He told me to open my mouth wide. I began to feel a little more confident – at least I could tell where this was going in the short term. He didn’t tell me to suck him, though, he just grabbed my ponytail and fucked my face, hard and deep, over and over again. I gagged on him a number of times, struggling to breathe as my saliva ran down my chin, but he wasn’t interested in my discomfort – he was using me as a hole to fuck, nothing more. He eventually pulled out, coming over my blouse.
He stood up and walked past with a quick stroke of my head. I clung to it as an act of tenderness because, frankly, there wasn’t much else that was tender about the experience and it made me feel oddly prickly and upset. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and came back to stand in front of me.
‘Put your coat on and go get us both some breakfast.’
I’m pretty sure I was gaping. My skirt was long enough to get away with for work if I’d been so inclined, but the socks underneath looked a little quirky.
‘Where am I supposed to do that? What do you want me to get?’
I hated the nervous indecision in my voice – how quickly had that come on? – but in the light of this being his day of orders, these moments of independence seemed to take on more meaning than they would usually and I didn’t want to do anything wrong. I did want to please him. My brain was also whirring at the logistics of it all. How would this even work?
His smirk as he responded seemed to indicate he too was aware of my uncharacteristic dithering. ‘You decide.’
I walked to the shop. It was a bit awkward but my coat was long enough that no one had an inkling of what I was wearing underneath, and I’d wrapped a scarf round my neck to hide any evidence of the stain on my blouse. I wished I could drive to the shop, but common sense prevailed – well, that and the fact I wasn’t sure I wanted to ever have to write ‘wearing butt plug and crotch rope while driving’ in the ‘cause of accident’ section of an insurance claim form.
As I walked the ten minutes to the shop I hoped the time out in the fresh air, alone, would help me regain my equilibrium, but it didn’t. The plug shifted with every step, my arse cheeks were still sore from the spanking and my brain was whirring with questions about what might happen next – not least because this all felt much more challenging than I had expected, and I was desperately trying to figure out why so I could understand and hopefully move past it a little.
Unfortunately I hadn’t figured it out by the time I got back home. I turned the coffee pot on and put the croissants I’d just bought in the oven to warm, still feeling uncertain about what was to come.
Once breakfast was ready Adam sat on the sofa to eat it, and gestured for me to sit on the floor between his legs.
It was strange. I often sat on the floor by choice. When I was watching TV or reading a broadsheet paper I tended to grab a cushion from the sofa and lie down on my front, stretched out to read and relax. It wasn’t demeaning or any kind of status thing; it was my choice, a comfortable place to sit. But in this context it felt different, very different, and all I could remember was Charlotte sitting here a few weekends before, watching DVDs with us. Had something so simple felt this momentous for her too? This awkward?
We ate in silence, passing the jam back and forth, the TV on quietly in the background. After we’d finished eating we sipped our coffee and watched the news. He stroked my hair and I rested my head on his knee; the silence shifted subtly from feeling (to me at least) nerve-wracking to something more companionable. It suddenly clicked. The points where it felt overwhelming, oddly upsetting, were the points where there was less of an emotional connection, where he was treating me as a thing rather than a person. These moments redressed the balance, made it feel right. Even with the humiliation there was a tenderness. It was loving.
Although I had just finished my first coffee of the morning, which probably helped me feel less out of sorts too.
After the bulletin finished he told me to stand up. I did so, on slightly unsteady legs. My back still to him, he untucked my stained blouse from my skirt so he could untie the crotch rope, pulling my knickers down to my thighs so he could remove it.
He then told me to lean forward and remove the plug.
I know it’s daft. He’d fucked my arse a fair few times by then, so he certainly knew what it looked like. But even so, it took a couple of deep breaths and a conscious effort to still my suddenly shaky hands before I could display myself to him that way.
As he watched me humiliate myself he reached for the lube – presumably moved from the bedroom while I was out getting breakfast. He pulled his shorts down and rubbed some onto his hardening cock. What he said next shattered the domestic feeling we’d been enjoying just moments before.
‘Impale yourself on me.’
I turned my head to look at him, seeking silent clarification, though I already knew what he meant.
‘Push your arse onto my cock.’
He was sat on the sofa. It wasn’t especially low, but lowering myself down on him was awkward and took some manoeuvring to ensure I didn’t squash him, but was able to get him inside. His groan of pleasure as I settled myself onto his lap filled me with pride. My head rolled back, resting on his shoulder as I enjoyed the feeling of him deep inside me.
After a few moments I began to move, slowly, my feet on the floor helping give me leverage to move up and down. The movement against made my arse, which was still smarting after my spanking, hurt. It was also humiliating: effectively I was giving him my arse while he sat there. But it was also incredibly hot, even before his hand snaked round to my clit.
I hadn’t come earlier, so was already somewhat overwrought, even before he began rubbing me, making me writhe harder against him.
My orgasm built quickly, and it was only at the last second that the voice in the back of my head reminded that I should ask for permission before I came. My thighs were shaking with the effort of staving it off as I grudgingly pushed the words out, although he had me repeat them before he finally took pity on me and let me come, loudly and with such force that it was only him grabbing my waist that stopped me toppling off the sofa.
As I came back down to earth he stroked my hair, kissed my neck and whispered that he was pleased I was being such a good fucktoy, something that in another mood might have left me glaring at him, but instead made me grin in adrenaline-fuelled glee. I turned to look at him and, impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed me deeply.
‘You look so beautiful, all dishevelled and covered in filth.’
I restrained the urge to stick my tongue out at him (I knew that wasn’t going to go down well today) and instead kissed him back, enjoying the moment of tenderness.
One of the interesting things about moving in together was the way we complemented each other. I was organised, always had been, partly because of work and partly because I’d spent so many years living alone whereby if I didn’t sort myself out then no one else would. Adam, on the other hand, loved the fact that I sorted out a lot of the admin born of us moving in together, and instead picked up the slack with something I’ve never really been overly fond of. Cleaning.
I know living in a clean and tidy house is a wonderful thing, but I have to say I am not a natural cleaner. Every so often I’ll have a blitz, if someone is visiting or if it reaches that tipping point where suddenly it feels like you couldn’t possibly live like this for a moment longer and must act immediately (see also: eyebrow growth – how is it I can go to bed looking vaguely OK and wake up looking like the mono-browed missing evolutionary link?). Adam, on the other hand, loved cleaning. The first thing he did when we moved in together, while I was alphabetising our DVD collection (don’t judge me) was to arrange our kitchen. A fun Saturday morning for him started with him scrubbing the bathroom till it gleamed while I bought the papers and made breakfast. He enjoyed it, seemed to get a lot of satisfaction from it, and it was one of the (many) reasons why I thanked my lucky stars I’d fallen in love with someone as wonderful as him.
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Not today, though.
Today he just seemed keen to test me. He sat on the sofa and had me clean the living room around him. I dusted, polished and vacuumed, with him barely lifting his legs out of the way as necessary, the whole time aware that he was watching me and looking up my skirt as I bent over.
Still, if this was what he had in mind for his day of total control who was I to quibble?
When I was done he walked around, inspecting my work. It was a better job than I’d usually have done under my own steam, but he was meticulous – or possibly looking for excuses.
He found a patch of dust at the back of the DVD player, and wiped his hand across it to hold it up to me. My face wrinkled as I stared at the – frankly barely noticeable – grime on his fingertips. I grabbed my duster and leaned down to push my arm right into the TV cabinet to reach it, barely aware of myself harrumphing ‘for fuck’s sake’ under my breath.
He cleared the distance between us in seconds. He didn’t even look at me but just grabbed my arm as he walked past me, dragging me with him. I was barely aware of what was happening, he moved with such speed.
He opened a door in the corner of our living room to reveal our small storage cupboard. When we’d moved in we’d put empty boxes that needed disposing of in there as we’d unpacked and my first thought when he opened the door was, ‘Oh, he’s cleaned it out and taken all that stuff to the tip.’ Until he pushed me inside and down to the floor and closed the door, leaving me in the dark and mostly empty (there was a throw we used on the sofa when it was cold but that was it) cupboard.
It all happened so quickly that I was stunned for the first few minutes. I sat, cursing him under my breath (quieter than I had moments before), waiting to see what would happen next. What the fuck was he playing at? I felt furious more than anything else. I knew I’d agreed to the terms of engagement but what the fuck was this? Part of me wanted to open the door, but several things stopped me – curiosity at what he was going to do, and pride that refused to let him see that he was bothering me or that this was upsetting me. I thought about opening the door, moving out and seeing what would happen but since I didn’t want to apologise and had no intention of safe-wording the only thing likely to happen would be that I’d get myself in more trouble. Bad plan.
I waited, as patiently as I was able (which wasn’t very).
The only light in the room came from under the door. I watched as it flickered at points, wondering if that was him walking past. I strained to hear if he was outside, and was unsure whether I would be relieved or nervous if he was. Through it all, though, I seethed. I felt proper, burning fury of the kind I had felt in D/s situations before, but never with Adam.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but over time I began to soften. I stopped feeling angry and began to feel anxious. I felt bad that I might have disappointed him or let him down, annoyed with myself that these seemingly simple orders had proven so challenging – confused, if I’m honest as to why they had felt so tough. I lay down and curled myself into a ball as I waited for him to come back.
Finally he opened the door and beckoned me out. I tried to get to my feet but he told me to stay on my hands and knees. I peeked at his face as he moved past me and tried to read his expression, but for the first time I really couldn’t.
I crawled behind him as he walked across the room. He stood by the entertainment unit that housed our TV, games console and DVD player, then finally turned to look at me, unzipping his shorts as he did. I automatically opened my mouth but he grinned – a brief but reassuring return of my Adam – and shook his head.
He stroked himself while I watched. I’d seen him do this before, but whereas normally it felt acceptable to help him along, this time I knew I could only watch. It was an erotic kind of torture, especially as he began to move faster, getting ever closer to coming.
Finally he groaned and aimed his cock down. For a split second I thought he was aiming for another part of my body or outfit, but instead he came on the wooden floor.
He told me later that the look on my face at that moment was a picture of confusion and annoyance. I can’t imagine it got any better when he spoke to me – I literally had to restrain the urge to push him over.
‘This is why, when I say clean the room, everything has to be clean. Now lick it up.’
I looked up at him, trying to work out if he was serious or if this was some kind of head fuck. I knew him well enough by then that I could tell that he wasn’t messing with me, that he was unmoved by my pleading glances. I think he knew me well enough by then, though, to know that I wasn’t going to safe word my way out of it.
Slowly I bent down and licked at his cum, tentatively, but it just moved across the wooden surface away from me. Bloody laminate floors. I moved to try and catch it on my tongue, aware it was a ridiculous and surprisingly difficult quest. It took ages, and by the time I’d finished my eyes were teary with humiliation. I also felt like I’d disappointed him and let him down. It was a weird, unexpected feeling that made me want to howl. It caught me off guard. He saw it for what it was, though.
As soon as he saw my face he picked me up off the floor and took me to the sofa. We sat down together, he held me in his arms and hugged me and I clung to him, in a way that afterwards I would feel a bit sheepish about but which at the time felt so desperately important. I needed the connection, I needed his warmth. I needed him.
His voice was calm, gentle. He told me I’d done well, that he was proud of me. He asked me if it was OK, if he had gone too far.
After the initial reaction to the humiliation of it all I calmed a little. He grabbed the throw from the cupboard and wrapped it round me, pressing a soft kiss to my lips before disappearing to make two mugs of tea.
As I drank the tea I began to feel slightly less bereft. I’d had intense D/s experiences before – more humiliating things, definitely more painful things – that had affected me much less. We quietly talked it through, what we had found hot, what I had found difficult, and why.
Bearing in mind how articulate I can be about some elements of my mindset, on this one I was a bit stumped. I’ve been treated impersonally before, I’ve been hurt before, I’ve been humiliated in other, similar ways. I don’t know if it was the fact this had happened within our home environment that made it feel somehow more intense; I don’t know if it was being shut in the cupboard – it’s definitely possible. In hindsight I wonder if it was the sense of being properly punished for a misdemeanour, rather than it being ‘play’ punishment, that pushed me over the edge.
Whatever it was, slowly I began to feel more myself again. We drank our tea, and I had a restorative chocolate Hobnob (I think the sugar helped lift my mood too – that’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it) and as we cuddled on the sofa my mindset shifted once more.
We still had a whole afternoon set aside for smutty fun, and while by, unspoken agreement, Adam’s time in control had come to an end I was still feeling frisky and wanted to show my appreciation of him, his kindness and understanding. So I set about doing so in the filthiest ways possible. I lay in his lap licking and sucking him gently while we watched the rugby, enjoying half-teasing, half-worshipping him for the entirety of the game. Then I asked, of my own volition and with way less of an angry expression, if he would let me suck him until he came, touching myself while I did so. Then I gave him the filthiest kind of show, the kind of thing that made me blush but always made his eyes darken with lust.
It was stuff that in a different context was humiliating, that I would have felt prickly over if he’d made me do it. But I wanted to do it by choice. It made me wet to do it for him, to see how hard it made him.
My humiliations had felt almost too much to bear, but doing the same things voluntarily felt OK.
I know, I’m a contrary woman. Some kinksters would undoubtedly say that my behaviour was a poor show on the submissive front, and maybe it was. But between us we discovered our limits and figured, without a shadow of a d
oubt, that 24/7 type control wasn’t for us. Although, as Adam admitted while we were brushing our teeth that night, that wasn’t a bad thing.
‘Some days, Soph, it’s all I can do to sort myself out through the day, much less micromanaging you. It just didn’t feel natural to me. I want an equal partner that submits, not a slave that obeys. Giving you real punishments didn’t excite me the way other play did. It just made me feel like a bit of a dick.’
I laughed as I gargled.
‘I know that probably bars me from the Dom club, but then I never really read the rules of entry, and would have probably ignored them anyway. It’s like the Groucho Marx quote – “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.” ’
I sighed with relief. Thank fuck. He kissed me on the ear.
‘Shall we just keep doing what works for us? That means you can mock me without wondering if I’ll get all po-faced and make you apologise for a lack of respect. We can do D/s stuff, or normal stuff. Or just watch telly and eat toast. That’s pretty much my idea of an ideal relationship.’
He was right. And it saved us from having to sort out a blimmin’ sex contract.
CHAPTER NINE
I am not a bratty sort, although I suppose bratty sorts would probably say that too. At times, though, I can be somewhat … exuberant, shall we say. Cheeky even. With Adam it was fine, for the most part, because our relationship was based on a D/s dynamic that wasn’t po-faced. He was secure in his dominance of me without me having to call him Lord Farquhar Master of All, curtsey or refer to myself in the third person. The dynamic between us ebbed and flowed depending on what we were doing, where we were and who was around. Sometimes the banter between us got very impudent, and even silly. In the right mood, if he remembered, later he might exercise mock retribution for my ‘misdemeanour’, but as he loved to tell me, he didn’t need a reason to ‘punish’ me: when the time came and if he felt the urge he would just hurt me because we both enjoyed it. That was all the justification he needed.
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 14
