wishing he’d make up his mind – did he want me to undress or not?
‘Yes?’ My voice sounded a bit shrill to my own ears. I knew it was from embarrassment, but I worried that he might interpret it as attitude and so I lowered my tone. ‘Yes?’
His eyes sparkled as he spoke to me, inspiring a surge of affection even while it caused butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Those butterflies started going mad at what he said next.
‘For the next twenty-four hours you are mine. Mine only. Everything you do is for me. Your wishes, your needs, even your dignity, count for nothing. You will do everything I ask you to do, to the best of your ability, in the way that you know will bring me the most pleasure. Is that clear?’
I had to swallow hard before I could speak. The immediate ramifications of this had already started running through my mind, and a blush was beginning to stain my cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘Well then, don’t you think you should slow down and take your clothes off in a way that you know will please me?’
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so nodded.
‘Good girl. Well then, strip for me. Not functionally, sensually. Show me your body. Show me my property.’
While intellectually I knew he was pushing me to see a reaction, it took a lot of effort not to push back, particularly at the idea of being his ‘property’. I knew that was effectively the deal we had done, and that – actually – there was a great part of me keen to surrender to him in that way for a little while to see where he took us.
My teeth were gritted and my fingers clumsy as I began playing with my partially open top, flashing a glimpse of my bra as I ran my hands down my body, over my hips and skirt before I slowly began to undress once more.
The five minutes that followed felt like an eternity. If it wasn’t for the fact that I spent a great part of the time too embarrassed to look at James and instead staring over his shoulder, looking at the wall behind him which happened to have a clock on it, I’d have sworn it went on for nearer an hour.
I’m comfortable in my own skin, but I’m both aware my body is far from perfect and not the kind of person who likes being the centre of attention at the best of times. Being made to strip in that way made me feel ridiculous, embarrassed, objectified. Every instinct was telling me to get it over with quickly, even while I knew I had to take my time, tease and tantalize as well as I could.
By the time I was down to my knickers an embarrassed flush had bloomed across my chest as well as my face, and I was hiding behind my hair as much as possible. I don’t think I had ever felt as vulnerable and the feeling was prickly, unpleasant. My throat felt clogged and I was inexplicably close to tears.
I finally pulled down my knickers and stood in front of him, naked, physically and emotionally. After long seconds he moved towards me.
‘Your posture really is atrocious, you know.’
His face was unreadable as he leant around me, his hands reaching around my back to push my shoulder blades, making my breasts stand out, the nipples rubbing against the rough wool of his jumper.
‘I know it’s because you feel embarrassed about the size of your breasts,’ – at that he ran a finger along the line of fire across my chest – ‘but there really is no excuse for it and hunching over doesn’t make them look smaller. You shouldn’t be hiding them anyway.’
I felt shy, which was ridiculous. ‘Sorry.’
He tutted, tweaking a nipple in rebuke.
‘I see we’re also going to have to work on ensuring you use the correct modes of address as well.’ What?
‘For the next twenty-four hours you’re going to address me as Sir.’ I looked askance at him. While calling him that wasn’t a hard limit, it was something we’d discussed previously and which I’d said I thought was ridiculous. His smile and twinkling eyes suggested he remembered the conversation well. ‘Just for the next twenty-four hours.’
I looked at him and could deny him nothing. ‘Fine.’
He tweaked my nipple again, harder.
‘Sorry. Fine. Sir.’
He smiled and the queasy feeling in my stomach disappeared, replaced with a pride that was as shocking as it was warming. Knowing I’d pleased him made the awkwardness seem somehow worthwhile, although the sooner he ended up naked too, the happier I knew I’d be.
H
e smoothed my hair away from my face as I stood still, waiting for what came next. But he kissed my shoulder and then moved behind me.
I could hear sounds of rummaging, a cupboard door opening, and then a jangling sound that made me want to turn around even though I knew I shouldn’t. I stood, shoulders back, waiting nervously for whatever was to happen next.
He was back in front of me, not carrying anything that would send me running for the hills. In fact, not carrying anything at all, so far as I could see.
‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes.’ My answer was quick, firm and sure. I honestly did.
The last thing I saw was his smile as he pulled a blindfold he’d had scrunched in one of his hands over my eyes.
‘Good.’
I had never been blindfolded during sex before, or, come to think of it, for anything other than a few games of blind man’s buff at birthday parties as a child. I was surprised at how vulnerable I felt.
Despite having deliberately avoided his gaze during my strip tease just minutes earlier, being in a position where I couldn’t see anything at all didn’t make me feel less embarrassed or shy, it just made me feel more exposed. And, of course, it meant I had even less idea about what would happen next.
I waited.
The jangling was back and he was behind me, grabbing my wrists, cuffing them in something that felt cold and unyielding. Then my ankles were tied together with something tighter, something fabric, that gave me a tiny bit of shuffle room but not much else.
I felt him straighten up behind me. His voice whispering directly into my ear made me jump.
‘I think we’re going to work on your posture now, sweet. I know you feel embarrassed showing yourself to me, but right now that’s all I want from you. I’m going to get a glass of wine and sit down and just admire you for a little bit while I decide what I’m going to do to you next.’
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 19