He smiled down at me.
‘Would you like to come now?’
I nodded quickly, feeling myself flush a little at my eagerness. ‘Yes please.’
Gently he helped me up. He took my hand and led me back upstairs to the bedroom.
He pulled me down onto the bed, kissing me passionately. Our tongues tangled, our hands were everywhere. The dynamic had changed to something more playful. This was Adam as I knew him most often: still with moments of danger, but mostly lovely, sensual. Loving. He pulled away for a moment to smile down at me and I saw the redness around his lips and remembered the lipstick on my face. The room had large mirrors on each wall and the ceiling, and I snuck a glance in the nearest one, groaning quietly as I saw the red smudges, dried cum and the faint imprint of ‘whore’ reflected backwards across my forehead.
I’d always thought mirrors were a bit too Playboy Mansion for my taste, but in this room they gave almost a 360° view of everything, which I liked, although it made it difficult to ignore the things that I found challenging (my possibly stained forehead), at least until I began to watch Adam strip in the mirror. He was finally taking off his clothes and giving me an unimpeded view of his hard cock, and then his arse as he leaned down to retrieve a condom from his bag.
When he was finally naked and ready he moved me onto my hands and knees and slid inside me from behind. I let out a long groan of pleasure as he began to roughly fuck me – after so much teasing and so many intense experiences in such a relatively short length of time I was more than ready for this.
He grabbed a handful of my hair and began to use it as leverage, pulling me back onto him as fast as he pushed into me. His thrusts gave me a paradoxical mix of pain and pleasure. My arse and thighs were still stinging from the crop, and feeling him bash against them with every movement brought new waves of searing heat from the welts, but that was paired with the pleasure of feeling him inside me. It felt amazing.
His hands pulled my head up and made me arch my back, which meant I could see my own face in the mirror again. I flushed at the wanton, dishevelled mess he had rendered me, shocked at the lust in my eyes and the smile of joy on my face. My expression brought me up short for a moment; it was a rare visual insight into how I looked during my own submission. I was surprised by how happy I looked – no grumpy face here – and also how I seemed younger and more carefree somehow.
I was suddenly dragged back into the moment by the movement behind me. My eyes flickered to Adam, my tormentor, my partner in crime, the man who had very quietly done everything he could to fulfil lots of my longest-held fantasies. I watched him as we fucked, enjoying the look of concentration and lust in his eyes as I felt him slide in and out of me.
After a while he pulled out, manoeuvring me across the bed onto my back before beginning to fuck me again. His weight pressing my arse into the sheets, the welts rubbing across the soft cotton as we moved, made for even more pain, but by that point I didn’t care – I was concentrating on looking over his shoulder in the mirror, watching him push in and out of me, seeing the point where we were joined so intimately.
The combination of the pain, the pleasure and the voyeuristic feeling of watching ourselves in mirrors meant I was so close to orgasm that my thighs were shaking with the effort of fending it off. In my submissive headspace it felt, more than ever, like something I should ask for. I did so, my voice sounding desperate even to my own ears, my relief when he said ‘of course’ almost a tangible thing.
I came. Hard. Once I had stopped trembling he climbed off me and lay on his back next to me on the bed while I recovered, his hand stroking my arm, creating a moment of connection that helped finally ground me, bringing me back down to earth.
When my breathing finally stilled I turned to crawl into his arms, but as I did so I saw his cock, hard and covered in my juices.
I know he’d taken his pleasure and left me unsatisfied in the cage, but I clearly was a nicer person than him and didn’t want to see him denied. OK, mostly his cock looked tempting and I really wanted him to come in my mouth – I’m not that selfless. I looked over, to check he had no more plans for now and wasn’t going to stop me. He smiled, and put his hands behind his head, a silent indication that he wasn’t going to interrupt me now. It was my turn to play.
While I knew that he had enjoyed the things we’d done that afternoon, the knowledge that he’d taken so much effort doing them for me, knowing how much I wanted to try them, made my heart feel full. I wanted to do something for him, something that I knew he’d like.
I crawled down the bed and took him in my mouth, and where I’d tried to hide my arousal and indignity when getting into the cage, I now revelled in it, showed it to him. I positioned myself so that he could see my red and bruised arse while I sucked him, so he could see not just how wet I already was, but how doing this for him made me even wetter.
For now the flurry of violence and roughness had passed. He didn’t fuck my face or hold my head down. He lay, watching me intently – I have a sneaking suspicion his eyes might have flickered to the mirror in front – as I sucked him. I gave myself to him eagerly, taking him as far into my mouth as I could, managing to slide him into my throat by myself, giving rather than letting him take it. Every time I did so I smiled to myself as I heard his groan. I loved the fact that I felt him throb in my mouth. Finally, when he came, I made sure to swallow every last drop. Then, and only then, I crawled back into his arms, pressed a kiss to his chest and began to doze.
When I stirred again, woken by Adam disentangling himself and slipping outside, the room was almost dark. I lay enjoying the warmth of the duvet for a little longer before getting up to explore. I found him in the bathroom, his hair damp from the shower, running me a bath. He helped me into it, kissing me softly and smiling as I sighed in pleasure at the warm water soothing my aches and pain.
He went off to get dressed, returning to bring me the washbag containing my shampoo and shower gel, and the paperback I was currently carrying around in my handbag for rare moments of peace. He knelt by the bath and kissed me again, before telling me he was going to sort out dinner and I should have a leisurely bath before getting dressed and coming back downstairs to eat.
I was exhausted, blissed out, enjoying the simple pleasure of my bath after the intensity of everything that had gone before. I nodded and smiled as he leaned down to whisper in my ear:
‘You should probably make sure you scrub that writing off your face and arse.’
He left the room whistling. I would have thrown my paperback after him, but what would I have had to read then?
After a good few chapters and rinsing myself clean of bubbles with the kind of decadently lengthy shower you’d never have at home lest you used all the hot water, I slipped on trousers and a jumper and went downstairs.
‘Your timing is perfect,’ he called from the kitchen. ‘Settle down on the sofa. I’ll bring the food in.’
The fire was on, the curtains drawn, the TV flickering in the background. I sat on the black leather sofa (presumably easier to wipe clean, although I probably didn’t want to think about that then) and watched as Adam padded back into the room carrying two plates. He placed them down with a flourish, and I laughed as I took in the sight of two paper wrappings of takeaway fish and chips, complete with mushy peas for me. He disappeared to return again, this time carrying cutlery, salt, and a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He fiddled with the TV remote and the copyright screen for a DVD flickered on the screen – I laughed to see he’d thought to pack The Shield box set we’d been slowly working through.
We ate our fish and chips from the paper, drank champagne and curled up together on the sofa chatting about random things. It was fun, lovely, simple, and after the intensity of everything that had happened earlier that day, just perfect. My final thought as I drifted off to sleep was of simple joy and gratefulness for Adam’s rudeness and kindness.
We spent great chunks of the rest of the weekend fucking lik
e rabbits. With snow on the ground it was most definitely too cold to play outside, much to my disappointment. But we had sex in the deep-filled bath (tougher than I imagined, and not just for the mopping up of spilled water afterwards) and in front of the fire (a bit of a seventies porn film vibe admittedly but lovely). We went back to the pillory where I had an intense orgasm while held in position, although we realised there were practical problems when you have a woman whose legs go wobbly when she’s orgasming being held up purely by her neck and wrists – it was slightly less alluring when Adam was having to hold me up to stop me choking by accident. We played doctor and patient complete with a chair with stirrups and non-NHS regulation straps. He tied me to the bed – and kept me under it in a cage we discovered the second night, although he took pity on me and let me back under the covers with him to actually go to sleep. I loved sleeping in his arms, but wished we were staying longer so I could experience more. Experience everything.
We watched more episodes of The Shield when we needed a rest from rudeness. I was incredulous I had missed a show both so good and with so many episodes. I cooked a fry-up. Adam made fajitas with homemade salsa so good it made me swoon. We drank tea. Read the papers. These small moments of cohabitation felt easy, comfortable, wonderful. Worryingly, they also felt a little like the beginning of a real relationship, the one we had both said we weren’t interested in having. My internal monologue was trying to warn me, but mostly I didn’t care.
At one unguarded moment on Sunday morning, I put my foot in it. I’d made breakfast, and was carrying it in to the table while Adam made space in between piles of newspaper supplements.
‘It’s funny, this is the best stuff about being in a relationship, these lazy moments with the papers, being comfortable not doing much.’
He looked up at me from folding the sports supplement and I suddenly realised my faux pas. I headed back to the kitchen to grab the coffees, fumbling desperately to underplay what I’d just said.
‘Not that we’re in a relationship, obviously. We did agree this was going to be a casual thing.’
He put the papers down and took a mug from my hand, kissing me gently as he did so.
‘You’re right, we did say this was going to be a casual thing.’
Bum. I put my coffee down and fled for the tomato sauce to give myself a second to school my features before returning to the table.
As I did, he spoke. ‘But this doesn’t feel casual to me. Laid-back, yes. Fun, definitely. But I think it’s gone past casual, don’t you?’
I took a long look at him before I replied. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a trick question, but there was still a moment’s pause before I answered. ‘Yes.’
He grinned at me. ‘Shall we work on the basis that this is now a proper relationship then? That we’re partners or boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever you want to call it?’
I nodded.
‘OK. Well, now we’ve got that sorted, shall we eat breakfast?’ he asked, presumably nonplussed at the lunatic woman grinning at him and clutching a bottle of ketchup.
I nodded again.
‘Well, come on then. Eat your breakfast.’
I did. I needed to keep my strength up for the rest of the weekend, after all.
CHAPTER SIX
So we were officially dating. I say ‘officially’ but it’s not like we put out a memo, or that it changed anything much. We spent more weekends together, our busy family and social lives allowing, but otherwise we continued seeing each other, fucking each other senseless whenever we had the time and privacy to do so, emailing and texting messages about politics and TV, and having random chats about our lives during the day.
There was no drama or fuss, no worrying about whether Adam would call or not, or what he meant as opposed to what he said, because he was so straightforward that he encouraged similar honesty. We talked about anything and everything: family, work trouble (including a pretty difficult time where, like most of the journalism industry in the last few years, I found myself at risk of redundancy), how we wanted to live our lives. We also talked more frankly than I ever have before about sex. I know, be afraid! It’s hardly as if I’m backwards about coming forwards with this stuff anyway.
It was liberating, though, to have a boyfriend (although calling him that still felt very juvenile, while ‘partner’ was just a bit hippyish) who not only was completely open-minded about my sexuality, but also revelled in it. He loved me talking about what turned me on, the things I thought about as I touched myself lying in bed at night. I told him everything. The things that made me blush. The things that made me wet. The fantasies so dark that I’d probably never do them in real life, but that under cover of darkness we could whisper to each other, not only safe in the knowledge we wouldn’t judge each other, but that we would actively find it hot. Having spent so much of my life wondering how you find a guy who would not freak out at what, to some, would seem like a dark sexuality (although I still maintain I’m pretty sedate on the whole smut scale, it’s just not many of us talk about it so freely), it was wonderful to be able to enjoy that side of things with Adam, and then re-watch Homeland together on DVD, make pancakes in funny shapes or play Scrabble until the early hours.
We’d settled into a routine, and it was wonderful. And then one day, shortly before the Easter holiday, I got a phone call from my mum. She was crying. My mum never cries at real life. Adverts, or those terrible made-for-TV movies they show on Channel Five of an afternoon all about alcoholic parents or children succumbing to cancer, yes, but in real life she is one of the toughest and most capable women I know.
She’d had a fall while clearing the guttering of leaves and had broken her knee. They were taking her into emergency surgery, but she wasn’t sure what was going to happen afterwards.
Normally, it would have been a no-brainer. My parents have been married almost forty years and are devoted to each other. But my dad had, that morning, got on a plane to Hong Kong for a week’s business trip. It had taken months to organise. Normally my brother would be around to help out – not least because he lived nearer – but he was on a month’s work placement in the US, working hard for a promotion. My mum, with a lifetime of never being a bother behind her, was distraught at the thought of asking either of them to change their plans.
I’m incredibly close to all of my immediate family. There was no question as to what I would do. Thankfully I had some time off already booked over the long weekend, and enough hours owed (and a kind enough news editor) that with a bit of re-jigging I suddenly had nine straight days free to head back to my parents’ house. I nipped home to grab some clothes, toiletries and my laptop, stopping long enough to ring my dad and brother and let them know that Mum was fine and I was on my way to the hospital to be with her when she got out of surgery. I also called Adam to tell him our smutty plans for the weekend were on hold. Then I set off.
Of course the thing about operations is that there is a lot of waiting around. I burst into the hospital reception in a fluster, to find that my mum wasn’t going to be out of surgery for at least another few hours. I sat in the waiting room, fielding calls of concern, feeling ever more tense, and finally, finally, someone came through to tell me she was out. I think I must have looked like I was having a bit of a breakdown, because they told me that once she had emerged from the anaesthetic and gone up to a ward for the night they’d let me in to see her, despite the fact we were past hospital visiting hours.
Seeing her was a blessed relief. Suddenly I was aware, in that way you only really are when something like this happens, that despite the fact I felt so immature that some days I couldn’t decide what to have for dinner, both my parents and I were ageing and there might be a time when they weren’t around any longer. I held her hand, and she smiled at me sleepily, looking pale and poorly but with enough of a twinkle in her eyes to ease my fears. I kissed her gently and then headed back to my parents’ house for the night to do the ring round of family members and friends wit
h the update on her condition (for once I wished my mum would join Facebook, just to make it easier). I packed her a bag for the morning and started Mum-proofing things so she could cope when she came home.
She came home sooner than I expected. Arguably too soon, although I can’t complain about the quality of care she got while she was in hospital, just that they seemed keen to get her out of the bed and the next person in. Two days after her surgery I was helping her, oh so slowly, get to my car on her crutches, driving her home carefully, cursing every pothole that made the car move in a way that jarred her knee and made her wince. She was in a lot of pain, taking five kinds of drugs in four different batches through the day. Walking hurt, sitting hurt, she couldn’t climb into or out of bed without help. She veered from being irritable at needing help to weepily grateful, because she knew she couldn’t do it without me.
In the dark first days after her operation we were the centre of each other’s worlds. I slept next to her, so I could help her get up and to the bathroom if she needed to in the night. I got up when she did, went to bed when she did (although I didn’t sleep – sleep wasn’t coming easily), cooked all her meals, helped her with her pills, talked her through her mood swings, mopped up her tears, reassured her when she was worried something had gone wrong. It was all-encompassing and exhausting and I’m not mentioning it in order to brag. The one thing the week taught me was that even with someone I love I am not a natural nurse. I am too impatient and easily frustrated. Also, lack of sleep makes me crazy.
There was no time for fun or frivolity. Even my current affairs obsession slipped, and I found myself reading the paper at ten o’clock at night, if at all. I spoke to Adam briefly on the phone a couple of nights in, but caught myself tearfully telling him the difficulties of helping Mum get back and forth from the bathroom and keeping on top of her pill cycle in such depth that I thought it was best not to inflict it on him again, not least because he was going to work, having his weekends and generally going about his life as normal. Also, if I’m honest, it scared me how much just hearing his voice made things feel better. This wasn’t something I should be relying on him to help me through. I should be able to do this on my own. Well, that was my logic at least.
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 9