Page 4 of Submissive Lies

I don’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt.

-Oh, how noble of you. Your trust in him to love and accept you for who you are is extraordinary. Truly stunning in the shallowness of its depth and scope. Bravo.-

I don’t want to hurt him! I can do this. I can control these thoughts and feelings. He doesn’t need to know. At least for right now. When the time is right, I’ll know. And I’ll do it then.

-I swear, sometimes I think you can’t say anything stupider, and then you turn around and prove me wrong.-

Lying there while Thomas fucked me required every effort to keep the thoughts going through my head under control. So he wouldn’t suspect. For God’s sake, I was in the middle of having what in any other circumstances would be fantastic sex. And what was I doing? Realizing the futility of believing I could keep the burgeoning return of my submissiveness from intruding back into my life. I’d flipped off my submissive switch when I’d told myself that it would be the solution to all of my problems. But now that light was blinking back on, and it was becoming apparent I did not have the mental fortitude to stop it. Even worse, the thought of trying to throttle back those desires made me cringe. I had made my choice back then, but now I was questioning it. Second-guessing not only my decision, but myself too. And the conclusion I was coming to was not reassuring. I had made the wrong choice. Not only that, I’d involved someone else in my choice, even though they knew nothing about it. I’d drawn them into my lie without their knowledge. Made it so they believed it. And now I needed to make a new choice. Come to a decision.

Except I couldn’t make myself do it.

I couldn’t bring myself to follow through on the obvious solution that faced me. The one that would require me to sit Thomas down and be open and honest with him. To tell him in clear, concise, truthful terms who I was, what I wanted, and what I desired sexually. I couldn’t force myself to take the risk, because I feared what the result might be.

No. It was so much easier to keep propping up the lie.

Thomas continued thrusting inside me. He was building to his peak, and I was as far away from mine as I could be. The in-out-in-out pacing of cock to pussy was a fucking metronome, and in my current mood it was maddening. It did, however, interrupt the angst I was feeling, drawing me back to the reality of the moment. I took stock of my body. At least I was wet, thank God. That made the cock-beat cadence he had set up at least manageable. The worst part of this situation was what was missing. Where earlier I had hoped for fingers digging into my skin, crescent marks to be left on my flesh that I would cherish for hours, if not days, there was only Thomas’ firm yet gentle caress as he held me in place. There was no slamming of his hips into my ass, balls slapping against me. Shit. If it wasn’t for the fact that the bed was rocking I might have questioned whether he was back there at all. The thrusts themselves, which were building in speed, had lost any semblance of being rough. A week ago, everything Thomas was doing would have had me at the brink of my own orgasm. Now, as frustration pushed tears against the back of my eyes, I knew just one thing: I wasn’t making love with Thomas. Right now, I was nothing more than a blow-up doll. And all I wanted was for this to be over.

“Yes! Fuck. Fuck, yes!” His voice was in perfect timing with his hips connecting with my rear, a growl full of the passion that he was feeling for me. As he jerked, coming inside me, I did something I’d never done with him before.

I faked it.

I faked my orgasm, because I needed every ounce of strength I possessed to avoid breaking down in tears. Because there was no way in hell I wanted to try to explain that reaction to Thomas—especially after this morning and what he’d just done.

After he finished, he pulled out, rolling to his side. I remained where I was for a moment, unmoving. He reached for me, wrapping an arm around my chest to pull me close.

“So?” he asked with a voice filled with pride. His expression told me he didn’t need to hear my answer. It was obvious in the way he looked at me, the satisfied smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Mission accomplished!

I buried my face into his chest, not looking at him. I couldn’t.

“Mmm. Yes, nice.” The words were as fake as my release.

“See? I told you not to worry. I told you I understood what you were looking for.” He pulled me tighter, his fingers running gently through my mussed hair. Where now I would have arched and hissed with pleasure had he twisted those fingers tight to my scalp and wrenched my head back, Thomas caressed me with post-orgasmic sweetness.

Fuck.

I could do nothing more than nod. The words would not form.

Sleep didn’t come easily for me that night. For Thomas, however, it did. We lay there together, and soon the motion of his hand slowed. Before long, while I lay trapped in thought, his gentle breathing made clear he’d drifted off.

I did cry at that point. It was soft, and I slowly, deliberately turned away from him so he wouldn’t be able to feel my chest heaving. I choked back as much of it as I could. I must have done well, because he never woke. Railing at myself, I cried, mentally beating myself bloody not only for what I was doing to Thomas but also for what I had done to myself.

It was a horrible feeling, and it was tearing me up. This whole thing was turning out so different, so wrong, from where I’d imagined Thomas and I being the first day we’d met. The reasons for how and why it had ended up this way landed squarely in my lap. There was no way I could find to excuse myself, even though there was a part of me that wanted nothing more than that.

I scrubbed at my face, pushing the tears away as they slipped from my eyes. Feeling them against my skin frustrated me as much as anything else. What I wanted was an easy way to shift all the blame for this situation off me and onto someone else. My former lover Ben. Thomas. Someone. Anyone. But so many past conversations I’d had were like Marley’s ghosts coming back to haunt me. They rattled their chains, reminding me I knew exactly who was at fault here, who needed to own this place I found myself in. I gulped in air as quietly as I could and considered how I’d let myself get to this point. And why.

I wasn’t tracking on time, unsure exactly how long I’d laid there until Thomas’ breathing smoothed into a deep sleep. All that ‘rough sex’ had worn him out. It should have been funny, but it wasn’t. Once I was certain he was out, I gently slipped from under his arm and padded to the bathroom. Closing the door, I turned the light on.

I didn’t like the person I saw staring back at me.

I didn’t start with half-measures when I did something, and right now I was all in with the self-loathing. In the zone. Using a hand towel, I wiped at the tears that streaked my face. Standing there, it was easy to convince myself I was truly the most horrible, despicable, loathsome person that one could ever hope to meet. One step above Ben, but not a very big one, that was for sure. If only I could pull on my big girl pants, wake Thomas up, sit him down and really, truly, honestly tell him what I’d been talking about that morning.

‘Thomas, I’m a submissive. I don’t like gentle sex, or ‘rough’ sex the way you think of it. I like sex where I’m tied up, spanked, even whipped. I want you to grab me by my hair, by my neck, force me to my knees, tell me that I belong to you, and that you are going to fuck the shit out of me.’

Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I should have done. Cleared the air completely. But I didn’t. Because I was weak and even trying to convince myself I could do it would be nothing more than another fucking lie compounding those I’d already told myself. Instead of marching myself back to the bedroom and coming clean with Thomas, I evaded the issue one more time. Turning off the bathroom light, I slipped silently out to the living room couch and curled up. I pulled the throw off the back and wrapped myself in it. Thin bands of pale-yellow light coming through the curtain openings cast patterns of shadow and light across the room. I shrank down into the cover, letting my thoughts take over.

How? How had I gotten here?

My self-loathing was a voice of spite, contempt.

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