One Sunday at the beginning of April, Christopher texted me to ask if I was in London. ‘Sure. Do you want to meet up?’ I replied. I was surprised that he hadn’t travelled back to Hastings, where his wife and children lived, for the weekend. ‘Would you mind coming round? It’s just, I don’t know what to do. My wife has found out that I’m into domination and she’s devastated. Wants a divorce and sole custody of the children.’
Oh God. Poor guy. I grimaced. Desperation seeped out of each electronic character. How could I say anything but yes? That evening, dressed in jeans, knee-high boots and a fitted checked shirt, I turned up at Christopher’s flat. His eyes were practically swollen shut with a day and a night’s worth of sobbing, yet he was still genial, and immediately offered me a drink. All he had was champagne. ‘That’s a barrister-who-lives-alone’s fridge for you,’ he joked sardonically.
As Christopher hunted for champagne flutes, I went to sit down in the living room, and tried hard not to drink in the idyllic photos of him and his Monica Bellucci-alike wife on their engagement; him and his wife at a ski lodge in the Alps for New Year; him and his wife holidaying on a yacht in Capri with his three catalogue-cute children, all wind-whipped hair and blithe smiles.
‘How are you?’ I asked him when he finally came and sat down with our drinks.
‘Oh, you know I didn’t really want to go there. But I just . . . well, who else can I talk to about it?’
Over the course of the next half hour he described a torturous evening where his wife had found his collection of anal toys and confronted him about them. At first she had been convinced he’d been having an affair, ‘which would actually have been more palatable to her’, and that he’d been using the toys on another woman. ‘But when I explained to her that it was just my kink, she told me I made her feel sick, that she didn’t want me near the children any more.’
‘Well, it’s probably more the shock of her finding out that she didn’t know you as well as she thought she did that upset her, rather than what she actually found out.’
I didn’t really believe what I was saying, but I had to try and offer him some comfort, some hope. I didn’t want to compound his sense of shame. If only he’d been able to tell his wife in the first place.
‘Would you dominate me, Jade? It would make me feel better.’
I hesitated. I wasn’t keen on using domination as a kind of emotional therapy for someone so clearly distressed. In fact, it had always been one of the rules. Don’t dominate someone if you think they run the risk of harming themselves with it.
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, Christopher?’ I asked him. ‘Do you think you’re in the right head space for this?’
‘Oh, I think so. A bit of self-abasement couldn’t possibly make me feel emptier than I already do.’
‘You’d better lose some clothes, then,’ I ordered him, snapping into character. We would start, I decided, but I would scrutinise his every slight response as we played, and if I had even the smallest suspicion he was not OK, I was going to stop.
Once Christopher had stripped to his briefs, male briefs for once, I ordered him to bend over the bed and began hand-spanking him. He was very quiet. After a minute or two I asked him if he was OK. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply. Then he stood up. ‘But you’re right. I’m not really in the head space for it.’
Phew. Thank God he’d had the self-awareness to recognise that. I gave him a hug. ‘Let’s go back next door, and just have a drink, yes?’ He nodded and smiled. I could see that he too was relieved.
Settled on the couch, Christopher began talking about his marital problems again. For nearly two hours I sat and listened and nodded my head sympathetically as he traced back through every detail of detachment and discord he’d experienced with his wife. And then the wife before. And then the wife before that. Eventually he was analysing his relationship with his mother. ‘You know, she was just so hard to please. She never told us she loved us or that she was proud of us and I only remember her kissing me once. When I broke my leg. I was six.’
Listening to Christopher made me feel terribly sorry for him but I also felt uncomfortable. I was effectively playing the role of counsellor here, and I wasn’t qualified to do so.
‘How do you think I can win her back, Jade?’
Oh God. How the hell could I answer that?
‘I think you have to wait for her to come to you now. And take some time for yourself.’ It was awful, generic advice but surely he couldn’t come to any harm if he followed it. This was exhausting. I had to get him on to something else. Finally, he changed the topic.
‘So what are you going to do about the domming when a handsome man threatens to ride off into the sunset with you?’
I laughed. ‘Like that’s going to happen! I don’t think I’m the type to be kidnapped!’
‘You’re not dating anyone then? No one in mind?’
‘No, no,’ I replied. ‘Although . . .’ I wasn’t going to tell Christopher about Sebastian. I knew he wasn’t due back from Cape Town for another month. And yet, three months since I’d met him, I still couldn’t shake him from my daily fantasies.
‘Anyway, how’s the Bar? Tell me about any scandalous trials you have coming up . . .’
‘Well, you know I can’t divulge proper details. But since it’s you . . .’
After twenty more minutes of relaxed chatter, I decided that I’d successfully distracted Christopher from his impending divorce. Time to go.
‘Thank you for coming, Jade. I really, really do appreciate it. Could we do it again sometime? You’re such a good listener. I went to a counsellor once, cost me heaps of money, but they didn’t get me the way you do.’
I hesitated for a second. This really wasn’t the way to let a relationship with a client go. He was paying me heaps of money too, wasn’t he? I supposed there was no harm in just chatting, so long as he didn’t actually expect me to give him detailed advice.
‘Sure,’ I smiled, a little reluctantly.
As he walked me to the door, I waited for him to offer the money he usually kept rolled up on top of the bedside cabinet for me. Only, thinking back now to when we’d been in the bedroom, I couldn’t remember seeing any money. Shit.
‘Well, take care.’ He hugged me to him once again. ‘Do you need something for a taxi ride home?’ I nodded dumbly. So that’s what he meant about the counsellor. Clearly he had no intention of offering me anything here. I knew what Sapphire would have done. She’d have politely but firmly explained that her time always came at a price. But I couldn’t. Was it even up to him to realise that, or up to me to have clarified it before I arrived? The boundaries had been blurred before I’d even arrived.
I waited until the taxi had pulled out of view of Christopher’s flat and then asked the taxi driver to drop me off there instead. I might as well save the £60 fare and get the tube. At least I wouldn’t have ‘worked’ entirely for free.
On the way home I thought over the evening’s events. I was angry with myself for spoiling a perfectly good professional relationship by trying to be Christopher’s friend. But then, what else could I have done but offer Christopher comfort? I could not have gone. But that didn’t feel humane. He was a reasonable man, I was sure the money issue could have been rectified with a quick phone call. But for some reason, I was disinclined to do that. Instead, I took the evening’s mishaps as a sign that it really was time for me to move on.
Thankfully, I met my self-imposed deadline. On 30 April I found out that I secured my first proper full-time paying journalism job on an independent politics publication. When I rang my dad to tell him, I laughed with grateful relief. So did he. ‘Just your brother to worry about now!’
Once I began the job I was more tired, more stressed, and had a lot less fun than I’d enjoyed while I’d been domming, but finally I could relax about the direction my life was taking. And yet still I felt a yearning. I no longer missed Christos, exactly, but I missed the joy and intimacy of that relationshi
p. Perhaps I was destined merely to have a string of perfectly pleasant but innocuous relationships. Perhaps I’d had my fill of love.
I talked about it with Gina as we browsed the Victoria and Albert the weekend before Easter. ‘It’s not as though I believe in The One, you know I don’t,’ I told her. ‘But when you’ve had such a perfect relationship, is everything after doomed to dissatisfaction?’
‘But it wasn’t perfect with Christos, Nichi,’ Gina wisely pointed out. ‘You know very well it wasn’t.’
‘Well, as perfect AS then!’ I replied. ‘Anyway, I’m not looking for perfection. I’m looking for real, raw passion and a soul connection. I know you’re going to think this is stupid, Gina, but that guy I met at the end of last year, I, I . . .’
I didn’t dare say the next bit out loud.
‘Sebastian, wasn’t he called? You think he had it?’
I couldn’t look at Gina. ‘But Sapphire and Violet quite rightly tried to put me off him. I mean, I’ve heard so many horror stories about BDSM relationships, “lifestylers” you call them. I’d be stupid to go there. You think I’m stupid.’
‘No of course I don’t! Look, forget about the BDSM bit. Sometimes you just get a feeling about someone. I’m sure even kinksters get that!’
‘Yes!’ I said with relief. Being able to admit this to Gina stopped it from feeling so delusional. My thoughts about any potential connection with Sebastian were becoming an obsession, despite Sapphire’s warning.
‘But the thing is, the feeling I got about Sebastian was different from how I felt with Christos. It wasn’t that kind of romance. It was . . . it reminded me of this John Donne poem, “The Ecstasy” I think it’s called. “Our eyebeams twisted and did thread our eyes upon one double string”.’
Gina raised an eyebrow at me. The Metaphysical poets weren’t really her forte. I pressed on.
‘There’s something about the idea of twisted eye beams that’s so, well . . . it’s about something darker than love.’
‘Well, then,’ Gina teased, ‘I suggest we get out of this place. Something tells me you’re not going to find Sebastian here.’
A couple of days later, Sapphire called. She’d seen from my Facebook status update that I had a proper job and phoned me to ask how I was getting on. I was glad she’d rung. Hearing her voice made that recent, if surreal, part of my life feel less cut off from my current reality. ‘So how’s life as a real slave, Nichi? Not tempted back to the dark side?’
‘No, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Although I do miss the dressing up!’
‘Well, you should come to this spring fetish ball I’m going to on the weekend! Remember that fetish club where we sometimes used to tout for clients? Well, they’re having what I’m assured will be a splendid kink party on Saturday night. There’s a lot of great stage acts too, male burlesque and amazing go-go dancers.’
I was a little wary of seeing Sapphire again. We hadn’t actually met up since the night I lost my strap-on virginity.
‘Besides, I miss you!’ she said, as if sensing and seeking to quell my anxieties with one simple phrase.
‘I miss you, too.’ It was true. We had become so close over the course of my apprenticeship in domming. And hang on a minute, wasn’t this the party Violet had mentioned over lunch when she’d cried over Dan? The party that Sebastian was due back in town for?
‘Is Violet going?’ I asked. If Violet was going then there was the chance, just the minutest, grain-of-sand, inkling of a chance, that Sebastian might be there too.
‘Yeah, of course! She’s currently got some new Master – not Dan – play-pimping her out. They go to these parties and he offers her up to the highest bidder!’
‘The highest bidder?’ I was horrified.
‘Oh, not like that! I mean, some guy propositions her with a domination offer. She has to relay it to her Master and then he decides whether he thinks she’s “earned” it or not in service to him.’
‘Doesn’t Violet wear herself out with these complex D/s games?’
Sapphire laughed. ‘You know how it goes. Once you get suckered into these kinds of relationships, you’re always looking for the next high!’
‘What are we dressing as?’ I asked Sapphire.
‘Ha! Good girl! I don’t know. Why don’t we just full-on fetish it up? You can wear my rubber prom dress if you like.’
‘You’re on.’
But the fetish night never materialised. On Saturday morning Sapphire texted me to tell that she had a truly appalling migraine and that she was going to have to cancel.
It was a good thing she didn’t call. There was no way I’d have been able to hide my grievous disappointment. I was so eager to see Sebastian again, and the idea that he might go and meet some other curious little thing with submissive tendencies roused me to a sense of very slight, but very real, jealousy.
This was silly. Why was I wasting my time fantasising about someone I might never meet again?
I had to see him.
I was going to chance it. Violet would give me his number, wouldn’t she? Come on, Mistress Jade, take the man if you want him!
I toyed with the idea of asking Violet for his number for the best part of a day. What could I use as a pretext? I know! The painting he’d done for her!
‘Hey Violet, it’s Jade, hope you’re well. Could I possibly have your friend Sebastian’s number btw? I know of a commission he might be interested in . . .’
Perfect, perfect. Innocuous. Valid. There was no way she would suspect a thing.
Violet replied within a few minutes with the digits. Then she followed it up with this: ‘Commission? To spank your ass I presume? ;)’
Damn it! Had it really been that transparent at the party that I was knee-shakingly, lip-poutingly, eye-lash-flutteringly head over heels in lust with him? Apparently so.
But who cared. I had what I wanted.
Now, to text him. I agonised even longer over this. I didn’t want to pretend I had a commission for him. I was just going to be bold and ask him if he wanted to have a drink. But what if Violet told him what I’d done? That would make me look stupid. Although I’d look stupider if I misled him with the offer of work. No, I just had to play this straight.
I wrote the message out six times. Then I got a grip. ‘Hey Sebastian, it’s Jade. Hope you’re well and that Africa was’ . . . was what? A great place to serve your sex drive as you tied up a multitude of women? Let’s not mention Africa. ‘Hope you’re well. Would you like to meet for a drink some time? x’
Simple is best. Send. Send it, Nichi! Finally I sent it.
Now I had to switch off my phone and forget I had one. Or . . . or I could just read his immediate reply!
‘Hey Jade, lovely to hear from you! A drink would be great. Next Friday? Sx’
CHAPTER 14
Our first date was scheduled for the following Friday evening. It was the end of a torturous week at the office for me; press week at the magazine, which meant 7 a.m. starts and 10 p.m. finishes. On deadline Friday at around 1 p.m., the office erupted into a volcano of stress when it turned out that one of our contributors, whose 5,000-word feature had yet to materialise, had actually barely started writing it. But I managed to agree a new deadline and broker peace between him and my editor. Chanelling my erotic energy into professional problem-solving kept me from falling into a nervous haze of fret and over-analysis about my date with Sebastian. It also stopped me from sneaking off to the toilet to examine my face and figure in the mirror for the eleven-hundredth time.
Hour conceded to hour and eventually it was 5.03 p.m. and there were just fifty-seven minutes separating me from the sight of the lustrous Sebastian. Was I suitably dressed, I wondered? I didn’t want it to be totally obvious that I’d been waiting for this ever since the party at Violet’s, so I’d decided not to change my work clothes, consisting of a black sheer silk shirt, black lambswool sweater, tight black pencil skirt – which admittedly did hug my bottom just so.
My only
concession to datedom was to wear stockings rather than tights. It was a mere mental boost. I was adamant there would be no other need for them.
On top of that went my scarlet Cossack coat and a tawny Russian hat. It should have been spring but along with a resurrected Lord, Easter had brought snow, and there were still icy clots of it on the ground. Before I left the office I swapped my riding boots for monochrome snakeskin heels – albeit heels with straps, which should ensure I could navigate through the snow without falling over.
My boss smiled at me on the way out. ‘Well, you look nice, Nichi. Off out for drinks?’ It was a perfectly innocuous enquiry but I blushed, in spite of myself.
‘Yes, just going to meet a friend.’
He smiled at me, nodded approvingly. ‘Lovely hat. You look like. . . .’ He twisted his lips as he searched for the correct comparison.
‘An oligarch’s mistress?’ I substituted for him teasingly.
‘No, no, I was going to say a Russian princess. Or at least a heroine from a Russian novel.’
OK, Nichi time to go. I often found myself engaged in these inappropriately suggestive banter rolls with older men. Damn the domming, I thought. I was still adjusting to regular working life.
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