So many people see D/s relationships as solely about sex, about torture and humiliation. My view is different. The relationship between a sub and his lady is just that, a relationship. Both give and both take and, more importantly, both love. For me the gothic lady in leather, wielding a whip, rich and beautiful seemed as likely and as clichéd as it could be. I imagined an ordinary woman, unremarkable in the normal run but extraordinary for her chosen man.
The search for this had taken me to many dark and sad experiences; occasionally and unsatisfactorily to "professionals." Pain is an essential part of submission; pain in all its forms. The problem is that the pain that is pleasure is not available in any situation where the other, more important elements of a submissive's needs are missing. Humiliation at the hands of the lady you love is a gift, at the hands of the professional or (why not be honest) those simply playing is, well, humiliating for both.
I am straight and have had long and successful "normal" relationships. I have never had anal sex and it does not appeal. I love women. I just have known since I don't know when, that for me to give, totally and utterly, was my definition of true love. Consequently every relationship I had experienced was always subtly deficient.
Every block has the "organiser." The one who wants to bring everyone together and who runs the maintenance committee. Ours was Harry. Harry wore a blazer with a badge I did not recognise on its breast pocket. He wore grey flannels and immaculately polished black Oxfords. He always sported either a regimental (?) tie or, on less formal occasions, a cravat. He was, simply put, a prat but his party for the block was a welcome distraction from the essay I was writing for my correspondence course: "Metaphor and Allegory in Twelfth Night."
I went down about 9. The door to the flat was open and I walked in brandishing a bottle of wine, another of whisky and some beers. Harry greeted me with enormous bonhomie that felt entirely synthetic and bade me gorge myself on the delicious spread his wife and laid out. I spoke to several people, especially Mike, who was the other tenant on the third floor with me. He and I occasionally went to rugby matches together and had memorably, childishly and anonymously, set fire to Harry's dustbin after a particularly pleasant and indulgent international. Mike had brought his new girlfriend, Sally, to the party and she was an engaging and attractive girl who seemed to be taking substantial quantities of drink in her stride.
Margaret was another neighbour. She was tall and sharp featured but attractive in a stunning, not pretty way. She was a little aloof I had always thought. Although we exchanged pleasantries on the stairwell we barely got to know each other in the 2 years we had lived close by in the block, she being on the second floor. She joined us. I think she sought refuge from Harry rather than our company. I fetched her a drink and we talked. Others joined and left our group but the four of us remained the core. I didn't drink much, nor did Margaret but Mike and Sally were well at it and by about 11 were obviously thinking that they had to be alone. Sally kissed me good bye and Mike led her off, his hand stroking her bum through her dress.
"Pretty," isn't she?"
"Yes." I agreed. "Bit pissed, too. Mike won't notice though, not until they have to fight for the paracetamol in the morning."
She laughed. "What do you do?"
"I'm a nurse."
She was astonished, as so many people are even in these days. I went through the story I had been asked to relate so often and she seemed absorbed. At 1.30 I found myself inviting her in for coffee and a last drink. She accepted and it started there.
No fireworks, no violins, no earthquake; just a cup of coffee and a whisky.
*
We had been seeing each other for about six weeks and our friendship was growing. We kissed hello and goodbye but nothing more. I found myself increasingly looking forward to our dates which included opera, which I detest, and rugby which we both enjoyed. Films, concerts and sitting talking in pleasant, local restaurants.
In one of these Margaret asked me why I had no girlfriend. "I thought I did," I said.
"Who, me?"
"Well, aren't you?"
