The first thing to say is that I am not a pervert. Well, no
more than anyone else. If you came to my fl at you would
be more struck by the piles of washing up in the sink
than my dungeon – not least because the cost of living in
the city is such that I’m lucky to have been able to find
somewhere with a living room which I could rent alone
within my budget. Let’s just say a dungeon wasn’t really an
option.
So, to address some of those pesky stereotypes, I am
neither a doormat nor a simpleton. I don’t yearn to spend
my day baking while someone hunts and gathers for me
and I keep the home fires burning, which is just as well as
apart from a decent Sunday roast I’m a bit of a crap cook.
I also don’t look like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary. Alas.
I just happen to be, at points when the urge takes me
and I have someone I trust to play with, a submissive. Not
that you’d know that if you met me. It’s just one facet of
my personality, one of the plethora of character elements
that make me, well, me – coexisting with my love of
strawberries, compulsion to continue arguing stubbornly
even when I know I’m wrong and tendency to heap scorn
on 99 per cent of television programmes and yet become
obsessive about the other 1 per cent to a level that frightens
even me.
I work as a journalist on a regional newspaper. I love
my job, and – not that it should really need to be said –
being submissive doesn’t impact on my work. Frankly, if
it did I’d get lumbered with tea making and picture stories
about infant school book weeks, which really is a fate
worse than death. Also, newsrooms are bantery places. It’s
a dog-eat-dog world and you need to give as good as you
get. I do.
I consider myself a feminist. I’m certainly independent.
Capable. In control. To some that might seem incongruous
with the choices I make sexually, the things that get me
off. For a while it seemed jarring to me. In fact, sometimes
it still does, but I’ve come to the conclusion that there
are more important things to worry about. I’m a grown
woman of usually sound mind. If I want to relinquish my
personal control to someone I trust so that they can lead
us somewhere which proves thrilling and hot for both of
us, then as long as I’m not doing it somewhere where I’m
frightening small children or animals I think that’s my
right. I take responsibility for my actions and choices.
It has taken a while for me to get to this stage though.
I would, if the word hadn’t been appropriated by reality
television and turned into something that sounds both
nausea-inducing and in need of a soft-rock video montage,
go so far as to say it’s been a bit of a journey, which is
really how this book came about. This isn’t a manifesto or
a ‘how-to’ book, although I like to think if you’re into this
kind of thing and wanting to explore you might get some
ideas. It’s just what happened to me, how I discovered and
explored this side of myself, my experiences, my thoughts.
Ask another sub their thoughts and what being submissive
means to them and you’ll get a whole other different book.
Looking back on it now my submissive tendencies
started young, although I wouldn’t have called them that
then. I just knew there were certain things that made me
tingle, that I would find myself thinking about wistfully
without ever really being able to put my finger on why.
Of course I was oblivious to all of that as a kid – mostly
I was just going about my business growing up in a nice
middle class home in the Home Counties. I hate to bust
myths here, but there’s no deep-seated trauma in my past
or anything missing in my formative years that has exacerbated
my love of filth now. I have no daddy issues, there
was no angst in my home life, and my childhood was –
happily for me but probably not that exciting for book
writing purposes – a happy, loving and simple one. I was,
and remain, very lucky indeed with my family – we are all
quite different to each other, but the bond of love and a
shared sense of the absurd sticks us together through thick
and thin, and I feel genuinely blessed to have them all.
I grew up in a nice house with my mum, my dad and
my sister.
My mum, an accountant before she had me, devoted
her life to bringing up my sister and me, and is very much
the heart of our family. She spent a lot of time with us,
nurturing us into little people whether that involved helping
us with homework or flinging herself around the
garden with us. She didn’t believe in sitting on the sidelines;
if we were going roller skating she was going roller
skating with us. Her other passion was doing DIY in
every room of the house in rotational turn, the home
improvement equivalent of repainting the Forth Bridge,
albeit with Laura Ashley wallpaper.
My dad runs his own business and is the most hardworking
man I know, a provider through and through
who ensured our childhoods were filled with whatever
new bike or gadget we wanted (thankfully mum was
around to ensure such goodies were bestowed in sensible
fashion lest we get too unbearable), opportunities for
travel and a wonderful home life. Funny and clever, he has
a sense of adventure that I think I inherited, along with an
independence of spirit and unapologetic sense of ‘this is
who I am’ that he encouraged in his children, having occasionally
clashed with his own parents’ views of what he
should do in life, as opposed to what he wanted to do.
My sister is in lots of ways the polar opposite to me.
Where I am generally fairly quiet and more comfortable
around a few close friends, she is the life and soul of the
party, the one whose energy lifts up the room, who gets
things done. Despite our differences she is the person I
would call first at 3 am if I was in trouble, not least because
she is practically nocturnal. I feel incredibly lucky that this
woman, who is likely to be alongside me in life for longer
than anyone else, is someone so amazing – although,
hilariously and despite this ringing endorsement, give us
three days together in the family homestead over a Christmas
holiday and we will have reverted to our teenage
selves, bickering over who’s spending too long in the bathroom
(usually her).
Our comfortable semi was also shared with a menagerie
of animals, ranging from Goldie the Goldfish – don’t
judge, I was three when I named him – to Cheesy the
hamster and Barry the dog – named during my ‘why
shouldn’t dogs have human names’ phase (a question
answered fairly quickly when my poor dad was running
round the park bellowing ‘Barry!’ in a way that undoubtedly
perturbed other dog walkers). I’ve always loved
animals and one of my strongest childhood memories is
of burying a dead bird I found in the garden expressly
against the wishes of my mum who, understandably, was
concerned about hygiene issues. When she discovered I
had not only gone against her wishes by picking up said
bird to move it to its final resting place but was presiding
over a burial service attended by my sister and our next
door neighbours’ children – in for a penny in for a pound –
I was sent to my room in disgrace. Usually for me such
a punishment, despite being my parents’ main tactic for
misbehaviour – no corporal punishment in our house –
was no punishment at all. My room was one of my
favourite places to be as it was filled with the books I
spent all my pocket money on and I spent happy hours sat
on the window ledge reading and watching the world go
by. But in this instance I felt the injustice was too much to
bear. I wrote an outraged letter to David Bellamy telling
him about the oppressive anti-conservationist regime I
was forced to live under, where dead birds were cast aside
by uncaring adults. He never replied, which is probably
for the best because I fear if he had he might have told me
to listen to my mum, which would only have made me
more irate. The fact that this is the closest I can think of
to a clash with my mother while growing up is testament
to the fact I was never a natural rebel. I went quietly about
doing my thing, but I wasn’t busy testing boundaries,
mostly because I was allowed to do pretty much everything
I wanted to do, and otherwise wasn’t bothered about
arguing in principle. That, admittedly, did change as I got
older.
My interest in writing started young – I remember writing
and illustrating stories in little A 5 booklets tied with
treasury tags. My stories were usually based around children’s
TV shows, books and films I enjoyed. The standard
of my writing was considerably better than my drawing
although at that point that really wasn’t saying much. I
dabbled in art at an early age, having seen something on
the news about some precocious child somewhere whose
art was selling for thousands. Sadly, when I knocked up a
couple of coloured pencil and felt tip mixed-media works
my mum was pleased to accept the first picture I gave her,
and even stooped to giving me 50p for a second original.
But when I upped my price to a tenner – I felt this was
reasonable under the circumstances – she gave me a firm
but kind ‘no’, scuppering any further plans for a life in the
arts and returning me to producing my mini books and
comics. Given half a chance I would pull myself, my
friends and family into the worlds of Narnia, Middle
Earth or, slightly closer to home but somewhat more
obscurely, having discovered it via cable TV , the city of
Newcastle as depicted in Jossy’s Giants , a TV show about a
school football team.
My love of Jossy’s Giants and football in general came
very much from a tomboyish streak a mile wide. I was –
and still am – quite a way from the girlie stereotype. I have
a pathological dislike of pink and never developed a love
for make up, expensive clothes or fashionable shoes – to
this day put me in a pair of heels and I walk not unlike
Bambi trying to get across the ice, although what I don’t
spend on shoes I more than make up for with nail varnish
and handbags. Growing up I definitely didn’t have much
interest in worrying about boys, a fact which, ironically,
meant I had lots of male friends at school as I’d quite happily
play football with them in the lunch hour and didn’t
bother with anything much like small talk. If you asked
me my favourite things when I was 10 , I’d have said reading,
roller skating, riding my bike and climbing the tree at
the end of our garden, which gave me a view of the nearby
allotments – a source of endless fascination for reasons
that seemed very important at the time. The tree was my
private place – my sister had no interest in the inevitable
scrapes and dirt borne of making the initial jump up, even
with my cunningly engineered skipping rope pulley system,
which provided a boost to the first climbable branch.
I was quite a solitary child in lots of ways, very comfortable
on my own, reading or daydreaming, which is probably
a bit unsurprising bearing in mind the picture I’ve just
painted of myself as a bit of an antisocial bint.
Of course no woman is an island – even if they do
spend time hiding up a cherry tree given half a chance.
My sister was a constant companion and co-conspirator
at home, while at school – a mixed primary school until I
was 11 and then a girls’ grammar after that – I had a mixed
circle of friends, many of whom I’m still close to. While I
wasn’t one of the popular group – I tended to veer towards
the geeks, of music, drama, technology – I for the most
part got on with everybody, using humour to smooth over
any problems when they did occur. I was, by the time I’d
settled into secondary life, very much a mid-range student.
It took a while to find my feet as I’d gone from being
one of the cleverest of my primary school class to midclass
at most subjects in secondary, which suddenly meant
things weren’t coming so easily and took effort. It was a
culture shock in lots of ways, but probably not a bad thing
in that it burst any precociousness that might have seeped
in from having the kind of supportive home life where
everyone thought I was some kind of genius because I
liked reading. I wasn’t the prettiest or the brightest in the
class, although I soon realised this worked in my favour
because it seemed to me that the smartest and prettiest
girls were the people who attracted the most bitchiness.
Instead I was conscientious and worked hard, a by-product
of an inherent need to please. Despite occasional worries
at letting either my teachers or parents down, I for the
most part really enjoyed school. I know, it’s sickening.
Somewhat ironically, I was a bit of a late bloomer on
the romance front. I had my first kiss when I was twelve
or thirteen with a boy I knew through one of my friends
and, if I’m honest, I wasn’t that impressed by it. There
was no thunderclaps, no roll of romantic music, and a
feeling of anticlimax – no pun intended – afterwards. I
think one of us actually said, ‘Well then.’ Suffice to say no
one’s world was set alight.
That said, I read Just Seventeen and Minx magazine and I
knew the mechanics of sex, although I had no interest in
trying it at that point. I had however learned that when I
couldn’t sleep rubbing my hand between my legs would
bring a pleasure that made me doze off and when my
mind wandered as I brought about this kind of pleasure it
did always return to similar topics.
I’ve always been into myths and legends, and growing
up Robin Hood was a favourite. I watched the films, the
TV show – we’ll overlook the most recent incarnations
before I start gnashing my teeth – and read all the books
I could lay my hands on, fictional and historical. But
through every medium I had a difficult time with Maid
Marian. I hated that she was continually getting into peril
for stupid reasons and then having to be rescued. That
she didn’t fight, wasn’t even given the relative dignity of
being a bona fide sidekick and seemed to spend most of
her time patching up the wounds of the Merry Men and
looking pensively into the middle distance as they disappeared
off for adventure.
Despite that, my favourite parts of those stories involved her in the very peril I scorned her for. When she
had been captured – as the inevitable bait in a trap to catch
Robin Hood, seemingly her major purpose in life – her
defiance of Guy of Gisborne and the Sheriff of Nottingham
captured my imagination. She would be held in some
dank dungeony place, with the pictures often showing her
tied or in chains. Powerless. But she would be unbowed,
dignified in her indignity, and somehow that struck a
chord with me, made my heart race. You know how when
you were a kid and something you read or watched caught
your imagination so deeply that you were transported into
it, it was you in that moment, living it, feeling it? (Actually,
I say ‘when you were a kid’, but I still feel that now when
I read or watch something amazing, it just happens less
often). Well, all the scenes I replayed in my mind with me
in the lead role were the scenes of Maid Marian, even if
she was a bit rubbish and I tended to gloss over the dull
stuff after Robin saved her and she had to go back to the
camp and resume tending the fire. Those were the stories
I used to think about lying in bed at night.
Well at least until I discovered porn.
When I was about fourteen there was a brouhaha about
a magazine that gave away an erotic book aimed at women
with their issue one month. I didn’t have the internet in
my room and, frankly, while I knew if you wanted erotic
inspiration that was the place to go I had no interest in
pictures of boobs because I had my own and didn’t think
they were that epic. This book though, this was different.
Lots of talk of moral decay and the like meant that I spent
most of the month desperate to get hold of a copy, in
part because I’d started to suspect I was dirtier than my
school friends, or at least dirtier than they dared to admit
aloud. Even aside from getting to see exactly how scandalous
this stuff was, it could, I reasoned to myself, act as
a kind of smut barometer.
Except there was a problem.
My next door neighbour worked in the only newsagent
big enough to sell the magazine in our small town,
and not only would she not let me buy it as she knew I
was a long way under 18 but she’d also be bound to tell
my mum, which would leave me open to one of those
conversations so hideous you want to pull off your own
ears just to make it stop. Definitely a no go. So one afternoon
I took a different bus home, one that took me to the
nearest big town, and bought the magazine there, hands
clammy, still wearing my school uniform, terrified at any
moment that the disinterested woman behind the counter
would realise I was underage and shamelessly buying what
the Daily Mail had described as utter filth and demand I
give it back before I ended up inadvertently corrupted
forever. She didn’t. I stuff ed it in my rucksack and, my
heart still pounding, walked the two miles home to explain
to my Mum that I was late because of hockey practice.
Looking back at that book, which I can’t bear to chuck
away though it’s now so well thumbed that the pages have
started to fall out, the scandal and outrage at the time
seems laughable. But reading it then was a revelation. My
favourite chapters still have the tops of the pages folded
over for ease of finding. One particular section involved a
feisty yet vulnerable woman having a row with a man who
she clearly fancied but also found herself continually
clashing with. She ended up tied to a tree with ivy (I know,
it’s a bit lame, but go with it – it was special Greek ivy,
which may have heretofore unknown bondage qualities)
while he did whatever he wanted to her – running his
hands over her body, viciously kissing her, verbally abusing
her. She stood there, aroused in spite of herself and
he made her come, all without her able to do anything but
rest her head against the tree and moan out her pleasure.
It sounds quite cheesy indeed now, almost Mills and
Boon-esque, but at the time it struck a chord with me.
Suddenly that was what I was replaying in my head as I lay
in bed at night, now accompanied by a hand between my
legs rubbing myself to bring about blissful sleep.
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 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 apologised
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.
2
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 18 , 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 realised 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 bought Ryan to the pub one night
and he joined the melee 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 organised 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 letching 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 realised 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 DVD s, 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 my cunt, licking delicately up the
curve of 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 fl y and pulled
him free and leaned down to take him in my own mouth
but he demurred.
‘Please, let me just be inside you.’
I nodded quickly and moved on to my back as he
grabbed a condom. It seemed rude to quibble when my
own orgasm was still dissipating after all. He pushed
inside me and that first moment of connection made my
cunt clench. He moaned and buried his face in my shoulder.
I moved my hips, pushing him deeper, but before he
began to move he undid my top and pulled my breasts out
of my bra with a groan.
His eyes were hungry as he stared at my hard nipples,
but he couldn’t restrain a comment: ‘No matching spotty
bra? I’m disappointed.’
I stuck my tongue out at him and began moving more
insistently underneath him, inadvertently making my
breasts bounce more. He leaned down and cupped them
in his hands, stroking them and kissing them, taking each
nipple into his mouth in turn as he began to – finally –
move himself.
Our breathing grew ragged as we fucked. Everything
else was unimportant but our movements, our connection
to each other and our pleasure. Watching Ryan’s face lose
its seriousness, to see him completely with his defences
down was incredibly hot, and watching him come made
me so close that my fingers sliding between us to touch
my clit for just a second pushed me over the edge too.
The next morning the only blot on the horizon was
knowing that our relationship, even in these early stages,
had a time limit. I was disappointed, upset even, but having
spent the entire evening lying naked in his room,
watching TV and drinking with pauses to kiss, grope and
then fuck, I was absolutely adamant I was going to make
the most of every moment he was here. Making hay while
the sun shines.
We began dating casually, although with his return to
the States always hanging over us we had no plans for it
to be a serious thing. He was the most considerate lover
I’d had though – infinitely patient both when giving and
receiving pleasure. He patiently let me explore him and I
grew confident as I licked and sucked his cock, stroking
him for as long as I wanted, learning how to please him,
what I enjoyed doing. However I would never in a million
years have picked him out as being into anything remotely
kinky, which made what happened next my first lesson on
not making assumptions about people.
My first taste of kink, like many people’s I suppose,
came from a good sound spanking.
I like to think I have a fairly good imagination. I certainly
have, and I say this not so much with pride but as a
statement of fact, a very dirty mind which means I’m
more than happy to come up with alternate uses for
innocent-looking objects. That, paired with my financial
priorities at university – books and beer, not necessarily in
that order – meant a lot of my favourite sex toys were
re-purposed household items.
So I liked to think that surrounded by my own stuff , in
my own room, there was nothing which could be picked
up and used for nefarious purposes against me that I
hadn’t already thought of and quite possibly played with,
thank you very much. Which was why the hairbrush was
such a big surprise.
I have very thick hair and a lot of it. Not in a werewoman
way – at least not when I ensure my daily routine
keeps all the key parts shaved bare – but in a way that
means first thing in the morning, when I’m warm and
sleep-flushed, my sartorial style often owes a little something
to the wild woman of Borneo.
As it often does after a good fucking.
At that point though, we hadn’t even got that far. We’d
been kissing for what felt like hours, the kisses of two
people wanting to tease out the tension a little longer,
each kiss and movement of the mouth a prelude to and a
promise of something more. Finally we surfaced in an
unspoken agreement to move on, my face raw from his
stubble and nipples visible through my top, he with an
obvious bulge in his trousers. As we broke apart he untangled
his hands from my hair, with some difficulty.
As I tried to finger comb it into some semblance of
order he pulled my hand away and kissed each digit, his
dimple flashing as he gave me a smile which was on the
very edge of wolfish. ‘Forget it. We’re just going to muss
it up again anyway. And it’s OK . I like to see you mussed.’
I stuck my tongue out at him as I began unbuttoning
my shirt. ‘I can’t help my hair. And anyway, yours is looking
pretty unkempt at the moment too.’ I gestured vaguely
over my shoulder, gently mocking. ‘There’s a brush over
there you can use if you need to.’
Ryan’s hair was as dark and at least as unruly as mine –
even before I had anchored my fingers in it while we
kissed. It was significantly shorter, but the front continually
fell in front of his eyes, causing him to do an
unconscious ruffling thing to pull it away from his head
when he was saying something important. I found it, and
him, adorable.
I turned away and pulled down my trousers, bending
down to pick them up from the floor where they were
pooled around my feet. That was when he hit me.
It was the sound that did it I think. That and the fact
that I wasn’t expecting it. When someone smacks you so
hard on the arse that the room echoes with the noise of it
and it’s totally unexpected, it hurts. Even if in the back of
your mind you’re thinking, ‘that was only one bloody slap
for goodness’ sake’, you can’t quite resist the urge to rub
your arse. Or I couldn’t, at least.
I turned round, my fingers still on my stinging arse, to
see his eyes wide and innocent, his smile wider, as he
waved the paddle brush in front of me. ‘You said I could
use it.’
Ah. The age-old caveat of being careful how you phrase
things. Feeling like I was standing on the edge of something
amazing that I had been waiting for years to
experience, I smiled back at him, screwing up my courage,
giving him the permission he was hinting for. ‘You’re
right. I did.’
Serious hair needs a serious hairbrush and that is what
it was. As he pulled my knickers down, pulled me across
his lap and started smacking me with it, the noise ricocheted
across the room, leaving me worried about what
on earth my flatmate would think from next door, at least
until he’d been going for a few seconds, after which point
I really didn’t give a toss.
I had often wondered what a good hard spanking
would feel like. But in a million years I would never have
expected it to feel like this.
It hurt, obviously. A lot more than I was expecting –
you can tell I’m of the generation that didn’t get corporal
punishment in school. The air whooshed from my lungs
with each impact for the first few hits, and all I could think
of was how much it hurt – definitely not the sexy paddling
of my secret fantasies. In a panicked inner monologue
I was trying to decide whether to put a stop to it proactively
or just try and withstand it until he moved on when,
suddenly, the sensation changed, blossomed almost. It
still hurt, but the sting of my arse melted to a pleasurable
ache in the seconds after the impact and, as the adrenaline
pumped through me, suddenly even the pain of the initial
hits was blurring with the warmth of the pleasure I was
getting out of it.
He’d started on my left cheek, hitting me in a regular
rhythm until my heart was practically beating in time with
his tempo, my body responding to the beats of him beating
me. He varied where the brush landed until the whole
of my arse cheek was warm and I was squirming across
his lap in an incoherent bundle of nerve endings. In that
moment my world was him and me, the stinging warmth
of my arse, the wetness between my legs and the feeling
of his cock hard against my thigh as I squirmed against
him. If he’d asked me what I wanted him to do, if I was
capable of forming words, I’d have been begging him to
stop as the pain was on the edge of being too much. But
at the same time the warmth between my legs meant I
knew with utter certainty that if he had stopped within a
few seconds I’d have been bereft and pleading for him to
continue. I didn’t actually get the choice, which to be honest
is just as well as by that point there was no way in hell
I was capable of speech anyway.
He switched cheeks, and the process began again. But
as I tried to temper my reaction to the pain, I felt a finger
slide along my cunt lips, and easily – so easily that I was
glad I was facing away so he couldn’t see the sudden blush
on my face – he pushed inside me.
By this time I was practically writhing on his lap, my
breathing heavy, tears behind my closed eyes. He didn’t
hold back on hitting my arse with the brush, and as I
turned to look up at him, I saw the flush of exertion and
excitement on his cheeks, and an expression that made
me whimper. He looked so sexy. The look in his eyes, the
way he held his head, had changed from the Ryan I had
previously known. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was
power. Control. He made me feel warm and cold and
excited and nervous and like the whole world was being
turned upside down and all I could do was hold on for the
ride and trust him to lead me through it.
As our eyes met it was like a spell was broken. We were
both more than ready to fuck, and while he wasn’t going
to leave a job half done the last three smacks with the
brush were at least quick, albeit hard enough that I gasped
at the pain. My mind was spinning as I couldn’t breathe
enough in between hits to in any way prepare for them. I
rode the waves of pain as best I could and was still gasping
as he manoeuvred me on to all fours ready for – please
please please – us to fuck.
My cunt was filled and I moaned in relief. But relief
turned to confusion when it became apparent that it
wasn’t his cock filling me. I turned round, eyes blinking
and trying to focus, to see him smiling at me again and
holding the brush from the wrong end so he could show
me my juices glistening on the handle. He tucked a strand
of hair behind his ear as his dimple flashed again, a
glimpse of playful Ryan. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
I harrumphed and opened my mouth to try and formulate
a response, only to be stopped when he pushed
himself deep inside me. As we fucked, me grinding down
on him as feverishly as he pushed himself up into my wetness,
the pain from the already forming bruising of my
arse, the stinging heat of it, was a harsh reminder of the
punishment.
He leant forward, frigging my clit as our movements
got more frenzied and desperate, both of us close to
coming. Just at the point where I felt like I couldn’t go any
harder, or take any other stimulus, he ran the brush,
metal bristles side down, along the full length of my still throbbing
arse. It was like running needles across my flesh.
I couldn’t help it, I screamed. If I could I would have
begged him to stop, purely because the sheer force of
feeling was so much I thought I was going to shatter. But
as fast as my brain shorted out, saying I couldn’t cope with
this and it was all too much, my orgasm came and with it
the flood of warmth that makes me want to curl up and
rest for ten minutes before doing it all over again because
it feels so amazing.
We lay there, tangled in the sheets, the sweat from our
exertions drying as our breathing returned to normal.
And as I looked at him, his eyes closed and his long eyelashes
making him look so angelic, it was almost impossible
to reconcile him with the man who had just ensured I
would be feeling the evening every time I sat down for
days. I couldn’t figure out how I’d never thought of a hair-
brush that way before. Suffice to say I haven’t overlooked
its possibilities again.
I also never looked at Ryan in quite the same way again.
As we both came down from our respective adrenaline
highs there was a moment of embarrassment. He ran a
gentle hand over my arse, assessing the damage and
enquiring politely whether I was in a lot of pain. In a way
that seemed very British somehow, I said I was fine, thank
you, and then we fell silent. I think he felt disconcerted by
how much he enjoyed punishing me – and looking back I
wonder if he made a discovery about himself that night
as he wielded the hairbrush.
He certainly helped fit one of the earliest pieces of the
puzzle for me. By the time he was preparing to go back to
the States a few weeks later my arse had become intimately
acquainted with that brush – and his hand – several more
times, including one notable occasion when he got so
aroused punishing me he came across my buttocks and
then rubbed his spunk into my still-stinging bum. We had
danced the beginning of a dance of dominance and submission
but neither of us seemed quite sure what the next
step was, or even knew to phrase it that way. During our
last night together before he returned to the States I got a
glimpse of what that next step might have been, and even
now – years on and with the experiences I’ve had since – I
still think our relationship had the potential to be
amazing. It was just one of those things that ended sooner
than perhaps in hindsight I would have liked it to.
Before it did end, though, he really did pull out all the
stops.
I wasn’t a fan of outfits. I’d dug out my old grey gym
knickers and netball skirt for a fresher’s week school disco
night and kept the peace for the occasional fancy dress
party. But all in all I was still just too self conscious to
enjoy dressing up. I felt ridiculous and it’s not rocket science
to point out that when you feel ridiculous it’s hard to
feel sexy.
But the corset was different.
That last night, as I kicked my shoes off , chucked my
keys down and headed into my bedroom to get ready for
my farewell dinner with Ryan, I found the box on the bed.
It was one of those boxes so understated and discreet that
despite its lack of label it screamed ‘ridiculously expensive
boutique’. As I fingered the edge of cream ribbon bisecting
it, Catherine, who had accompanied me down to
reception to collect it when it was delivered earlier in the
day, plonked herself down on the stool in front of my
dressing table, mug of tea in hand, waiting to see its
secrets. Ryan had told me he was giving me a goodbye
present that he didn’t want me lugging it home from the
restaurant, but I had no clue what it was.
Being both impatient and a big kid at heart when it
comes to giving and receiving presents, there was no hope
of me waiting till after the date to open it. And, as I rationalised
to Catherine, he obviously wouldn’t mind, or he
wouldn’t have brought it round. Well, that was my excuse
and I was sticking to it.
When I first opened the box all I could see was tissue
paper. And then as I pulled back the folds and pulled out
the gorgeous corset nestled within I took a little breath of
wonder. It was a rich vivid green. The kind of green that
reminds you of lush countryside and summer and fucking
outside amid the smell of fresh cut grass and sunshine.
‘Soph, it’s beautiful. Are you going to wear it tonight?’
It was a gift as surprising as it was stunning. Being a
tomboy at heart it was not the kind of thing I would normally
have chosen to wear and, if I was being honest, it
seemed an unusually tender gift for him to give me.
But that was really by the by. As my fingers caressed the
delicately finished edge I looked over at Catherine.
‘How could I not?’
With 40 minutes before I was due to leave to meet him,
though, there wasn’t much time for fussing. I picked a pair
of tailored trousers which I knew flattered my arse,
hopped in the shower and was back and ready to be laced
up within 20 minutes.
The bodice was rigid and boned, with black ribbons
running through eyelets down the back. Since there was
no way I was going to be able to do it up myself, Catherine
came in and, once I’d slipped it on and tried to adjust
myself into it as much as possible, began the process of
lacing me up. It was a very long process.
As her thankfully nimble fingers pulled the laces tight
between each individual set of eyelets I felt my body –
and my mindset – alter. My posture changed, my curves
seemed to swell and contract into an hourglass figure
unlike anything I could ever have imagined possible. My
breathing became shallow, my movement was curtailed
and my busy day, the hassles of the journey home, even
the bitter-sweetness of the night ahead, all faded into
38
obscurity. All I could feel was nerve endings tingling, and
a roaring sound in my head. My nipples, pressed tight into
the boned panels, were taut and aching and suddenly
hard-wired to my cunt. I could feel myself getting wet just
standing in the thing, and momentarily rued the fact I had
gone for trousers since the seam between my legs was
only going to add to the distracting sensations.
There was no time to change though even if I’d wanted
to. Thankfully I’d sorted out my minimal makeup and hair
beforehand, as Catherine had tied the laces off with an
efficiency that meant my movement was seriously – and
surprisingly – hampered. It had pulled me in and up in
such a way that my breasts were spilling over the top of
the bodice, pale and soft against the green. Suddenly I had
a cleavage that was distracting to me, never mind anyone
who was face-on to it. I made a mental note to throw on
a jacket I could do up to the neck for the tube journey
there.
As Catherine clasped my waist and turned me round
to get the full view she unconsciously ran a gentle finger
along the edge of the bodice above one of my tits, only
catching herself when I shivered slightly at the additional
sensation. She blushed slightly and we both laughed.
‘Sorry, it’s the velvet. It’s screaming out to be stroked.’
By the end of the night it wasn’t the only thing doing
that.
The journey to the restaurant was interesting. We met
at Oxford Circus tube, and apart from a glance of appreciation
as he saw me for the first time that was lustful
enough to make me blush, Ryan didn’t make a comment
about my chosen outfit as we walked to the restaurant
and got shown to our table. But as I tried to find a way to
settle myself comfortably in the seat he bit back a smile.
I realised that the corset wasn’t as innocuous as it first
looked. It was a beautiful and yet fiendish form of
restraint.
Dinner was lovely but eating too much wasn’t an
option. As I excused myself for a loo trip he smiled at the
way I moved, so different to my usual carefree, hundredmile-
an-hour dash through life. My movement was
careful, slow, and I felt like a different person – more
aware of my femininity, aware of every nerve ending,
more submissive, more demure even – and that’s not
something I’ve ever really been big on.
It was also, unexpectedly, making me feel ridiculously
horny. Well, honestly, it was just an outfit – you weren’t
seriously expecting me to say it changed my entire personality,
were you? However, I was fast realising this corset
was a kind of subtle and totally unexpected bondage. Our
dinner was one of the most sensual meals of my life,
which is quite impressive for a small Italian with a student-
friendly budget tucked behind Oxford Street. I spent
the evening aroused and desperate to go home, my skin
flushed and eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
We finally went back to mine. He stripped my trousers
and knickers from me, tied my hands behind my back
with the ribbon from the box, which I’d chucked on the
floor in my haste earlier, and then we fucked. He sat on
the stool and I rode him, grinding myself on to him until
we were both gasping.
He pulled my breasts free from the constraints of the
corset, but the respite was brief before he turned his teeth
and fingers to my aching nipples. As I panted, my breathing
shallow and constricted by the cruel beauty of the
boning, he frigged my clit and sucked my breasts until I
came, shuddering and whimpering in a hybrid of pleasure
and pain.
With small tremors still reverberating through my limbs
I sank to the floor and finished him off with my mouth,
looking through my by-now wild hair into his eyes, watching
him stare greedily at the anachronism of Merchant
Ivory purity and slutty debauchedness I presented kneeling
at his feet. As he tangled his hands into my hair and
fucked my mouth for the final few thrusts I sucked him
deep, drinking him eagerly.
We said goodbye the next day. We were both exhausted,
sated and my body was covered with bruises, not only on
my arse but also around my breasts and torso from Catherine’s
enthusiastic tightening of the corset and the harsh
boning beneath it. The brush that had started it all (and
with which I received my hardest punishment to date at
the end of that last night) went back to the States with
Ryan as part of his leaving present.
I’ve never met him again, although I often think about
him. I wonder about looking him up on one of the plethora
of social networking sites but then I think, ‘well, he
hasn’t looked for me’, and wonder if it’s best to leave
things be. I know this sounds like hippyish crap, but I do
believe we meet people for a reason. Looking back on it
now, what Ryan and I did together was relatively tame.
But it was my first taste of playing with someone who was
a dominant foil to my submissiveness, who didn’t judge
me for what turned me on and let me see fully the depths
of what did the same for him. I’ll always feel gratitude for
that, and smile at the fun we had together.
He also left me the corset, which I will concede is proof
that some outfits can be fun. I still have it. I even wear it
sometimes, although it is so tainted with memories of
that night, even all these years later, that just slipping it on
and beginning to get tightened up into it sees my juices
begin to pool between my legs, my nipples harden and my
breath catch.
The rest of my degree passed quickly. I realised once he’d
gone that my feelings for Ryan were deeper than I had
admitted even to myself. Feeling forlorn at the loss, plus
grappling with pesky finals and a dissertation, left me the
definition of all work and no play.
Even when I did find people who might tempt me away
from my self-imposed exile, our interludes were veritably
vanilla and attempts to try and make them otherwise
ended in disaster. I asked one partner (Graham, Geography)
to spank me while we were shagging and saw him
look at me in horror before – if you’ll forgive the pun –
giving me a few half-arsed slaps and then resuming what
he’d been doing before. He never called again.
Another time, when I asked another prospective date
(Ian, Math) in what I hoped was a coquettish fashion
whether he fantasised about doing anything particularly
kinky, he blushed slightly and told me he quite fancied
having sex with me while he wore my clothes. I think I
managed to keep my face from betraying any horror –
goodness knows I have enough proclivities of my own for
it to be churlish to respond negatively to anyone else’s –
but I didn’t end up seeing him again, funnily enough.
It’s fair to say I missed Ryan a lot. Although I did find
it easier sitting on the wooden chairs of the lecture hall
after he’d gone.