No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (10 page)

As mini-break-obsessed Bridget Jones knew, the first weekend away is a cornerstone of any new relationship. As far as I recall, though, hers didn’t involve a St Andrew’s Cross and mirrored ceilings.

Adam and I had been spending a lot of time together. There were still ridiculously early starts, where I packed him off with biscuits and a travel mug of coffee for a ninety-minute drive across the city to get to work. Paired with late nights interrupted with chat and lots of filthy sex, this meant we were in a constant state of smiling exhaustion.

My tiny flat was our bolthole. As we were both fundamentally antisocial, and were still in the heady days of wanting to jump each other at a second’s notice, it made sense for him to come to mine rather than us going to his, with his (undoubtedly very nice) flatmate. But the flat, which was a fine size for one, suddenly felt constraining. I don’t mean that I didn’t enjoy sharing my space with Adam – if anything I was surprised how easily I took to having someone around so much after years of living alone. It was just, well, there weren’t a huge amount of options for places to have sex other than the obvious bed and sofa, and the living room was, literally, not big enough to swing a cat-o-nine-tails. Although actually that might have been for the best – those things sting.

We were lying in bed one night when Adam suggested a
weekend away. As someone who, despite a lot of travelling with work, still remains tragically excited at the prospect of staying in hotels (oh, the free toiletries, breakfast in the restaurant, getting the paper delivered to your room, the minibar with overpriced yet tempting peanuts!), I agreed before he’d even fully explained what he was thinking of. And then when he did my brain was a little blown.

I think it’s fair to say I’m not an especially innocent person, but even so I had never heard of the concept of a kink cottage. I knew you could hire out professional dungeons by the hour if you wanted, but the conveyor-belt nature of that (and my slight squeamishness about hygiene) meant it didn’t really appeal to me, even to assuage my long-held curiosity and longer-held fantasies.

I was intrigued by the idea of playing in a dungeon, definitely, but frankly if I owned a house with lots of space the first thing I’d be doing with the big spare room in the basement would be building the best home cinema my budget would allow, rather than building a red room of pain. But apparently that’s not a problem. You can rent whole kink-friendly holiday homes. I was fascinated. And also intrigued. We chose a weekend and Adam booked it. The details were scant, I think in part because he knew I would drive him crazy with questions about what we were going to do if I knew too much about the facilities beforehand, but he told me it was completely private, with lots of opportunities for rude fun and even a secluded garden in case we wanted to play outside. As a woman whose entire journey between work and home is covered by CCTV this intrigued me a lot, at least until the weekend arrived.

It was snowing. And not the ‘throwing snowballs and drinking hot chocolate and having fun’ snow, so much as the ‘slushy, icy, miserable, you could break your neck walking to work and not be found until spring’ snow. We had a debate about whether or not to go at all, but decided, having looked at the traffic information, that it was worth trying the two-hour drive to get there, not least because the cottage was likely to be warmer than my flat in winter, and Adam’s booking for the weekend was non-refundable.

The drive up was one of nervous anticipation. We didn’t talk much because Adam was concentrating on the road. While conditions weren’t too treacherous, bad weather does make people drive like idiots and with the unknown roads he was even more vigilant than usual. The silence meant my mind wandered, and I began thinking about what I was letting myself in for, how things would go, whether it would be a long, intense experience or a series of short, sexy moments.

We found the cottage, tucked away at the end of a quiet residential road (I wonder if the neighbours suspected anything), as secluded as promised. We parked the car, picked up the key (hidden in a little pot by the door – ah, the joys of being out of the city) and unloaded our bags. I had a pretty hefty overnight bag, but barring clean clothes for the journey home, a washbag and phone charger it contained nothing but a series of outfits and underwear I had no intention of wearing outside the confines of our home for the next forty-eight hours. I dragged it inside and we wandered around the building, exploring.

Every room we walked through seemed to have some kind of kinky purpose to it, as I suppose you would
expect. The living room had a St Andrew’s Cross on the wall. I walked up to it the way you would an exhibit at an art gallery, looking at it with fascination, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be tied to it, seeing how sturdy it was. Adam was watching my reactions closely, perhaps too closely for my taste. He took my hand in his and pulled me towards the stairs.

‘Maybe later.’

I felt my cheeks heat and he smiled; it made me smile back, secure in the knowledge that I could have fun here with him, that no matter how hardcore the setting, he wasn’t going to metamorphose into some kind of überdom who pushed me further than I could cope.

It was probably just as well I’d had that thought before I got to the top of the stairs, as the view from the landing made my throat go dry. Three closed doors led to more rooms, but my eyes were drawn to the cage, sitting neatly at the top of the stairs, the door open invitingly, a cushion and small blanket resting on the top of it.

Adam pushed open the first door, and I forced my feet to move, to follow him. A bathroom, with a bath big enough for two (OK, probably more than two, but certainly enough for us). The second door opened onto a huge bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed in dark wood complete with, I couldn’t help but notice, metal rings attached at intervals along its main beams for bondage purposes. We put the bags on the floor and I trailed out behind Adam as he opened the door to the third room. I got a brief glimpse of a lot of equipment that looked not unlike a home gym, before the door was closed firmly again.

‘Later,’ he said again, his soft kiss on my nose conflicting
with the familiar hungry look in his eyes. ‘Let’s get the rest of the bags first.’

We shuffled back downstairs, discovering the kitchen as we headed back to our starting point. The kitchen was the only room without any equipment or toys in it, and the thing that struck me most was how well equipped it was. Stainless-steel oven, hob and extractor fan, surfaces with plenty of space for cooking, a coffee machine, juice extractor. I peered into the oven. The whole place was pristine, which assuaged my concern about hygiene, but the kitchen was even cleaner than any of the other rooms. I suppose that made sense – who’s spending a weekend in a kink cottage and making a roast instead? – but it seemed like a bit of a waste. Then I turned round and saw Adam’s face, and all thoughts of cooking flitted from my head.

I was nervous and excited, watching him warily as he stood in front of me. Waiting. He’d brought two bags with him. He’d left the one containing his change of clothes upstairs. The other one, the soft black leather one I had grown to know well, the one that contained all his toys, was now clasped in his hands.

He was staring at me. Without breaking my gaze he unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out, beckoning me over in invitation. I smiled at him and took a step towards him, brought up short as he growled:

‘No. Crawl.’

Suddenly the silence was really loud. I could feel my heart begin to beat faster. I gave him a dark look, but got on my hands and knees and crawled across the tiled kitchen floor, feeling faintly ridiculous in my jeans and jumper. When I reached him, I had a moment of doubt.
His cock was right there, but I didn’t dare risk the presumption of taking him in my mouth. I looked up at him.

He laughed, and patted the side of my head. ‘Good girl. You can suck me.’

I felt myself flush red, embarrassed that he’d taken it as a silent request for permission, even while I realised, with some surprise, that it really had been.

I took him gently in my mouth, sucking him softly, and he moaned, leaning against the counter. His sighs of pleasure as I began to use my tongue helped me recover my equilibrium a little. A sense of my own power returned as I watched him lose himself for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut as he enjoyed the feeling of my mouth on him.

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.