There was a dull thump as he dropped the rest of the rope on the floor and walked in front of me, knocking me out of my reverie. I lowered my eyes, not ready to look at him yet, but he had other ideas. He put a finger under my chin and lifted it until I was staring at him. Neither of us spoke. He was grinning at me. It took serious self-control to resist the urge to kick him. I was still fantasising about doing just that when he dropped to his knees. The sudden movement confused me, and made me worry for a second that I actually had unwittingly lashed out. Then he picked up the rope and pulled it up between my legs. As he stood he winked at me, tugging the rope hard, which made it press against me. The two strands sat either side of my slit, pressing it together. He finished off by tying the remainder of the rope to the original loops round my shoulders. It was as though I was bloody gift-wrapped. The pressure of the rope between my legs, the eroticism, the powerlessness, all made me feel rather weak in the knees, but I was determined not to show weakness. I wasn’t even going to give him a hint of my struggle, of how he was driving me to distraction, although I thought perhaps if his smile was anything to go by he might have had an idea.
He stood back, admiring the view – his ropework, my body, perhaps a mixture of both – before walking behind me again. Suddenly not being able to see him and what he was doing made me nervous, and then his hands reached round, appearing in my field of view, roughly grabbing my breasts again. He groped and mauled them, his hands rough, his fingers pinching my nipples hard enough to make me wince, although I fought to breathe through my nose in a way that meant he didn’t hear a tell-tale gasp. I knew it was pointless – he knew – but it still felt important to fight.
He leaned in, whispering in my ear that I was beautiful and brave but also extremely dirty for letting him do these things to me. I closed my eyes for a second, fighting for my composure before I turned to stare at him angrily. My fury made him laugh and his next words made me close my eyes again, this time in an embarrassed horror.
‘Come on, Sophie, we both know it’s true. If it isn’t then the rope between your legs won’t be wet when I check it, will it?’
Bastard.
He knew, I knew, that I was dripping. That the kissing, being incapacitated and humiliated had all helped raise the temperature between my legs. But suddenly I wanted to do everything in my power to stop him from finding out this inevitable fact.
His hand travelled down my body, skimming my sides, moving to my hips. I tried desperately to twist away, to close my legs, but my balance wasn’t great and I stumbled a little. He grabbed hold of the rope anchoring my arms together, and pulled me back into position, hauling me upright, before his hands went back to my breasts. He leaned in again.
His voice in my ear wasn’t loud, but it was stern and very serious. ‘Stop messing about. Do what you’re told or you’ll regret it.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘You’ve not told me to do anything. I’m not disobeying.’
I’m not sure what I expected but his laugh filled me with surprise and a surge of warmth. ‘I was taking it as an implicit order that you keep your legs open when I am trying to get my hand in there.’
I swallowed again and nodded. I tried very hard to stay still as his hand went between my legs where, in paradoxical fashion, I was both yearning for him to be but didn’t want him anywhere near. But, much to my frustration, he didn’t touch my cunt. Instead he slid his fingers along the ropes on either side feeling, undoubtedly, how my arousal had made them damp. He laughed again, and I felt a surge of fury and humiliation. I’d never had someone embarrass me like this and it was incredibly frustrating – suddenly I was getting an understanding of his style of dominance, and it drove me to distraction.
He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me towards the bed. Again, the lack of movement of my arms paired with the rope between my legs made it difficult to balance but this time I didn’t topple. I remained upright long enough for him to dump me face first onto the mattress, unable to cushion the fall with my pinioned arms.
He rolled me onto my side. It was marginally more comfortable, barring the rope digging into my hips, but it meant I could – finally – watch him undress. I stared at him greedily as he stripped, removing his clothes without embarrassment, with relish in fact. It made my position even more frustrating. I clenched my fists as well as I was able, wishing I could touch him, help, even possibly push him over.
Then he was standing in front of me, his cock pointing towards me with a pearl of pre-cum visible on the tip. Tempting. Oh so tempting. He was completely shaved, something I’d never experienced with a lover before, but something which I quickly realised I was going to enjoy.
He didn’t speak, but as he moved closer to the bed I unthinkingly, desperately, opened my mouth, my yearning to taste him overcoming every other part of my brain. He didn’t wait, and pushed quickly past my lips. I tried to suck him but he pulled out just as quickly before pushing forward again, not willing to even give me control of this single aspect, fucking my face instead, faster and rougher, grabbing my hair to pull me down on his cock until I could feel him pressing against my throat, making me gag and struggle to breathe.
As I spluttered a little, he pulled out for a moment, giving me, literally, breathing room to draw air into my lungs. His cock was in my eyeline, coated in a mixture of saliva and pre-cum, which he wiped across my face. I closed my eyes to try and hide it, but I felt my eyes fill with tears of shame and fury.
Suddenly I was moving – he was dragging me onto my front. I felt a surge of relief at the prospect of burying my face in the duvet, hiding my embarrassment, how much the humiliation was getting to me. I had a few seconds’ respite as he moved behind me, although the tell-tale sound of the tear of a condom wrapper made it clear this was a temporary state. Then his hands were on my arse, spreading my cheeks and pulling on the rope, pressing it against my cunt in a way that made me bite down on my lip to suppress a whimper.
He climbed on top of me, pulling the rope aside. His legs were on the outside of mine, pressing them together, which made me feel even tighter than usual as he pressed his cock against my wetness. He pushed inside, leaning forward. His hands, either side of my head, took most of his weight but his body still pushed down on my bound arms, his breathing hard in my ears. He had overpowered me, immobilised me, and now he was using me, pushing deeper and deeper. It was intense, close, to the point of almost being claustrophobic. His body was barely moving above me to start with; instead it pinned me in place, another form of bondage to add to the rest.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I shifted from underneath him, moving my hips in silent invitation for him to – please – fuck me. I couldn’t bring myself to ask and he didn’t answer, instead giving my arse a playful swat, which told me without words to stay still.
I remained unmoving, but it was torture. My arms were beginning to ache, and with his body pinning me down I could barely move anything. In a moment of clarity I was shocked to realise I was unconsciously curling and uncurling my toes – presumably because they were the only things that were free. Suddenly I was aware that my thighs were wet and I was desperate for him to start moving, although I knew there was no point trying to get him to before he was ready.
Finally he started fucking me, hard and rough, a pounding that meant that all of my attempts at silence were for naught, as I was suddenly moaning loudly, especially when he shifted slightly and suddenly the rope between my legs was rubbing against my clit. After all the teasing and anticipation my orgasm built quickly, and suddenly I was close to coming, feeling my thighs tremble with the onslaught. He realised the inevitable a couple of seconds later, but wouldn’t even let me have control of this.
‘Not yet, not until I say so,’ he whispered in my ear.
I was trying to fend it off, to control myself, to please him, to show I could wait, but he was making it difficult; his relentless pace as he used me brought me ever closer to orgasming. His breath in my ear, the sound of him tak
ing his pleasure, turned me on even more.
Finally, he took pity on me. ‘Come now,’ he said and I did, feeling him twitch and come inside me as my orgasm overcame me. My orgasm made my toes curl again but once I came down to earth I felt embarrassed and shy and a little grumpy: he had been able to control me so utterly.
His breath was still heavy from his own orgasm as he got up and began to untie me, and I felt oddly bereft at both being released and not having him on top of me. His face was endearingly serious as he told me he didn’t want to keep me bound for too long for the first time. He checked my fingers for pins and needles and any arm stiffness from being tied for so long. I answered his questions honestly but in a kind of sleepy haze, the excitement of all we had done, paired with the power of my orgasm, meaning I was fit for little more than lying there staring at the beautiful criss-cross of rope marks on my arms, stroking my fingertips over them, loving how they felt. Finally, once I was untied and he had been assured that nothing was too painful or intense, he pulled me into a hug, pressing a kiss to my nose. I felt a surge of affection, still well and truly blissed out by all the feelings he had managed to elicit from my occasionally rebellious body.
It felt a bit incongruous, not least because I still knew so little about his everyday life. How did he take his tea? Which football team did he support? But somehow it felt like we fitted together very well.
We lay chatting for a long time afterwards. As I became slowly more coherent he asked me what I had enjoyed most, what I had found most difficult, the things I’d rather not do again and the things I definitely would. I’d never been with someone who’d discussed it in such depth in the immediate aftermath, and it felt so intimate. I could trust him with this stuff.
We stopped to kiss, often. He thanked me for being so obedient, pliant, fun. I grinned and blushed and tried not to look him in the eye as he discussed the ruder things. Suddenly, in spite of myself, I started to think more fondly of Thomas’s and Charlotte’s cack-handed matchmaking.
We’d agreed he wouldn’t stay over, but he didn’t leave until 2 a.m., and only then because we both had early starts the following day and he’d have had to drive across the city in rush hour. We never did eat the cookies. I sent him home with most of them in a little Tupperware container, feeling a bit silly as I handed it over, but at the same time wanting him to have the biscuits I’d baked for him. The following day he messaged me a picture of a cookie sitting next to his mug of tea at work. It made me smile. I emailed a response. Suddenly we were chatting again.
CHAPTER THREE
I knew even before he’d left that night that I wanted to see him again. I know! So much for all my ‘no strings, this is just fun’ stuff. What can I say? I liked him. He was funny, self-deprecating and good to talk to. In between sexual shenanigans we lay in the dark chatting about politics and TV, work stuff and films. It made me a little grumpy to concede it, and I still didn’t approve of their tactics in the least, but Charlotte and Thomas had found exactly the kind of guy I’d like to date.
That biscuit-related message was the first of many that he sent over the next few weeks, and I was very happy indeed to reply. We chatted about lots of different things – from stories I was working on to issues he was having with a colleague at work – and he began to nip over after work during the week if we were both free. We’d leap on each other as soon as he came through the door, kissing urgently, pulling at each other’s clothes, desperate to sate our sexual appetites on each other. It was wonderful, primal, so much bloody fun. We’d drink tea and chat about nothing in particular afterwards, and it was relaxing and easy and not awkward. I came to look forward to his visits, and was beginning to realise that he was pretty much my ideal kinky boyfriend material.
Except, of course, we’d kind of already agreed we weren’t going to date, agreed that this was to be a no-strings sort of thing. Balls.
Of course, on the plus side, this whole ‘we weren’t going to date’ thing made for some full and frank discussions of the kind that might have been slightly more awkward with a man you were considering might be a permanent relationship fixture. Which is how he ended up breaking into my house to jump me as I slept.
OK, I’m over-egging that a little. But not much.
We were discussing long-standing fantasies. Things we’d always wanted to try but which, for one reason or another, hadn’t been able to do. I was less experienced than him, particularly in D/s terms, so my list was quite a bit longer than his, and as we lay in bed chatting about it, him running his fingertips up and down my arm, he seemed particularly interested in my yearning to be overpowered in my sleep – to wake up to someone pinning me down and hurting me, fucking me.
As ever, this is all about the fantasy. I am a security-minded person. My window locks were always locked, and I wasn’t yearning to be burgled or raped and attacked in my own home by a stranger. It needed to be someone I trusted, someone I wanted to fuck, within the previously agreed (but admittedly rough D/s style) boundaries, but I loved the idea of being taken by surprise.
We talked about it for a long while, and even the chat made me wet. I spoke haltingly, my voice quiet – even with my general openness about fantasies, and knowing that Adam knew the context in which we would be operating, it still felt pretty taboo talking about wanting to be woken up by someone fucking me. Adam was louder, more confident, and also clearly enjoying the chat, if his erection pressing into my arse as he whispered in my ear was anything to go by. As he asked more questions and I stumbled a little answering them, I realised he was revelling in my embarrassment and awkwardness, enjoying the little humiliations of discussing this, knowing how wet it was making me. Adam’s different style of dominance was taking a little getting used to, and seemed to put me on the back foot even more than my previous experiences. While he wasn’t averse to inflicting some nipple pinching or a spanking in the right mood, his dominance was as much psychological – about words and actions rather than pain. It consistently boggled my mind how he could get me into a deeply submissive and compliant mindset without the pain that had so far formed such a key part of my D/s experiences.
By the time we had finished discussing it and he had told me how it could work he had slipped his hand between my legs and was telling me how filthy I was for getting off on the idea of it. There was even a kind of plan.
I didn’t have a spare key. If I had the whole thing would have been much easier. As it was, the slight danger of it meant it took me a while to fall asleep the night before I knew it was to happen.
We’d agreed that I would put my front-door key in an envelope inside my paper recycling bin, which sat next to my front door. Even if someone did come up to my front door to rummage through the cereal boxes and old newspapers, the hope was that an old junk-mail envelope, seemingly stuck to the inside by a stray piece of tape, would be overlooked. It would be a pretty big leap to assume it would contain a key that would open my front door – at least that’s what I told myself as I lay in bed trying to get to sleep after I’d snuck out into the dark and deserted street at midnight to stick it in place.
It took a long time to go to sleep. I was wearing a slightly sexier pair of knickers than I normally would have – my fashion choices for bed tended to be nothing at all or fleecy pyjamas depending on the weather, and we were definitely still in the PJ comfort side of the year, although I’d decided against them just this once. I couldn’t get comfortable, and I was nervous about the key being outside (even though I knew it would be fine and even if anyone had seen me out there all they had seen was my putting some old newspapers in the recycling) and about what Adam would do to me when he got in. He’d asked me not to orgasm before bed, and while part of me chafed at the edict, it seemed churlish to quibble when he had agreed to fulfil such a long-held fantasy. But my body was used to falling asleep in a post-orgasm haze most nights so it made it even harder to drop off. I sat watching the luminous dial of the clock change, my brain ticking away, my imagination and n
erves getting ever more fanciful, and me getting ever more grumpy. I wasn’t going to fall asleep like this.
I had an itchy nose, or there was something on my face. I tried to move my arm from under the duvet to swat whatever it was away but it seemed to be tangled up. I struggled for a minute before I sleepily turned my face towards the pillow instead. But moving felt difficult, like wading through treacle.
Suddenly I was awake with a start, my heart pounding as I realised there was someone lying on the bed with me, on top of the duvet, their body partially over mine, making it difficult to move from under the covers. I knew it was him. I was sure it was him. It smelt like him, I think, like the familiar smell of his aftershave. I think. But I couldn’t see his face, and I was nervous, in need of reassurance. What if it wasn’t him? What if someone else saw me sticking the envelope to the side of the box? What if it was the guy from over the road who took a parcel in for me once? Or a random teenage boy walking home late at night who’d seen my furtive rummaging? I knew my imagination and nerves were running away with me, but I couldn’t see him. I needed to be sure. I opened my mouth to say his name before my sleep-dulled brain realised I couldn’t because there was a hand clasped over my mouth. I was confused. The bedroom was lit with an early-morning glow. I guessed it must be 6 or 7 a.m. After all my worries about being unable to sleep I seemed to have dropped off just fine. Too well, in fact. If I’d just been able to sneak a peek at his face to be sure I’d have been enjoying it much more. Instead there was a tinge of fear, of danger. What if it wasn’t him? Could I be sure?
I shifted on the bed, trying to struggle from within my cocoon, to shift myself round, to catch a glimpse of him, just long enough to know for definite. He pushed his weight down further, and I harrumphed into his hand, grumbling my concerns, a whimper in my throat trying to explain something, anything, just to get him to respond. If he spoke I’d have known it was him and then I would have been OK. My nostrils filled with the smell of leather as his gloved hand tightened against my mouth, pressing hard against my lips, and suddenly his voice was whispering a ‘ssssssshhhhhhh’ in my ear. Was it an echo of the man I lay here with days ago discussing how hot this was, or someone else completely? The longer we lay there, the more certain I was it was the former not the latter, but even with just five per cent uncertainty my stomach cramped with a little fear.
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 4
