My logic was bollocks.
As the days went by things got easier. My mum began to make progress. She was more sure on her feet. Getting up and downstairs on her crutches was speedier. As she began to heal, the pain became a little easier, meaning she was more her usual self. Her appetite picked up, so I felt less like a contestant on Masterchef who put in loads of work and then had their culinary creations cast aside after a couple of mouthfuls. And then my dad came home, and the look of joy and relief on my mum’s face was obvious.
By the time I packed up my car and drove back to my flat ready for my return to work I was exhausted. The stress hadn’t eased, and I still felt bad for my poor mum. And when I walked through the door and found nine-day-old washing-up in my sink and work clothes waiting to be washed, my heart sank. I pushed myself to get through it all and then went to bed at 1 a.m. before a 7 a.m. shift, cursing myself for being a disorganised idiot.
Things, of course, got easier. I’ve never before had a holiday where a return to work felt like a relief, but in this case it did. As I got back into the routine of work, the stress I had felt mostly cleared. But there was one weird thing that had happened somewhere along the way, and I couldn’t figure out how or when or why, but it was starting to get me worried.
I’m pretty highly sexed. This book is a fairly good sign of that, even with the caveat that it’s mostly about my sex life rather than all the other stuff I do (I could write a book about my love of drinking tea, doing Sudoku and watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory but I don’t think it’d be of similarly broad appeal). Since I’d started seeing Adam we’d been managing to have sex pretty much twice a day when we were together, often even more than that. But even when I wasn’t dating the only man I’d ever met who could keep up with me on that front, I had a routine. Every night I had an orgasm lying in bed before I went to sleep. You can keep your hot milk or your sheep counting or whatever it is you do, an orgasm is by far the most efficient way to get me to sleep of a night.
But I hadn’t had an orgasm for a while. I counted it. Nine days. Initially it was because I was sleeping in the bed with my mum and, well, that would be rather disturbing. Even when she was recovered enough that I moved down the corridor to my old childhood bedroom it didn’t happen. I fell into bed exhausted, slept fitfully, but even when I tried … nothing.
I put it down to stress and tension, and tried not to worry about it, but once I’d returned home and had a couple of days back at work, I tried all the tricks (hot baths, smutty books on the Kindle, flirty emails with Adam) and nothing was doing the job. It was all incredibly fun, but there was just no release. I had been touching myself like this nightly (barring shared bedrooms and other inappropriate/inconvenient circumstances) literally since I was old enough to discover what an orgasm was, but suddenly it was like my body was a stranger. Nothing worked.
Nine days became ten. Eleven. By twelve days I was beginning to panic. This wasn’t like me. Not only was I irritable at work and sleep deprived because it took me ages to drift off at night, but I was genuinely worried. While I knew Adam well enough to know our relationship wasn’t all about sex, it formed a pretty decent foundation to it. What happens when you have a girlfriend who can’t orgasm?
I was soon to find out.
I told him about it on the phone. He’d rung one day to see how I was doing. It was unusual, because normally we talked constantly via text, email or Messenger, saving our chat for in person during the weekends or weeknights we were together (although a crazy few weeks at work for him meant midweek visits hadn’t happened either). I was so pleased to hear his voice, though also admittedly terrified – how DO you tell your boyfriend that you’ve gone from being a high-libido, kinky sex-obsessed erotica writer to someone who hasn’t orgasmed for the best part of a fortnight? And is it even possible to do so without crying? In my case, no. It was the first time I’d cried in front of him and I felt like a melodramatic idiot. And he was lovely about it, which just made me more weepy.
He told me to stop trying, to try to stop worrying, and to come round for the weekend, starting the following night. His flatmate was going to be out until late on Sunday at a stag do, so we could have the place to ourselves. He would look after me for a bit, and I could just catch up on sleep, relax and try and regain my equilibrium.
Frankly I wasn’t sure it was going to work, but short of finding a tumble dryer to sit on I was out of ideas.
I arrived at his house flustered and already, if I’m honest, a little grumpy. Work had been busy, and my day had been filled with minor annoyances. A great chunk of the afternoon had been spent discussing a complaint made by the subject of a story I’d written and which had caused a lot of reader feedback. I could prove that he had said what he’d said and I hadn’t misquoted him, but the effort involved in digging out the Dictaphone tape, playing it to first my editor and then my managing editor, and then coming up with a response to the complaint meant that by the time I got out I was craving red wine. Preferably in my flat alone, not least because, having not seen Adam for almost three weeks by this point, I wanted to be sociable, friendly, fun and not an idiot the next time he saw me.
I’m not sure I was any of those but he did give me a big glass of wine. Seeing him as he opened the door, I felt a surge of butterflies. It wasn’t just the usual lust; it was also affection. I fell into him, squeezing him back as he hugged me tightly, leaning eagerly into his kiss hello, opening my mouth to urge his tongue deeper.
He gave me lots of attention and fuss. He made me toad-in-the-hole and mustard mash, the kind of comforting dinner that was perfect for a chilly Friday night, especially when combined with good company. He kept the conversation light, noticeably focusing on trying to make me laugh. He offered me chocolate mousse (it would have been rude to decline) and a glass of good port, and we settled in to watch a film on DVD, taking our glasses to the sofa. As the minutes ticked by I began to feel tired, resting my head on his chest. He put his arm round me and everything felt right. Lovely, actually.
When the film finished he took my hand and led me into the bedroom. I was feeling nervous, but not in the usual D/s-ish way. This was more a kind of performance anxiety I suppose. I was torn. This was Adam, lovely, sexy, wonderful Adam, who I hadn’t seen for ages. I wanted to jump his bones, but at the same time I was desperately wondering if I could plead sleep or feign tiredness to avoid the potential awkwardness of what might happen next.
He wrapped his arms round me and began kissing me again. Soft, gentle brushes of his lips with mine to start with, developing into a passionate kiss, his tongue pushing inside my mouth, while his hands stroked my back.
He broke away to lift my top over my head, pulling me back to kiss me again, as if he didn’t want to stop until he had to, or was worried about breaking the spell. I’d not kissed anyone as much as I had kissed Adam, and it was wonderful, romantic, gentle. Our mouths stayed glued together as he unfastened my bra. When his hands moved to my waist I mirrored his movements, and, still kissing, we unfastened each other’s jeans.
He broke the kiss once more to pull my bra down my arms and lift his own T-shirt over his head. I couldn’t stop myself grinning at him as I drank in the sight of him naked, and the last thing I saw before he moved back in to kiss me again was his own smile reflected back at me.
He walked me backwards until the back of my legs met the bed, then put gentle pressure on my shoulders to first sit and then lie me down. As I moved backwards he followed me, the tip of his cock brushing my thigh, making me shiver.
When his lips finally left mine he kissed my cheek, and then took my earlobe between his teeth, gently nibbling before moving lower. He kissed my neck and chest, reacquainting himself with my breasts, caressing them, softly licking and sucking on my nipples.
He continued down my stomach, making sure not to miss an inch of my skin. I spread my legs in lewd invitation, but he began kissing down my inner thigh instead. I moaned, in pleasure but also in frustration. I kn
ew I was wet (which had to be a good start, right?) and I wanted him to taste me.
He kissed down to my knee and then shifted to the other leg, kissing back up. As he got close to where I was so desperate for him to be, I held my breath. I felt his warm breath on my wetness and it gave me goosebumps. I was trembling with anticipation and eventually, finally, I felt his tongue on me. One long lick from my opening to my clit. I almost shouted with joy and relief.
He took his time, licking with the flat of his tongue over and over again before using the tip to move up and down my lips. Then he fucked me with his mouth. My eyes closed and my head went back as he pushed inside, his tongue entering me as deep as it could, his face pressed against me, coated in my juices.
He moved his tongue, his intimate kisses an echo of the passionate kisses that had left my mouth swollen just minutes before. It felt sensual, amazing, and I was shocked to feel how it had affected me. I was incredibly wet, audibly so. The idea might have made me blush earlier in the evening but I tried to push that away, to lie back and lose myself to the wonderful feelings he was evoking.
I don’t know how long he licked me, just that it was a long time, but still didn’t feel long enough. Eventually he moved his mouth and began licking my clit. He licked and sucked, getting harder and faster. I felt myself get closer and closer to orgasm, but as fast as the thought filled my mind the feeling dissipated. Suddenly non-rude thoughts entered my head. All the stressful things I’d been thinking about were there, my worries about whether this would work, the bone-weary tiredness. I knew I wouldn’t come now, and I had no idea why that was or how to get past it. And I knew he’d be disappointed and I hated that too, because he’d been so lovely and done everything he could to make the night special and it wasn’t enough. I wanted to cry.
I pulled back away from him, and for the first time ever it wasn’t playful or bratty, it was real. I just couldn’t. Being somewhat busy and thus oblivious to my change in mindset Adam tried to follow me with his mouth. I had to push him away at the shoulder and tell him to stop. He looked up at me, confused.
‘I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can. It’s not that I don’t want to. God, I really, really do, but I just can’t.’ My voice was cracking and my eyes were filled with tears. It was ridiculous to be this upset, but I was tired, exhausted, frustrated and genuinely concerned at the fact that for the first time in my life I seemed completely incapable of getting a handle on either my own emotions or my body.
He paused, seeming to consider something while looking at me. Then his face changed. His face was no longer filled with surprise and concern. Suddenly he was stern and fierce. I knew that look. But what –
In a second he had a handful of my hair and slapped my face. It jolted me. It’s the first slap in the face that usually sinks me under. There’s something primal about it. Something not only physically jarring but also degrading, demeaning. In the immediate seconds after the sound cracked through the room, the silence – or was it the roar in my ears? – felt deafening, even though everything was still. We were just looking at each other, sizing each other up. My mind was still focused on the worries, but they were being pushed back as I felt the surge of adrenaline I always felt when we began this dance.
‘It’s not up to you when you do or don’t come,’ he hissed.
I glared at him. ‘Seriously, you think this is the right time for you to become some kind of überdom? After the –’
He silenced me with a kiss, but where before it had been sensual and passionate, now instead it was forceful, an invasion. His tongue pushed deep into my mouth, making me taste myself on him. It was embarrassing. I felt myself blush.
As he invaded my mouth he forced a hand between my legs. I tried to close my thighs, squashing his hand between them. He let out a growl of annoyance and discomfort. He broke the kiss and slapped my face again.
‘Don’t you fucking dare. Open your legs or I swear you’ll regret it.’
The look on his face actually scared me a bit, not because I thought he would do me genuine harm, I trusted him utterly, but because he seemed genuinely annoyed. In what was surely a first in our relationship, I kept my legs resolutely shut. He gave me a long look.
‘Either use your safe word or do as you are told, but stop wasting my fucking time.’
I hated the thought of disappointing him. I didn’t want to use my safe word. Reluctantly I opened my legs to him and he started rubbing me roughly between my legs.
He lay down next to me and shifted me onto my side, spooning behind me in a position that would have looked innocent and intimate, but for the forearm he pressed against my throat and the barrage of filth and abuse he began whispering into my ear. The gentle kissing had, it seemed, passed.
He said humiliating and degrading things, things he knew made me wet, turned me on. He called me a whore, a slut, told me that he would tell me when I did and didn’t get to come, that I had no fucking right to choose. Then came the words that filled me with terror.
‘I’m going to count down to five and when I do you had better fucking come.’
I was no longer thinking about anything else, all I was focused on was the picture he was painting with his words, his hand between my legs, the numbers ringing in my ears as he counted. For a small, short while everything else buzzing around in my brain was silenced. There was just me, him, this. It consumed me.
As soon as he said ‘one’ it happened. I honestly didn’t expect it to. I was beginning to worry about whether he would punish me for not orgasming, trying to prepare myself, when it hit me like a sledgehammer. I opened my mouth to cry out but made no noise. I went stiff for a few seconds and then started to tremble. The release was incredible. I fleetingly wondered if I might have burst a blood vessel.
I don’t know if I fell asleep or was just unable to concentrate and listen, but the next thing I was aware of was Adam’s voice in my ear again. This time he was soft and soothing, asking if I was OK, telling me how wonderful I was. His hand was now stroking up and down my thigh and the arm that had been round my neck was softly caressing my breast.
I turned round and buried my face in his chest, unable to look at him for a moment, just a bit overcome by it all, the pressure, the release. I thanked him, muffled against his chest, trying to hide the fact I was crying a little in relief.
He laughed softly. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to thank me for anything.’ He pulled the covers over us and kissed the top of my head, holding me close. His warmth felt comforting. For the first time in nearly a fortnight I felt happy and weirdly at peace. Also, bloody exhausted.
When I woke the room was still light – he must have fallen asleep when I did rather than try and disentangle himself from me to switch the light off. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been asleep, but I knew it had been a while. I shifted my weight off his arm, figuring it might drop off soon if it didn’t get some circulation into it.
I looked at him as he slept. He looked younger without his glasses on, oddly innocent, most definitely not the complex, occasionally stern man I had come to know. I’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were before. It made me smile. He made me smile. I felt a bit guilty, though – he’d known how to help me come when I had no idea myself how that would work, and I’d thanked him by falling asleep on him without any attempt at reciprocation. I thought it might be time to redress the balance. We had some catching up to do and, frankly, any lingering concerns about my ability to orgasm or otherwise wouldn’t be an issue for what I had in mind.
Carefully I crawled down the bed. Stopping at his waist I kissed just above his groin, then either side of it. He didn’t stir. I made myself comfortable on my elbows and knees, and took his soft cock between my lips, using my tongue on the underside. It began to grow in my mouth, and he began to stir, moaning softly in his sleep. I moved my mouth up and down, flicking my tongue over the tip, gently stroking his balls with my fingers.
His hand touched my thigh, making me jump a little.
Keeping him in my mouth I looked round to see him smiling sleepily at me. I grinned back as well as I could with my mouth full.
His fingers began to play between my legs, sliding inside me as I took him deep in my throat. I gagged on him and it made me clench around his fingers, a chain reaction which bemused me. I began to move my mouth faster.
‘Wait,’ he said hoarsely.
I looked up, confused and, I’ll be honest, a bit reluctant. I was having fun.
‘Not this way. Fuck me.’
Oh. OK. I smiled again.
I lowered myself down on him, leaning to kiss him as our hips began moving in rhythm. Suddenly he broke the kiss, telling me to sit up. This was nothing new, he loved to watch me, to play with my breasts and see me grind against him.
As I sat up and leaned back a little he reached forward and pressed a finger between our bodies, gently massaging my clit. I moaned and began moving my hips with a little more urgency.
Then he moved his hand away and grabbed my wrist. Not hard but firmly. He moved it until my hand was near to where his had just been. He looked me in the eyes and his meaning was clear. He wanted me to play with myself while he watched.
I’ve done some embarrassing things for and to him, but the intimacy of it, of him watching my face so close up as I touched myself, made me feel reluctant. His gaze was unrelenting, though, his hips still while I made my choice.
It made me slightly self-conscious, but knowing how much he enjoyed watching me this way made it worth the initial awkwardness and, let’s face it, when you’re doing something so fundamentally fun it’s no big deal really in the grand scheme of things. Also, in light of earlier, it would have been a bit churlish not to.
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 10
