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The phone rang at the other end – once, twice, three times, four. How long before hanging on for the pick-up came across as desperate? Maybe he wasn’t in; maybe I’d dialled the wrong number.
‘Hello,’ said a deep, cultured male voice.
‘Hello, Max?’ I said. ‘It’s Sarah.’
‘Sarah, great to hear from you. I’m really pleased you called,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
Any nervousness I had had about talking to him evaporated within seconds. Max’s voice was warm and tinged with good humour. He was easy to talk to from the first sentence, answered everything I asked him without hesitation, and made me laugh. It also soon became clear during our first phone call that he was many, many other things besides a Dom.
He liked to cook, liked the theatre, films, travel, books and music, but that natural need to be in charge and take control had informed his whole life and the choices he had made. He ran a successful business, he was confident and articulate, and while his sexual preferences weren’t something he broadcast in his everyday life they were something he was completely at ease with. He was a breath of fresh air.
Over the next couple of weeks we spoke most evenings, until it became obvious that the next step was meeting or calling it a day.
‘So,’ said Max at the end of a marathon session on the phone, ‘would you like to meet?’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘But?’ he prompted. I knew he’d heard it in my voice.
We’d got on really well on the phone and chatted for hours, but I was worried that when we met we might not be what the other had imagined. I told him so.
‘There’s only one way to find out. But before we meet, we need to talk about how things progress from here. I want you to understand that, for me, BDSM is a real-life thing –’
‘I know,’ I began. ‘We’ve talked –’
‘You need to understand what you’re getting into.’ Max sounded cool and businesslike. ‘There are rules of engagement that we both need to observe when we play together. I’ve drawn up a contract.’
‘Are you serious?’ I said. I’d seen and written contracts in BDSM novels but I wasn’t sure that they existed in real-life BDSM relationships.
‘Contracts are a big part of the BDSM life. It’s for my protection as much as yours. Have you thought about how one of your friends would react if she came in and found you tied up and me horsewhipping you?’
I hadn’t.
‘The contract shows that you’ve given me consent. I know we’ve talked about the things that turn us both on, but we also need to discuss the point beyond which you are not prepared to go, and the things you find unacceptable.’
‘Surely those things are obvious?’
He laughed. ‘You would have thought so, wouldn’t you, but it’s better if they’re spelled out and down on paper.’
I said it all sounded a bit formal.
‘It is,’ Max said. ‘We’re moving this up a gear. You need to learn to be frank and honest with me – the relationship between Dom and sub is far more open and intimate than one between straight couples. And you’ll need to choose safe words.’
I’d written about safe words in my books, so I knew what they were: they’re used between BDSM partners to stop any activity that is going too far. Max wanted me to choose three: one that would tell him that everything was OK, should he ask, one for ‘slow down’ and one for ‘stop’.
For the first time since we’d started to talk on the phone I felt uneasy and nervous, and he picked that up. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I know you’re unsure about what you can cope with, but we can only find your limits by trial and error. We’ll take it really slowly. And for my part of the bargain I promise I’ll keep you safe, answer your questions as best I can and try to give you all the things you’re looking for.’
‘And all this is in writing?’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘Also when we’re playing I will expect you to give me total and complete obedience.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Really?’
‘It’s not negotiable,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell! I need to think about that.’
Max laughed. ‘OK. Well, I’m not going anywhere. You OK?’
‘I’m fine. I suppose I’m just coming to realize what a big thing this can be.’
‘It changes your life for ever,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
After I had hung up I read and re-read everything he had sent me.
Max had been married in his early twenties and had adult children, and was separated from his long-term girlfriend, Abby, with whom he had had a daughter. She was called Ellie and she was six. He and Abby had parted amicably and he was still in contact with her, and despite Abby moving halfway across the country he saw Ellie regularly. He also had a good relationship with his ex-wife and his grown-up children. He seemed ideal, but endless phone conversations and half-a-dozen emails were certainly no guarantee that he was what I was looking for, nor that he was telling the truth: anyone can be anyone on the phone.
What did I do next? I went downstairs, made a mug of tea and then picked the phone up and dialled his number. Max picked up on the second ring.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘That was quick.’
‘Can we meet?’ I said. ‘Before I bottle out.’
‘Of course,’ Max said. ‘How about lunch next week?’
Max insisted I choose the place and the time, so that I would feel safe. The rules were that I picked somewhere very public but with the potential for privacy – somewhere where, if we saw each other and didn’t like what we saw, we could smile and walk on. No games here with text messages. Max said if we didn’t click he would have no problem with either of us calling it a day and that I shouldn’t either. And lastly I should choose somewhere where we could actually get a decent lunch if we liked the look of each other, although he was quick to remind me that at this point there were no strings.
I suggested we meet outside Norwich Cathedral, which wasn’t that far from where I lived. I’d worked in Norwich for four years at the end of the 1990s and still had lots of friends there; the shopping is fabulous, and there are some great places to eat in and loads of places to wander round – all of which meant I had places to go to and people to see if the meeting with Max didn’t work out.
So it seemed a good choice. We could take a look around inside the cathedral and talk in relative privacy. There were a couple of good restaurants and some nice cafés all within easy walking distance. Being a staunch atheist, Max thought the cathedral was a great idea.
At this point I was feeling good, a bit nervous maybe, a little bit excited, but in a good way, and certainly in control. Then Max sent me another email and the balance of power began to subtly shift:
Dear Sarah
It was good to speak this evening and I’m delighted that we are finally going to meet. In future if we continue with our liaison you will call me Sir unless given permission to do otherwise. In the hearing of other people you may call me Max.
When we meet you will wear a white blouse, loose-fitting dark skirt and high-heeled shoes.
You will also wear clean white underwear and black stockings. You may choose whether to wear a suspender belt or not; if you make the wrong choice you will be punished.
You may wear a suitable coat.
You will measure the size of your neck and wrists and let me know the measurements so that I can have a collar and cuffs made for you.
You may be physically examined to see if you complied exactly with my instructions.
Oh yes, I nearly forgot: I’m really looking forward to meeting you at last. See you next week.
With kind regards
Max
As I read and I re-read his email, I was torn between thinking just who the hell does he think he is and being really excited. Finally, this was my chance to try this stuff for real, while another part of me – some people would probably say the saner, more sensible part of me – was extremely nervous. Was this really what I wanted? Physically examined? Was he mad?
There was still time to back out. Meeting him didn’t imply any kind of commitment, I reminded myself. I’d met enough men on straight dating sites and walked away without a second thought to know that it was no big thing, and in essence at least this was no different, but that wasn’t how it felt at all.
I barely slept. The next morning I re-read the email and emailed back. What I didn’t do was comment on any of Max’s conditions or agree to them. I needed to take this one step at a time.
… I’m excited about the whole idea; the combination of imagining and apprehension and excitement is a heady one. I am also very nervous about meeting up and moving this from a fantasy towards a reality, but would very much like to try. You do know that I’m just as likely to run a mile, don’t you?
His reply excited me even more:
One of the joys of being a submissive is the anticipation of things to come, the emotion produced by fear of the unknown. I will always try and describe what will happen to you before doing it. This way you will experience double the pleasure, first in your imagination and then in reality. See you soon.
Max
So this was it. Finally. I switched off my computer and went back downstairs. It felt as though I was teetering on the brink of something huge.
Chapter Four (#ufb80e09a-68b1-5874-8d36-5ae01b8dda25)
‘There is no fulfilment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire.’
Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel’s Dart
I was early. For some reason the outer doors into the cathedral porch were locked when I got there. It was pouring with rain, and my feet – crammed into high heels that I’d only ever worn once, for two hours, to a friend’s wedding – were wet and cold and hurt like hell. On the walk up from the car park a freak gust of wind had turned my umbrella inside out and wrecked it, and I wasn’t altogether sure exactly how waterproof my coat was. This was not at all how I’d imagined my first meeting with Max. I was nervous enough without going from coiffured to quagmire in the space of a short walk.
Having wandered up and down the street a few times, I finally managed to find some shelter from the rain, but not from the biting wind, although at least I had a view of the main doors.
My feet ached and I could feel my carefully constructed appearance rapidly dissolving – hair, make-up, composure: going, going, gone. A party of Asian tourists trekked past me with their guide. Wide eyed and curious, wrapped up in colourful cagoules and peculiar hats, they nodded and smiled in my direction, holding up umbrellas over their cameras to take pictures of me sheltering, wet and dripping, under one of the stone arches. Maybe they thought I was performance art.
The minutes ticked by. I was getting more anxious with every passing second. I glanced down at my watch. Max and I had agreed to meet at 11.00 a.m. As I said, I’d arrived early – I’m always early. It was almost ten past. I found myself peering into the faces of strangers under umbrellas as they scuttled by. I have a problem with people who are late.
Maybe Max wasn’t going to show up after all, maybe he had just been stringing me along, maybe he was just a fantasist: my brain cheerily offered all kinds of explanations for his tardiness, each darker than the previous one. With a growing sense of disappointment, I considered my options. Up until that point I hadn’t realized exactly how high my expectations had been.
If it had been sunny I probably wouldn’t have minded waiting around a little longer, but I’d had enough. Another two minutes and if he hadn’t shown up I’d head off for lunch on my own, a little older, wiser and considerably wetter. Maybe my hopes were too high, but I was deeply disappointed that Max had stood me up. During our email exchanges and telephone conversations he had seemed genuine and genuinely interested. I was just turning to leave when someone touched me on the shoulder.
‘Off somewhere? You look like you could use a coffee,’ said a familiar voice.
I glanced round and looked into a pair of amused blue eyes ‘Max?’
He grinned from under the shelter of a large black umbrella. He was slightly out of breath. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught up in an accident on the ring road,’ he said. ‘Did you get my text?’
I shook my head. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t it occurred to me to check my phone? How stupid was that?
‘Are you OK?’
I nodded.
‘Good.’ Still smiling, he reached out and brushed a stray, very damp strand of hair off my face. ‘Come on. There’s a café just round the corner. Let’s go and get warmed up.’ With that he took my arm and we made our way out of the cathedral precincts and across the road. ‘You look like you need towelling off. We could find a shop –’
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll be fine, really.’
‘You’re sure?’
It felt easy and very natural. I felt comfortable with Max from the moment we met and there was definitely a crackle of mutual attraction – the chemistry thing, that thing I’d been looking for unsuccessfully on straight dates. I smiled.
He grinned at me. ‘Good to meet you at long last,’ he said.
We hurried across the road, huddling together under his umbrella. Max opened the café door for me, found a table and, when the waitress arrived, ordered for both of us, which I found a bit unsettling.
‘Is that a Dom thing? What if I don’t like what you’ve ordered?’ I said in an undertone as the girl left.
‘But you do,’ he said.
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Trust me.’
‘I could be gluten intolerant.’
‘And are you?’ he asked, his expression amused.
‘No.’
‘Well, in that case you’ll be able to enjoy your cake, won’t you?’
I didn’t say anything; I just raised my eyebrows. After a second or two Max held up his hands in surrender. ‘OK. It was easy. When you came in, the first thing you did was look in the cake cabinet, and I noticed the cakes your eyes lingered on.’
I laughed. ‘Lingered on?’
His smile widened. ‘Well, OK – lusted after. It’s OK, I really like a woman with a healthy appetite. And every time we’ve spoken on the phone, at some point during the conversation you’ve mentioned needing a cup of tea.’
Was I that obvious? And was it that simple? I really hoped not. I didn’t want the Dom/sub relationship to be some trick or sleight of hand.
A few minutes later the waitress reappeared with our order: a pot of Earl Grey for him and good old builders’ tea for me. Alongside it on the tray was a slice of lemon drizzle cake.
Max raised his eyebrows in a silent question. He was right. He’d ordered my favourite cake, although I wasn’t about to tell him that. He laughed as he poured tea for us both.
‘Come on, eat up and stop bristling,’ he said. ‘Would you prefer to stay here and talk or shall we go for a walk? It looks like the rain is easing up and there’s a really nice little restaurant which a friend recommended in the lanes.’
‘In these shoes?’ I said ruefully. ‘Isn’t there any chance I can be kinky in flats?’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m sure I saw a shoe shop round the corner. We’ll go there first, if you like. I prefer any pain I inflict to be deliberate rather than accidental.’
I looked at him and smiled. ‘It’s fine. I’ve got spare shoes in my bag,’ I said.
‘OK, in that case we’ll walk, then, shall we?’
