The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Read Free Page A

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 thunderclap, 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 whenyou 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