The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (3 page)

Of course, there comes a time in every girl’s life where actual boys overtake both books and the Guys of Gisborne of our imaginations (I was never really the Robin sort). My first serious boyfriend, older but not wiser, initially seemed somehow to pick up on signals I didn’t even know I was giving out. Unlike other boys I’d kissed, he’d hold my head firmly in place, my ponytail twisted around his hand as we kissed goodnight, and I loved it. I loved feeling under his power, immobile as our tongues duelled.

I used to daydream about the possibilities of those kisses, what they could be a prelude to, the hint they gave of a different side to him, a side the world didn’t see but which I could feel, as if that side of him was calling to a complementary side of me. And then one night, while kissing me goodbye, he bit my lower lip, so hard I whimpered into his mouth in a kind of surprised pleasure. Instantly he broke away, nearly taking a clump of my hair with him in his haste, and apologized for hurting me. It felt awkward to explain that actually I’d liked it, so I accepted his apology, said it didn’t matter, and went indoors disappointed, with my nipples erect and my knickers moist.

I still didn’t really know the significance of that kiss exciting me. All I knew was that nice girls didn’t get off on such things, or if they did they certainly didn’t talk about it. So I didn’t. I went about my life, going through all the
usual milestones. Eventually my first beau and I, taking advantage of his mum having to go into work to cover a poorly colleague’s shift as a doctor’s receptionist, did lose our virginity together, but the mixture of neither of us having done it before, feeling a bit self-conscious and keeping an ear out in case his mum returned home unexpectedly, meant it was perfunctory and, while perfectly pleasant, didn’t rock my world. Afterwards I reflected that it didn’t feel as pleasing as lying in bed touching myself – although at the time I didn’t connect that with the fact that I hadn’t orgasmed. Looking back on how naive and tentative our fumblings were, it seems a miracle we managed to have any kind of sex that first time at all. However, we found that practice made, if not perfect, then certainly ‘good enough that we’d both grin giddily at each other for a long while after’, although the lack of privacy meant we were constantly in fear of being discovered
in flagrante delicto
, and developed skills for a quick change that Clark Kent would be proud of, although possibly also slightly disturbed by.

My first youthful romance fizzled out as we both moved out of home and went off to university at other ends of the country. We missed each other to start with but, in that way of freshers everywhere, were both soon caught up in academic life and the extra-curricular fun it offered.

That said, for a fair while my extra-curricular fun mostly involved using the shared kitchen to bake bread – my mum didn’t take kindly to people using her kitchen so I was enjoying finally being able to do some cooking for myself. There were also post-lecture drinks punctuated with the kind of discussions that in hindsight are pretentious tosh but that, when you’re eighteen, you think are very important and show how grown up you are. It was during one of these drunken rows that I met Ryan. If Ryan didn’t exactly lead me astray (by this point I was fairly sure I was capable of coming up with enough dodgy thoughts of my own, even without my burgeoning book collection and access to the internet in my room, another perk of academic life), he certainly opened the door to a world I hadn’t fully realized I wanted to visit, even if I had been vaguely aware of its existence. So that makes at least a few of those hours debating Foucault, feminism and Chomsky (I told you it was pretentious) worthwhile.

I’d first seen Ryan in the library during my third year of
uni. His favoured corner to sit and work was opposite mine, which makes us both sound more diligent than we actually were. We were on polite nodding terms, even moving up to the ‘would you keep an eye on my stuff while I nip to the loo?’ level, although I’d still have taken my handbag with me. I’m not that much of a sucker for a handsome face. He was though.

My friend Catherine brought Ryan to the pub one night and he joined the melée of drunken burbling, although I noticed he mainly observed everyone, rather than getting involved in the discussion himself. When he did intervene to say something he said it slowly and carefully, he was articulate and would not be shouted down. I found him impressive and in sharp contrast to most of the other guys huddled round our table.

He was a little bit older than I was, an American graduate student majoring in politics on a term’s exchange at our university, and while he was kind and funny and good company he took his studies – and indeed most things – very seriously. I liked that though. College life was fun, but I was not into freshers’ week and drinking until I puked. I was always mindful it was costing money for me to study so I should work hard. I liked his work ethic and that he felt the same. Plus, I couldn’t help but note, he was sexy in a brooding and slightly geeky way, and had an accent that could seriously cause butterflies, assuming of course that he was moved to speech.

It took a little while. Debate was raging about a calendar being organized by one of the female sports teams to raise funds, which involved them posing naked but with
a selection of random objects covering their modesty. Someone who lived on my floor was moaning about how demeaning it was, mostly it would appear because his girlfriend was appearing in one of the pictures. I was arguing that it wasn’t demeaning, and wasn’t actually his business as long as she felt comfortable doing it. The ongoing row got increasingly heated, which was inevitable since he was worried about people leching after his lady’s ample charms, and what he lacked in articulateness five pints down he more than made up for in volume, wild flailing gesticulation and hyperbole. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t actually care either way, but arguing was fun and frankly talking to him about it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Possibly one filled with beer.

It soon became clear that I wasn’t the only one who saw debate as a kind of sport. Ryan weighed in on my drunken floormate’s behalf, calling me anti-feminist, discussing the nature of intent and effect of pictures, via a discussion of old-style bawdy holiday postcards and landing squarely on a debate on the pros and cons of pornography.

After a while the circle of people talking tightened, with others moving away to buy more beer, mingle or – frankly – hide. But we kept arguing, him against any kind of pornography, me for it as long as everyone involved was there by choice and paid fairly, while Catherine’s head moved back and forth like she was watching a game of particularly wordy tennis.

Part way through I began grinning internally. My theory on porn is very much (legality allowing) an each-to-their-own policy, and as such I didn’t care that much either way,
but I couldn’t allow him to have the last word and wanted to see how long before he would run out of steam. Also, if I was being honest and a bit fickle, I kind of liked how the hot American’s entire attention was focused on me, even if he had taken to occasionally putting his head in his hands in response to my debating intransigence.

It took a little while, but I saw in his eyes the moment he realized I was arguing for sport. His head was in his hands again, and he straightened his shoulders, took a long look at me, saw my smile twitching in a way I couldn’t hide, and then leaned over to shake my hand.

‘Well played, miss. Well played.’

I grinned at him and bought him a beer. It seemed only polite.

By the time the bar kicked out and we all began our stumble home, both Catherine and I were unsteady and a little giggly. He offered to walk me home, and as I put my scarf on Catherine leaned over and grabbed his arm.

‘You can walk us both home. We live in the same halls.’ It might have been wishful thinking but he didn’t seem thrilled by that as a suggestion. If I’m honest I wasn’t either – the guy I’d been eyeing for weeks across the library had turned out to be rather fun, and I was hopeful he might feel the same about me. However, bearing in mind how buttoned up he was when he hadn’t had copious liquid lubricant, I was unsure how I’d get the opportunity to find that out again.

All praise the in-room internet though. I woke the next morning, with a banging head and yearning for a bacon sandwich, to find an email asking me if I wanted to meet
and see a film at the local cinema. I was so keen I replied before I even got up in search of a stomach-settling cup of tea.

We went to the cinema. He made the mistake of chivalrously letting me choose the film, which meant I inadvertently dragged a man who disliked the shocks and tension of horror films and the implausibility of sci-fi to a film that was both. Even in the darkness of the room I could see the slight look of disdain on his face in the flickering light from the screen – when his hands weren’t over his face at least.

After the film we went out for dinner. The chat was spirited, not least because I was mocking him for being even more of a wuss than I was, while he was decrying how silly the whole thing had been and nitpicking plot holes in a way that made me laugh out loud. It was lots of fun and when he said we should consider doing it again I found myself agreeing without hesitation.

So we did. A trip to a comedy club, a band at the students’ union, and then eventually he just invited me round to watch DVDs, which even in my relatively innocent ways I figured was make or break on the flirting front. I made chocolate brownies and, while I’m not sure how they compared to those from back home, he devoured them while we drank massive amounts of coffee and channel hopped. And then finally, after I’d pretty much given up trying to work out if he was interested in me romantically, he leaned over and made his move. Ostensibly he was brushing crumbs from the side of my mouth,
but he quickly followed the touch of his fingers across my lips by pressing his mouth to mine. I smiled inwardly, but didn’t feel the urge to quibble. By this point I’d been thinking about what this moment would be like for weeks.

He started tentatively, gently kissing my lips, pressing little kisses over and over against me, and then, braver, he pushed his tongue inside my mouth and kissed me properly. I wasn’t disappointed. He tasted of chocolate and coffee, his mouth soft against mine. As he explored me, I opened my mouth eagerly, urging him deeper.

His hands slipped around me, stroking my back, pressing me closer. The feeling of his fingertips along my spine made me shiver with arousal, all my nerve endings on alert at his touch, at every whisper of a connection his body made with mine – his hands, his mouth, even his groin pushing insistently against me.

For a long time we just kissed, drinking each other in. He was a great kisser, leisurely and passionate, and while our hands roamed each other over our clothes he was happy to continue teasing me with his tongue in a way that broke my brain a little. A splintered, half-formed thought came somewhere through the haze:
If he can make me feel like this just by kissing what on earth will fucking him be like?

As he leaned down and began unbuttoning my jeans I thought I might be about to find out. My hands moved to his own belt, but he stopped them, unfurling my fingers, bring them to his mouth and kissing them softly before moving them away and returning his hands to my own zip. He pushed my jeans down to my thighs, leaving my
blue spotty knickers showing in a way that made me blush a bit.

He grinned. ‘Nice.’ I started stammering a justification for my slightly quirky choice in underwear, but he stopped me with a look. ‘Just sit up for me for a minute.’ I moved, and he pulled both my jeans and knickers down so I was properly bared to him.

For a long moment he just looked. I tried not to squirm, but it’s always awkward having someone see your bits for the first time, especially when you’re seemingly not playing the grown up version of ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’. I watched him smile and then snuck a glance down at his crotch, relieved to see he seemed fairly pleased with what he was looking at. I moved forward again, putting my hands out to touch him, but he stopped me.

‘It’s OK. Just wait.’

‘I’m not a patient person,’ I growled.

‘Consider this character building then,’ he said, as he knelt down in front of me. I kicked his knee, albeit gently, with my bare foot and then moaned as he ran his finger along my inner thigh, so close to where I wanted him to be but not close enough. Two could play at this patience game though. I waited, my thighs barely trembling at all, as he stroked up and down either side of my lips, desperate for him to just move a few centimetres in, to touch me where I was aching for him now. I closed my eyes, fighting for control. I think I was just about managing it, at least until I felt his mouth on me, licking delicately against me, before sliding gently in to taste me. I moaned,
but he did too, and his purr of pleasure as he tasted me intimately for the first time thrilled me. Then he began to kiss me, in the same meandering way he had plundered my mouth minutes before, and I shuffled along the sofa, edging myself closer as he made me writhe with his licks, alternating between light and teasing and more firm and forceful. My orgasm rose, abated, rose again, and finally, as he nipped my clit with his teeth and sucked it forcefully I came loudly, fulsomely and with the such force that I saw stars. It was a revelation and it made me laugh out loud with the sheer joy of it. I was desperate to catch my breath and then do it all again.

I looked down at him, still looking at me so seriously, and cupped the side of his face in my hand, stroking the down on his face. He smiled and turned his head to kiss my hand and I leaned down to kiss him before sinking down on the floor beside him, curling into him, close enough that he could feel my still-pounding heart. As I got my breath back and came back to earth, I felt his erection pressing against me, and this time when I moved my hand down he didn’t stop me. I undid his fly and pulled him free and leaned down to take him in my own mouth but he demurred.