His insight made me uppity. I couldn’t help myself.
SOPHIE SAYS: Who says I want to do what you want me to do?
His response took my breath away.
JAMES SAYS: I thought I read early signs, but then after the night where you cancelled and then your reaction when I held your wrists while we fucked I wasn’t sure so I didn’t want to push it. But now I’m pretty sure. Of course you want to do what I want you to do. It’ll make me happy, and you want to please me.
I knew I sounded confrontational, but I didn’t care.
SOPHIE SAYS: Oh really?
JAMES SAYS: Now, now. But yes, really. I’m loathe to pigeonhole anyone, not least because labelling something isn’t always helpful. But in my experience I’ve met submissives with, for want of a better word, a bratty exterior, who misbehave to get a reaction, who enjoy that feeling of being overpowered or controlled in spite of their rebellion. While you’ve got a smart mouth and a sarcastic streak, I don’t think it’s that with you. Think of the restaurant. I didn’t force you to give me your knickers. I laid down a challenge, which you could either take up or not. You took it up, to prove to me you could do it. You wanted to win, ironically because of course giving me your knickers was, in another way, completely my victory. You like being pushed to do things you find difficult because you enjoy overcoming them. It’s the challenge of it, the game for you.
My phone felt heavy in my hands. He was right, although I wouldn’t have articulated it that way. The fact that he’d known that, been able to understand my mindset that way, simultaneously made me excited and scared. It was erotic, bewitching and offered possibilities I could barely think of, but I also had a feeling he’d be the most challenging man I’d ever known.
To be fair to him, he reassured me of the most serious of my concerns. No, while he called them ‘punishments’, he wasn’t really punishing me for some kind of misbehaviour, he was punishing me because he enjoyed the power, and knew I enjoyed the pain – it sounds daft but that reassured me. Not least because the idea of a relationship where turning up ten minutes late resulted in painful recourse just didn’t do it for me; that just felt the wrong side of play somehow.
He also promised he’d go easy on me. I thought we probably had very differing ideas on what counted as easy but I was intrigued, and more than happy to give it a try.
He went to Geneva for four days. By the end of it we had driven each other crazy with questions, flirty thoughts, late-night emails. Deciding this was a game we were at least going to give a try, we’d sketched out the rules of engagement in their broadest terms. As James said in one late-night text message, ‘It’s not like we need to put together a bloody contract’, but we’d discussed safe words, limits, hard ones and soft ones, and we’d decided that I was going to come to his on the first evening he was back.
The tone of our chats had, reassuringly for me, not changed too substantially. There was no sense of superiority in our day-to-day talk, no po-facedness, and he remained as interested in my opinions and my expertise as he’d ever been. It sounds a no brainer, and it definitely was in hindsight, but at the time I was relieved that, despite the dance of dominance and submission we’d somehow begun, the wider dynamic of our friendship, our relationship, whatever it was, remained unchanged.
The only difference came in the form of a pedantic game we began playing after I called him on a typo in an email he sent me (I know, but forgive me, it’s the grammar fascist in me). He responded by pointing out an error of mine – which, for the record, was predictive text-related and thus utterly different – and then a good-natured bickering started, which turned into a thing. Every time I made an error, or called him on an error which later turned out to be correct, he would add five marks to a tally which he would somehow act upon when we were in the same country. Every time he made an error which I flagged up five would be removed from the list. Our emails and text messages suddenly became literal wars of words, both of us fighting to retract errors before the other had the chance to call them. It was silly, funny, and the kind of daft competitive banter that reassured me that James was someone I could cope with – when I finally got round to his to begin whatever this was we were beginning, he wasn’t going to be dragging me down to a secluded basement to hurt me. He was, for the most part, a kind, charming, funny sort who disliked misuse of apostrophes almost as much as I did.
12
Well, he didn’t drag me down to the basement when I met him upon his return. Actually, he barely let me in the door at all. I was very nervous. Excited, so excited, about where this could go and what it would be like, but also a little perturbed. I was going round to see my friend (my boyfriend? my inner voice questioned), having not seen him for almost a week, but then, at the same time, I was also going to have some presumably intense sex with a new dominant at the same time. I was excited, but a little scared. Not fearful of him, but fearful of not being able to withstand what he had in store for me – and the awareness of that made me feel even more nervous, because he had seen that part of me before I’d had a chance to tell him about it.
He looked well when he opened the door. He was wearing a soft white buttoned shirt and casual trousers, and was barefoot again. He smiled and led me inside by the arm, closing the door softly with a click behind me.
I went to walk up the stairs in front of him, but before I could he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to him, enveloping me in a half hug as he pushed his mouth down on to mine. We kissed. I sighed into his mouth, enjoying the taste of him, the dance of our tongues, the closeness of being together after what felt like so long, after so much anticipation. I stood, looking at him, trying to work out if things felt any different, now I knew his own interests meshed so well with mine.
Even as I thought to myself that things felt OK, not too awkward at all, he leaned forward, moving his mouth towards me. I leaned up, hoping for another kiss, but his hands on my shoulders held me back a little, so he could move closer to my ear.
He was as well-spoken as ever; his voice still made my pulse quicken, but as he hissed into my ear my heart began beating faster for a completely different reason.
His words tickled my ear. ‘We both know you’ve spent all week thinking rude thoughts. And I’m looking forward to exploring some of them. But before we do that I want you to do something for me. I’m going to let you taste me before dinner. Get down on your knees. Now.’
He moved back slightly so he could watch my reaction. Everything was silent. Still. We looked at each other for long seconds. He raised an eyebrow in a way that felt like he was both mocking and challenging me. It made the argumentative part of me chafe and long to butt heads with him, even while I found it – him – sexy. Since our chat had turned filthy this had been an inevitability. I wanted to submit to him, had been dreaming of it, wondering how it would feel, what submission with a more emotional connection would be like. In my heart I knew what I was feeling, knew what I was going to do, even while my head told me it was crazy, risky, daft. But as he stared down at me, so secure in the knowledge that I was going to sink to my knees, part of me felt furious. I hadn’t even taken my fucking coat off yet.
I wanted to tell him to knob off, and was fairly sure that my mutinous glare was probably saying just that. But as I looked into his eyes I knew the only way I would find out if he was what I hoped he was would be by obeying him now. Right now. It was time to put up or shut up.
I put up. Or perhaps ‘put out’ is more apt.
I sighed slightly and sank to my knees, thrilled and yet irritated by the smirk of satisfaction on his face as he watched me settle myself at his feet.
He stroked my hair. ‘Good girl.’
Being called a girl is one of the things that makes me bristle more than any other. But while part of me bridled at the patronizing nature of the endearment, another part revelled in his praise, keen to show him exactly how good I could be. I leaned forward, opened his fly and gently pulled his cock out. I took my time, r
unning my tongue up and down his length, before sucking it fully into my mouth. As I did so, though, he grabbed the back of my head and began pushing himself into me, leaving me gasping around him. We were battling for control of the rhythm. I struggled to take him, and he took his pleasure at his own pace. As I gasped around his cock he pulled out, a moment of relief.
As my breathing slowed he rubbed his cock against me, anointing my face with our mixed juices. Writing it down, it seems like such a little thing, but my first instinct was pure fury. Feeling him rub the stickiness over my face made me flush with anger. I clenched my hands at my sides, fought to control the loud voice in my head screaming out to rebel, to pull away. No one had ever treated me that way before and it felt so degrading that it took all my effort not to react, and instead to let him continue. Despite the part of me that enjoyed it, the greater part of me was furious. But I didn’t want that part to win – I was as angry with myself for reacting so violently to the very first thing he’d done as I was with him for doing something so demeaning.
The strength of my reaction threw me for a minute. Fighting to control myself, I closed my eyes against the view to block it out, and to mask my response to it. I took deep breaths and did everything I could to continue my submission in spite of myself. With my eyes shut the slap was a surprise. It didn’t hurt exactly, although it felt like enough of a blow that I opened my eyes to see what he had done – just in time to get a close-up view of him hitting me with his cock. I moaned in humiliation, as he continued his assault, his hand in my hair holding me in place as he used me, alternately slapping me and rubbing himself across my face. I was disgusted, debased, and yet – to my own amazement – oh so wet. I shifted slightly on my knees.
He slapped me once more, before grabbing a clump of my hair and forcing himself back into my mouth. I opened as wide as possible to accommodate him, moving my tongue along him as fast as he fucked my face. Then – so suddenly that I almost choked when the first spurt hit the back of my throat – he came in my mouth. As I swallowed and began licking him clean he pulled away from me, putting his cock back in his boxers and doing up his trousers.
I knelt there at his feet, unsure what was to happen now, my nipples hard in my bra, and the taste of his spunk in my throat. He stroked my hair for a second before reaching down to take my arm and solicitously help me to my feet.
‘Let me take your coat. And now let’s just go and cook some dinner and relax for a little while.’
Feeling not unlike Alice having fallen down a sexy and yet mind-boggling rabbit hole, I took my coat off and followed him into the kitchen. I had been in his house for about ten minutes. I couldn’t help noticing the marked difference from the last time I’d visited.
We ate. Talked. Drank a glass of wine each, although no more because both of us were mindful of what was coming later and the necessity for clear heads. Clear-ish heads, anyway. I found the change of gear somewhat mind-boggling, but was just about holding up my end of the conversation, even while I was mentally counting down the minutes until he would lead me to his bedroom so we could play. Finally the moment came.
The cats, it seemed, wanted to play too. As they followed us inside he picked them up one at a time and indulgently fussed them before gently, but firmly, leading them to the bedroom door, whispering to them and stroking behind their ears as he put them down in the hallway. It was so sweet to watch, and made the change in tone when he closed the door and turned to me even more incongruous. He told me to strip and sat down to watch as I began to take my clothes off.
Every woman, no matter how perfect, has parts of her body she’s unhappy with, and trust me when I say I have a fair few imperfections. Generally, however, I try not to worry. I eat healthily, go to the gym at least three times a week, and am fairly optimistic that in the throes of passion most blokes are concerned about many, many things but not with whether your stomach’s looking a bit flabby.
That said, being told to strip naked in front of someone you fancy who is (a) staying resolutely clothed and (b) thus not doing anything other than watching you intently as your remove your clothes is a very disconcerting thing. With an economy of movements and very little grace, I took my top off, pulled my trousers down – pulling my socks off at the same time, since they really are inherently unsexy – and then stayed still for a moment, screwing up my courage for the next step.
I looked at him looking at me, saw the smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and decided it was time to play him at his own game. I could do this. I could fake a confidence I didn’t feel. Hell, I had to do it for work sometimes, admittedly for non-naked reasons, and no one ever cottoned on. So smiling slightly, and hoping that I wasn’t blushing as red as much as I feared I was, I pulled my hands behind my back and undid my bra, pulling it forward and off. Not stopping, I then went straight for my knickers, stacking both items on top of everything else on his bed. Then I turned back to him, resisting the urge to cross my arms across my chest with every fibre of my being.
We stayed like that for a few minutes. Me, with the breeze of the open window playing across my naked body, James sitting, watching me. The early evening sunshine lit up the room and the sounds of car doors opening and closing and some kids playing football outside made it feel surreal. But still I stood there.
Finally he moved.
He walked across the room and put his arm around me to cup my arse. I curled into him, needing this, needing him. He leant down to kiss me and everything else melted away except feeling his hands on my body and his lips on mine. Then he pulled back, brushing a strand of my hair over my shoulder, and smiled at me.
‘Mmmmm. Before we do anything else you need to take your punishment.’
I felt a surge of rebellion and fury. For god’s sake, what was his compulsion with keeping me on the back foot, did it have to be all the time? Balls. I looked at him warily, mindful as well that, thanks to the vagaries of predictive text and an ill-informed bet on who the next England manager was going to be, I was now at a hundred points on our little scorecard. I didn’t even know what it was a hundred of, but it made me very nervous indeed. I was at least hoping for a night’s sleep first.
‘Do we have to do it now?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Nah, if you want to wait I’ll just fit in with when you decide you can be arsed.’ I glared at him and he shook his head, even while he stroked my face.
‘You’re just making it worse for yourself. Do you want to see where this goes or not Sophie? Seize the day, remember?’
He was smiling, joking a little I think, but I still felt stung. And I knew that the choice I made was important. The problem is, I already knew I was going to do what he wanted again and it was still annoying me. How could it chafe this way to submit to someone I actually like, find attractive, would like to date? He was watching me intently. I sighed.
‘Fine, OK, what do I have to do?’
His smile made my stomach flip. He looked so happy, and that made me happy. At least until he spoke again. He led me across the room to a rug in front of his fireplace. ‘I’d like you to bend over. You can put your hands on your ankles or your knees, whichever is more comfortable. But once you’re in position you stay there. You’re going to count to a hundred for me and thank me for every strike. Is that clear?’
My voice was muffled by my long hair falling into my face as I moved my hands to my knees, my mind whirring as to what he was going to use if he was intending to hit me a full hundred times. For the first time ever I felt genuinely scared at having pain inflicted on me in this way. How on earth would I be able to withstand so much?
He tapped me on the arse in warning, stirring me out of my rising panic. ‘Sorry. Yes, I … Yes, I understand.’
I tensed myself for the first strike, but he had come round to face me, was leaning in, searching for my eyes under the curtain of my hair. We stared at each other for long seconds. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calming, oddly soothing. ‘I’m going to use the crop on yo
u, Sophie. You’ll be able to withstand it, I promise, but if for any reason you want to stop, just use your safe word. You remember it, right?’
I nodded, feeling now wasn’t the time to point out my subconscious was already screaming it. He smiled at me, and in that moment he was James and I was Sophie and it was all OK. Then he began.
The first ten didn’t hurt at all. I counted them off, thanking him for each one, generally not really bothered about the taps on my arse, thinking instead with anticipation about what would happen once we’d got this daft punishment out of the way, relieved it wasn’t hurting as much as I had feared.
Then suddenly something clicked – the angle he was using changed imperceptibly, or he found his rhythm, or something, and suddenly it hurt so much it took my breath away. I kept counting, stayed upright – just – although at one point he caught me with such force at the point where my arse met my thigh that I stumbled slightly and had to use my hands to right myself. I did so quickly, apologizing desperately lest he decide to add more for me moving from position. Fortunately he didn’t.
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 18
