The next time I saw the French guy he was holed up in luxury in Blakes and had invited me to join him for two days. The morning of his arrival from Paris I was standing at my lingerie drawer, wondering what kind of look I should be going for, a futile act whichever way you looked at it. He liked naked. A lot.
He texted me.
“I may have a surprise for you when you arrive.”
Now when a man who is seriously kinked and appears to have no boundaries says that, your imagination boards a jet and does a 360-degree roll. I went into erotic meltdown (the creative mind is a dangerous one) for a couple of hours, distracted and dreamy to the point where lifting lingerie from a drawer felt ponderous. When I’d recovered I thought it was probably just a threesome. I hoped he wasn’t going to surprise me with a woman. Unlike pretty much every female I know, I have no idea what the point of women is in sexual liaisons. Anyway, I turned up and he opened the door. The room was empty except for him. I was both relieved and disappointed.
“You missed the surprise,” he said. “There was a man here, I wanted you to meet.”
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. Well actually the whole room had an air of the bamboo about it, but expensively so. There were lots of artfully arranged but fundamentally useless rocks and huge candle holders, without candles in them of course. On the table was an assortment of leather floggers, whips and some things I didn’t recognise.
“Hmmm, fresh leather. Nice,” I said, wondering what the collective noun would be for such things.
“The guy who makes these just delivered them to me. You could have met him.” He sounded extremely disappointed that I hadn’t met the whip maker.
Clearly definitions of surprise were pretty fluid.
He picked up something that looked like a whip but was shorter and came to a thick, short point at the end.
“Zis one is very arrsh.”
‘Yes.But it is not for you. Too arrsh.”
And after that from lunchtime into the evening, at least I think it was evening, it became a hazy, erotic blur. We had sex with a regularity I can only compare to Germany scoring against Brazil in the recent World Cup: well actually we didn’t have sex, he fucked me to be accurate. We didn’t leave the room. I couldn’t anyway since I was tied up for quite a while. 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. They were young waiters, two guys, and seemed very happy to see us, because when he said “Thank you,” they shot back quickly with “No, thank YOU sir.”
“See that is how you should reply to me,” he said.
The next day, he had a meeting off-site so I was allowed to leave the lust nest. Just as I was on the verge of remembering who I was in real life, I received a phone call. “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 hurried. I didn’t want to miss the school bell.
We ate in the restaurant at Blakes where he managed to eat noodles while putting his other hand up my skirt. He told me his plan. He would take me to a dungeon, since I had never been to one. Fair enough. I went to Legoland for the same reason. First we’d eat at Honey &Co which he’d told me about last time. Dinner and Dungeon, the dirty girl’s dinner and dancing. Despite our post dinner engagement, there was no inkling of what lay ahead, while we ate what was simple, wonderful food. We talked recipes and bought the restaurant’s cookery book. I could just imagine how the date might sound.
“So you debated the correct composition of falafel, ie: chick peas or broad beans, he bought you a cookery book, then he put a collar and leash on you and whipped you?”
“Nothing unusual there then.”
The dungeon was owned by a former pro-domme, so much of the equipment was sized to constrain men, meaning my lithe frame was not suitable for some of his concepts. Plus he said he didn’t want to be too cruel. The dungeon had some excellent music – moody, sexy, sleazy – and he smiled as I wafted around. That was before he put the collar and leash on. I looked good. No, I looked better than good. Such statements are bound to enrage young, flimsy feminists, of the angry fourth-wave kind. (Yeah, whatever girls. Make your choices thoughtfully. And watch out in those pole dancing classes.) He opened the door of a cage, meant for a smallish animal and gestured to me to get inside, then locked me in. Being small has its advantages and I realised why doms like smaller women. There is just so much more you can do. Truly I owned this space. Unsure what the modus operandi was, I decided I may as well curl up and get on with it. All the while he was giving me a highly informative running commentary, pointing out that with lots of spaces for hands to get through, the cage could be a source of pleasure for many people. Then he let me out, tied me firmly to a bench, blindfolded me and spent the next couple of hours doing beautiful and terrible things to me that made me shiver. He didn’t fuck me though. He picked me up, dressed me and then said, “Let’s go back to the hotel and sleep.”
But of course we didn’t sleep since he was catching Eurostar in the morning. He wanted to fuck me to ensure it was done properly which it most certainly was. I actually think it should have ended there with him, a filthy, erotic experience. I did see him once again, however by then I’d heard enough about his Asian babe slave, his Japanese mistress (he switched) and a cast of thousands. As I suspected, he seemed to be on an eternal search for the next new thing and he didn’t just live the lifestyle, he was saturated in it. I was a palate cleanser in between the heavy courses. He’d been generous and I’d enjoyed the exploration but I felt disconnected. He had a way about him that facilitated disconnection, and it meant that in the weeks after I couldn’t remember very much of it clearly. Not one conversation, but it had been a blast.