I started to rub my clit. He moved his hand away. He still wasn’t moving his hips, but he was deep inside me and it felt amazing. I closed my eyes, focusing on how wonderful it felt and not the embarrassment of masturbating while he watched.
Then he started to talk to me. He whispered dirty things. Not humiliating, nasty things like before, but fantasies that we had shared, things that he knew turned me on. I rubbed myself a little harder and I felt another orgasm creeping up on me.
I forced myself to open my eyes and look at him. ‘I’m going to come,’ I said, half in amazement and half in request for permission.
He smiled and nodded at me as he suddenly started to move his pelvis up and down, fucking me hard. I watched his orgasm hit him, feeling him pulsate inside me. The feeling sent me over the edge. My thighs pressed tightly into his side as I cried out again.
After our breathing had stilled I leaned back down and kissed him. He put his arms around my neck and we lay there for a while, neither of us willing to separate just yet. And in that moment I realised what he’d done. I’d struggled to give myself an orgasm, was worried about it. While he’d been able to make me come in D/s ways, he’d wanted to show me I could still do it myself. I pressed a kiss to his collarbone. My complex, clever, lovely man.
The next morning, after the best sleep I’d had for weeks, I lay in bed listening to his soft breathing and reflected on things a bit. Why hadn’t I used my safe word? In the moment it was a complex mixture of not wanting what was happening to end, not wanting to disappoint him, and a curiosity about what would happen next. I trusted him implicitly, was intrigued (and admittedly by that point a little desperate) to see what he was going to try next. The fact that I had responded to the D/s sex in that situation when nothing else worked surprised me. It would have worried me except for the fact we had proved very quickly afterwards that it wasn’t that I’d reached some kind of tipping point where the only sex I could respond to was D/s tinged – which was just as well, really, as I didn’t want Adam getting flogging-related RSI or some such.
The other thing it made me realise was just how well Adam knew me, how he understood my character and personality in ways I hadn’t fully appreciated until that point. A lot of the reason why he was so challenging as a dominant was, undoubtedly, because he could hazard a pretty accurate guess at any given point as to how I would react, what I would find difficult and annoying and what would come easier. But I hadn’t really appreciated how he could channel that knowledge in a way that would do so much to help my wellbeing.
Since then, I’ve had other occasions where I’ve got stressed about things and found sex difficult. Our dynamic isn’t such that if I feel like I’m not into sex for whatever reason, Adam gets all granite-faced and dominant and pushes his will on me anyway. Make no mistake, that’s not what this was, isn’t what these occasions are. There are times, when one or other of us is ill or stressed out or whatever, when things will stop for a little while. But there are other times when the world crowds in, when whatever is preying on my mind won’t be shifted easily and it messes with my mojo a little. In those instances, D/s – cathartic, lovely and often vicious – can push through and clear my brain. For a little while I’m not worrying, I’m not thinking about the list of things I have to do, not prioritising whatever has to happen next, I’m just reacting. Enduring. Enjoying. And it’s bloody lovely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The deepening of my feelings for Adam happened quite gradually. I know I have moments when I’m a bit oblivious about emotional things, but even on that basis, I didn’t expect it to be Charlotte who helped me realise the change.
Charlotte and I had met for lunch near my office. She was working nearby for a couple of weeks, and it felt like a good opportunity to catch up, albeit I knew I was going to have to deal with a fair amount of ‘I-told-you-so’ about the wonderousness of Adam.
I was still getting my head round the fact he and Charlotte had slept together. I knew it shouldn’t bother me, knew that it was long over, knew even that he didn’t want to reconnect with her and that she was happy with Tom. But somehow it felt weird. I couldn’t put my finger on why. When Charlotte and Tom started sleeping together it didn’t bother me that way. How could this possibly be different?
I know; even for me this was a new level of obliviousness.
Our sandwiches and coffees had just arrived when Charlotte brought up Adam and I seeing each other and how well it was going. I skirted through the conversation as delicately as I could manage.
‘It’s going really well. We’re having loads of fun.’
Charlotte’s look was all wide eyes and eyebrow waggles. I couldn’t help but break into a smile.
‘Lots and lots of fun,’ I conceded.
She laughed. ‘I knew you two would get on. You have very similar mindsets about things and obviously work together in D/s terms.’ It was my turn to raise an eyebrow: this wasn’t a road I was overly comfortable going down. ‘And you’re both quite laid-back about most things, but filthy with it.’
I nodded (she was right, after all), although it felt more difficult keeping the smile. I tried to push down this weird feeling. Was it annoyance? I didn’t want to say it was jealousy because rationally I knew I had nothing to be jealous about. I guess it was more that I felt like I was still finding out things about Adam – the way he reacted to stuff, the things he enjoyed (not just the rude stuff either – he’d mentioned in passing his love of HP Sauce while we were eating lunch a week or so before, so I’d got some to keep in my kitchen) and I felt weird pangs when I realised that Charlotte might know some or indeed all of these things already. Fuck. It did sound like jealousy.
I took a bite of sandwich to try and hide my reaction. I knew it was daft. I just had to work on working through it, if that didn’t sound all life-coach-tastic.
I’d missed what Charlotte had been talking about while my internal monologue had a bit of a meltdown, but my brain clicked straight back into gear as her sentence drifted into the kind of silence that seemed to inspire a response.
‘So do you fancy going? The dress code isn’t too formal, but you’d have to wear fetishwear.’
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew that anything that involved a dress code was not my sort of place, even before we got started on the outfits. I don’t mind fetishwear. I find some of it hot, but I’m not the sort of person who’d feel comfortable wearing those kind of clothes out and about.
She was waiting for me to answer. Balls. I tried to prevaricate. ‘Where is it again?’ I paused, realising how lame I sounded. ‘And, erm, when is it?’
Charlotte sighed. ‘The weekend after next, at a club in the city.’
I felt vaguely relieved. I am rubbish at lying. Really rubbish. Even the simple stuff, the ‘yes, Grandma, this jumper you’ve spent eight months knitting that isn’t the right size and is made of itchy wool, fits beautifully and I love it’ lies are beyond me. Thankfully I didn’t have to come up with anything. ‘I’m away for an old college friend’s hen do that weekend unfortunately. Sorry, you’ll have to go without me.’
Charlotte frowned. ‘Shame. Do you know if Adam is about? Maybe he’d fancy coming with us – there’s quite a group of us going. It should be a laugh.’
Adam had mentioned going to a fetish night with Charlotte previously; the conversation – when I found out they’d slept together – was one seared into my brain. He might want to go, and I wasn’t going to kick up a fuss if he did – we’d agreed to be monogamous and I trusted him – but I felt massive pangs at the thought of it actually happening.
Charlotte gave me a long look, the kind of look that was way too knowing.
‘You really like Adam, don’t you?’
I nodded and answered, possibly too quickly. ‘Yeah, of course I do. We wouldn’t be doing the kind of things we do together if I didn’t like him. And trust him, come to that.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not what I meant, Soph, a
nd you know it.’
I feigned confusion. Charlotte and I hadn’t really ever talked deeply about emotions. I’d always given it a wide berth because with my past with Thomas it felt a bit like a weird conflict of interest – I deliberately gave them space. I gritted my teeth, wishing Charlotte had similar ideas.
‘This thing with you and Adam, it’s not like me and Tom, is it? It’s serious. It’s not just casual dating, a play arrangement?’
I stared intently at a piece of parsley garnish on my plate – honestly, who puts garnish on a sandwich? What’s the point? – and tried to school my features, not blush, not reveal anything. ‘Look, neither of us want the faff of anything serious. We’re just having fun, nothing more.’
The awkward thing was, we both knew I was lying. Much to my relief she didn’t call me on it, though. She just smirked a little. ‘I knew you’d get on well together. Tom wasn’t sure, but I knew.’
She sounded smug. But I let it pass. It seemed safest.
The problem with the realisation that you’re in love with someone is that you have this urge to blurt it out. It’s OK, I’m no Disney heroine, I’m not talking a big number with dancing animals or anything, but there were little moments when I found myself about to say it, catching myself and then stopping.
And no, I’m not just talking post-orgasm. Although, yes, that is very lovely too.
The thing was, Adam and I were fast becoming a part of each other’s lives. We’d met each other’s parents (mine behaved for the most part, barring an embarrassing anecdote about a school play aged six; his mum got out his old school photos and he got so embarrassed he had to leave the room). He’d come to work events with me as my plus one. I thought about him at odd moments in the day and – if the text messages and emails were anything to go by – he felt the same. He made me laugh, he was supportive, fun to be around, easy company. I missed him when he wasn’t there. I was trying to be pretty laid-back about it, but the idea of disentangling our lives from each other for any reason made me feel rotten. Not, I hasten to add, that there was any reason that might happen currently, but the fact that the idea of it happening made me feel sick worried me. I know, I’m a complex woman. Or possibly a bit loopy. But the fact was, there was an Adam-sized shape slap bang in the centre of my life lately, and I loved that. Loved him, actually. But it still felt a bit precarious. Maybe my cautiousness was a weird self-defence mechanism, but I was constantly trying to divine if he felt the same way.
Of course, Adam being Adam – straightforward to the point of bluntness – he found his way to put me in the picture.
We were watching TV when I told him I loved him. I know there’s probably a whole debate to be had about whether I should have said it first, whether it was too soon, yadda yadda yadda – in fact, if my mind had been more alert at that exact moment I’d probably have had the whole debate internally before I opened my mouth.
As it was, we were sat watching the news together – him on the sofa, me on the floor by his feet, not for D/s-ish reasons, just because it was comfy to sit with my legs stretched out.
I leaned my head against him, using his thigh as a pillow, and his hand came round to my shoulder, stroking my neck, his fingers beginning to gently massage a twinge I’d got earlier in the week that had been causing me trouble (he reckoned it was from having a handbag ‘the size of a small planet’. I pointed out he was an idiot, although I might then have emptied half of the contents into the bin and my desk drawer). As his fingers began to work the knot and we sat in companionable silence, I felt a surge of affection for him but also a sense that at this point there was nowhere else I would rather be in the world, and no one else I would rather be with.
Impulsively, I kissed his jeans just above his knee. ‘I love you.’
His fingers kept moving and his voice behind me was languid. ‘I know.’
For a split second, I felt a surge of horror. My internal monologue was beginning a panic along the lines of ‘fuck, he doesn’t feel the same, what does he even mean when he –’ and then I stopped. My brain registered what he’d said and I burst out laughing.
I turned my head to look at him and saw him smiling down at me. As I thought. ‘You arse.’ His grin got wider.
‘I love you too. Not least because you get my Star Wars references.’
I glared up at him, but we both knew it was mock fury. ‘You should be so bloody lucky. Otherwise you’d have got an elbow in the ribs at best.’
He leaned down and took hold of my arms, easing me up onto the sofa next to him. He leaned down to kiss me, but before he did his face stilled just inches from mine. ‘I do love you, but such empty threats are pointless.’
I stuck my tongue out at him and he leaned in, half to kiss me, half to catch my tongue between his teeth. He put his arms round me, and my hands snaked round his waist. The nibbling kiss deepened.
We didn’t say anything else for a while.
Even putting sci-fi-related protestations of love aside, my relationship with Adam was unlike any I’d ever had with a guy before. He was a loving and thoughtful boyfriend, kind and caring, but also the most challenging dominant I’d ever had because of his penchant for humiliation. As a kid my mum had often repeated ‘sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me’, but Adam was the D/s opposite of that (not that I intended mentioning that to my mum, whom he had charmed in typical fashion).
Our sexual dynamic included some pain but Adam took as much if not more pleasure and amusement out of messing with my mind, not least because the better he got to know me the easier it became to tie me in knots figuratively as well as literally. But it wasn’t all about the sex. Obviously that was incredibly fun and, given half a chance, we jumped on each other at every opportunity, but I enjoyed the quiet moments, the chats between sexual shenanigans, as much as I did the orgasms. The more we got to know each other, the more we realised we shared a sense of humour, a distaste for relationship drama, similar interests, the same focus on family and friends. And the more time we spent together, the more time we wanted to spend together. Suddenly he was the person I wanted to tell if I’d had a crappy day, or drag out for payday beers. I knew he felt the same because – refreshingly – he told me. The next step was pretty much inevitable.
We’d talked about how we both wanted to get married and have kids one day (not yet, though, we were still taking precautions, although we swapped the condoms for a coil), how we wanted to live together at some point in the next couple of years, and then suddenly it happened.
His flatmate was buying a house so Adam had the option of finding new people to move into his flat or moving elsewhere. It brought our plans forward a bit but we decided to take the plunge, signing the lease on a nice two-bed flat convenient for both our offices. We were officially cohabiting. Our respective parents were thrilled for us, Thomas and Charlotte were incredibly smug that their matchmaking had worked (which made them helping us move in rather irritating at points, although they were very helpful putting together our Ikea bookcases), and we, well, we were full of the joys of the honeymoon period.
Even by our standards, in between figuring out who was paying which direct debits and whose turn it was to do the washing-up, we were insatiable for the first few weeks after we moved in. We fucked in every room – although, admittedly, the flat was still on the bijou side so that only really took an afternoon – and revisited every kink and fantasy we could think of as the washing-up pile began to grow in the sink.
Actually moving in and unpacking was, unsurprisingly, slow work. We had a lot of breaks. I was on my hands and knees the first weekend we moved in, rummaging under the bed to try and make room for another box of clothes, when suddenly I felt his hands on my arse.
Before I really knew what was happening he’d pulled down my jogging bottoms – oh-so-alluring, I know – and knickers and was rubbing his hand between my legs. I stayed as still as I could, conscious that if I lifted my head up more than an inch I was going to hit i
t on the metal frame above me. Enjoying his ministrations, I found myself getting wet, and then suddenly his hand withdrew. I’d have felt frustrated except a second later he was pushing his cock inside me. He didn’t say a word, just started moving, pounding into me as I stared at the box I’d been trying to move aside.
He slowed for a moment, and I wondered if he was going to help me up so we could fuck on the bed rather than under it, but the next thing I felt was the tip of his finger, still wet from rubbing me just a few moments before, against my arse. He slowly slid it inside me, adding it to the rhythm by pushing it in when he pulled his cock out and vice versa. I don’t know if it was the surprise of the sex, the finger in my arse or the fact I was trapped under the bed but I found my excitement building quickly, and pushed back hard against his cock and finger as I came.
He withdrew from both my holes as I tried to catch my breath, and before I even realised what was happening I heard a familiar noise and the sound of a groan as he came across my arse. Then I heard him stand, zip himself up and walk away. I pulled my trousers back up – partly because I knew he’d get a kick out of it when he realised and partly out of pure necessity – and finished organising the boxes in the bedroom. When I walked into the living room a few minutes later he was sat flicking through the local freebie paper and drinking a cup of tea. A second cup sat on the coffee table waiting for me. He looked up and winked at me. I smiled back and shoved at him to make room on the sofa for me, our unpacking done for a bit.
After a few days off work to unpack and settle in together we both had to return to our respective offices. While we’d deliberately chosen a flat equidistant from our workplaces he often worked longer hours than I did so I was home at least an hour before him each night. Whichever of us made it home first tried to make it as easy for the other person as possible – starting dinner and any other necessary chores to minimise the amount of the evening taken up by household routine.
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 11
