No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive

by Morgan, Sophie

  It didn’t last, though. He opened his eyes and, without looking down at me, he turned his body away from the counter top. I shifted with him, but he kept moving backwards, slowly walking across the room to the doorway and out of the kitchen.

  He hadn’t told me to keep him in my mouth, but the hint I took from his lack of speed paired with, frankly, the fact I didn’t want to let him go, meant I crawled with him, even though it made me feel ungainly and a bit awkward. He led me through to the living room, then to the foot of the stairs. For a moment I thought he was going to walk up them backwards, and I was mentally pondering whether someone as naturally clumsy as me should in fact risk crawling up a flight of stairs while giving someone a blow job (what if I slipped? Potential mood killer at best and trip to accident and emergency at worst) when he reached down and grabbed me by a handful of my hair. He pulled me off his cock and up to my feet. I couldn’t restrain a slight yelp.

  He turned away to walk upstairs, tugging on my hair to make me follow. My scalp stung as I hurried after him into the kink room. I could barely take in my surroundings and all the items around me as he dragged me over towards the window and a pillory.

  The first thing to say about the pillory is that a lot of people call them stocks. Technically – she says, sounding like a complete nerd – that’s incorrect. Used as a form of punishment, criminals and ne’er-do-wells were held in stocks (which locked their feet in place) or pillories (their head and wrists) for public shaming. Rotten food was often thrown at them, and villagers would congregate to ridicule them – a kind of bonding experience and afternoon’s entertainment all rolled into one for everyone except the poor bugger locked in place and the centre of attention. I’ve been fascinated with them since the first time I learned of their existence, in mediaeval history lessons in primary school. By the time I was studying history at A-level, I would lie in bed at night thinking of elaborate sexual fantasies whereby I’d be locked in a pillory, humiliated and fucked by any number of people who felt the urge to do so.

  The pillory was one of my longest held sexual fantasies. I’d mentioned it to Adam months before, my voice halting and quiet in the darkness, embarrassed at not just the filth but also by how specific it was. But it was a kink I never anticipated getting to experience. I’d seen them in the odd museum over the years, but they tend to be old and rare; curators don’t usually offer to let eager-eyed girls try them out, and frankly even if they did it’s not as if you can indulge in any shenanigans in the middle of a museum or even at a historical re-enactments society shindig.

  This one looked well-made of sturdy red wood. I found it oddly beautiful, and ran a finger along the smoothly varnished side, smiling to myself. Adam lifted the top off, exposing three curved grooves, a big one to rest my neck on and another two, one for each wrist. He grabbed me by the hair again, manoeuvring my neck into position. I hesitated for a moment, before putting my hands into the smaller grooves myself, allowing him to snap the top half back down, locking me into place.

  My first feeling was a wave of panic, my second a surge of lust. Adam slotted in the piece of wood that held the two pieces together, and I was trapped. Properly trapped, against the unyielding cherry wood. It was difficult to move my head because of the weight on my neck, so my field of vision only reached to my feet and a small radius around them. I was bent at the waist, and the position was not only uncomfortable but made me feel incredibly vulnerable. My arse was sticking out and I could feel his eyes on me, his stare strong enough to make me feel naked. I was bloody grateful that I wasn’t. Yet.

  He moved round and stood in front of me, his cock so close to my face that I was breathing on it. Suddenly I understood why this pillory was lower than others I’d seen. It certainly made any twinge in my back at the uncomfortable position suddenly seem worthwhile.

  He dropped his leather bag on the floor directly in my sightline, opened it up and began to rummage through it, although he did it in a way that meant – frustratingly – I didn’t get too much of a glimpse of what was in there other than rope. And I figured that wasn’t getting used here.

  Finally he pulled out a small silver cylinder. A bullet vibrator, maybe, was my first thought, but then he removed the top. Lipstick. I don’t wear much make-up at all and am perfectly happy with lip balm for all but the biggest occasions, when I might wear a bit of gloss. I’m not a lipstick person, so this surprised me a little.

  He twisted the base, revealing a bright-red hue. Really red. I looked at him suspiciously, and then he crouched down in front of me, brushing a few stray hairs out of my face and kissing me softly on the forehead. His touch was tender, soothing. All of which made what he did next even more jarring.

  He took the lipstick and wrote something across my forehead. I was starting to tremble, my thoughts a maelstrom of embarrassment. It was a fair bet he’d written something horrible; I undoubtedly looked ridiculous. I also had a not-inconsiderable amount of fear that he’d bought one of those super-long-lasting lipsticks that would leave me with something degrading written on my forehead for ages. In my mounting hysteria I wondered whether I’d have to cut myself a fringe before I went to work on Monday.

  ‘Do you know what it says?’

  I shook my head, as much in an attempt to shake my hair in front of my face so he couldn’t see the humiliation written there as to say no to his question.

  ‘It says “whore”.’

  He knelt again, lifting my head up by pushing a finger under my chin, and brushed my hair away. But the atmosphere of the room had changed. I no longer felt tenderness, just the sting of humiliation. It burned, brighter and brighter, as he began coating my lips with the bold lipstick, his fingers pinching at my chin as he circled my mouth over and over again. By the time he was done I must have looked like a clown. My lips felt sticky and swollen, not my own.

  He walked behind me, but the relief I felt at him disappearing from my field of vision lasted barely a second before his hands snaked around my waist, unfastening my trousers and pulling them to my knees, along with my knickers. I shuffled my legs to try and step out of them but Adam slapped my arse in warning. The feeling of being half undressed, displayed in that way, made me feel more vulnerable than if I had been totally naked, but then I felt a tickle as he began writing on my arse, and my legs began to shake.

  ‘In case you’re wondering, it says “slut”.’ I felt a surge of fury. He moved back to face me, and without any warning grabbed my hair and pulled my mouth onto his cock, pushing himself in and pulling my hair until he was so deep I began to choke, struggling to breathe. I felt my fingers moving in desperation, immobilised in their little wooden holes, trying to move, to pull him back.

  Just as quickly he pulled back, leaving me staring at his cock, which was smeared with lipstick and glistening with my saliva. He moved closer, and I opened my mouth, expecting him to push himself inside me again, but instead he showed me the line where the lipstick stopped, around three-quarters of the way down his shaft.

  ‘You need to try harder,’ he said as he pushed himself back in.

  I understood the game, and tried to open my mouth wider to allow him deeper, but within a few seconds panic rose and I was choking again, my eyes beginning to water. He pulled back, leaving a line of saliva stretching from my mouth to the tip of his cock. I closed my eyes as I saw it, whimpering slightly in embarrassment. He looked down to see the cause of my distress, and casually moved forward again, wiping himself on my cheek before checking again for where the mark was. I kept my eyes resolutely closed, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing that I was finding the humiliation so intense my eyes had turned from watering to tearful. Much to my relief, he let it go. For now.

  ‘That’s better, but you’re still not quite there. One last effort. Come on, sweetheart.’

  His words spurred me on. I took a deep breath in the moment before he thrust back into my mouth. I fought my gag reflex, trying to quell the rising panic at being unable to breathe and so
mehow, despite the odd angle and my nerves, his cock slid down my throat. His groan was loud and made me feel a surge of pride. I held myself completely still, struggling to breathe through my nose which was pressed into his groin. I managed it for a few seconds, but eventually I began to choke again and he pulled out, nonchalantly wiping the combined pre-cum and saliva around my face. As he moved closer to my cheek I saw the lipstick all the way down his shaft. My competitive spirit felt like this was a win, which is ridiculous when you remember the position I was in, but I guess we have to take our victories where we can get them. I tried to gloss over what a mess my face must have looked by then.

  He began to push himself into my mouth again, hard. He grabbed handfuls of my hair, pulling my head up as far as the pillory would let me, keeping me in place so he could thrust in and out in a mockery of the rhythm he would use to fuck me. At times I gagged and choked, but more often he slipped down into my throat, until he pulled out abruptly and began stroking himself really fast, right in front of my face. I knew him well enough now to know when an orgasm was impending, and to my frustration and annoyance he came, with a deep groan. I closed my eyes, but could do nothing to stop him coming in my face and hair.

  When I opened my eyes he was tucking himself back in his trousers and looking down at me. He reached down and opened the pillory. I slowly stood up, stretching a little to ease the ache in my shoulders. I was confused. Was that the end for now? But then he grabbed me by the hair, being careful not to get cum on his hand, and pulled me out of the room and into the hallway, allowing me to step out of my trousers and knickers – finally – as I walked, and removing my blouse and bra in a businesslike fashion at the same time. I felt some of his cum drip from my chin onto my breasts as I followed. He led me to the cage.

  We stood looking at it for long moments. I have been intrigued by cages and cells for a long time, dating back to my earliest fascination with Maid Marian, held captive by Guy of Gisborne and the Sherriff of Nottingham in their ongoing battle to catch Robin Hood. But standing in front of one, knowing Adam was waiting for me to crawl into it, I felt nervous. Suddenly it felt like a leap over the precipice to clamber inside. To do so willingly. I looked up at him, watching him look at the cage, wondering what he was thinking. And then his gaze flickered to mine, and the moment for pause had passed.

  He tugged on my hair, pulling me towards the cage, gesturing with his head. Slowly I got back onto all fours, pausing for a moment to figure out the best way to get in and be comfortable.

  It wasn’t a large cage. Four feet at its highest; its length and sides were slightly smaller. The bars were thick and made of unyielding-looking steel, wide enough to get a couple of fingers between them but nothing more.

  He opened the door and threw the cushion onto the floor, pushing me with his foot towards the entrance. I shifted slightly, turning myself so that I went in backwards, still able to face him as I did so, trying to maintain my modesty by not giving him a face-on view of exactly how wet my treatment in the pillory had made me.

  I shuffled in, settling onto the cushion on my hands and knees waiting to see what he would do next. The answer was ‘not much’. He closed and locked the door from the outside and then walked back downstairs.

  ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  His words confused me a little. It was pretty obvious that what I needed, more than anything else, was a chance to come. Did he not mean that? Did he want me to ask for that? Or did he want me to stay quiet and wait? How long would I wait?

  I stayed knelt up for a few minutes, certain he would return with something from his bag of tricks, or to do something else to me, to continue the game. Instead I heard him walk to the kitchen, the sound of the fridge opening and closing, and then the sound of the TV being switched on. He was clearly planning on leaving me here for a while. The thought made me furious – the idea he would use me and then basically lock me up until he was ready to do more fiendish things with me, as if I was a toy. But the more I thought about it, the wetter it made me, which left me confused as much as aroused. I curled into a ball on my side, keeping my eyes on the top of the stairs, but also enjoying the peace and the freedom of it. I know that sounds crazy, but there was something very relaxing and freeing about it. The hallway was warm, I had my cushion to keep me comfy. I found myself staring at the bars, reaching out to touch them.

  After a while I closed my eyes, reliving what had happened, how being in the pillory had felt, blushing a little at how aroused it had made me, even with the embarrassment and anger. The adrenaline from the intensity of his treatment, the face fucking and the humiliation, began to dissipate and I began to feel sleepy in the warmth of the corridor. I drifted off, enjoying the fact I had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. I was literally lying there waiting for him to come back so we could have more kinky sex. It’s not something I’d want to be the focus of my world the entire time, but for this little while, there were definitely worse places to be.

  He made me jump when he opened the door. I had no idea how long I’d been dozing, but I hadn’t heard his return upstairs. He beckoned me out, offering me his arm to help me stand up, solicitously leading me down the stairs in case my legs were stiff from being bent for so long. I followed him nervously, feeling shy and self-conscious, knowing that I had his dried cum and the lipstick all over my face.

  My heart began to pound as I saw the scene in front of me. The St Andrew’s Cross had been moved to the centre of the room and next to it was his crop. Seeing it surprised me – when he’d arrived with two bags I’d assumed he’d brought something else because I knew the crop wouldn’t fit in either of them. He must have hidden it somewhere in the car and retrieved it later. Shit.

  I stole a glance at his face. There was no humour in his eyes, just a stern, assessing gaze, as if he was measuring me for something. Fleetingly I wondered, worried, if I was going to be found wanting. It had been a long time since I’d been really hurt. Adam was much more about psychology and humiliation rather than pain. He had only used the crop on me briefly once before and spanked me a few times, although he joked that his hand got tired before I got too uncomfortable, my reputation as a pain slut apparently still intact.

  He turned me around to face the cross, using cuffs to fasten me in position at the wrists and ankles, leaving my arms and legs spread open.

  I was trying to prepare myself for the pain, aware that if he wanted to do more than a peremptory few swats this was going to hurt. He was taking his time, though. He ran the end of his crop up and down my back and between my legs, chuckling as I flinched. He left the crop there for a few terrifying seconds, my thigh muscles trembling as I fought to close my legs. I couldn’t, of course. Trust me: at that moment if I could have I would have. He pulled the crop back.

  ‘Your juices are sticking to it. Well, I guess that answers the question about how much you enjoyed the pillory and the cage.’

  I flushed. He was right. In another context (probably later, with tea and a biscuit) I’d be able to admit what we both already knew, that being treated this way, hurt, humiliated, locked up, was making me incredibly turned on. We’d even be able to talk rationally about what felt most hot, most challenging. But not now. Right now, listing to his stern and imperious voice, I was embarrassed, shy and oddly furious at how gleeful he was at how wet this was making me. Even though I was wet, and we were both enjoying it, I felt the need to lash out a little.

  Turns out it wasn’t me that was going to be doing the lashing.

  ‘You’re going to count down from fifty.’

  What? Shit. The terror started then. The crop produced an intense pain – he had only used it on me once before, and I’d not taken anything like fifty strikes from it. I wasn’t sure how I could. Maybe it was just as well the cuffs were holding my ankles in place. Then I felt a few seconds of wild optimism. Maybe he meant he wanted me to count down to fifty before he started cropping me, maybe he was messing with my mind, building the anticip–
/>   The first strike hit my arse. Fuck. OK. The adrenaline started again. Fine. Let’s do this.

  ‘Fifty.’

  He hit me again. And again. And again. And again.

  The first ten stung a bit, but he was clearly holding back. I began to think I could maybe endure this, if this was the level he was going to keep it at.

  Of course he wasn’t. Even I think I’m an idiot in hindsight, but clearly I’m an optimist at heart.

  The next ten actively hurt.

  The five after that made me cry out.

  The next five made me cry, tears streaming down my face in a way which, I realised later, just made my face look more of a mess, although at the time I didn’t have the capacity to be aware of it in my struggle to cope with the strikes.

  The final twenty were a huge challenge. He hit harder and harder, the sound of the crop whistling through the air in a way that filled me with fear. My arse and thighs were on fire, and when I didn’t say the numbers fast enough between soft sobs he would make me count them again. And again if need be. By the time he finally finished I had probably been hit more like seventy times.

  When I finally reached number one, my body shook with relief. Adam quickly freed me from the cross and eased me down onto the floor, so that I avoided sitting on my burning bum. He sat with me, my head in his lap as he stroked my hair, letting the reaction move through me like a tropical rainstorm both in its intensity and the speed with which it passed.

  He whispered into my ear as I got my breath back, his voice calming. He told me how wonderful I was, how pleased he was with me for enduring the crop so beautifully for him. How lovely the marks on my arse looked. How proud he was of me. How impressed at my bravery. His words warmed me, soothed me, as did the endorphins running through my body and my relief at having not just endured for him but done well. My breathing slowed. I calmed down. And suddenly I was just a very dishevelled-looking woman with a pleasingly warm arse and an incredibly wet cunt.