Free The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story by Sophie Morgan Page A

plea he began to frig me – strong, long strokes which I’d been yearning for. He slid two fingers inside me and began fucking me with them, rubbing, harder, faster, until I couldn’t contain my cries. I shuddered, moaned, and came, pulsating around his fingers, my hands bashing against the headboard with the force of my orgasm.
    As he pulled the knots so my hands fell free, he smiled. And as I rubbed my wrists I smiled back, knowing that I’d found a kindred spirit in the oddest place, that we’d be doing this again. That it was even worth begging for. What I didn’t realize, not then at least, was that actually that was hardly begging at all, and only the beginning.
    We still had no plans to date, but in a way that made discussing what turned us on easier – telling your boyfriend that you fantasized about him caning you until you were sobbing and then fucking you hard against the marks even as you fought to push him off could potentially be a bit awkward. But Thomas listened closely to everything I said and, although I didn’t realize it at the time, was mentally making notes for things to do at some undetermined future point which would make me wet and my head spin.
    It started on a Saturday night with punishment for a spurious host of reasons which, if I was feeling argumentative, I would have queried. Except, of course, when his voice and mannerisms changed from easygoing to implacable and it became apparent exactly where we were headed, I really wasn’t going to quibble. I ended up naked with my arse in the air, bent over the arm of his sofa.
    He began with a relatively gentle spanking, which left my arse tingling and warm. I’d learned early on that Tom was a fan of spanking, and he had soon developed a penchant for putting me over his knee to punish me relentlessly while his erection grew under my squirming body. My knickers half way down my legs felt somehow more embarrassing than if I had them taken off completely, and proved helpful for hobbling me a little if I couldn’t stop myself struggling. Previously, once my arse was hot and stinging he’d push me to the floor and fuck me, his hips anchoring me hard to the floor as he pushed inside me, ensuring no respite from the rough carpet against my stinging arse, but this time things were different. He asked me a question which I didn’t answer with what he deemed to be quite the correct level of respect and I heard the sound of his belt slipping through the loops on his trousers.
    When you have spent so long thinking about something, fantasizing about it, the prospect of actually being on the receiving end of it is terrifying. Not just because it’s going to hurt and suddenly lovely, kind, just-finished-helping-me-do-the-crossword Tom has shifted into an alternate-universe version of himself. Not just because I’m desperately trying to control my nerves, to ensure that I don’t chicken out, that I can withstand whatever he doles out, please him and acquit myself with courage and stoicism – ah yes, Maid Marian would be proud. Not even because, having spent the best part of a decade lying in bed at night fantasizing about what it would be like for someone to give me a good old-fashioned thrashingwith their belt, I’m concerned that in practice it might not be arousing and instead it might just hurt so much I have to get him to stop. It’s terrifying because not only would asking him to stop be a disappointing enactment of a long-held fantasy, it would also be a form of surrender, a failure, a defeat too far.
    I turned my head, which was dangling down towards the floor, giving me a headrush to add to the dizziness of my anticipation, to see him standing in front of me, still fully dressed, holding his leather belt in his hands, pulling it, looping it, getting ready to hurt me, and the look in his eyes made my stomach lurch with the same mixture of fear and excitement you get on a rollercoaster. And then he moved behind me and all I could do was wait