The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story

by Sophie Morgan

  He nodded. ‘All I need is for you to get a feel for what’s happening. Stand it up first, then we can decide how big it is. Call me when you know roughly what it’ll make.’

  I headed out, stopping briefly by my desk to grab the number of my contact. My lazy afternoon was a distant hope, although the adrenaline was also starting to course through me at the prospect of trying to figure out what was going on, especially with the clock ticking.

  In hindsight, I should have texted James early to warn him that I might be running late. But until I knew how much work I was signed up for it didn’t seem worth causing extra faff. By the time I’d spoken to the headmistress – unhelpful and understandably grumpy – and some of the mothers waiting at the school gate, it was clear this was going to make something, and I’d need to go back to the office to write it up. Sitting outside the councillor’s house in my car at half five, I sent James a text. Suffice to say I wasn’t going to get to his for 7pm.

  Really sorry, work’s mad. Can

  we push back meeting? x

  I didn’t get his reply until an hour later, when I was finally out, with a notebook full of background to shore up the colour of the quotes from the school gates. I frowned when I read it.

  Fine. Let me know another

  night you’re free if you do

  want to meet.

  Balls. I reread the message I’d sent him, suddenly realizing that what I’d taken to mean me turning up an hour (OK, realistically, two) later had to his eyes meant I was cancelling completely. I started typing a reply but then realized it was likely to sound more strained. I threw my phone back in my bag – best to sort it later once I’d finished for the night.

  Of course, trying to get across the city at half six by car is a joke. By the time I’d got back to the office and done what I needed to do I was thinking it was probably just as well he’d cancelled me, or I’d accidentally cancelled him, or whatever had actually just happened. I felt a pang at not having gotten to meet, though, made worse by the fact he hardly seemed that concerned about it; the tone of his text was frosty in comparison to the easygoing friendly messages of earlier. I don’t want to be that girl, deconstructing texts on the basis of kisses, but I couldn’t help but notice some of them had disappeared over the course of the day.

  When I got home I tried calling him, but it went through to voicemail. I left a quick message and hopped in the bath before going to bed, exhausted, but not in the way I’d envisaged I’d be when the day started.

  The next day I emailed him to see if he was about later in the week to meet up. His response was non-committal and left me wondering if he’d actually ever been interested in meeting properly at all. I chalked it up to experience, moved along and chucked the matching bra and knicker set into my underwear drawer, hopeful there would be another point where I’d get to use it. Just, apparently, not for him. I was disappointed, but decided I wasn’t really that interested in his sexy smile, quick wit and overcoat-sharing brand of chivalry anyway.

  Chivalry was overrated. I kept saying it to myself over and over during the following week, but even I knew I was kidding myself. The following Monday I cracked and sent him a link to a story from a political blog that I knew would make him incandescent with rage.

  He replied within a few minutes of me sending it. My mental image of him tapping out his lengthy rant furiously on his BlackBerry made me smile.

  I replied, calmly, reasonably and completely disagreeing with everything he said, as was inevitable whenever we discussed politics. Suddenly we were back and forth chatting again. Every time my phone pinged I’d get butterflies in my stomach, hopeful it was him, and a lot of times it was.

  Finally, at the end of an email where the discussion had deteriorated to the point where I was accusing him of despotic tendencies while he dismissed my ramblings as those of a ‘bloody hippy’, came a sentence that made my heart pound.

  Look, I know this is possibly a

  bad idea, but do you fancy

  coming round for dinner?

  He was right, it was a terrible idea, although I wasn’t sure I felt reassured that he felt that way too. Throwing caution to the wind, though, I immediately accepted. We could be idiots together, and at least I’d see how this played out.

  I have a terrible sense of direction. Awful. If there is one thing about myself that I dislike above all others it is the fact I am incapable of finding my way anywhere. It makes me feel out of control, powerless, and not in a good way. I’ve been known to get lost in people’s houses.

  James lived over the other side of the city to me, in an area so achingly upmarket I’d only driven through it a couple of times, for work. I decided that driving was a sensible course of action as it meant I could leave as early or as late as I wanted without having to rely on public transport. Of course, my crappy navigation skills made for a stressful drive over, even before I discovered his apartment block was so exclusive it apparently didn’t have a sign showing its name. Plus most of my mind was focused on exactly what would happen when I got there. I trusted him in the sense that I knew enough about him that my nutter radar wasn’t sounding, but I couldn’t for the life of me marry up the James who seemed so confused by the drunk girl jumping him with the one who demanded I hand over my knickers. Or the one who thought having me come round for dinner was a terrible idea. Which was the real him? What on earth was I letting myself in for? And why was I even bothering, when we were in such different worlds? My serious case of the butterflies had only been exacerbated when I got a text from him a few hours earlier:

  I am having concentration issues today. Keep thinking about exactly what to do with you. X

  What did that mean? Was he talking about the rude things he’d hinted at before our school-scuppered date, or wondering whether to break open post-dinner Scrabble? I had no clue; my social capability was completely skewed. He’d broken my brain with a few kisses and emails. I had no hope.

  It pretty much ended the productivity of my afternoon too as, with the best will in the world, writing up council planning application news is never going to hold the attention when your mind’s pondering smut. I found myself unable to stop thinking about what he might be thinking about. There was certainly a D/s-ish element to the things in my head, but was that him? Or was that me, in a post-Thomas funk, seeing rudeness where there was none? Was I going to head over and make a complete arse of myself? The fact I’d resigned myself to this happening and yet still found I was unable to face cancelling depressed me immensely. I really was a masochist.

  An attempt at reasserting some semblance of control didn’t end especially well. When I sent him a text asking if I could bring anything with me, I was thinking a bottle of wine or dessert. But his response was unequivocal and made me flush as I sat at my desk.

  Condoms. Lots of condoms. x

  Oh my. So he was thinking about us having sex then. That was a promising sign. Suffice to say my story on council planning didn’t get anywhere near the level of professional attention it should have done that afternoon. I did, however, undoubtedly look the cheeriest I ever have while writing it.

  Finally I arrived at what I was fairly sure must be his road, parked my car in what I hoped was his basement and walked over to what I was hoping was his door. I rang the doorbell and as he came down to greet me, barefoot and smiling, I found myself smiling back in spite of my nerves. We walked up the stairs to his flat, although my distractedness was such that I managed to walk halfway up before he turned to look at me and said: ‘Sophie? You need to close my front door.’

  Oooops. I blushed, went back down the stairs and closed it, before walking back up trying to look as if nothing had happened. Smooth. I know, I impress even myself with my ability to hold it together in challenging social situations.

  We got into the flat and he gestured towards the living room. I walked in and turned around, taking the opportunity to scope out the shelves and clutter for more clues about the kind of man he was. I know this mak
es me sound like a stalker; I maintain it’s my journalistic tendencies, although some people might argue that’s the same thing. Then he cleared his throat.

  ‘Close the door please, Sophie.’

  I was halfway across the room to obey before I realized I’d moved instinctively. I shut the door gently and turned round to find him right behind me, invading my personal space. His hands became entwined in my hair as he bent his head towards mine for a kiss. I closed my eyes, enjoying the moment, how he towered over me and held me in place as his tongue invaded my mouth and his hands ran over my body, cupping my arse to pull me closer to him. He was the tallest man I had kissed, and – not being short myself – it was a novelty to feel dwarfed by his size. I felt he could either protect or overpower me easily depending on his intent. He broke the kiss and stroked my bare arms, which had, embarrassingly come out in goosebumps. Taking my hand he led me out of the room. No overpowering going on here then. I felt a pang of disappointment, at least until I smelled the unmistakable scent of garlic and rosemary coming from his kitchen. OK, I could work with this.

  I love home cooking. Seriously. A lovely home-cooked dinner means more to me than the swishest restaurant. Living alone means I tend to not bother for the most part, living on stir fry, soup and cereal. Every so often I’ll go the other way and make something elaborate, although what usually happens is I get halfway through the process and am bored by the chopping, stuffing and basting and then revert back to soup for another three months.

  So being around anyone who can cook is always a welcome novelty. As I sat on a stool in his kitchen with a glass of wine, James pottered around, chopping vegetables to go with some steak he’d apparently seasoned earlier. We chatted about work and TV, he told me about a long weekend he was planning with his sister to celebrate their parents’ golden wedding anniversary, and generally it was comfortable and relaxed and felt a million miles away from the ferocity of his kisses a few moments before. The change of gear left me completely on the back foot even though, being me, I was doing everything I could to show that I wasn’t in any way bothered at all, even if it was taking all my effort to stop myself from putting a finger to my lips to feel exactly how puffy my mouth was.

  As it was, dinner was lovely, the company was good, as was the conversation. But through it all at least three quarters of my conscious thought was about sex, and never has a man eating a steak been so arousing. Even watching him chew and swallow made my throat dry. I’d clearly gone bonkers and should have gone home for my own safety. At one point I had to make a deliberate effort to stop my hand shaking around my glass, my equilibrium was so off kilter. By the time we had stacked the plates in the sink and it looked to my hopeful eyes like we might resume the kissing, I was already like a cat on hot bricks.

  The analogy was actually rather apt. James had two very cute Siamese kittens who padded around his flat like feline ninjas. I’d been surprised when I saw them: ‘How can you have time to look after these guys?’ I exclaimed as I leaned down to see them better.

  He looked a little bit sheepish, which made me smile. ‘I have a woman who comes in to check on them.’

  I chuckled. ‘Of course you do.’

  Initially the kittens were wary of me, but by the time I’d been sat still for a while the braver of the two came up to sit on my lap. Having not had a pet of my own since I moved away from my parents, I’d missed this simple pleasure, and before I knew it I’d been fussing him for a long while, chuckling at him cleaning my fingers with his sandpapery tongue. In what was probably slightly bad form, I wasn’t hugely aware of where James was until suddenly he was stroking the back of my neck, echoing the way I was fussing his cat. I shivered slightly underneath him, enjoying it, my body responding to – finally! – his touch. Then I froze, unsure how to react, not wanting to scare him into stopping. Aware that, vanilla or not, I was aching to sleep with this man, to finally get to explore him, to try and sate the need and tension that had been building since pretty much the moment we met.

  I sat stroking the cat, staring intently at his fur, listening to him purr as James stood behind me, stroking me. As the silence lengthened, finally he moved in front of me, and plucked the cat from my lap, stroking him tenderly and rubbing his cheek against his face before putting him on the floor and taking my hand.

  ‘I think it’s time for us to leave them to it for the night.’

  My throat was suddenly dry and the butterflies that had been in my stomach for the last few weeks started fluttering harder than ever. How was it possible to feel such relief and such nerves at the same time? Finally this was going to happen, whatever this was. He led me to his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him to deter feline interlopers.

  We propelled ourselves over to the bed, and suddenly we were sprawled across it, turning over and over, each of us vying to be on top. I undid his shirt, my hands stroking the sculpted chest beneath, enjoying, finally, getting to dictate the pace. I reached down, undid his belt and began to undo his trousers, all without removing my mouth from his. There are sensual, erotic seductions, but this was almost feral, neither of us able to wait any longer. He broke away from my mouth for a moment and bucked his hips so he could pull his trousers down and put on a condom, while I pulled off my knickers, and then I impaled myself on him. That first moment there was silence, no movement, just his eyes widening, in shock – at the feeling, the abruptness, at me being such an impatient hussy, who can say? – while I adjusted to him inside me, enjoying the feeling, after so long spent thinking about it. For long seconds we stayed there, our breathing the only thing causing movement between us, but suddenly he became impatient; his hands clawing at my hips began pulling me up and down, starting the movement, demanding wordlessly that I rode him. How’s a girl to argue? I began to move my hips, leaning down to kiss him as I went.

  I don’t know how long we kept moving back and forth, hands moving across each other, our fingers exploring every inch, mouths duelling, hips meshing together, but suddenly his hand, which was squeezing my arse, had let go. In the split second that it took for my brain to register the loss he slapped the fleshy curve of my arse cheek. I whimpered and then blushed, wondering if he could tell how much it turned me on.

  He did it again. It was light, playful, but it made my blood hum. His hands moved, stroking my breasts, running his fingers along the soft skin above the curve of my bra, before reaching in and pulling me out. He played with my nipples, gently pinching them, twisting them a little, not enough for me to feel a pang of pain, but certainly enough to feel a wave of pleasure.

  I smiled down at him, enjoying the moment, the fact that I could look at him intently, drink in his gaze. For a moment my hips stilled, as I became so caught up in looking at this enigmatic man that I literally forgot what I was doing. But then I saw a tinge of impatience flare in his eyes and suddenly I was moving, rolling across the bed on to my back propelled by his hips. He grabbed my wrists in one of his hands, and began moving at his own speed. As he moved, faster and faster, I moved up to meet him, my hips urging him deeper. I pulled my hands out of his grasp and began running my fingers along his back, enjoying his tiny shiver as one of my fingernails traced gently along his spine. But then his fingers were between our bodies, finding my clit, pushing me further until finally I was unable to push back the inevitable. I came, and as I did he followed me, both of us tensing and then relaxing, replete in each other.

  He nuzzled my neck, pressing a kiss to the edge of my collarbone. I shivered, still sensitive from the force of my orgasm. He grinned and nibbled where he’d just kissed, and I poked him in the chest with a finger. ‘Oi!’

  His laugh vibrated against my skin. ‘Sorry, I’ll be good.’

  I laughed too. ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘Good point.’

  We lay for a while, curled together, the shadows lengthening in the room as night drew in. It didn’t feel like an awkward silence, and I didn’t feel a burning need to talk, but my brain was whirri
ng, trying to fit what had happened and James’s general loveliness within a wider context, of his motivations, of any potential relationship (was it a relationship?), of my hopes for a D/s flavour to any romance I might end up in. Is it fair to stay with someone when you’re not sure you’re fundamentally compatible in a way you know is important to you? And is it crazy to be trying to make these decisions when you don’t even really know what the other party actually wants? Also, is it normal to be thinking of someone who has just fucked you till your toes curled as a ‘party’? As the confusion blossomed I realized that James had dozed off next to me. It made me smile, and my heart clench a little; he looked so young and trouble-free while asleep, but it also helped give me a mental shake. This stuff might matter, but it didn’t matter yet. Baby steps. I tried to switch off my chattering brain, and enjoy the languor of that post-orgasm bliss. I might even have dozed off myself for a bit.

  When I woke the room was properly dark. James was still beside me, although a tiny light in the darkness showed he was checking his BlackBerry.

  ‘Hey.’

  He looked up at me. ‘Hey yourself. Good sleep?’

  I nodded and began to stretch. ‘Mmmmm. Yes thanks. How about you?’

  He had the grace to look a little discomfited. ‘So I did fall asleep first? How stereotypical of me.’

  I laughed. ‘It’s OK.’ I leaned forward to kiss him. ‘I shall take it as a sign I wore you out.’

  He pressed a chaste kiss to my mouth and murmured, ‘Minx.’ And then he was groping along the bedside table to put the BlackBerry down safely before bringing his arm back to begin stroking my back. He deepened the kiss and we began again. I smiled against his mouth. I could definitely get used to this.

  I didn’t stay over in the end. He offered, and I was sorely tempted, but I’d not brought an overnight bag because I didn’t want to be presumptuous.