All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive

Chapter One The others are all asleep now, exhausted by a night of s****l excess. Like theirs, my body is weary and aching, soiled with sweat and saliva and semen. I should bathe; but, in truth, I enjoy feeling the last drops of ejaculation oozing, mingled with my own juices, from my bruised and tender cunt. And my mind refuses to sleep, still racing on the events of the past few hours, the past few days and weeks and months. The only way I’ll ever make sense of it is to try and get it down somehow. Perhaps none but me will ever read these words. No matter; they will have served their purpose if they help me understand what has become of my life. I suppose you could say that everything that has happened could have been foreseen. Or if not foreseen, then at least logically deduced once the initial connection was made. In my beginning is my end. Yes, you could say that. But it wasn’t how it looked to me at the time. I certainly didn’t see things coming. Not that far back. When it all started, I was too wrapped up in it. I was intoxicated by the excitement of it all. Everything in my life up to that moment suddenly appeared pallid, insipid. Nothing else mattered to me but the intensity of what was happening in the moment. The past had slipped away; the future was nothing but a blur. Like so much in our lives, it began with a random event, a chance encounter that could so easily have never happened at all. I don’t like to think about this, about how easily I might have missed him. It brings me out in a cold sweat if I really think about how nearly the encounter didn’t take place. I still wonder what exactly persuaded him, at that precise moment, to take a second look. I don’t think I’m beautiful. Attractive, yes; at least, men look at me, and when they do, I know what they are thinking about. I know I’ve got a good mouth, and they want to do something with it. My breasts are a nice shape, and I see their eyes go down to them. And my legs are not bad, I think. But beautiful? Me? Oh, and I’ve been told my eyes are ‘lustrous’. I think that was the word used. They’re green, in case you want to know. A man once said I’d got bedroom eyes. He looked offended when I burst out laughing. The way it happened was like in one of those movies; don’t they call them rom-coms? Where the boy and the girl “meet cute”. It was raining. I was trying to get a taxi, which you never can when you really need one; and, at last, one pulled up; and, as I walked towards it, he dashed out from a doorway and pulled the door open. When I got there, he was halfway inside. He saw me, but he was going to pretend he hadn’t. And then he looked at me again. “I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Which way are you going?” I told him I was going to the West End. “Wonderful,” he said. “Piccadilly Circus?” I told him that would do. He held the door open for me, and we both climbed in. My hair was wet. I thought I must look bedraggled, but he kept looking at me. He was well-dressed in a suit with narrow stripes. I liked his black shoes. They looked expensive. He started talking. He had a good voice, mellow, soothing. I sat back in my seat, only half-listening. I’d noted his initial intention, albeit reconsidered, to run off with the taxi on his own, and I’d put him down as one of those pushy, undoubtedly successful but off-putting men who are two a penny in the city. I was sure he worked in a bank. He wasn’t the sort of man I was looking for. In fact, I don’t believe, at that moment, that I was looking for any kind of man at all. I judged him to be around ten years older than me, perhaps in his late thirties. I noticed, though not with any special satisfaction, that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But then, many English men don’t. A lot of them, the middle-class ones, still think jewellery is for sissies. As he talked, I stared out of the window at the rain-swept streets. I wasn’t studiously ignoring him. I just thought if I turned sideways on my seat to look at him that might seem a little forward. I didn’t want him to think I was in the habit of sharing taxis with strange men, even in daylight. Then I became aware he’d asked me my name. “Anna,” I said. I didn’t ask his, but he told me anyway. “I’m Roland,” he said. He took his wallet out of his pocket and drew out a business-card. I took it. ‘Roland Fenner,’ it said. ‘Broker.’ “What do you broker?” I asked. “Anything profitable. Or interesting.” He laughed. I put the card in my pocket. We were in Farringdon Road, about halfway to our destination. “You work in the city?” “No,” I said. “I’ve been to see an author.” “An author?” I didn’t really want to tell him what I did for a living. I didn’t want to tell him anything. But it seemed rude to just clam up. “I’m an editor. Book publishing,” I said. He asked me the name of my company. I told him. He hadn’t heard of it; I knew he wouldn’t. We fenced with each other for a while. He was trying to find out things about me, but I stone-walled. At last, we reached Piccadilly. I offered him some money for the fare, but he insisted he would pay. “It’s all on expenses anyway,” he laughed. He waved cheerily as the cab drew away. Did I think of him in the next few days? Perhaps fleetingly, once or twice. He was quite good-looking. I noticed he had long eyelashes, almost like a girl. But he would have soon vanished from my memory had I not bumped into him, quite literally, that Friday night as I came out of the office. I was turning to say goodbye to a friend, not looking where I was going, and knocked into a man. It was Roland. “Oh,” I said, flustered. “What are you doing here?” “Just passing,” he said. “Is this where you work? What a coincidence.” I was too taken aback to be suspicious. It was only several weeks later that he admitted he had engineered the meeting, lying in wait outside in the street. “Look,” he said, “got time for a drink?” I glanced at my watch, as if I had some appointment to go to. In reality, I had nothing more exciting before me than a Friday evening in my flat eating pasta and watching TV. “Just a quick one,” I said. One turned into another, and he ended up taking me to dinner. I found him easy to talk to, and he actually listened, a rarity in a man. He kept looking at me and smiling, as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. I was surprised that he seemed so pleased to be with me; surely he can get lots of girls, I thought, better-looking than me. I suppose I’ve always lacked self-confidence and belief in myself. I think lots of women like me, lots of submissives as I have learned to call myself, share this tendency to self-deprecation. It seems to go with the territory. Not that I called myself a submissive in those days. I didn’t think of myself that way at all. At the end of the evening, he kissed me prettily on the cheek. He asked if he could see me again on Sunday. I pretended I wasn’t sure if I was free. I told him to call me the next day, Saturday. I lay in bed that night thinking about Roland. After a while, my hand strayed down to my belly, stroking, exploring lower and lower. There were bad men lurking in the shadows of my imagination, wicked men who were waiting to do filthy things to me. As always I pretended to be pure and innocent, but this did not save me from their clutches. One of them reached out, putting his hand between my legs in an obscene gesture. I realised, with a shock, he had Roland’s face. I was excited. I rubbed my clit, quickly, urgently, until I came explosively. Afterwards, I felt guilty that I had enrolled Roland in my dirty little game. He’s a nice man, I thought. Don’t spoil it with your disgusting, slutty ways. He called, as expected, on Saturday. I really wanted to see him that night, but I forced myself to put him off until the next day. I said he could take me for a walk on Hampstead Heath in the afternoon. Fortunately, it was sunny. We had some tea in the restaurant at Kenwood House. Roland started asking me about previous boyfriends. I thought it was too soon for that and told him so. He laughed. “I’m nosy,” he said. “I know it.” I let him take me back to my flat in Camden Town. I knew he would try to have s*x with me. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d let him. I thought it might depend on how he behaved. While I opened some wine, he browsed my bookshelves. He made a couple of intelligent comments about the contents, which definitely improved his chances with me. I put some music on, and he seemed to genuinely approve my choice. He was doing well. We sat on the sofa. He took my hand; then, after a while, he put his arm round me. Eventually he brought his face close to mine. Leaning over me he slowly raised one eyebrow. I started giggling and, of course, then I couldn’t resist. He’s a clever bugger, I thought. The kissing was good. If only more men would think about what they are doing, not just dive in slobbering. His lips were dry but warm and firm against mine. He sort of gripped me with them instead of just pressing limply against me. I found myself wondering whether I should open my mouth or wait for him to try and push his tongue in. I can be very cerebral about s*x sometimes. He took the decision away from me, sliding his tongue inside my mouth slowly but insistently. He put a hand on my hip then moved it round to stroke my belly. I was wearing a skirt, and I kept my legs together; a girl doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. After moving his tongue around in my mouth a little, he took it out and started kissing the side of my neck, slowly working up to my ear. He didn’t know it, but this was the shortest way home. Once a man starts seriously working around my ear, I’m inclined to lose control unless I’m very determined. I wasn’t very determined. On the contrary, I sighed and made a kind of languorous movement with my legs which he not unreasonably took as encouragement. He put his hand on the outside of my skirt, just at the top of my thigh, and began to rub it very slowly. He started pressing his hand in between my legs. I was sure he must be able to hear the beating of my heart. His tongue was in my ear now, and I tried to keep from squirming. Then he whispered to me. “Show me your bedroom.” I couldn’t be bothered with playing the shy virgin any more. I took him by the hand, pulled him to his feet, and led him to my bed. He made me stand while he undressed me, calmly and efficiently. He left my knickers on, and I got into bed. He stripped quickly, taking everything off. I just caught a glimpse of his c**k as he climbed in beside me. He went to work on my ear again, this time the other side. He knew he’d struck pay-dirt there. I wriggled around a lot, and he tried to keep me still. He was enjoying driving me wild. After a while he put his arm under my head and gripped my wrist, while trapping my other arm beneath my body. He looked down and smiled at me, seeming to enjoy my helplessness. Then he took my n****e between his thumb and forefinger and began to squeeze it. I gasped, and he let go. He took hold of the n****e again; by now it was as hard as a bullet. He squeezed it once more, twisting it too. I made a kind of moaning sound. How did he know so soon what I liked? He bent his head and took my n****e in his mouth, sucking it at first then locking his teeth round it and biting gently. I made a little sound in the back of my throat. He bit me harder. “Oh,” I said. “Hurt?” he asked me. “Mmm.” “Stop it?” “Not necessarily,” I said. Then I blushed. Shameless hussy, I thought. He lowered his head and, again, took hold of my n****e. “Oh, god,” I said. At last I had to pull his head away. I could see his teeth-marks at the base of the n****e. He pushed on top of me and, without hesitation, drove his c**k into me. I groaned. He f****d me with long, firm strokes, raising himself up on his hands to keep from crushing me and to give himself more leverage. I could tell how excited he was. I liked that, even though it meant he came too soon for me. He whispered in my ear if he could help me come too.