No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (21 page)

I blushed.

‘It might hurt more before it gets better, though. But don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll be here with you the whole way.’

And that he was. He played with me, like a cat playing with a mouse. He watched the agony play across my face as the ginger sting turned into a full and fierce burn, watching my eyes begin to water. He watched me try and control my breathing to work through the pain and, when I’d done a good enough job that my obvious distress began to subside, he unclipped and then re-clipped a peg on my nipple. The release and then reapplication of the pressure pushed through my calm and began a whole new wave of pleasure. He stroked my hair, ran his fingers along my face, kissed the top of my breasts. He told me how proud he was of me, how brave I was, how hot it was to watch me endure for him, with his cum drying on my thighs, what a filthy whore I was for not only letting him do these things to me but for getting off on them.

And he was right, I was. The pain was blurring together, merging with the relentless vibrations between my legs.
I was being buffeted around in a sea of sensations, aware of nothing but the pain and his voice whispering in my ear, grounding me, telling me I could do this, I could withstand this.

Then he began removing the pegs and I really wasn’t sure that I could. The strange thing about being clamped is that after a while you can’t feel it much any more. Once something has been pressed for so long that it’s gone a bit numb it stops being an aggressive pain, mellowing to a dull ache. My body was a mixture of these aches, until Adam began unclipping the pegs. He started with the ones at my mouth and my ears, gently rubbing life back into them to minimise the pain as the blood began to flow again. Then he moved to my breasts and unclipped those. He didn’t rub my nipples, though. Tears began flowing freely then, the pain rising until I was splashing tears on my poor punished breasts. Eventually he took pity on me, kissing both nipples softly, taking them in his mouth one at a time, soothing them gently with his tongue.

As he moved down my body I began to shake. I had no sense of time passing, but surely the ginger burn should be calming down by now? As it was, I was continually whimpering behind my gag, unable to control my reactions, thankful that he
had
gagged me because otherwise I would have been howling by this point. His hand went between my legs. I couldn’t decide if I was thankful or annoyed that he took the pegs on my lips off so quickly. The burst of pain was intense enough that I saw stars, but at least it was over quickly, and his hand rubbing between my legs was a very welcome change of pace.

Finally I was left with one peg on my clit, the ginger in
my arse and the too-big-plug vibrating away in my cunt. He stopped for a moment, looking down at me again, drinking in the sight of me. Then, to my rising panic, he pressed the bulb on the plug once more, filling me utterly, and changed the speed of the vibrations inside me. Suddenly my moans were the inevitable precursor to an orgasm that I was a little worried might knock me off the bed. Maybe it was just as well I was tied down.

He leaned in, kissing my cheek where a track of tears was drying.

‘Are you going to come for me now, my brave, good girl?’

I nodded, although to be honest I wasn’t sure if I would be able to overcome the whirl of sensations enough to lose myself in orgasm. Sometimes, though, he knows what my reactions will be in such situations better than I know them myself.

He unclipped the peg at my clit and began rubbing it with his fingers, both to mitigate the pain and increase the pleasure. I felt myself begin to slide under, looking to him, watching the nod and the smile on his face as I surrendered myself to the sensation.

I came so hard it hurt. In the immediate aftermath I was disconnected from what was going on, my breathing loud and my limbs loose as he moved around me, taking off the cuffs, rubbing my arms, pulling out the gag and then, finally, reaching round and pulling out the piece of ginger.

He wrapped it in a tissue and threw it in the bin, washing his hands again before climbing back in bed with me. I was quiet, replete. After the most intense submissive
experiences it takes a little while for me to come back to earth. I was a slightly dazed and almost sleepy version of myself.

He cuddled me close, and I curled into his body heat gratefully, seeking that connection and closeness as I began to resurface. He kissed my hair and stroked my back and I clung to him, a little overcome. Speechless.

‘See? Creativity. I don’t need to worry about noise.’

It took a few seconds for me to understand his words, and when I did I laughed to myself, suddenly mindful of the game that had started all this.

‘You’re definitely right. Is that what you want to hear? You’re right.’

He grinned at me. ‘Come on, Soph, when don’t I want to hear you tell me I’m right?’

I stuck my tongue out at him. ‘That was incredible, though. The ginger hurt so much, but the increase in intensity was amazing. Moving from the tingle to the burn, until the point where it was all I could do to cope with the pain.’

He nipped my earlobe with his teeth. ‘It was fucking hot to watch. I do like making you squirm.’

I nodded solemnly. ‘That you do.’

He grinned at me. ‘Next time we do it I’m going to have you on all fours and spank and then flog you as you begin to squirm.’

Maybe it was because, whilst the pain had burned fiercely, it ended almost as soon as the ginger was removed, but my first thought was one of anticipation.

‘I can’t wait.’

‘I know. Minx.’

I switched off the light and we went to sleep, him secure in the knowledge he’d been proved right, and me not giving a toss about that but feeling the lovely after-effects of the satisfaction and release of a wonderfully intense evening.

Was it terrible I was plotting ways to badger him the following day to see what he’d do to top it? Maybe I
am
a brat.

Ginger was just one of many new experiences Adam introduced me too. Another I enjoyed, much to my surprise, was watching porn together. Before I met him my knowledge of porn was born mostly of prejudice and those fifteen-minute free previews you get on hotel pay-per-view channels, mostly of fake-breasted women with false fingernails. I know, fingernail extensions are a daft thing to get irate about, but I found them ridiculous – who could believe these women could happily wank when they had talons so sharp it was like watching Wolverine masturbating? I know, probably the average porn film maker isn’t worrying about my preoccupation with Stanislavski’s willing suspension of disbelief, but it mattered to me.

I’m definitely no kind of prude, but my choice of erotic inspiration was always text-based, from my earliest forays into buying Black Lace books and reading Literotica online. When Adam first mentioned us watching porn together I rolled my eyes. I just wasn’t interested. I’d rather have had sex watching the Test Match Special, and that really didn’t float my boat either. But one night, curled up in bed, he showed me a bit of a scene involving a beautiful (but not fake-looking) brunette woman with amazing eyes.

The D/s element was minimal, it was beautifully shot and not too – for want of a better word – gynaecological.
It felt real and by the time he reached between my legs my enjoyment was, not to put too much of a fine point on it, obvious. I later learned the woman’s name was Stoya. Adam showed me another couple of films he had with her in them, then together we found some other films with hot, real-looking women who reacted like normal women would having sex (no claws and no shrieking orgasms of the sort that made me raise an eyebrow in his direction). My favourites, along with Stoya, were Madison Young, Sasha Grey and the Australian domme Chanta Rose. The thing about all these women is that they completely went against my preconceptions of what women working in porn were like. Articulate, sexually liberated (and certainly not being taken advantage of by anyone), intelligent, creative – the kind of women I’d love to go for drinks with because they seemed interesting and like they had something to say.

Over a period of time we watched a fair few scenes curled up together in bed, and I became a convert. We didn’t watch it every time we had sex – I think doing anything
every time
you have sex together is a bit of a concern – but as part of our sexual repertoire it was fun. It also provided a springboard to lots of discussions about what we were into and what we might like to try. The porn itself varied from being quite straightforward sex (including a Batman parody that managed to be both hot and hilarious) to very intense D/s type scenes which made my throat dry. But as much as I loved those, I also loved the scenes of aftercare, where the submissives who had been involved in the action bundled up in bathrobes, their faces showing the same euphoric endorphin-laden smiley
reactions I did after something intense but hot. I could relate to them. I believed them. And the fact this porn was something aimed at me rather than just blokes appealed. A lot.

As for Adam, he loved how much I enjoyed it and that it was something we could share. I think he also approved of the fact we could have conversations about attractive women without me being funny about it. I was definitely secure in our relationship and where we were at – I don’t look like a porn star (although from what I can tell, away from the cameras most porn stars don’t look like porn stars either), and Adam wasn’t expecting me to look like one any more than I was expecting him to look like either James Deen (a prolific and increasingly mainstream male porn star) or Damian Lewis (it’s something about his eyes).

I know for some people porn is a major taboo, but with Adam I found that the better I got to know him and the more I trusted him, the happier I was to experience new things. I was deeply in love with him, I knew that he loved me and I trusted him to protect me. I’d trusted the previous dominants I’d played with to a lesser extent, but the more intense experiences we had together, the better we could read each other. I trusted him to know what I could cope with and what I couldn’t, to know what my reactions meant in any given situation.

Of course, sometimes he used this knowledge to mess with my mind in evil ways – not least because he knew I am both impatient and incredibly curious (my mum says nosey; I do prefer curious – hell, as a journalist I think I can justify it as ‘professionally curious’).

One dull, grey Monday morning I got to my desk clutching a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant (surely the only way to get through the start of a week) to find an email already waiting from him. It was short, to the point and exactly the kind of thing that set my mind in a frenzy and my fingers tapping out a flurry of questions in return.

I have plans for this weekend. A big challenge. I’m going to introduce you to something new.

I was burning with curiosity. The nerves had started in earnest and I was soon working at it like a knot, trying to unravel what the challenge could be from the (admittedly scant) information he would give me. The annoying thing was, I knew that he had told me this early in the week because he wanted the anticipation and nerves to increase as we edged closer to the weekend. But knowing that didn’t stop me reacting exactly as he expected. I couldn’t help it. Annoying brain. On Monday the only thing he would concede to my mostly-ignored questions was that:

It won’t hurt in the way you’re thinking. But I can’t say it won’t hurt at all.

I’ll be honest, after the ginger incident I wasn’t taking anything for granted. We’d already ascertained he could do things to me that I’d never even thought of. My curiosity drove me to distraction.

I tried to question him when his guard was down. Faux casually before he went to sleep. While we were eating dinner. Even while we were having sex. But he was having none of it. He just grinned at me, and got the kind of
glint in his eye that made me feel excited and nervous in equal measure.

Even when the weekend finally arrived he made me wait. I spent all of Friday night half expecting him to jump me, or tell me to fetch something from the blanket box, which had become our de facto home for toys. But nothing. Saturday we spent most of the day playing computer games together on our laptops, and by Sunday I was half-convinced he’d forgotten, or changed his mind, or whatever he was planning was dependent on something he’d ordered and which hadn’t arrived yet.

Silly Sophie.

We were sitting on the sofa watching nothing in particular on TV when he took my hand and stood up. He didn’t look at me or say anything, but his meaning was clear. I followed him into the bedroom.

As he moved to the blanket box –
I knew it!
(knew what? I have no idea, but it was a vindication of sorts) – he spoke to me over his shoulder.

‘Take your clothes off. All of them.’

His tone was brusque but, for now at least, any nerves were pushed aside by a sense of anticipation. I took my clothes off quickly, trying to peer past his back to see what he was removing from his box of tricks.