Read No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive Online
Authors: Sophie Morgan
He hit me a lot, enough that I began to whimper under my breath. It was a harsh kind of pain, and despite the vibrations in my cunt, I struggled to cope with it, feeling myself tear up behind the blindfold as the relentless lashes continued. Surely he would be getting bored now?
No such luck. Every so often he paused and I felt him move closer. At one point he ran a fingernail across several marks he’d made on my breast and the pain made me cry out. He put his finger to my mouth, mocking me as he whispered ‘ssssssshhhh’ into my ear.
I was two people in conflict. The rational side of me knew this was a head fuck, knew he was messing with me, knew this was intense, as intense as he had warned me it would be, but that fundamentally this was my lovely boyfriend Adam, who I could trust and who would look out for me. My more irrational side was in a panic, reacting only to the pain, adrenaline and nerves, desperately hoping it would soon be over and that we would move on to something that was slightly less challenging. Which side was going to win out? No bloody clue. But for the first time in a long time it was a balanced battle.
Finally, thankfully, he stopped. I heard the sound of him throwing the cane on the sofa. It was all I could do not to collapse on the floor in relief.
I felt him move nearer. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed me forward, and I realised I was nuzzling his crotch through his trousers. I leaned into him, eager, probably pathetically so. I rubbed my face against him, feeling him harden against me. I opened my mouth, a silent but fairly obvious indication of where I wanted things to go. He patted my head.
‘Not yet, in a minute.’
I felt a surge of disappointment as he grabbed me by the arms and lifted me to my wobbly feet. I heard him pick up the control box and bulb for the plug, which was still deep inside me. It was just as well, as I think otherwise I’d have fallen over them. He led me into the bedroom. I didn’t even have time to feel relief, as he led me straight through; suddenly the cold tiles of the bathroom floor were under my feet. This was unexpected.
His voice was brusque. ‘Into the bath.’
I clambered in tentatively, using my feet to get my bearings. My lack of sight and my hands being tied behind my back made me unbalanced and ungainly. I was relieved to find the bath was empty; my first fleeting thought was that we would be doing some kind of water breath play, and the idea of doing that without the reassurance of eye contact made me feel real fear.
It was OK, though. The bath was wide enough that I could kneel comfortably in the bottom, waiting for whatever happened next. I heard him unzip his fly near my head somewhere and for a moment I thought I was finally going to get to taste him – maybe he had moved me to the bath because he wanted to come across my body and was worried about getting it everywhere.
But that wasn’t what happened. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The plug in my cunt burst into high-speed vibrations which, bearing in mind the eroticism of everything that had happened before, meant I felt my orgasm thundering towards me like a steam train.
And Adam began to piss on me.
The warm stream started across my breasts. I froze. My
brain pretty much shorted out. As my orgasm built inexorably, the stream moved up, nearer my shoulders, wetting my hair. I began to shudder, partly from my orgasm and partly from shock. I came, but my cries were distressed. How could he have done that? We’d always said that was a hard limit. How could he have done that? I felt grief, bone-deep disappointment. I wanted to cry, I wanted to punch him, but I couldn’t do anything, I was scared my legs wouldn’t support me if I tried to move. The sound of my orgasm had shifted to a muted series of sobs.
Adam’s hands were at my waist. Stilling the vibrations, untying the rope that kept the plugs in place, pulling them out. Suddenly there was a flash of light, the blindfold had been taken off and I was staring right at him, his brown eyes wide with concern. I blinked, trying to focus on him, trying to focus on anything, realising I couldn’t because my eyes were full of tears.
He was talking to me, but I didn’t understand what he was saying for a few seconds. He kept repeating himself, as he leaned round, pulling the ropes from my wrists, helping me up, grabbing a warm towel from the rail.
‘Sophie? It was water. It was warm water. Just warm water.’
I blinked at him, trying to understand, my brain not quite working. He held up a glass. ‘It’s water. I dribbled it on you with my mouth.’
I nodded. He smiled in relief, pleased that I understood, pleased that I knew the extent of his head fuck now. He kissed my face, pushing my wet hair over my shoulder. Wet from water.
‘Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Are you OK?’ He
kissed me again, pressing kisses to my face, rubbing my arms, which were suddenly cold with goosebumps. ‘You’re freezing, come on, let’s get you into bed for a minute.’
He half-led, half-carried me back into the bedroom and we clambered into bed together. The warmth of his body and the duvet he covered me with helped me back to myself a little. He stroked my back, pressing kisses to me, hugging me. He was my Adam, back once more.
We kissed. We gently made love. It was slow and tender and affectionate, a chance for us to reconnect, for me to regain my equilibrium. He moved slowly above me, his hand between my thighs, touching my clit, bringing about an orgasm we shared together, one I gave willingly rather than having it wrenched from me.
As our breathing slowed we lay quietly together in the warmth, mindful that we had time before our dinner reservations for a bit of recovery.
I looked at my breasts and thighs, curious to see the marks of the cane. There were none. He sleepily told me he’d used it, but not enough to mark – it had just felt more intense because of the way he had messed with my mind along the way. I couldn’t argue. It had felt intense. It had all felt intense.
‘I really thought you had …’ My voice was tentative to start with and trailed off before I could form the words.
He stroked my face and pressed a kiss to my lips. ‘I know, sweetheart. I thought you had understood when I talked about no real harm coming to you. When I saw you start to shake I knew you hadn’t.’ He kissed me again. ‘I’m so sorry if it all felt too much.’
I wrapped my arms around him. ‘It’s alright, I’m OK.
I just didn’t understand what you meant by “real” harm in the heat of everything going on. I got caught up in things.’
He looked at my closely. ‘But you’re OK? Promise?’
I smiled at him and nodded. ‘I’m OK. Promise.’ It was the first time I had lied to him.
I still couldn’t quite believe it. He hadn’t pissed on me, he hadn’t pushed past my hard limits. The relief was immense. I could still trust him. But as I lay there listening to his breathing as he dozed, tears began to fall down my face. There was one problem.
I couldn’t trust myself.
It’s ironic, really, that something that
didn’t
happen could have had such a massive impact on my mindset. But it really did.
I had to hand it to Adam. He’d said he was going to mess with my mind and he did that to grand effect. And he was lovely afterwards, really lovely. He knew how much it affected me and took great pains to reassure me. He was, in terms of aftercare, a good and responsible dominant. But more than that, as my boyfriend he was loving and caring and concerned.
That evening I lay there wide-eyed, my brain whirring, while he dozed. Then we went out for a decadent dinner, all beautifully cooked seafood and the kind of sinful chocolate pudding that makes me swoon. He complimented me on my dress and my throat went dry at the sight of him in one of the sharpest of his suits. It was romantic, fun, and Adam was on great form. We were as comfortable around each other as ever before. It was lovely, genuinely so.
The problem was, even while I was enjoying the evening, there was a tiny part of my brain having a freak-out. It was like an alternate track: mostly I could ignore it, but every so often it would get louder and then I was thinking again about something I didn’t want to think about at all.
And then we went back to the suite. We snuck out onto the balcony on hands and knees so no one could see us
and, giggling like children, laid naked on the ground, just a spare blanket nabbed from the wardrobe keeping us from the cold of the concrete. We snuggled together to minimise the chill, and then snuggling turned to groping and then we were fucking, laughing about how uncomfortable it was to be on top (the concrete was hard on the knees) and taking our pleasure from each other. As we recovered from our respective orgasms, we cuddled together to watch the stars and then he kissed me and told me he loved me and I kissed him back and told him I loved him too.
It was a really memorable night, beautiful and romantic – well, as beautiful and romantic as it could be when earlier on I was convinced Adam had pissed on me. But that was the problem. I should have been able to shake off the odd feeling, but I really couldn’t. And to be fair to him, it wasn’t about Adam, it was about me.
As I lay in bed, my mind kept going back to the moment in the bath, the building orgasm, the certainty that he was pissing on me. Two things kept going round in my head.
I know some people enjoy the taboo, but watersports had always been a hard limit for me. Despite my limits shifting during the time I was with Adam, certain things remained out of bounds. All the illegal stuff, obviously, anything likely to cause permanent injury or damage, anything toilet related, anything involving multiple partners
(yes, even though I’d had a threesome before I was wary about ballsing up a relationship by having a threesome while in one), anything involving needles (I’m a big wuss). I trusted him to keep to those limits and, really, he had kept to them.
I hadn’t.
I felt confused by my inaction. Self-disgusted and gutless too. Often, in the aftermath of sexual play, I get little flashbacks to what has happened, the things we’ve done. The more challenging something is, the more likely that is to happen. In my earliest D/s experiences it was this thought process that helped me come to terms with the thoughts and feelings that were elicited by my kinky new experiences. It was both hot and helpful in allowing me to come to understand the emotional side of what I was doing, what I was allowing to be done to me.
But the problem with this was, the more I thought about it, the more disconnected I felt. Even the most challenging and painful D/s I had ever indulged in had, fundamentally, been fun. Challenging, yes, often embarrassing (but I think it’s pretty obvious by now that I like that on some twisted level). But this was different. Adam’s intentions had been good – evil, but good: the erotic equivalent of scaring yourself shitless at a house of horrors and coming out the other end unscathed, giggling and with your heart beating with fear at a scenario that was only really ever in your head. But I couldn’t shake it off and discount it that way.
I knew I didn’t use my safe word enough, even when things were intense to the point of feeling unbearable. Hell, two of the four times I’d ever used it were because
I got cramp in my foot while tied up and thus felt the need to hop around shaking my leg to try and get the blood flowing again (I know, it’s an alluring image).
Rationally I knew it wasn’t right to see using my safe word as a ‘failure’ but somewhere in my head it felt a little like it was – or if not a failure then a defeat, waving the white flag. Normally that was fine, because the people I was with factored my stubborn bloody-mindedness into their treatment of me, but here, here the responsibility had been mine, and I’d abdicated it. I’d frozen.
I tried to rationalise it. I was shocked. It all happened really quickly. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew Adam hadn’t been pissing on me – maybe I could tell by the lack of smell or the fact the water wasn’t too hot or … but it just felt odd. I felt really out of sorts, and it lasted for several weeks.
Adam and I talked about it; he knew me well and could tell that things weren’t quite right, but I deliberately spoke lightly of it when we spoke of it at all. I brushed aside his repeated apologies because I honestly believed he had nothing to apologise for, the responsibility had been mine. His reassurance, his kindness, made me love him all the more. He cuddled me, stroked my hair, talked it through. I think he thought we were through it and it was OK. But despite us going back to our day-to-day lives – working, fucking, bickering about the news, watching TV, seeing friends and family – the experience cast an oddly long shadow over my mood and kept popping into my head in quiet moments.
It also made me question how far D/s could go. Shifting boundaries are natural, but how far is too far? Suddenly my frustration with James, who had been unable to con
tinue hurting me because he had pushed beyond the limits of what he considered acceptable and safe and kind, seemed a bit unfair. The situations were different, but the similarities gave me pause. For the first time in months he was on my mind again. That felt weird too.