The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (11 page)

So when I saw the paddle I had to buy it.

Tom’s birthday was looming and while I’d bought a couple of great vanilla presents I was looking for something extra. Symbolic. Special. Sexy.

I was looking at crops when I saw it, pondering whether it was bad form to give someone a present which I was going to get at least as much pleasure from as he would. It was on the end of the shelf, beautifully boxed, and in the
split second after I realized exactly what it was, I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach.

SLUT.

Well actually TULS, cut into twelve inches of vicious-looking black leather attached to a sturdy handle.

I couldn’t even look directly at it. I stared at the toys next to it, behind it, sneaking little glances. I knew he’d love it. Love marking me with it. But the thought of walking around with that word emblazoned across my arse like a brand made me shiver in revulsion. It was perfect. But I hated it. And I knew he’d love that even more.

I stood in front of the shelf for a good ten minutes until a saleswoman came over to ask if I needed any help, presumably fearful I was a demented potential shoplifter. Her approach was the impetus I needed. I reassured her I was fine, grabbed the box – heavier than I anticipated – and almost ran to the till to pay. I’d even stopped blushing by the time I was halfway home.

In the ten days between buying the paddle and his birthday I thought about it constantly, the carrier bag a permanent reminder on my desk. Half a dozen times I decided against giving it to him, not sure I’d be able to withstand the inevitably intense scene when he finally wielded it. But in the end, I had to wrap it up. I knew he’d love it. And I could withstand this. Right? I had time to get over it. Really. It’d be fine. Probably.

His eyes sparkled when I gave it to him. His fingers traced the stitching, flexing it and swiping the air in front of me in a way which made me restrain a shudder. He
watched my reactions closely, and I did everything I could not to show him how much it bothered me.

Of course he knew how much it bothered me.

I’d got myself so wound up thinking about what it would be like to be on the receiving end of it that when he smiled and thanked me and put it on the mantelpiece it felt like an anticlimax. Then he started stroking my breasts, moved lower, and I got distracted with other things.

It stayed there for two weeks and two days, not that I was counting. Every time I walked into the room and saw it I felt a flutter in my stomach. I dreaded the thought of being punished with it but part of me wondered how I would respond. Would I be able to withstand it physically? How long would the marks last?

It was a Saturday night when I found out. We’d had a very lovely fuck earlier in the evening and crashed out pretty much instantaneously. I woke from an odd dream and then watched the red illuminated clock change for more than an hour courtesy of the kind of insomnia that leaves you feeling convinced that you’re the only person in the world awake and incapable of switching off. In the end, I decided an orgasm was the only way to get back to sleep. So I shuffled away from him, put my hand between my legs and began touching myself.

It was a utilitarian wank, all about the release and, hopefully, the sleep that would come afterwards. My strokes were assured, my fingers working towards the delicious friction that would bring the orgasm I so desperately needed. I was quiet, close to coming and utterly focused, which is why when he spoke from the darkness it made me jump.

‘What are you doing?’

My hand stopped abruptly between my legs. Ooops. Belatedly it occurred to me he’d probably find this bad form.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ My voice was croaky.

‘I gathered that.’ He was amused but his voice had the tone I jokingly refer to as his dom voice – although only when we’re not actually playing, as when we are I wouldn’t dare. ‘What are you doing?’

Suddenly I was very glad for the darkness. It’s easier to pretend indifference at being caught red-handed when you don’t have to look anyone in the eye. ‘I was having a wank. I couldn’t sleep and I thought a quick orgasm would help me –’

I stopped talking as he moved across the bed to spoon behind me, his hand clamping around my wrist, still nestled – albeit now unmoving – between my legs. The warm breath of his ‘tut’ tickled my ear as he pulled my hand away, making me shiver against him.

‘So, just two hours after I give you what, if your moans were anything to go by, was a very intense, very pleasurable orgasm, you’re greedy for another one already?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s not like that, it’s just –’

He pulled my hand up to my mouth, effectively silencing me with my own sticky fingers.

‘I think it’s best you stay quiet for a moment now. Don’t you?’

Tom’s tone was dangerous and made me wetter but a little fearful. I stayed quiet and still, not even risking a nod as I didn’t want to do anything to displease him further.
My nipples were hard and my body was trying to process the fact that I had been so close to orgasm and yet apparently was going without for now.

‘You are a greedy slut.’ I could see where this was going and my heart was already starting to race. ‘You woke me up with your bouncing because you’re so horny you can’t wait a few short hours before you get to come again.’ I wanted to argue but I knew if I did it was just going to make things worse. ‘You deserve punishment. Don’t you?’

I was still silent, even in the face of the direct question. I knew what was going to happen now and part of me was thinking I was knackered and not ready for the inevitable intensity, that all I wanted was to go to sleep. But I didn’t dare say that so I remained quiet. Until he pinched my nipple. Hard. I gasped at the unexpected pain.

‘Don’t you?’

I hate it when he does this. The act of submission is one thing, but admitting that I need this, yearn for it even, always makes me blush. Which of course he knows. I tried not to sound huffy as I responded. ‘Yes.’

He slapped my breast. ‘Some respect now might save you some pain later.’

I tried to restrain my tone. ‘I’m sorry. Yes. You’re right, I deserve punishment.’ I hoped my penitent tone would work in my favour, although I didn’t hold out much hope.

He was stroking my bare breast, running his fingers round in a very distracting circle. In spite of the tension running through my body I started to relax into the movement, enjoying the sensation, which made what he said next even more of a wrench.

‘Go downstairs and get the paddle. Now.’

I was up, across the room and halfway down the stairs before my brain really began to process what this meant. The paddle. The. Paddle. Shit. Could I endure this? Suddenly I really wasn’t sure, and I was hardly filled with confidence to start with. I should have been better prepared, not groggy from lack of sleep, sexually frustrated and with my head elsewhere.

I picked it up with shaking hands and headed back upstairs, mindful that keeping him waiting was just going to make it worse. Taking a couple of deep breaths outside the bedroom door, I pulled together my tattered courage. But before my hand could connect with the handle the door was pulled open and bright light flooded my eyes, leaving me half-blinded and disoriented.

By the time my eyes had adjusted he had plucked the paddle from my hands and manoeuvred me across the room to the bed. I knelt on all fours, waiting nervously for what happened next, suddenly wishing I slept in something more than a pair of knickers.

I was staring intently at the sheet, trying to prepare myself for what was to come, which would have been easier if I’d had any idea exactly what that was. He stroked my arse through my knickers, and the touch made me flinch. He laughed as I tried to regain some composure. His hand moved round.

‘Your knickers are so wet I can actually see how much of a slut you are.’

I closed my eyes. He stroked me through the fabric of my knickers and I bit back a moan of pleasure, my body
crying out for the orgasm it was so close to getting just a few short minutes before. As he ran his fingers up and down my slit, pushing the sodden material into my wetness, my breathing got harsh. I was so close to coming my legs started to buckle. I was suddenly hopeful – was he going to let me come after all?

Of course not. Wishful thinking. He stopped and I tried not to sigh in frustration. He moved up the bed and pushed his finger into my mouth. I blushed but sucked it deep, licking myself off him. He chuckled at my eagerness.

‘You are a slut. We both know it and now I’m going to mark you in a way that anyone who sees you will know it too.’

He pulled his finger away abruptly and moved behind me, pulling my knickers down to bare my arse. I had spent so long worrying about how this would work that I was already trembling, trying desperately to stay in position and not give away the extent of my fear. I was mentally kicking myself for buying him the paddle, the idea of it was all well and good but the idea of walking around with SLUT emblazoned across my arse in purple bruises repulsed me. What was I thinking? What if I really couldn’t do this and this was the first time I’d have to use my safe word?

My rising panic meant I heard the first strike before I even felt him move behind me. It sounded like a gunshot and made me jump. For a split second I didn’t feel anything, I actually thought he’d missed. And then the pain, god the pain took my breath away. I gasped. I may have cried out. Tears filled my eyes. He might have asked me if
I was OK then. To be honest I’m not sure. There was a noise like rushing waves in my head. I couldn’t really deal with anything, see anything, feel anything, except for that noise – and the pain where the paddle had connected. It hurt much more than I’d expected it to. More than his belt or the cane. I realized the full impact of what I’d given him.

The next blow came before I had time to blink away the tears from the first. I was trying to control my breathing, trying not to cry. I wanted to be able to withstand it, was definitely too proud to say I needed to stop. So I sucked in gasps of air and felt the tears running down my cheeks from behind my closed eyes as I tried to work through the pain of blow after blow.

After maybe a dozen blows he stopped. I tried to pull myself together, brought myself back to the present, was aware of him moving behind me. As I cowered slightly, anticipating more punishment, he moved his hand to my arse, stroking the punished cheek, even the relatively gentle touch leaving me quivering. I felt him move closer to see his handiwork, tracing the marks he’d inflicted on my pale flesh, like a painter looking at his canvas.

‘Hmmm. I need to hit you harder I think. And make sure the strike connects squarely or I won’t get the full effect. I think I might have to practice on one cheek to ensure I’m doing it right, and then when I feel ready I’ll give you one last massive crack across the other one which should see you properly marked. What do you think?’

I tried not to shudder and closed my eyes so he couldn’t see they were once more filled with tears. ‘I think it’s entirely up to you.’

I could hear the laugh in his voice as he patted me on the head. ‘Good answer, my slut.’

He picked up the paddle again and I steeled myself for more pain, but instead he ran it up between my legs. I bit back a moan of embarrassment – the paddle slid easily along, betraying exactly how turned on I was. I could almost see his smile as he moved the paddle round in front of me.

‘Kiss it and thank me for giving you the punishment you seem to be enjoying so much.’

I brought my mouth to the now glistening leather. My voice was small and I could bring myself to say nothing more than the barest minimum his order allowed. ‘Thank you for punishing me. I’m sorry I woke you up.’

He began again.

I wish I could say that when it started again I withstood the punishment better. But the tears still flowed, although in spite of myself my juices did too. Eventually, by the time my arse felt like it was glowing with the agony, he stopped. I felt light-headed with relief, until I realized what this meant.

He let the tension lengthen before he gave me the final blow, on my as-yet-unblemished cheek. I was trembling at the prospect of it and when it finally connected and the noise reverberated about the room I cried out, my legs and arms buckling underneath me. He had put all his weight into it, swung hard, and it caught me perfectly across the vulnerable stripe of skin where my bum met
my thigh. I was sobbing, in pain but also in relief that I had withstood the punishment. He stroked my back, making soothing noises, telling me how I had pleased him by being brave, and how beautiful my arse looked, all red and hot.

Then he pulled me on to my back and gave me the kind of fucking which I normally yearn for, fast, hard, vicious, filling me up. Except of course under the circumstances it was just another torturous pleasure – every movement of my arse against the sheet made me cringe in pain as did his hands pinching my arse as he pushed himself deeply into me, pain tinging the pleasure of each thrust.

Eventually I came, spasming around his cock, my cries of pleasure overshadowing the previous cries of pain. He came inside me, then pulled out and I was finally able to get the sleep I craved.

My right arse cheek was a mess of bruises for about a week afterwards. My left was pale and pristine in comparison, except for the word SLUT emblazoned across it like a brand, which meant I had to take special care in the changing room at the gym.

I still hate the word slut, but unfortunately Tom loves it and he loved that bloody paddle. For ages afterwards he ensured that I was marked somewhere every time we played, whether it was my arse, my inner thighs – which bruise a lot easier and which, as he had to punish me with my legs spread, tended to show in embarrassing detail exactly how wet his punishments left me – or on one notable occasion a breast.

When I saw that paddle my heart started beating faster; my body reacted in a way that proved that I am indeed a slut for the punishment – and pleasure – that it could inflict, although saying it out loud remained almost more than I could bear. They say a picture paints a thousand words though, and if you had seen my body once he’d finished playing with me then I don’t need to say anything at all.