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

as she knew Iwas a long way under eighteen, 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 realize 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 stuffed 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, while kissing me goodbye, 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 apologized 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 theusual 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 –