No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (5 page)

By the time my fingers, fumbling a little with a mixture of nerves and anticipation, had got to the bottom and I was ready to open my shirt my courage was beginning to falter. I haltingly opened the sides of my shirt and then, after a few seconds of silence, I slid my arms out and dropped it to the floor too.

I stood there in bra and knickers. I was probably about as covered as I would be at the beach, but felt much less comfortable or confident. I didn’t want to make eye contact with him, but I wasn’t sure what to do next. OK, I know what he wanted me to do next, I just wasn’t sure I was able to do it. It felt like a pretty big leap.

His voice made me jump. ‘Underwear too, come on.’ I looked at him for a moment, and his gaze was reassuring, although his arms were folded, seemingly brooking no argument. ‘Come on.’

I undid my bra first, freeing my breasts, blushing slightly as I unveiled my hard nipples to both our gazes – proof if
any were needed that even while I was finding it difficult getting back into the submissive mindset (is it something you can just grow out of?), my body utterly approved of it. I felt my face get hot, making me worry about exactly how embarrassed I was looking. Beetroot red? Traffic-light red? Tomato red?

He leaned forward and his voice was kind, an acknowledgement of my struggle, but still no-nonsense. ‘The knickers too. Come on. Stop prevaricating. I want to see your cunt. Although leave the hold-ups on. I love those.’ He smiled at me. ‘Dirty girl.’

That didn’t help the blushing.

Slowly I hooked my fingers in the waistband of my knickers and slipped them down to my knees, unveiling myself to him before stepping out of them. I stood naked in front of him, the room silent for long seconds as he looked at me.

The embarrassment was beginning to get prickly. While I’m not too hung up on my looks, it takes a more confident and secure woman than me to feel anything other than shy and a bit embarrassed when I’m standing naked in front of the object of my desire, who is fully dressed and staring at me.

He shifted on the bed, slipping off his jacket and slowly and deliberately rolling up his sleeves. ‘Turn around and face away from me.’

I should have felt relief – I could barely look him in the face as it was – but instead I felt the familiar internal struggle, exacerbated by an unexpected fury at the casual way he was now fiddling with something in his jacket pocket and not even looking at me, so certain of my obedience
that he didn’t even need to watch. Slowly I turned around, swallowing convulsively as I did so, fighting for self-control and to hide how much he was pushing my buttons.

He shifted from the bed, and suddenly I could smell his aftershave and feel his warmth and he was right behind me, leaning down a little so his breath was right next to my ear. I managed to fight off the urge to shiver, but I couldn’t control my body enough to stop the goosebumps forming along my arms. My heart was pounding now, the mystery of what was going to happen next making me jittery, excited but nervous, the anticipation like those moments before a rollercoaster starts. I know it’s a very niche rollercoaster, with more nakedness than would be usual, but stick with me.

He grabbed my wrists again, pulling them behind me, crossing them and holding them so they rested on my arse. As quickly as he was there he was gone, and I had a brief instinctive desire to move my hands, even though I knew – and he knew, too – I wasn’t going to. I was going to wait, compliant in this position for whatever came next.

Very quickly, soft rope slid up my arms, looping over my naked shoulders. He tightened it and I couldn’t move my arms back round even if I wanted to. He worked quickly, his fingers dexterous, looping the rope round my arms at intervals, above my elbows, at my forearms, tightening the loops, pulling my arms further backwards, pushing my breasts out, immobilising me in a way I’d never experienced before. It made my blood sing. When he got to my wrists he wrapped the rope tightly round itself over and over again, until my wrists felt
like they were in the kind of cuffs that I was more used to. I tested my bonds, subtly, for me not him, and when I realised how completely secure I was I felt shocked at the warmth that flooded my belly. I’d never been tied tighter, and yet somehow the feeling was liberating. It made me wet.

There was a dull thump as he dropped the rest of the rope on the floor and walked in front of me, knocking me out of my reverie. I lowered my eyes, not ready to look at him yet, but he had other ideas. He put a finger under my chin and lifted it until I was staring at him. Neither of us spoke. He was grinning at me. It took serious self-control to resist the urge to kick him. I was still fantasising about doing just that when he dropped to his knees. The sudden movement confused me, and made me worry for a second that I actually had unwittingly lashed out. Then he picked up the rope and pulled it up between my legs. As he stood he winked at me, tugging the rope hard, which made it press against me. The two strands sat either side of my slit, pressing it together. He finished off by tying the remainder of the rope to the original loops round my shoulders. It was as though I was bloody gift-wrapped. The pressure of the rope between my legs, the eroticism, the powerlessness, all made me feel rather weak in the knees, but I was determined not to show weakness. I wasn’t even going to give him a hint of my struggle, of how he was driving me to distraction, although I thought perhaps if his smile was anything to go by he might have had an idea.

He stood back, admiring the view – his ropework, my
body, perhaps a mixture of both – before walking behind me again. Suddenly not being able to see him and what he was doing made me nervous, and then his hands reached round, appearing in my field of view, roughly grabbing my breasts again. He groped and mauled them, his hands rough, his fingers pinching my nipples hard enough to make me wince, although I fought to breathe through my nose in a way that meant he didn’t hear a tell-tale gasp. I knew it was pointless – he knew – but it still felt important to fight.

He leaned in, whispering in my ear that I was beautiful and brave but also extremely dirty for letting him do these things to me. I closed my eyes for a second, fighting for my composure before I turned to stare at him angrily. My fury made him laugh and his next words made me close my eyes again, this time in an embarrassed horror.

‘Come on, Sophie, we both know it’s true. If it isn’t then the rope between your legs won’t be wet when I check it, will it?’

Bastard.

He knew, I knew, that I was dripping. That the kissing, being incapacitated and humiliated had all helped raise the temperature between my legs. But suddenly I wanted to do everything in my power to stop him from finding out this inevitable fact.

His hand travelled down my body, skimming my sides, moving to my hips. I tried desperately to twist away, to close my legs, but my balance wasn’t great and I stumbled a little. He grabbed hold of the rope anchoring my arms together, and pulled me back into position, hauling me
upright, before his hands went back to my breasts. He leaned in again.

His voice in my ear wasn’t loud, but it was stern and very serious. ‘Stop messing about. Do what you’re told or you’ll regret it.’

I couldn’t help myself. ‘You’ve not told me to do anything. I’m not disobeying.’

I’m not sure what I expected but his laugh filled me with surprise and a surge of warmth. ‘I was taking it as an implicit order that you keep your legs open when I am trying to get my hand in there.’

I swallowed again and nodded. I tried very hard to stay still as his hand went between my legs where, in paradoxical fashion, I was both yearning for him to be but didn’t want him anywhere near. But, much to my frustration, he didn’t touch my cunt. Instead he slid his fingers along the ropes on either side feeling, undoubtedly, how my arousal had made them damp. He laughed again, and I felt a surge of fury and humiliation. I’d never had someone embarrass me like this and it was incredibly frustrating – suddenly I was getting an understanding of his style of dominance, and it drove me to distraction.

He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me towards the bed. Again, the lack of movement of my arms paired with the rope between my legs made it difficult to balance but this time I didn’t topple. I remained upright long enough for him to dump me face first onto the mattress, unable to cushion the fall with my pinioned arms.

He rolled me onto my side. It was marginally more comfortable, barring the rope digging into my hips, but it meant I could – finally – watch him undress. I stared at
him greedily as he stripped, removing his clothes without embarrassment, with relish in fact. It made my position even more frustrating. I clenched my fists as well as I was able, wishing I could touch him, help, even possibly push him over.

Then he was standing in front of me, his cock pointing towards me with a pearl of pre-cum visible on the tip. Tempting. Oh so tempting. He was completely shaved, something I’d never experienced with a lover before, but something which I quickly realised I was going to enjoy.

He didn’t speak, but as he moved closer to the bed I unthinkingly, desperately, opened my mouth, my yearning to taste him overcoming every other part of my brain. He didn’t wait, and pushed quickly past my lips. I tried to suck him but he pulled out just as quickly before pushing forward again, not willing to even give me control of this single aspect, fucking my face instead, faster and rougher, grabbing my hair to pull me down on his cock until I could feel him pressing against my throat, making me gag and struggle to breathe.

As I spluttered a little, he pulled out for a moment, giving me, literally, breathing room to draw air into my lungs. His cock was in my eyeline, coated in a mixture of saliva and pre-cum, which he wiped across my face. I closed my eyes to try and hide it, but I felt my eyes fill with tears of shame and fury.

Suddenly I was moving – he was dragging me onto my front. I felt a surge of relief at the prospect of burying my face in the duvet, hiding my embarrassment, how much the humiliation was getting to me. I had a few seconds’
respite as he moved behind me, although the tell-tale sound of the tear of a condom wrapper made it clear this was a temporary state. Then his hands were on my arse, spreading my cheeks and pulling on the rope, pressing it against my cunt in a way that made me bite down on my lip to suppress a whimper.

He climbed on top of me, pulling the rope aside. His legs were on the outside of mine, pressing them together, which made me feel even tighter than usual as he pressed his cock against my wetness. He pushed inside, leaning forward. His hands, either side of my head, took most of his weight but his body still pushed down on my bound arms, his breathing hard in my ears. He had overpowered me, immobilised me, and now he was using me, pushing deeper and deeper. It was intense, close, to the point of almost being claustrophobic. His body was barely moving above me to start with; instead it pinned me in place, another form of bondage to add to the rest.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I shifted from underneath him, moving my hips in silent invitation for him to – please – fuck me. I couldn’t bring myself to ask and he didn’t answer, instead giving my arse a playful swat, which told me without words to stay still.

I remained unmoving, but it was torture. My arms were beginning to ache, and with his body pinning me down I could barely move anything. In a moment of clarity I was shocked to realise I was unconsciously curling and uncurling my toes – presumably because they were the only things that were free. Suddenly I was aware that my thighs were wet and I was desperate for him to start moving,
although I knew there was no point trying to get him to before he was ready.

Finally he started fucking me, hard and rough, a pounding that meant that all of my attempts at silence were for naught, as I was suddenly moaning loudly, especially when he shifted slightly and suddenly the rope between my legs was rubbing against my clit. After all the teasing and anticipation my orgasm built quickly, and suddenly I was close to coming, feeling my thighs tremble with the onslaught. He realised the inevitable a couple of seconds later, but wouldn’t even let me have control of this.

‘Not yet, not until I say so,’ he whispered in my ear.

I was trying to fend it off, to control myself, to please him, to show I could wait, but he was making it difficult; his relentless pace as he used me brought me ever closer to orgasming. His breath in my ear, the sound of him taking his pleasure, turned me on even more.

Finally, he took pity on me. ‘Come now,’ he said and I did, feeling him twitch and come inside me as my orgasm overcame me. My orgasm made my toes curl again but once I came down to earth I felt embarrassed and shy and a little grumpy: he had been able to control me so utterly.

His breath was still heavy from his own orgasm as he got up and began to untie me, and I felt oddly bereft at both being released and not having him on top of me. His face was endearingly serious as he told me he didn’t want to keep me bound for too long for the first time. He checked my fingers for pins and needles and any arm stiffness from being tied for so long. I answered his questions honestly but in a kind of sleepy haze, the excitement of
all we had done, paired with the power of my orgasm, meaning I was fit for little more than lying there staring at the beautiful criss-cross of rope marks on my arms, stroking my fingertips over them, loving how they felt. Finally, once I was untied and he had been assured that nothing was too painful or intense, he pulled me into a hug, pressing a kiss to my nose. I felt a surge of affection, still well and truly blissed out by all the feelings he had managed to elicit from my occasionally rebellious body.

It felt a bit incongruous, not least because I still knew so little about his everyday life. How did he take his tea? Which football team did he support? But somehow it felt like we fitted together very well.

We lay chatting for a long time afterwards. As I became slowly more coherent he asked me what I had enjoyed most, what I had found most difficult, the things I’d rather not do again and the things I definitely would. I’d never been with someone who’d discussed it in such depth in the immediate aftermath, and it felt so intimate. I could trust him with this stuff.