‘Of course I don’t know if you’d be able to take much more. Your arse was looking pretty battered by the time I’d finished. And you could hardly stand to lean over the arm of the sofa, your legs were shaking so much. I’d have been worried except for the fact your juice was running down your thighs so I could tell exactly how much you were enjoying it. Dirty girl.’
I was lost for words. I think I may have managed a ‘guh’, but that’s about it. As I looked round the restaurant – ladies who lunch with a gaggle of small children a table away, a couple of teenagers making a smoothie last while rummaging through a bag of purchases – I tried to regain some semblance of control and ignore the warmth pooling between my legs. It was working too, sort of, until –
‘The thing I love with the belt is how it flicks round the side of your arse with each lash. I’m sure it’s painful on impact but it’s the last flick round the curve that seems especially harsh. The marks it leaves are great though. And I love how you shudder when I run my fingernails over them. I could wank just looking at your punished arse. Although that could leave you ultimately pretty frustrated.’ He smiled in a way that showed he really didn’t care. I aimed once more for the bantering coherent-ish conversation we’d been having a few short minutes ago.
‘It’d be OK, I’m sure I could sort myself out if the need arose.’
Another wolfish smile. ‘Ah, now there’s an excuse to tie you down. Not that I really need one.’
My breath was getting ragged and I was definitely wet. I crossed my arms on the table in front of my breasts so no one could see my nipples, which were, inevitably, tight in my top.
I laughed quietly, with a faint air of desperation I couldn’t disguise. ‘We should stop talking about this now.’
He smiled. ‘Why? Are you turned on?’ As if he didn’t know. Except of course he did and was asking because he enjoyed seeing me blush as I answered.
My ‘yes’ was very quiet.
‘Move your arms away from your chest.’
I muttered his name, the word both a plea and an exclamation of exasperation, my arms still firmly covering the evidence of my arousal.
Then the tide turned and his dom voice was right there, the bantering gone. ‘It wasn’t a request, Sophie.’
Slowly I moved my arms away.
‘Move back in the seat a little so I can see you properly.’
My face was hot as I moved back.
He laughed softly. ‘That really was a little. It’s OK though, it was enough.’
He stared intently at my breasts, not breaking away when the waitress came to ask if we wanted dessert. He ordered for both of us, and when she’d gone and I pointed out she’d seen him doing it, he replied, ‘Ah, I wasn’t staring at them, I was just thinking what they’d look like naked.’
I gulped my drink. Oh, that was all right then.
As we waited for dessert, conversation reverted to the topic of the girl at work who might or might not be interested in me, but any hope I’d be given a chance to recompose myself from the incoherent puddle sitting in front of him was soon extinguished. Having met her briefly he’d decided she was a switch, someone who could be either dominant or submissive, depending on who she was playing with, and began explaining to me exactly how he’d go about showing her how to ‘get the best’ from me.
As he described tying me down, making me lick her, showing her how to use the cane effectively on my arse and breasts, making me watch them fuck, and so much more, I was beginning to move on the bench for different reasons. My hand was shaking as I tried to eat my dessert.
All of which he noticed, of course.
By the time we’d finished and got the bill I had no interest whatsoever in going to the cinema. I wanted to go back to his house for rampant mid-afternoon shagging. When I told him this – OK, maybe not ‘told’, there may have been pleading on my part; I really was very horny by this point – he smiled.
‘OK. We can go back. But not yet, I have some things I want to get first.’
He could see the frustration in my face but I wasn’t going to complain as I knew he’d just spin it out longer. So we paid the bill and started walking. I was wearing jeans and no knickers at Tom’s request, so walking around with a seam pressed along my slit drove me crazy.
By the time we’d been into a DVD shop, two bookshops and a supermarket, I wanted to scream with frustration. He wasn’t even buying anything. I’d given up even pretending to browse and was just focused on not embarrassing myself in public either by begging him to take me home and fuck me or coming to a seam-related orgasm. Finally he walked up behind me as I stood staring vacantly at a display of magazines and slapped me hard on the arse, making me yelp and dragging me from my reverie.
‘OK, I’m done. It’s time to go home.’
Thank fuck.
We finally got back to the house and as soon as we got through the door I suggested a blow job. I was desperate and wanting to reassert a little control. Tom’s ability to read me had left me on the back foot and I figured getting my mouth round him would redress the balance – blow jobs didn’t make him any less in charge, but every so often he’d make a tiny noise in the back of his throat or clench and unclench his hand and I’d know that for once he was the one fighting for control and it was all because of me, a very satisfying thought. Almost as satisfying as feeling him respond to my tongue and thickening in my mouth, getting to swallow him, diligently licking him clean afterwards and the orgasm it usually guaranteed for me afterwards. Oh yes.
So on the way up the stairs I asked him if he wanted me to suck him. He smiled. ‘I think I could be convinced by that. But I had something else in mind first.’
Before I could even begin to guess what he was thinking of, he’d grabbed my wrist and pulled me off-balance on to the bed. While I tried to right myself, or at least get myself in a slightly more comfortable position, he yanked my arm into the small of my back with one hand and began pulling down my trousers with the other. By the time I’d stopped struggling and become resigned to the fact I wasn’t going to be able to move from the position he wanted me in he’d already grabbed the hairbrush off the side table and the sound of the first strike on my arse was echoing around the room.
The rhythm was relentless. Sometimes his punishments were light and playful but this was anything but, even though it was only a few hours after he had used his belt on me. I don’t know how long it went on, I was just focused on riding the waves of pain.
By the time he paused to run his fingernails and then the bristles of the brush along the burning red marks of my arse, all I knew was that my face and my cunt were both wet. He pulled me back up, running his hand along my slit as I stood in front of him on wobbling legs. Chuckling, he pushed his finger into my mouth for me to suck it clean, pointing out that for all my tears and whimpers as he punished me I was now tasting the proof I enjoyed being treated that way. I blushed as I licked my juice from him, hating his smugness – and the fact he was right.
Once his finger was clean he ordered me to strip and then when I was naked he pushed me to my knees. He took one of my nipples in each hand and pinched them, mauling them between his fingers until I was biting my lip to avoid crying out. Finally he tired of the game and undid his trousers. I set on him like I was starving.
But he wanted control of everything. He tangled his fingers fully into my hair and began fucking my face at his speed, indifferent to my stinging scalp and struggle to breathe as he dragged me up and down his cock. Then suddenly, his hands tightened and he pulled me away from his crotch.
‘I’m not coming in your mouth.’ I looked up at him in confusion. ‘I’m going to come on your breasts. And as soon as I have you’re going to lie back on the bed and I am going to do what you’ve been gagging for me to do all day. I’m going to make you come.
‘But there are rules. If any of my spunk drips off you and hits the bed I’m going to stop what I’m doing, immediately. I’ll make you get dressed and you can go h
ome wet, whimpering and unsatisfied. Do you understand?’
I nodded, watching intently as he ran his hand up and down his cock. And then he came, in long milky spurts across my breasts and stomach. Taking a step back he smiled at me. ‘Well what are you waiting for?’
I sank carefully to the bed, gasping at the pain of lying on my still throbbing arse.
‘Does it hurt?’
I nodded, any pretence at hiding it impossible.
He smiled again as he grabbed my arms at the wrist and moved them to make me hold the headboard of his bed.
‘Shame. Just remember what happens if you spill any.’ He ran a hand along my inner thigh and I trembled. ‘I have a feeling you’d rather not go home frustrated.’
Then he started fingering me and I was lost. He ran his fingers along my slit and then pushed them deep up inside me. He finger fucked me relentlessly, while grinding my clit with his thumb. I was moaning and squirming in pleasure but every movement caused zinging pain as my arse brushed against the sheet. The sensations merged until the pain and the pleasure and the humiliation and the sheer sexiness of it was all one, my loud moans shattering the silence.
Tom stopped for a moment, taking a step back to look down at me, staring intently. I blushed, wondering what kind of picture I must make lying there, legs spread and begging to come. Then I realized he was checking whether anything had dripped off me as I writhed.
I was desperate. I went to move my hands but his ‘tut’ as I shifted halted me in my tracks. For a split second we looked at each other, my eyes no doubt narrowing as I realized exactly what this meant, while his twinkled, his lips widening into a smirk at my reaction when I understood what I needed to do if I wanted to ensure my orgasm.
Who am I kidding? There were no ifs involved. Even as my brain processed what he was expecting, and wondered if I would do it, I was already moving my body. I twisted awkwardly on the bed, each brush of the bedding against my welts making me suck air in through my teeth. One particularly forceful movement, made as I saw a droplet moving inexorably round the curve of my hip in a way which filled me with panic, saw me bashing the side of my arse against the bed hard enough that I whimpered. Still I kept moving, while he watched my inevitably futile attempt to thwart gravity.
Finally, he took pity on me. ‘If you’re having trouble, I’ll let you use your hands.’
Thank fuck. Desperately I ran my hands along my rib cage and the sides of my breasts to catch his cum, greedily licking my fingers clean before putting my hands back on my now-glistening and also flushed chest. Feeding myself seemed to please him as – thank goodness – he started pounding his fingers inside me again.
It was like swimming against conflicting currents. The relentless frigging, fingers pounding into my cunt, the still raw pain of my arse pushing against the bed as I writhed. Feeling so many different sensations, all the while trying desperately to ensure I didn’t spill anything, meant that it took me a long time to orgasm despite my desperation. Suffice to say, I was aching by the time the need to orgasm overcame any fears of failing at his challenge.
When I did come I came hard, my moans and eventual screams ringing loud in my ears. I trembled for a long time afterwards with the intensity of it all. He stroked my shoulder as the shudders subsided and as I looked over at his still fully clothed body I was reminded that even I could underestimate him sometimes. It was also one of the most memorable shopping trips I’ve ever been on, which is pretty bloody amazing when I didn’t actually buy anything.
It was my first real experience of the challenges of a D/s that wasn’t purely about pain, but also encompassed losing dignity and control. To my surprise I began to find those moments were the ones that made me blush the most, that I found most challenging. My pain threshold gave me a chance to withstand brute force, but the psychological side of being demeaned stayed with me long after the bruises had faded. The moments would flash into my mind and bring both a feeling of embarrassment but also arousal, along with confusion. Understanding the things that turned me on was at times difficult; accepting them even tougher when the intensity of the scene and the adrenaline high had faded and I was left remembering how far I had allowed myself to be pushed, had pushed myself. It was hugely exciting but sometimes a bit worrying – how would I know how to get the balance right? How would I know not to go too far?
6
The problem with being a masochist is that, when it comes down to it, if your dominant isn’t an utter sadist then punishments in the usual sense of the word don’t really work as a deterrent.
I know it’s ironic, not least because, let’s face it, we’re not talking ‘punishments’ in the usual sense of the word anyway. I’m not a recalcitrant child, or a dog that needs training, and I’d be very uncomfortable being with anyone who felt that was an acceptable part of our dynamic – each to their own and everything and I guess as long as both parties are happy with it that’s fine, but it doesn’t work for me. Also, I’m forgetful, clumsy and very, very sarcastic – if someone were looking to train that out of me, firstly I’d be in trouble the whole bloody time, and secondly by the time they’d finished I’d be very dull and not much like me.
That said, I was fast realizing that in the right mindset I really did love pain a lot. The sting of it, the challenge of it, the adrenaline high it produced, the catharsis afterwards. And if Tom wanted to come up with arbitrary ‘play’ reasons to punish me, then I really wasn’t going to quibble in the least.
After all, the ebb and flow of pain as a cane lashes the curve of my arse where it meets the top of my thigh makes me wet. Drugs aren’t my thing but the high I get when the adrenaline is thrumming through my body is a legal (and free) equivalent to that rush. It stays with me for at least as long as the marks do, occasionally rushing to the forefront of my mind during the days after a session, catching me unawares as I grind through my vanilla, professional day. A flash of memory will make my nipples hard, my body ache, my eyes glitter in a way that might make my colleagues wonder exactly what I am thinking about in that moment where I seem elsewhere.
All in all, though, the pain was hardly a punishment and thus, it turned out, not that much of a challenge from Tom’s perspective. Why have me endure that when he could have me do something else, something I’d never dreamed of, that broke my brain a little bit when he told me about it.
When you’re playing with a dominant as irritatingly insightful as Tom, he watches to find out the thing that you don’t find sexy. The thing you do at his behest while gritting your teeth, as an act of pure submission. The thing you hate, and do just to please, usually while pretending it doesn’t bother you because you know if he realized just how much you hated it he’d make you do it more just because he could. The thing you don’t want to do. Aren’t sure you can do. Which leaves you with stormy eyes, flushed with anger and humiliation, wishing you could tell him to fuck off but knowing that you can’t because in spite of yourself you crave this even if you can’t explain why.
For me, that is the foot thing.
There are many amazing things about Tom, both in terms of character and appearance. He is intelligent, funny, has the most expressive, gorgeous blue eyes, a dirty smile and the ability to keep me on the back foot like few people I have ever met. Personally and sexually he challenges me in a way that makes life just seem that bit sharper, colours that bit brighter. There are many things I could tell you about Tom that are amazing, arousing, brilliant. But I really wouldn’t say his feet are one of them. OK, two of them.
We’d been out with a group of friends and messing about, play-fighting and being silly. Our D/s relationship remained to the outside world a subtle and sporadic one, a dom/sub with benefits if you like, and our mutual friends knew nothing about it. However, when I tapped him on the head with the rolled-up magazine extolling the virtues of the latest releases showing at the cinema and caught his nose hard enough to make his eyes water things shifted. I dug a tissue out of my handbag, while apologizing for m
y cack-handedness. Taking it from my hand he smiled as he wiped his eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, before adding, ‘I’ll punish you for it properly later,’ in a voice meant just for me.
Suffice to say I spent a great part of the film wondering exactly what that meant. His tone wasn’t unduly pissed off but it promised something out of the ordinary, so not his hand. The cane? The whip? His belt? A ruler? Would he punish me, fuck me until he came and then leave me unsatisfied, something he had done one memorable and hideously frustrating sleepless night a few months before when I had been left with my hands tied behind my back while he slept like a baby? God I hoped not. I was definitely up for something more satisfyingly fun.
In the end he chose something that made a night of frustration look like a walk in the park. In fact I think I’d rather have had a month of frustration. And I’m not really the chaste type.
I was on my knees, naked, on his bed when he explained to me what was going to happen. He was stroking the small of my back, running a leisurely finger up and down my spine in a way that – paired with the chill in the room and fierce anticipation – meant I was already distracted enough that for one hopeful minute I thought I’d misheard him. Definite wishful thinking.
‘Do you understand?’ he asked.
I stayed silent, hoping he’d actually say he’d changed his mind and instead was going to beat me until I cried and then fuck my bruised and throbbing arse without lube in recompense. That’d hurt like hell and definitely count as a punishment. Would that count? Could I suggest it? Would that count as topping from the bottom?
He stopped stroking my back and instead pinched one of my nipples. Hard.
‘I said, do you understand?’
I swallowed hard, and – unable to speak – nodded. What is it they say? You can understand but not comprehend? That was me. He had just asked me to do something that I just didn’t think I could do. I didn’t want to do it. The thought of doing it made me feel sick with humiliation and anger. This was not in any way alluring to me. Even the usual submissive satisfaction I get from knowing I’m pleasing someone by demeaning myself wasn’t enough to make this seem in any way sexy. At all.
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 7
