He kept me waiting, the man I was to interview. I sat for more than half an hour, seething, in the reception of his posh office building. It was all chrome and glass and minimalist flower arrangements, which looked like bunches of twigs picked up from the side of the road but undoubtedly cost more than I made in a week. By the time he finally did deign to appear I was already glaring a bit. Except it wasn’t him I was glaring at. He’d sent someone down to get me and take me up to his office. Not unusual behaviour, admittedly, but by that time it was just another thing to add to the list of reasons he was, seemingly without effort, pissing me off. If the apologetic glances sent my way by the preppy-looking assistant who accompanied me up in the lift were anything to go by, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence.
James was, and indeed is, a stockbroker, and against my better judgement I had been sent out to interview him for a feature on the new fluffy ethical financier sorts apparently so prevalent in the post-credit crunch world. I expected an alfalfa-sprout-eating, sandal-wearing hippy stockbroker – maybe in a suit made of hemp or something. What I got was the kind of person who I’d eye up in a bar in a slightly wistful way, secure in the knowledge that he’d be too busy dating pert-bottomed women called Pippa to look twice at me, my glass of red and my bag of crisps. He certainly didn’t look like the sort that would sully his fingers with cheese-and-onion dust. In fact, as I risked a quick glance at his chest, I’d have bet money there were chiselled pecs under there, belying the fact he wasn’t a snack food sort in the least.
His handshake was firm and while he apologized for keeping me waiting his tone didn’t sound sorry. To be fair, by the time the interview had finished I was wishing he’d left me down in reception. If this was meant to be a colour piece, a fairly non-controversial feature, clearly no one had sent him the memo letting him know that. Getting a straight answer out of him about anything was difficult; he clarified and re-clarified his points until basically he had sucked anything in the way of controversy or even interest out of them, and the more I shifted my line of questioning to try and get him to open up, the more closed he got. It was frustrating as hell.
In the end, after more than an hour, I gave up. I had enough to file my copy but I knew that I hadn’t got a killer quote, something to lift the piece. This just made me grumpier, and when we were done I slapped my notebook shut and threw it into the depths of my handbag with a little more viciousness than really necessary. That was the point he asked me out to dinner.
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. ‘Sorry?’ And then I laughed again at his look of confusion that my first instinct hadn’t been just to agree, possibly with associated swooning.
‘I asked if you wanted to go out for dinner. Or maybe drinks, I understand journalists are partial to a jar or two.’
My irritation with him rose, even while I gaped at him. ‘Why do you want to go for a drink with me? And why would I want to go out for a drink with you? You couldn’t bring yourself to answer a single question straightforwardly. How on earth do you get through casual date small talk?’
He tutted. ‘Who said it would be a date?’
I flushed scarlet, and felt a stab of fury – at him for being so blunt and me for being daft enough to think he’d have been asking me out. I really was crap at this dating thing. I turned on my heels and stalked towards the door, but his hand on my arm held me back. It was gentle but firm enough to stop me making my grand-gesture exit.
His tone was softer. ‘It’d be fun. Come on, arguing just now was fun. Trying to outwit each other. It was like jousting.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of jousting. Also, I think dinner with you would be exhausting. Thanks for the interview but –’
My fingers were clasped round the door handle when he interrupted me. ‘What are you scared of, Soph?’
I couldn’t stop myself. ‘It’s Sophie actually. And I’m not scared.’
He raised an eyebrow, stepping back to fold his arms across his chest. I think he thought it was endearing, but it made me want to punch him for being so unutterably smug. ‘Really?’
And that is how we ended up going out for drinks. In hindsight the signs were there early.
Suffice to say, I regretted agreeing to go out with James pretty much as soon as I’d said yes. But the only thing worse than sounding like such a ditherer was sounding like a gutless ditherer, so I let him take my number. As he programmed it into his BlackBerry he pronounced, half in reassurance, half in warning, that if he couldn’t get hold of me to sort out a time he would just ring me at work. We both knew I’d answer my mobile rather than risk stoking office gossip about my personal life. We both knew I’d meet him and that I’d be doing so through gritted teeth. And when I got back to the office and played back the tape of our interview my jaw clenched further. He was smart but he knew it and that arrogance made me want to kick things.
But it wasn’t just his innate smugness that made me wary of spending a few hours staring at him over overpriced drinks and nibbles. It wasn’t even just that I was still licking my wounds after what had happened with Thomas, still trying to understand how my sexual compulsions could overtake my brain so utterly.
Basically I was knackered. My time with Thomas had made me realize that no matter how amazing the sex, there needed to be some kind of emotional attachment behind it too, but I was a bit worried that finding my romantic ideal would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I knew I was fussy, but frankly I wasn’t planning on settling for anyone who didn’t tick a fair few of my boxes, not least being loving, thoughtful, clever, funny, holding down a job he cared about (it was the only way I could ensure he’d put up with mine, which I loved but which had terrible hours), liking children and animals, and not minding the smell of Marmite-y breath. Oh, and he had to have a penchant for hurting, controlling and humiliating me in as many imaginative, degrading ways as he could come up with, while not being an actual honest-togoodness psychopath. As wish lists go I might as well have added ‘the moon on a stick’ for the full set.
I’d come to the conclusion that my relationship had to have a D/s element to it, but I had no idea of what to do to find the right person and worried quietly to myself that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to have it all. That what I was looking for wasn’t really there.
And then I got finagled into the date with the stockbroker.
We met on a Tuesday night. It was my suggestion, in part because I begrudged taking up a precious and rare full weekend off to be with him, and in part because I’d already decided that having a ready-made excuse of an early shift the next morning was a good plan. We met in a pub near his office, despite his sweet yet surprising suggestion that he save me time and meet nearer mine – I was keen to keep to his side of the city lest I bump into anyone I knew. Why stir up annoying personal questions for something that was only ever going to be one date?
The thing was, as we chatted over a couple of drinks in the bar, as he asked solicitously about my work and how I’d got into journalism and why I enjoyed it so much, I began to feel slight pangs at the prospect of it being one date. He was surprisingly good company. Funny. Clever. Up-to-date with the news in a way that showed he wasn’t one of those annoying people who ‘just finds current affairs so depressing’ and so doesn’t bother. We argued a bit about politics, and when I accused him of suggesting plans for healthcare reform so right-wing they made Attila the Hun look fluffy, he threw back his head and laughed. As I watched him chuckle I felt a pang of lust in the pit of my stomach, followed immediately by an attempt to push it down with realism. This wouldn’t work even if he liked me enough to suggest a second date. He clearly wasn’t going to be the D/s sort – he was too urbane, very proper and polite, standing when I entered a room, helping me out of my coat and holding my chair. I bet his undeniably suave smile (not that I cared it was suave, I really didn’t, I just happened to notice, as you do) would turn to surprise if I asked him how he felt about face slapping. I took a gulp of my
own drink, grinning a little at the ridiculousness of my thoughts as I did so, and dove back into a conversation about the children’s TV shows we’d grown up with, deciding that instead of over-thinking it all I should just have a fun night out and stop borrowing trouble.
After a couple of drinks we decided, in an unspoken mutual acceptance that things were going OK, to move on to dinner. We walked through the city, looking for a gap in the traffic so we could cross the road. When there was a break he was happy with he made a dash for it, grabbing my hand as he went and pulling me across with him. The warmth of his hand in mine made me tingle for a second, and I felt myself begin to blush, suddenly feeling like a teenager with her first crush. We reached the kerb on the other side of the road and I went to pull away, but his fingers entwined firmly in mine. I tried to stamp down the little voice inside me that was giddily pointing out he was holding my hand, reminding myself it didn’t mean anything and is probably what he would have done escorting an elderly relative across the road. It didn’t stop me grinning though. I struggled to keep up with his longer legs as he strode to the restaurant, clearly keen on not staying outside in the cold any longer than necessary. I rolled my eyes and upped my pace, trying not shiver. Suddenly he stopped, and I walked right into him. I looked around us, confused.
‘Is everything OK? What’s up?’ I asked, as he began unbuttoning his coat.
‘Everything’s fine, Sophie, except you’re shivering.’
‘We’re standing in the cold. That’s not helping.’ I was honestly trying not to sound too sarcastic, but it might have bled through.
He began wrapping his overcoat around my shoulders. I think he felt my back stiffen, my instinct to shrug it off, as his hands clenched around my shoulders, part massage part warning. ‘Keep it, come on. The longer you stand out here the more cold you’re letting me get.’
I bowed my head to hide my smile, and took his hand and began to pull him into a trot. I breathed in the gorgeous, fresh lemon smell of cologne on his jacket. I couldn’t help myself, it made me grin more.
Dinner was good. He’d taken me to an understated but clearly good-quality restaurant, all secluded tables and attentive but virtually invisible service. The conversation flowed well and there was a lot of laughter. Lots of banter too, which is important because words matter as far as I’m concerned. I like people who are articulate, clever and can think on their feet. He was able to do all these things, with a side order of argumentativeness which kept me on my toes, my brain engaged. I hadn’t felt so interested in talking to someone for a long time, and suddenly remembered how much fun it was getting to know someone. He even made terrible puns. Of course I groaned at them and mocked him for their lameness, but inside I was grinning. Never underestimate the power of a pun, no matter how terrible, to amuse and impress a journalist. From his end, he seemed to enjoy the spark between us too. His face was animated and his gestures were wide as we debated, with varying degrees of seriousness, a range of subjects. Despite a couple of jokes about my strength of character and one ‘good grief woman, someone needs to keep you in line’ when I said something that made him particularly exasperated, he seemed to not be phased by my intelligence or my argumentative streak. I liked that. I liked him. Also, I realized as I watched him swallow from his glass and found myself staring at his mouth for the umpteenth time, I was beginning to feel real pangs of lust.
By the time it got to half eleven I was regretting suggesting we meet midweek. My 6am start was already looking like it would only happen with the help of coffee and a chocolate croissant, and it was with real regret that I suggested we get the bill. He paid, waving away my debit card like he was shooing a fly, something I was suddenly grateful for when I caught an upside-down glimpse of how much exactly this evening had cost him. We walked to the taxi rank and waited for a car to pull up. I hopped from foot to foot to keep warm while we waited; the evening was now downright cold even with his overcoat, which he’d given me custody of once more. He was standing in front of me, suddenly looking less assured than he had at the beginning of the night. Maybe it was because his tie was loosened and his jacket more crumpled, but he suddenly looked more approachable and prone to the same nerves as the rest of us. He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve had a really good night tonight, actually.’
I laughed. ‘Actually? You sound surprised.’
He started to stammer the beginning of a response to clarify but, bearing in mind how I’d really come on the date out of forbearance, I felt mean making him feel awkward about it. ‘It’s OK,’ I grinned. ‘I’m surprised too. You’re much better company than I thought you would be when we first met.’
The look on his face was a picture, a look of confusion as he tried to work out whether to focus on the compliment or the insult in my words. As he opened his mouth to speak I stopped him, leaning forward to kiss him. For a second I had free rein, but then his surprise at my sudden move dissipated and his tongue was vying with mine. He tasted of red wine and red meat, a fact that made me smile against his mouth for a second before the insistence of his tongue drew me back into the kiss. His kiss was assured, strong, his lips firm on mine, his tongue assaulting my mouth. His hands enclosed my wrists, drawing me closer by pulling them behind my back, urging me into him. I felt a taxi pull into the empty rank beside us and began to pull away, but his hands held me tight, his mouth still on mine as I moaned into his mouth, a sound of arousal and a little regret. As he finally let me pull away we looked at each other dumbstruck for a second, our breathing heavy, and then before he had a chance to speak I hopped in the cab, throwing a brief ‘see ya’ over my shoulder as I slammed the door. I told the driver where I wanted to go and as he pulled off I smiled and waved at James, whose mouth was agape, presumably because normally his dates didn’t finish with the woman he was with making such an obvious escape. I giggled at his face and stuck my tongue out at him, watching the grin split his face as he disappeared from view. As I turned back into my seat I caught the cab driver’s eyes in his rear view mirror.
‘Good night then, was it?’
My lips, swollen with kisses, curved into a smile in spite of myself. ‘Actually, it really was.’
By the time I got home he’d already texted me.
You’re lucky I only waited a
couple of minutes for a second
cab or I’d have put you over
my knee the next time
I saw you.
I felt twinge of excitement at ‘next time’. Maybe I wasn’t the only one keen for the kissing to resume.
Promises, promises : P
I paused, my fingers over the buttons of my phone, wondering whether to reply to the spanking threat directly. Three glasses of wine and still on a kissing high, I threw caution to the wind.
Anyway, I doubt you’d spank
hard enough to hurt: P.
By the time I’d got out of the cab and into my flat he’d replied again.
‘Why, have you been
spanked a lot?’
I decided it was probably safest not to reply. James was lovely but if a slightly pissed woman launching herself at him for a kiss left him agog, then hearing some of the vagaries of my sex life might leave him traumatized. It’s one thing knowing he’s too vanilla for anything to really happen; it’s another to deliberately scupper it before anything starts. I went to bed, but not before my phone had pinged at a follow-up text:
Also, you stole my coat.
Bum. I suppose I’d have to see him again now …
Never before have I met a man so keen to flirt by text. Don’t get me wrong, he was clearly busy. While I had very little idea what stockbrokers actually did, I assumed it was high pressure and long hours for good financial reward. But in between all the work, the early mornings, the corporate entertaining, a random business trip to Geneva and, of course, the cycling (so that’s why he looked so buff) he still had plenty of time to send me texts or emails, about anything and everything. If he read somethi
ng he thought I would be interested in he would mail me a link to it. He texted me a picture of an error on a restaurant menu because he knew it would enrage the grammar fascist part of me. He even sent a comment through about the story I’d written about him, which made me blush because I’d filed the copy before our first dinner and, while it was perfectly polite, it felt to me very much like it had a subtext of this man is a knob. Thankfully he didn’t notice. Or if he did he was too charmed by me to say anything. Who knows? Maybe in a world of yes-women he found me quaint.
I basked in his attention, all the while trying desperately to remind myself that it didn’t mean anything and that people like him did not end up with people like me, even if I had wanted to date him. Which I wasn’t sure I did. There was bound to be some down side to it, if I were given enough time to figure it out. The worrying thing was that every extra message just made me like him more. I went through phases of trying to restrain the urge to reply for a while, trying to hide how keen I was, but I found it hugely challenging. I found myself rereading his messages over and over, unable to stop myself tapping out at least a brief few lines of response. He was articulate, funny and referenced the West Wing, which is a good barometer of character as far as I’m concerned. We slowly found out more about each other, our day-to-day lives and the things we had in common. There was flirting, and he made a few comments that made me feel butterflies in my stomach – or would have if I didn’t think the kiss I’d given him at the taxi rank had freaked him out a little. It was his initial reaction to that kiss that made me decide he really couldn’t cope with the kind of sex I now knew was a deal breaker for me. Even knowing that, even knowing all the things that made us incompatible – our bank balances, social standing and political views, which were all at opposite ends of the spectrum – I found myself wistfully thinking about him. I liked him, but tried to convince myself he couldn’t be that amazing at all. Self-preservation? Possibly. But also realism. I was not ready for a broken heart.
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 14