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How I Became a Dom – My BDSM Story


6 Minute Read

I’ve been asked to write my personal journey with the BDSM world but first of all I thought I’d let you know the rules when it comes to playing in this arena.

1) Consent is Key. No means No. Anyone defying consent is an abuser at least and well I’ll let you dear reader think what that means at worst.

2) A Submissive (Sub) has to have boundaries. These are the activities where there is an absolute ‘no’ in place. If their Dom overrides them, then this is also abuse. It breaks the consensual agreement.

3) There has to be a safeword in any play. This can be used at anytime the sub wants play to stop.

It’s also important to understand that - To Dom is to Protect and Care. Also that the Dom has control but the Sub the power.

Also re roles. The Dom gives the Sub what they need. Let's also expel a few myths. The Dom person is not domineering or controlling. A Dom is given control by the Sub. The Sub is not a doormat or a second class citizen or for that matter weak. It takes strength to be a Sub.

I fell into the London Fetish scene 10 years ago. To tell you how and why is a story in itself. Suffice to say my journey as a Dom started as a Sub.

So was it down to fate that I became a Sub. However I was given my first Domme (the female term) /Sub experience in a club for my birthday so I would ‘Get it‘.

This woman, who has now become a very dear friend, used to be a professional domme. In other words, a Dominatrix. Her clients would book her for a fee and she would dom them. She gave me my first ever play. Domming someone is giving them what they want with the goal of orgasm sometimes. From a professional standpoint, Dommes don’t do personal services. Yet their clients may gratify themselves if she allows it and normally this happens nowhere near the Domme.

On this initial occasion, I wasn’t in a serious state of sexual arousal after she had finished but I was - I later learnt - in subspace. Domming a Sub is about mixing sensations. In brief, endorphins come from certain types of pain – for instance, being spanked, flogged or having one’s hair pulled. Serotonin is produced by pleasure and the skin surface itself is a huge erogenous zone. Mix in genital stimulation and you get adrenaline.

There is a chemical reaction as well as mental and physical. In fact, the physical is the least important although it has its place. BDSM is mostly a mental pursuit. What did she do? Well, I was butt naked in a club I’d never been to before, she spanked my arse and stroked it seductively too. She caressed my back, then flogged it.

This Domme was talking to me all the time. She whispered in my ear that I should say ‘Red‘ at anytime and she would stop. I melt when someone whispers in this way and I’m sure she knew that. I was a mess in a good way after she had finished. I’ve had my fair share of pleasure but this was a WOW subspace.

However even during this intense play, I was taking in lots of information about how she dommed. To this day, I use some of her techniques.

So the bar was set high. I bounced around the scene. I hooked up with some Dommes and had a few relationships where I was their Sub. It dawned on me pretty quickly that as a Sub, you are the focus of your Dom. Also having a woman in charge of you, your actions and sensations is sensual.

I’m sure lots of men reading this will be thinking - “No woman is going to domme me.” Well, if you find a cool Domme, try it. I did for six years and I learnt loads about myself and my body. For instance, do you guys know where your G spot is? Find a woman who does and can touch it skillfully - that’s it all your birthdays and Xmas’ in one big gift.

What I can say is in those six years as a Sub, I knew what I was getting myself into. I consented to everything that happened. I even lost my strap-on virginity. And I always felt I had the power to get up and walk away. I cannot reiterate this enough. The Sub always has a choice.

So we move forwards to four years ago. I kept bumping into a certain woman at clubs, after a few chats and hanging out she asked me to dom her. I had a fair idea of what to do from studying my own Dom before.

I managed to borrow a few floggers and other equipment. I strapped her to a cross and then remembering my first Sub/Dom scene I copied what that Domme did to me. Communicating, stroking flogging and more. It was at this juncture that I knew I liked it, being a Dom, that is.

“‘Do you like having your hair pulled?” I asked. “I love it” came the reply. I kept asking her questions whilst unleashing my inner Dom. It was horny as hell and I also got the same kind of buzz as I did as a sub. Dom Rush I called it. After we played, she clung onto me for dear life. I had given her what she wanted and in the way she wanted it. That’s when the penny dropped. She trusted me.

Now I’ve had two Subs. Both times we sat down and discussed the hard limits they have. One of my Subs hated massage. I love giving that but It was a boundary for her. I could flog her, have sex with in any orifice, yet massage was not allowed. Also it was not in my edict to ask why.

As I stated in point 1 at the beginning of this piece, “No” means “no”. Communication is the key. I think I’ve spent more time talking to my Subs than I ever did in my vanilla relationships. In my Dom role, it’s easy to discuss these aspects of the relationship with a prospective Sub.

Being a Dom is giving the Sub what they want. It's not the Dom doing what they want to the Sub. The Sub / Dom dynamic is built on skillful connection, trust, respect and empathy. So the more you dom, the more the sub surrenders. It’s a circle of energy. If you do it with the right person then it can also be highly sexual. When I hear my sub beg to come, it’s such a turn on. And when a Sub has to beg, they also often get turned on.

I really enjoy being a Dom now. I’m confident in my abilities and yet humble at the same time. I hope. My Subs have been strong independent women but behind closed doors they like to relinquish control in the ways they wish, fo course.They want a man who can give them what they want, how they want and when they want. One key to being a Dom is knowing when they want you to be in control!

Get it right and boy can you have some great debauchery.

Silver is the Dungeon Master at DVS on 5th August. First timers and newbies welcome! For further details click on the FB Event page here.

You can also find him at Flamefest 18-20th August, the Kink Rave Festival in Kent. Full info on the FB page here.

The Erotic Guide to London: Torture Garden


1 Minute Read

I’m standing in a queue at least 100 yards long leading to the doorway of a club opposite Victoria Station. In front of me is a man, 6’7” or thereabouts, dressed in a latex black catsuit and matching thigh length high heel boots. The woman next to him is Japanese and sporting an itsy bitsy white rubber bikini that barely covers her breasts and bum.  As for me, I’ve gone all out and am wearing a knee length A-Line skirt of my own creation crafted from a clear vinyl, gold sparkle shower curtain, a bronze lace embossed rubber bra, black vintage waist cincher, fishnet stockings and 6” high heels.  I’m about to enter Torture Garden, the most famous fetish club in the world, where the torture for the majority of attendees comes in the form of the fashion police on the door.

Just in case you think I’m joking, here’s what was written on the ticket to the event, the TG London Fetish Weekend Ball, leaving me in no doubt as to what I could expect on the night:

“TG is an extreme event with an extreme dress code, General no’s include: camo, suits (yes, even with a hat), denim (even black), cotton shirts, and regular trousers or normal party dresses or cotton underwear. Our dress code is FULL FETISH FANTASY, outfits must be head to toe effort, not just a gesture towards the dress code. You can email info@torturegarden.com before the night to check your outfit is ok.”

My two friends, visiting from NYC, are accompanying me. “Do you think they’ll let me in?” says Selina. She’s braless, except for some rope arranged ‘Shibari’ style over and under her humongous breasts. A black sheer long skirt covers her lower half incorporating a corset around her midriff. Black knee length biker boots complete her ensemble. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,” I reply, not entirely sarcastic.

We enter the club where, once again, we join another queue, this one for the cloakroom. The line is winding its way up the staircase, where men and women are in various stages of undress while waiting to check in their duffel bags and coats. Off comes the daywear to be replaced by skimpy latex shorts or trousers, rubber dresses, uniforms or, occasionally nothing except some strategically placed electrical tape or a bit of cling film. Twenty minutes later, we’re finally inside the club where two separate sound systems are competing for their own dominance across the venue’s two floors.

Torture Garden is a rotating club, meaning they don’t have a permanent venue. Tonight we’re at the former home of Pasha in Victoria but we could have just as easily been at the Coronet in Elephant and Castle where the club often resides. There the former cinema’s space, featuring half a dozen rooms of various sizes along with a seated balcony overlooking a stage, lend themselves to the performances and BDSM play for which the club has become known - that and dancing, drinking and general debauchery. At Pasha one of the dungeon areas nearly backs onto the bar. The ‘couples’ area is not so much an area as a walkway along which some sofas have been positioned, perfect for the exhibitionists, not so great for those who prefer somewhere a little more discreet to shag. To top it all off, we’re packed like rubber clad sardines into the place. This is not my idea of fun.

The club is full to overflowing with over a thousand people of various ages and sexes. Despite the endless queuing and the club's name, the vibe is friendly and fun. In my ten years on the scene, I've yet to see a drunken fight at TG. Spotting a spare sofa on the periphery of one of the ‘dungeon areas,’ we take a seat. I’m relieved. My feet feel as if I’ve been walking over hot coals. Lori, my femme Domme companion, with a penchant for flogging subservient men, has brought her club bag, a mock leather tripod roll filled with her favourite instruments of pain. My own Dom, who is absent on this occasion, has requested that I abstain from any activity unless it’s with his permission. So it’s up to Selina and whoever else volunteers to take up a position on one of the spanking benches to satisfy Lori’s desire. There is no shortage of willing subs. Lori is in her element.

Between the rubber and leather-clad audience gathering around the dungeon area and those on the various pieces of equipment within the space, it’s hard to know where to look. If you’re into people watching, Torture Garden is an orgy of visual treats. For those who think their clubbing days are well behind them, it’s comforting to see so many who are well past their clubbing heyday enjoying themselves.

For the next two hours, Lori has a ball trying out her new lilac vinyl flogger on Selina along with a sixty-something man dressed in an ankle length tutu and, yes, me. It turns out my Dom doesn’t mind me being flogged as long as the person holding the flogger doesn’t have a dick.

The only genuine torture of the night turns out to be when we leave and encounter yet another long queue leading to the cloakroom. The attendants are unused to so many customers with quite so much baggage. Well, that’s Torture Garden. My advice: if you go, leave your baggage behind.

The Frenchman: Dinner and Dungeon


4 Minute Read

The next time I saw the Frenchman he was holed up in luxury at Blakes. He'd thoughtfully and firmly requested I join him for two days. The morning of his arrival from Paris I was standing at my lingerie drawer, wondering what vibe I wanted to convey. Pink would be wrong. He had already found my inner slut. I couldn't go backwards so I opted for expensive whore. It wouldn't last anyway. He liked naked. A lot of naked.

He sent a text from the hotel.

“I may have a surprise for you.”

At that point my imagination boarded a fighter jet and did a 360-degree roll. Off I went into erotic meltdown for a couple of hours, distracted and dreamy to the point where lifting silk lingerie from a drawer felt ponderous. When I re-entered the world, I thought he'd organised a threesome. I hoped he wasn't going to surprise me with a woman though. I have no idea what the point of an extra woman is in sexual liaisons. I find an additional man far more beneficial to my needs. Anyway, I turned up and the room was empty except for him.

“You missed the surprise,” he said. "There was a man here I wanted you to meet."

Damn.Had I been too tardy for my threesome? Did our third have another more pressing engagement?

He led me over to the Zen seating area. On the table was an assortment of leather floggers, whips and various instruments of discipline, all just waiting for the perfect collective noun.

His eyes shone with the expected delight of a man who had just purchased new tools.

“The guy who makes these just delivered them to me. You could have met him.” He sounded extremely disappointed that I hadn't sighted the craftsman of pain.

He picked up something that looked like a whip but was much shorter and came to a thick, short point at the end.

“Zis one is very arrsh.”

"Harsh?"

'Yes.But it is not for you. Too arrsh." That one was for his Japanese slave. She was a pain slut. "Slaves are such hard work, " he remarked. They're so needy and selfish." I made a note never to have one. From lunchtime into the evening, at least I think it was evening, it became a hazy, erotic blur. We had sex: well actually we didn't have sex, he fucked me. We didn’t leave the room. I couldn’t anyway since I was tied up. At some point, mid-evening we napped. Then we fucked again. He finally let me have an orgasm which was good of him and in my Zen surroundings, suitably transcendent. Room service arrived and he kept me tied up, naked. They were young waiters, two guys, who were very happy to see me and when he said “Thank you,” they quickly shot back with “No, thank YOU sir.”

"You bastard."

"Most ungrateful. You should thank me like they did."

He had a meeting off-site the next morning so I was allowed to leave the lust nest. Just as I was on the verge of remembering who I was in real life, he called. “Where are you?”

“South Ken. Down the road. Aren’t you at lunch?”

“I came back to have lunch with you. See you in a minute. I am in the restaurant. Hurry.”

I didn’t want to miss the school bell. The Frenchman is strict about that stuff.

We sat in the restaurant at Blakes where he managed to casually eat noodles, while putting his other hand up my skirt. "Tonight I have a surprise for you. Something you have not done." Only the week before I'd ticked off another must-do when I went to Legoland with my godchildren. Anyway, it was just your average date. We went to Honey & Co where we ate wonderful food, debated falafel recipes and he bought me the restaurant's cookery book. After that he took me to a dungeon owned by a former pro-domme, told me to remove my clothes, put a dog collar and leash around my neck and tied me up. I looked rather good. Then he led me to a cage, indicating that I should get in. Unsure what the modus operandi was, I assumed a suitably feral pose while he gave me a highly informative running commentary about the dungeon, in the friendly manner of a tourist guide. Then he let me out, tied me face down on a bench, blindfolded me and spent the next couple of hours doing beautiful and terrible things that made me shiver. He scooped up my ravished body, dressed me and said, “Let’s go back to the hotel. I have not finished with you yet." Indeed he had not. Five denials of orgasm later and I was almost in tears until he finally let me have it. Then he invited me to Paris. Because of course I wanted more.

These Boots are Made for … Licking


1 Minute Read

“Would you like to have your boots licked?”

Ummm. Hmmm. Maybe. Umm. These high, black leather motorcycle boots? Yeah, ok, I guess.

He knelt on the floor. He was balding, 40-ish. From Malta. I was at Pedestal, the Female Dominants and Male Submissives monthly gathering at Fire in Vauxhall, in London. It was my first time.

I’m not exactly a Dominant Female. I’m not NOT dominant, I just don’t identify as such. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m definitely not submissive. I don’t submit to anyone. I can’t stand girly-girl shit: those singers with their wispy voices, begging boys to love them. I refuse to relegate myself – or be relegated - to second-class status. I balk at any restrictions or proscriptions of who I am. Mostly, I grew up in mid-Century America, and I remember, vividly, what it felt like to be forced into a “female” role. Fuck that. So yes, you can lick my boots.

But I was not prepared for how hot it would be.

Here’s this guy I don’t know, carefully, devotedly licking my boots, up and down the leather, licking and kissing. Not slobbering. Cleaning them good, with his tongue. Damn, my panties started to get wet. I didn’t want to fuck him, but I didn’t want him to stop, either.

There’s something about having someone worshipfully groveling at your feet that is bizarrely, undeniably sexy: the power of it, the knowledge that the least part of you, the dirt on your boots, is being worshipped. The guy wouldn’t dream of any further physical touch. He wouldn’t presume to be allowed to touch my bare flesh. I was his Queen.

There was something so “fine” about it; something so perfectly reasonable. Of course I should be worshipped. Of course men would want to lick my boots. What could be more obvious and normal? I’m 57 and amazing. He’d be lucky to have the honor.

There were other guys there, better looking maybe, or younger, wandering around hoping for action, but this one had the grace and tact to ask, to behave with the utmost respect, to offer a service without a demand, to make himself useful (every girl needs her boots cleaned), and to know enough to never raise his head above mine.

If I don’t want to be subservient, why should I want anyone to be subservient to me? Here’s the difference between being female and being male, in my experience: no one is expecting him to submit. He’s not being pressed into it. He doesn’t have to submit to me, he wants to do it. He longs to be a second to my first. And that feels real good to my kinky, female-empowered self.

Talk about safety! That’s feeling safe. That’s feeling respected. That’s being in control, being in charge, calling the shots.

I deigned to show him some largess. I bent over and stroked his head. “Good boy,” I said, thinking “Good dog.” Wow. There I was, sitting along a wall with my three friends. We were nonchalant. We were sipping wine, and I was getting serviced by this stranger.

My pussy is reserved for my husband. But you? You can lick my boots.

The next Club Pedestal event is taking place on Thurs 24th Nov at Fire, 9pm to 5am. South Lambeth Road, London, SW8 1RT. You can book tickets here.

The Erotic Guide to London: From the Flames – BDSM in Camberwell


1 Minute Read

‘What do you think?’ says Anne, 50, slim with shoulder length dirty blonde hair cut into a chic, rakish bob. She’s my favourite partner for naughty nights out, always up for a bit of fun. She’s holding up a micro, Brazilian bikini that stretches the meaning of the word. It’s made of two, tiny black triangles held together with thin strands of green string.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I prefer the gold 70s dress you just showed me. Or maybe the gold knickers and the star nipple pasties?’

'Or maybe both?’ she says, smiling, a twinkle in her eye. ‘I can start with the dress and then take it off if I get too warm.’ We all agree this seems a very sensible idea.

Kat, meanwhile, is changing into a fishnet, long sleeved leotard with a pair of flowery knickers underneath, her nod to the ‘tropical theme’ of the evening. She’s German, late 30’s, attractive with brown, spiky hair and a handsome face.

My legs and armpits have been shaved. My toe and fingernails have been painted baby blue. Hair washed and tonged into soft curls, it only remains for me to put on my costume, in this case a tribal printed string bikini, black fishnet dress and high, gold wedged sandals topped off with a turquoise blue straw cowboy hat. The plan is to catch an Uber to Camberwell around 10.45pm, arriving at Totally Tropical Taste around 11.30pm, when the fetish club should be in full flow.

I’m not exactly a newbie when it comes to BDSM (Bondage, Discipline, Sadomasochism) but unlike many on the scene, I don’t like pain. I’m scared of needles and I’m only comfortable with being spanked or flogged by an experienced ‘master’. I learnt that after a couple of trips to Torture Garden where, after having my BDSM cherry popped at the hands of an experienced Dom skilled with a flogger, I came to understand the fine line between pain and pleasure. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since then about anything that involves even the remote possibility of getting hurt, it’s best to bring in the BDSM geeks, the guys who know the merits of one implement over another and are experts at using them.

Silver is such a guy. We met at a Kinky Salon party and, since then, have continued our relationship via Facebook. He’s in his 50s, tall, slim, with grey, spiky hair and a small, silver earring in one ear and looks like a cross between a beatnik poet and a rock star. He also happens to be a Dom. ‘Get off the Internet and come meet some people in the real world,’ he’d suggested when I told him about my failed attempts to meet anyone interesting on OKCupid. ‘There’s a club night going on in Camberwell called Totally Tropical Taste and they’ll be some really cool people there. I’ll put you and a plus one on the guest list.’

So here we are, three chicks at the door of a converted pub turned nightclub tucked away on a back street in Camberwell. It’s nearly midnight and there’s a small but very colourful, mixed crowd already there. A DJ is playing techno music in the bar area and there’s a woman, who was/is a man, at the bar wearing a white pencil skirt with flowers on it. I scan my eyes across the room and spot a woman in a tiny, rubber yellow bikini with a blow-up parrot tied to her shoulder. A black guy in a 70s floral dress wearing a hat composed of palm leaves is dancing with his 6’5” stick thin boyfriend, his face covered with a ‘batoola’, the black eye mask typically worn by older Bedouin women. A peach coloured handbag is slung over his shoulder matching his high-heeled ankle boots. A few guys have tried to spoil the costume party by wearing their street clothes but, thankfully, are in the minority. The atmosphere is friendly and relaxed.

Around one, the fun and games kick off. Helen, the club’s hostess, is urging people onto the dance floor for the start of the Flame Games, the club’s own alternative Olympics. Anne is delighted to win the pin-the-banana on the monkey competition. Next there’s a game of let’s-see-who-can-hold-a-coconut-between-your-legs-the-longest-while-dancing. The prize is an expensive vibrator. A tall guy in striped shorts and a tight t-shirt is going head to head against a woman in heels and a rubber dress. I sit on a stool watching from the sidelines. I’m more interested in what’s going on in the dungeon, hidden in the club’s basement down a steep flight of steps.

I make my way carefully down each step in my high heels, careful not to trip, until I reach a large dance floor. I spot Silver at the door of another room. I walk over to him and, standing at the entrance, peek in. I can see a king size gothic style bed covered with a red vinyl sheet, a spanking bench and steel St. Andrew’s cross. The room is also completely empty. My disappointment is palpable.

‘Where’s the people? Where’s the flogger?’ I ask Silver, who reveals himself to be the dungeon’s gatekeeper. ‘They’re coming, they’re coming,’ he promises, somewhat unconvincibly. 'But, in the meantime, there’s always this,' he says raising his right hand, palm facing outward. Faced with the prospect of not being flogged or being spanked, the choice has already been made for me.

‘OK,’ I say, moving over to the St. Andrew’s cross. ‘But don’t be too hard on me.’

‘Not there,’ he says. ‘It’s too wobbly. Bend over that.’ He points to the bench.

I take up my position on the bench, leaning over it bending until my hands touch the floor, my bum covered by the string bikini and fishnet dress. He stands behind me and gently pats my bum, gradually getting harder, my bum getting warmer and warmer until I feel the sharp sting of his slap and the pleasure that follows. He bends over and whispers in my ear, ‘Good girl.’ It’s an incredible turn-on. Then he slows down, moving his hands gently across my bottom and down my back, tenderly. He varies the pressure from spanking to stroking until my bum cheeks are on fire and I’m experiencing a mini flood of endorphins. After ten minutes I stand up. I've had enough. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’ says Silver. Our tongues meet, the fuzziness in my brain switched up a notch or two. At that point, I would have done anything he asked me to.

I stand up and a little crowd has gathered at the entrance to the dungeon room. It turns out they’d been watching all along. I’m fine with that. Being watched comes with the territory at a club where everyone is an exhibitionist of one sort or another. Arriving home at 4am, I jump in the shower, grabbing a bottle of Aloe Vera on the way to soothe the red blotches and streaks that have formed on my behind. It’s an altogether pleasing end to a fabulous party.

From the Flames is taking a break until next year.

Swipe for sex


1 Minute Read

It was Suzanne, she of this site who told me to go Tinder. Basically I hadn't been writing nor had I been fucking and was missing both. "You go on Tinder then you can write about it. Win-win."

Having done reasonably well out of the analogue world: trains, planes, beaches, restaurants and the London Underground have all produced encounters, some of which became more, I generally consider the online dating scene as a cut-price marketplace for people who can’t get laid. These sites parade an endless stream of dull and wounded men. You know what I mean. Men who say they want ‘an honest and loving woman,’ a phrase which says very clearly they'd been chucked for their best friend. At the other end of the scale, were men who thoughtfully introduced themselves with a picture of their cock, forgetting this was an expectation, not an added feature on which to sell yourself.

But we live in tough times and sometimes an older babe has to get with the programme.  I got on Tinder at 9pm wondering how anyone could spend hours on what is a pretty crappy computer game and was still there at midnight.  Then  he turned up. French. Intellectual. He was early forties, traded something that made him lots of money and well read.  We chatted, well, we messaged with little effort. I was sure he would just wait until his moment and then send me the message that seems to be the calling card for a lot of men on dating sites: “I want to cum on ur face.” Since he was French and well educated it might be more like, “My body and soul, not just my cock, dreams of coming all over your beautiful face.”

It didn’t happen.

At some point he asked me if I’d read Hadrien’s Wall by Marguerite Youcenar.

“No it has been suggested but I haven’t read it.”

“Bad girl. You should be punished.”

Now every so often I come across a dominant type and I rather enjoy it. I recalled that I thought he looked a bit strict in his photos. It made sense. I knew how to pick them. At that point the discussion moved up fifty levels, to the joys of BDSM. He wasn’t into the whole Master/Sir nonsense which just turns me off but he had a way about him. He knew his stuff.

“I like whips,” he tapped.

“Why do you like whips?” I said it in the same way I might ask someone about their gluten-free food choices.

“They make a good sound and leave nice marks.”

“Yes I can see how that would work for you.”

If this was a bar, the conversation would have reached the dry throat, wet everything else mode. The only difference was that we couldn’t see each other.

“But I do prefer to use a flogger generally. Or my hand. I would like to to flog you but first I would like to kiss you.”

I gulped and took a deep breath.

He lived between Paris and London, mostly the former but he would be in London after the weekend. It was Thursday. He said he had Monday and Wednesday free and we should go to dinner. I didn’t want to seem too eager, even though I was on heat pretty much, so I said, “What about Wednesday?”

He said Monday would be so much better as he couldn’t wait to see me.

I reiterated that Wednesday was better (subtext: I don’t want to be that easy)  but he said no, he needed to see me on Monday.

“I want to do beautiful, terrible and passionate things to you.”

So, because I am led by my sexual desires and have no shame, I immediately said yes to Monday.

“We need to get out of here now.”

“Where shall we go? “ I asked. I mean we were on Tinder’s messaging app. Was there a chill out room I didn’t know about? A secret place for Tinderati?

“What’s App. I’ll see you there.”  Digital intimacy is a strange concept.

We retired to Whats App and the conversation continued intermittently through the weekend. On Monday he sent me a message from Eurostar. My first thought was he was going to cancel, as my few attempts at digital dating ended up in cancellations. I put this down to something I call the Power of Fresh Pussy.  Fundamentally what you have is a state of Perfect Potential. The illusion of the internet is that there is an endless, nay infinite, candy store to choose from and for men this is particularly compelling and fits nicely with their attention spans. The result is that they might make a date with you but in the meantime they discover there is another and another. Instead of having the date they  are blinded by Pussy Potential and they can't choose.  Of course the fact that not everyone is there for them has not penetrated their brain.

“I have booked L’Atelier Robuchon and will be in the bar from 7pm. Take your time.”

Of course I would take my time. I would just go about my day as if it were completely normal. In fact I’d forget totally that we had even spoken and that he’d already worked me up into a state where I was unable to think about anything else.  That evening at half six I’d remember I had a date with a man with a filthy mind and a strict manner and I would just throw on something I found  in the bottom of the wardrobe and say to anyone who asked, “Yeah, I’ve got this like date. Drag huh?”

I’d spent a considerable number of hours selecting two dresses that morning. London’s weather, generally on the nasty side of whimsical was being particularly difficult to interpret. The skies looked ominous so perhaps a dress and a pair of reckless heels was not going to work. Plus there was another, far greater factor at play. I had to consider what I could wear home if we ended up in bed. I am not a woman who delays the inevitable. If he pours fuel on the fire, I'm not putting it out.

I called Suzanne. “I am not sure whether to look like I am up for it or I might be up for it.”

“He knows you’re up for it already. Anyway, you’re on Tinder. He’s made a date with you without having to do any more than he’d have to do to call a hooker.”

You couldn’t fault her sense of romance. In the end I wore a leather pencil skirt with a small split in the side and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up in the manner of a Vogue editor. I added Miu Miu high heels.  The look said smart, and a challenge but will fuck in the right circumstances.” Throwing flat shoes into my bag along with some eye-makeup remover (don’t want to wake up with panda eyes) and a small tube of moisturiser I was ready. I didn’t put a toothbrush in my bag as it seemed so premeditated and I didn’t want him to think I had thought that far ahead.

He was sitting in the bar on the top floor when I arrived. I recognised him immediately because joy of joys, he did look like his picture.  A picture on a screen always felt a far riskier thing to pursue, than screwing a guy I’d just met in transit at Singapore airport.  I’m really old fashioned like that.

There was a kiss on both cheeks and then we just melted into conversation.  We were smiling a lot and I think as far the staff were concerned it wasn’t awkward which was good because you really don’t want restaurant staff looking over at you thinking “Met on a site. First date.”

I ordered a Lychee Martini. “Aren’t you drinking,” I asked noting his virginal orange juice.

He smiled. “I haven’t drunk for twenty years since I went overboard.”

We went out on the terrace to smoke and size each other up.

Two Martinis later (me) and we were leaning forward, closing the rest of the world out, only to be interrupted by a waitress who wanted to show us to our table. We’d actually been given a spot that was easily the most  secluded in the restaurant. “Did you ask for this?” He laughed. “No they just gave it to us.” “Are you sure?” He knew what I was thinking and his eyes twinkled. Yep. Lust. It comes along and doesn’t usually bring love or even a deeper connection with it. You make your decision knowing that you are about to ride the wave and when it drops you, you must be be gracious and remember that it was a just a moment. That is lust. Anything else is optional. I however, was in the mood for lust. It had been a while since it had seemed like such a good idea.

Word to the wise: Never, ever underestimate staff at top restaurants: they are very savvy and I think the fact that he had already stroked my face and produced a visible shiver of anticipation had not gone unnoticed so they’d decided would be a good idea to give us a table that suited everyone’s purpose. Thus we were screened off from the rest of the room.

At some point he whispered,“I’d like to take you to a dungeon.”

Theatre, riverside walk, country pub, dungeon. It was all the same to me.

‘Why yes, of course,” I said as nonchalantly as I could with his hands stroking my neck. I would like that very much.”

If there had existed any doubt that we were going to spend some quality time together, he settled it when he leaned over and whispered.

“Remove your panties.”

It had been a few years since I’d engaged in this particular manoeuvre but reader you will be delighted to know I’d lost none of my skill and acquitted myself perfectly, deftly whipping off my Rigby and Pellers and sliding them down my leg while kicking off my shoes.

I reached down and then handed them to him, making a mental note to remember to ask for them back as they were quite expensive and nothing would match the bra otherwise. I did think it was a shame that he wouldn’t see me in the set but hell, sex was generally a messy business.

Now if a waiter can see there is  no white wine in your glass from across the room, they know a man has your panties in his hands and is now putting them to his lips.  Which brings us to the food.

It was most excellent but eating had turned into a sideshow by now. I remember my  sea bass was so delicate but as I ate it, all I could think of was sex which, in retrospect probably had something to do with the bubbles of lemongrass foam that were sitting on it. I think it’s fair to say thing were going very well at this point. By dessert he’d moved next to me, had his fingers tightly around my neck and my head was running through bondage scenarios. The air around us was heavily scented with the right amount of tension and just enough danger to make it interesting.

There was more foam when dessert arrived and he asked me to feed him. He didn’t want the berries underneath the foam as they were too cold. “If you give them to me I will punish you.”

“Yes of course.” I fed him the berries. He squeezed my neck in a way that said, “I totally mean it.”

I knew I had basically given him my cards and all I wanted him to do was play. He knew he had me (well he probably had me at hello) so did what every smart man in his position does. He leverages it.

“The hotel is not far away,” he whispered. “But first I need an espresso. And you need to wait.”

Somehow we made it to the hotel. Inside the lift, the padded walls had evidently aroused his no so latent dungeon instincts and he pushed me back, just watching me as he lifted my hands above my head. We were not the only ones in the lift. There were three other people trying not to look but look at the same time.  The lift door opened at the next floor and our fellow passengers couldn’t leave fast enough, no doubt headed for the stairwell to continue their journey without having to deal with an elevator now saturated with sex.

He on the other hand was completely unconcerned by them and was undoing my shirt. He seemed quite pleased with himself. I was very pleased with him.By the time we got to his room, he’d obtained my bra so I felt I didn’t have to worry about losing the panties as he’d put them together. Thoughtful.

It was one of those evenings where our bodies burned  faster than a startup shredding money. In the morning he endeared himself to me by ordering cake products for breakfast. Little pistachio cakes that were sugary and sweet and exactly what I would have chosen for myself.  “I will be back soon,” he said. “I really want to see you.” A perfect tonic after months of absolutely no fun. Which is probably what Tinder is for: a  palate cleanser.

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