Sarah K - The Secret Life of a Submissive

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?’

I nodded.

Max was very upright, with broad shoulders, and his demeanour was slightly stiffer than I’d expected from talking to him on the phone, although there was no mistaking the mischief in his eyes. There was a slightly leonine quality about him – he wore his hair swept back off his face, he was heavily set, with a web of laughter lines picking out large blue eyes. While we were in the café I noticed his hands, which were large and very still, something I noticed particularly because I gesticulate all the time and find it almost impossible to talk without moving my hands. He wasn’t handsome in any traditional sense but his features were strong, even and nicely made, and it was obvious from the way he moved that he looked after himself and worked out.

We settled into easy conversation. We talked about our journeys, my job, his trip to Europe, the weather, my choice of footwear, the tourists, the cake – all very comfortable and conversational, but it was impossible to ignore the undercurrent of expectation that was beginning to build up between us.

‘So,’ he said, ‘have you done as I asked?’

I stared at him; the words made my heart flutter. I nodded.

‘Is that a yes?’ he pressed.

‘Yes,’ I said, not quite meeting his eyes; God, this felt so tricky. I was aware that this was the moment of transition when potentially it all finally began to become real.

‘Good. You understand that if we continue with this arrangement you will call me Sir, but not today. Today you can call me Max, but if we take this further it is one of the few things that are non-negotiable. Do you understand?’

I nodded.

‘And I want you to answer me with a word, not a gesture, from now on. So, are you wearing stockings and suspenders or did you decide on hold-ups?’ he asked.

I was wearing stockings and suspenders, not wanting to risk the possibility that the hold-ups wouldn’t.

Max raised his eyebrows. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘Stockings and suspenders,’ I said, glancing around to see who might have overheard our conversation, feeling my colour rise. ‘I’m finding this hard. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘I know,’ he said, and then he took an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table towards me. ‘Do you remember what I said?’

How could I possibly forget? I’d read and re-read the email so many times that I could practically recite it in my sleep. I stared down at the envelope, deciding to play dumb.

‘Let me refresh your memory, Sarah. If you make the wrong choice, then you will be punished.’

‘And if I make the right choice?’

‘If you make the right choice, then you will be rewarded.’ His expression was neutral but I could see the amusement in his eyes. ‘Why don’t you open it while I try and attract our waitress’s attention?’

I picked the envelope up, peeled it open and took out the card inside. Glancing down, I read the words neatly written in block capitals across the centre. I could feel Max watching me.

According to the card I should have been wearing hold-ups and my punishment for not doing so was to be spanked. Soon. At a time and place of my choosing.

I looked across into Max’s face and from him up into the face of the waitress, who was standing by the table holding a pen and pad.

Max was smiling, triumphant. ‘More tea?’ he asked.

‘Sex is as important as eating or drinking and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.’

Marquis de Sade

Max and I spent the afternoon together. We ate lunch. We walked round the castle. We explored the shops. We talked and talked and talked, and at no time did Max mention the card or my punishment. As he walked me back to my car he shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Call me when and if you’re ready,’ he said as a final farewell.

As I watched him walking away, I wondered exactly what I’d started. Was I ready? It felt as if this was one of those now-or-never moments. Taking a deep breath, I took the phone out of my bag and scrolled down to his number. He was still so close that I could hear the phone when it started ringing. I saw him pull the phone out of his pocket, saw him look at the caller display, saw him smile as he turned back to look at me.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Fancy it being you.’

A week later and Max was wearing much the same expression as he pulled a mask down over my eyes. The mask was nothing threatening, a black, silky little number, not dissimilar to the kind of thing they hand out free on airlines.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, as the lights went out.

I nodded.

‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Sarah. From now on you have to say “Yes, Sir.” Or come to that, “No, Sir.”’

Have to? I pulled a face – preposterous. But this was supposed to be me being punished, and earlier we had signed a contract, designed to protect us both, and yes, I had signed up to calling him Sir.

‘I’m waiting,’ he said. His tone was unmistakably crisper.

‘Yes, Sir,’ I mumbled. It felt ridiculous and made me feel stupidly self-conscious. Today was the day when I was supposed to be receiving my punishment for not wearing hold-ups, and in a perverse way, my reward – for being bad by some contrived set of fantasy rules that we had set in motion.