The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story by Sophie Morgan

the cinema, experiencing the joys of a mid-week day off when it feels like everyone else has their nose to the grindstone while you’re bunking off.
    We’d grabbed the papers and headed into a restaurant. As my bum hit the hard wooden bench – why are they so popular? They’re horrible and the interior designer of Wagamama has much to answer for – I grimaced slightly. Tom noticed and smiled but didn’t say anything until the waitress had taken our order.
    ‘Is your arse sore?’
    Pride? Stubbornness? An urge to wipe the undeniably sexy but still damn conceited look off his face? Probably. ‘It’s OK.’
    ‘Really? You looked quite uncomfortable when you sat down.’
    We shared a look that said he knew what I was thinking and I knew he knew but was going to do my best to ignore it anyway.
    I didn’t get much peace. We chatted about film possibilities for the afternoon, a woman at work I fancied, the latest in an ongoing love/hate saga between two mutual friends, and ate our lunches. Then once we’d finished hetook a sip of his drink and looked over at me for long seconds without speaking.
    ‘What?’ I asked.
    He put his drink down on the table. ‘Nothing, it’s just every so often you shift on that bench and when you do your face changes and I can see it hurts.’ He smiled. Bastard.
    I tried to act like it was completely normal to be discussing the thrashing he gave me over the remains of two club sandwiches. ‘Actually, I thought the cane would have been more painful. But last night …’ I shifted without thinking to find a more comfortable way to sit, only becoming aware of it when I saw him smiling at me. ‘Well, the belt was a lot more painful. I don’t know why really.’ I raised my chin. ‘But it doesn’t hurt that much.’
    He raised an eyebrow and I realized that I’d just unwittingly given him a challenge that would come back to haunt me.
    ‘To be honest, I did hit you hard, because I knew you could take it, that you love it in fact. But I was only giving you about 75 per cent of what I could – because we were so near the wall I couldn’t get as much swing as I wanted.’
    My arse clenched at the thought of being beaten any harder with the belt, now an innocent fashion object round his waist once more. I suddenly couldn’t drag my eyes from it.
    ‘Of course I don’t know if you’d be able to take much more. Your arse was looking pretty battered by the time I’d finished. And you could hardly stand to lean over the arm of the sofa, your legs were shaking so much. I’d have been worried except for the fact your juice was runningdown your thighs so I could tell exactly how much you were enjoying it. Dirty girl.’
    I was lost for words. I think I may have managed a ‘guh’, but that’s about it. As I looked round the restaurant – ladies who lunch with a gaggle of small children a table away, a couple of teenagers making a smoothie last while rummaging through a bag of purchases – I tried to regain some semblance of control and ignore the warmth pooling between my legs. It was working too, sort of, until –
    ‘The thing I love with the belt is how it flicks round the side of your arse with each lash. I’m sure it’s painful on impact but it’s the last flick round the curve that seems especially harsh. The marks it leaves are great though. And I love how you shudder when I run my fingernails over them. I could wank just looking at your punished arse. Although that could leave you ultimately pretty frustrated.’ He smiled in a way that showed he really didn’t care. I aimed once more for the bantering coherent-ish conversation we’d been having a few short minutes ago.
    ‘It’d be OK, I’m sure I could sort myself out if the need arose.’
    Another wolfish smile. ‘Ah, now there’s an excuse to tie you down. Not that I really need one.’
    My breath was getting ragged and I was definitely wet. I crossed my arms on the table in front of my breasts so no one could see