Seconds ticked by. ‘Do you think everything’s OK, Sophie?’
Shit. What did he mean by everything? Everything in the world? Everything in our non-relationshipy relationship? Everything we’d talked about today? I needed clues, something so I didn’t feel this bloody tentative. ‘I think so. Why? Do you not? Has something happened?’
His response was quick. ‘No, Sophie, nothing’s happened, which is rather my point.’
I like to think that on a normal day, when my head wasn’t fuzzy with a couple of glasses of wine and rising concern over him using my name twice in quick succession – one thing I’d learned with James was that this was a sign of impending trouble – I’d have got it then. Of course on this occasion I didn’t, which was my eventual downfall.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean, Sophie?’ Three Sophies. This was bad. And I still had no clue.
I tried to tamp down the sound of my frustration, as I knew that would just makes things worse, but it was touch and go. I bit the words out – this kind of powerlessness makes me want to kick things. ‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’
He sighed, and I felt a pang at annoying him, in spite of the fact he was fast annoying me to the point I wished I’d just not picked up the phone when he rang and told him later I was asleep. ‘What was the one thing you were supposed to do this week, Sophie?’
Oh. Bugger. He hadn’t forgotten. Of course not.
‘The email, of course, the email. I’m sorry I haven’t got round to it, it’s just work’s been so mad, the net connection at the hotel’s rubbish, I’ve not been feeling especially sexy and, well, I’m just so tired every night …’ I tailed off. My voice sounded whiny even to me.
His voice was so quiet that I had to put a finger to my other ear to block out the world to hear it. ‘I asked you to do one thing Sophie. Have you done it?’
Suddenly I had a lump in my throat and an odd ache in my heart and I wished with every fibre of my being that I had a different answer for him. And this wasn’t playing, wasn’t fun. It was about me feeling bad for having let him down, for – perhaps – having inadvertently hurt him by not doing something to prove I’d been thinking of him while I’d been away, and for not obeying him in the way I should have. It was odd. On one level it felt like an irrational feeling, but it was definitely a deeply felt one.
My voice was quiet. ‘No. I haven’t. I’m sorry.’
There was no noise on the line but static, and as I listened to it the feeling of guilt at letting him down weighed on me.
‘I put something into the side pocket of your overnight bag. Go and get it.’
I don’t know what I was expecting when I opened the brown paper bag, but my trepidation dissipated when I pulled out four pairs of chopsticks not unlike those you’d get at your local Chinese takeaway.
‘So what have you got?’
I couldn’t hide the bemusement in my voice. ‘Chopsticks. Enough for a party, actually.’
He chuckled and for a moment he was my James and even though he was pissed off I felt a little less worried. And then he was back to business. ‘You’ll need three pairs, and the rubber bands.’
Rubber bands? I dug them out of the bottom of the bag. Hmmm.
‘Wind a rubber band round each end of each of the three pairs. Tightly.’ I began doing so, unsure exactly about where this was going to go, but trying to make amends. ‘And when you’ve done that, strip naked.’
Oh.
His voice in my ear was reasonable. There was no anger, not even his earlier pique. He sounded resolute yet calm. What was about to happen was inevitable. It might or might not give him pleasure, but that was academic, it had to be done, as a lesson. I knew this before he said it, as I heard him explain how, in a moment I was going to punish myself.
To be honest I wasn’t entirely sure how that would work, bearing in mind I am such a wuss when it comes to inflicting pain on myself. I don’t pluck my own eyebrows because it hurts too much. Still, on the plus side, how hard could it be? Anything that I inflicted on myself was going to be significantly lighter-handed than James would have done, had he been there in person. Right? Of course, I underestimated him. As he explained to me how I was to trap each of my nipples between these impromptu chopstick clamps, I realized that it wasn’t as simple as I thought. And then he told me to put the first one on.
For a split second before the bands holding the chopsticks together snapped back into place I thought it would be all right. More proof, if any were needed, that I am in fact an idiot. It hurt. A lot. I pushed air through my nose, trying to process the pain by breathing deeply, riding it, waiting desperately for it to change to a dull ache as my nipple became numb rather than the excruciating fire I currently felt. By the time it did, my breathing was ragged and I was trying not to cry.
Finally I trusted myself to speak. ‘It’s on.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. I didn’t realize you were telepathic. Are you a fucking mind reader then, Sophie?’
‘What?’ I actually couldn’t focus on what he was saying, the pain in my nipple was so acute.
‘Did you ask me which way round I wanted you to place the clamp?’
Bugger it. ‘No, no I didn’t.’
‘Silly, silly girl. Which way round did you put it?’
I could see where this was going and I was filled with both trepidation and fury. I answered, my tone mutinous, made so by the knowledge that whichever way it was, it wasn’t going to be right. ‘It’s horizontal across my breast.’
He tutted loudly in a way that made me grateful we weren’t in the same room, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself glaring at him, and that would have just got me into more trouble. ‘Oh dear. If only you’d asked me first. I want it running diagonally towards your shoulder. Twist it round. Now.’
The small voice in the back of my mind that always does a running commentary throughout my submission was asking me why on earth I was acquiescing to this agony, when James was so far away and couldn’t even see me. But the larger part of me wanted to please him, to make amends, to be brave, to make him proud. And I was going to do exactly that, as soon as I stopped my hands shaking.
I had to pull the chopsticks apart for a second before I could twist the clamp around. Releasing my nipple caused a surge of agony. I couldn’t stop my whimper even as it snapped back into place.
He murmured in approval. ‘Good girl. Now put the second one on.’
‘Which way round do you want it?’ I couldn’t stop myself from snapping.
Thankfully he laughed, ignoring my tone. ‘Good question. Symmetrical to the first. Do it right and you won’t have to move it.’
I picked up the second set of chopsticks and pulled them apart, steeling myself for the pain.
I had been lying on the bed, naked and unmoving, for about ten minutes when he spoke again. Having put the second pair of chopsticks on, and then the third, it was all I could do to lie quietly, holding the phone, listening to him breathing gently a few hundred miles away. My breathing was, in comparison, ragged. I hadn’t cried out again; I was focused on dealing with the pain, watching distantly as the chopstick clamps rose and fell with each breath.
Putting the chopsticks on my second nipple caused more trepidation than the first set, because I knew how much it was going to hurt. My nipples were taut, red, hurting with a pulsating pain which came in throbbing waves. As for my clit, the poor recipient of the third and final set of chopsticks, it was engorged, sore and aching, held tightly in place between my spread legs.
I lay there, trying my hardest not to move, not to do anything that would exacerbate the pain thrumming through my body. Enduring it, knowing in a weird way, that might only make sense to James and me, that I owed him this, trying to withstand it, determined not to let him down again. And then I nearly dropped the phone when he said, ‘Right. Now I think it’s time for us to start your punishment Sophie, don’t you?’
Start? Oh hell.
His voice in my ear was charming, reasonable. He didn’t sound angry, just matter of fact, when he said that he’d known I wouldn’t get round to writing my assignment, that for someone whose professional life depended so much on deadlines I was a procrastinator, leaving things till the last minute or letting them slide completely. He told me how he’d slipped the chopsticks in the side pocket of my bag the last night we’d seen each other, hoping he wouldn’t need to use them. How he’d asked me about how the writing was going in the hope I’d have done some, and become increasingly disappointed with me when it became apparent that not only was I not bothering but that I was flippantly dismissing his questions about when it would be done. How it showed a lack of respect.
I lay there, my body aching, listening to him intently, filled with remorse at disappointing him, waiting for my chance to apologize. Except then he asked me how wet I was. I didn’t know what to say. Even with the agony pinched around my clit – I was thankful the pain in my nipples had eased to a dull ache as the minutes lengthened – I knew I was wet. But this was punishment after all. Should I admit that to him? Or would that make it worse? While my pain-addled brain wrestled with the conundrum – was it worse to lie or worse to admit the truth? – he chuckled.
‘Don’t worry, sweet, I know you are. You can’t help it, in spite of yourself, can you?’
I made a noise of disagreement in the back of my throat, and then, frankly, thought better of it.
‘Slip a finger between your legs. Cover your clit with your juice. Can you do that?’
I moved tentatively, frightened of knocking one of the sets of chopsticks at my breasts. I pushed a finger inside my slickness and began rubbing my clit, moving it slightly within its chopstick prison in a way which hurt. In spite of myself I began to enjoy the delicious sensation merging with the pain. But as my breathing changed, betraying me, James firmly told me to stop. I restrained a whimper of frustration – I thought it was safest under the circumstances, and I was definitely right as it turned out.
‘What am I punishing you for?’
‘For not sending you the email I promised. I’m so sorry.’
‘You will be, I promise you that. But that’s not all. What else?’
Shit. What else? What else had I done? I honestly couldn’t think of anything more but if I said that and was wrong …
As I tried desperately to think of what he could be referring to, he tutted in my ear. ‘You don’t even remember it, do you?’ My heart started to pound. ‘Not only did you not do what I asked – the one small thing in amongst everything else you’ve been doing this last week – but I asked you on three separate occasions whether you were doing it and three times you told me you were. On one notable occasion you sent me a text where you blew a raspberry –’ his voice was incredulous at the idea I would dare do such a thing, ‘– at me for implying that you wouldn’t do what I had asked you to.’
Oh god. I started to apologize again but he cut me off. ‘I don’t want you to speak until I tell you to. Frankly, I don’t trust any of the words that come tripping off your tongue. Which leads me to your punishment.’
Leads him to? If I had the breath I would probably have asked him what the fuck everything up to this point was. With hindsight it’s better that I didn’t.
‘Take the clamp off your clit. Now.’
I was relieved at his order, thankful that whatever I was to endure at least it wouldn’t involve the throbbing agony of my clit too. My hands moved eagerly and although my gasp as I pulled the clamp clear was loud, I remained silent as the blood returned to my poor tortured clit. I squirmed on the bed at the increased pain.
The change in my breathing didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Good girl.’ I felt warmed by his praise, even in the middle of his punishment, and it meant I was lulled into a false sense of security. ‘Now take that clamp and put it around your tongue.’
The security vanished like mist and I couldn’t stay silent. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. Your sarcastic tongue has got you into this mess, and it’s going to get its part of your punishment. Stick your tongue out and put the chopsticks around it. As far back as you can. Now. Clamp it for me.’
My hands were shaking. I was furious. Embarrassed. Guilty. Shy. Wondering why the fuck I was letting him do this, but knowing that I would, that this would be my penance. Not knowing how much it would hurt made me feel queasy with fear, but I knew I owed it to him, and just hoped I could do it. Yes, I’d look stupid, but no one would be able to see. And James wouldn’t be able to hear me. It’d be fine. I could do this. I could.
I did it.
The first thing I was aware of as the impromptu clamp closed around my tongue was the taste of my juice. A split second later the sensation caught up and I felt a surge of pain. I whimpered, and I honestly wouldn’t have been able to say which feeling was more upsetting – well, actually I wouldn’t have been able to say anything. I tried to roll the chopsticks along my tongue a little, so they would settle comfortably between my teeth, like a bit for a wayward horse.
‘Is it on?’
Stupidly I nodded before murmuring my assent.
‘I bet you can taste yourself, can’t you?’
I know he expected an answer but my second murmur was quieter and – if it’s possible for a murmur to sound that way – filled with shame.
He laughed. ‘Come on now, Sophie. You know the rules. Answer me properly.’
I was furious. I clamped my lips round the chopsticks as well as I could when my tongue was sticking out into the night air.
‘You can speak with a clamp like that on, Sophie, and you will speak. I’ve got all night and all you’re doing is causing more problems for yourself.’
I stayed silent.
‘Right. Slap yourself between the legs. Three times. Hard enough that I can hear it. If I can’t I’ll just make you do it again until I do.’
I didn’t think to disobey him, but I was feeling rising panic, fearful at how with every passing moment what he was having me do was getting worse.
My hand was clenching and unclenching above my head while I screwed up enough courage to inflict the first blow. I slapped myself, harder than I meant to, catching my clit. I accidentally bit my tongue trying to stifle a moan. The second blow was fine – if vicious self-torture can ever be described as fine – but the third was agony, as I managed to knock the clamp around my left nipple as I moved my hand down. I couldn’t stop myself crying out and I heard a tut in my ear for my trouble. The sound of his tuts was seriously beginning to piss me off even as I struggled to obey him.
‘You’re rude tonight, Sophie, as well as disobedient. You know you should thank me for every blow I inflict on you.’
I couldn’t speak. I wouldn’t speak. And then he said something to fill me with a terror I couldn’t quell.
‘We can keep on at this all night. You’re now going to slap yourself six times. And if you don’t count them off and thank me for each blow then I am going to double it, and double that, and we are going to keep going until you give me what I want. So it’s entirely up to you. I’m happy to lie here all evening listening to your snuffling desperation; it’s quite entertaining actually. But one way or another you are going to take your punishment. And you are going to speak to me.’
In that moment I hated him. This wasn’t about submitting to feel challenged, or be aroused or even to arouse him. He wasn’t pushing me out of my comfort zone or humiliating me for our mutual pleasure. But he was humiliating me, demeaning me, in a way he never had before. I properly hated him, but the loathing was tinged with prickly embarrassment and a genuine feeling of guilt. I opened my mouth to try and speak, tried to form words around my immobile tongue, tried to swallow back some of the drool pooling at the corners of my mouth. It was like standing on the edge of the precipice. I knew what he wanted. Knew the choice was mine. Knew that I didn’t want to do it, that my every instinct was shouting for me not to, that I should hang
up. But I wanted to make amends. I wanted to please him. I wanted to be able to reach the bar he had raised rather than fail him, fail myself. The choice was mine. In a way I hated that it was, as it made the submission, the humiliation, more acute, more distressing. The choice was mine, and I was choosing to take this punishment, to be demeaned in this way, and what’s more he knew I was going to, even as he knew how much I was hating every second of it.
I slapped myself. Hard enough that I gasped at the impact. And then, stiltedly, my voice thick with tears, I managed to say: ‘One. Thank you.’
Actually, I didn’t. I said something that sounded ridiculous. Lisping and unintelligible except for the fact it was the right number of syllables. Probably. I felt a surge of shame and humiliation, and, trying to ignore it, I slapped myself again. Hearing myself speak a second time was actually worse than the first, although I can’t exactly explain why. I still sounded like an idiot and as I heard myself, how ridiculous I sounded, I started to cry, becoming even less intelligible. I kept slapping and counting and thanking (although I’m not sure how thankful I actually came across) and by the time I got to six I was sobbing, hoping this unlikely indignity would soon be over.
Punishments are funny things. A lot of the D/s dynamic is about pain – inflicting it, withstanding it. Being spanked or caned for some spurious play reason is fun, makes me wet, but this was different. I felt so sorry for having disappointed him, sad that he had seen it as inevitable to the extent he had pre-packed punishment implements, and suddenly, lying on a hotel bed far from home, with aching nipples and a sore tongue, being made to do demeaning and horrifying things, I felt awful and alone. And yes, I appreciate that’s what a punishment should do. I just wasn’t expecting six chopsticks and half a dozen rubber bands to do the job so well.
After a little while I was able to slow my tears, and tentatively tried to brush them away without knocking any chopsticks. My sobs switched to the occasional snuffle and finally he spoke.
‘Do you understand why I’ve punished you this way?’
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 21
