The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (14 page)

‘Just to suck my toes?’

God, I hated him. God, he made me wet.

‘No, to kiss them, to lick them. I want to worship your toes. All of your feet.’ I was hoping I’d got most eventualities covered, but every word was laced with aggression and frustration so I thought I’d better moderate my tone a little: ‘Please.’

He patted the side of my face, a gesture of tenderness which made everything else seem a little easier to bear, for a second, until he spoke again. ‘You may.’

Thank fuck. I crawled down and pushed my face into his toes, steeling myself for the first taste as I heard him
give Charlotte a running commentary. As I pulled his big toe into my mouth and began running my tongue up and down it, he explained to her how greedily I was taking it, and pushed his foot in further. He told her how he was making me clean him up properly by wiping his feet on my face and demanding I licked his soles. I heard her shriek in disgust and then giggle at my predicament – her words indistinct but the tone of her amusement carrying loudly across the room.

Silent tears dripped from my eyes as I did what he asked, unwilling to show him how far he’d pushed me but still desperate to continue. As he pushed one finger up inside my knickers I gasped, and he took the opportunity to push his foot further into my mouth.

As I focused on the feeling of his finger between my folds I heard him say, ‘She’s dripping, she’s so wet. It’s not going to take much to push her over the edge.’ And then, after the mumbling sound of Charlotte saying something at her end of the line he stopped and pulled his hand out. As I whimpered in frustration round his foot and he wiped his wet hand on my arse he said, ‘That’s a great idea.’ My blood chilled.

‘Sophie? You can stop now.’

Normally those words would fill me with joy. As it was I was filled with terror. Would I get to come? Would I be able to stop myself from bursting into tears if I was going to be left frustrated? What was a good idea? If they were going to let me come, what were they going to do with me that was worse than the foot thing? Would I be willing to
let them to do anything? Would I rather go without? Could I rather go without? Almost-hysterical thoughts ran through my mind of all the horrible things they could do to me, could make me do. I knew, if there was anything utterly terrible I could refuse, end the game, except in that moment I had no intention of doing that. I was a hostage to my own desperate needs. The possibilities terrified me. And in the end what they came up with between them was something that hadn’t even crossed my – let’s admit it – pretty twisted mind.

It was Charlotte’s idea, something that one day I will properly thank her for in person – preferably by watching her have to go through exactly the same thing. As Thomas told me what I was to do I shut my eyes and pressed my lips together, shaking my head in silent rebellion, unwilling and unable to consider doing it. As the silence lengthened I realized this was it, that if I didn’t do this I wasn’t getting to come. For long seconds I tried to think of another way. Anything else I could. But slowly, grudgingly, I accepted my fate.

And then I moved into position.

I knelt straddling one of his legs, looking through the darkness at him lying propped up slightly on the pillows with the phone to one ear, thinking that if I could only just see him then at least he would only vaguely be able to see me. I’d like to say that helped, but actually it didn’t. I knelt there for a couple of seconds, unwilling to continue, even while in my head I had already surrendered to the knowledge that I would be doing so. That I was, right now, going to hump his leg like an animal to get my orgasm.

One of the things I find particularly interesting about the D/s dynamic is that it pushes you to do things that otherwise you might not do. Not because you don’t want to do them – so often you really, really do want to – but because they’re things that you think might be hot/fun/interesting/unusual but that a small part of your mind baulks at, for some reason – whether that’s because you feel it’s ‘dirty’, or it’s too embarrassing, or you’re worried your arse’ll look like a small country or whatever. I love that I can be pushed past the small part of my mind that feels that to experience these amazing new things is wrong. And, no, that’s not being pushed into doing something I don’t want to do, coerced or whatever – my body simply reacts before my mind has a chance to catch up; my body betrays the fact that it’s something I’m into even if my eyes or words might for a time not make that obvious, and even if I can’t exactly explain why or how it’s making me wet. It’s more about someone knowing how far I’d like to go and helping me find the courage to go for it.

Thomas did that, often seemingly (and irritatingly) without effort. Mainly he made it happen by striking a chord with my stubborn side, where my response is to think, ‘No, I
am
going to do this, you can’t come up with anything I don’t feel comfortable doing,’ even while I feel hideously uncomfortable. Generally I enjoy that dichotomy, enjoy being pushed out of my comfort zone, doing things that make my stomach drop with nerves and make me blush with fury and embarrassment even as I get wet. But leg humping? Suddenly I was thinking fondly of his
bloody feet. I hated it. Hated the idea of it. The indignity, the awkwardness of the angle I’d need to grovel at to actually do it, the fact I’d been fantasising about how he’d make me come for five fucking days and instead of it being any of the things I’d thought of, I’d have to do it myself. And not in a lovely way, not curled up with my hand between my legs, or with my favourite toy from the drawer, but humping him like a bitch on heat. I felt rooted to the bed. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t.

‘Are you feeling embarrassed? Like you don’t want to do this?’ His voice had a sing-song mocking quality which was blatantly due to him playing to our telephonic audience. It made me feel murderous. OK, more murderous.

I cleared my throat and started to answer, my voice stuttering and unsure, but he interrupted me. ‘I don’t care. I’ve ordered you to hump my leg. We both know you’re going to do it eventually one way or another because if you don’t then you’re not getting another chance to come before New Year, so if I were you I’d make it easier for yourself and start.’

So. I humped him.

Fine, there’s more to it than that. A lot more. And I’m not that much of a tease. But actually, honestly, even writing about it makes me feel prickly with embarrassment, a little sick with humiliation. And let’s face it, I’m hardly shy about this stuff.

I hated it. Not in a ‘pretending to hate it but secretly quite liking it’ way but in an ‘I actually hate it so much it is irritating and surprising to me that I might come doing
this, bearing in mind how much it bothers me, how much it takes me out of the moment, how much it makes me want to tell Thomas to go fuck himself’ way. As I said, I get that only submitting to fun stuff isn’t submission and I agree, which is why I didn’t push Thomas over and bugger off home to my comfy bed and full toy drawer. But humping his knee, trying to grind myself on it at the right angle to catch my clit and come and end the indignity, even while he was deliberately shifting slightly to stop that happening and prolong my agony, all while (of course) he sat there telling Charlotte how wet I was making his leg, how I was crying and yet my breathing was beginning to increase as I got closer to my orgasm, how desperate I was … It made me furious. Flashbacks-for-days-afterwards-and-I-couldn’t-think-clearly furious. It wasn’t painful, not even that humiliating on paper. It sounds like such a little thing. I humped his leg. But it wasn’t a little thing to me, and I still can’t get my head round why not, much less explain it. If I started writing about D/s in part because I enjoy the intellectual pursuit of trying to explain what I’m feeling and why the things that arouse me arouse me, then this is the thing that is so unexplainable to me that I may as well try and explain it in Flemish.

So I humped his leg, like an animal, while he gave Charlotte a running commentary of how I was grinding myself against his knee, using the friction to provide my clit with the sensation I needed to come.

I ground myself against him, thinking how low I had sunk, how degraded and humiliated I had become in pursuit of my pleasure. Tears streamed down my face, trickling
down my chin to cool my chest. I was flushed with embarrassment, thankful for the darkness which hid the worst of it. Practically speaking, it was an awkward position to get any kind of stimulation from. Thomas was lying with his legs flat on the bed, and only by spreading mine widely around him and bending myself low to the bed could I even get close enough to his knee to push myself against him with the level of pressure I needed to get close to coming. I tried, oh how I tried, desperate to have this end, for me to have my orgasm and for this to be over.

Now you’d think that after five days of no orgasms, all that time I’d thought about sex, and how desperate and aching I was, that I would have come quickly. But, of course, the mind is a funny, twisted and occasionally horrible thing. Knowing Charlotte was listening to me doing this humiliating thing, hearing my moans and gasps of pleasure as – in spite of my humiliation and my horror – I became wetter and more aroused and vociferously, shamefully took pleasure from Thomas’s knee, made me falter, as did hearing Tom tell her how he could hear the sound of me sliding against his knee, I had made him so wet. I tried blocking it all out, tried grinding harder, but I couldn’t get the pressure I needed to bring myself off and end it.

‘I can’t –’ I swallowed back some tears and some snot, cleared my throat and tried again. ‘This angle isn’t going to work. I’m not going to be able to come like this.’

‘Well, what do you want me to do about that?’ he sneered. ‘You know what you have to do, and I’ll be honest, I’m getting impatient now at having you grinding on me, making my whole leg wet. I’d hurry up if I were you.’

The thought of having gone through all this and still not getting to come made fear cramp my stomach.

‘Your knee, if you could just raise your knee a little bit, that would make it easier. Please.’

I thought I saw his teeth flash in the darkness. ‘Are you begging me to move my knee to make it easier for you to hump it now?’

There was a pause. I had to moisten my lips with my tongue before I could speak and even then my voice was wavering and filled with tears. Normally I’d have prevaricated, tried to avoid this, but frankly I was broken, desperate, haunted. Every fibre of my being was desperate to come. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m begging you.’

‘Good. Well beg me properly, louder, so Charlotte can hear exactly how desperate you are, so desperate you’re rubbing yourself against me like an animal on heat.’

My hands were clenched tightly, my fingernails digging into my palms as my voice filled the room. ‘I am begging you. Please, lift your knee a little bit so I can grind against it–’

He interrupted me. ‘No, “hump it”.’

I sighed but didn’t even pause. ‘Hump it until I come on your knee. Please.’

As he pushed his knee up, with force enough it bashed against my pubis in a way that zinged through me like a welcome electric shock, his voice was smug. ‘There. That wasn’t so difficult was it? Now make yourself come for me.’

The change in angle made all the difference. Suddenly the movement of my hips against the delicious friction of
his knee was rubbing perfectly against my clit. I tried to block out as he told Charlotte how suddenly I had started bucking like a madwoman, more desperate than ever, tried to ignore the sound of my arousal as I slid up and down against his knee, tried to block out everything but the pleasure beginning to thrum through my body, tried to overcome all the obstacles between me and the release I had been craving for the best part of a week.

I was crying in humiliation and horror by the time my orgasm neared although, inevitably, it didn’t slow me down. As the shudders began running through me my sobs got louder. I spasmed around Thomas’s leg, like an animal, my high-pitched cries loud enough for Charlotte to hear down the phone. After days of pent-up frustration my release was body-juddering and intense. Never in my life have I felt an orgasm like it, and for a second or two afterwards my world went dark as I lay there, my limbs trembling with the force of it. Once I came back to myself, I became aware of Thomas wanking above me. I went to crawl up his body, but he stopped me with a tut.

‘I don’t think so. You need to clean your mess first.’

I knew what he meant and it should have filled me with fury but my head space was such that without demur I crawled over and began licking his knee, well, actually, most of his leg. I had managed to make him sticky from his mid-thigh down to his lower shins, much to my shame. I kept licking as he told Charlotte what I was doing. I kept licking as he rubbed himself, aroused by and enjoying this final humiliation. I kept licking as he came on the side of
my face and into my hair. Finally, he dripped down my cheek, he held the phone closer to my ear and I heard Charlotte orgasm.

Yes. The first time I heard Charlotte on the phone she was coming. Even I will concede my world is at times an odd one. It was a bloody memorable Christmas holiday though.

Of course, if listening to someone you’ve never spoken to before orgasm on the phone is a slightly odd experience, then meeting her for a beer a few weeks later is, well, even more disconcerting really.

Thomas had been chatting regularly on one of the online communities and when they organized a ‘munch’ he was keen to go along and say hello to everyone. Once I realized that a munch was essentially a gaggle of people going out for drinks and possibly dinner, and that he wasn’t signing me up to an evening strapped naked to a St Andrew’s cross being flayed by random people as they walked past to go to the buffet table, I was happy to join him. Especially when I realized it meant I could meet Charlotte, and thank her for the whole humping thing, in person.

So one Sunday afternoon we went to a pub in a leafy suburb, and had a beer and a lovely roast dinner – there’s nothing better than pork with crackling and home-made Yorkshire puddings – with a couple of dozen interesting and kinky people.