Adam nodded. ‘I know. The thing is, I’m not sure Charlie’s ever been that way with anyone. She’s a very independent person. She’s talking about going travelling for a bit to get her head clear.’
Charlotte’s work as a trainer for computer software was on a contract basis and made for a lot of down time, which made travelling easy. She could easily take some time off for a month or two and pick things up afterwards. I just wasn’t sure if that would make it easier or harder to move on.
Adam smiled. ‘This gallivanting round the world at the end of a relationship might catch on.’ Ah, his ex.
I looked at him closely, trying to figure out if there was any wistfulness there. I couldn’t tell, so I decided the simplest thing to do was to ask.
‘Any pangs on that score?’
He leaned down to kiss my nose and then put his arm round me.
‘Absolutely not, Ms Morgan. In fact, the exact opposite.’
I smiled. ‘Good answer.’
Charlotte didn’t go away in the end. She didn’t see Tom any more either, though. He was bereft at the break-up, and I felt much sympathy for him, not least because there were a lot of parallels with my break-up with James: the sense that it hadn’t been a ‘proper’ relationship, whatever that was, but that it was more than a series of random hook-ups.
Honestly, the whole friends-with-benefits and fuck-buddy culture that seems to have become more de rigueur for our generation is a difficult world to navigate. For every relationship like the one I had with Tom (which ended organically, cleanly and with neither one of us feeling upset by the other), there were many others involving hurt feelings, misunderstandings and no bloody sense of where you stand with things. While I’d loved the experiences I’d had along the way and the chance to discover more about what I was into (and, of course, the inordinate amount of fun I’d had), I was most definitely happy that uncertainty was no longer an issue. I just hoped Tom would be able to move on and find his own happiness.
He was definitely not hanging around waiting to do so, though. After the first few weeks of moping he signed up for an online dating site and for Fetlife, a D/s-focused social network. While he still spoke about Charlotte sometimes, he began talking to women online, although he wasn’t quite ready to take the next step. It sounded like he was having some flirty fun – I just wasn’t sure if this was going to be the start of the kind of relationship he wanted. It can be hard to tell if people are what they seem online.
Adam, on the other hand, remained nothing if not transparent. Sometimes that was accidentally amusing – for example, he had a tendency to become so focused on work that he tuned out everything else and it was a case of waving food in front of him (or stripping naked, that worked too) to get him to break off from what he was doing. It was OK, though, I didn’t take it personally. I felt secure enough in his love for me that the quirks of his personality just amused me.
Sometimes I found him genuinely surprising, though.
We’d gone out to the supermarket on a Saturday morning, at the end of one of those weeks that feels distressingly like it’ll never end. Adam was distracted to the point of hilarity. He forgot his wallet, and we ended up forgetting the milk and having to go back for it. By the time he’d stood in the car park for over a minute, unable to find the car, I was laughing at him outright. I couldn’t help it. He was smiling, too, so I figured I was safe.
On the drive home he took a wrong turn, taking us to a neighbourhood not too far from our flat – but far enough that I was looking quizzically at him as he pulled over.
‘You OK?’ I asked, half expecting his strange behaviour to be a sign that he was ill.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said, getting out of the car. I was confused, but I followed him.
We crossed the road. Adam walked up to the front gate of a small house, and said hello to a man waiting there. Apparently he was waiting for us. I smiled hello, but didn’t really know what to say because I had no clue what was going on. We followed the man inside, while my brain whirred – was this a potential new client of Adam’s? A friend? Why hadn’t he mentioned anything?
When we got inside, everything slotted into place. The house was empty, there was no furniture anywhere, and as we stood in the hallway it became apparent we were here to have a look round.
The estate agent, who’d come to let us in, agreed to leave us to it, seemingly keen to make a phone call from the warmth of his car parked in the drive.
As the front door closed behind him, I turned to look at Adam, my glance questioning. Well, at least this explained why he was distracted.
‘You didn’t mention we were looking at houses today.’
He looked a bit sheepish. ‘We aren’t, not really. It’s just, I saw this advertised in the local paper and looked it up online and it just seemed similar to what we’d been talking about.’
I grinned. We had spent a ridiculous amount of time discussing what our dream house would look like, mostly because it made the endless saving feel more worthwhile. We wanted a little house (well, we’d have been happy with a big house, but we had to be realistic), big windows and a kitchen big enough for a little table (me), room for a home office (both of us), all painted in neutral colours (him) but with lots of opportunities for shelves and bright sofas and the like (me). Preferably a little garden, mostly so that I could have a free-standing hammock (I know it’s a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but honestly, a free-standing hammock to lie on while reading my Kindle is pretty much my summer-day dream) and Adam could have a barbecue.
I had no idea how much this would cost and no sense of whether this would or could become our home. But twenty minutes’ dreaming about it wouldn’t hurt anyone would it? I took his hand. ‘Come on then, show me round.’
We went for a wander. A fairly short wander. Our budget did not stretch to a stately home. But as I walked into the living room and saw the big bay windows and the tiny conservatory out the back I felt a weird moment of recognition. I could imagine us living here. I could imagine Adam’s herb pots on the kitchen window ledge, our DVD shelves in the nook by the living-room door, a little armchair in the conservatory where I could sit with my laptop to write – it’d be a suntrap in the summer and would echo with the sound of rain on the glass roof in winter, a cosy place to sit bundled up out of the poor weather. As we walked through the house I loved it more and more, could hear the voice of my dad – who had given us both lectures on the dangers of falling for a house and thus not getting the best deal because you were too emotional – warning me to stay calm and be objective.
By the time I saw the deep bath with a power shower over the top of it, I was gone. I snuck a look over at Adam. He seemed distracted still, but even he was impressed – the low pressure of our shower was a constant bugbear of his.
I had no idea what we did now. How this worked. I didn’t even know if we could afford it. This was all grown-up stuff, new things I had no clue about, that we’d talked about but that now – maybe? – might be happening.
I walked over to the window in the master bedroom and looked out onto the garden shed. A shed. I laughed at myself, both for being excited at potentially having a shed and for not knowing what on earth I should put into one. I stood, watching a woman hanging out her washing a few doors down.
‘What do you think?’ Adam asked from across the room. ‘They’ve priced it for a quick sale and they want buyers with no chain. We could put in a speculative offer at least.’
‘I love it,’ I said. ‘I can imagine us living here.’
‘There’s room for us to have kids.’
I laughed. ‘Kids plural? Hold on, I’ve not even set up a home office yet and we’re talking about moving things round?’
He didn’t respond to my mocking, his voice was suddenly serious. ‘It’d be good to get married first, though, wouldn’t it?’
I was still watching the woman. ‘Before we have kids? I suppose so, although if it happens the other way around that wouldn’t be
too much of a problem. We’d get there in the end.’
‘I know, but it’d be better to be married, wouldn’t it?’
I turned to look at him, and found him in a weird half-crouched position. He straightened up as I moved. For long moments neither of us said anything.
‘Sophie, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.’
I was speechless. I literally couldn’t speak. I didn’t cry, I think I was too surprised. I know, we’d been talking about buying a home together, we already lived together, we wanted kids. I just hadn’t expected it now, here.
We looked at each other. After a few more seconds he finally, and somewhat plaintively said, ‘Soph? You’re kind of leaving me hanging here.’ I laughed.
‘You haven’t actually asked me to marry you yet.’
He looked confused. ‘Yes I did.’
‘No, you didn’t. You said you were trying to, but you didn’t.’
‘You’re such a bloody pedant.’ I crossed my arms, although I think my massive grin probably gave away my feelings. He chuckled and bowed. ‘Ms Sophie Morgan, will you marry me? Please?’
I couldn’t stop myself getting a bit choked up then, although I drew the line at the weird flappy-hand thing women do in chick flicks. ‘Of course I will. I’d love to.’ A pause. Simpler? ‘Yes.’
I flew across the room, launching myself at him. He half caught me, half hugged me, and we kissed for long enough that I was suddenly a bit worried the estate agent might come back. When we broke apart we were grinning at each other like lunatics, Adam’s face visibly relieved. Well, I guess that explained his distraction.
Suddenly, Adam made a little noise of exclamation. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ He pulled a small box out of his pocket, and opened it to show me a ring.
‘If you don’t like it, or it doesn’t fit, we can change it,’ he said as he pulled it from the box and went to slip it on my finger. It was simple and not ostentatious, exactly the kind of the thing I would have chosen for myself. I hugged him tightly.
‘It’s perfect.’
He kissed me on the nose.
‘You’re perfect.’
I pulled a face. ‘No I’m not.’
He grinned. ‘OK, you’re not perfect. You’re argumentative for starters.’
I nodded. ‘But you can be incredibly smug at times.’
He feigned thought. ‘OK, I’ll let you have that. But you’re stubborn.’
I was outraged. ‘So are you!’
He kissed me again. ‘That’s not the point. The point is, you’re perfect for me.’
I looked up at him and felt a surge of love for my good-hearted, loving, clever, funny, kind, filthy and twisted Adam. ‘You’re perfect for me too.’
And he really was.
Epilogue
Everyone has their favourite places to be. The beach, Disney World, the terrace of their favourite team’s ground, maybe just surrounded by family and friends at home. I love all those places (albeit I’m the very definition of a fair-weather sports fan), but one of my favourite places to be is in bed with Adam.
I know. You’ve just read 300-plus pages about how much I enjoy that, so it’s not a shocker to you.
But when we climb into bed and curl up together, I feel safe, happy, loved, at home, in a way that I never did before. It’s not the bed, or the duvet or even the room itself. It’s the man behind me, literally and figuratively, whose dominance reflects back my submission, even while we go through our daily life as partners. Equals.
That’s not to say work and other responsibilities, the detritus of real life, don’t get in the way sometimes. Not all the sex we have is full-on D/s sex. That’s not a bad thing – variety is the spice of live after all, and after a while even the loveliest things can get a bit samey. There’s little risk of that for us, though, not least because we’ve got plenty of toys and outfits we’ve accrued along the way to make it fun when we have the time and inclination to let loose.
But sometimes there are no outfits. No floggers. No expanding butt plugs. There’s just us. And those are the most intimate times of all.
He lies behind me, pressed close into my back, one of his arms under my neck and the other wrapped around my body in a kind of backwards cuddle, most of my body (or all the important bits for our purposes) within his reach. His head is close to mine, so when he whispers in my ear, the feeling of his breath on my neck makes me shiver.
Often as we lie like this he’ll tell me dirty stories. We’ll talk about things we’ve done together, things we might like to try, things we wouldn’t want to do in real life but which are hot to talk about, lying in bed in the dark. Sometimes when we lie here, in our little cocoon, making each other squirm with lust at the stories we’re weaving together, Adam’s hand will snake between my legs and play with me until I am desperate to come, my legs shaking with the effort of holding off my orgasm.
Not tonight, though. Not yet anyway. The thing is, he is still much more patient than me. He begins a dirty story, a variation on one we’ve talked about before – a fantasy that logistically is pretty unlikely to come to fruition. As he speaks, he strokes my arm with his fingertips, punctuating his sentences with kisses and nibbling on my ear, neck and shoulder. All of which, of course, drives me crazy and makes me wet.
Some days he would be fine with my hand sliding between my own legs. Some days he would actively encourage it and quite enjoy watching. Not tonight, though, tonight he definitely disapproves of my attempt to relieve my building sexual tension. As soon as he realises where my hand is going, he grabs my wrist.
‘Not yet.’
I make a grumbling noise as he pulls my arm away and continues with what he had been doing.
‘And you can cut out that attitude as well.’ His voice is amused, mostly, but has the edge of steel to it that, even now, gives me butterflies.
‘I don’t have an attitude.’ I know, I’m not helping myself by answering back. But some days he is so bloody smug. I know it’s not breaking news, but even so.
He stops his touching and kissing and lifts his head up away from me for a moment.
‘I’m being perfectly nice to you right now, all you need to do is show some patience and lie back and appreciate it a little bit.’
I consider my position. Is it worth arguing and risking the consequences? Probably not. But I’m not happy. As ever, some days the submissive mindset is one that comes down as quickly as a fog on a wintry day, while at other points I have the urge to rebel, even though I know that not only is this a game that I can’t win, it’s a game that I actively don’t want to win.
His voice has taken on the slight sing-song timbre that makes me want to kneel at his feet and kick him in the shins in about equal measure – although obviously doing both at the same time is somewhat impractical.
‘You should know by now, if you’d asked permission to touch yourself it would have been much more effective.’
I stay quiet but, fortunately for me, the bedside light has already been turned off so he can’t see my face. If he did I’d probably be told off for glaring at him.
He goes back to teasing me. No spanking or further humiliation, yet, but I know he’s making it last longer than he otherwise would have done to teach me a lesson.
Finally his hand is on my inner thigh. By now I’m so turned on I am starting to shiver. I feel him laugh behind me, which doesn’t help my grumpy face. When he finally runs his finger along my wetness I can’t suppress my low moan of pleasure.
‘You see, here’s the problem. Even now, after all this time, there are some days where your brain wants to fight me and makes you angry with me. You’re confused here –’ he tapped my head with his other hand, even while his fingers pushed deeper between my legs, causing me to swallow a sigh of pleasure. He chuckled. ‘You’re not confused here. This is the truth. This shows how much you love this. All of it. This is why you need to think with your cunt and not with your brain – you’ll be much happier.’
I wonde
r if now is the point to make a smart comment about blokes thinking with their cocks. I’m guessing not.
As he finishes his lecture he pushes a finger inside me. I gasp and blush. I am wet, oh so wet, but I am also furious, although I honestly can’t tell you if it’s at him or myself.
‘So fucking smug.’ The words slip out. I snap my mouth shut, half hoping that I can swallow back my outburst.
No such luck.
‘What did you say?’ His response is quick and sharp.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t fib. You said something about smug.’
I call him smug all the time. He certainly doesn’t mind me mocking him, but these things are always about context. In this situation, at this moment, he isn’t going to let me get away with anything.
Eventually, somewhat sheepishly, I repeat myself. In an instant his fingers are gone, his palm resting just above my wetness. He is unmoving. No kissing, no stroking, no more whispering. His arm is still under my neck, but he has released my breast, which he had been caressing.
Silence.
I am nervous. Aroused. Curious. Will he hurt me in some way? But he doesn’t. He just lies there, letting the silence grow. I don’t know if it’s one minute or ten, but it seems to drag on and on.
Finally he speaks. ‘It’s quite the battle of wills we have going on here, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I reply. I do.
‘I’ve been nothing but nice to you but, because I’m not going at the speed that you want, you want things all your own way.’
I bite back a retort about things fundamentally being all his way, mostly because I know that’s actually not true, that we both enjoy this, that there is still equality of pleasure in this inequality, that for some reason I have brattier urges than usual today.
As the silence lengthens I worry I’ve disappointed him. I hate that. I feel my resolve melt away. It takes a little longer before I can respond, but I finally find my voice.
‘I’m sorry, I’ll be good.’
No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Page 26
