Chapter 2

“I’m an editor. Book publishing,” I said.

He asked me the name of my company. I told him. He hadn’t heard of it; I knew he wouldn’t.

We fenced with each other for a while. He was trying to find out things about me, but I stone-walled. At last, we reached Piccadilly. I offered him some money for the fare, but he insisted he would pay.

“It’s all on expenses anyway,” he laughed.

He waved cheerily as the cab drew away. Did I think of him in the next few days? Perhaps fleetingly, once or twice. He was quite good-looking. I noticed he had long eyelashes, almost like a girl. But he would have soon vanished from my memory had I not bumped into him, quite literally, that Friday night as I came out of the office. I was turning to say goodbye to a friend, not looking where I was going, and knocked into a man. It was Roland.

“Oh,” I said, flustered. “What are you doing here?”

“Just passing,” he said. “Is this where you work? What a coincidence.”

I was too taken aback to be suspicious. It was only several weeks later that he admitted he had engineered the meeting, lying in wait outside in the street.

“Look,” he said, “got time for a drink?”

I glanced at my watch, as if I had some appointment to go to. In reality, I had nothing more exciting before me than a Friday evening in my flat eating pasta and watching TV.

“Just a quick one,” I said.

One turned into another, and he ended up taking me to dinner. I found him easy to talk to, and he actually listened, a rarity in a man. He kept looking at me and smiling, as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. I was surprised that he seemed so pleased to be with me; surely he can get lots of girls, I thought, better-looking than me. I suppose I’ve always lacked self-confidence and belief in myself. I think lots of women like me, lots of submissives as I have learned to call myself, share this tendency to self-deprecation. It seems to go with the territory. Not that I called myself a submissive in those days. I didn’t think of myself that way at all.

At the end of the evening, he kissed me prettily on the cheek. He asked if he could see me again on Sunday. I pretended I wasn’t sure if I was free. I told him to call me the next day, Saturday.

I lay in bed that night thinking about Roland. After a while, my hand strayed down to my belly, stroking, exploring lower and lower. There were bad men lurking in the shadows of my imagination, wicked men who were waiting to do filthy things to me. As always I pretended to be pure and innocent, but this did not save me from their clutches. One of them reached out, putting his hand between my legs in an obscene gesture. I realised, with a shock, he had Roland’s face. I was excited. I rubbed my clit, quickly, urgently, until I came explosively. Afterwards, I felt guilty that I had enrolled Roland in my dirty little game. He’s a nice man, I thought. Don’t spoil it with your disgusting, slutty ways.

He called, as expected, on Saturday. I really wanted to see him that night, but I forced myself to put him off until the next day. I said he could take me for a walk on Hampstead Heath in the afternoon. Fortunately, it was sunny. We had some tea in the restaurant at Kenwood House. Roland started asking me about previous boyfriends. I thought it was too soon for that and told him so. He laughed. “I’m nosy,” he said. “I know it.”

I let him take me back to my flat in Camden Town. I knew he would try to have sex with me. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d let him. I thought it might depend on how he behaved. While I opened some wine, he browsed my bookshelves. He made a couple of intelligent comments about the contents, which definitely improved his chances with me. I put some music on, and he seemed to genuinely approve my choice. He was doing well. We sat on the sofa. He took my hand; then, after a while, he put his arm round me. Eventually he brought his face close to mine. Leaning over me he slowly raised one eyebrow. I started giggling and, of course, then I couldn’t resist. He’s a clever bugger, I thought.

The kissing was good. If only more men would think about what they are doing, not just dive in slobbering. His lips were dry but warm and firm against mine. He sort of gripped me with them instead of just pressing limply against me. I found myself wondering whether I should open my mouth or wait for him to try and push his tongue in. I can be very cerebral about sex sometimes.

He took the decision away from me, sliding his tongue inside my mouth slowly but insistently. He put a hand on my hip then moved it round to stroke my belly. I was wearing a skirt, and I kept my legs together; a girl doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. After moving his tongue around in my mouth a little, he took it out and started kissing the side of my neck, slowly working up to my ear. He didn’t know it, but this was the shortest way home. Once a man starts seriously working around my ear, I’m inclined to lose control unless I’m very determined.