Diary of a Submissive Part One

I’d say that my adventure began with the girl who was fascinated with my arse.

I should have realised Adele was a pervert the first time she seduced me. I had met her in the Dublin Castle in Camden, when she was taking photos of the band my friend was playing in. She made her living in the Harrods Audio Visual department and knew far too much about laser disc players and wide screen TV’s for any human being. Her dark skin (a mix of Indian, Malay and English origin) melted every part of me once it touched upon me, often with oddly sprouts of hair you don’t see in a local girl. Not that it bothered me. Quite the opposite, because par from the norm drove me wild and she completely fulfilled that. Her big brown eyes and jet black hair cascaded down her shapely figure and made my heart thump but I never knew then exactly how much of a sexual awakening she would be responsible for, but she was. One that reverberates within me today.

Like I said, I should have known. I should have known when she invited me back to her room in a shared house over in Shenfield, which is in the middle of fucking nowhere via Liverpool Street station. I started looking through her DVD collection, normally a certified way to know if you are dealing with a psycho. In fact, that should have sounded an alarm bell or two as well. It wasn’t so much the content, as they were mainly run-of-the-mill film titles. No, it was how she had arranged them on her shelf. They weren’t alphabetical, but it did feel like they were in some sort of order.

“Hey, how do you categorize your films?” I pondered, as she stripped off invitingly by the bed.

“Oh,” she blushed, sheepishly. “They’re errr… by director.”

“Really?” My eyebrows raised, looking back and confirming that they were indeed. As I noticed the likes of True Romance, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction etc, it suddenly made sense to me. The rest were rather art house, or art house to someone who appreciates Ghostbusters. So, not really.

"That’s interesting…” I continue. She smiled abashed, perched on the end of the bed in nothing but her knickers, that were dying to be pulled over her generous brown hips. I turned on my knees and made my way across the carpet on them.

“I subcategorize them by leading male too…” she began, as I started not to listen and opting to pull off what she had left on, so I could go down on her. “I tried to do by female lead, but there was something not quite right…”

I nodded along, obediently with my eyes on the prize, so to speak. It had been a whirlwind romance with myself and Adele and wasn’t to last very long. But that wasn’t because of her fascination with my ring piece. The lust that she had for me (she happily and eventually admitted) manifested in her frustration and desire at being very much on the rebound from a relationship she would quickly re-kindle, after a few short months with me. This was a shame, but in this situation, you just have to let folk move on and hope that they will keep in touch as friends. When they do, it’s great. But a lot of the time, they don’t and that’s sad.

As we lay, post-fuck, she regaled me with stories of lust for other women and the passion and desire that ran through her on excursions into the BDSM scene as a budding amateur photographer. Her exact commitment for the scene really didn’t come to light though until that first time she led me into her room and I parted her legs on the bed, went down on her and I saw what was lying in wait for me.

She stifled her giggles as she saw the look on my face. She snatched both hands across her eyes as I looked down in wonder at her groin. It was pierced to the hilt. Under the mass of curly, thatched hair, her pussy was home to a variety of metal rings and studs. I’d never seen anything quite like it.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen piercings down below at all. On the contrary. I’d had two serious girlfriends before her with clitoral piercings. Both girls (quite opposite in both looks, background and culture) had opted for tiny bars through their clit hoods and exuded pleasure and intense sensations every time I took the little pieces of metal in between my teeth and manoeuvred them up and down through their biting flesh. But with Adele, it wasn’t anything as tame as that. What was surprising was the sheer array on display. She had a bar through her clit hood, like my past girlfriends before her but also two rings in each labia at her entrance, not unlike you would normally see in one ear of the average, shaved headed male from Essex in his 40s. Four rings? I thought. She’s one away from an Olympic flag.

To add to the impending wonderment that was where to start, I’d also got a bar through my tongue, a few months previous to please the girl I was briefly seeing at the time. This would be something I would have to rectify years later after I met my wife and an unfortunate incident occurred with a bag of bacon Frazzles. Suffice to say, it was a bit like two stags locking horns over a supple fawn in the Canadian wilderness.

But the tangle that we got ourselves in on a number of occasions aside, especially with my enjoyment of prolonged cunnilingus, that wasn’t the nail in the coffin. She just wouldn’t leave my arse alone. Whether it was in the heat of the moment or a mild fondling over a Tim Burton film, evidently a digit would flow free and disappear up my sphincter. Now I’m no prude, but her persistence and her voracious appetite (once I had given her the green light, admittedly) to insert numerous different implements up there all the time, was perhaps something of a deal breaker. Especially as she kept threatening me with a rather menacing looking strap-on. I was all for taking our relationship to a more committed stage, but this thing was huge and looking at the box it had come from, was modelled on some highly successful, African American porn star. I pleaded to her to take things slower, as you can imagine.

One weekend, we went to visit her parents. It was a big thing for me and despite what you might think, I really wanted to commit to this girl and relished her open mind and reported (but unpractised) bisexuality, but one particular incident at their vast suburban home in Strood pretty much put the kibosh on the relationship and it went downhill from there.

We’d quite civilly joined her parents for Sunday lunch and after a post-meal fumble in her childhood room in the loft, some two floors safely above the kitchen, we’d returned to the vast living room of their family home in the evening to hopefully introduce me more into the fold. This was where we came upon the parents playing Scrabble. Adele had told me that both of her parents were something of the local grand champions of some West Kent league and took the game quite seriously.

“That’s ok, hun, but I’ve never really played that much. I’m sure they will wipe the floor with me.”

I was quite wrong. I’m not sure whether the gods were on my side that day or whether I have a future in the county leagues at least, but I seemed to be the only person accumulating any sort of score. I’m not bragging because my words really weren’t that good and wherever possible, I tried my best not to score anymore points because I could see that the whole situation was seriously concerning both parents on the opposite side of the board, which was laid upon a plush Persian rug in the middle of the floor. As I say, I tried to lose but then to make things worse, Adele kept sneaking a look over to my letters to see what I had and when the opportunity arose for me to have a triple word score with ‘Clever’. She pointed it out to them and I realised right there that possibility of her Father, the local and much beloved doctor, walking her up the aisle of the local church towards me had long gone.

She, of course, didn’t help matters much by her contribution to the game. While the game started in a polite fashion, Adele kept putting down sex-related words like ‘BLOW’ and ‘COCK’ as I sat there uncomfortably squirming away. The killer blow for us I feel was when she spelt out the word ‘ANAL’ across her mother’s ‘FACE’ and gaining double points on the N, while nudging and winking at me, suggestively. But I can’t truly be sure of this factor because both parties politely excused themselves soon after and went to bed and I never saw them again.

It was a shame things ended, because the sex was great. It was mind blowing and fantastic and included my introduction to mutual spanking but whereas I wanted to lie post-coitally and whispering sweet nothings into the ear of the beautiful spooned body of Adele, she was wanting to slip on one of her surgical rubber protrudes onto a couple of her fingers, grab a bottle of water-based lube and flip me over on all fours. Whatever came over me, it certainly wasn’t something I was ready for. Not yet, at least.

Those many times at Adele’s place, dabbling in this scene that I was just hearing initial murmurings about still, stoked the fire of what I fell I wanted within my sexuality and being with someone like her, who clearly realised the opportunity for dominance helped me with I believe was a natural submissive calling. I heard about the likes of The Torture Garden and Club Pedestal with their socio-political attitudes but vast array of flesh, beautifully draped in skimpy PVC and tucked into ornate corsets and was surely willing to be a part of that scene with her. But then it ended and singledom loomed and the idea went on the back burner.

Adele was definitely my introduction to the whole idea of male submission though. I know this from our one time that could really constitute as really dipping our toes in the water together, after I told her that I would like to explore my submissive side with her. It wasn’t at either of the places previously mentioned, but at The London Fetish Fair, held at a pub and courtyard complex near to Caledonian Road tube station, a monthly event on the second Sunday of every month, bringing together the best of fetish fashions and accessories and alternative lifestyle workshops. It has since moved to Barbican, incidentally.

We arrived at the station dressed like any other commuter on the network, albeit a bit scruffier probably. Adele had informed me earlier in the day that we were meeting another sub friend of hers she ‘played with' from time to time. Again, this is something that doesn't bother me at all. I always tell any of my partners that they are completely free to interact with anyone they like. It's completely their choice.

“There’s something you should know about Phil…” she explained to me as the Piccadilly Line trundled northwards through Kings Cross.

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“He’s a dog…”

“Babe…” I replied. “That’s not a nice thing to say. Really…”

“No, you don’t understand.” she said. “He’s an actual dog…”

I turned towards her and raised an eyebrow.

“During the scene…” she clarified.

“The scene?”

“The scene, yes.”

We pause.

“At the fair…” she clarified.

I continued to look puzzled as the doors opened and we stepped out onto the Caledonian Road platform. She stopped me, grasped each of my wrists while my hands are buried in my pockets and stood in front of me.

“Phil is a dog at the fair. It’s role-play…”

“Right,” I beamed, trying to understand. “Gotcha… A dog… Woof….”

“It’s not funny. It’s very serious and you have to help me wherever possible to respect his role and persona for the day.”

I took Adele’s hand as we rode the escalator.

“His persona…”

We punched out and instantly Adele waved and skipped towards a tall man, a good 6ft5in with long red hair, dressed head to foot in rubber. Even his feet I noticed are shoeless and just in the footing of the material. She jumped in his arms and he swung her around. I stood by the ticket machines and watched the world walk by, looking on at them oddly. I could see quite clearly the rubber dog mask in his hand.

I’m introduced to Phil and he shook my hand. I nodded coolly at him, not sure what to say. Adele started to chat away avidly to him about mutual acquaintances as I wondered what the polite thing to do is. Y’know, the right protocol. With a 6ft5in rubber dog/man.

“Mark, what are you doing?” she said to me as both her and her friend turn my way, watching me stroking his rubber clad shoulder.

“Oh, have we not started yet?”

They both rolled their eyes and he nods and pulls on his hood. He chatted away to her as she grinned up at him, while I followed impatiently. I noticed the seat of Phil’s costume and was intrigued by what appeared to be an access flap sewn into the material. We arrived at the entrance to Shillibeers and their open courtyard and pay our entrance fee. Phil crouched down on all fours and scampered away into the crowd. I looked across to Adele.

“He’ll come back when he’s hungry.”

“Hungry?”

At that she whipped out a silver dog bowl with the word ‘FIDO’ written on it. I felt myself groan. About an hour later, the three of us are tucked away in a corner nursing pints. Well, the two of us were. Phil was curled up under the table by our feet, panting away and growling and occasionally lapping Carlsberg from his dish.

“It’s not that I don’t understand it…” I whispered, as my girlfriend stroked the 300 pound rubber dog’s backside, the bare seat of his arse exposed to the others on the surrounding tables. “I just think it’s not my area of submission. I’ll find it though, I’m sure.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at me with pity and soon after, we went our separate ways. I knew that a submissive was there inside me, right there in my heart, but I knew that if I was going to find it, it wouldn’t involving trotting around a North London pub and humping stranger’s legs. I would need to find someone. The perfect someone who would not only guide me with a raised hand, but grow with me too.

But that’s the fun though. The discovery. Discovery is something that I can highly recommend.