No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (18 page)

So we did.

The morning of the day we had decided he would have total control of me dawned like any other. It was a
Saturday. We’d had a quiet night on Friday – both of us were keen fans of the ‘come home and flop on the sofa after the work week’ style of Friday nights, saving more social fun for the weekend proper. In the half-doze that you have when you first wake up I had a strange feeling that the day was going to bring something important, but I couldn’t immediately remember what it was. I just felt the anticipation – kind of like when you wake up and are going on holiday, or it’s your birthday or something.

I rolled over to find Adam already awake and looking at me. He smiled at me and kissed me and pulled me into a nice long hug. It was lovely, loving and – in the few months we’d been living together – it was fast becoming one of my favourite ways to start the day. It was, therefore, an incongruous position from which to remind me of the rules of engagement for the day one last time.

It was pretty simple. I belonged to him completely and utterly. I had to do whatever he said, when he said it, and if I didn’t there would be punishments. Every choice would be his. What I wore, what I ate, when I ate, what I did. No orgasms without his express permission either, from the moment we got up to the moment I fell asleep. Thankfully I wouldn’t have to call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Master’ – we’d agreed we both felt that was a bit theatrical and would thus pull us out of the moment – but that was, essentially, what he would be.

I’d expected a bit of time before things started. Notoriously not a morning person, I was hoping I could nip to the loo and brush my teeth at least, have a moment to get my thoughts in order before we started something potentially very intense. It was a bit nerve-wracking, but the
unspoken challenge of it was already calling to me – I wanted to get through the day, see where he took us. The adrenaline was already starting.

He asked if I understood what he was saying. I nodded, not trusting my voice to betray my nerves if I spoke, and worried that if he saw my fear he might somehow go easier on me, that I wouldn’t get the full experience.

Ha. Chance would be a fine thing.

Tenderly he held my face, stroking my hair and looking at me intently.

‘You remember what your safe word is?’

I nodded again.

He smiled. ‘Good. Remember, there’s no shame in using it, especially not today. I know it’s going to be a big challenge for you, but I know you’re going to do your best to please me.’

I looked at the man I had grown to love – smiling at me, his hair a bit rumpled from bed – and smiled back at him, knowing that he was right. Of course, it was part competitiveness as well as love that was underlying my need to do well, but I didn’t think I should mention that at this point.

In hindsight I have a sneaking suspicion he already knew.

And so it began. He sent me to have a shower, while he stayed in bed reading the morning news on his phone. A product of my aforementioned morning grumpiness was that our routine had quickly formed: he went to the bathroom first, giving me an extra ten minutes in bed before I had to get up, with the handy side effect that by the time I was dressed there was usually a mug of tea and sometimes
even some toast waiting for me too. So even this most innocent of initial orders felt a bit strange. Of course, things were only going to get more challenging.

Once clean and dry, I walked back into the bedroom, naked as instructed. By this point he had seen me naked hundreds of times, but as he put his phone back on the bedside table and turned to give me his full attention I felt self-conscious and embarrassed. I tried not to blush, clenching my hands into fists with the effort of not crossing my arms across my chest. I was pretty sure that would count as a no-no.

He told me to turn round, put my hands on the wall beside the bed and spread my legs apart. I did as I was told and he emerged from under the duvet to stand behind me.

His hand was at my arse, rubbing a finger cold with lube around me before sliding inside so easily I blushed a little, suddenly grateful he couldn’t see my face. Then his finger was being replaced with the tip of a (very cold) butt plug that he slowly pushed all the way inside me.

His hand went between my legs and, while the touch was businesslike and almost impersonal, I couldn’t stop myself from shivering, my body already signalling its pleasure at the beginning of this game, even while my brain was trying to work out whether I actually liked it.

That’s not completely true. I was already – in spite of myself – railing a little under the constant orders.

He told me to turn back round. I did, silently rolling my eyes at the continuous micromanagement. Was it going to be like this all day? Because that was going to get old incredibly quickly.

I didn’t school my expression quickly enough for him
not to see it as I turned. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that look on my face – and it certainly wouldn’t be the last – but his reaction left me literally dumbstruck for a moment.

He grabbed a handful of my hair, holding me in place as he pushed his face next to mine. His expression was stern and his voice quiet and threatening as he warned me of how I should behave myself today.

Before I even figured out if I was supposed to acknowledge what he said with some kind of reply or whether it was safest to keep quiet he had sat down on the bed, thrown me over his lap and begun giving me a hard spanking.

As he turned my arse red I clenched against the unyielding plug. I was frustrated and turned on all at the same time, desperate to hold my own. But despite the conflicting emotions flashing through my brain (OK, I mainly felt fury), there was one incontrovertible proof of how I was really feeling about this indignity. My face was flushed and I knew I was getting wet. Damn him.

Today my arousal most definitely wasn’t the point, though.

When he was finally finished I got up from his lap gingerly, my legs wobbly and my arse hot. I didn’t look at him. I felt smaller. Chastened.

He got up and went to the wardrobe, leaving me standing awkwardly. He began laying clothes on the bed. Skirt. Blouse. Tie. My long stripey socks (often worn to work under my trousers, although I’d seen him eyeing them up before when I slid them on). Hair band. It would seem sexy schoolgirl was the order of the day. This should have
felt comforting. I’d worn variants of this outfit for him before, even mocked him gently for the cliché. This was the Adam I knew. Loved. But still I watched him warily, knowing today the rules had changed.

Before he had me dress he wrapped a piece of rope round my waist, pulling it between my legs to hold the plug in place. He then watched as I got dressed for him. It was slow and slightly awkward going, not least because the plug and rope combination made bending to put the socks on very distracting indeed.

I know I blush a lot, but even on that basis I’m not sure I’d ever felt my face so hot without having a temperature. Finally, when I was fully dressed he had me get on my knees in front of him as he sat on the bed. Even though I was dressed and he wasn’t, I still felt like the naked one.

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 organ
ised, 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.