All For Love: The Odyssey of a Submissive

The others are all asleep now, exhausted by a night of sexual excess. Like theirs, my body is weary and aching, soiled with sweat and saliva and semen. I should bathe; but, in truth, I enjoy feeling the last drops of ejaculation oozing, mingled with my own juices, from my bruised and tender cunt. And my mind refuses to sleep, still racing on the events of the past few hours, the past few days and weeks and months. The only way I’ll ever make sense of it is to try and get it down somehow. Perhaps none but me will ever read these words. No matter; they will have served their purpose if they help me understand what has become of my life.

I suppose you could say that everything that has happened could have been foreseen. Or if not foreseen, then at least logically deduced once the initial connection was made. In my beginning is my end. Yes, you could say that. But it wasn’t how it looked to me at the time. I certainly didn’t see things coming. Not that far back. When it all started, I was too wrapped up in it. I was intoxicated by the excitement of it all. Everything in my life up to that moment suddenly appeared pallid, insipid. Nothing else mattered to me but the intensity of what was happening in the moment. The past had slipped away; the future was nothing but a blur.

Like so much in our lives, it began with a random event, a chance encounter that could so easily have never happened at all. I don’t like to think about this, about how easily I might have missed him. It brings me out in a cold sweat if I really think about how nearly the encounter didn’t take place.

I still wonder what exactly persuaded him, at that precise moment, to take a second look. I don’t think I’m beautiful. Attractive, yes; at least, men look at me, and when they do, I know what they are thinking about. I know I’ve got a good mouth, and they want to do something with it. My breasts are a nice shape, and I see their eyes go down to them. And my legs are not bad, I think. But beautiful? Me? Oh, and I’ve been told my eyes are ‘lustrous’. I think that was the word used. They’re green, in case you want to know. A man once said I’d got bedroom eyes. He looked offended when I burst out laughing.

The way it happened was like in one of those movies; don’t they call them rom-coms? Where the boy and the girl “meet cute”. It was raining. I was trying to get a taxi, which you never can when you really need one; and, at last, one pulled up; and, as I walked towards it, he dashed out from a doorway and pulled the door open. When I got there, he was halfway inside. He saw me, but he was going to pretend he hadn’t. And then he looked at me again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Which way are you going?”

I told him I was going to the West End.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Piccadilly Circus?”

I told him that would do. He held the door open for me, and we both climbed in. My hair was wet. I thought I must look bedraggled, but he kept looking at me. He was well-dressed in a suit with narrow stripes. I liked his black shoes. They looked expensive.

He started talking. He had a good voice, mellow, soothing. I sat back in my seat, only half-listening. I’d noted his initial intention, albeit reconsidered, to run off with the taxi on his own, and I’d put him down as one of those pushy, undoubtedly successful but off-putting men who are two a penny in the city. I was sure he worked in a bank. He wasn’t the sort of man I was looking for. In fact, I don’t believe, at that moment, that I was looking for any kind of man at all.

I judged him to be around ten years older than me, perhaps in his late thirties. I noticed, though not with any special satisfaction, that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But then, many English men don’t. A lot of them, the middle-class ones, still think jewellery is for sissies.

As he talked, I stared out of the window at the rain-swept streets. I wasn’t studiously ignoring him. I just thought if I turned sideways on my seat to look at him that might seem a little forward. I didn’t want him to think I was in the habit of sharing taxis with strange men, even in daylight. Then I became aware he’d asked me my name.

“Anna,” I said. I didn’t ask his, but he told me anyway.

“I’m Roland,” he said. He took his wallet out of his pocket and drew out a business-card. I took it. ‘Roland Fenner,’ it said. ‘Broker.’

“What do you broker?” I asked.

“Anything profitable. Or interesting.” He laughed.

I put the card in my pocket. We were in Farringdon Road, about halfway to our destination.

“You work in the city?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been to see an author.”

“An author?”

I didn’t really want to tell him what I did for a living. I didn’t want to tell him anything. But it seemed rude to just clam up.