No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (4 page)

It was hot, made oddly hotter by the fact he was sat in a group in the pub unable to do anything while I was comfortably curled up on the sofa in a convenient place to
deal with any lustful urges. He’d just sent me a message detailing pinching my nipples when I had a surge of inspiration on how to take advantage of that difference in social setting. I used my camera phone to take a picture of my breasts, showing how hard my nipples were.

Now, I’m not (too) foolish. I deleted the picture afterwards and my face wasn’t in it – not, I hasten to add, because I had any particular concerns about trusting Adam, but more because if either one of us lost our phones I didn’t want pictures of me grinning with my baps out available to any random person who found the handset.

When my phone pinged, telling me I had another message, I felt a bit nervous before I read it. I’d just sent him a picture of my breasts on their own for goodness’ sake. Who finds that hot? What if his friends had seen? The message opened.

You’re incredible. X

I couldn’t decide if he was talking specifically about my breasts or my new-found propensity for sexting, but either way as compliments went I was happy with that.

As you might expect, things got hotter and ruder from that point on as the night progressed. Finally I got a text saying he was home, feeling a bit drunk but lying in bed, relieved that – finally – he was able to touch himself at last.

After a smart-arse message about how I was impressed with his self-restraint, but it was probably a good thing as otherwise he might have disturbed his cab driver, suddenly my phone trilled into life.

This wasn’t a text message. He was ringing me.

I know, it’s bonkers for me to have felt awkward about that, but I really did. I answered with some trepidation. Maybe it’s daft, maybe it’s a sign of my confidence in the written word, but actually talking to him felt a bit embarrassing after all the rude texts. Typing was definitely easier.

The first thing I thought when he said hello was that I’d forgotten (or maybe not noticed at all) how lovely his voice was. Deep, soothing. The second thing I thought, with not a little relief, was that while he sounded tired he didn’t sound completely shit-faced. Always a relief. Actually, he was very coherent and rather creative with the dirty things he started saying to me. At his suggestion, I slipped my hand into my knickers as we talked and I soon felt my orgasm approaching. He must have heard my breathing change, because suddenly his voice was in my ear with the worst kind of inopportune statement.

‘Don’t come yet please, Sophie.’

What? Was he kidding? I asked him to repeat what he’d just said. Alas, I hadn’t misheard.

I held off as long as I could, changing the movements of my fingers, but frankly it was a difficult one, not least because we’d been driving each other crazy for hours by this point.

Finally he spoke again, asking me to come now, to come with him. I wasn’t even sure what he meant as my orgasm washed over me, but then I heard his groan and realised. It made me smile.

We chatted into the early hours after that. Some kink
stuff, some life stuff. It was nice, made me feel this wasn’t all about us getting our rocks off. Although a great part of it was, and that was OK too.

Finally he asked me if I would consider some no-strings D/s fun with him. My concerns had been eased through our chats and I knew what my answer would be. That didn’t mean it wasn’t fun to play with him a little before I answered.

‘That’s hardly a fair question to ask someone after they’ve just had an orgasm.’

He laughed, and it felt warm and intimate and made me smile in the darkness of my bedroom. ‘It’s better to ask afterwards than before I let you come.’

I tutted. ‘Actually, you didn’t “let me”, it wasn’t about permission. You asked me to wait and I did. You’re not my dom just yet.’

‘Yet.’ I couldn’t work out if he was agreeing with me or pointing out the implicit agreement in my words. ‘You’re right, I asked you. Of course I might not be so polite if I actually were your dom.’

My heart began beating faster just at the thought of it. Right, let’s do this.

‘Maybe we should find out.’

We began making plans for him to come round the following weekend.

So what
is
the etiquette when someone’s coming round your house just for sex? Should I get wine in? Would he want dinner? Would he consider food an unwelcome distraction? My brain was a frenzy of indecision through the
whole day. It was a Sunday. He’d gone for lunch with his family to celebrate a birthday and we’d arranged for him to head over in the early evening. I, notionally, had the day off work but after a few hours buzzing round my flat getting increasingly nervous I decided to nip into the office for a bit to write up a couple of interviews before heading to the shop to buy whatever I had decided was socially appropriate food and beverages.

In the end I bought wine and decided to bake chocolate chip cookies in case he wanted tea. I’d hoped that the precision of the baking, the creaming and stirring, which I’d done dozens of times before would calm me down, soothe me and let me switch my brain off. What I should have done was gone for something exotic that I’d never made before and that I had to concentrate on, because what I found instead was my mind was wandering, trying to piece together the things I knew about him, the things he’d hinted at being into, to try and get a feel for the kind of man – the kind of dominant – he would be, which of course threw up comparisons with dominants I’d been with previously.

For the first time in a while I’d gone through all the pre-date rituals that make me feel comfortable before someone sees me naked – the shaving and plucking and buffing and moisturising. It made me feel pangs, knowing the last time I’d prepared myself so extensively for fucking had been for James on that last and most intense weekend, the memories of which still replayed in my dreams and saw me wake tired and annoyed and oh so bloody wet. I was second-guessing myself about whether doing this was the
right thing to do – if by agreeing (OK, not even agreeing; let’s remember the initial suggestion had been mine) that we meet for no-strings shenanigans I was basically starting myself back down a road I had travelled before with Thomas and had decided wasn’t for me. But then, if I knew I wanted D/s in a relationship but didn’t want a relationship, was it bad to want some no-strings fun with someone clearly filthy and trustworthy, with no baggage? Had I actually learned anything? Was this a terrible mistake? Was being frisky clouding my thinking?

In between all the, frankly, angsty thoughts that I couldn’t quite push away, there was also a not-inconsiderable amount of anticipation building. The more I’d chatted to Adam, the more intrigued I’d become by him. I was still a bit pissed off by the fact that – thanks to Thomas and Charlotte’s meddling – he’d known my sexual proclivities long before I had a whiff of his, almost an unfair advantage in our early conversations. But enough of what he had said had intrigued me, set me thinking and made me keen to see what he’d come up with and how he would lead me in a dynamic of dominance and submission.

I knew he didn’t care for pain as much as any of the dominants I’d been with before – which was probably just as well, bearing in mind how I’d stubbed my toe in the office the day before and it had hurt so much I’d felt tears running down my cheeks. It would seem I was becoming a wuss. But he focused more on the satisfaction of humiliation, and the thought of that was intriguing and also a little nerve-wracking. I’d done lots of humiliating things before, most notably with Thomas and Charlotte, but they were in a wider context; the emphasis had still been
more on pain. I knew I could cope with pain. What if the humiliation was too much? What if he annoyed me? What if I blushed? OK, it was definite I was going to blush, but what if it got too intense?

I tried to calm myself. If a hundred strikes of a wooden spoon directly between my legs was something I could withstand, surely I could cope with whatever he came up with, right? There was nothing he could say or do (or make me do – the thought slipped unbidden into my mind and threw up a whole new set of questions) that could be harder to cope with than that relentless pain, right? I wasn’t so sure, mostly because I had no real understanding of what he would come up with. The unknown made me nervous and put me firmly on the back foot, which of course made me wet, which in turn made me grumpy. By the time he knocked on the door I was relieved – fifteen minutes longer and I might have over-thought myself into a headache.

When I opened the front door and saw him smile up at me from the front step my first thought was confusion. How had I not noticed his sharp jawline and how sexy his smile was? In the haze of fury at being stitched up on a blind date all I’d been aware of was his messy dark hair and a slightly smug air. The former was still apparent but there was no sign of the latter, well, not then anyway. Also, and forgive me for being a sucker for this kind of thing, he was wearing a suit. He wore it well.

We said hello, and I stepped back to let him in, suddenly feeling awkward. He walked past me and then stopped abruptly, unsure where to go next. I laughed, sounding high pitched to my own ears, and pointed down
the corridor towards the living room, burbling nonsense to fill the now-slightly-awkward silence (well, it felt awkward to me).

‘I haven’t ever done this before, had someone round like this I mean. I’m not entirely sure what the etiquette of it is. Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee or –’

In hindsight I think it was probably best he moved when he did – otherwise I’d have gone through the entire beverage content of my kitchen one at a time. He moved so quickly I don’t really know how I ended up with him pushed against me, his mouth on mine, the wall pressing into my back. I gasped in surprise, and he took advantage of me opening my mouth to insinuate his tongue, deepening the kiss.

He tasted of mint with a hint of coffee, presumably a lingering reminder of the lunch he’d just finished. As my surprise mellowed I began to kiss him back more aggressively. Suddenly our tongues were duelling and he was pushing me harder against the wall, holding me in place with his hips while his hands stroked up my arms, making me shiver a little, before softly touching the side of my face. He pushed a stray piece of hair behind my ear and I whimpered softly as his finger touched the shell-like curve. He smiled against my mouth and moved his hand back to do the same thing again, and I fought to control my reactions, trying to hold my own in the kiss, even while the meandering circles of his finger made my legs feel weak.

I don’t know how long we stood there. Certainly by the time he broke off to look down at me for a moment, my nipples were hard in my bra and there was a flush in my
cheeks. He stroked my hair gently and dropped a kiss onto the bridge of my nose.

‘Are you ready? Are you sure you want to do this? If not, I’m perfectly happy to have tea.’ He smiled at me, but there was mocking there. ‘Or coffee. Milkshake if you have it, or –’

I shook my head firmly. ‘I’m ready. I’m sure. Definitely.’ I grinned at the ridiculousness of the conversation, realising how earnest I sounded.

He looked at me intently for a moment, as if he was checking for himself that what I was saying was the truth. Finally he nodded. ‘Good. Remember what we said about safe words and limits. I’m going to go easy on you for now because this is our first time together, and I need to get to know your reactions, but if you need me to stop or slow down you know what to say?’

I nodded, sombre again and a little nervous. But then he leaned down again, his final ‘Good’ whispered against my bottom lip as he nipped it with his teeth before moving back to kiss me again.

Almost as soon as his mouth reconnected with mine the force of his kisses changed. It wasn’t as if he had been a dainty kisser to start with, but now his mouth on mine was almost bruising with its intensity, pressing down as his tongue pushed its way in. He slid his hands round my arse, leaving my top half anchored firmly to the wall, while pushing my hips and waist into him.

I moved my arms up around his neck, urging him closer, but he tutted against my mouth, moving quickly again to grab both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. I struggled for a minute, working to free
them, but his hand was unmoving and I had a moment of realisation that he had me completely secure, followed quickly by a surge of lust. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he had a wiry strength – there was no way I could get free without him letting me go. I shifted my wrists again, trying to move, and he was unyielding.

Suddenly his other hand wasn’t stroking the side of my face tenderly. It was groping, pulling at my clothes, squeezing my breasts in turn, making me gasp, rolling my nipples between his fingers through my clothes. My brain froze in a moment of indecision, wondering whether to try harder to push him off, even while my body was curving into him, knowing how much the rough treatment was already turning me on. I smiled for a moment, amused that even now, after everything I had experienced, I still had that first instinct to push away, my mind rebelling against the truth my body, every fibre of my being, knew: that I wanted this. Craved it. I’d missed it. I couldn’t wait to see where it was going to go.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Suddenly we were moving. He dragged me along the hallway, his hand still clasped tightly round my wrists. He stopped, momentarily, to check which room was the bedroom –
just as well I hadn’t bought nibbles
– and then opened the door and pulled me inside. He let go of my wrists and sat down on the edge of the bed and I stood in front of him, unsure what to do next.

‘Undress.’

Oh. OK. Well, not ‘OK’ really. Who wants to get naked this way the first time they sleep with someone? I know it sounds daft, but I figured that slipping my skirt off first
would feel less embarrassing. Wearing a skirt was, and remains, a rarity for me, but he’d mentioned he liked hold-up stockings so I’d decided to make the effort. I stopped fiddling with the zip and finally let the skirt drop to the floor, the lining whispering as it slid down my legs and hit the ground. I’d been staring somewhere over his left shoulder while I did this, too embarrassed to actually look him in the face, but I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at his expression, to see whether my black hold-ups met with his approval. I caught a glimpse of both his smile and the bulge in his trousers before I went back to staring at the wall – and the knowledge it was pleasing him made me brave. I began to undo the buttons of my blouse.