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

there, legs spread and begging to come. Then I realized he was checking whether anything had dripped off me as I writhed.
    I was desperate. I went to move my hands but his ‘tut’ as I shifted halted me in my tracks. For a split second we looked at each other, my eyes no doubt narrowing as I realized exactly what this meant, while his twinkled, his lips widening into a smirk at my reaction when I understood what I needed to do if I wanted to ensure my orgasm.
    Who am I kidding? There were no ifs involved. Even as my brain processed what he was expecting, and wondered if I would do it, I was already moving my body. I twisted awkwardly on the bed, each brush of the bedding against my welts making me suck air in through my teeth. One particularly forceful movement, made as I saw a droplet moving inexorably round the curve of my hip in a way which filled me with panic, saw me bashing the side of my arse against the bed hard enough that I whimpered. Still I kept moving, while he watched my inevitably futile attempt to thwart gravity.
    Finally, he took pity on me. ‘If you’re having trouble, I’ll let you use your hands.’
    Thank fuck. Desperately I ran my hands along my rib cage and the sides of my breasts to catch his cum, greedily licking my fingers clean before putting my hands back on my now-glistening and also flushed chest. Feeding myself seemed to please him as – thank goodness – he started pounding his fingers inside me again.
    It was like swimming against conflicting currents. The relentless frigging, fingers pounding into my cunt, the still raw pain of my arse pushing against the bed as I writhed. Feeling so many different sensations, all the while trying desperately to ensure I didn’t spill anything, meant that ittook me a long time to orgasm despite my desperation. Suffice to say, I was aching by the time the need to orgasm overcame any fears of failing at his challenge.
    When I did come I came hard, my moans and eventual screams ringing loud in my ears. I trembled for a long time afterwards with the intensity of it all. He stroked my shoulder as the shudders subsided and as I looked over at his still fully clothed body I was reminded that even I could underestimate him sometimes. It was also one of the most memorable shopping trips I’ve ever been on, which is pretty bloody amazing when I didn’t actually buy anything.
    It was my first real experience of the challenges of a D/s that wasn’t purely about pain, but also encompassed losing dignity and control. To my surprise I began to find those moments were the ones that made me blush the most, that I found most challenging. My pain threshold gave me a chance to withstand brute force, but the psychological side of being demeaned stayed with me long after the bruises had faded. The moments would flash into my mind and bring both a feeling of embarrassment but also arousal, along with confusion. Understanding the things that turned me on was at times difficult; accepting them even tougher when the intensity of the scene and the adrenaline high had faded and I was left remembering how far I had allowed myself to be pushed, had pushed myself. It was hugely exciting but sometimes a bit worrying – how would I know how to get the balance right? How would I know not to go too far?

6
    The problem with being a masochist is that, when it comes down to it, if your dominant isn’t an utter sadist then punishments in the usual sense of the word don’t really work as a deterrent.
    I know it’s ironic, not least because, let’s face it, we’re not talking ‘punishments’ in the usual sense of the word anyway. I’m not a recalcitrant child, or a dog that needs training, and I’d be very uncomfortable being with anyone who felt that was an acceptable part of our dynamic – each to their own and everything and I guess as long as both parties are happy with it that’s fine, but it doesn’t work for me. Also, I’m forgetful, clumsy and very, very sarcastic