An Officer and a Gentleman

I recently went to dinner with a man I have known of for about 2 years. Known of but never met. Over time, he had sent me an email or two on a fetish community site. I remember having received them, yet I cannot remember why I did not respond. The first may have been because I was with the then love of my life, (a love which was not to be), the second may have been because I was newly consumed with lust for the thorn in my heart that is Alistair.

I am still not yet inclined to discuss that boy's betrayal of me.

And then, out of the blue, there was another message from The Officer. It was on another fetish site, and seemed to be prompted simply by the fact that he had discovered a face he knew, at least online. And suddenly, I found myself responding. Partly because I should have done it a long time ago, and partly because I know that somewhere out there, there is a man who will love me passionately, treat me honourably, and protect me quietly. And I know that if he is out there, he probably won't come to me, I need to help things along. And so just like that, I asked this man to dinner, and just like that, he accepted.

In some respects, he is just my type. An Oxbridge educated intellectual, tall, funny, and a complete pervert. He is in fact a rare breed, a male pro-dom who women do indeed pay to see. And yet not my type at all. He is handsome, but very definitely masculine. Refined, but masculine. His hair is short and red, he has a small goatee... Frighteningly new terrain.

He lives only ten minutes drive from my home, in a famously vibrant part of London. Because of this, we agreed to meet there for a drink, with the intention of moving on to a restaurant for dinner. It was a blues bar that specialises in bourbon. I had never been there before.

I wore black stockings and suspenders, and a long tight black skirt, with a slit outlined in a flamenco ruffle, cut high up the back. Modest from the front, and provocative from behind. And I really wasn't all that nervous, until the bus closed in on my destination.

I walked in and immediately saw him seated at the bar. He had warned me he would be in his work suit. I adore good suits, and he wears good suits. He has a well paid job, and is very driven, a workaholic, really. Filled with ambition and a desire to be the best, and yet all in a quiet, almost understated way. He said hello, leant in and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I was already wondering whether I would be able to keep up with Mr. Oxbridge. He handled his intellect the same way as the other elements of himself, with an understated self-confidence. And it is instantly likeable. I find wealthy people who make a grand show of splashing their money everywhere extremely distasteful, and I find clever people who do the same with their mental capacity just as objectionable.

And he never once placed all of his cards on the table, but never once appeared guarded. This is a very pleasing quality in a man. He was very funny, and made me laugh. He was flirtatious without seeming to be already mentally occupying my knickers (something I am not used to, after spending so much time around Alistair... I don't judge, I am often the same). We spoke about many things, and I looked at him with disgust when I discovered he drank beer. Still, I suppose he is a Yorkshireman.

He laughed when I told him he was like a real life Sharpe. He was born into a working class family in Yorkshire, and educated at the local comprehensive... That alone makes it even harder to get into Oxbridge, but he did, and studied physics. Despite being the eternal artist, I am always ending up with science/IT bods. He then became an engineer in the army, and left as an officer with two tours of Iraq under his belt.

I eagerly listened to his stories.

I eagerly insisted he should drink cocktails with me, and picked a flouncy sounding one for him.

I kissed him, he kissed me... And suddenly all thought of moving on to a restaurant evaporated, and we propelled ourselves to the large, grand wooden doors of his apartment block. Along the way, I asked if he likes ladies who smoke, he replied that he prefers for them not to... And I am such a good girl.

He has a beautiful flat. Part home, part dungeon, all at once. There is both regular and dungeon furniture in the living room, and it all works very well together. And he has two darling cats, which is always a sure way to endear me to a man...

I can't recall at what point we went from speaking to him grabbing my neck and forcing me face-down into the couch. It all happened rather quickly. I do remember him whispering into my ear what a slut I was, coming back to a stranger's house on a first date, with that piece-of-northern-rough accent of his. I felt his hand between my legs, but barely, never enough to satisfy.

He told me to undress, and dragged me into another room. There, he put a soft leather hood on me. I often think hoods look unappealing, fun as they are, but this one was different. Tiny holes were punched across the leather that covered my eyes. By tilting my head and squinting, I could just about make out my reflection in the mirrors that covered the entire wall. He was behind me, pressed agaisnt me, his arm snaking around my throat. I looked and felt fragile against his wiry frame. It made me hot. And my black lingerie looked good with the hood.

There was so much more to come.

But if it counts for anything, and right now, nothing counts for much, I fell asleep in his arms.