No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (6 page)

We stopped to kiss, often. He thanked me for being so obedient, pliant, fun. I grinned and blushed and tried not to look him in the eye as he discussed the ruder things. Suddenly, in spite of myself, I started to think more fondly of Thomas’s and Charlotte’s cack-handed matchmaking.

We’d agreed he wouldn’t stay over, but he didn’t leave until 2 a.m., and only then because we both had early starts the following day and he’d have had to drive across the city in rush hour. We never did eat the cookies. I sent him
home with most of them in a little Tupperware container, feeling a bit silly as I handed it over, but at the same time wanting him to have the biscuits I’d baked for him. The following day he messaged me a picture of a cookie sitting next to his mug of tea at work. It made me smile. I emailed a response. Suddenly we were chatting again.

I knew even before he’d left that night that I wanted to see him again. I know! So much for all my ‘no strings, this is just fun’ stuff. What can I say? I liked him. He was funny, self-deprecating and good to talk to. In between sexual shenanigans we lay in the dark chatting about politics and TV, work stuff and films. It made me a little grumpy to concede it, and I still didn’t approve of their tactics in the least, but Charlotte and Thomas had found exactly the kind of guy I’d like to date.

That biscuit-related message was the first of many that he sent over the next few weeks, and I was very happy indeed to reply. We chatted about lots of different things – from stories I was working on to issues he was having with a colleague at work – and he began to nip over after work during the week if we were both free. We’d leap on each other as soon as he came through the door, kissing urgently, pulling at each other’s clothes, desperate to sate our sexual appetites on each other. It was wonderful, primal, so much bloody fun. We’d drink tea and chat about nothing in particular afterwards, and it was relaxing and easy and not awkward. I came to look forward to his visits, and was beginning to realise that he was pretty much my ideal kinky boyfriend material.

Except, of course, we’d kind of already agreed we
weren’t going to date, agreed that this was to be a no-strings sort of thing. Balls.

Of course, on the plus side, this whole ‘we weren’t going to date’ thing made for some full and frank discussions of the kind that might have been slightly more awkward with a man you were considering might be a permanent relationship fixture. Which is how he ended up breaking into my house to jump me as I slept.

OK, I’m over-egging that a little. But not much.

We were discussing long-standing fantasies. Things we’d always wanted to try but which, for one reason or another, hadn’t been able to do. I was less experienced than him, particularly in D/s terms, so my list was quite a bit longer than his, and as we lay in bed chatting about it, him running his fingertips up and down my arm, he seemed particularly interested in my yearning to be overpowered in my sleep – to wake up to someone pinning me down and hurting me, fucking me.

As ever, this is all about the fantasy. I am a security-minded person. My window locks were always locked, and I wasn’t yearning to be burgled or raped and attacked in my own home by a stranger. It needed to be someone I trusted, someone I wanted to fuck, within the previously agreed (but admittedly rough D/s style) boundaries, but I loved the idea of being taken by surprise.

We talked about it for a long while, and even the chat made me wet. I spoke haltingly, my voice quiet – even with my general openness about fantasies, and knowing that Adam knew the context in which we would be operating, it still felt pretty taboo talking about wanting to be
woken up by someone fucking me. Adam was louder, more confident, and also clearly enjoying the chat, if his erection pressing into my arse as he whispered in my ear was anything to go by. As he asked more questions and I stumbled a little answering them, I realised he was revelling in my embarrassment and awkwardness, enjoying the little humiliations of discussing this, knowing how wet it was making me. Adam’s different style of dominance was taking a little getting used to, and seemed to put me on the back foot even more than my previous experiences. While he wasn’t averse to inflicting some nipple pinching or a spanking in the right mood, his dominance was as much psychological – about words and actions rather than pain. It consistently boggled my mind how he could get me into a deeply submissive and compliant mindset without the pain that had so far formed such a key part of my D/s experiences.

By the time we had finished discussing it and he had told me how it could work he had slipped his hand between my legs and was telling me how filthy I was for getting off on the idea of it. There was even a kind of plan.

I didn’t have a spare key. If I had the whole thing would have been much easier. As it was, the slight danger of it meant it took me a while to fall asleep the night before I knew it was to happen.

We’d agreed that I would put my front-door key in an envelope inside my paper recycling bin, which sat next to my front door. Even if someone did come up to my front door to rummage through the cereal boxes and old news
papers, the hope was that an old junk-mail envelope, seemingly stuck to the inside by a stray piece of tape, would be overlooked. It would be a pretty big leap to assume it would contain a key that would open my front door – at least that’s what I told myself as I lay in bed trying to get to sleep after I’d snuck out into the dark and deserted street at midnight to stick it in place.

It took a long time to go to sleep. I was wearing a slightly sexier pair of knickers than I normally would have – my fashion choices for bed tended to be nothing at all or fleecy pyjamas depending on the weather, and we were definitely still in the PJ comfort side of the year, although I’d decided against them just this once. I couldn’t get comfortable, and I was nervous about the key being outside (even though I knew it would be fine and even if anyone had seen me out there all they had seen was my putting some old newspapers in the recycling) and about what Adam would do to me when he got in. He’d asked me not to orgasm before bed, and while part of me chafed at the edict, it seemed churlish to quibble when he had agreed to fulfil such a long-held fantasy. But my body was used to falling asleep in a post-orgasm haze most nights so it made it even harder to drop off. I sat watching the luminous dial of the clock change, my brain ticking away, my imagination and nerves getting ever more fanciful, and me getting ever more grumpy. I wasn’t going to fall asleep like this.

I had an itchy nose, or there was something on my face. I tried to move my arm from under the duvet to swat whatever it was away but it seemed to be tangled up. I struggled
for a minute before I sleepily turned my face towards the pillow instead. But moving felt difficult, like wading through treacle.

Suddenly I was awake with a start, my heart pounding as I realised there was someone lying on the bed with me, on top of the duvet, their body partially over mine, making it difficult to move from under the covers. I knew it was him. I was sure it was him. It smelt like him, I think, like the familiar smell of his aftershave. I think. But I couldn’t see his face, and I was nervous, in need of reassurance. What if it wasn’t him? What if someone else saw me sticking the envelope to the side of the box? What if it was the guy from over the road who took a parcel in for me once? Or a random teenage boy walking home late at night who’d seen my furtive rummaging? I knew my imagination and nerves were running away with me, but I couldn’t see him. I needed to be sure. I opened my mouth to say his name before my sleep-dulled brain realised I couldn’t because there was a hand clasped over my mouth. I was confused. The bedroom was lit with an early-morning glow. I guessed it must be 6 or 7 a.m. After all my worries about being unable to sleep I seemed to have dropped off just fine. Too well, in fact. If I’d just been able to sneak a peek at his face to be sure I’d have been enjoying it much more. Instead there was a tinge of fear, of danger. What if it wasn’t him? Could I be sure?

I shifted on the bed, trying to struggle from within my cocoon, to shift myself round, to catch a glimpse of him, just long enough to know for definite. He pushed his weight down further, and I harrumphed into his hand, grumbling my concerns, a whimper in my throat trying to
explain something, anything, just to get him to respond. If he spoke I’d have known it was him and then I would have been OK. My nostrils filled with the smell of leather as his gloved hand tightened against my mouth, pressing hard against my lips, and suddenly his voice was whispering a ‘ssssssshhhhhhh’ in my ear. Was it an echo of the man I lay here with days ago discussing how hot this was, or someone else completely? The longer we lay there, the more certain I was it was the former not the latter, but even with just five per cent uncertainty my stomach cramped with a little fear.

He moved, but his hand was still tight round my mouth. I tried to press my teeth into his palm but there was no room for manoeuvre, even if I had been able to nip hard enough to hurt him through his glove. I waited for what was to happen next, my heart beating loudly in my ears. There was a sudden rush of cold air as the duvet was pulled away. I got goosebumps at the abrupt change in temperature, and grabbed to pull it back, for the safety and warmth. He levered me onto my back and pushed harder against my mouth in warning. I remained still, swallowing convulsively, finally getting my chance to look him in the eyes. It was him. While I knew that rationally it had to be him, the relief of knowing for sure was like a headrush. But the nerves didn’t dissipate. His eyes were assessing me, and I’d never felt more, well, naked. I tried to still my breathing so my breasts didn’t bounce quite as obviously as he stared at me, and I waited to see what would happen next, where this was going to go.

He didn’t speak, but once more his palm pressed firmly against my mouth in warning before he loosened his grip
just a little. His hand stayed there, though, while the other began to explore my body, his touch neither tender nor friendly. He was pawing at me, groping my breasts. His eyes filled with lust, and suddenly I was wishing I’d gone for my fleecy pyjamas after all. He lifted my hip and slid his hand underneath to grab a handful of my arse and I took the opportunity to shuffle across the bed a little, trying to avoid the worst of his punishing grip, deciding this was my best opportunity to struggle.

Big mistake. His hand tightened against my mouth again and the look in his eyes was enough to stop me, intense enough to make me wary. I was suddenly nervous that I’d made him angry, and cursed my inner rebellion. His other hand was no longer mauling my arse, but I’ll be honest, that didn’t feel exactly like a victory. Fear cramped my stomach as I considered what would happen next.

He leaned over me, his face looming close to mine, and I expected him to tell me off, use stern words, give me a warning. What I was not expecting was for his other hand to pinch my nose closed. I panicked.

We’d talked about breath play before. It’s something I’d read about, but not something I’d ever done. I knew he liked it, he knew I was curious to try it, we had discussed how it would work, how he would keep me safe, how he could read the signs of when it was too much or not enough. In our nuzzled-together post-coital chats it had sounded dark but hot, something I could cope with, but now it was happening, my brain broke a little.

I felt fear. I tried to quell the rising panic, but my chest tightened as my lungs fought to take in more air. My heart raced as I struggled. His hands were firm, still, and his
expression was implacable, his whole stance calm as every part of my body filled with fear and panic. A hysterical half thought bubbled up from my mind – he had power over everything, in this moment he controlled whether I could breathe. It shocked me, I’d never felt so controlled, but there was no time to think rationally about it. Finally he let go. It seemed like it had been an eternity, but it was probably just a few seconds. I sucked deep breaths in through my nose, the sound loud in the room.

For long moments we just stared at each other. I was wary; the look on his face was stern, but I knew he was checking my reaction, making sure that I was OK. He still didn’t say anything, but suddenly he leaned down and gently kissed my forehead. His hand was still clasped over my mouth and the tenderness paired with the threat of violence was an odd thing to experience, but it made me melt. I tried to smile at him with my watery eyes. He waited a moment longer, before seeing whatever it was that he wanted to see, and finally released me.

The relief I felt didn’t last long. He reached down to the floor to pick something up. I couldn’t quite see what it was, but it seemed to be deliberately out of my sightline. How had he been able to unpack without me noticing?

He brought up a ball gag and pressed the large red bulb of it to my mouth. I swallowed, trying to minimise the saliva that I knew the gag would end up collecting, but then opened my mouth compliantly as he pushed it inside. I don’t think I even glared at him, such was the level of my obedience. It would appear breath play and sleepiness made for an especially submissive Soph. He lifted my head up gently so he could fasten the leather straps of the
gag without pulling my hair too much, and I smiled to myself at the paradox of a man who enjoyed being able to hurt me – but only wanted to do so by design rather than accident.