Today I feel less sub, more rebel.
I’m due to meet him at midday and so I make my usual morning rush of walking the dog, tidying the kitchen, placating the teenager, checking my emails, getting distracted listening to music (EVERY DAY!) and filling my head with silly thoughts about what I can wear that will please him (rules dictate I must wear a skirt). And then I remember to shower… and after that it’s obvious I’m going to be late, so that will be added to my list of transgressions for weekly punishment.
Suddenly I drop out of the space where I really give a shit about it. It’s just one more demand to deal with. I’m a working single-parent. Why have I chosen to put additional, some would say unnecessary, demands on my time? Why can’t I just be satisfied with fucking ordinary vanilla guys on Friday nights like any sensible woman would? You know that I don’t need to answer that. I’m not satisfied and there’s no way I’m quitting this game without seeing how far I can take it.
So, I will be late to meet him, and I will dress in my straight-life clothes, which I think are pretty far removed from the fantasy he has of the perfect sub (which I might be). I go for my grungey-black skinny jeans, low-cut tank top and scuffed up boots with big, untidy hair. I feel tough when I dress like this. I feel “don’t mess with me”. No one ever does.
I get a text while I’m still driving, telling me he’s already there: damn! It’s one minute to midday. I’m hoping I can find an easy parking spot nearby else I’m going to be really late indeed. What will he do? I think he’d wait no more than ten minutes and then leave because he knows that that is the best way to punish me. Remove himself.
When I get a chance I quickly text back, “Late”.
His response is, “Usual”. It makes me smile. I think, “He’s waiting for me”.
I find him sitting upstairs in the cafe. He must be slipping as I get no lecture. He’s behaving like a gentleman, and soon he’s stroking my leg gently under the table, which is when I really wish I’d worn a skirt because this could have been a lot more fun… but this is good. Today there is a lot more touching between us and he whispers things he’s going to do to me which give me butterflies of joy. Some of it is pure sadistic evil. There’s no mental gear-change required any more to accommodate the strangest of the situation. Playful flirting and promises of pain to be induced go hand in hand with this new person I’ve become.
“We’ve been talking for 9 days,” he says, “and for seven of those you’ve been begging me to hurt you.”
I want to say that it’s actually 12 days since we started our online conversation but I don’t. No one likes a smart arse.
We talk about the Munch on Sunday and whether we’ll turn up together. I know he’s being respectful and giving me a chance to meet these people on my own terms if I wish. And I know we’ve both thought about the impression it’ll make if we turn up as a pair. Perhaps he’s wondering if he should give me a chance to choose from the wider pool of local kinksters before things go too far between us. Perhaps he’s worrying about our age difference, which is quite significant. I’m not new to this experience and I realize that it’s my kink: dating mature men; it’s my kink and that’s ok, even if it’s not yours, so I don’t have to feel embarrassed or stupid about it any more.
We leave the cafe and walk down the street together holding hands, stopping to look at the leather belts hanging up outside the hardware store, wondering if the other shoppers have any clue what we’re thinking of using them for.