No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (35 page)

Everyone has their favourite places to be. The beach, Disney World, the terrace of their favourite team’s ground, maybe just surrounded by family and friends at home. I love all those places (albeit I’m the very definition of a fair-weather sports fan), but one of my favourite places to be is in bed with Adam.

I know. You’ve just read 300-plus pages about how much I enjoy that, so it’s not a shocker to you.

But when we climb into bed and curl up together, I feel safe, happy, loved, at home, in a way that I never did before. It’s not the bed, or the duvet or even the room itself. It’s the man behind me, literally and figuratively, whose dominance reflects back my submission, even while we go through our daily life as partners. Equals.

That’s not to say work and other responsibilities, the detritus of real life, don’t get in the way sometimes. Not all the sex we have is full-on D/s sex. That’s not a bad thing – variety is the spice of live after all, and after a while even the loveliest things can get a bit samey. There’s little risk of that for us, though, not least because we’ve got plenty of toys and outfits we’ve accrued along the way to make it fun when we have the time and inclination to let loose.

But sometimes there are no outfits. No floggers. No expanding butt plugs. There’s just us. And those are the most intimate times of all.

He lies behind me, pressed close into my back, one of his arms under my neck and the other wrapped around my body in a kind of backwards cuddle, most of my body (or all the important bits for our purposes) within his reach. His head is close to mine, so when he whispers in my ear, the feeling of his breath on my neck makes me shiver.

Often as we lie like this he’ll tell me dirty stories. We’ll talk about things we’ve done together, things we might like to try, things we wouldn’t want to do in real life but which are hot to talk about, lying in bed in the dark. Sometimes when we lie here, in our little cocoon, making each other squirm with lust at the stories we’re weaving together, Adam’s hand will snake between my legs and play with me until I am desperate to come, my legs shaking with the effort of holding off my orgasm.

Not tonight, though. Not yet anyway. The thing is, he is still much more patient than me. He begins a dirty story, a variation on one we’ve talked about before – a fantasy that logistically is pretty unlikely to come to fruition. As he speaks, he strokes my arm with his fingertips, punctuating his sentences with kisses and nibbling on my ear, neck and shoulder. All of which, of course, drives me crazy and makes me wet.

Some days he would be fine with my hand sliding between my own legs. Some days he would actively encourage it and quite enjoy watching. Not tonight, though, tonight he definitely disapproves of my attempt to relieve my building sexual tension. As soon as he realises where my hand is going, he grabs my wrist.

‘Not yet.’

I make a grumbling noise as he pulls my arm away and continues with what he had been doing.

‘And you can cut out that attitude as well.’ His voice is amused, mostly, but has the edge of steel to it that, even now, gives me butterflies.

‘I don’t have an attitude.’ I know, I’m not helping myself by answering back. But some days he is so bloody smug. I know it’s not breaking news, but even so.

He stops his touching and kissing and lifts his head up away from me for a moment.

‘I’m being perfectly nice to you right now, all you need to do is show some patience and lie back and appreciate it a little bit.’

I consider my position. Is it worth arguing and risking the consequences? Probably not. But I’m not happy. As ever, some days the submissive mindset is one that comes down as quickly as a fog on a wintry day, while at other points I have the urge to rebel, even though I know that not only is this a game that I can’t win, it’s a game that I actively don’t want to win.

His voice has taken on the slight sing-song timbre that makes me want to kneel at his feet and kick him in the shins in about equal measure – although obviously doing both at the same time is somewhat impractical.

‘You should know by now, if you’d asked permission to touch yourself it would have been much more effective.’

I stay quiet but, fortunately for me, the bedside light has already been turned off so he can’t see my face. If he did I’d probably be told off for glaring at him.

He goes back to teasing me. No spanking or further
humiliation, yet, but I know he’s making it last longer than he otherwise would have done to teach me a lesson.

Finally his hand is on my inner thigh. By now I’m so turned on I am starting to shiver. I feel him laugh behind me, which doesn’t help my grumpy face. When he finally runs his finger along my wetness I can’t suppress my low moan of pleasure.

‘You see, here’s the problem. Even now, after all this time, there are some days where your brain wants to fight me and makes you angry with me. You’re confused here –’ he tapped my head with his other hand, even while his fingers pushed deeper between my legs, causing me to swallow a sigh of pleasure. He chuckled. ‘You’re not confused here. This is the truth. This shows how much you love this. All of it. This is why you need to think with your cunt and not with your brain – you’ll be much happier.’

I wonder if now is the point to make a smart comment about blokes thinking with their cocks. I’m guessing not.

As he finishes his lecture he pushes a finger inside me. I gasp and blush. I am wet, oh so wet, but I am also furious, although I honestly can’t tell you if it’s at him or myself.

‘So fucking smug.’ The words slip out. I snap my mouth shut, half hoping that I can swallow back my outburst.

No such luck.

‘What did you say?’ His response is quick and sharp.

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t fib. You said something about smug.’

I call him smug all the time. He certainly doesn’t mind me mocking him, but these things are always about
context. In this situation, at this moment, he isn’t going to let me get away with anything.

Eventually, somewhat sheepishly, I repeat myself. In an instant his fingers are gone, his palm resting just above my wetness. He is unmoving. No kissing, no stroking, no more whispering. His arm is still under my neck, but he has released my breast, which he had been caressing.

Silence.

I am nervous. Aroused. Curious. Will he hurt me in some way? But he doesn’t. He just lies there, letting the silence grow. I don’t know if it’s one minute or ten, but it seems to drag on and on.

Finally he speaks. ‘It’s quite the battle of wills we have going on here, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I reply. I do.

‘I’ve been nothing but nice to you but, because I’m not going at the speed that you want, you want things all your own way.’

I bite back a retort about things fundamentally being all his way, mostly because I know that’s actually not true, that we both enjoy this, that there is still equality of pleasure in this inequality, that for some reason I have brattier urges than usual today.

As the silence lengthens I worry I’ve disappointed him. I hate that. I feel my resolve melt away. It takes a little longer before I can respond, but I finally find my voice.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll be good.’

His fingers are back as quickly as they had gone. Stroking me, spreading my lips apart and dipping inside me.

‘You know that you’re wetter now than when I stopped?’

It takes all the effort I can muster not to call him smug
again. I settle for mentally calling him an arse, and am once again thankful that he can’t see my face.

He doesn’t stop talking, though. His voice becomes a constant whisper in my ear.

‘This is what I’m talking about. Stop thinking with your head, think a little more with this.’ His fingers move inside me. ‘It always knows what you want to do, what you enjoy, even when your stubborn brain hasn’t caught up yet. That’s why this cunt belongs to me.’

I moan in spite of myself.

‘That’s it, let go, just be a good girl for me. You clearly want to, don’t you?’

My blood begins to sing, my body reacts to his. I feel my submission wash over me and as I offer it to him, I become pliant beneath him.

It’s a game we’ve played so often before, that we’ll undoubtedly play over and over again, hopefully for the rest of our lives. It is intense, fun, arousing, amazing.

His fingers move between my legs, punctuating his whispered lecture about how much I enjoy this, how we both know that I love this, live for it at times, especially when he’s got his hand between my legs.

It makes me blush, but we both know that it’s the truth. My hips are arching as I press my swollen clit into his hand – it’s something of a giveaway.

As I get close to coming he slows his movements. I bite back a moan, knowing that it will get me into trouble, instead leaving myself in his hands, on his timescale. He nods in approval behind me.

‘Good girl. Trust me to look after you. Be patient.’

I feel a flush of warmth at the praise, and a flash of
affection for him. He does look after me, sexually and otherwise. Suddenly I feel the proper rush of the apology I had given grudgingly before.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you were smug.’

He chuckles behind me. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I am smug.’

I restrain the urge to nod, not sure if I’m safe doing that yet and not willing to risk it.

‘But the thing is, even though I am smug, sometimes I like having a reason to punish you, and your outburst gives me that reason.’

My heart begins to beat even faster. It’s not fear, though, it’s anticipation. I am smiling as I speak. ‘As long as you’re not ever hoping I’m going to be the kind of submissive who stops mocking you and obeys your every whim.’

He shifts me onto my front for a moment, running his hand along the curve of my arse. I am smiling in the darkness as he begins to spank the place where my arse meets the top of my thighs, the sweet spot that makes me squirm.

‘I’m very happy with the mocking. And let’s face it, we both know I don’t need a reason to punish you, that’s not how this works.’ He is warming my cheek, his spanking gentle as he allows me to get used to the feeling of his hand connecting with my arse. Even after all this time it is one of the most intimate things we do, and the feeling of his palm connecting, the intimacy of his touch, makes me sigh. It’s a happy sound.

The warmth on my cheek at the sting of his slaps is beginning to build as I adjust to the pain. I nod my agreement, taking deep breaths through my nose, trying to conquer the pain, ride the endorphin rush. He hits me
harder, and I squirm, urging my arse up to meet his hand. Eager.

By the time he moves me back against him, I can feel his erection pressing into me and he can feel the heat of my punished cheek against his thigh. He sighs in satisfaction and nips my shoulder with his teeth, before he moves his hand between my legs and begins spanking there. I push my hips upwards, meeting him eagerly, so eagerly he chuckles.

I love this. We both do. I’m past the point of feeling like I need to apologise for it. We’re not hurting anyone else, we’re doing it safely. It’s all consensual. He knows me well, sometimes it feels he knows me better than I know myself – although, yes, I’m better at using my safe word nowadays.

This makes my nipples hard, it makes me wet. The challenge, the fight, being overpowered, being tied up, being hurt. Yielding to him, pleasing him, loving him. It all meshes together in my brain – the pain with the pleasure, the adrenaline with the endorphins. Most times the fight isn’t literal, but we are vying for power and I love the intimacy of it, the control he has. Sometimes I give him that control willingly, sometimes he takes it, albeit still with my permission. Either way I enjoy it, enjoy him, enjoy being on the back foot, not knowing what is going to happen next.

Reacting. Enduring. Enjoying.

I love him. I love it.