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Sophie Morgan

Unusual love. Diary of a "subordinate"

No Ordinary Love Story: Sequel to The Diary of a Submissive

First published in Great Britain in Penguin Books 2013

Translation from English Z. Zhuravleva

Decoration E. Guznyakova

Acquaintance

I was late. Most of my life I'm late, or if I'm not really late, I'm afraid that I will be. I'm a journalist, and when it's a professional risk, you can't think of anything worse, except maybe interception of messages. Although I actually work for the local newspaper, and we don't do things there that you can see on TV shows. Outside of work, lateness annoys me - both mine and anyone else's. To minimize the risk of being late, wherever possible I show up five minutes early and hang out. I think from the outside I look like I'm spying on someone, but that's the price I'm willing to pay.

However, this time there was no way to do so. By the time I got to the bar, my friends Thomas and Charlotte had already occupied a table and were waving like crazy at me to get me inside. Charlotte was wearing an elf hat because it was Christmas in four days. The festive mood didn't touch me at all, partly because the work was blocked, and besides, I had not yet licked my wounds from the most painful breakup of my life. The only reason I agreed to come to this party was because I couldn't take Thomas and Charlotte's lectures if I refused. Besides, the bar was not far from my office, and Charlotte assured me that there would be a crowd of people there - enough, I hoped, that it would be possible to sneak out without being noticed, having a few drinks and hanging out. However, as soon as I entered the bar, I saw that besides them, there was only one person at the table. I fell into a trap.

My first thought was that it was James, my ex-a testament to how much he hadn't gotten out of my head yet, even though I knew in my right mind that Thomas would never drink, chat, and eat cheesecake with him. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to have a drink with James either.

The man with his back to me turned around, assuring me of what I already knew, and immediately I was sucked in the stomach from annoyance. I can't tell you who I was so angry with - myself? On them? On him? Before that, I was angry for a long time. It wasn't like me and was starting to get annoying. And besides, it was exhausting. Now I would be much happier sitting at home, watching a cooking show on TV and not talking to anyone.

However, there was no chance for that today. I was literally bound hand and foot by my so-called friends. True, Charlotte hesitated a little before hugging me, seeing my fury, but Thomas did not show the slightest bit of fear. He attacked me so hard, hugging me in a bear hug, that I almost lost my balance.

Sophie! You've come! We already thought you weren't going to. So unlike you - late!

I slipped out of his arms and began to unbutton my coat.

Well, yes, yes, the work is a complete frustration, the tunnels are clogged.

I wasn't going to apologize for being late. Hiding a grin, I recalled the time when, due to traffic, I arrived twenty-three minutes later than Thomas, and he hit me with a stack twenty-three times. It all seemed to be in another life, a long time ago. Now everything has really changed, although the memory suddenly provoked a surge of sensations that somehow extinguished my anger.

I recalled a time when, due to traffic, I arrived twenty-three minutes later than Thomas, and he hit me with a stack twenty-three times.

The man I thought was James stood up at my entrance and waited for me to come to the table. As soon as I leaned over to put my coat in the general pile, he held out his hand to me:

Hello Sofia! I am Adam. Nice to meet you, I've heard so much about you!

Dark hair, brown eyes through glasses. A firm handshake, beautiful hands - I noted it all, such is the side effect of my special love for spanking. I must have overestimated my friends, hoping they knew me better. A shame! They never got to know me well enough to realize that I wasn't interested in any relationship, or anyone at all, for the foreseeable future.

Really? I smiled at him, not being completely sure that his eyes expressed the same. Because I haven't heard from you.

I glanced at Charlotte, who looked confused. There was an awkward pause, and for a moment I allowed it to inhale until, with a sigh, I plopped down on the cushioned bench and grabbed the menu. I hate confrontation and a painful atmosphere when it comes to me. But I can play pretty well, and I need to last only an hour, or even less, before I bow out, citing an early rise. I searched the menu for mulled wine with my eyes and smiled to myself. I can at least feel the festive mood - everything will be useful.

So, who will drink what? I treat.

I know it sounded pretty tactless, and obviously it wasn't poor Adam's fault. The point was that, as they say in romance novels, my heart was broken, and broken not so long ago. No, of course it wasn't done on purpose - people who intentionally break hearts are the worst bastards, and if I suddenly found myself in love with one of these bastards, it would be much easier to end the relationship, pull myself together and move further. But James has managed to occupy a special place in my life both as a friend and as a dominant partner. And then he abruptly ended the relationship, and I felt thrown into a landfill.

It's not that the relationship is completely over, and it's not that I'm unable to start living on my own. If I wanted to describe what happened, as they say on television, “earlier in Sophia’s life,” then according to HBO, it would look like this: “A guy meets a girl, he becomes her dominant, a girl sits down on pain and humiliation and falls in love with a guy; the guy is overwhelmed with guilt about how he mocks the girl and decides that he is also in love; the girl notices that she enjoys his dominance. You imagine that soon the guy, having come to terms with the duality of his nature and having thanked his lucky star, will come to the conclusion that the girl suits him as well as possible ”... But, alas! This is not what happened. After weeks of correspondence - a flurry of passions and exciting chatter that made the sudden silence even more unbearable - I came to the conclusion that this must be stopped for my own safety. The last time I asked him if there could be anything else between us, and, taking his silence for a very definite answer, I changed the phone number and filtered the e-mail so that all the letters he sent went to the trash. Crap! After two or three weeks, I even stopped checking the basket three times a day in case there were still some letters from him. And that was progress, wasn't it?

I cautiously, slowly tried to go my own way. But it hurt. And I felt like a fool. Terrible fool. So at this stage, I was happy to exist on my own, so that no one else would get wind of my idiocy.

Now I understood better than ever that my love of sexual submission was something that I definitely wanted to see as part of any relationship - admittedly, only a part - but for me, the absence of this basic conformity would spoil any relationship. Understanding this and the state I was in when James acted so meanly to me, being an emotionally immature person, led me to the decision to back down. Sexual compatibility was an important aspect of any relationship I wanted, it was part of a larger whole: I wanted someone who was caring, smart, funny, who would put up with my addiction to the TV (and the DVD player that goes with it), who loves his job hard enough that he doesn't get annoyed when I work like a horse and has serious intentions about a future life together, that is, get married, have children.

I understood that I want a star from heaven. But the bottom line is that being able to get a guy who fits those criteria (not the whole list, of course, I'm not that out of touch with life), who was also dominant and would want to have a woman like me, was tantamount to winning a big love affair. lottery. But right now, after being knocked out by James, I had no desire to even buy a lottery ticket, so as not to suffer later disappointment. If only because I don’t understand at all how to determine the dominant, and if there is such a thing as a sexual radar that determines addictions, then I definitely don’t have it. I drew a line under randomly asking guys if they would like to hurt me. Let's face it, those guys who would say yes are the sort that you would probably rush to cross the street and get away from them. I could use D/S websites to chat and make friends, but I wasn't ready for such a laborious and heartbreaking date hunt yet, even though my best friend and former dominant Thomas found his current crush that way.

On my pope, assessing the damage, and politely asked if it hurt a lot. I replied in a somewhat British style, saying that I'm fine, thank you. We were silent. I think he felt embarrassed that he enjoyed hurting me - looking back, I wonder if Ryan really rediscovered himself that evening when he wielded a hairbrush.

He definitely helped fill in one of the gaps in the puzzle that I couldn't put together before. By the time Ryan was preparing to return to the States, my ass continued to have an intimate acquaintance with the comb—and his hand. Once he got so carried away, punishing me, that he walked over my buttocks and inserted his cock into my ass, which had not yet departed from the previous shocks. We entered the initial phase of the dominant-slave dance, but none of us seemed to know what the next phase would be and didn't talk about it. On the last evening before Ryan's departure, I got a glimpse of what the next phase might be, and even now - many years later, given the experience I've had since - I still think our relationship had the potential for new discoveries. . It was just one of those events that ends sooner than perhaps in retrospect I would have liked.

Before it was over, Ryan really did his best.

* * *

I'm not a fan of things. For the freshman's week disco, I dug up some old gray trousers and a netball shirt, and I breathed evenly for costume balls. Actually, I was embarrassed to dress up. I thought I looked funny, and it doesn't take a lot of intelligence to understand: if there is a feeling that you look funny, it's hard to feel sexy.

But the corset is something special.

That last night, after taking off my shoes and tossing my keys on the table, I headed into my bedroom to prepare for my farewell dinner with Ryan, and found a box on my bed, one of those elegant and special boxes that, despite its lack of a label, just screams: "Dreadfully expensive boutique." As I tugged at the edge of the creamy ribbon that crossed the box with my fingers, Katherine sat down on the stool in front of my dressing table with a cup of tea, waiting to see what was inside. Ryan said he had prepared me a parting gift and didn't want me to drag it out of the restaurant, but I had no idea what it could be.

Since we were both impatient and still childish at heart when it came to gifts (both giving and receiving), there was no hope that I would open the box only after a date. As I logically explained to Katherine, Ryan wouldn't mind it, otherwise the box wouldn't be here right now. That was the excuse I came up with, and I decided to stick with it.

When I opened the box, at first I saw only tissue paper. But then I brought to light a chic corset of rich bright green. This color is reminiscent of lush vegetation in summer, of the village, of how pleasant it is to make love in the air, full of the aromas of freshly cut grass and sunlight.

Sophie, this is wonderful. Are you going to wear this tonight?

The gift just blew me away. I was a tomboy at heart, and it wasn't something I could choose to wear everyday, and to be honest, the corset seemed too…intimate to me.

Carefully running my fingers over the fine trimming of the edge, I glanced at Katherine.

How can I not wear it?

There were 40 minutes left before the exit, and there was no time for chatter. I grabbed my custom-made trousers, which I knew would flatter my butt, jumped in the shower, and in 20 minutes I was ready to put on a corset.

The bodice was stiff, underwired, with black braid running back through the loops. Since there was no way to put on a corset on her own, Katherine came to the rescue. As her deft fingers tightened the braid tightly, I could feel my body—and my thoughts—changing. My posture changed, the curves of my body seemed to expand and contract where they needed to, and my figure takes on an hourglass shape. Breathing became shorter, movements more restrained, and my wildly busy day, the hassle of the trip home, even the bitter sweetness of the upcoming night - all this disappeared into the fog. I felt only tingling of nerve endings and a buzz in my head. The nipples, squeezed by the tight inserts of the corset, were tense and hurt; suddenly I felt this tension being transferred to my vagina. I felt myself getting wet, even just standing in this corset, and for a moment I regretted choosing trousers - the seam between my legs only increased the distracting sensations.

But even if I wanted to, there was no time to change clothes. Luckily, I sorted out my hair and minimal makeup beforehand while Katherine tightened my lacing, and my movements were significantly—and startlingly—constricted. She laced me up so that my breasts rose above the top of her bodice, pale and soft against the bright green of the corset. A hollow formed that attracted even me, not to mention those who would look at it. Mentally, I thought

Perhaps you rushed out to call when you noticed us, or finished smoking a cigarette and were about to return to a warm bar. In any case, we got your attention on the other side of the street.

Don't get me wrong - I don't mean to say that I or my date is particularly attractive in any way. We look like any other couple, we are dressed normally and do not behave provocatively, we are not even remarkable in our unremarkable. But there's an energy between us, something seething that makes you stop abruptly and look around, despite the terrible cold and the fact that you were already about to return to your friends.

He squeezes my arm above the elbow with such force that it is noticeable even from afar, and for a second you wonder if there will be a bruise. He pinned me against the wall, his other hand holding me tangled in my hair, so when I try to look away, call for help? - I can't do it.

He is not very large and not particularly powerful physique. You would probably describe his appearance as unremarkable, if you wanted to describe at all. But there's something about him—both of us—that makes you wonder for a moment: Is everything okay?

I can't take my eyes off him, and the sheer depth of my emotions won't let you look away either. You stare at him, trying to see what I see. And then he takes my hair and pulls me closer with a sharp movement that makes you instinctively take a step in our direction to intervene, but suddenly newspaper stories about good Samaritans who end up badly pop up in your memory, and you stop.

Now, as you get closer, you can hear what he is saying. Snippets of phrases are enough to catch the meaning. Words that cannot be understood. Evil words. Ugly words that say that you may really have to intervene if the situation worsens.

Whore. Slut.

You look into my face, which is very close to it, and see the fury in my eyes. You do not hear my words because I am silent. I bite my lip, as if holding back the urge to answer, but remain silent. His hand gets even more tangled in my hair, I shudder in pain, but nothing more - I’m not just standing passively (you feel what effort it takes for me to remain still, they seem to be tangible), but I certainly keep myself in hands, subjected to verbal aggression.

Then there is a pause. He is waiting for an answer. You are almost there. If you were asked a question, you would answer that you came to make sure everything was all right with me, but deep down you know for sure that this is a simple curiosity. There is something wild, primal between us, and it makes you come closer and almost disgusts you. Almost. You want to know how I will answer, what will happen next. There is something frightening and at the same time attractive in all this, so what should have scared you is now intriguing.

You see how I swallow. I run my tongue over my bottom lip before I speak. I begin to say a sentence, lower my voice, lower my eyes so as not to meet his gaze, I whisper the answer.

You don't hear me. But you hear it.

- Louder.

Now I'm blushing. There are tears in my eyes, but you cannot tell if they are caused by suffering or rage.

- I'm a whore. I have been horny all evening thinking about how you will fuck me and I will be very grateful if we go home now and do it. Please.

My defiance fades to the last word, which sounds like a silent plea.

He lazily runs a finger down the hem of my shirt—the neckline is deep enough but not too revealing—and I wince. He starts talking and you do your best not to flinch at his tone.

Sophie Morgan

Intimate diary of a "subordinate"

Real "50 Shades"

Perhaps you rushed out to call when you noticed us, or finished smoking a cigarette and were about to return to a warm bar. In any case, we got your attention on the other side of the street.

Whore. Slut.

You see how I swallow. I run my tongue over my bottom lip before I speak. I begin to say a sentence, lower my voice, lower my eyes so as not to meet his gaze, I whisper the answer.

You don't hear me. But you hear it.

- Louder.

Now I'm blushing. There are tears in my eyes, but you cannot tell if they are caused by suffering or rage.

- I'm a whore. I have been horny all evening thinking about how you will fuck me and I will be very grateful if we go home now and do it. Please.

My defiance fades to the last word, which sounds like a silent plea.

He lazily runs a finger down the hem of my shirt—the neckline is deep enough but not too revealing—and I wince. He starts talking and you do your best not to flinch at his tone.

It was almost like a prayer. Are you begging?

You see how I start to nod, but his hand stops me. I swallow quickly, close my eyes for a second and answer:

A pause that turns into silence. Inhale, like a quiet sigh.

- Mister.

As he speaks, he continues to run his finger along the curves of my chest.

“Looks like you’re ready to do anything for an orgasm right now.” This is true? Will you do anything?

I am silent. There is wariness in my eyes, which surprises you, given the obvious desperation in my voice. You wonder what "anything" meant before and what it will mean now.

Sophie Morgan

Intimate diary of a "subordinate"

Real "50 Shades"

Perhaps you rushed out to call when you noticed us, or finished smoking a cigarette and were about to return to a warm bar. In any case, we got your attention on the other side of the street.

Whore. Slut.

You see how I swallow. I run my tongue over my bottom lip before I speak. I begin to say a sentence, lower my voice, lower my eyes so as not to meet his gaze, I whisper the answer.

You don't hear me. But you hear it.

- Louder.

Now I'm blushing. There are tears in my eyes, but you cannot tell if they are caused by suffering or rage.

- I'm a whore. I have been horny all evening thinking about how you will fuck me and I will be very grateful if we go home now and do it. Please.

My defiance fades to the last word, which sounds like a silent plea.

He lazily runs a finger down the hem of my shirt—the neckline is deep enough but not too revealing—and I wince. He starts talking and you do your best not to flinch at his tone.

It was almost like a prayer. Are you begging?

You see how I start to nod, but his hand stops me. I swallow quickly, close my eyes for a second and answer:

A pause that turns into silence. Inhale, like a quiet sigh.

- Mister.

As he speaks, he continues to run his finger along the curves of my chest.

“Looks like you’re ready to do anything for an orgasm right now.” This is true? Will you do anything?

I am silent. There is wariness in my eyes, which surprises you, given the obvious desperation in my voice. You wonder what "anything" meant before and what it will mean now.

“Will you get down on your knees and suck me off?” Right here?

Neither of us speaks a word for a long time. He removes his hand from my hair, takes a small step back. Waiting. I startle at the sound of a car door slamming shut in the distance, and start looking around, studying the street. I see you. For a moment our eyes meet, my pupils widening in surprise and shame, and I turn to him. He smiles. It stands motionless.

A sound escapes my throat—half a sob, half a plea—I swallow noisily, accompanying it with obscure gestures.

- Now? Wouldn't it be better for us...

He presses his fingers to my still moving lips. He smiles almost indulgently. But his voice is firm. Even arrogant.

- Now.

I quickly look back in your direction. You don't know, but in my mind I'm playing the adult version of a child's game: if I don't look directly at you, then you are not there and you don't see my humiliation, you can't see it because I don't see you.

I nervously point in your direction.

“But it’s still quite early, people are walking along the street…

- Now.

You are mesmerized watching the conflicting emotions running across my face. Embarrassment. Despair. Anger. Humility. Several times I open my mouth to say something, but I decide not to and remain silent. He just stands there the whole time. Watching me carefully. Just as intently as you are.

Finally, with a purple face, I bend my knees and lower myself onto the wet pavement in front of him. I bow my head. The hair falls over my face, and it is almost invisible, but it seems to you that in the light of a street lamp, tears glisten on my cheeks.

You see that I am trembling. But you can't know how much this episode turned me on.

For a few seconds, I just kneel, not moving. Then you see me take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I straighten my shoulders, raise my head and reach for him. But as soon as my trembling hands touch the buckle of his belt, he stops me and strokes my head gently, the way one strokes a faithful dog.

Seal

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