The Secret Life of a Submissive - Sarah K

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      Maybe I’d made a mistake; maybe this was best kept as a fantasy. Maybe I’d just take my profile down before any harm was done. Maybe I’d give up on men and get some cats.

      I was on tenterhooks all day, refusing to look at the site, wanting to peek at the website inbox but resisting the temptation.

      That evening, when I’d finished my day’s work, I opened up my account on the website. There were forty replies. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

      Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I opened the first one: ‘Hi, I saw your profile. Nice picture. My name is Craig and I’m a taxi driver and live just outside Cambridge. I’m into …’ It took about ten seconds for my anxiety to fade. These were real people, looking for the same thing as I was. There were some great emails among that first batch, including one from a woman, who emailed to offer advice.

      The profiles were no longer nameless, faceless weirdos; they were people like me, and yes, they all had what other people might think of as unusual sexual tastes, but they were also looking for the same things as the rest of us – love, affection, sex, physical connections, understanding, companionship, someone to share things with, somewhere to belong.

      I’d read dozens of other profiles before posting mine and I had composed an email to send to anyone who caught my eye. It didn’t take me long to weed out the one-liners, the men who replied with a photo of their wedding tackle, and those who came across as illiterate, barking mad, wannabes or just plain weird. Though, oddly enough, in all the time when I met men from BDSM websites I met only one genuinely scary man – far fewer than on the straight sites I’d signed up to.

      Over the next few days as the replies arrived I went through them all, reading every single one. I made a list of possible Doms to contact and ended up whittling those down to around a dozen before replying:

      Thank you for replying to my recent ad.

      I am a complete novice in this kind of lifestyle and I wondered whether it would be possible to make contact and/or talk?

      I am deeply attracted to the idea of submission. I’ve written erotic fiction for several years and realized almost immediately that the thing that aroused me most was the idea of being submissive.

      The trouble is I’m not sure how much of this is pure fantasy and how much I would, in real life, be able to cope with.

      I am not a time-waster but I am naturally cautious while at the same time looking for a sane and safe and intelligent way to explore my sexuality. I wonder if you would be happy to talk to me?

      Thank you for your time.

      I look forward to hearing from you.

      Over the next couple of months I spoke to almost all of the ones on my list and I met several. I was looking for someone whose kinks matched my own and who felt right. It was tricky – after all, mine were still all imaginary, untried kinks.

      It’s very odd meeting someone whose main shared interest isn’t something like gardening or films but what you like sexually. Before my first meeting I was a bag of nerves and sat in the car wondering if I should just text him and say I’d chickened out.

      We had arranged to meet for coffee. Heading for the café, I half expected somebody in black leather and studs. Instead, I met a lovely man who was very keen to spank me and lock me in a large dog cage overnight. He was quietly spoken with charming manners, taught at a university and advised me not to rush and to enjoy the journey. While it was obvious from the second we met there was not a molecule of chemistry between us, he offered me a trial run, and to be a listening ear if I ever felt the need.

      Later I met a pilot who liked to write obscenities on his partner in felt tip and then flog them; a fireman, who I really thought might be it, until he spent the whole time we were having coffee talking about anal sex; and a librarian, who was an absolute sweetie and with whom I’ve remained friends, and who was into pony girls and showed me pictures of his ex-wife dressed up in a harness, saddle, bells and buckles – she looked fabulous, although to be fair she was more Shetland pony than Arab filly. But none of them felt right, and I needed it to feel right for me to even consider taking the next step.

      ‘How do you feel about handcuffs?’ asked my lunch date as he reached across the table to top up my glass.

      ‘In what way?’ I asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant. The pub I’d chosen to meet at was busy; there were other people within earshot. This was the third Dom I’d met in the last couple of weeks.

      ‘Well,’ he said, moving his chair in closer and leaning towards me across the table. ‘I’ve got quite a collection of restraints – everything from vintage shackles right through to some lovely little stainless-steel cuffs that I bought in the Far East while I was on holiday there last year. They’ve got little tiny rows of teeth on the inside.’ He mimed. ‘I’m not a great fan of cable ties. Actually, I’ve brought a few of my favourites along with me in the back of the car,’ he continued enthusiastically. ‘Maybe you’d like to take a little look after we’ve eaten?’

      I turned my attention back to my salad, decided not to bother with the wine, and instead counted down the minutes till my mobile pinged to announce an incoming text message. I’d arranged for Joan to text me. If it was going well I’d text back a pre-agreed reply. Anything else, including silence – particularly silence, and she would call out the cavalry. If I felt the need to escape, it was an easy get-out-of-jail-free card.

      I’d read the incoming text, look concerned, and say something along the lines of ‘Oh no! Look, I’m so sorry, but I’ve really got to go. I’ll ring you this evening/some time later/the very second Hell freezes over.’ And I could be up and away without either of us losing face.

      Right on cue the phone pinged. I whipped it out of my handbag and rearranged my face into an expression of deep regret.

      ‘Don’t tell me, you have to go,’ said the man with a sigh before I had a chance to say anything. ‘What is it? What is it that I’m doing wrong?’

      Where to begin? Showing me pictures of handcuffs you’ve known and loved while we waited to be shown to a table? Being a foot shorter and twenty years older than you said on your profile? Asking the waitress for the cheapest thing on the menu and then adding, ‘You didn’t want a starter, did you?’ Turning up in a particularly nasty beige Bri-Nylon car coat?

      If I hadn’t been so damned polite, I would have pretended I had no idea who you were and just carried on walking.

      I smiled and rested my hand very lightly on his. ‘A lot of this is about chemistry, isn’t it? And let’s be honest, there isn’t any, and I think you know straight away, don’t you?’ I said, in a voice that implied he was the kind of person who was sensitive to that kind of thing. ‘You’re a lovely man, but not my sort of man. I’m sure you’ll find someone who really appreciates you for who you are.’

      He sighed again. ‘You’re right, and besides, if I’m perfectly honest, love, when I first saw you walk in I thought you were a bit long in the tooth for me; and with a bit too much meat on you, if you get my drift. I like my women quite a bit younger really. And slimmer.’

      And probably sold with a foot pump, I thought with a fixed smile, as I got up, waved au revoir to Manacle Man, left my half of the bill on the table and headed home, mentally crossing another possibility off my would-be-Dom list.

      I was beginning to feel that I was looking for something that didn’t exist. But then, just when I was thinking of giving up, I got an email from Max.

      ‘The imagination is the spur of delights … all depends upon it, it is the mainspring of everything.’

       Marquis de Sade

      Max had been one of the Doms on my original list of twelve from the very first batch of contacts.

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