No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive (29 page)

I had a mental image of her pale skin marked that way. I have to admit the thought of it made me squirm a little. I definitely wasn’t interested in having sex with anyone but Adam right now, but, remembering the soft paleness of her skin, I felt intrigued at the thought of the marks.

‘She and Tom chatted as she went, about how well I bruised, the sort of pain I’d taken before, whether I enjoyed it, what he enjoyed hitting me with. Even as she
was hitting me I wasn’t really her focus, I felt like a plaything, a toy, something to do while she chatted with him. It was so demeaning and so hot. I totally got why you enjoyed it. And then they fucked and I watched, and it was everything I hoped for. She told me I should thank her for fucking him in front of me, and I did. It was just so much fun. It was such an amazing thing for him to arrange, everything I’d fantasised about and more.’

I smiled, understanding completely her wonder at the intensity of it, and relieved at her obvious affection for Thomas having organised it. I did have one question, though. ‘So, I’m intrigued.’

She laughed. ‘Ask away, Soph, I think we’re past the polite chit-chat.’

I grinned. ‘For the record, this is
much
more fun than polite chit-chat. But I’m curious. Did you feel jealous or weird watching Tom fuck her?’

Charlotte didn’t hesitate before she replied. ‘Not at all. Let’s face it, Tom and I aren’t dating. We’re not into each other that way. We have an arrangement similar to the one you had with him. It’s a lot of fun. He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t want him to be. And he doesn’t want a girlfriend.’

I feigned a sudden, in-depth interest in the drinks menu. Ouch. Poor Tom. I thought it was time to change the subject, mostly by getting more drinks.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Charlotte and I nattered about work, she told me once more she had never seen Adam so smitten (which still made me grin), we bickered about what to see at the cinema the following Saturday when we’d all agreed to go out. It was fun, exactly
the kind of Friday night you needed after a long week at work.

It had seemed a waste leaving James’s flowers at work but I didn’t want to bring them home either – I’m no etiquette expert but it seemed like that would be pretty bad form, potentially made worse by the fact they looked incredibly expensive and Adam was still worried about his finances. Instead I gave them to Charlotte when we staggered our separate ways. As far as I was concerned things were done with James. I thought of mentioning to Adam that he’d been in touch, but I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about me getting bouquets of flowers from someone else, so I just kept quiet, and eventually it slipped from my mind.

In hindsight I realise this was a mistake – it was like I was lying to him by omission. But at the time I headed home in a really good mood, feeling very lucky for the straightforward and loving relationship I had with Adam, and looking forward to what the rest of the weekend had to offer.

I know, I was an idiot.

Slowly things began to head back to normal. Well, as normal as things got for Adam and me. With a little distance, the horror of Weegate began to ease and I began to realise my response hadn’t been a sign of me somehow falling over the precipice. My limits remained as they were, and Adam – as he had then – continued to respect them. Even the weird feeling that I had somehow disappointed him or let him down by not being able to cope with his head fuckery began to ease. I began to feel on a more even keel emotionally. James moved to the back of my mind, too. It was a relief.

Adam was brilliant through it all – loving, filthy and undoubtedly the reason I was able to regain my equilibrium over time, although I no longer mentally rolled my eyes when he asked me if I knew what my safe word was before we started doing something intense.

The thing was, we hadn’t done anything massively intense since that weekend. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or a little disappointed. We’d had sex most nights (barring one late shift when I’d got home too exhausted to move) and our filthy late-night chats continued, but we were definitely talking about D/s more than actually doing it. I don’t think it was deliberate on either of our parts, but it was the way things had settled – not least because day-to-day life was as busy as ever, with visits to
our families, keeping up with work (me) and building a business (him). But even the most ordinary life experiences can be a little more fun with the addition of some kink – and I decided I should take the initiative to help show him I was ready for another new experience (albeit one less likely to break my brain).

It was his birthday. I know what you’re thinking, but this was not going to entail me booking a kink cottage or finding some kind of way to hang from the chandeliers; my plans, for the most part, were pretty sedate. Adam had been working really hard so, a few weeks before, I told him to keep the weekend just after his birthday free so I could take him away somewhere to spoil him. And that’s what I did.

After much internet-searching and cross-referencing hotel reviews I found somewhere reasonably priced which looked suitably romantic and ideal for a cosy weekend away. Admittedly, with my sense of direction being a bit ropey and my estimation of travelling time being a little on the optimistic side, it took us seven hours to drive there. We stopped for dinner along the way, but the time in the car – reminiscing over the music I was choosing from his iPod, chatting about everything from the kind of teenagers we’d been through to the last albums we’d bought – reminded me just how much I enjoyed being around Adam. Even when the conversation went silent as the towns and cities gave way to countryside, it was the kind of comfortable silence of two people enjoying each other’s company but equally happy with their own thoughts and the views. We checked in late – very late! – and disappeared off to bed quickly, happy to begin exploring the following morning.

After a hearty cooked breakfast, we took the opportunity to go for a walk into the nearby village, getting directions (Adam kept track of them – it was for the best) and then crunching our way down the driveway and paths around the fields. When we got to the village we found it was one tiny shop and a pub/hotel. We nipped into the shop and I bought a pile of newspapers, and then we went into the pub. It felt a bit awkward, as it was only around 11 a.m. or so, but we were hopeful that we might be able to get some tea. Little did we know. The landlady, it appeared, took tea very seriously and soon had us ensconced in the otherwise empty back room with cups and saucers in front of us and a pot big enough for half a dozen.

We sat chatting and warming our hands on the cups as we drank for a little while, until I noticed Adam increasingly looking up at the TV, which was positioned in one corner of the room. I wasn’t offended, more intrigued. I knew him well enough by now to know there was something specific going on.

‘Do you think they have the sports channels? The second day of the test will be starting soon.’

Before we’d started dating I wouldn’t even have known what that meant. Now not only did I know my way around cricketing terminology, but I knew just how much he loved it. He was sheepish, but I just laughed and so we asked. And that’s how Adam’s romantic birthday weekend of hill walking and generally getting away from it all ended up with us spending six hours of the first day drinking cups of tea from a never-ending pot (it turned out the landlady’s late husband had liked cricket – this seemed to make her predisposed to like Adam) while I read the
papers from cover to cover and he enjoyed watching the match. As he said with some glee when we began the walk back to the hotel after a large, late lunch (it seemed rude not to eat since we’d nursed our tea for so long), ‘England are even ahead. What a brilliant day.’

Of course there had to be some smutty fun in there too.

We got drenched walking back to the hotel so took refuge in the bar area where there was a nice open fire. The drinks were alcoholic this time. I finished mine first, part from nerves and part because I knew I had some organising to do. Adam gestured to ask if I wanted another, but I declined before turning slightly pink – I couldn’t help it – and telling him I had a surprise for him and he should give me ten minutes or so and then come back to the room.

The look on his face was a picture. We did a lot of filthy things together, but he really loved it when I planned secret things for him. He raised his pint glass in mock toast. ‘This really is the best birthday ever.’

I smiled back at him. ‘Ha, don’t speak too soon. You don’t know what I’m up to yet. See you in ten minutes.’

Then I headed upstairs.

I’ve never been a fan of outfits. Not even for fancy-dress parties, much less where sex is concerned. It’s always made me feel a bit ridiculous, and very self-conscious. It’s a long time since I was a schoolgirl, I’ve never been a beer wench, I’m definitely not cheerleader material, and while I wanted to be Wonder Woman, aged eleven, I’m not inclined to dress like her either. That said, Adam was a fan. He’d told me from the start that he loved underwear,
outfits, uniforms and different materials like leather and latex.

I’d mocked him for it. Rolled my eyes at him when I’d seen his eyes linger on my over-the-knee stripey socks. But I knew he was into all this stuff. And it soon became apparent that he genuinely loved the effort, the colour and the fantasy of it all. It wasn’t a deal-breaker – it wasn’t that he could only enjoy sex that way – and he didn’t pressure me to wear things for him, but as I began to realise exactly how much he loved it, it became something I enjoyed doing sometimes to please him and make his eyes light up.

That didn’t mean I didn’t find the idea a bit silly, not to mention a bit nerve-wracking. The first time I’d dressed up for him, I’d created a little makeshift schoolgirl uniform out of a knee-length grey skirt, white blouse, long socks and an old tie I bought in a charity shop for about 50p. He’d come to visit me and found me on my knees, blindfolded (as much for my benefit as his – I blame the nerves). When he finally took the blindfold off and I got to see how much he adored looking at me in what I considered fancy dress, I became a bit of a convert. It was like he couldn’t take his eyes off me and he stared with such hunger and lust that it made me feel a bit more confident, although admittedly still somewhat blushy. He always made me feel good about myself, even when doing degrading things to me, but the way he stared when I tried on a new outfit for the first time gave me goosebumps.

When I wore a corset in front of him for the first time he practically tackled me to the bed and spent an age kissing my breasts as they swelled over the constricting
garment. And it wasn’t all about the sex outfits. At a friend’s wedding I dressed in a demure retro-style fifties dress with a print of tiny cherries on it. At odd moments throughout the day I would catch him staring at me in it, with a look in his eyes that I had come to know and love but which, alas, heralded something we most definitely couldn’t do in polite company. When we got back to the hotel we’d booked into overnight we were grabbing at each other, kissing hungrily as soon as we’d closed the door. Of course, he somewhat negated the demureness of the dress by having me undo the halter neck and reveal my breasts before lifting the multi-layered skirt to touch myself for him. But it seemed rude to quibble.

I knew, from the quiet chats we had lying in bed in the dark, that he was a big fan of latex. I had no experience of latex and thus no real opinion either way. But suffice to say, I was a fan of him. And it was his birthday.

I ordered the dress online. It was reasonably well priced and when I tried it on I was surprised not just at how it fitted, accentuating all the right curves but not making me feel self-conscious about the bumpier bits, but at how it felt. It felt lovely against my skin and I found myself stroking it, running my hand along my thigh, enjoying the feeling on my fingertips. It had a zip that ran from the very bottom of the dress – around mid-thigh – right the way up to the neck. Having tested it, I decided that positioning the zipper a little lower, so he could see a hint of cleavage, was the way forward. The zip was incredibly useful as it minimised the inevitable struggle of trying to wrestle yourself into the tight latex. There was still a bit of tussling, though.

I quickly changed; there was a fair amount of arm flailing but I managed to get dressed within the time limit we’d agreed. By the time I heard his card in the door fifteen minutes later – he was clearly making sure I had time to get ready – I’d even stopped heavy breathing at the exertion. I was hoping the flush in my cheeks looked alluring rather than harassed.

When he saw me he actually gasped, which I was hoping was a good sign. I was on my knees, my hands behind my back and crossed at the wrists (it meant I didn’t have to worry about nervously twitching my fingers, plus it pushed my breasts out nicely), waiting for him. I still felt shy – I’d deliberately left the light in the room low, although I realised belatedly that I hadn’t taken the moonlight from the window into account – but the look in his eyes gave me confidence. Lustful. His whole expression screamed, ‘This is amazing, it’s like it’s my birthday’. And, of course, it was.