The Secret Life of a Submissive

The phone rang at the other end – once, twice, three times, four. How long before hanging on for the pick-up came across as desperate? Maybe he wasn’t in; maybe I’d dialled the wrong number.

‘Hello,’ said a deep, cultured male voice.

‘Hello, Max?’ I said. ‘It’s Sarah.’

‘Sarah, great to hear from you. I’m really pleased you called,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

Any nervousness I had had about talking to him evaporated within seconds. Max’s voice was warm and tinged with good humour. He was easy to talk to from the first sentence, answered everything I asked him without hesitation, and made me laugh. It also soon became clear during our first phone call that he was many, many other things besides a Dom.

He liked to cook, liked the theatre, films, travel, books and music, but that natural need to be in charge and take control had informed his whole life and the choices he had made. He ran a successful business, he was confident and articulate, and while his sexual preferences weren’t something he broadcast in his everyday life they were something he was completely at ease with. He was a breath of fresh air.

Over the next couple of weeks we spoke most evenings, until it became obvious that the next step was meeting or calling it a day.

‘So,’ said Max at the end of a marathon session on the phone, ‘would you like to meet?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

‘But?’ he prompted. I knew he’d heard it in my voice.

We’d got on really well on the phone and chatted for hours, but I was worried that when we met we might not be what the other had imagined. I told him so.

‘There’s only one way to find out. But before we meet, we need to talk about how things progress from here. I want you to understand that, for me, BDSM is a real-life thing –’

‘I know,’ I began. ‘We’ve talked –’

‘You need to understand what you’re getting into.’ Max sounded cool and businesslike. ‘There are rules of engagement that we both need to observe when we play together. I’ve drawn up a contract.’

‘Are you serious?’ I said. I’d seen and written contracts in BDSM novels but I wasn’t sure that they existed in real-life BDSM relationships.

‘Contracts are a big part of the BDSM life. It’s for my protection as much as yours. Have you thought about how one of your friends would react if she came in and found you tied up and me horsewhipping you?’

I hadn’t.

‘The contract shows that you’ve given me consent. I know we’ve talked about the things that turn us both on, but we also need to discuss the point beyond which you are not prepared to go, and the things you find unacceptable.’

‘Surely those things are obvious?’

He laughed. ‘You would have thought so, wouldn’t you, but it’s better if they’re spelled out and down on paper.’

I said it all sounded a bit formal.

‘It is,’ Max said. ‘We’re moving this up a gear. You need to learn to be frank and honest with me – the relationship between Dom and sub is far more open and intimate than one between straight couples. And you’ll need to choose safe words.’

I’d written about safe words in my books, so I knew what they were: they’re used between BDSM partners to stop any activity that is going too far. Max wanted me to choose three: one that would tell him that everything was OK, should he ask, one for ‘slow down’ and one for ‘stop’.

For the first time since we’d started to talk on the phone I felt uneasy and nervous, and he picked that up. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I know you’re unsure about what you can cope with, but we can only find your limits by trial and error. We’ll take it really slowly. And for my part of the bargain I promise I’ll keep you safe, answer your questions as best I can and try to give you all the things you’re looking for.’

‘And all this is in writing?’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Also when we’re playing I will expect you to give me total and complete obedience.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Really?’

‘It’s not negotiable,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell! I need to think about that.’

Max laughed. ‘OK. Well, I’m not going anywhere. You OK?’

‘I’m fine. I suppose I’m just coming to realize what a big thing this can be.’

‘It changes your life for ever,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

After I had hung up I read and re-read everything he had sent me.

Max had been married in his early twenties and had adult children, and was separated from his long-term girlfriend, Abby, with whom he had had a daughter. She was called Ellie and she was six. He and Abby had parted amicably and he was still in contact with her, and despite Abby moving halfway across the country he saw Ellie regularly. He also had a good relationship with his ex-wife and his grown-up children. He seemed ideal, but endless phone conversations and half-a-dozen emails were certainly no guarantee that he was what I was looking for, nor that he was telling the truth: anyone can be anyone on the phone.

What did I do next? I went downstairs, made a mug of tea and then picked the phone up and dialled his number. Max picked up on the second ring.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘That was quick.’

‘Can we meet?’ I said. ‘Before I bottle out.’

‘Of course,’ Max said. ‘How about lunch next week?’

Max insisted I choose the place and the time, so that I would feel safe. The rules were that I picked somewhere very public but with the potential for privacy – somewhere where, if we saw each other and didn’t like what we saw, we could smile and walk on. No games here with text messages. Max said if we didn’t click he would have no problem with either of us calling it a day and that I shouldn’t either. And lastly I should choose somewhere where we could actually get a decent lunch if we liked the look of each other, although he was quick to remind me that at this point there were no strings.

I suggested we meet outside Norwich Cathedral, which wasn’t that far from where I lived. I’d worked in Norwich for four years at the end of the 1990s and still had lots of friends there; the shopping is fabulous, and there are some great places to eat in and loads of places to wander round – all of which meant I had places to go to and people to see if the meeting with Max didn’t work out.

So it seemed a good choice. We could take a look around inside the cathedral and talk in relative privacy. There were a couple of good restaurants and some nice cafés all within easy walking distance. Being a staunch atheist, Max thought the cathedral was a great idea.

At this point I was feeling good, a bit nervous maybe, a little bit excited, but in a good way, and certainly in control. Then Max sent me another email and the balance of power began to subtly shift:

Dear Sarah

It was good to speak this evening and I’m delighted that we are finally going to meet. In future if we continue with our liaison you will call me Sir unless given permission to do otherwise. In the hearing of other people you may call me Max.

When we meet you will wear a white blouse, loose-fitting dark skirt and high-heeled shoes.

You will also wear clean white underwear and black stockings. You may choose whether to wear a suspender belt or not; if you make the wrong choice you will be punished.

You may wear a suitable coat.

You will measure the size of your neck and wrists and let me know the measurements so that I can have a collar and cuffs made for you.

You may be physically examined to see if you complied exactly with my instructions.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot: I’m really looking forward to meeting you at last. See you next week.