The Secret Life of a Submissive. Sarah K

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

      ‘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