Erotic Author Spotlight Series: Sophie Morgan


I first heard of Sophie Morgan when I read her best selling, personal tale of kinky discovery, Diary of a Submissive. Sophie is not only a talented writer but also a friendly lady who is approachable, funny and down to earth.

Sophie has kindly agreed to be put in the Erotic Author Spotlight at this week, so read on to find out more about Sophie, in her own words. You have also been spoiled with not one, but two free raunchy reads to perk up your Monday – and the rest of the week.

– Cara Sutra

Sophie Morgan Biography


Sophie Morgan is a two-time Sunday Times Bestselling author. This is something that still feels faintly surreal to say out loud when initially she only started writing about kink (on a long-defunct blog) as a way of elucidating exactly – mostly for herself – what she got out of being dominated in the warm fuzzy and yet confusingly conflicted aftermath of her first D/s experiences.

Her two books about life as a ‘real life’ submissive – Diary of a Submissive and No Ordinary Love Story – were published by Penguin and have since been sold to more than a dozen publishers across the world. This has given her some fab opportunities including writing about what submissive women get out of D/s for publications ranging from The Guardian and the New York Times to reviewing jiggle balls for Marie Claire while picking up parcels from the post office. Suffice to say lately life is never dull, and that’s before getting engaged and married in the last year too.

Diary of a Submissive was described as ‘the real life Fifty Shades of Grey’, although Sophie would like to point out she doesn’t bite her lip and would get Silence of the Lambs flashbacks if a strange man offered to show her his red room of pain.

As well as enjoying writing about and indulging in various smutty pursuits and working as a news journalist, Sophie loves baking, binge-watching DVD box sets with her husband (recent favourites include Arrow, House of Cards and Orphan Black), and playing Scrabble. Like most journalists she has sarcastic and cynical tendencies (although she can’t hide the occasional glimmers of optimism), a Twitter obsession and is a bit of a news nerd.

Her current safe word is ‘kerfuffle’.

Diary Of A Submissive – by Sophie Morgan

Sample chapter – free excerpt



You might have slipped outside to take a call on your phone when you first saw us, or, if you’re so inclined, have been finishing a crafty cigarette before heading back into the warmth of the bar. Either way, we draw your attention, standing in a gap between the buildings, across the street and along a little way from where you’re standing.

Don’t get me wrong, that’s not to say I’m especially stunning, or that he is. We look like any other couple on a night out, neither unusually dressed nor especially loud, not even remarkable in our unremarkableness. But there’s an intensity of something brewing between us that stops you short, making you look in spite of the fact it’s bloody cold and you were actually getting ready to go back inside and rejoin your friends.

His hand is clenched around my upper arm, in a grip so visibly tight even from this distance that you wonder fleetingly if it’s going to bruise. He has pushed me up against the wall, his other hand tangled in my hair holding me in place, so when I try and look away – for help? – I can’t.

He isn’t particularly big or broad, in fact you’d probably describe him as nondescript if you were to bother describing him at all. But there’s something about him, something about us, that makes you wonder for a minute if everything is all right. I can’t take my eyes off him and the obvious depth of my awe means for a second you can’t either, staring at him intently trying to see what I see. And then he tugs on my hair, pulling my head closer to his in a sharp movement that makes you instinctively step a bit closer to intervene, before those stories in the papers about good Samaritans meeting sticky ends flood your brain and pull you up short.

Closer now, you can hear him talking to me. Not the full sentences – you aren’t that close – but enough words for you to get a sense. For these are evocative words. Vicious words. Ugly words that make you think perhaps you really might have to step in at any moment if this escalates further.

Slut. Whore.

You look to my face, so close to his, and see fury glittering in my eyes. You don’t see me speak, because I don’t. I’m biting my lip, as if I’m restraining the urge to respond, but I remain silent. His hand tangles tighter in my hair, and I wince but otherwise I stand there, not passive exactly – you can feel the effort it is taking for me not to move as if it were a tangible thing – but certainly self-controlled, weathering the verbal onslaught.

Then a pause. He is waiting for a response. You move closer. If someone asked you’d say it was to check I was all right, but in your heart you know that actually it’s curiosity, pure and simple. There is something feral, primal, about the dynamic between us that draws you closer even as it almost repulses you. Almost. You want to know how I am going to respond, what happens next. There is something dark and yet compelling about it that means while normally you’d be horrified instead you’re intrigued.

You watch me gulp. Run a tongue along my bottom lip to moisten it before trying to speak. Starting a sentence, tailing off, eyes flickering down to break his gaze as I whisper my response.

You can’t hear me. But you can hear him. ‘Louder.’

I’m blushing now. There are tears in my eyes, but you can’t tell if they are of anguish or of fury.

My voice is clearer, even loud on the night air. My tone is defiant yet the flush, both on my cheeks and running along the collarbone visible under my open jacket, betray an embarrassment I can’t hide.

‘I am a slut, sir. I have been wet all evening thinking about you fucking me and I would be very grateful if we could go home now and do that. Please.’

My defiance cracks by the last word, which comes out as a soft plea.

He runs a finger idly along the edge of my shirt – low cut enough that there is a hint of cleavage but not exactly slutty – and I shiver. He starts to speak and the tone of his voice makes you restrain the urge to shiver too.

‘That almost sounded like begging. Are you begging, slut?’

You see me start to nod, but get pulled up short by his hand in my hair. Instead I swallow quickly, shut my eyes for a second and answer.

‘Yes.’ A pause, turning into lengthening silence. A breath which might almost be a quiet sigh. ‘Sir.’

His finger is still running along the curve of my breasts as he speaks.

‘You look like you’d do pretty much anything right now to be able to come. Would you? Do anything?’

I stay silent. My expression is wary, which surprises you bearing in mind the obvious desperation in my voice. You wonder what “anything” has encompassed in the past, what it’s going to mean now.

‘Will you get down on your knees and suck my cock? Right here?’

Neither of us speak for long moments. He removes his hands from my hair, steps away a little. Waiting. The noise of a car door slamming a distance away makes me flinch, and I shift to glance nervously up and down the street. I see you. For a second we make eye contact, my gaze widening with shock and shame before I look back at him. He is smiling. Utterly still.

I make a sound in the back of my throat, half whimper, half plea and swallow hard, gesturing around vaguely. ‘Now? Wouldn’t you rather we –’

His fingers press against my still-moving lips. He is smiling, almost indulgently. But his voice is firm. Imperious even.


I cast the quickest glance possible your way. You don’t know it, but in my head I’m playing a very adult version of a childish game – if I don’t look at you directly you’re not actually there to witness my humiliation, can’t see it because I can’t see you.

I gesture nervously in your general direction. ‘But it’s still quite early, there are people walking –’


You are transfixed watching the battling emotions flit across my face. Embarrassment. Desperation. Anger. Resignation. Several times I open my mouth to speak, think better of it and remain silent. Through it all he just stands there. Watching me intently. As intently as you are.

Finally, face crimson, I bend at the knees and drop down to the wet cobbled stones in front of him. My head is bowed. My hair falling in front of my face makes it hard to tell, but you think you can see tears glistening on my cheeks in the light of the street lamp.

For a few seconds I just kneel there, unmoving. Then you watch me take a deep, steadying, breath. I square my shoulders, look up and reach for him. But as my shaking hands make contact with his belt buckle, he stops me, patting me softly on the head the way you would a loyal pet.

‘Good girl. I know how difficult that was. Now get up and let’s go home and finish there. It’s a bit cold for playing outside tonight.’

His grip is solicitous as he helps me to my feet. We walk past you, arm in arm. He smiles. Nods. You half nod back before you catch yourself and wonder what on earth you’re doing. I am looking studiously at the ground, my head down.

You can see I am shaking. But what you can’t see is how aroused this whole experience has made me. How hard my nipples are in the confines of my bra. How my trembling is as much from the adrenaline high of everything that has just played out in front of you as it is the cold and humiliation. How I thrive on this. How it completes me in a way I can’t fully explain. How I hate it yet love it. Yearn for it. Crave it.

You can’t see any of that. All you can see is a trembling woman with dirty knees, walking away on wobbly legs.

This is my story.

– Sophie Morgan

No Ordinary Love Story – by Sophie Morgan

Sample chapter – free excerpt


Chapter One

I was late. I spend a lot of my life late, or if not actually late then in fear of being so. I’m a journalist, and work wise while it’s an occupational hazard there’s nothing less forgiveable (ok, except maybe phone hacking, but I’m a local newspaper journalist so that’s not the kind of thing we get up to, whatever you might see in the soaps). In my non-work life I find lateness annoying in myself and in others, wherever possible I’ll pitch up five minutes early and loiter just to minimise the risk of being late. I know I probably look a bit like a stalker, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay.

No chance to do that this time though. When I got to the bar my friends, Thomas and Charlotte, had already commandeered a booth, and were waving at me like lunatics to get me to come over. Charlotte was even wearing an elf hat, which is not as odd as it sounds as it was four days before Christmas. The festive spirit had completely passed me by though, partly because work was bedlam and partly because I was still licking my wounds over the longest break up ever. The only reason I’d agreed to come for drinks was because I couldn’t cope with their lecturing if I declined. Plus, it was close to my office and Charlotte had assured me there was going to be lots of people – enough I hoped for me to be able to slip away unnoticed after a quick drink and some mingling to show willing and shut them up. Except as I walked over to the bar I realised that there was only one other person in the booth with them. I’d been ambushed.

My first thought, testament to how he was still not really ever out of my mind, was that it was James, my ex. Even though rationally I knew Thomas wasn’t ever going to be sharing drinks, small talk and mini-cheesy biscuits with him. I wasn’t actually sure I wanted to share drinks with him either. The man with his back to me turned round, confirming what I knew, and then the annoyance began to burn in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t have told you who I was angry at – myself? Them? Him? I’d just spent a lot of time angry lately. It was unlike me and I was beginning to bore myself with it. It was also exhausting, another reason I would have been happier sitting at home watching cooking shows on TV and not speaking to anyone.

No chance of that tonight though. I’d been completely stitched up by my so called friends. Charlotte hesitated for a moment before she hugged me, able to see my rage, but Thomas showed no such fear, launching himself at me and enveloping me in a massive bear hug that almost made me overbalance.

“Soph! You made it. We didn’t think you were going to come, it’s not like you to be late.”

I slipped away and began unbuttoning my coat. “Yeah, work was a pain and the tube was packed.” I had no intention of apologising for my lateness. I bit back a wry smile, remembering an occasion where, upon turning up at Thomas’s 23 minutes late due to traffic trouble he hit me with a crop 23 times. It felt like a long time ago, a different life. Things really had changed, although it still inspired a surge of affection which went some way to easing my fury. Sort of.

The-man-who-wasn’t-James had stood up as I arrived and was waiting for me to come closer to the table. As I leaned in to put my coat on the pile he put his hand out.

“Hello Sophie. I’m Adam. It’s lovely to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.” Dark hair, brown eyes, glasses. Strong handshake, nice hands – it was a side effect of my extra-curricular love of spanking, I notice these things. I had to give them credit for knowing my tastes well. Shame they didn’t know me well enough to know I had no interest in any kind of relationship with anyone for the foreseeable future.

“Have you really?” I smiled at him, not entirely sure it was reaching my eyes. “Because I’ve heard nothing at all about you.” I glanced over at Charlotte, who looked discomfited. The silence lengthened, and for a moment I let it hang there, before sighing, plonking myself down on the cushioned bench and picking up the menu. I hate confrontations and bad atmospheres, I always have. I could play nice, all I had to do was get through the next hour or so and cry off with an early work start. My eyes caught mulled wine on the menu and I smiled to myself. I could get a little bit into the festive spirit at least.  “So what’s everyone drinking? I’ll get them.”

* * *

I know I sound a bit churlish, and I know it wasn’t poor Adam’s fault. The fact is, and I appreciate this sounds all Mills and Boon, I’d had my heart broken not long before. Not on purpose – people who break your heart on purpose are the worst kind of bastards after all, and if I’d found myself in love with a bastard it’d have been much easier to disentangle my life, pull myself together and move on. But James had managed to pretty much settle his way into my life, both as a boyfriend and as a dominant foil to my submissive tendencies, before ending things abruptly and it had left me feeling uncharacteristically adrift.

Not that things had ended completely, not in a way I had been able to start moving on from yet. If I was to decribe this in a TV-style ‘previously on Sophie’s life’ segment then the admittedly HBO-friendly summary is as follows: Boy meets girl, boy dominates girl, girl gets off on the pain and degradation and falls for boy, boy becomes guilt ridden at-how he’s dominating the girl he’s decided he’s in love with, girl points out she enjoys the domination.  You’d imagine the next step would be boy coming to terms with the two sides of his nature and thanking his lucky stars he had found a girl that complemented him so well but, alas, that hadn’t happened. After weeks of text messages – flurries of affection and emotional chat which made the silence immediately afterwards ever more distressing – I’d decided it was time to stop, for my own sanity. I asked one last time if anything could work between us and, taking his silence as a pretty strong answer, I changed my phone number and set a filter on my email account that automatically set any messages he sent me to the trash. Hell, after the first week or two I stopped checking three times a day in case there had been any automatically deleted messages. That was progress, right?

I was trying, slowly, to move on. But it hurt. And I felt stupid. So stupid. So for now I was happy to be on my own. If nothing else it meant as few people as possible got wind of my idiocy.

I knew now more than ever that my love of sexual submission was something that I definitely wanted as part of any relationship – only part admittedly, although for me that basic compatibility was a deal breaker.  But having realised that, and then being let down by James so badly when had turned out to be a bit of emotionally stunted, I’d decided that it was time to take a step back for a bit. Because while sexual compatibility was an important aspect of the kind of relationship I wanted, it was part of a bigger whole – I wanted someone caring, clever, funny, who put up with my obsession with TV (and the associated stacks of DVD box sets), loved their job enough that they didn’t get annoyed at how hard I worked at mine, and had similar ideas on life long term, ie one day getting married and having kids.

I know. I want the moon on a bloody stick. And the thing is, finding a bloke who ticked a lot of those boxes (not ALL of them, I’m not that unreasonable), was a dominant and who wanted a woman like me, well that’s the equivalent of winning the relationship lottery. And right now, after my disappointment with James I didn’t even want to buy a ticket and then suffer the disappointment. Not least because I was hardly ankle deep in dominant sorts – if there was such a thing as kinky radar then I most definitely didn’t have it, and even with my sexual proclivities I drew the line at randomly asking guys if they’d like to hurt me. Let’s face it, the sorts that would say yes were probably the kind you should be crossing the street to avoid anyway. I’d used online D/s sites before, to chat to folk and make friends, but I wasn’t ready to start the time consuming and occasionally soul destroying search for a date on them yet – even though one of my best friends, and ex dom, Thomas had found his current squeeze by doing just that.

Nope, I was getting my kicks through an erotica-packed Kindle and not much else lately and I was fine with that. I just didn’t feel I had the energy for anything more, especially through the always-manic festive season. I had it all planned. I’d been taking on as much overtime as work would give me, sitting through more out of hours council meetings than any sane person should ever want to. I’d booked time off to head home to my parents for the Christmas holidays. I was working New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. I was filling my life with work and reading and sleep mostly and that was fine.

Unfortunately bloody Charlotte and Tom didn’t seem to think it was fine.

I drank my mulled wine as fast as I was able to without burning the roof of my mouth, and excused myself to go to the loo, rehearsing the explanation I’d give for having to leave early on my way back. But when I got back to the table Charlotte had bought me another glass in my absence. My ‘thank you’ for it was through gritted teeth, and she couldn’t meet my eyes when I looked at her, but even in my most antisocial of modes I wouldn’t have buggered off and left then. I drank it – a bit slower this time – and resigned myself to listening to the conversation washing over me.

Adam was interesting. Funny. Clever.  Witty. Self-deprecating. He had quite a way with words and enjoyed using puns, presumably in part due to his career as a copywriter. He was exactly the kind of person I would have enjoyed spending time with normally. Not so tonight though. I know this makes me stubborn, but I had no intention of showing that to him or – more importantly – Charlotte and Thomas, who clearly thought they knew better than me what I needed, and seemed to be suffering from a side-order of that irritating thing where couples insist on trying to pair off all their single friends. Even if Adam was happy to stand for that, I really wasn’t.

He was good company though. As a group we chatted about TV that we’d all been watching, recommending shows to each other, with him suggesting I pick up the DVDs of The Shield, a police show that had completely passed me by, but which it turned out was made by one of the guys behind another show I had loved, Lie to Me. He told a great anecdote about a political campaign he’d worked on, which meant before I knew it I was sharing similar war stories from events I’d covered. I found myself leaning in to talk to him, catching myself and then deliberately moving back to feign indifference.

I finally finished my drink and headed home. My fury had eased a little, but I was still slightly stand-offish with Charlotte and Thomas as I said goodbye. I waved at Adam as I left, not even wanting to encourage their meddling by kissing him on the cheek in farewell lest it was misconstrued.

By the time I got home and was curled up in my current non-work default position – on the sofa in my PJs with a mug of tea and the late news, my phone had pinged several times.

Charlotte and Thomas had both texted, ostensibly to check I’d got home ok, but both with variants of ‘sorry if you felt slightly ambushed’ – although I wasn’t forgiving them easily. I also had a Facebook notification – Adam had tracked me down and sent me a message.

I harrumphed slightly to myself as I opened it on my phone. This was exactly the kind of faff I could do without.

From: Adam

To: Sophie

I wanted to send you a brief note to apologise for tonight. Not for meeting you (that was fun) but for the fact that clearly you weren’t expecting me to be there when you arrived.

I broke up with my long-term girlfriend fairly recently and I think Charlotte was trying to encourage me to find someone new in her usual sledgehammer-like fashion. Please rest assured I’m not the sort of person to get dates under false pretences – apologies for any awkwardness.



Suddenly it all made sense. I could kick Charlotte. In her head this must have felt brilliant – two of her single friends hooking up at once, but now I felt even more awkward. ‘Best’? Ouch. Also I was smiling wryly to myself for being such an egotist – so much for me being such a big catch!

From: Sophie

To: Adam

Bloody Charlotte! I’m so sorry. I didn’t stop to think that it might be as awkward for you too – I fear you handled it better. I might have come across a smidgen grumpy. Sorry. It definitely wasn’t personal.

I hope Charlotte’s attempts at ‘helping’ haven’t made your break up feel any more rotten than they tend to.


PS Fear not, you don’t look like the sort to need to get dates under duress.

His reply was quick, intriguing and made it obvious that he wasn’t any more interested in me than I was in him.

From: Adam

To: Sophie

Break up was a long time coming and as painless as these things can be. We dated for a year pretty much to the day and had a lot of fun but fundamentally wanted different things – she loves travelling and wanted to work her way around America. I like holidays, but wanted to stay closer to home long term for marriage, kids etc. One of those things. She sent me a mail tonight actually though. She’s currently working as a receptionist in a tattoo parlour in San Francisco somewhere. We’re both ok. It’s just the thing with break ups – everyone assumes you want to be straight back in a relationship again. Sometimes it’s nice to have a break.


PS You were a little grumpy. It was oddly endearing though. I didn’t take it personally.

I chuckled to myself.

From: Sophie

To: Adam

                I hear you on the ‘break from relationships’ front. Sometimes life is simpler being single.


I shut down my laptop, fairly sure that would be the last I heard of him and happy that I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested in any overtures, even if any were forthcoming. Little did I know.

* * *

The next morning he sent me a message linking me to a news story about the politician we’d been discussing the night before. Before I knew it I’d tapped a brief message back.  He replied, asking at the same time if I’d heard from a more apologetic Charlotte (I had). I replied asking if he’d had anything to do with her newly-found regret (he did). Suddenly we were emailing at least a couple of times a day.

It was safe. It was simple. We talked about non-contentious things. My mum’s internet-fuelled holiday planning (military invasions have taken less work), his trip to Yorkshire for a family wedding. I tracked down and watched (although admittedly from behind my hands at points) a couple of episodes of The Shield at his behest and was blown away by it, but with it being so old had no-one to wax lyrical about it with, so we enthused about that. I recommended a couple of political biographies which had passed him by. All in all it was surprisingly fun to chat.

I also, don’t judge me, took advantage of that fact that his Facebook privacy settings were much less locked down than mine and checked out his profile. I checked out some of his pictures (mostly holidays, family trips and parties) and skim read his most recent updates – mostly links to news stories with associated rants, comments about TV shows and films he’d just seen and geeky internet memes, all of which I found very interesting, although I didn’t dare so much as ‘like’ anything lest Charlotte or Thomas see and get the wrong idea. That first step of modern interaction – friending him on Facebook was also a definite no-no.

Then one night the tone of things changed a little. By this point we were chatting on messenger some evenings if we were both around – ok, if he was in, because I was still under voluntary non-work house arrest. We’d been discussing another attempt at some of his friends to set him up – this time with a secondary school physics teacher. I’d been laughing quietly to myself at his obvious horror at the awkward small talk, when suddenly a line of what he’d written caught my eye.

Adam says: The thing is there’s no good way to have that discussion about compatibility is there? At least Charlotte put US together knowing we had complementary personalities on that front!

I sat up straighter, my heart beginning to pound a bit. My fingers were a flurry, and then stopped. Did he mean what I thought he meant or was I being over-sensitive? Obviously Charlotte knew I was submissive, first hand in fact. But would she really have told some guy I’d never met? I was torn between asking for clarification and accidentally outing myself when in fact she hadn’t done any such thing. In the end curiosity won out.

Sophie says: Complementary personalities how?

His reply confirmed my fears.

Adam says: Sexually I mean. It’s not a prerequisite for a relationship, but it’s definitely something when it feels right to start dating again that I’d like to factor into things.

I have a tendency to fly off on occasional flights of fancy. I can’t help it. Eventually my rational brain does kick in but for now my thoughts were whirring. He knew I was a sub. Had known from the beginning. Was this some kind of ridiculous long game thing? Did he think I was playing hard to get? How could Charlotte have told him that without telling me? I was incandescent with rage.

The sudden silence at my end seemingly spoke volumes.

                Adam says: Sophie?

I cast my laptop aside to grab a drink from the kitchen, not sure what, if anything, I should say in reply. When I got back the screen was filled with text.

Adam says:  I’ve not made you uncomfortable mentioning it have I? I promise it’s not a thing. Charlie just mentioned in passing that we both met her at the same place independent of each other. She didn’t tell me anything else about you, but I figured that she’d only set us up if you were submissive or at least switch. Apologies if I’ve stepped out of line.

Thomas and I had met Charlotte at a munch – a kind of social get together for kinky folk (rest assured, there was no leather and chains, it was just a meeting in a pub). If he’d met her in the same place… Oh.

Suddenly my brain was whirring with questions – I was curious, having never thought of Adam in those kind of terms. I guess you really should be careful about making assumptions about people.

Sophie says: It’s ok, I’m not uncomfortable. Surprised you knew. I didn’t know that about you. It just put me on the back foot a bit. It’s fine.

I wondered if I’d over-egged it. Even to my ears it doesn’t sound ‘fine’. Sod it. Bloody Charlotte.  Also, damn my curiosity because now more than anything I wanted to know about him.

Sophie says: So do you go to munches a lot?

I know. I’m incredibly nosey. But I was also curious – not least because I’d not pegged him as especially dominant. Definitely no kinky radar (should we call it kaydar?) here. Although admittedly when I met him I wasn’t looking at him in any sexual terms at all, sexy eyes or not.

Adam says: I did for a while. It’s where I met Kathryn, my ex. She was a sub. Haven’t been to one for a while though. Despite what you might now worry to the contrary I’m really not angling to start dating again. Sorry I brought this up though if it feels awkward.

I had a moment of realisation. Now I knew that Charlotte hadn’t been telling him the intimate details of what we’d got up to together it actually felt ok.

Sophie says: It’s not awkward. It’s fine. I was just surprised, that’s all. Charlotte didn’t mention it.

His reply was quick.

Adam says: She’s terrible that one. She means well though.

I knew he was right, but I still felt inclined to give her a stern talking to at a later date.  Before I could reply another message pinged through.

                Adam says: One last question before we move back to non D/s stuff if that’s ok?

                Sophie says: I’m not sure I should answer this, but go on…

                Adam says: So which are you? Sub or switch? Curious minds need to know 😉

* * *

Somewhat inevitably, it wasn’t the last time we talked about D/s.

Slowly, over a period of weeks and for the first time in ages, I chatted to someone about kink without there being any underlying subtext to it. Neither of us had any expectations. We were both adamant we didn’t want to date. There was no hint that this would become anything, or that we’d get together. It was just nice to chat about life with someone for whom the kink side of things wasn’t unusual – it could be mentioned in passing without it being a big or defining thing.

He told me how he’d had lots of kinky fun with his girlfriend, but their relationship had floundered because they didn’t have much in common bar their interest in sex. I told him a little about what had happened with James and his insight and kindness was a balm to my emotional bruises.

In flirtier – admittedly often late night – chats we discussed some of our experiences. Not in explicit terms, more generally, but in enough depth that I was intrigued as to what kind of a dominant he would be. It was apparent he’d had a lot more D/s experience than me and that his interest was as much about the mental aspect of domination as physically inflicting pain. I found it intriguing, I found him intriguing. But he was also incredibly gentlemanly. He was respectful and thoughtful when we spoke – whether about general day to day stuff or in-depth emotional things.

Every so often one or other of us would make a passing comment about how we should meet for a drink, but we never got round to sorting it out, initially using the busy Christmas and New Year period as an excuse, although by that time we were well into January. I took his lack of initiative as a sign he wasn’t interested in me that way, which of course should have been a relief. At points though it didn’t feel that way. I wasn’t sure I should feel insulted, but in typically contrary terms I most definitely did.

Why wasn’t he interested in me romantically? What was I, chopped liver?

I know, I’m a lunatic. But it was a thought. Mostly I kept it to myself though. Until one day we were discussing Charlotte’s latest attempts to get him to go to a munch with her and Tom the next weekend. What was it with her trying to hook him up anyway?

Adam says: I told her I wasn’t interested and she tried to convince me that it was worth going just to find someone to let off some steam with.

Sophie says: ‘Let off some steam with?’ Sounds a bit clinical.

Adam says: I know. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I like the idea of some no-strings fun, but I want it to be with someone I have at least some connection with and know is going to be laid back about it. I don’t want to end up with someone feeling like I’m just using them for sex.

Sophie says: You want to have fun with someone who isn’t up for a relationship either and thus you’re not letting down?

                Adam says: Exactly.

                Sophie says: Someone whose feelings you aren’t inadvertently going to hurt because they           end up wanting more?

Adam says: Yes.

Sophie says: Someone into the same things you’re into, who is up for experimenting and having some fun but will still be doing their own thing?

Adam says: Yes, that’s it.

I bet you can see where this is going better than I could. I wasn’t even conscious of my fingers moving until I’d tapped out the message and hit send.

Sophie says: Someone like me?

Fuck. As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. What was I thinking? I know I hadn’t had any kind of sex with anyone in months, much less had any D/sish fun, but he wasn’t interested in me that way. Shit. Now this was awkward. I began trying to type something, anything, that would make it sound like what I’d written was a joke, but before I could finish the sentence his reply flashed up.

Adam says: Yes, someone exactly like you.



 – Sophie Morgan

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