No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive

by Morgan, Sophie

  After a while, though, I hit upon giving him a more memorable – and much more rude – homecoming.

  One of the major misconceptions about being submissive is that it means being passive, waiting for someone to do something to you, rather than taking the initiative. Adam had often commented on how proactive I was and how much he liked that, so, on one rather dull afternoon at work, I plotted a way to brighten his evening – albeit in a way that made me blush a bit when it came time to follow through.

  Normally when he walked in the door he’d be greeted by a cheery hello, or possibly the sound of cooking or the shower depending on when I’d got in and how far into my evening routine I’d got. He’d never come home before to find me kneeling naked on the living-room floor, my mouth open, with ‘please use me’ written on me in that bloody red lipstick.

  Trust me, it’s one thing being proactive, but when your boyfriend gets turned on by filthy degrading things, it’s harder to do those things to yourself than endure having them done to you. And not just logistically – finding the lipstick in his leather bag of tricks and then managing to write that across myself upside down was pretty tough. It was also difficult emotionally. My hand was shaking and I was blushing a little at the depravity of it all by the time he walked in. The theory of doing something I knew he’d find hot was one thing, but the practice of it was something different – kneeling there waiting for him to come home I began second-guessing myself, wondering whether this was a terrible idea and if actually he’d be a bit knackered after the day he’d had and rather just watch the news.

  Thankfully he wasn’t.

  ‘This is a nice surprise,’ he smiled, as he walked across the room. I tried not to flinch as his shoes echoed on the hard wooden floor, suddenly feeling very vulnerable as he stared at the lipstick across my chest – I knew that look was all about making me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed but I also knew that later I would be mocking him for it because it made him look like he was struggling with reading simple English.

  He was a man that loved me in uniforms, underwear and all sorts of outfits, but I couldn’t get enough of him in a suit. I know it’s a whopping great cliché, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The sight of him in something sharp left my throat dry. I swallowed as I watched him pull out his cock, leaving his jacket and tie on. He was good to me.

  He let me lean forward and take him in my mouth, sucking him in and flicking my tongue over him.

  It wasn’t long before he was fully hard and, as soon as he was, I pushed myself forward, taking him down my throat and pressing my nose into his body. He groaned as I held myself in place as long as I could, eventually pulling back when I was starting to struggle for air. I watched one of his knees buckle and smiled as I suggested he sit down on the sofa.

  He did so but I quickly got my mouth back around him, alternating between deep-throating him and licking the tip while using my hand on his shaft. I stared up at him, feeling myself getting wet as I looked at the pure pleasure on his face.

  His quick breathing and the way he started to tense told me it wouldn’t be long and I moved quickly as he curled his fingers in my hair. He let out a cry of relief as he filled my mouth. Once he was finished I put his cock away, stood up and started telling him what was in the oven for dinner as I walked into the bedroom to put some clothes on. Fear not, I got my orgasm later, but taking pleasure purely in pleasing him built the anticipation. And the one thing living together meant was that there was always time for some naughty fun.

  The bigger flat and additional privacy also made for some lazy days of shenanigans with no fear of being interrupted or one of us having to go home at some point. It also meant, by dint perhaps of the amount of sex we were having and the new experiences we were sharing, that our boundaries – and my limits – began to shift.

  It all started when we were curled up on the sofa on a Saturday morning watching TV together. Neither of us are morning people, and we didn’t have any immediate plans so we were sat, drinking tea and watching cookery programmes and enjoying not having to be anywhere or do anything.

  When he got up after his third cup of tea, I assumed he was going to the loo. At least, that was until he came back with what by now was a pretty familiar length of soft cotton rope.

  Silently he took my wrists and tied them together in front of me. My heartbeat was already increasing, wondering what he had in store, but once my wrists were secure he went back to watching TV, his arm once again going over my shoulders and pulling me into him.

  He stroked my hair and scratched behind my ear in a way that almost made me purr. Soon I was lying on the sofa with my head in his lap as he continued to almost absent-mindedly stroke me while we watched, somewhat surreally, a demonstration on making omelettes.

  Sometimes the submissive mindset is something that comes with time, the voice in my head having to be silenced by the pleasure I feel at the things we do, but other times I can slip into it easily and deeply. Being tied up is one of the things – along with having my face slapped – that can put me into a submissive frame of mind really quickly. I was already drifting, and all he had done was stroke my ear.

  We stayed like that for a long time, with him even engaging me in conversation as if this was the most normal thing in the world. I felt a little out of sorts, definitely on the back foot, but was still able to converse with him. I was even able to pick up my tea mug and drink with my hands tied in front of me. It was just like a perfectly ordinary Saturday morning, except for the fact I was conscious of how increasingly wet I was getting.

  After a while he took hold of my bound wrists and lifted them over my head, leaving me feeling very vulnerable. His touch started to become more sexual as he moved his fingers up and down my body over my clothes. He gently caressed my breasts until my nipples hardened. Then he leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips and I felt like I was melting.

  As the kiss deepened, his touch became rougher, mauling my breasts with one hand while holding my wrists in place easily with the other. Stretched out and held down, I had nowhere to go, and the incongruity of it – we were watching omelettes! – made it feel surreal. I moaned in pain and excitement.

  His hand left my breast and went between my legs. He scratched along the seam of my jeans, making me shudder. He began to apply pressure, making my knickers even wetter as they were pushed against me, my clit becoming more swollen as the material was forced against it.

  He rubbed firmly between my legs, through my clothes. I felt my skin get hot as he stopped kissing me and sat up, looking down at me with what seemed to be amusement. I hated it when he did that; the embarrassment felt prickly. It was as if he was mocking me. I struggled against my bindings but it was pointless, except that I felt him harden as he watched me squirm ineffectually. Git.

  I thought he was going to bring me to orgasm but, when I felt myself getting close, he stopped. As I looked up at him through unfocused, confused eyes, he lifted my head, stood up and walked out of the room. I didn’t really know what to do so I just stayed where I was, wondering where he had gone, what he was up to now.

  Then I heard running water. Was he going to leave me in this state while he had a bath?

  It must have been another ten minutes before he reappeared. He pulled me to my feet by my bindings and then untied me, telling me to quickly undress and join him in the bathroom.

  I shed my clothes, leaving them on the sofa, before following him, intrigued and a little nervous, into the bathroom.

  He was perched on the edge of the filled bath, still holding the rope in his hand. He told me to get in and I did as I was told, eyeing him carefully as I did so.

  The water was lovely and warm and I sank into it, thinking that I could handle most things if I got to be this comfortable. In hindsight, that was stupid and proof that I had no idea what was going on. I had underestimated him fulsomely. Still, you live and learn.

  As soon as I was settled he told me to raise my hands up and he tied the
m again, at the wrist just as he had before.

  Then he looked straight into my eyes and asked if I trusted him.

  This was when the nerves set in. I’d noticed a theme with Adam, where he tended to ask this most often before he was about to do something new or fiendish to me, and wanted to be sure I was OK with it. After a moment I nodded. I did trust him, after all. I trusted him with everything.

  It was just as bloody well.

  Before I knew what was happening he’d placed his hand on my forehead and pushed me below the surface of the water. Our bath was one of the things I loved best about our new flat; when we’d walked round with the estate agent I had fallen in love with it – it was deep, long and claw-footed. Not that the latter mattered at this particular point, although the other two factors did. When I’d seen that bath I’d imagined us lying in it together, which we had done. I had never in a million years imagined this, though.

  The splash as he pushed me under felt oddly loud to my ears, and then everything was silent except for the sound of my heart beating, the panicked thud of which filled my ears. I felt my nostrils fill with water as he held me under by the shoulders, felt my feet kick out as my instincts flared, trying to get myself up, out. After a few seconds – that felt like a fucking eternity – he pulled me back up by my tied wrists. I took in a deep lungful of air, feeling like I’d been down there for half a minute.

  My long hair was soaked and stuck to my face. He brushed it away for me as I stared up at him in a mixture of awe and fear, blinking water from my eyelashes.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  My eyes held his, needing the connection, the kindness I saw there. I had never felt so powerless, so much like he had control of every aspect of me. My nose stung from inhaling the water in shock as he’d pushed me under. My breathing was ragged. But I knew I could trust him. Knew, in spite of everything, that this was something I wanted to continue. I nodded.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ he said. I nodded again, and suddenly the world was sliding and he was pushing me under once more. This time it was for longer, maybe ten seconds or so. Maybe more. By the time he dragged me up my heart was racing and my lungs felt on fire.

  He carried on for a while, alternating between pushing me under the water and leaving me to catch my breath. At one point he dunked me up and down a number of times in quick succession, leaving me gasping and water splashed across the tiled floor and his jeans. He didn’t seem to mind. I couldn’t help but notice that his jeans were tight across his crotch. It would seem I wasn’t the only one enjoying this, despite the unusual situation.

  When he was finished he told me to stand up and face the wall. With my hands bound it was surprisingly difficult to get up, and I struggled to push myself up, but he helped me. The last thing I noticed before I turned away from him was that his shirt was wet now too.

  ‘Stick out your arse and spread your legs.’

  Normally such an order would leave me feeling exposed and embarrassed – was there a point when I’d get used to it? – but actually I was pleased to have a moment looking away from him to regain some composure. I didn’t have long to do that, though – my mistake was in assuming that he had done the most intense element of what he had planned. Definitely wishful thinking.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pick up a bottle of shower gel from the side of the tub and I wondered for a minute if he was going to fuck me with the curved top of it. In hindsight that might have been less humiliating than what he did do.

  He washed me. He filled his hands with gel and began to rub it into my back, arse cheeks and legs. Then he rubbed his soapy hand between my legs, chuckling slightly as my legs wobbled at his intimate touch and I clutched the wall. But then came the part that made me whimper aloud in embarrassment. He rubbed up and down the crack of my arse and slid a soapy finger inside me there, half cleaning me and half finger-fucking. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the embarrassment of the assault, trying to fight the inevitable, irritating arousal it was inspiring.

  When he deemed me clean he had me sit back down and washed my front, doing a very thorough job of cleaning my breasts. I’d have rolled my eyes at him for being so obvious, if I’d felt capable of looking him in the face, but by that point I couldn’t quite do it.

  He put some shampoo in his palm and began to wash my hair, the feeling of his fingers on my scalp making me pliant, almost sleepy under his attention. He rinsed the suds from my hair carefully, being sure to angle the shower head in such a way that he didn’t get any water in my eyes and the soap ran down my back rather than into my face. His solicitousness felt surreal. He was gentle, his touch light as he helped me to my feet to rinse me down with the shower attachment until I was ready to get out (he apparently felt the need to rinse my clit for twice as long as any other part of my body). Then I did roll my eyes, but he just smiled at me, giving me his arm so I could step out of the bath.

  He undid the now-wet rope from my wrists once again and wrapped me up in a fluffy, warm towel to dry me off. I curled into him as he did it and he kissed my forehead. I kissed his neck and he shivered, which made me smile against him.

  When he was done towel drying my hair he told me to go back into the bedroom and lie on the bed. I did as I was told and when he entered the room he was naked, his cock hard. He climbed onto the bed and kneeled between my legs, lifting and spreading them. I blushed again as he inspected me.

  He reached for the lube on the bedside table and squeezed some onto his finger, leaning forward to anoint around my arse and slowly push inside, making me gasp. Quickly he grabbed the tube again, squeezing some onto his cock, using his hand to slide it along his length.

  Then he grabbed my ankles with his hands, holding my legs upright and spread, and placed the tip of his cock against my arse. I’d had anal sex before but I’d always been bent over. Now I was looking into his eyes as he slowly inched his cock inside me.

  It was humiliating, embarrassing, and insanely erotic. My previous experiences of anal sex hadn’t always been positive – my tightness paired with my panic at the pain (I know, it’s ironic) meant often it didn’t work easily. But Adam had prepared me well: my body was ready to accept him. I put my arms round his neck as he started to fuck me – slowly sliding in and out.

  I pushed my arse against him as he fucked me, urging him silently to go on, to go deeper. He whispered in my ear, telling me that I was going to come from him fucking my arse because I was a dirty little whore and it was obvious I was turned on by it. I’d had orgasms through anal play before, even anal sex, but not without an additional stimulus of some sort. That said, even as I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t going to come that way, the orgasm hit me.

  When my breathing stilled he was smiling at me with that smug look he often had. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or slap him – a frequent conundrum in our sex life. Before I made my mind up he was fucking me again, a little faster and harder than before, telling me how tight I was and how much fucking my arse made him want to come too. Even before he finished the sentence he did.

  Living together was brilliant. I’d been a bit concerned it was going to be strange sharing my space with someone after so long alone, but it was lovely. Adam was better than most housemates I’d ever lived with – he put stuff in the dishwasher of his own volition and was a neat freak in a way that actually worked very well for me. The one thing that took some adjusting too was, ironically, sex.

  I know, it’s ridiculous.

  The thing is, we had a lot of sex. Lots and lots of sex. In those first heady weeks we were having sex up to two or three times a day. Before work. After work. Whole weekends. It was brilliant, exhausting, fun. We were in a cocoon of blissed-out, loved-up, sexy fun. It was ace.

  Except, of course, and this is something that funnily enough no erotica heroine I’d ever heard of had mentioned, that amount of sex can bring about cystitis.

  I’d never had it before and when I had my first attack I had no idea what
was wrong except it hurt so much I wanted to cry. I felt comfortable sitting nowhere but the loo, although I didn’t want to go even when I was there because it felt like I was weeing fire. After a few days hoping I could fend off whatever afflicted me with painkillers, a permanent hot-water bottle and force of will, I cracked and booked an appointment with the doctor. One slightly awkward conversation about how much sex I was having later and I had some sachets of cranberry-flavoured drink and (of my own volition, because I didn’t fancy going to the doctors again to discuss it) cranberry pills (which I still take every day – it’s just safer that way).

  It wasn’t the only thing that was a bit awkward to start with, despite us generally being so open with each other. The ‘how do you feel about sex during my period?’ convo was dealt with pretty easily – Adam was fine about it (probably more so than me, with my fears of mess), especially when he realised how frisky I got in the run up to it and thus how he’d have more chances to do ever more depraved things. Every cloud had a silver lining.

  Of course, the time we worked round it by lying on the bed stroking each other to orgasm would have worked a little better if I hadn’t accidentally wanked him pretty much into his own face. And then, to my shame, I got the giggles and laughed until it hurt and I couldn’t breathe. His face was a picture, and then he started laughing too. By the time I’d pulled myself together enough to pass him a tissue I’d come to the conclusion that he was a keeper. Not only was he not angry but he’d seen the funny side. And sex most definitely should be fun. Although, as I pointed out to him (much) later, it was probably karma making up for the amount of times he’d wiped my juices on my own face.

  These smutty and funny honeymoon-period anecdotes aren’t something you can bring up with mutual friends over Sunday lunch. Let’s face it, the only friends I had who might be understanding of such things (and not tempted to, at best, buy me a rubber ring for bath time and, at worst, call the police) were Thomas and Charlotte and, well, that just felt odd.