The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story

by Sophie Morgan

  ‘Don’t you?’

  I hate it when he does this. The act of submission is one thing, but admitting that I need this, yearn for it even, always makes me blush. Which of course he knows. I tried not to sound huffy as I responded. ‘Yes.’

  He slapped my breast. ‘Some respect now might save you some pain later.’

  I tried to restrain my tone. ‘I’m sorry. Yes. You’re right, I deserve punishment.’ I hoped my penitent tone would work in my favour, although I didn’t hold out much hope.

  He was stroking my bare breast, running his fingers round in a very distracting circle. In spite of the tension running through my body I started to relax into the movement, enjoying the sensation, which made what he said next even more of a wrench.

  ‘Go downstairs and get the paddle. Now.’

  I was up, across the room and halfway down the stairs before my brain really began to process what this meant. The paddle. The. Paddle. Shit. Could I endure this? Suddenly I really wasn’t sure, and I was hardly filled with confidence to start with. I should have been better prepared, not groggy from lack of sleep, sexually frustrated and with my head elsewhere.

  I picked it up with shaking hands and headed back upstairs, mindful that keeping him waiting was just going to make it worse. Taking a couple of deep breaths outside the bedroom door, I pulled together my tattered courage. But before my hand could connect with the handle the door was pulled open and bright light flooded my eyes, leaving me half-blinded and disoriented.

  By the time my eyes had adjusted he had plucked the paddle from my hands and manoeuvred me across the room to the bed. I knelt on all fours, waiting nervously for what happened next, suddenly wishing I slept in something more than a pair of knickers.

  I was staring intently at the sheet, trying to prepare myself for what was to come, which would have been easier if I’d had any idea exactly what that was. He stroked my arse through my knickers, and the touch made me flinch. He laughed as I tried to regain some composure. His hand moved round.

  ‘Your knickers are so wet I can actually see how much of a slut you are.’

  I closed my eyes. He stroked me through the fabric of my knickers and I bit back a moan of pleasure, my body crying out for the orgasm it was so close to getting just a few short minutes before. As he ran his fingers up and down my slit, pushing the sodden material into my wetness, my breathing got harsh. I was so close to coming my legs started to buckle. I was suddenly hopeful – was he going to let me come after all?

  Of course not. Wishful thinking. He stopped and I tried not to sigh in frustration. He moved up the bed and pushed his finger into my mouth. I blushed but sucked it deep, licking myself off him. He chuckled at my eagerness.

  ‘You are a slut. We both know it and now I’m going to mark you in a way that anyone who sees you will know it too.’

  He pulled his finger away abruptly and moved behind me, pulling my knickers down to bare my arse. I had spent so long worrying about how this would work that I was already trembling, trying desperately to stay in position and not give away the extent of my fear. I was mentally kicking myself for buying him the paddle, the idea of it was all well and good but the idea of walking around with SLUT emblazoned across my arse in purple bruises repulsed me. What was I thinking? What if I really couldn’t do this and this was the first time I’d have to use my safe word?

  My rising panic meant I heard the first strike before I even felt him move behind me. It sounded like a gunshot and made me jump. For a split second I didn’t feel anything, I actually thought he’d missed. And then the pain, god the pain took my breath away. I gasped. I may have cried out. Tears filled my eyes. He might have asked me if I was OK then. To be honest I’m not sure. There was a noise like rushing waves in my head. I couldn’t really deal with anything, see anything, feel anything, except for that noise – and the pain where the paddle had connected. It hurt much more than I’d expected it to. More than his belt or the cane. I realized the full impact of what I’d given him.

  The next blow came before I had time to blink away the tears from the first. I was trying to control my breathing, trying not to cry. I wanted to be able to withstand it, was definitely too proud to say I needed to stop. So I sucked in gasps of air and felt the tears running down my cheeks from behind my closed eyes as I tried to work through the pain of blow after blow.

  After maybe a dozen blows he stopped. I tried to pull myself together, brought myself back to the present, was aware of him moving behind me. As I cowered slightly, anticipating more punishment, he moved his hand to my arse, stroking the punished cheek, even the relatively gentle touch leaving me quivering. I felt him move closer to see his handiwork, tracing the marks he’d inflicted on my pale flesh, like a painter looking at his canvas.

  ‘Hmmm. I need to hit you harder I think. And make sure the strike connects squarely or I won’t get the full effect. I think I might have to practice on one cheek to ensure I’m doing it right, and then when I feel ready I’ll give you one last massive crack across the other one which should see you properly marked. What do you think?’

  I tried not to shudder and closed my eyes so he couldn’t see they were once more filled with tears. ‘I think it’s entirely up to you.’

  I could hear the laugh in his voice as he patted me on the head. ‘Good answer, my slut.’

  He picked up the paddle again and I steeled myself for more pain, but instead he ran it up between my legs. I bit back a moan of embarrassment – the paddle slid easily along, betraying exactly how turned on I was. I could almost see his smile as he moved the paddle round in front of me.

  ‘Kiss it and thank me for giving you the punishment you seem to be enjoying so much.’

  I brought my mouth to the now glistening leather. My voice was small and I could bring myself to say nothing more than the barest minimum his order allowed. ‘Thank you for punishing me. I’m sorry I woke you up.’

  He began again.

  I wish I could say that when it started again I withstood the punishment better. But the tears still flowed, although in spite of myself my juices did too. Eventually, by the time my arse felt like it was glowing with the agony, he stopped. I felt light-headed with relief, until I realized what this meant.

  He let the tension lengthen before he gave me the final blow, on my as-yet-unblemished cheek. I was trembling at the prospect of it and when it finally connected and the noise reverberated about the room I cried out, my legs and arms buckling underneath me. He had put all his weight into it, swung hard, and it caught me perfectly across the vulnerable stripe of skin where my bum met my thigh. I was sobbing, in pain but also in relief that I had withstood the punishment. He stroked my back, making soothing noises, telling me how I had pleased him by being brave, and how beautiful my arse looked, all red and hot.

  Then he pulled me on to my back and gave me the kind of fucking which I normally yearn for, fast, hard, vicious, filling me up. Except of course under the circumstances it was just another torturous pleasure – every movement of my arse against the sheet made me cringe in pain as did his hands pinching my arse as he pushed himself deeply into me, pain tinging the pleasure of each thrust.

  Eventually I came, spasming around his cock, my cries of pleasure overshadowing the previous cries of pain. He came inside me, then pulled out and I was finally able to get the sleep I craved.

  My right arse cheek was a mess of bruises for about a week afterwards. My left was pale and pristine in comparison, except for the word SLUT emblazoned across it like a brand, which meant I had to take special care in the changing room at the gym.

  I still hate the word slut, but unfortunately Tom loves it and he loved that bloody paddle. For ages afterwards he ensured that I was marked somewhere every time we played, whether it was my arse, my inner thighs – which bruise a lot easier and which, as he had to punish me with my legs spread, tended to show in embarrassing detail exactly how wet his punishments left me – or on one notable occasion a breast.

&nbs
p; When I saw that paddle my heart started beating faster; my body reacted in a way that proved that I am indeed a slut for the punishment – and pleasure – that it could inflict, although saying it out loud remained almost more than I could bear. They say a picture paints a thousand words though, and if you had seen my body once he’d finished playing with me then I don’t need to say anything at all.

  8

  Over the months Tom and I kept playing. He kept pushing my boundaries, introducing me to new things. But then, as we got closer to the end of the year things slowed down a little.

  Working in newspapers means Christmas and New Year is a busy and hideous time. While the paper’s pagination gets smaller so the amount of news we have to write gets less, no one wants to work longer than necessary, and with schools closed, your local MP more often than not nowhere to be seen and businesses away for a break, it gets harder to actually find stories. Combined with the fact that early deadlines and all those bank holidays mean you’re effectively writing two papers at once, filling them with the least lame features you can come up with and the much-loathed ‘Review of the Year’ when all you want to do is finish early and go to the pub, all in all it makes for a pretty stressful and annoying time.

  By the time I’ve finished up at work and headed home for Noël en famille I’m usually ready for a rest, which is a bummer really, as a few days in close confinement with my nearest and dearest is many, many things, but restful is not one of them. After a lot of food, some great presents and a lot of trips round the various parts of my family, I was ready for a holiday from my holiday. And that was when Tom invited me to come and stay at his place for a while in the lull between Christmas and New Year.

  Honestly, the idea of spending five days lounging around his house fussing his dog, reading, watching his big screen TV while he was at work (oh yes, he was even more unfestive than me), catching up on some reading and eating Quality Street – plus some inevitably stress-relieving sex – sounded brilliant to me, and I was in the car as fast as I could explain a hastily made-up work emergency, pack my stuff and kiss the family goodbye. I know, I’m a bad daughter.

  When I arrived we hugged hello – we didn’t tend to kiss, it felt wrong and too relationshipy somehow, which makes us both sound worryingly like prostitutes although it made sense to us – but as soon as I curled into him, relaxing into his familiar scent, he pulled away. Without speaking he pushed me to the floor, kicking the front door shut as he moved, undoing his fly.

  His hands in my hair pulled me into position, I opened my mouth, and suddenly the thought of nativity play write-ups, Christmas party organization and anything other than the taste of him were far from my mind.

  He moved to lean against the front door, and I crawled with him, unwilling and (technically, since his hands were in my hair dragging me along) unable to let him out of my mouth. As I sucked my way up and down his length, enjoying his reactions, he came hard, coating the back of my throat in a way that made me think he was looking forward to burning off some festive-season steam too. All too soon his breathing slowed and he pulled out of my mouth.

  ‘That was great.’

  I smiled at him as he zipped himself away and helped me up, pleased and aroused at how we – apparently – weren’t wasting any time getting started on the amazing sex portion of the break.

  He slapped my arse. ‘Come on, let’s go get some lunch.’

  Oh. OK.

  I was wet and my nipples were visible through my top, but I could see the glint of humour in his eyes and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much I wanted to come. I could wait. I’m fairly patient. OK, who am I kidding, I’m not. But what’s a couple of hours between friends?

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly. We went into town and looked at the sales, and I bought books and a handbag which I loved so much I could barely restrain my glee. We had lunch, went to the cinema, walked the dog, crunching along in the frost. Generally it was wonderful, restful and everything that that time between Christmas and New Year should be – all with the additional sexual tension resulting from my awareness of the possibilities of what would happen when we got back to his house.

  And then we did get back to his house. Drank tea. Watched telly. Cooked some supper. By the time we headed up to bed my patience had pretty much faltered. As we snuggled into bed he kissed me on the forehead. And then went to sleep.

  Brilliant.

  After the ‘waking him wanking’ debacle of a few weeks before there was no way I was going to risk that, so I lay quietly in bed, watching a chink of street light reflecting on the wall and listening to his soft, rested breathing, restraining the urge to smother him with a pillow. Finally I dropped off to sleep. My final thought was, tomorrow morning.

  I woke up to feel Tom’s erection pressing against my elbow. Hoo-blimmin-rah. Being the antithesis of a morning person, there are very few things that will cause me to smile early in the day but this was definitely one of them. I rubbed him tentatively, trying to ascertain how awake he was.

  ‘Good morning. Is there something in particular I can help you with?’ His voice was wry although a good indication he was actually awake, which was pleasing all things considered.

  ‘Good morning. There might be something I’m in the market for.’

  His chuckle vibrated his chest under my cheek. ‘I can tell. I get the feeling you’re a bit horny this morning.’

  There really wasn’t any way to deny this, so I didn’t.

  ‘Why don’t you put your lips round me then?’

  I didn’t need asking twice, and turned round to lean over, licking his tempting tip before beginning to suck him properly.

  He lay back, doing very little but moaning gently when my tongue touched a spot which felt especially good. I enjoyed having control of the pace and took the opportunity to tease a little. As he began to buck in my mouth I pulled back and licked and sucked his balls for a while, something he loves but which wasn’t going to be enough to make him come just yet. I half expected him to complain, but – for once – he seemed happy to let me play, although he began stroking the curve of my arse, before running his fingers along the edge of my knickers. I felt myself get wetter, desperate for him to move his hand just the tiniest way, to slip in under the fabric and begin to finger me. It seemed he was good at teasing too.

  Little did I realize how good.

  As he began stroking me through my knickers I moaned round his cock, a wordless plea for him to stop playing with me. He ignored me, though, tracing my slit up and down the outside of my knickers until I was, admittedly rather unsubtly, pushing myself down on his hand to try and get him to give me the friction I needed.

  In the end, I broke away from him for a second.

  ‘Please, can you just touch me? Properly?’

  He laughed, and kept on with his torturous almost-stroking. ‘You are desperate this morning, aren’t you, poor slut?’

  I managed to withhold any response to his use of the ‘s’ word, I was so desperate to come, although I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice. ‘Well you did get to come yesterday. I didn’t, remember?’

  He laughed again, the kind of laugh that makes my stomach dance. ‘You’re quite right. And you will get to come eventually, when I’m ready for you to. In the meantime I suggest you go back to doing what you were doing.’

  I harrumphed quietly to myself and obeyed. If he wanted a blow job I was going to give him the best damn blow job he’d ever had and then he was going to make me come.

  I sucked him to the best of my ability. I used every trick I knew about his body, did all the things I know he loves, from gently stroking his balls and then kissing them to licking the length of his cock and then breathing on the wetness to make him tingle. I worshipped him. His cock was the focus of my world, and I was going to make him come and it was going to be great and then I was going to get my orgasm. Because, well, while it’s not all about me, a woman has needs.

  Suddenly
his hand was pinching at my hip as he came. I let him rest for a moment in my mouth before licking him gently clean. And then he started to move. To get up.

  I couldn’t actually form words but there was a kind of grumbling noise in the back of my throat that I couldn’t stop.

  ‘What? I’m going to make us some coffee.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘I know, I said you’d eventually get to come. And you will. But not this morning.’

  Don’t get angry Soph. It’ll just last longer if you make a fuss. Then I had a thought.

  ‘Can’t I just –?’

  ‘No. You can’t. I’ll tell you when. For now you wait.’ He tweaked my nipple. ‘Now get up. Come on. If you’re lucky I’ll make breakfast.’

  I got up. Grumpy.

  Now the first thing to bear in mind is yes, I could have had a wank myself. But, well, what’s the point of that? He obviously had something he was plotting and, well, as I’ve said before, only submitting for the bits you actively want to do is pointless really. I wanted to prove I could wait, and was curious as to what he had in mind for later when he would let me come. And I was stubborn. I know, I hide it well.

  And so, after a breakfast that normally would have left me completely satisfied, the day unfolded. We pottered around. I did some writing and played some online poker, we walked the dog, I cooked a massive roast, we watched some DVDs, argued about the news. And through it all I didn’t think at all about the fact I wanted to orgasm. OK, that might be a slight lie. Mainly I thought about not showing how much I wanted an orgasm and, for the most part, I think I managed it, except perhaps for the odd moments when Tom brushed my arse or the side of my breast accidentally. Actually, I wasn’t sure it was accidentally, but I didn’t want to draw his attention to it in case it was and I sounded like I was hyper-sensitive about it. My nipples were aching most of the day. But I absolutely was not going to show it. No way. Ha. That’d teach him.