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

by Morgan, Sophie

  As he moved down my body I began to shake. I had no sense of time passing, but surely the ginger burn should be calming down by now? As it was, I was continually whimpering behind my gag, unable to control my reactions, thankful that he had gagged me because otherwise I would have been howling by this point. His hand went between my legs. I couldn’t decide if I was thankful or annoyed that he took the pegs on my lips off so quickly. The burst of pain was intense enough that I saw stars, but at least it was over quickly, and his hand rubbing between my legs was a very welcome change of pace.

  Finally I was left with one peg on my clit, the ginger in my arse and the too-big-plug vibrating away in my cunt. He stopped for a moment, looking down at me again, drinking in the sight of me. Then, to my rising panic, he pressed the bulb on the plug once more, filling me utterly, and changed the speed of the vibrations inside me. Suddenly my moans were the inevitable precursor to an orgasm that I was a little worried might knock me off the bed. Maybe it was just as well I was tied down.

  He leaned in, kissing my cheek where a track of tears was drying.

  ‘Are you going to come for me now, my brave, good girl?’

  I nodded, although to be honest I wasn’t sure if I would be able to overcome the whirl of sensations enough to lose myself in orgasm. Sometimes, though, he knows what my reactions will be in such situations better than I know them myself.

  He unclipped the peg at my clit and began rubbing it with his fingers, both to mitigate the pain and increase the pleasure. I felt myself begin to slide under, looking to him, watching the nod and the smile on his face as I surrendered myself to the sensation.

  I came so hard it hurt. In the immediate aftermath I was disconnected from what was going on, my breathing loud and my limbs loose as he moved around me, taking off the cuffs, rubbing my arms, pulling out the gag and then, finally, reaching round and pulling out the piece of ginger.

  He wrapped it in a tissue and threw it in the bin, washing his hands again before climbing back in bed with me. I was quiet, replete. After the most intense submissive experiences it takes a little while for me to come back to earth. I was a slightly dazed and almost sleepy version of myself.

  He cuddled me close, and I curled into his body heat gratefully, seeking that connection and closeness as I began to resurface. He kissed my hair and stroked my back and I clung to him, a little overcome. Speechless.

  ‘See? Creativity. I don’t need to worry about noise.’

  It took a few seconds for me to understand his words, and when I did I laughed to myself, suddenly mindful of the game that had started all this.

  ‘You’re definitely right. Is that what you want to hear? You’re right.’

  He grinned at me. ‘Come on, Soph, when don’t I want to hear you tell me I’m right?’

  I stuck my tongue out at him. ‘That was incredible, though. The ginger hurt so much, but the increase in intensity was amazing. Moving from the tingle to the burn, until the point where it was all I could do to cope with the pain.’

  He nipped my earlobe with his teeth. ‘It was fucking hot to watch. I do like making you squirm.’

  I nodded solemnly. ‘That you do.’

  He grinned at me. ‘Next time we do it I’m going to have you on all fours and spank and then flog you as you begin to squirm.’

  Maybe it was because, whilst the pain had burned fiercely, it ended almost as soon as the ginger was removed, but my first thought was one of anticipation.

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘I know. Minx.’

  I switched off the light and we went to sleep, him secure in the knowledge he’d been proved right, and me not giving a toss about that but feeling the lovely after-effects of the satisfaction and release of a wonderfully intense evening.

  Was it terrible I was plotting ways to badger him the following day to see what he’d do to top it? Maybe I am a brat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ginger was just one of many new experiences Adam introduced me too. Another I enjoyed, much to my surprise, was watching porn together. Before I met him my knowledge of porn was born mostly of prejudice and those fifteen-minute free previews you get on hotel pay-per-view channels, mostly of fake-breasted women with false fingernails. I know, fingernail extensions are a daft thing to get irate about, but I found them ridiculous – who could believe these women could happily wank when they had talons so sharp it was like watching Wolverine masturbating? I know, probably the average porn film maker isn’t worrying about my preoccupation with Stanislavski’s willing suspension of disbelief, but it mattered to me.

  I’m definitely no kind of prude, but my choice of erotic inspiration was always text-based, from my earliest forays into buying Black Lace books and reading Literotica online. When Adam first mentioned us watching porn together I rolled my eyes. I just wasn’t interested. I’d rather have had sex watching the Test Match Special, and that really didn’t float my boat either. But one night, curled up in bed, he showed me a bit of a scene involving a beautiful (but not fake-looking) brunette woman with amazing eyes.

  The D/s element was minimal, it was beautifully shot and not too – for want of a better word – gynaecological. It felt real and by the time he reached between my legs my enjoyment was, not to put too much of a fine point on it, obvious. I later learned the woman’s name was Stoya. Adam showed me another couple of films he had with her in them, then together we found some other films with hot, real-looking women who reacted like normal women would having sex (no claws and no shrieking orgasms of the sort that made me raise an eyebrow in his direction). My favourites, along with Stoya, were Madison Young, Sasha Grey and the Australian domme Chanta Rose. The thing about all these women is that they completely went against my preconceptions of what women working in porn were like. Articulate, sexually liberated (and certainly not being taken advantage of by anyone), intelligent, creative – the kind of women I’d love to go for drinks with because they seemed interesting and like they had something to say.

  Over a period of time we watched a fair few scenes curled up together in bed, and I became a convert. We didn’t watch it every time we had sex – I think doing anything every time you have sex together is a bit of a concern – but as part of our sexual repertoire it was fun. It also provided a springboard to lots of discussions about what we were into and what we might like to try. The porn itself varied from being quite straightforward sex (including a Batman parody that managed to be both hot and hilarious) to very intense D/s type scenes which made my throat dry. But as much as I loved those, I also loved the scenes of aftercare, where the submissives who had been involved in the action bundled up in bathrobes, their faces showing the same euphoric endorphin-laden smiley reactions I did after something intense but hot. I could relate to them. I believed them. And the fact this porn was something aimed at me rather than just blokes appealed. A lot.

  As for Adam, he loved how much I enjoyed it and that it was something we could share. I think he also approved of the fact we could have conversations about attractive women without me being funny about it. I was definitely secure in our relationship and where we were at – I don’t look like a porn star (although from what I can tell, away from the cameras most porn stars don’t look like porn stars either), and Adam wasn’t expecting me to look like one any more than I was expecting him to look like either James Deen (a prolific and increasingly mainstream male porn star) or Damian Lewis (it’s something about his eyes).

  I know for some people porn is a major taboo, but with Adam I found that the better I got to know him and the more I trusted him, the happier I was to experience new things. I was deeply in love with him, I knew that he loved me and I trusted him to protect me. I’d trusted the previous dominants I’d played with to a lesser extent, but the more intense experiences we had together, the better we could read each other. I trusted him to know what I could cope with and what I couldn’t, to know what my reactions meant in any given situation.

  Of course, sometimes he used thi
s knowledge to mess with my mind in evil ways – not least because he knew I am both impatient and incredibly curious (my mum says nosey; I do prefer curious – hell, as a journalist I think I can justify it as ‘professionally curious’).

  One dull, grey Monday morning I got to my desk clutching a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant (surely the only way to get through the start of a week) to find an email already waiting from him. It was short, to the point and exactly the kind of thing that set my mind in a frenzy and my fingers tapping out a flurry of questions in return.

  I have plans for this weekend. A big challenge. I’m going to introduce you to something new.

  I was burning with curiosity. The nerves had started in earnest and I was soon working at it like a knot, trying to unravel what the challenge could be from the (admittedly scant) information he would give me. The annoying thing was, I knew that he had told me this early in the week because he wanted the anticipation and nerves to increase as we edged closer to the weekend. But knowing that didn’t stop me reacting exactly as he expected. I couldn’t help it. Annoying brain. On Monday the only thing he would concede to my mostly-ignored questions was that:

  It won’t hurt in the way you’re thinking. But I can’t say it won’t hurt at all.

  I’ll be honest, after the ginger incident I wasn’t taking anything for granted. We’d already ascertained he could do things to me that I’d never even thought of. My curiosity drove me to distraction.

  I tried to question him when his guard was down. Faux casually before he went to sleep. While we were eating dinner. Even while we were having sex. But he was having none of it. He just grinned at me, and got the kind of glint in his eye that made me feel excited and nervous in equal measure.

  Even when the weekend finally arrived he made me wait. I spent all of Friday night half expecting him to jump me, or tell me to fetch something from the blanket box, which had become our de facto home for toys. But nothing. Saturday we spent most of the day playing computer games together on our laptops, and by Sunday I was half-convinced he’d forgotten, or changed his mind, or whatever he was planning was dependent on something he’d ordered and which hadn’t arrived yet.

  Silly Sophie.

  We were sitting on the sofa watching nothing in particular on TV when he took my hand and stood up. He didn’t look at me or say anything, but his meaning was clear. I followed him into the bedroom.

  As he moved to the blanket box – I knew it! (knew what? I have no idea, but it was a vindication of sorts) – he spoke to me over his shoulder.

  ‘Take your clothes off. All of them.’

  His tone was brusque but, for now at least, any nerves were pushed aside by a sense of anticipation. I took my clothes off quickly, trying to peer past his back to see what he was removing from his box of tricks.

  Once I was naked he turned to me, holding a couple of lengths of rope. He pushed me onto the bed and tied my wrists together and then tied them to the headboard. He then spread my legs open and tied each ankle to a corner of the bed, leaving me spread wide open.

  Before Adam, I was relatively unused to being tied up. My exes had often used cuffs and on the rare occasions they did use rope it was in a perfunctory fashion. Adam was a rope aficionado. He loved shibari, and his ties were often elaborate, meticulous, with him occasionally loosening something that didn’t sit right to then pull it back in place perfectly. He became completely focused on the job at hand when he tied me up and I loved to watch the look of concentration on his face. But even on that basis he was more disconnected from me now than usual. He moved my arms and legs as he wanted to, but his movements were businesslike, I was another plaything. It was an oddly hot thought. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t keep me in the blanket box.

  He left the room briefly, and returned trailing wires. I was confused and a little nervous – my first thought was, ‘Does whatever that is plug in at the mains?’ Then he moved closer, lifting his arms to show me what he’d got.

  Everyone’s seen those machines. They’re the kind of things they advertise on late-night TV aimed at people desperate to get fit but lacking the time or motivation to get to the gym. I’ve read the hyperbole, seen the Sunday supplement brochures, but always been a bit suspicious if I’m honest. Frankly, I have lard-arse tendencies brought about by a lifetime’s love of cheese. I don’t see how four sticky pads attached to my stomach are going to be able to work any ‘muscles’ hiding under the legacy of Cheddar.

  When I’d first seen the TENS machine amid his stuff when we were unpacking I’d mocked Adam a little, but he told me it was good for treating muscle pain he got as a result of a recurring rugby injury. I was suddenly aware he had potentially left out a secondary use that might have been of interest to me. Git.

  He placed a small circular pad on my breast, just beside my nipple. It was cold and sticky and I shivered slightly as he adjusted it. Then he added a second one to the other side of my already-erect nipple (let’s say it was part nerves, part arousal). He moved to the other breast and did the same.

  I was wary as he leaned down towards me, his breath tickling against my ear.

  ‘Do you remember your safe word?’

  My throat was dry and I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to speak, so I nodded.

  ‘Say it out loud.’ I hesitated. He took my silence for stubbornness. ‘Come on, there’s no shame in saying it. Say it for me.’ My jaw was clenched, and my nerves increased in the way they always did when he performed this almost ritualistic check. The word I had chosen – courtesy of an in-joke from a comedy show – was deliberately unalluring and faintly ridiculous. But it wasn’t that I was worried about killing the moment or whatever, it was that this check inevitably pinpointed that whatever was about to happen was going to be a serious challenge for me. After a week of wondering about what he had in mind, all my wild theories had been blown out of the water with his first move. I couldn’t second-guess him and had no idea what was coming next. This was a real step into the unknown, where I had to trust him and let him be my guide. I mentally cursed him for making the build-up even worse, then took a steadying breath, trying to calm myself down.

  Then, through gritted teeth: ‘Flugelhorn.’ I told you it was unalluring.

  Half a second after I’d spoken, I cried out loud. I couldn’t help it. A sudden sharp pain ran across my nipples. I had a split second to think, ‘He was right, this isn’t a conventional pain, it feels different,’ and then it hit me again. I don’t cry out a lot – I’m usually a whimperer, and even then a grudging one, but every burst of pain that flashed across my skin wrenched a loud cry from my throat.

  Fuck.

  In the kind of random thought that flashes through my mind in these kinds of moments I suddenly thought, ‘He uses this to feel better?’

  Over the next minute or so the pain came and went every few seconds. The relentless pulse made my nipples prickle and the soft flesh of my breasts sting.

  He moved closer, and I glared at him, standing there with his little white plastic box, the black and red wires attached to my body. I noticed as well that there were a worrying number of knobs and buttons on the box. I could see where this was going.

  He definitely wanted to play. He twisted a dial and suddenly my back was arching with the increased intensity and length of the pulse. Fuck. I let out a noise that can only be described as a mournful wail. He changed the programme, possibly to minimise any disruption to our neighbours.

  After a moment of blessed relief, the pain began to build again. It started as a minor prickle, but as the seconds lengthened I began to bite my lip to try and stop the cry forming in my throat.

  Adam watched me struggle against the rope, and grinned at me – the same kind of look he’d had when I gave him the remote-controlled egg. I had a flash of what he’d have looked like as a kid when he was given a Scalextric or some such. Hell, he was still a gadget fiend now, it’s just his favourite toys included semi-naked women.

  His finger
s moved again on the box and I steeled myself for what was coming next. It was as though he wanted to see what reactions and noises he could elicit from me – what was hardest for me to handle.

  More quickly than I expected he switched the machine off, pulling the sticky pads off my breasts and giving my nipples a quick kiss as he did so.

  His smile was getting wider with every passing minute and it made me feel an odd mix of affection at how much fun he was having and nerves at what exactly he was up to. I was right to be suspicious.

  ‘Right. Let’s get started shall we?’

  What? I thought we were finished. Shit.

  He placed the four pads in two sets of two at the very top of my inner thigh, tantalisingly (and, admittedly, a little worryingly) close to my cunt. Control box in hand, he sat himself down on the bed next to my prone body. He had the look in his eyes that simultaneously makes me wet and nervous. His thumb flicked a couple of switches and then the movement started.

  The initial shock (if you’ll forgive the pun) of the feeling tickling my thighs made me jump, even though I’d just felt the same sensations in my breasts. I squirmed a little in the rope, and got a smirk. But then I had time to adjust to the sensation.

  At the lowest setting the tingling felt not dissimilar to my rabbit vibrator being run along my inner thigh. It was pleasant, tickling, soothing almost. I even began to relax into it, enjoying being teased within my bonds.

  I don’t know how long we lay there that way, but I was blissed out by the time the sensation changed. The strength of the vibration increased – a quick look at Adam’s smile made me realise I wasn’t imagining it – and suddenly it didn’t feel like a vibrator running across my skin, but as if my skin itself was properly vibrating – which of course it was as the current ran through it. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but was certainly a step up from before. I started to move more in the ropes in spite of my attempts to stay still, squirming against the sensation.