Sophie Morgan Intimate diary of "subordinate" Real "50 shades. Sophie Morgan The Intimate Diary of a 'subordinate'

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?

Sophie Morgan

Intimate diary of a "subordinate". Real "50 Shades"

After the movie, we went to eat. The conversation was very lively - and not only because I laughed at him, called him even more of a coward than myself, but Ryan interpreted the cinematic action and inconsistencies in the plot in such a funny way that I began to laugh out loud. I had a lot of fun, and when Ryan offered to try again, I agreed without hesitation.

We continued to meet. Going to a comedy club, going to a concert… then Ryan just invited me to watch movies on DVD, which even in my relatively innocent terms I considered a breakthrough on the courtship front. I baked brownies, and while I wondered if they were much different from the ones we made at home, he devoured them, drinking liters of coffee and clicking buttons on the remote control. Finally, when I was tired of wondering if Ryan was romantically interested, he made the first move. Leaning towards me, supposedly in order to brush off the crumbs that had stuck to me, he quickly, following the touch of his fingers, pressed his lips to mine. I smiled to myself, but didn't feel the urge to look away. By that time, I had been wondering for weeks what this moment would be like.

He began gently, gently touching my lips, covering them with light kisses, and then, more boldly, he penetrated his tongue into my mouth and kissed me for real. I wasn't disappointed when I tasted the soft chocolate and coffee flavored lips and opened my mouth a little as if inviting Ryan to explore me further.

His hands slid around me, stroking my back, pressing even tighter. Feeling the movement of Ryan's fingers up my spine made me shiver with excitement; everything in me responded to his touch, to the unity of his body with mine - his hands ... lips ... and what so insistently wanted to enter me.

We just kissed for a long time, reveling in each other. Ryan was a great kisser, slow and passionate, and as our hands wandered over our clothes, he continued to tease me with enthusiasm with the movements of his tongue, so that my brain began to slowly turn off. A fragile thought flashed through that sweet haze: If only his kisses could make me feel THAT, what the hell would happen when we made love?

When Ryan started to unbutton my jeans, I thought it was time for me to find out something. Hands naturally reached for his belt, but he grabbed my fingers, brought them to his mouth and kissed them softly before moving my hands back to the zipper of my own jeans. Ryan started pulling them off of me, and the perky blue polka-dot panties came out, and I blushed a little.

He grinned.

- Wonderful.

I frantically began to look for an excuse for such an unusual choice of underwear, but Ryan stopped me with a look.

“Sit like this… for a minute.

I moved, and Ryan pulled my jeans and panties down completely, leaving me completely naked.

For a minute that seemed like an eternity, he just stared. I tried not to fidget, but it's always ridiculous when someone looks at your charms for the first time, especially if it's not an adult game like "you show me yours, and then I'll show you mine." Ryan smiled. Quickly looking down at the most interesting part of his jeans, I realized with relief that he was pleased with what he saw. I moved forward again, trying to reach Ryan, but he stopped me.

- Everything is fine. Just wait.

"I can't stand it," I growled.

“Let this be an educational moment,” Ryan said, kneeling in front of me.

I kicked his knee lightly with my bare foot and groaned as he ran a finger along my inner thigh... so close to where I expected his touch the most, and yet not there. In this two-player game, the most important thing is patience. I waited, my hips trembling slightly as Ryan stroked me, wishing desperately that he would move just a few inches inside and touch me where I now painfully wanted to. I closed my eyes, trying to control myself. I think I almost succeeded, at least until I felt his lips slide gently down to... taste me. I groaned, and so did Ryan, and his purr of pleasure at the first, most intimate, touch was a real shock. Then he began to kiss me, in the same selective and yet all-encompassing way that he had a few minutes earlier when he took complete possession of my mouth. I writhed along the couch, moving closer to Ryan, who was driving me crazy with his tongue, alternating light and teasing movements with more insistent and hard ones. My orgasm increased, subsided, increased again, and finally, when Ryan squeezed my clitoris hard with his teeth and pulled, I came - powerfully, completely and with such force that I saw stars. It was like a revelation, and I even laughed with joy.

I looked down at Ryan, who was still looking at me very seriously, and reached up to his face to stroke the fur on his cheek. He smiled and turned his head, kissing my hand, and I leaned over to kiss him and then stretched out on the floor next to him, curled up, close, close so that he could hear my pounding heart. When my breathing evened out and I returned to the ground, I felt Ryan's powerful erection, and this time, when I put my hand down, he did not stop me. I unzipped my fly, pulled out his treasure, and bent down to brush my lips against it, but Ryan stopped me from doing so.

“Please… let me be in you.”

I nodded quickly and rolled onto my back as he manipulated the condom. It was foolish to argue when my own orgasm was almost gone. Ryan entered me, and this first moment of our merging made me shrink inside. He groaned and buried his face in my shoulder. I moved my hips a little towards him to get him deeper, but before he could act, Ryan unhooked his bra and with a groan, freed my breasts.

Staring greedily at the hardened nipples, he could not help but quipped:

“Where’s the polka-dot bust?” I am disappointed…

I stuck my tongue out at Ryan, and then began to move more insistently, which made my breasts bounce even more. Ryan leaned over and grabbed them with his hands, stroking and kissing, taking turns touching my nipples with his lips, and - finally - began to move himself.

The sex was breathtaking. Everything else lost its meaning - now only our movements, our connection, our pleasure were important. I watched as Ryan's face lost its seriousness and he became completely defenseless. It turned me on incredibly ... Seeing how his orgasm reaches the top, I touched my fingers to the clitoris for just a second, and this touch also lifted me to heaven.

The next morning, the only cloud on the horizon was the realization that our relationship was limited in time. I was suddenly upset, but after spending the whole evening lying in what my mother gave birth on the sofa in his room, buried in the telly and sipping beer, with pauses for kisses, caresses and sex, I firmly decided that I want to get the most out of every moment when next to Ryan. We had to strike while the iron was hot.

We began dating, although the prospect of Ryan's soon return to the States did not allow us to make serious plans. He was a tactful and attentive lover, infinitely patient both in those moments when he gave me pleasure, and when he received it himself. Ryan willingly allowed me to explore his body, and I licked and sucked his cock more and more confidently, playing with him for as long as I wanted, learning to please him, which I really liked. However, I would never in the world suggest experiments to Ryan that were even remotely related to any sexual deviance, and what happened next served as the first lesson: do not make any assumptions about people.

My first experience of a sexual experiment, as probably many people, involved healthy masturbation.

I like to think that I have a rich imagination. In general, this is true, and I say this not so much with pride as stating the fact itself: I was visited by dirty thoughts about how interesting it would be to use objects that looked completely innocent for another purpose. These thoughts, coupled with my financial priorities at university—books and beer (not necessarily in that order)—meant that my favorite sex toys were slightly modified household items.

So, I thought that among my things there is nothing that could be used for some nefarious purposes against me (that is, from what I have already tried before or at least potentially considered), no thanks. That's why a simple hairbrush was a big surprise for me.

I have very coarse hair and lots of it. No, not in that sense - that is, I make sure that all key areas are carefully shaved - but the first thing I do when I get up in the morning, not yet completely awake, I look like a savage from the island of Borneo.

However, as after good sex, too.

Until a certain point, however, we did not go too far. We kissed for hours, wanting to prolong the tension, when every kiss and lip movement is a prelude and a promise of something more. We finally reached a tacit agreement to move on to serious action; my face was on fire from his stubble, my nipples were clearly sticking out of my bra, and there was an unmistakable bulge in Ryan's trousers. When we broke away from each other, he pulled his hands out of my hair, albeit with some difficulty.

I tried to tidy my hair with my hand, but Ryan pulled my hand away and kissed each finger in turn. There was a dimple in his cheek, but there was something brutal in his smile.

- Forget. We'll mess them up anyway. Everything is OK. I like it when you're disheveled.

Again, teasing Ryan, I stuck my tongue out at him and started unbuttoning my shirt.

“I can't do anything about my hair. By the way, yours looks no better now.

I waved my hand back vaguely, encouraging him a little.

“There’s a comb in there somewhere… You can use it if you need it.”

Ryan had black hair as unruly as mine, even before I ran my fingers through it when we kissed. Despite the fact that Ryan was cut short, the hair in front always fell into his eyes, and when he said something important, he involuntarily ruffled it, trying to remove it from his forehead. I adored this gesture (as well as Ryan himself).

I turned away and pulled off my trousers, bending down to remove them from the floor where they had gathered around my legs. That's when he hit me.

I heard the sound of a blow. And I realized that I did not expect this at all. When someone suddenly slaps your ass with all their might, so that the sound of the blow resounds throughout the room, it hurts. Even if the thought appears in the depths of consciousness: “Just think, some kind of unfortunate slap,” you still cannot resist the temptation to rub the bruised place. At least I couldn't.

Turning around, still holding my hand on my poor ass, I saw Ryan's wide innocent eyes and a smile on his lips. He waved the comb in front of my nose.

You said I can use it.

Hmmm ... The old saying is right: watch what you say. Feeling like I was about to have an absolutely amazing experience that I may have dreamed of for years, I smiled back as I mustered up all my courage…

– Yes, I said so.

Serious hair needs a serious comb. This comb was just right. As Ryan yanked off my underpants, laid me on his lap, and began to spank, the sound ricocheted through the room. I imagined with horror what my neighbor, who was walking down the corridor at that moment, might think. But then this problem ceased to excite me.

I often asked myself how I would feel during a real hard spanking. But never in my life did I expect it to be like this.

It hurt a lot, of course. Much more painful than I imagined - you will say that I belong to a generation that managed to avoid corporal punishment in school. At first, with each blow, the air hissed out of my lungs, and the only thought was that I was in terrible pain - it definitely did not look like sexual spanking as a subject of my secret fantasies. In a panicked internal monologue, I tried to make a decision: whether to stop it immediately or endure it. And suddenly… sensations changed, as if revealed in a new way. It still hurt, but within seconds of the impact, the burning sensation had turned into a pleasurable pain, and as the adrenaline surged through my body, even the soreness from the first blows subsided, lulled by the warmth of the pleasure I was receiving.

He started at my left buttock, delivering regular, rhythmic strikes until my heart was beating at almost the same pace as my body reacted to Ryan's slaps. He changed places of impact until my whole buttock was filled with warmth, and I continued to wriggle on his knees, representing an incoherent bundle of nerve endings. At that moment, the world was just me and Ryan, the warmth of the stinging blows, the wet feeling between my legs and the hardness of his cock against my thigh. If Ryan had asked what I wanted from him now, if I could have spoken at least some words clearly, I would probably have begged him to stop, because the pain was almost unbearable. But at the same time, because of the warmth that I felt between my legs, I knew for sure that if Ryan stopped after a few seconds, I would feel empty and begged him to continue. In fairness, I must say that I had no choice, because at that moment I could not utter a word.

Ryan switched to the other buttock, and the process began again. As I struggled to control my reaction to the pain, I felt Ryan's finger slide between my legs and easily—very easily (I was even glad he couldn't see my face blushing)—enter me.

By this point, I was crouched in Ryan's lap, almost exhausted, breathing heavily, and although my eyes were closed, there were tears in them. When I turned to look at Ryan, he couldn't help but slap me again, and I saw his cheeks flush with excitement and effort. Because of this facial expression, I was ready to howl like a dog. He looked so sexy. In his eyes, in the way he held his head, I saw a completely different Ryan. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was power. Full control. He made me feel heat, cold, excitement, nervous tension and turned the whole world upside down ... I could only, like a submissive horse, follow my rider.

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.

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.

Prologue

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?

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 nervously point in your direction.

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

- Now.

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.

- Good girl. I know how difficult it was. Now get up, let's go home and finish there. It's too cold for outdoor activities today.

He carefully helps me up. We pass by you, hand in hand. He smiles. Nods. You almost nod in response, and then catch yourself and try to figure out what the hell you're doing here. I stare at the ground with my head down.

You see that I am trembling. But you can't know how much this episode turned me on. How hard my nipples are when they are squeezed in a bra. Don't understand that my trembling is caused by the adrenaline rush from everything that just happened in front of your eyes, and not just cold and humiliation. Don't know how much I need it. How it completes my life in a way that I can't fully explain. That I hate it and love it at the same time. I crave it. I passionately wish.

But you don't see anything. Just a trembling woman with dirty knees and a wobbly gait.

Seal

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